New York dispatch. [volume], July 17, 1887, Image 1

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

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VOL. XLII.--NO. 40.
Entered at the Post Office at New York,
N. Y., as Second Class Matter.
THE NEW YORK DISPATCH,
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Emuiwsuwsmuia
playslndllayers.
“THE FALL OF BABYLON.”
Something ofßre’r Daniel—Wiggins ami
Daniel Compared.— The Troubleiome
Cyrus Rex—The Glories of Babylon
— Belshazzar as a•• Rounder ”
— The Feast and its Revels
—The Destruction of the
City, Etc., Etc., Etc.
BY JOHN CARBOY.
As a prophet, Bre’r Daniel was not of the Wiggins
tribe.
Wiggina—our Wiggins—would have been a mere
common everyday soothsayer, a sort of hand-me
down astrologer, had he existed in the days of B. 0.,
when Nebuchadnezzar "did eat grass, as the oxan
and his body was wet with the dew of heaven,till his
hairs were grown like eagles’ feathers and his nails
like birds claws."
The Wiggins* didn't count for much in those
days.
When Bre’r Daniel got in his fine work in the
prophesy and vision line, and in “seeing things*’
that nobody else ever dreamed of—the
the soothsayers, and the rest of the hangers-on at
the Court of Babylon took a back seat. In fact, he
gave them a back set from which they never recov
ered. " •• J " ''
Whan King Cyrus, commanding his army, finally
succeeded in taking a fall out of Babylon, Bre’r
Daniel was at the hight of his fame as the only re
liable, and by no means high-priced prophet in
Assyria.
The last bit of business he had in Babylon—that
of explaining the meaning of “Mene Mene Tekel
Upharsin ’’—laid the king out. For that night the
minions of Cyrus perforated Belshazzar with their*
arrows until he resembled a defunct porcupine.
BELSHAZZAR LOVED HIS BOOZE
not wisely, but too well. He was a riotous gentle
man. Wine, women and war were his ruin. In his
last and most magnificent carouse he lost his grip,
and his brazen idols went down with him.
Daniel had vainly foretold the coming of the
■torm. The king “ knew it all.** It was as if he had
cried out, •• Let ’er go, Dan,’’ and defied fate.
As a fact, I find that all the leading personages
who figure in biblical history, as well as a large
majority of those who were led, from Noah to
Balaam, from Solomon to Samuel, had a kindly
inclination to taste of “the wine when it was red,”
or any other color, for that matter.
I may as well state just now that there was beer,
pure malt beer, to be had In Babylon during the
era in wjiich it was destroyed. It was on tap in
earthen jars and was in special favor with the com
mon populace. Who the brewers were I have failed
to discover in my historical researches.
And yet we boast of our advanced civilization !
Very much ahead, isn’t it, when if one of our
effete monarchs over there in Europe gets on a
drunken tare, the only thing he can get away with
is himself, while in the days B. 0. any ordinary
king on a spiritual rampage thought nothing of
- making a bonfirt of his royal palaces and wiping
' out his entire nation.
• I fancy, from all that I have read about them, that
Nebuchadnezzar and Belshazzar were sufficiently
advanced in civilization for all practical purposes
—in the matter of drinking and eating—and mak
ing fools of themselves.
Whether in their time Enlightenment and Art
had got on so far as to provide theatrical entertain
ments and players and manageress somawhat’in
doubt. If there were these luxuries, the chroni
clers have omitted mention of the fact.
AS A THEATRIC DISPLAY,
the impious feast of Belshazzar was a memorable
success. Of the menu, the quality of the wines, the
names of the most distinguished of the one thou
sand guests, there is no record—but there remains
the history of its awful and unexpected close—the
mysterious hand, the fingers of which “ came forth
and wrote over against the candlestick upon the
plaster of the wall of the King’s palace;’* the grand
tableau of fright, horror and despair; the sudden
appearance of the legions of Cyrus; the burning of
the city and the death of Belshazzar.
THE ARGUMENT OF THI3 ANCIENT HISTORIC
SUCCESSION OF EVENTS
is here given in tr’ef form:
After Cyrus had spent two whole years before
Babylon, without making any progress in the
■iege, he at last thought of the following stratagem,
which put him in possession of it. He was in
formed that a great annual feast was to be held at
Babylon and that the inhabitants on that occasion
were accustomed to spend the whole night in dunk
ing and debauchery.
This he therefore thought a proper time for sur
prising them; and accordingly sent a strong de
tachment to the head of the canal leading to the
large lake, with orders, at a certain time, to break
down the great bank which was between the lake
and the canal, and to turn the whole current into
the lake. At the same time he stationed one body
of troops at the place where the river entered the
city, and another where it came out; ordering them
to march in by the bed of the river as soon as they
should find it lordable.
On thia memorable night, revelry and wild lux
ury reigned. Tbe prodigious granaries, the stores
that seemed exhaustless, men’s high hopes, and
their spirit of jubilant defiance, all taught Babylon
to set its besiegers at naught, and the last King of
Babylon was deep in his carouse, and perpetrating
■acrilege when by command of Cyrus, one body
of troops under Gobyras, the other under Gadates,
finding the gates all left open in consequence of the
disorders of that riotous night, penetrated into the
▼ery heart of the city. Then followed the scene of
hurry, confusion, fire and slaughter which had been
foretold by the prophecies of Jevemiah.
In vaid did “ one host ran to meet another, to
show the King of Babylon that his city was taken
at one end, and that the passages were stopped.”
•* The mighty men of Babylon forbsse to they
became as women.” “Her prinees wore made
drunk, her wise men, her captains, her rulers, and
her mighty men, they slept a perpetual sleep.’*
“The broad walls of Babylon were utterly broken,
and her high gates were burned with fire; the peo
ple labored in'vain and the folk in the fire.** “In
that night was Belshazzar the King of the Chal
deans slain.’*
Thus was Babylonia reduced to a province of Per
sia, and the great empire of Babylon numbered
with the things of the past. And now,
AFTER A LAPSE OF MORE THAN TWO THOU
SAND YEARS,
comes a revival of these events—in dramatic form
as gorgeous and impressive as the pageantry of a
royal dreapi—on Staten Island.
As there were a thousand people assembled at the
original feast, so there are the same number gath
•rsd oa the votft stage of its reproduction.
PMSHED BY A. J. WILLIAMSON’B BONB.
A stage which is nearly five hundred feet in width
and more than one hundred in depth; a stage on
which the act-drop of the largest theatre in the
world would look like a fancy pocket-handkerchief
hung up to dry.
On this stage, Salvini could no more than get
across the stage before the last act of the play would
be ended, and the howl of the Moor at the death of
Desdemona have no more effect than the buzz of a
bumble-bee.
Imagine a prompter trying to “give the word” to
an unfortunate actor who had suddenly “stuck”
somewhere in the middle of the stage I He might
prompt him if he could get a fog-horn capable of
articulating the lines.
Nothing could give abetter idea of the immensity
of this stage at St. George that the appearance upon
it of the ordinary stock company of a theatre playing
one of the standard comedies.
It would remind one of a score of little children
scattered over a quarter section of prairie.
Upon this stage, then, is produced the story of
Belshazzar’s feast and the destruction of Babylon,
which fills the great space with a magnificence
of effect and splendor of display, commensurate
with its theme.
IT IS A PAGEANT
of color, brilliance of light, diversity of action,
grandeur of scenic design and of picturesque
beauty, which can scarcely be realized in the tame
ness of description.
It is one of those inspiring theatric displays
which once seen can never be forgotten.
From the moment the gates of the great wall are
opened, to the closing scene of the conflagration,
carnage and destruction of the city, there is no
pause in the action/no cessation in the progress of
the spectacle.
The various characters, the long processions, the
nobility in their chariots, the camels and ele
phants, the crowds of the common people, as they
pass and repass, the shouts, the chorus of hun
dreds of voices, and all ths noises and bustle, the
life and social phases of a once mighty city of the
East, fill the stage, and almost bewilder the senses
of sight and heaving.
It is the perfection of realism glorified and made
radiant by the glamour of romanticism.
Every individual of the thronging hosts that
come and go has a mission and an appointed
place, as if he or she were one of the cog-wheels of
a clock. There is no confusion.no halting—no th
ing but harmony and grace of movement.
In ana through all this one can detect the pres
©o99 of fk master in the bueUoss of organising and
the direction of great masses of people; of one who
is a thorough adept ia creating and arranging artis
tic effects; of one who can instruct small numbers
Of people so that when massed in one great body
they move and act together with the same precision
and ease, as if inspired with a single mind and
actuated with but one thought.
There is but one master who in this our time has,
upon the spectacular stage, accomplished these re
sults, and he is
IMRE KIRALFY.
Ho Is—to the Ballet, to the ordetiod 6t ptocessionfl
and arranging the tableaux and groupings in which
brilliance of colorjand light, and celerity and grace
of movement are the dominant factors what the
mainspring is to the watch—the sole and only
motive power.
Without his talent, quickness of perception and a
knowledge gained by long experience—the spectac
ular business would have had something of a sorry
showing.
No greater proof of his ability in this work can
be desired than that which is made apparent in the
magnificent divertissement forming a part of the
Babylonian revels—wherein four or five hundred
coryphees in a sensuous dance presently fall grace
fully into a line extending across the entire width of
the stage and sway to and fro in a languorous move
ment—with an artistic precision of action as wonder
ful as they are supremely beautiiul.
There has certainly never been a greater oppor
tunity for Imre Kiralfy to exercise his remarkable.
talent as a stage organizer than in the rehearsal of
the principals and coryphees and people making
up the processions of this representation of the
“Fall of Babylon”; and certainly nothing has yet
been accomplished on so large a scale which is at
all comparable to this.
The scenic pictures; the view of the city of Baby
lon, with its lofty towers, its palaces, and the splen
dor of its decorations and the bewildering kaleido
scopic combinations of color brought out in such
vivid, realistic effect by the myriad of electric lights
—are an artistic study, without reference to the
performance. Either the scenic display or the
moving host, the brilliant costumes, and the in
terest of the action, would alone be sufficient to
command tbe presence of large audiences.
After the revels, and following tbe consternation
of the revelers at the feast when confronted by the
awful writing upon the wall, comes the most excit
ing portion of the representation, so far as action is
concerned.
Then begins the almost indescribable and real
istic
SCENE OF CARNAGE AND DESTRUCTION.
From palace and castle, from gate and tower,
through the avenues and along the broad street at
the front of the stage, the ’surprised and terrified
people flee, only to be overtaken and slain by their
pursuers. “Every one that is found shall be
thrust through, and every one that is joined unto
them shall fall by the sword.”
The orders of Cyrus restraining the indiscriminate
slaughter of the inhabitants commanded the mas
sacre only of those found in the streets.
Belshazzar, drunk from his revels of the night,
rushes upon Darius, the Persian general, and a
brief but one-sided encounter ensues, and “in
that night was Belshazzar, the King of the Chal
deans, slain.”
This tragic event, attended by the bursting forth
of the flames in every part of tbe city and the crash
of tbe falling walls, forms a fitting climax to the
spectacle.
If Daniel the Prophet, at an earlier period, had
brought Belshazzar around as the leader in a grand
total abstinence nhpvement, and put the blue-law
system into operation—it is possible there would
have been no “ Mene Mene Tekel Upharsin” for him
to explain, and Cyrus and Darius, and the rest of
the Persian followers, could not have wiped Babylon
out of existence.
And then Erastus Wiman and my friend, John
W. Hamilton, would have had no “Fall of Babylon”
upon which to bestow so much of cost, care and
time.
But then they would have taken a spectacular fall
out of some other subject.
A New Idea.
PRESERVING BODIES BY METALIZING.
A Frenchman some time since suggested that
human bodies be copper-plated as a means of pre
servation, he having tried the experiment success
fully on small animals; the copper shell can be
plated with nickel, silver or gold. Whatever use
may be made of this as a means of prenervation, it
is useful as a method of obtaining fnc-simile casts
lor demonstration. The process proposed by Broca
ior metaliziag the brain is well known.
The organ is first hardened, then immersed in a
solution of nitrate of silver and then exposed to the
action of sulpberetted hydrogen; a metallic sul
phide is thus formed, which acts the same as the
black lead coating employed in electrotyping; the
organ thus prepared is placed in the bath, the op
eration being the same as in electro-metallurgy,
only a very thin deposit being required. Tfie brain
is removed through a small hole, the interior wash
ed out with strong lye, and finally, after drying,
the shell is filled with plaster of paris.
A Dishonest Servant Girl.— Carrie
Jacobs was in need of a girl to help her with the
house and the child. She went to an intelligence
office and took a fancy to Lizzy Dougherty. She
took Lizzy home with her and introduced her to
baby in the cradle. Lizzy was then left to see to it
while Mrs. Jacobs went to attend to her household
duties. An hour after Lizzy left, and took a pocket
book with $5 that was in tbe cradle.
Lizzy denied tbe charge: tbe house was not to her
liking.
But when she was arraigned on another charge of
stealing a coat from Catherine McVay, she acknowl
edged stealing and pawning it. The Court sent her
to the Penitentiary for eight months.
NEW YORK. SUNDAY. JULY 17. 1887.
THE OLD SILK DRESS.
A Strange Deliverance in a
French Court.
Why the Marchioness Was so
Very Anxious.
THE MEDICAL STUDENT AND HIS PRIZE.
The Story of a Crime and How it
Finally Came to Light.
Madame Oourvey sold millinery on the Rue St.
Jacques, Paris, It was a very poor kind of milli
nery, for her customers were a very poor kind of
people. Very little of it was new. She bought up
second-hand things, furbished them up and sold
them for over a hundred times as much as she paid
for them. Sometimes people brought cast-off arti
cles to her shop and took for them what they could
got.
On August 15th, 1872, a little old woman went
into Madame Courvey’s shop with a bundle, in
brown paper.
“Ah, well, what have we got hero?” said Mad
ame, feeling the bundle.
•‘That is an old silk dress,” was the reply; “but
it is still very good, and I have no doubt you can
pay me a fair price for it and still make a very large
profit on it.”
When the parcel was opened, a brown silk dress
was exposed to view. Madame shook it out, and,
holding it at arm's length, examined it.
“Is it not lovely?” the little old woman said,
stroking the dress with her band.
“Once, no doubt, it was lovely,” was the re
sponse, “but that was a very long time ago. But
come, what do you want for it ?”
“There, now I that's always the way with people
like you,” said the little old woman. “You fancy
I'll put a price on it altogether ridiculously small,
as you conclude I would never part with such a
beautiful garment unless I needed the money.
Now, what is it worth to you ?’*
“Three francs,” was the reply.
“Three francs I” exclaimed the little Old woman;
“why it cost thousands.”
“Yes, and you might add, ‘thousands of years
ago,”’ was the answer. “Three francs, or take it
away.”
“ Ab, well, then, three francs be it,” the little old
woman said; “but you are getting a tremendous
bargain.”
Tfte money wag handed over and the little old
wouiati quitted the shop! . s
Q9UtV6y tbtotf tha dress on one side and
Went Into her Small parlor in the rear, to finish her
dinner. When that was over, she took a good look'
at the brown silk dress. It waa elegantly made, in
a fashion of twenty years before. The workman
ship was superb, showing that it had been put
together by an experienced and accomplished work
woman. Though faded a little here and there, and
frayed in one or two places, madam® was satisfied
that she could get a good many yards of Bilk out of
it wl/ich she could turn to good purpose. Then she
laid it down and waited for customers.
AN ACCIDENT AND A DISCLOSURE.
In meaatime, the little old lady had hastened
toward the bridge of Notre Dame. As ehe Was
crossing the Rue de la Huchette, she was knocked
down and run over by a heavy truck. Bleeding
and insensible, she was speedily conveyed to a hos
pital. On searching her clothing, a letter was dis
covered, addressed to Madame Picquigny, care of
the Marchioness de C , Place de Wagram, Paris.
The latter lady was immediately informed of the
facts and speedily arrived at the hospital in her car
riage, and announced that the unfortunate patient
was her friend, Madame Picquigny.
The patient had recovered consciousness and was
not so seriously injured as might have been expect
ed. As the doctors and several medical students
stood around, the Marchioness held a conversation
in low tones with her friend.
“ What wece you doing in the Rue St. Jacques ?”
she asked.
“ Well, you wouldn’t give me any money, so I
went thither to sell an old dress,” was tbe reply.
“An old dress I Where did you get it ?”
“I rummaged in the old brass-bound trunk in
your bath-room and found it there.”
“My God 1 what have you done ? What dress did
you take?”
“A brown silk one—neatly folded up, but very
old, right at the very bottom of the trunk.”
“You have ruined us I Your folly will bring dis
grace upon us all. Where did you sell the dress ?”
“At Madame Couryey’s, Rue St.-Jacques, near the
Rue Sufflot.”
“I must go thither at once and recover the
dress.”
The marchioness gave some hurried instructions
to the doctor in charge and departed.
PAUL RUFFIN’S EXPEDITION.
Among the students near the patient was Paul
Ruffin. He had good ears, and he caught all that
passed between the marchioness and her friend.
“That dress is evidently worth something,” said
he to himself, “and I will have it.”
He quitted the ward. At the gate of the hospital
was the carriage of the marchioness.
“Ob, curses I” said Ruffin; “she will get ahead of
me I”
Then an idea struck him. Going up to the coach
man, he said:
“The Marchioness de 0 bade me tell you to
return home at once and call for her here in three
hours’ time.”
The flunkey mounted to bis perch and the coach
man instantly drove off. Then Buffin hastened to
Madame Courvey's shop.
•• We re getting up some private theatricals.” he
said, “and I want to buy a secondhand silk dress.
Have you such a thing?”
“Have the very thing you desire,” was the reply,
and the brown silk dress was shown to him.
“It is rather worn,” he said; “ what do you want
for it?”
“Twenty francs.”
“Too dear altogether. I will give you ten.’*
“I will take fifteen.’’
“That is fair. Wrap it up and here is the
money.”
Ruffin departed to his room with the dress in his
possession.
A REWARD OFFERED.
When the Marchioness de 0 found that her
carriage was gone she was greatly annoyed and sent
for a cab. Half an hour after Madame Courvey had
sold the brown silk dress to Ruffin the marchioness
entered her shop and demanded it.
“ I have sold it,” was the answer.
“Sold it I Didn’t you know it was stolen ?”
“ How should I know that, madame ? I gave the
full value lor the old thing.**
“ Do. you know the purchaser ?*’
“I never saw him before to my knowledge.”
“ Ah, it was a gentleman ?”
“Yes; a young man. He wanted it for a theatri
cal exhibition.”
The marchioness departed. In the afternoon
newspapers and again in the evening newspapers
an advertisement appeared offering a reward of one
hundred .francs for the brown dress, as it was
highly esteemed because of its former owner, who
was dead. Ruffin saw this advertisement, of
course, for it was what he expected, and he said:
“If this old brown silk dress is worth 100 francs,
it is worth more. But this story about its being
highly esteemed because of its former owner is all
nonsense. There is some much more powerful rea
son for the lady’s seeking to recover its possession
than that. ‘You have ruined us. Your folly will
bring disgrace upon us all.’ Those are the words
I heard her utter. This dress is the key to
some grave secret and I can afford to wait for a
higher bid.”
Another advertisement appeared subsequently,
stating the same reason for desiring to recover the
dress but offering a “ very liberal reward ” for its
restoration. This advertisement was repeated at
intervals for a fortnight, but it did not suit Ruffin,
and so he kept the dress in his trunk and said noth
ing about it to any one.
MaDAME COUVREY’S OFFER.
Finally he went one day into Madame Couvrey’s
shop in the Hue St. Jacques, hoping that the lady
might recognize him and have something to say
about the dress. He was right.Jor Madame Couvrey
did recognize him at once and said:
“ Ah, monsieur, what did you do with the brown
silk dress which you bought from me ? If you have
it still, I will give you a good price for it.”
“ Many thanks to you, my friend,” said Ruffin;
“ but lam not going to part with it. It is a very
useful addition to our theatrical wardrobe.*'
“ Well, now, what do you say to my offering you
a hundred francs for it ?”
“It is declined. I know all about it. The Mar
chioness de 0 is anxious to get it back and has
offered a reward, but I won t gratify her. It Isa very
valuable piece of property. I suspect.”
“ Now, monsieur, I have something to say to
you. The lady has been here several times inquir
ing after you. I have described you to her as well
as I could, and sbe begged and exhorted me, if ever
I saw you again, to try to get you to restore the
dress. I never saw any one so anxious about a
rusty old garment. I verily believe she would give
thousands of francs to get it once more into her
keeping. So, if you want to negotiate with her,
I will do all I can for you—on shares.”
“ Thanks, madame. lam perfectly aware of her
anxiety, and I may some day find out the cause of
it. Then it may be worth even more money than
it is now.”
A HINT THAT WAS NOT LOST.
“ She was very earnest about one thing. ‘lf you
ever see the gentleman,’ she said, ‘and he doesn’t feel
disposed to sell me the dress just now, tell him not
to destroy it, or rip it to pieces; and that, at any
time he wishes to part with it, I will give him a
good price for it.* Those were her very words.”
art Inhpnhnt.
After Ruffin had quitted Madame Oourvey’s shop,
he thought over what he had just heard.
“Sbe doesn’t want the dress ripped up, eh?
What does that mean ? I have it. There is some
thing concealed about it which sbe does not wish
to be discovered. It may be a valuable diamond.
I will make a thorough examination of it at once.”
So Ruffin wont to his room, took out the dress
and felt it all over. Every seam was scrutinized,
but there was nothing that resembled a precious
stone of any kind.
Tbe skirt was lined with buckram, and Ruffin
searched all over this with much care. Efe thought
there was something between the silk and tbe
lining along tbe bottom, bo he made a very small
opening, and, sure enough, there was paper.
“A document of some kind concealed here,” he
said. “That is the secret, beyond question. Ah, I
am anxious to know what it is. I cannot wait. I
must ascertain what it is immediately.”
He took his penknife and cut the atiches. He
drew out a sheet of paper filled with writing. He
worked along and produced another and another
sheet—-six sheets in all—covered with writing, His
eye caught a word here and there which sent a
thrill through him.
“Now for a feast,” he said, and he sat down and
began to read. As he read the interest grew. From
time to time he uttered exclamations of surprise,
and when he bad finished the perusal, he lay back
in his chair, lost in thought.
THE GAMIN DETECTIVE.
Madame Courvey had mado up her mind,some time
before Ruffin’s visit, that, if she ever set eyes on him
again, she would take steps to recover the dress.
So, when he quitted her shop, she hastily sum
moned Jacques Quericq, a street gamin, and bade
him follow the young man, and bring her back
word whither he went, promising a handsome re
ward for the service.
Jacques fulfilled his mission well, and speedily
returned with the number of the bouse and the
street where|Ruffin resided. Madame Courvey im
mediately closed her shop, went to the nearest
pol ce station, and swore out a warrant for the ar
rest of Ruffin, for stealing from her premises a
brown silk dress of the value of twenty francs. As
she didn’t know the name of Ruffin, it was left in
blank; but she offered to accompany an officer to
Ruffin s residence and point out the man.
While Ruffin was lying back in his chair, musing,
after the perusal of tbe papers found in the dress,
an officer and Madame Courvey were ascending the
stairs. A gentle knock came to the door, and liuffi’n
instantly put the papers in his pocket. Then he
opened the door.
“That is the man,” said Madame Courvey, “and
there is the dross he stole.”
Ruffin’s expostulation and declaration of Inno
cence was of no avail. He was arrested and the
dress was appropriated and the party returnad to
the police station. Ruffin was searched and the
papers were found upon him. They passed into
tbe hands of the Chief of Police, and Ruffin, against
whom no offense was proved, was liberated. En
deavors were made by parties in power to induce
the Marchionees de C to take a certain course
in view of the contents of the papers, but she posi
tively refused to do so, and consequently a civil
action was brought, in the trial of which the docu
ment found iu tbe skirt of the old silk dress was
produced. It ran tnus:
THE CONFESSION.
“I, August Bausset, commonly known as the
Marquis de C , being at the point of death, make
this voluntary confession.
“In 1832, when I was nineteen years of age, I
committed a robbery in Paris and flew to Dieppe.
Thence I sailed in a lugger to Newhaven, in Eng
land. In the neighborhood of Brighton, I met a
young French gentleman who wae at eohool hoar
that town. We becam§ friends aud Spent much of
each day In company for a fortnight. We grew very
intimate and he gave me his history. He was the
son of the Marquis de C , who resided at the
chateau of Leuroux, in Berry, France, where he
owned a large estate. The youth was seventeen
years old and much about my’build and appearance.
His father was an imbecile and was in the care ot
a sister, and the physicians had directed that
Henry—that was his name—should not be thrown
into any intimate relations with his parent for
certain important reasons. Consequently from the
age of thirteen he had been at school in England
and had never daring that time been in France.
He bad plenty of money and managed to pass his
time very pleasantly.
“ I induced him to go away with me to London.
There we provided ourselves with knapsacks and
necessary clothing, and sailed on board the brig
“Astra ” for Italy. Henri took with him all his let
ters and private papers, beside jewelry and nearly
four hundred pounds sterling. I had about ten
pounds. The brig touched at Ci vita Vecchia, and
then sailed for another port. We landed at Civita
Vecchia, and started on foot for Rome.
“In the night, as Henri lay on the grass by my
side, I stabbed him to the heart. I put his body in
a deep hole hear the root of a large tree where there
was a heavy growth of bushes. I threw my knap
sack in after the body. Then I took Henri’s knap
sack and went toward Rome. Three weeks later I
returned. I visited the tree and the body and knap
sack were there still. I went to Civita Vecchia, and
took ship there for Alexandria. From Alexandria I
went to Marseilles, and from Marseilles to Mauriti
us. Then I went to South America, and in the
Spring of 1834 returned to France. I had all Henri’s
jewelry in say possession, and resolved to pass my
self off for him. I went to Leuroux and found that
the marquis was dead, but his sister received me
with great joy, and I had no difficulty in deceiving
her. * * * Two years later I married my wife.
“Make this confession in order that my wife may
make arrangements, so that at her death the estates
and name of de C , may go to those to whom
they legally belong. AUGUST BAUSSET,
“Called the Marquis de C .”
The confession was properly dated and attested
and under it was written:
“I solemnly pledge myself to preserve this con
fession and to arrange so that after my death it
shall go into the bands of those whom it is intended
to benefit. JULIE, wife of August Bausset,
“Known as the Marquise de 0 .”
On the trial, the marchioness admitted that she
sewed the confession into the skirt of the old silk
dress, and that she had made a will leaving the
dress to Madame Picquigny, who was the next heir
to the estate of Leuroux, thus thinking to satisfy
her conscience.
The action was decided in favor of Madame Pic
quigny, after a great deal of very interesting evi
dence had been taken. The marchioness was judi
cially directed to take the name of Bausset,
The
ENLIGHTENING A SHARP-NOSED’
MAN.
(lyom the San Francisco Chronicle.)
He was one of those long, thin, dried-up fellows
with a parchment skin, and sharp eyes and a sharp
nose, who are always prying into things. It was on
the Saucelito boat, and a fellow came on board with
a basket and sat down near him. There was some
thing very important in the basket, for the fellow
kept peering in all the time and looking to see if
the lid was securely fastened.. The sharp-nosed
man began to feel an interest, and his curiosity
kept rising higher and higher, until when the fellow
had peered into the basket for the fiftieth time, he
couldn’t stand it any longer.
“ I beg your pardon, but you’re so interested in
that basket you really excite me. What have you
got in it ?”
The fellow looked at him a moment.
“I’ll tell you, certainly. You won’t give it
away ?”
“ I give you my word.”
“ Well, it’s a mongaroo.”
“ A mongaroo ! And what is a mongaroo ?”
“ You don’t know what a mongaroo is? A mon
garoo is an animal found in Africa that lives entire
ly on snakes.”
“ And how are you going to get snakes for it to
eat ?”
“ Oh, you see I’m taking it to my brother. He’s a
confirmed drinker, and ”
*• But I don’t see “
“ Well, he’s always seeing snakes and I’m going
to ”
“But how can this animal live on imaginary
snakes ?’*
“Oh. this is an imaginary mongaroo.”
Then fee sharp-nosed man went into the cabin
and sat down opposite to a girl who is supposed to
be in Sau-elito for change of air, but comes over
here four days out of the week.
♦ i . i ♦ —
A Toungster Astonished.
HE TRIED TO 'PLAY IT VERY IN
NOCENTLY.
Joseph Howirtz, a lad, was charged with larceny
from the person. The coipplainant, Michael Harris,
said he was attracted to the lad’s suspicious move
ments on the street and he followed him. He saw
him stand by the side of a lady at a show window
and try to open her satchel. Failing to get in the
satchel, he tried the lady’s pocket. Previous to
that he had seen the young man in Ridley’s store.
After leaving the store he touched the women's
dresses, as he passed along, to feel if there was a
wallet to go for. There was a young man on the
outside apparently on the lookout for him. When
searched three pocket-books and several handker
chiefs were found in his pocket. He had nothing
to say when arrested.
“All 1 have to say is this,” said the young man,
when asked to explain matters ; “ the old pocket
book is my own; the other I used to keep cigarettes
in, and the other pocket-book was given mo by my
aunt.”
••How do you account for the handkerchiefs?”
asked the court.
“My mother sells handkerchiefs.”
“But they were all dirty handkerchiefs?”
“ All soiled said the boy.
“All soiled,” said the court.
“ Well, I am astonished to hear that,” said the
youth.
“House of Refuge,” said the court.
“ The devil I” said the boy.
The Switch-House Mystery.
Baffling Police Detectives.
A FRENCHMAN’S PECULIAR BULLETS.
The Strange Discovery ot an
Unknown Connection.
A COUNTRY DOCTOR’S STORY.
The circumstances we are about to relate, were
told to ub by a physician who, at the time of their
happening, was the County Physician at the place
of the commission of the crime, a place that then
was on the frontier, bnt that now, is one of the most
thriving cities in the Western States. The doctor
told us the story late one night, when we were in a
train returning from St. Louis, where we bad been
to attend the meeting of a medical society in which
he was interested and of the proceedings of which
he wanted a report.
We were in the sleeper smoking compartment,
and not feeling inclined for sleep, the doctor told
me the following story apropos of some remarks we
made in relation to the great number of hidden
crimes.
At the time of the Switch House mystery, the
town had but just been incorporated as a city, and
the stock yards having located there, we soon had a
•‘boom” on and had every indication of turning
out what we have become, the most thriving and
bustling city west of the Mississippi. The real
estate men and journals combined to talk and write
the town up to the top notch; and the railroads
having centered there, the boom was successful.
Vice and sin, as is always the case, ran hand in
glove; every second store about the main square
was a grogshop or gambling hell, while the streets
abutting thereon were lined with the residences ox
frail women, who follow a boom like vultures do the
deafl* We had a church or two, and three or lour
theatres, D9t to mention numberless concert dives.
Altogether
HORNED CITY
was a lively place when I was county doctor there
fifteen years ago. Well, one morning I was called
from my breakfast table to the police station, to
find that an eccentric old man, who had lived for
years in a deserted switch house, between the Bot
toms and the stock yards, had been found dead, in
an advanced state of decomposition and partly de
voured by rats, on the floor of his shanty, by an
enterprising census taker, who, in his eagerness to
add to the total population, bad stumbled on this
unsavory mystery. Chief Squeers of the police
and I at once started for the spot, accompanied by
the brightest officer in town, Sergeant Keating, and
we found the body as described, the shanty window
partly open, and that bis end was sudden was
prnysd by the bread and apples in bis cook-stove
Oven, burned to a crisp.
At Keating’s request the remains of old Connors
(for that was the old squatter’s name.) were gath
ered into a blanket and taken to the Morgue, where
I, without exception, performed the most disgust
ing and filthy post-mortem I ever carried through.
At the inquest Chief Squeers testified that the
deceased had complained to him of two cowboys
something like ten days previously, having threat
ened his life and stoned his hut, in consequence of
his having remonstrated with them for breaking
down his rude fence and allowing their cattle to
overrun his potato patch. Other evidence given,
served to show that deceased had
BELIEVED HIS LIFE IN DANGER
from cowboys who had annoyed him at various
times; so the jury brought in a verdict of death at
the hands of some person or persons unknown, and
recommended the arrest of the cowboys in ques
tion. Oi course in the state the remains were in, I
could discover nothing save and except what
seemed to be a bullet wound over the heart, but
searched again and again vainly for the bullet that
caused it.
Two days afterward, Keating brought to the sta
tion the two cowboys who bad annoyed the old
man at the time he complained to the chief. They
were armed with forty-four calibre revolvers, and
the wound in the old man's breast was evidently a
large calibre wound, but as the prosecuting attor
ney said:
“ That proves nothing, Doc. You and I, and nine
out of every ten men in the State, carry a 44,” and
he produced one from his hip hostler, nearly identi
cal to the one taken from the captive cowboys.
So the two “ cattle punchers ” were discharged,
and there was every indication of the Switch House
Mystery remaining a mystery and being pidgeon
holed for future investigation, which means total
oblivion in police circles. But on the night of the
day that witnessed the discharge of the two ranch
men, the chief received the following telegraphic
message:
••To Chief Squeers, Horned City, from Buffalo. N.
Y., September —. —Hold prisoners till arrival Con
nor's brother. Leaves for your city to-night.
••John Smith, Chief of Police.”
And on the ensulngmorning but one,
THE BROTHER OF THE MURDERED MAN,
a policeman on the Buffalo force, arrived. In the
meantime, every possible effort had been made to
ward the rearrest of the two cowboys, but they had
covered their tracks so well, that Keating could
gain no trace of them. The younger Connor said,
that his older brother having inherited all his fath
er's extensive property at the latter’s death, and
that he (the younger) had not lived at home since
he was sixteen, the murdered man’s miserly habits
having led him to drive the boy and his two sisters
from bis house, and that shortly afterward he pack
ed up and came West, leaving his young kindred to
shift for themselves. The brother’s theory was that
the old man had been killed for gain, as no trace of
any money or property could be found about the
hut, and expressed his intention of sifting the mat
ter to the bottom.
Desiring my assistance to find the bullet, we ob
tained the body with from the ceme
tery authorities, and taking it in a boat to the
disused pest-house that stood on an island the op
posite side of the river from Hie town, we immersed
it in a large pork barrel filled with water, and lock
ing the morgue door, left it to macerate in solitude,
returning with difficulty to the foot of Main street,
for the night was dark and stormy and it was all
we could do to manage the boat. As we walked up
from the river the young man told Keating and I
his and his brother's history. After the elder
brother had turned his two sisters and the sixteen
year-old lad out of their comfortable home at Syra
cuse, N. Y., the neighbors had expressed their de
testation of him so vigorously that he had packed
up and gone to Cincinnati, where there lived a
Frenchman-Jules Juvin—who was the only inti
mate friend the miser possessed. This was a sur
prise to us, for though the Frenchman had ap
peared at the inquest as having known Connor, he
had thrown no particular light on the case, nor had
he claimed any close friendship with him, though
he now admitted having acted as the old man's
banker, having paid him a heavy sum of money,
which the deceased had intended to invest in land
about thirty miles out of town. On investigation
it was found that
CONNORS HAD NOT BOUGHT THE LAND
in question, and all hands were confirmed in the
theory of murder for gain, first advanced by the
younger Connors. Juvin said that he frequently
received heavy sums for deceased, generally from
the neighborhood of Syracuse, N. Y., where he
claimed to own property.
About noon I was called to Headquarters on an
accident case, and, looking for my pocket case of
instruments, found them gone, and concluded I
must have dropped them while stooping about the
floor of the old pest-house the previous night, grop.
ing for the cover to the maceration barrel. Keating
and I took our first leisure moment, and that night
started for the Island, after dark, and I, rowing, left
the foot of Main street
The night was dark and sultry, with an occa
sional flash of lightning, the current running so
swiftly that it took all my strength to keep us from
being carried under the railroad bridge, that threw
its dark span over the muddy waters, just below
the Island. Keating, who had remarkably keen
sight, suddenly exclaimed, ‘’There’s a boat leaving
the Island, Doc !” and headed our boat diagonally
across the stream. At that instant a vivid flash lit
up the troubled waters, and I distinctly saw a boat
with a single occupant shoot out from the Island,
and disappear in the shadow of the bridge. To pre
vent being swept broadside on against the stone
pier, I pulled hard on my left oar, and in a moment
or two struck on the shoal that ran out at the foot
of the island. We gave up the chase as useless,
dragged the boat ashore, and, lighting the lantern,
ran up to the pest-house.
The door was open, though I had closed it the
night before. The barrel was upset, the body lying
on the floor, and from the moisture about it was
evident that, had we been five minutes earlier, we
would have caught the murderer at his work of de.
stroying evidence. The body,
EXPOSED TO THE RAVAGES OF THE RATS,
would not have lasted long, and our case would
have disappeared with the body. And Keating
struck the keynote of my thoughts when he said,
grimly :
“ There’s some one nearer home than those cow
boys, interested in this mess.”
My instrument case lay amid the refuse, as it had
fallen from my breast pocket the day before.
We returned the remains to the barrel, after re
filling it with water; and, after securing the head,
Keating announced his intention of remaining on
the island till daybreak, and added :
“ Hereafter this place must never be left un
guarded.”
I returned, and left word with the chief to have
a man relieve him at morning, and then went home
and to sleep. ’
OFFICE, NO. Il FRANKFORT BT.
Six weeks passed without a single incident of any
bearing on the case. Business slowed up, and I
fell into my old pastime of pistol shooting to pass
away the time. In this I was often joined by Mon
•iour Juvin, who would drop in, as he lived near,
and aid me in my endeavor to reduce the bull’s
eye to a dead certainty.
I discovered that he and I had the mania for col
lecting arms in common, arid one Sunday morning,
at his repeated invitation, I visited his house to in
spect his cabinet of these curiosities. He had a
varied and interesting collection.
MANY CURIOUS WEAPONS, '
both old and new, and in a case containing a pair
of cavalry pistols of large calibre, I noticed a few
steel-pointed, conical bullets. I took one up, in
tending to ask their origin, when he attracted my
attention to a magnificent pair of Spanish blades,
that he took from a cabinet, and it was only on my
arrival home that I found, grasped in my left hand,
the bullet I had taken up some time before. I was
annoyed at my absent-minded trick, and, placing it
carefully in my fob-pocket, resolved to return it to
him at the first opportunity.
On Tuesday, the chief—Connors, Keating and
myself, accompanied by a. reporter who had got
scent of the proceedings, crossed the river and ex
amined the settlings at the bottom of my pork bar
rel. After considerable scraping and scooping wo
found—a conical, steel-pointed pistol bullet. That
it was the one that caused Connors’s death was evi
dent from the mark on its leaden portion, where
my scalpel had struck it during the post mortem.
The body being rotted, it had sunk into the tissues,
offering no resistance to the edge of my knife.
Breathless and
TREMBLING WITH EXCITEMENT
I pointed these facts out to my companions, and as
the fatal link of evidence struck my mind, 1 ex
claimed:
•• And in addition to this, gentlemen, I can lay my
hand to-day on the owner of bullets exactly like
this one in every particular,” and drawing the bul
let obtained from Juvin’s pistol-case from my fob,
I compared the two, and beyond a doubt they were
cast from the same mold, and for use in the same
weapon.
“ Where did you get this duplicate ?” asked all
four of mv companions, in a breath.
“From Jules Juvin,” I answered, and related the
manner of its discovery.
In haste wo returned to town, and the chief at
once swore out a warrant for the body of Jules Ju
vin, suspected of the murder of the old min Con
nors. Armed with this, which was only obtained
after some delay, Keating and I hastened to the
murderer’s house. But th© news had got there
before us, and Juvin lay stretched in death. A
strong smell of almonds filled the apartment.
In making the necessary examination, I discov
ered the astonishing fact that the deceased was a
woman. What link had bound the suicide and her
victim together in life we never discovered, but
the amount of money that Connors had drawn for
his land investment was found hidden beneath the
flooring of the Frenchwoman’s house.
It was sunrise when we finished the search, as
it is now, by the way, and the doctor raised the
blind and looked out over the rolling plains that
we were running over, but we found nothing
further. Connors got his brother’s money and re
turned East with it; Keating died Winter before
last, in the discharge of hi* duty, and Squeers is
stUl chief of polios at Horned City. I quit politics
and county positions, and have devoted myself to
practice ever since, with good average results.
There is perhaps but one moral to the doctor's
story. “Murder will out”; but the causes that lead
to murder often remain as deep a mystery, after a
crime is traced, as at the hour of its accomplish
ment.
Gen. Pickett’s Widow.
HER GIFT TO HER HUBBAND
TWENTY YEARS AGO.
(From the Baltimore Sun.)
Just twenty years ago, on the eve of the anniver
sary of Gettysburg, Mrs. Pickett made her husband
an anniversary gift which she knew would please
him. She had made some money by translating,
and expended a portion of it for the gift. While a
cadet at West Point Gen. Pickett’s mother present
ed him with a gold watch, and he valued it highly.
His wife obtained the watch to have it cleaned, and
had the Confederate and the Union flags crossed
upon its outside in colors. Inside she had engraved
a list of the battles in which he had participated in
Mexico and those in which he was engaged during
the Civil War.
Both lists were long. The latter list included
Yorktown, Williamsburg, Seven Pines, Gaines’s
Mills (where 'he was wounded); Fredericksburg,
Suffolk, Gettysburg, Newbern, Petersburg, North
Anna, Cold Harbor, Bermuda Hundred, Five Forks,
Dinwiddle Court-House, Sailor’s Creek and Appo
mattox. She could not have the work done in
Richmond at that time, and it was thought so
strange that a Confederate general s wife really
wanted the two flags entwined on her husband’s
watch, that the work had te be done in Baltimore.
“ When I gave it to him,' said Mrs. Pickett, in a
tremulous voice, *• I made his heart so full he could
hardly speak. He had fought under the old flag in
a foreign country, and loved the flag and those he
had fought with under it. He said it was the hard,
est act of nis life to order the men to fire on the old
flag.”
Gen. Pickett died at Norfolk. Va., July, 1875. His
last words were “Good night.”
Mrs. Pickett had the watch decorated to show her
husband that she forgave him for making her
shake hands with Yankees and accept hospitalities
from them, and to show him that Southern women
could overcome their prejudices. Mrs. Puckett was
Miss Lasalle Corbell, of Chuckatuck, Nansemond
county, Va.
At the age of fifteen she married Gen. Pickett. Sep
tember 15, 1863. She has a letter from Geu. Pickett,
written just before the famous charge, in which he
gives an account of Longstreet s objection to the
charge, and another letter from Gen. Pickett, writ
ten just after the charge, in which is an account of
the way in which Longstreet took leave of him as
he led the division off to the charge. Mrs. Pickett
went with her husband through the portion
of the war which followed her marriage,
going into camp. She was under fire at the
retaking of the lines at Petersburg. The
last review of her husband's oid division was at
Chester Station, between Petersburg and Richmond.
The general's men were ragged and barefooted, and
Gen. Pickett said every life lost after that would be
murder. At this review Mrs. Pickett was on horse
back at her husband's side.
After the war, Geo. Pickett and wife went to
Canada, and lived there under the name of Ed
wards. They were poor, and Mrs. Pickett got a
position as teacher of Latin and elocution. This
position, she stated, she owed indirectly to Mr. Lin
coln, who, in 1842, appointed Gen. Pickett a cadet
to West Point from Illinois. Without telling Gen.
Pickett, Mrs. Pickett answered an advertisement for
a teacher. She was so young looking that she was
informed that a teacher was wanted, not a scholar.
Then she was asked for references. She had a di
ploma, but she was afraid to produce it, as it would
show she was from Virginia. An examination re
sulted in her getting the place. Returning from
Canada, they stopped in New lork, engaging small
apartments, but old friends of her husband put
them in fine quarters, put a earriage at their dis
posal, paid all their bills.and did so much that feel
ings of friendship were established that can never
be broken.
Three Young Girls.
THEY CHANGED FOR THE WORSE
(From the Youth 9 s Companion.)
Three young girls of about sixteen, whose gowns
show quite good taste* and whose faces tell of pleas
ant tempers and nimble minds, are in a parlor to
gether, alone. One is reading aloud. Her voice is
sweet and unaffected. She stops now and then,
while the three discuss their work, with much jok
ing and laughter.
They are clever, but tender and womanly. They
are totally unconscious of themselves; their tones
are low and sincere; there can be no doubt you are
in the company of gentlewomen.
Suddenly, presto ! all is changed. A caller is an.
nounced. One of the young ladies stiffens herself,
pinches in her lips, and speaks in mincing mono
syllables. Another gargles and giggles, blushes
and tosses her chiu upward; she lisps her answers
with an absurd sweetness of voice and glance.
The third suddenly becomes a very swash-buckler
of a young woman. Hitherto she has' spoken Eng
lish; now she falls into an unknown dialect.
“How is your mother, Jenny ?” she is asked by
the visitor.
“ Oh, top !”
“I heard your brother had gone to New York.”
“Ob, that was a fake. He was badly punished at
foot-ball, and is lying low to fetch up.'*
“You seem to know all that’s going on.”
“Oh, yes; I'm fly !”
One of her companions at this puts on an air of
offended propriety, and shakes her head with stern
reprobation. The other giggles and drops her head
on her breast affectedly.
What can have changed these simple, pleasant
girls into puppets ? Can it be the advent of a single
youth, ringed and chained, and with a faint down
upon his upper lip, to which is given all the atten
tion his little mind is capable of giving ?
Is it possible that any men prefer these simper
ing, prim, dash-away styles in women, which are
sometimes so exaggerated in silly girls that their
manner might befit slaves drawn up in the market,
and trying to attract a buyer?
So forced and unnatural is the conduct of some of
our American girls, when a possible suitor is pres
ent, that nothing of the r true selves is seen through
it. They might as well be wrapped in the unbe
coming head-dress and covering that makes the
public dress of the Oriental woman.
PRICE FIVE CENTS;
THUS WOULD I DIE.
My wounded dove, ob, turn thee not away I
I meant not, love, those cruel words to say.
Oh, hide not now thy peerless face at last,
Let me atone before my watoh is past,
Before the mystic night of death enshroud*
parting day.
Let me this one sweet parting mem’ry keep,
Ere Azrael lulls my fainting soul to sleep;
Fold me once more within thy fond embrace,']
Lay now thy head in its accustomed place;
Forget the bitter tears, dear love, I caused thin&
eyes to weep.
Before I die, love, oh, before I die.
Bend on my face thy wistful, azure eye,
And soothe me with thy voice’s tender sound;
Before the shades of deith have gathered round;
Ob, say but once thou Io vest me; but once, before I
die.
Before I lay mine aching heart to rest,
Oh, let mo strain thee to my heaving breast;
Oh, say but once, “My darling, I forgive;”
For thus to die were sweeter than to live—
Thus would I die, mine own; thus woujd I die. for*
ever blest.
fntcnstmg Storg
MARVELOUSMARRIAGE
BY A FAVORITE AUTHOR.
r'
CHAPTER I. $'
"SUCH A MAD SCHEME.”
“ Well, Edith, her. I am—all ready to listen
and sympathize.”
“Juliet I I did not expect you so soon,
How glad I am 1”
“I am half frozen,” says Juliet St. John, ad
vancing to the fire. “ They say there has not
been euch a bitter November for twenty years.
I was skating with Howard and Jeff on the lake
this morning.”
“ Was Aubrey there?” inquires Edith.
“ Part of the time. Tbe boys wanted to tell
him that I had changed my plans and was go
ing by the earlier train, but Howard had prom
ised to drive me to tho station, and they are so
full of nonsense when Aubrey is there, that
there is no getting anything serious out of
them. And I thought that very likely, among
them all, we should lose the train. Beside— ’*
"You were afraid Aubrey would want you to
accept his escort when be found you wore com
ing alone; so you judiciously kept him onto!
the way,” finishes Edith, smiling a little dis.
dainfully, “Is he as much iu love as ever
with you, Juliet?”
“It is not my fault,” says the girl, with S
quick warm flush, that dies away almost aa
suddenly as it came.
“Oh, of course not! You don’t ride and
skate with him, and play billiards and lawn
tennis, do you? Why, Juliet, you are always
together.”
“ But I cannot help that, Editb. I ride and
skate with uncle and the boys, and if ho
chooses to come with us I cannot prevent him,
can I ? How could I refuse to play a game of
billiards or lawn-tennis with him and his Bis
ters and brothers ? Why, I should make my«
self appear perfectly ridiculous, and Uncle
Howard would not like it, either, Ho has a
particular dislike to family quarrels or unpieaa*
antnesses.”
“Doesn’t he want you to marry Aubrey?”
“ Oh, no ! He has strong objections to mat*
riages between cousins, and so have 11”
“ Nonsense I” laughs Edith. " You would
not care whether Aubrey were your cousin or
a South Sea Islander, if you loved him. Xoa
are a lucky girl, Juliet— a very lucy girl—to
have Uncle Howard on your side. Now hera
is my father, careless of my feelings and of
everybody else’s, lorcing me into marriage with
a cousin!”
“Is he your cousin, Edith ? I did not know
that. He is not mine, is be ?”
“No; ho belongs to mother’s family, and is no
relation of yours. Indeed, he is only a very
distant cousin of my own.”
“ Well, you say it doesn’t matter .”
" But I bate him, Juliet.”
“ Then I wouldn’t marry him for all the
fathers iu the kingdom 1”
“My father is not like other fathers,” returns
Edith impressively. “ When most girls want
to get anything out of their fathers they have
merely to ‘ ask prettily,’ as they tell the chil.
dren. Mine is not to be moved by pretty
speeches any more than ugly ones. Mine is A
martinet—a tyrant .”
“ Suppose you tell me all the story, Editfi,'
instead ot calling Uncle Philip names,” inter*
rupts the other, taking a cup of tea from het
cousin’s hand.
“ Well, the object of the proposed marriage is
to join the two estates of Tenham and Compton-
Cheney. Tenham belongs to a relation ot ours
who has been traveling abroad ever since h 9
came of age, and has just come back, declaring
bis intention of settling down—if he can. Ha
and father are great friends already, and they
have been putting their heads together to con*
coct this horrible plan of joining the two places.
Isn’t it unfortunate that they chance to adjoin
one another, Juliet? Father was not very well
off, in spite of hie being the eldest eon. Ha
came into Compton Cheney when he married
mother, you know, and he never quite liked
owing the greater part of his wealth to her; and
now he declares this will be the very tiling. Oh,
it I only had a brother! Father wouldn’t be in
such a burry if he bad a son to inherit tbe
estate ! You are a lucky girl, Juliet, to have no
landed property of your own. You will ba
allowed to marry whom you like, for your little
bit of money is of no importance.”
“And what does the cousin say to this arrange
ment?” Juliet asks.
“ Oh, be has quite made up bis mind to it; in
fact, 1 don’t know whether it was with him 01
father it first originated 1”
“ And does he know you don’t want to marry
him ?”
“ Oh, yes, I believe so ! Father was in such
a rage when I said I hated him, and couldn't
marry him, that he put on his hat, and dashed
across tbe grounds. I know he must have gone
to Tenham by tbe bridle-path; and ho is sure to
have told him everything—father isn’t good at
keeping secrets, you know, especially when he
is angry. Beside, when my cousin comes to
tho house, I never speak to him whon I can
possibly avoid it, and when he asks me to ride
or walk I always decline. He must know that
I hate him—even if father has not told him.”
“ But doesn’t Uncle Philip insist upon your
being civil to him ?”
“No; he doesn’t seem to care how 1 treat
him now; but he is quite determined I shall
marry him in the end. He told me the other
day that I might flout him as I would—it would
make no difference to either of them—l should!:
be the wile of Sir Evelyn Lovelace before six.
months were over.”
“ Is he like his name—gentle, romantic I"