New York dispatch. [volume], October 09, 1887, Page 2, Image 2

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

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2
men to the gallows without much compunction
certainly; but I hardly think I should have the
heart to condemn one to spend a lifetime with
Harriet Crane. Then, on the other hand, there
ie Ethel to consider—how can I allow her sister
to suffer what is undoubtedly a wrong and in
dignity beneath my root t”
“It is not that, I assure you. Miss Crane has
been the cause of my trouble and great distress;
but my confession has only indirectly to do with
her. The wrong I have done is-you are quite
sure you can listen calmly?”
“Yes, yes; get on, man, for Heaven’s sake I
The wrong you have done is ”
“Is done to you and some one much dearer
to you than Miss Crane. Bushton, lam a most
miserable and degraded man. You will never
be able to forgive me; but I do not tell the story
to set myself straight in your eyes.”
“We can talk about forgiveness when I know
What you have done,” Sir James breaks in.
“Finish your story, please. You have wronged
me and another person, you say. Will you tell
me that other's name ?”
There is a pause, during which Mr. Turber
ville’s face gives extraordinary evidence ot its
mobility; then ho says in a hoarse whisper:
“Marcella.”
“ Marcella I What harm could you possibly
do her ?”
“ Wait.” There is a volume of entreaty and
abject appeal in the monosyllable. “To make
you understand that I must take you along way
back into the past—ton time when Marcella was
a little child between three and four years old.”
“In Heaven’s name, man, speak plainly—tell
me what yon mean !”
Sir James starts passionately to his feet, al
most beside himself with rage and shame and
fear, and all the torturing memories Mr. Tnr
berville's words awake. The excitement the
doctor has forbidden completely masters him
now. His visitor meets his imperious glance
With deprecating'eyes.
“Yes yes—only be calm. I am trying to tell
you,'’ he says soothingly, and Sir James breaks
into a wild langh.
“ Calm I Yes, lam calm,” he echoes grimly
—“calm enough to hear andjunderstand. Go
on with your story. What ot the time when
Marcella was a child I You saw her first here in
my house, a girl ot filteen or sixteen, freshly
home from school.”
“ Oh, no I You are quite mistaken there,
Bushton—l was not deceived from the very
first. Do you remember when you introduced
me to your niece, I told you that her face put
strange memories into my head ? Come, you
must have some recollection of that fact, for I
know the remark made a strong impression on
you at the time.”
Very pale and grim grows Sir James Rush
ton’s face, very stern and steady is the light in
his gray eyes. To a convicted criminal he never
looked more terrible than ho does to Gustavus
Turberville now.
“I remember—go on.”
Vainly the unhappy man struggles to obey.
He halts and stammers, and wipes bis heated
brow, and finally flounders on.
“ She cast a spell upon me—upon my honor
she did. Rushton. When I come to look back
upon things, I feel sure that nothing but mes
pierio influence could have made me forget all
honor and decency and behave with such black
guard cruelty to a poor girl who never injured
me, or deserved to have an enemy. Blaine
Harriet Crane for all that has happened—not
me, her miserable dupe.”
“‘The woman tempted me, and I did eat.’
We are familiar with that defense from the days
Of Adam downward, Mr. Turberville.”
There is a grim quietude in the reply that be
wilders the wretched Turberville not a little.
He does recognize the fact that passion at white
heat sends forth no fiery glow, and that Sir
James has long passed the red stage.
“Yes, it sounds cowardly, but it is true,” he
says miserably. “ Miss Crane hated Marcella
for some reason, and made me the instrument
of her cruel revenge. Something—l do not re
member what let her see that I knew more of
Marcella’s history than most people, and she
gave me no peace until I told her all.”
“ And that ‘ all ’—would you mind repeating
it to me ?”
Mr. Turberville cowers like a threatened
dog ; indeed, the clear, incisive rone, falls upon
his ear like the cut of a whip, and he instantly
Obeys.
“ I told her that I had my suspicions from the
first, and watched yonr proceedings after Kath
leen Carroll’s trial.”
“ Wait!" Sir James Rushton stops him there
With a quick, imperious gesture, and for a few
moments there is a breathless silence in the
room. Just for that short period of time the
strong proud man, who all his life has held him
self as the supreme master ot his own fate and
that of others, tastes a bitterness worse than
that of death, for in the sudden clouding of his
brain—the momentary suspension of his facul
ties just when they should all be most keenly
attentive and alert—he has still sense to read a
warning of the end, and that end, coming now,
would be a tragic mockery of all his plans.
“ Wait 1” he cries helplessly again, and then a
prayer, the most passionately earnest the man
of the world has ever uttered, forms itself on
his quivering lips—a prayer for strength and
self-control, for time and power to avert the
danger threatening Marcella, for time and
power to undo the evil that has been so selfishly
done.
At Jast, after what seemed an eternity of wait
ing to ths conscience stricken and alarmed Mr.
Turberville, he raises his head and says, with
curious gentleness!
“Go on.”
“Alter Kathleen Carroll’s trial and death, I
knew that you took her little girl away, that you
sent her first to a farm-house, and then to a for
eign school, and finally brought her home, and
presented her to. the world as Marcella Rushton
—your niece.”
A sudden, horrible suspicion that the man’s
mind has given way adds the last straw to the
already heavy weight on Mr. Turberville’s con
science, as he notices the slight, curious smile
just touching Sir James’s lips, as he answers,
quietly:
“ So you played your part of detective well,
and knew from the first that Mary Carroll and
Marcella Rushton were one ?”
“ I did. I could not be deceived. But that
was nothing. I would have kept her secret to
the last as I did keep it until ”
He breaks down, not knowing how to round
off the sentence to his own satisfaction. Sir
James finishes it in the quiet, unresentful tone
that alarms Mr. Turberville more than any
show of anger.
“ Until you were tempted to betray it. I see.
And, when Miss Crane learned Marcella’s his
tory, was she content to keep the knowledge to
herself?”
“ No, ’ Mr. Turberville bursts out, with sav
age indignation and disgust. “ She treated me
shamefully. I exacted a solemn promise of
secrecy before I told her a word, but she
What was a promise to her? She wrote an
anonymous letter to Lord Glenroyal, warning
him that his son had been tricked into such a
marriage as might well cause all the old Glen
roys to turn in their graves, and entreating him
at all costs to save Fergus from social ruin.”
“Well, what did the Glenroys do? How did
they take the news ? 1 have been kept in ignor
ance of the tragedy that has been performed
under my roof.”
“ They took it as might have been expected—
as a crushing blow, all the harder to bear be
cause the doctors lorbade them to appeal to
you. Lord Glenroyal, between his pity and
strong liking for Marcella and his stubborn
family pride, was like a madman, they say, but,
as a matter ot course, the latter conquered at
last. He sent for Fergus and ordered him to
break off the marriage.”
“ And Fergus ?” Sir James asks, with a sick
ening thrill of suspense.
Ou the answer to this question it seems to
him, and not to any other, Marcella’s happiness
or misery hangs.
“Fergus refused to obey. Heaven knows
what it cost the lad to defy the father he had
been accustomed to reverence as a sort of king,
whom ho loved, as well as honored, with all
his honest heart. But he stuck manfully to
the girl he loved, and who was absolutely in
nocent of any wrong-doing—stuck to her
through thick and thin, in lace of entreaty and
threats, until it came to an absolute quarrel be
tween him and Lord Glenroyal.”
“Brave lad I” Sir James mutters; then in a
louder tone, with eyes exultingiy bright—
“ Marcella knows nothing then, for, if Lord
Glenroyal failed to coerce his son, he is, I
know, too generous and chivalrous a gentle
man to have threatened a helpless girl 1"
“ Wait! ’ Mr. Turberville groans. “ Y’ou have
not heard all yet. You are right indeed about
the Glenroys—neither from the old chief nor
any member of the family did she hear one
whisper of the secret. But do you think Miss
Crane lot matters rest like this ? One of her
weapons had failed, but she had others ia re
serve, and she used them without mercy. She
told Marcella herself!”
A quick, half-smothered cry breaks from Sir
James Hushton’s lips.
“ A sure wea; on indeed. She know my poor
girl’s nature, Marcella herself broke with her
lover then
“ She did more than that. She went to Miss
Glenroy and placed in her hands the story I
bad in my senseloss felly written out lor Har
riet Crane—the story of her mother’s crime
and punishment, and solemnly pledged herself
never to share her family disgrace with the
Glenroys.”
There was another pause a pause ot relief
to Mr. urbervilie.who feels that the most pain
ful and even dangerous part of his confession
is done with now—a pause lor quiet and con
centrated thought to Sir James, who asks at
last:
“ How do you know all this—all that relates
to the Glenroys, I mean, and why do you tell
me now?”
“ I know because Miss Glenroy sent for and
cross-questioned me the other night. What a
woman she is 1” Mr. Tuberville says, with a
shiver and an air ot reluctant admiration. “If
young Fergus only makes as good a cross-ex
aminer as hie sister, he will soon be carrying
all before him in the courts. The way she silt
ed the story was a caution. She had nothing
but pity and sympathy lor Marcella, but she
was merciless to me.”
Bad as his thoughts are, angry as he is, Sir
James can hardly repress a smile.
“ Did you expect sympathy from Miss Glen
roy?”
“ No; but she treated me like the worst of
criminals—her last words sent mo to you, by
the-way; I can still bear them and see the flash
of her eyes. ‘ You have made all the mischief,
Mr. Turberville; it is lor you to set tilings
straight if you can. Your'story sounds well
enough, but it is all guess-work and conjecture,’
she said severely. ‘ Make a further ssaeh, and
perhaps you may find that you have been fol
lowing a false scent alt this time.’ Although ot
course she knew nothing of what she was talk
ing about, her words seemed to give me a sort
of forlorn hope, Hushton. I took a desperate
resolution on the spot—l would run all risks
and make a clean breast of it to you. It was
just possible, as she saicl, that I might be
wrong, though I could hardly think it—just
possible that you might be able to explain ”
“Just possible, as you say,” Sir James agrees
gravely. “ Thank you for enlightening me at
last, Turberville; I might have been kept in the
dark too long.”
The door opens as he speaks and Lady Bush
ton comes fluttering in. She grows quite pale
at the sight of the visitor, and looks at her hus
band with anxious attention, as she says m soft
tones of reproach:
“ James, you have been talking business and
exciting yourself. I tried so hard to keep Mr.
Turberville away.”
“Why ?”
She does not understand all the quick and
keen suspicion of the look that drives that ques
tion home, and answers readily:
“ Harriet thought it best. She is always din
ning the doctor’s orders in my ears. And - oh,
dear!—l am disobeying them now, fori came to
tell you that Lord Glenroyal and his daughter
are here, and, as for some reason Marcella will
not see them, they begged for a few minutes’
interview with you.”
CHAPTER XIX. '
“ SOMETIMES IT IS EASIER TO FACE FOES THAN
FBIENnS.”
“ Muriel“ Marcella I”
There is a sound of weariness and terror in
the first startled cry, and there is a sort ot hope
less wonder in the stare with which Marcella
Bushton greets her unexpected guest, but Miss
Glenroy’s responsive utterance has quite a
cheerfully mocking sound.
“ You did not expect me to pursue you to
Sour last retreat, did you, my dear ?” says
iuriel, cordially kissing the cold pale face the
girl tries vainly to avert. “But strong measures
are necessary with refractory people; and even
an uninvited visit to your bedroom may be for
given in a—sister-in-law.”
“ Muriel 1”
The murmured word sounds like a wail of
agony, but Muriel will not be moved, she only
hurries on, with an emphatic repetition of the
objectionable phrase.
“ A sister-in-law-to-be, then! It is a case of
Mahomet and the mountain over again. You
persistently refused to see us, so I told the
chief, who is most impatiently waiting down be
low, that I should go in search of you, and, as
soon as Lady Bushton kindly left us for a
moment, I found my way up here. Now, Miss
Perversity, I hope you mean to make some
amends lor all the trouble you have given.”
Her smile is like a ray of sunshine, the frank
blue eyes are bright and joyous, her manner
has not a shadow of restraint. AU the trouble
of the last few days, for any change it has made
in her, might have been only an ugly nightmare.
Yet Marcella instinctively Knows that nothing is
altered—nothing explained, that the woman
who clasps her hand so warmly, whose eyes
meet hers in such a kind frank smile, is making
voluntary sacrifice now of the strongest and
most cherished feeling of her life.
“ Thank you, dear Muriel,” she cries in a
tremulous voice, her heart swelling with a flood
ot grateful thanks. “ I think I know all you
mean—the errand that brings you here, and I
am more—tar more grateful than I can say.
You would forgive all—even ’’—she pauses,
growing ghastly pale—“even it the world
knew; but I am not so selfish as you think me—
I will never marry Fergus now 1”
“But you must—you shall I We have your
promise, and will hold you to it. Como down
and see the chief, Marcella; you cannot refuse
him.”
But Marcella only turns away with a little
sobbed-out “ No,” that is not more full of pain
than resolution. Miss Glenroy eyes her with
increasing gravity and trouble in her kind,rug
ged face. Opposition she has indeed expected,
but not such quiet despairing obstinacy as
this. Is it possible that, having triumped over
the stubborn pride ot the Glenroys, Marcella
will be doomed to life-long misery by her own ?
“ Marcella, you are wrong,” she says sternly.
“Nay, more—you are selfish now. Yes, you
have'been very brave and noble until now, but
there is a time to fight, and a time when it is
the truest heroism to lay down one’s arms.
That time has come, I think, for you. When an
old man like my father—a proud man who has
imposed his will upon others all his life
leaves his sick-bed and travels down here to
see you, just because you are less well-born
and, in the world’s eyes, less desirable as a
wife for his son than you seemed at first—when
he comes to beg your pardon ”
“No, no 1” Marcella breaks in with passionate
eagerness. “ Muriel, you must not say that I”
“ I must speak the truth; I am here for that
purpose only. Marcella, am Ito go back to my
lather and tell him that he has made his con
cession and taken his journey in vain—that you
will not oven see him ?”
Miss Glenroy’s eyes search the pale tortured
face with a merciless scrutiny—read every
thought that flits across the girl's mind as
plainly as though it were set down on a printed
page—the doubt—the fear of her own steadfast
resolution that makes her shrink with equal
terror from a meeting with her lover or her
lover’s father, and finally the yielding that.is
heroically unselfish in its way.
“ No,” the girl cries at last, with a pitiful
struggling smile, “j'pu shall take no euclimes
aagejjfuriel. I will see Lori Gtlenroval my
self, and thank him with my whole heart for all
his goodness to me.”
“You dear child 1” Muriel answers heartily.
“Do you know I began to tremble, Ella—some
thing in your eyes seemed to echo the cry of the
Old Guard, ‘Death, not surrender I’ ”
She speaks with rather forced and hysterical
merriment, for the look she fears is by no
means banished yet from the mournful eyes.
In her heart she knows that Marcella’s surren
der is very far from being complete, but she
will not admit this even to herself, and hurries
her captive down stairs with an irresistible en
ergy.
“ ITease wait a moment I” the girl exclaims,
pausing in the hall and looking so ill that Miss
Glenroy’s practical thoughts fly off instantly in
to the region of essence-bottles and aromatic
vinegar. “I am out ot breath, Muriel 1”
“Your courage is failing' you, you mean,”
says Muriel, shaking her head. “ And that is
really too absurd. One would think you were
going to face a deadly foe; and you have not
anywhere a truer friend or a warmer admirer
than my father.”
There is no incredulity, but a wistful look in
Marcella’s eyes and a ring of pain in her low
toned answer:
“ Sometimes it is easier to face foes than
friends. While you were all against me it was
easy to bold out; now ”
“Now it is quite impossible,” the other finishes
decisively; and, as she speaks, she opens the
room door.
Marcella stands in the doorway, conscious of
nothing but the wild throbbing of her heart, the
helpless faintness- that is stealing away her
strength, just when she most needsit. A prayer
forms itself on her pale lips, she takes a step
into the room, and the next moment finds her
self in Lord Glenroyal’s arms.
“ My dear child—my brave good girl!” the
old man cries with genuine fatherly tenderness,
as he lays a slender shaking hand upon the solt
dark hair. “I knew you would not holdout
for ever, proud as you ace. There, that is right
—cry, my bonnie lass—tears will do you good !”
Marcella, alter a brief terror-stricken effort to
break from the kind arms that hold her, has let
her head drop upon the old chief’s shoulder,
and she sobs aloud in a pitiful outburst of griet
—sobs frankly and undisguisedly, like a pained
and frightened child who has found shelter and
sympathy at last.
Miss Glenroy looks on with an expression of
scared disapproval. She has mapped out the
scene in her own mind, and this is not at all the
course she had intended it to take. She has
half unconsciously put down several magnani
mous speeches lor her lather and Marcella, has
pictured a contest of generosity between them
in which the victory always rests with Lord
Glenroyal. But so tar matters have not at all
taken the turn that she expected; and, as a
natural consequence, she begins to tremble for
the result.
“ Marcella I” she cries half angrily; and Mar
cella raises her bead at the sharp rebuke. Lord
Glenroyal releases her then, but only to lead
her to a chair and draw up another beside hers
for himself.
“ Never mind Muriel,” be says, still holding
Marcella’s baud and iookiug at her with eyes
that have a halt-humorous twinkle now; “ she
shall not scold you, and you shall cry as much
as you please now you are a good girl and have
given in to your fate.”
“ I—l do not wautto cry I” Marcella answers,
feeling a wild desire to laugh hysterically at the
serio-comic fashion in which Lord Glenroyal
and bis daughter seem disposed to treat what
is so grim a tragedy to her. “ And 1 have only
‘ given in ’ so tar; 1 have come—please do not
think me ungratelul, Lord Glenroyal—to thank
you with my whole heart for all your goodness,
and—and to bid you good-bye 1”
“ And FergUs,” the chief says in a musing
tone, and rather to himself than to her—“ is
Fergus to have no voice in the matter ?”
Marcella winces at the sound of her lover’s
name, but finds strength to answer, in a low,
resolute toue:
“ Fergus knows—that—our marriage is— im
passible I”
“ Indeed he knows nothing of the kind ! Y’ou
have promised to marry him and there is no
reason why you should not. There is nothing
between you but your very obstinate and very
cruel pride. And if you will not sacrifice that
for his sake, why, you do not deserve that he
should love you as he does.”
Marcella looks as bewildered as she feels.
That Lord Glenroyal should be willing to re
ceive her for bis son’s sake, and just a little for
her own, was possible, though it had seemed
wildly improbable a little while back; but that
he should address her in such a fashion, up
braid her with that which she had clung to as
the sole stay of her self: respect-—.
“My pride!” she cries, with a wild little
scornful laugh. “Are you mocking me, Lord
Glenroyal? Oh, no, forgive me; I did not
moan that! Y’ou are much too good—too kind ;
but the words are horrible mockery in them
selves. What right have I—the convict's daugh
ter—to speak of pride? Fergus will forget me.
Ob, yes ! Not to-day nor to-morrow, but in
time”—the girl speaks hurriedly aud eagerly—
“and then, when you sec him happy with a
wile of whom he lias aright to lie proud, you
will thank me lor ro.using to apo I his lile,”
“Never!” the <>bi <-lrot cries with energy
e ;iial to h< r own. “If Fergus gives you up
now or takes another wi e while you are alive
aud single, 1 wilt -u». ■■:> ...st- im ,s : o son of
NEW YORK DISPATCH, OCTOBER 9, 1887.
mine. Wilful, obstinate, unreasonable as you
are, you will make a wife of whom any man
may be proud 1”
“ Proud I And how will you bear it when the
gossips hunt up, as they will, the wretched sto
ry of my birth, when they whisper that your
son’s wife was the daughter of ”
“ You will be my daughter then I” the old
man exclaims, with something of arrogant intol
erance in his tone. Straggle against the fact as
hard as he may, there is no denying that the
words sting the Highlander’s fierce pride.
“ And I should like to see the tongue that wag
ged against a Glenroy. You will be my daugh
ter only then.”
“Not quite that, Lord Glenroyal. The world
will learn a little late in the day that Marcella is
my daughter, too.”
Quietly as the words are spoken, they fall
with something like a shook upon Marcella’s
and Lord Glenroyal’s ears. Absorbed in their
own sharp struggle, they have not heard the
door open, and it is with the eerie feeling that a
spectral visitant might create, that they find Sir
James Bushton standing before them, pale, but
very bright-eyed and resolute.
Closely as the words affect her own interests,
anxious as she is to hear more, Marcella’s un
selfishness asserts itself bravely still. She re
members the excitement against which the doc
tors have warned them, the man's frail hold on
life and reason, the care with which they have
guarded him as yet from any nervous shock,
and, remembering this, she darts a warning
glance at Lord Glenroyal, and says with forced
lightness of tone :
“You must not talk business, papa—the doc
tor’s orders!”
He looks at the sweet face, whose pallor seems
all the more pitiful, lighted up as it is by that
faint, flickering smile, and an expression of
deep shame aud suffering clouds his own.
“Her first thought is for me,” ho mutters.
“ And I—Heaven help me, what have I not
made the poor child suffer?”
“ Never mind the doctors, Ella. They have
ridden rough-shod over us too long,” be an
swers, with a curious, forced cheerfulness. “ I
moan to defy them and assert myself at last.
Lord Glenroyal he turns to the old chief,
who stands drawn up in stiff soldier fashion to
his full, stately hight, and who is fingering his
fierce-looking, white mustache—“ you have
some reason to think that I have not treated
you quite fairly and straightforwardly in this
matter?”
Lord Glenroyal simply bows ; he is to honest
to trifle with the truth, and he has wish to blurt
it out rudely, at possible risk to the man who.
though he defies the doctors, is still visibly on
the sick list. So far as Marcella herself is con
cerned, affectionate admiration has absolutely
conquered pride ; he is so iond of her, so sure
she will make Fergus happy, that he is content
to take her as she is, but, at the bottom of bis
heart, he cherishes a fierce resentment against
Sir James Rushton still.
That keen observer reads his thoughts aright,
aud smiles a little sadly.
“I see you condemn me, and you only echo
my own verdict; I am self-condemned already,
though not of the crime you think. Lord Glen
royal, you were content to accept Marcella as
your sou’s wife when you thought her my
brother’s child ?”
Lord Glenroyal turns with ready chivalry,
not to the man who questions him, but to the
girl who winces at that question, aud lilts her
hand to his lips, with a curious mingling of
paternal fondness and old-world gallantry.
“I am more than content to take her as ehe
is,” he answers, with a simple sincerity it is im
possible to doubt.
And just at this moment, while Marcella looks
into the kind, proud face, with grateful, tear
dimmed eyes, Harriet Crane comes in from the
garden through the open French windew. In
one swift glance she takes in the whole scene,
and seems to divine its meaning, for her face,
which was pale enough before, grows paler
still, and the pale brown eyes gleam threaten
ingly.
No one sees her at first, but, just as she is
about to withdraw, Lady Rushton, who has
hitherto stood a mute and helplessly amazed
witness of a scene that conveys literally no
meaning to her, catches sight of the familiar
figure, aud cries, in her childish fashion :
“ Hattie, come in. Why should you run away
—there are no strangers here ?”
Muriel Glenroy smiles grimly at the vicious
glare with which M.ss Crane answers her sis
ter’s appeal.
“ A pleasant young woman that,” she thinks ;
“ very amiable and trustworthy ! I wonder
what Mr. Turberville thinks of his lady-love
now ?”
Mr. Turberville’s thoughts, judged by his
face, as he huddles up against the door-post,
trying to reduce his portly form into the small
est possible compass, and in a measure obliter
ate himself, would hardly bear translation into
words. A loathing almost as strong as his late
love mingles with an abject terror of the woman
who has forced him to degrade himself in his
own eyes, and in the eyes of all around. He
hopes she does not see him ; he shrinks from
the sound of her voice, and yet he cannot keep
his eyes from foilwing her every movement. In
a curious way she seems to fascinate him still.
A groan breaks from his lips, and he half
closes his blood-shot eyes as the clear, metallic
voice he used to admire sounds once more on
his ear.
“ No strangers,” Miss Crane echoes, slightly
raising her fawn-colored brows, aud with an
airy nod that includes all present in its care
less, friendly greeting. Strangers would hardly
banish me, Ethel dear, but in such a strictly
family party X may null waoidvs xuyoolt do
trap.”
She is moving away with a grace"ui sweep of
the long, solt draperies that cling about her
slender form, when she is once more recalled,
this time peremptorily and authoritatively, by
Sir James.
“ You will stay, Miss Crane, if you please I”
She gives him a quick side-glance, and there
is a world of wicked defiance in the expression,
though she only answers, with a gay little
laugh:
“ You are too kind, but really I would rather
go.”
“And I insist that you remain. I have a lit
tle story to tell—a story that concerns Marcella,
and I know how strongly you have interested
yourself in her of late.”
The pale-green color of Miss Crane’s robe
seems as though it found a reflection in her
face; she enters the room and stands in an atti
tude of studied grace, with her slender hands
folded on the back of a tall chair, patiently wait
ing for what is to follow.
“And yet she knows she is found out in all
her schemes, and will be exposed soon 1” Mr.
Turberville thinks, with a shudder that is not
unmixed with admiration. “ She is a wonder
ful woman, but, good heavens ! I would rather
be boiled alive than marry her now.”
(To bo Continual.i
LOCK AND KEY LORE.
Th© Best Locks Afford but Poor Pro
tection to Houses.
(From, the St. Louis Sunday Sayings.)
The story is told of a gentleman living in the
city that he recently opened the front door of
hie palatial residence, which was provided with
some sort of an expensive patent safety latch,
with a key that didn’t belong to the lock at all,
and subsequently found, to his amazement,
that he could as readily have gained entrance
to the residences of hab a dozen of his neigh
bors, who had also provided their front doors
with expensive locks, supposed to afford the
amplest protection against the enterprising bur
glar when he is out “ burgling,” as the police
man s chorus put it.
It occurred to a Sayings representative, upon
hearing the story, to interrogate an expert con
cerning the peculiarities of locks and keys in
general, and in that behalf he held an interest
ing conference with a well-known locksmith.
While exhibiting a number of locks and keys,
and illustrating their peculiarities of make, this
expert indulged in the profound observation
that some locks were better than others, and
any of them good enough to keep an honest
man out.
Another general observation was to the effect
that the ingenuity of man had not yet devised
an absolutely perfect lock. Men of great me
chanical genius had devoted many years of their
lives to the perfection of a lock only to find il
lustrated the old saying that what it takes one
man twenty-five years to do another man can
undo in twenty-five minutes or legs. The best
lock ia only a temporary barrier to the expert.
Theoretically, the fiat-key lock, ot a kind the
locksmith exhibited, and the Yale locks, were
the safest, because they couldn’t be opened by
keys other than those especially made for the
individual locks—no two being alike—but it was
easy for an expert to force a door protected by
these, without breaking the lock and even without
making a noise that could be heard in the next
room. He had himself done so. Thus the ele
ment of safety could not be said to be wholly
secured when it was possible to effect noiseless
entrances to a house or room supposed to be
protected by a lock. The new Yale lock has a
corrugated key, and no other will open it, so
it may be said to be as good a protection as any
lock will afford, though a burglar or a good
locksmith cannot be kept out by any such de
vice.
Other locks and keys were shown, all more or
less alike, yet differing in construction and in
the mode of operation of their wards and tumb
lers. How a single pass-key will open two or
three hundred hotel rooms, all having different
locks, was illustrated: and the facility with
which a skeleton key will open almost any ordi
nary lock. As a matter of fact, a majority of
the’cheaper locks can be opened with almost
anything, if a sufficient degree of patience is ex
orcised in the trial. The machine-made locks
in ordinary use, though exact in their fittings,
are so nearly alike that it is possible to unlock
almost any door in the average private resi
dence with the key belonging to any other door,
and in St. Louis there are many long rows of
flats the key of any one door of which would
probably fit the locks upon twenty more doors.
That is, provided the openings are of the same
size.
It is urged by some that this is solely due to
the cheapness of the locks, and they are cheap;
but the more expensive kinds afford very little
more protection than those made in such large
quantities in Eastern factories for ordinary use.
They are not really of inferior workmanship.
On the contrary, some are fashioned with a very
great degree of nicety in all their parts; so that
it is possible to supply a missing part by noting
the number and the make of the lock. More
protection against burglars is found in a creak
ing h nge and a rusty lock than in some of the
best made and patented devices. The inter
loper abominates any noise that may herald his
design aud-he hasn’t time to spare to oil up a rus-
ty look. The old stvle bolt is often a protection,
if it works hard, ana often forces the burglar to
cut a panel out of the door in order to effect an
entrance to the house.
TBMDmjomi
AN ANGLO-INDIAN SKETCH.
(From Chambers’s Journal.)
To the dancing, flirting, pleasnre-loving por
tion ol the male sex, she will always be a disap
pointment. She will never havo her card filled
at least a week before the ball comes off, for the
good reason that she never goes to balls. She
will never stand in draughty verandas with
what she calls a “ wrap” across her lair shoul
ders, and talk inane nothings to her partner,
while far into the night the weary band plays
valses that grow more and more out of tune.
She will never keep her husband waiting long
weary hours while she ruins her health by turn
ing day into night at the frequent dances she at
tends.
No man will ever pay her compliments,
though every one can see she is pretty enough
to receive them. To ball-loving under-secre
taries, unexceptional aides-de-camp, spurred
cavalry officers, and gallant antediluvians in the
shape of well-nigh retired colonels, she will al
ways prove a disappointment and an aggrava
tion. A star shining on them at an upproach
able distance—a scent of mountain flowers that
rests on them for a moment—an unattainable
good that under no circumstances could ever
have been theirs, because they are aware that
she and her thoughts and simple aspirations are
above and beyond them.
How often have I seen her going about with
her big little family, surrounded by natives of
different castes and kinds. She greets me with
a pleasant smile on her fair face; she stops a
moment, and seems to ask me just the right
question and say just the right thing; and
when, having said good-by, I pause and look
back on her and her tram of children and fol
lowers, I hope, when 1 at last make up my
mind to forsake my bachelorhood, I may be
blessed enough to find such a wife as she. You
know that neither you nor I, nor any other man,
considers her husband at all worthy ot
her—that, from our point of view, could scarce
ly be; but he ie a good fellow enough, aud that
is the best we in our generosity can say. for him.
She considers him a thousand times better than
herself. She treats him as such a woman would
treat the man she loves; though of course none
of us men can understand for a single moment
how she can love him.
She is an excellent housekeeper, not disdain
ing the lower portion of her woman’s work.
She is generous and gentle with her servants,
and her table is always good. But it is as a
mother that she shines the moat. Her children
are like her, and she is like them. They obey
her because they love her, and her reproof is a
greater punishment to them than any blow
would be. She has never left them to serv
ants. They have lived their Indian lives with
her as their companion, and boys and girls
alike have got the impress of her true woman's
mind. She has taught them their first lessons,
and, under her tuition, they are in different and
interesting stages oi “ Mayor’s Spelling-Book,”
from “Ba, 81, Bo,” to words oi alarming
length and hopeless pronunciation.
In the family she is perfectly happy. Talk of
balls, big dinners, picnics and luncheon par
ties—she has other attractions, and she does
not need these to help her to pass her life.
Look.at her now in her happy family circle; see
the peaceful, untroubled smile in her sweet
eyes, and ae you look, remember that she will
never be so happy again. There is looming for
her in the distance a time which comes sooner
or later to every Anglo-Indian mother, and
when it comes you will see some things in her
face which are strangers to it now.
As the happy years pass, she grows more
thoughtful. Now and then a wistful expression
comee into her eyes. If, unheedingly, you talk
of the future to her, you feel sorry you havo
done so the next moment, as she changes the
subject suddenly and looks unlike herself.
After a time she will steal at odd moments into
the children’s room, and, moving gently from
bed to bed, will watch each sleeping face with a
deep pain at her heart, while the black woman
in attendance, whose child has died but yester
day, looks up with a cheerful smilo and tells
her “ all the babies are asleep.”
And so the very last month arrives. Grind
lay A Co. have taken passages for a gentleman
and lady, six children aud two native servants.
The children are in raptures. They jump and
clap their hands; they fling their old toys into
the compound with contemptuous jeers at their
battered ugliness, and ask her a hundred ques
tions about the English toyshops, the mighty
ship, the wonderful place where there are no
black people, and where their innocent young
minds imagine no one tells lies or steals, be
cause they are English.
She packs their small wardrobes into overland
boxes; ehe wanders in and out through the old
familiar rooms, and out into the compound,
whore she has often seen the children play, and
where, if she return ever so often to the same
house, she will never see them play again. She
lets her precious tears fall on the head of their
small, rough pony, when she gives him a car
rot for the last time, and on that ot an old
brown and white pariah dog they have loved
and cherished.
The children have very different thoughts
from these. Twenty years hence they mean to
come back to this very house, they tell her, and
she ie to have all their old pets and servants
ready to receive them I She listens to these
plans, yvbiolj iu«y XiOvcr bo xonli cd; oho looks
into their small, earnest faces with wistful eyes
and turns away.
We in the station see her go with a decided
feeling of regret; we feel, when ehe and her ba
bies have left, a certain good will has passed
away with them. We are of the earth; she will
one day boot heaven, we believe. It has been
pleasant to watch her lite and see the simple
faith that guided it. Doubtleee, to know her
has made us at all times feel a longing for
something better. Her world is not the tinsel
one of gayety and pleasure; the light that illu
mines the stages on which she acts out her life
comes, we teel, direct from heaven, while ours
is but the garish glow of the footlights. Bure,
good aud beautilul, she passes away from us,
and probably not one of us may ever look on
her gentle face again. Still, we cannot forget
her, though she passes from our little world
into another; the impress of her purity and
sweetness will long remain upon our memories’
page.
And so sho goes. Her home is broken up;
her family and she will soon be parted ; that is
the one appalling thought that is with hor—the
last at night, the first in the morning. Her chil
dren will grow up away from her, and in time
they will forget her. Other hands will lead
their faltering footsteps ; other voices will cheer
or chide them. She, their mother (after two
rather sad years, in wh’ch the shadow of her
parting hangs on her like a funeral pall), goes
back to India. Having said good-by to them
at night, she cannot brave the morrow; but
stealing once more to the side of each Bleeping
child, gazes with an awful broken-hearted sor
row on the well-loved faces, and breathes a
helpless prayer lor her deserted little ones, and
tears herself away. To-morrow, when they
wake, she will smile on them no more.
“Not, no more ; oh ! do not say no more,” I
hear some Anglo-Indian mother like herself ex
claim. “Some day, let her come back, and be
united to her children once again. Let her for
get the lost years in their young lives when she
is only a far-off dream to them ; when friends
in England are all in all to their baby souls ;
and “mamma” in India is a mythical somebody
the young onee have quite forgotten, and the
elder remember now but dimly. When ehe
prays her simple prayers, site know that “ He
is faithful that promised,” and thinks and be
lieves that they will meet again ; and so, as she
passes once more across the nloonlit sea back
to her foreign home, hugging the fond hope of
a future meeing to her gentle breast, let us say,
as the ship grows a dim speck on the horizon,
“Amen I and God bless her.”
THE MAGIC LINE.
A DAY MAY BE LOST OR WON AO
CORDING AS YOU SAIL.
(From Chambers's Journal.)
The first land that the new day dawns upon
is Easter Island, about 230 miles west ot the
coast of Chile, South America; that is to say, the
: d of July breads here within a few hours of the
Ist having broken on the American coast to the
east, and the two days run on alongside—the
2d in Easter Island and places the Ist in
all places on the American continent. We may,
therefore, realize this idea—that at 7:20 any
morning of our lives in Great Britain, the next
day ia commencing on the world, and is to be
found at this little island in the Pacific Ocean,
whence in due course it will travel round to us.
But to have thus the start of the world is not an
unmitigated advantage of these islanders. Sup
pose one of them sails east to America, what is
the result? He will find they keep the day
there under a different date 4 and ho will have
to reckon one day in his calendar twice over to
put himseli right with their notions.
On the other hand, if an American crosses
from east to west this wonderful magic line where
the day begins, he will find the dates in this
fresh part of the world are one in advance of
him, and he must needs strike a day out of his
calendar to keep up with the times.
This fact was curiously illustrated in the case
of Magellan, the Portuguese captain, who sailed
round the world from east to west in 1522, and,
having crossed the magic line of “ day’s birth”
in bis wanderings, his calendar became, of
course, a day in the rear. The sailors were
completely ignorant of this, and finding, on
landing at home, that their Sabbath was falling
on a Monday, they accused one another of tam
pering with’the reckoning. It was not for some
time that the true explanation was discovered.
The converse case is made the hinge in the
plot in Jules Verne’s “Round the World in
Eighty Days.” where the author depicts an
eccentric Englishman, Phineas Fogg, who made
a wager that he would go round the world in
eighty days. He accomplished his feat in what
he thought was eighty-one days, but, on arriv
ing in London, found his friends anxiously ex
pecting him,and discovered he had just won his
wager. He had crossed the magic line east
ward, and had forgotten to subtract the day he
had thus gained.
To put the matter in another way: In sailing
round the world eastward the days are each a
little less than twenty-four hours, according to
the speed of the ship, as the sun is met every
morning a little earlier. These little differences
added together will amount in the course of the
circumnavigation to twenty-four hours, giving
the sailors an extra day, not in imagination, but
iu sober trutb 3 as they will have actually eaten
fin extra day’s food and consumed an extra
day’s grog. On the other hand, in sailing west
ward, the sun is overtaken a little each day,
and so each day is rather longer than twenty
four hours, and clocks and watches are found
to be too fast. This also will amount, in sail
ing round to the starting point again, to one
whole day, by which the reckoning has fallen
in arrear. The eastern ship, then, has gained
a day, and the western ship has lost one, lead
ing to this apparent paradox that the former
ship has a clear gain of two whole days over
the latter, supposing them to have started and
returned together.
“ CHECK YOI'irBAGGAGE I”
BY M. QUAD.
The mors I go about the country by rail the
more I want to kill a railroad employe. It was
fully filteen years ago that I first got the idea
that I should some day shed the blood of a
railroad man, and that belief has been growing
stronger every day since. I used to think it
surely would be the man in the ticket-office,
but I have let np on him. I happened to get
into conversation one day with the ex-presi
dent of a railroad, and he assured me that
ninety-nine out of every hundred railroad ticket
agents—
1. Were born with the dyspepsia.
2. Had corns on every blessed toe and bun
ions on both feet.
4. Had been disappointed in love, or had
married unhappily.
3. Would [commit suicide in a few years,
anyhow, and nothing could be gained by killing
them.
That was my reason for letting up on them,
although there are times and places when it is
awfully hard to restrain one’sjhand. There is a
chap in the Union depot st Buffalo who is
hourly courting death. I shan’t kill him, but
some day some other suffering victim will
surely shed his bilious blood. I was in Buffalo
the other day, and naturally wanted to come to
Detroit. I think the same feeling would have
possessed any other stranger in Buffalo. There
is not one single valid reason why any one
should remain in Buffalo when he can start for
Detroit. He was figuring on the distance of
the sun from the earth when I stepped to the
window. I waited seven minutes before inter
rupting him, and then asked for a ticket to De
troit. He flung down his pencil, yanked a ticket
out of the rack, stamped it in a vicious manner,
and flung it at my chin. It was a ticket to
Louisville.
“ I wanted to go to Detroit."
“ Why didn’t you say so, then ?”
“ I did. What time does the train go ?”
“Eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”
“But I want to go to-night.”
“Then why didn’t you say so? How did I
know when you wanted to go? Train goes at
ten o’clock.”
“ But the time-table says eleven o’clock.”
“ Then why did you ask me ?”
I started to apologize, but he shut the window
down on me. Then I told him through the
glass that I would go to Louisville, wait over
till morning, or do almost anything else to
secure his forgiveness, but he continued obdu
rate and refused to see me again.
It is the baggageman, however, whose gore I
sigh lor. It sometimes seems as if they were
employed to add to the number of lost souls.
When I wanted to go down to Cincinnati the
other day, I said to the man at the depot:
“Can you check this trunk for Cincinnati?”
“Humph!” he replied, looking at mo in
search of hayseed.
I took the check he offered me, saw him place
another on the trunk, and four days afterward,
after much worry and considerable cost, got
my trunk from Cleveland, where it had been
carried as straight as a string. When I think
of taking a trip from Detroit to Moscow there
are no anxieties connected with change of cars,
or jumping to steamboats and back. I know
I’d bring up all right and at the head of the
procession, but my trunk—l’ll bet a hundred
dollars to one it would never go beyond Toledo.
The boss baggage man in the Union Depot in
Cleveland has been living for forty odd years,
but bis days are numbered. It won’t be my
hand which will make his wite a widow, but the
slayer is no doubt on liis way there. I had been
down to Elyria. I checked my trunk from De
troit to Elyria, but ot course it didn’t go there.
The Lake Shore road felt under obligations to
me for patronizing twenty-five miles ot its line,
and therelore carried my trunk on to Norwalk.
I tried hard to appreciate the kindness of this
“long haul” clause, but didn’t succeed until the
baggageman at Elyria got his coat off. The
trunk finally came back with one hinge broken
and the lock out of repair, and throe days later
I checked it for Cleveland.
I had a check reading Irom Elyria to Cleve
land, and I saw another put on the trunk. I
was assured by the baggageman and the ticket
agent and the drayman that I need not worry. I
stood there and saw it put on the train, and I
saw it come off in Cleveland. Alter getting a
bite to eat I wont into the baggage-room and my
trunk was not there. After two hours hunting,
I found it in the baggage-rooms of a Lake
Superior line of boats. I went back to tackle
the depot baggageman, and after I had jawed
him for twenty-five minutes without a break, he
coolly turned and said:
“ Twenty-five cents for this transfer please 1”
“ But I didn’t order it transferred I”
“ But it was checked that way.”
“ Then your man at Elyria is to blame.”
“ Perhaps, but lam not the man at Elyria. 1
am the man at Cleveland.”
We jawed and called each other liars and
horse thieves, but I paid the transfer. Then I
got the trunk end tied it up with 111ty feet of
clothoa Uno, and wrote “Detroit” on it in thir
teen plac?s 1 an.d said to the checkman :
“Can you check this trunk for Detroit by
steamer?”
“Certainly.”
“ And will it go there ?’’
“ It will.”
“ To-night ?”
“Yes.”
“ No mistake ?”
“ What do you take mo for ? Are you getting
soft in the head ?”
He checked it. When I reached Detroit it was
not on the boat. It had not been put on. A
telegram said it was not in the steamboat bag
gage-room in Cleveland. It had not gone back
to Elyria. It was not on its way to Norwalk.
It had not come around by rail. Three days
later I got news of it. The telegram read :
“ Trunk with check 986, carried up to Kennard
House, Cleveland, by mistake. How shall we
forward it to Detroit?”
And I telegraphed back :
“ Send the whole durned thing to any hospital
which will accept it as a gift.”
A HISTORIC LOG.
IT WAS HERE IN THEREVOLUTION
(From the Youth's Companion.)
A hollow trunk of an oak which lies decaying,
covered with moss and lichen, in a meadow near
the city of Wilmington, in Delaware, ia aaid to
have a singular history.
The men-of-war, “ Hoebuok” and “ Liver
pool,” with their tenders, during the war of the
Revolution, sailed up Delaware Bay, and bom
barded Wilmington, then a village. The inhab
itants could make but feeble resistance.
As it was known to the commander of the “Roe
buck” that a small body of soldiers was in the
town, on its way to join Washington, a company
of Hessians was sent ashore in boats to attack
and disperse the party. The men, who were lew
in number, could make no stand against the
Hessians backed by the cannon of the men-of
war. They were hidden hastily by their
friends.
One of them, Captain Joseph Stidham, after
discharging his rifle in the face of the approach
ing line of soldiers, fled for his life, and took
refuge in the house of his cousin, Jonas Stid
ham, on the outskirts of the village. The gun
ners on the “ Roebuck” saw him eater it, and
they turned their fire upon the house. The
Hessians attacked it furiously.
“ The balls,” says an old chronicler, “ rained
upon the roof.” The mercenaries broke down
the doors and windows, and rushed into the
house searching for the Yankee captain. It was
a large, rambling building, with many closets
and leantos. But Stidham took refuge in none
of these. Passing through the house he reach
ed the barn-yard, and crept into the hollow
trunk of an oak tree, in which he had oiten play
ed hide-and-seek when a boy. It was so long
since he had hid in it, that the moss and lichen
hung over the opening.
The Hessians searched for him in vain. Two
of them, it is said, sat down upon the log while
he was in it. They returned to the ship at
nightfall, and he escaped to join Washington.
When the village of Wilmington grew into a
city, the old log was removed to a field, where,
so it is said, it still lies.
wiiFisjHjFfHus ?
HOW MARRIAGE MAN.
(From the San Fi-ancisco Chronicle.)
It does look as if after a man got married he
lost all capability for looking after himself.
How is it that a man who is a bachelor is the
pink of neatness, the glass of fashion and mold
of form, when he gets a wife never seems to
be able to do anything in the way of dressing
himself properly without his wile’s assistance?
This young man was at one time a most notor
ious flirt. He had the best cut coats, the most
beautiful boots, the most elegant neckties in
town. He has been married several years, and
he hardly knows how to button his collar now,
and would wear his coat inside out if his
wife didn’t Koep an eye on him. Is it natural
cusaodness? Just a desiro to give his wife all
the work and worry he can, or is it a psycho
logical phenomenon attributable to domesticity?
He had a lucid moment once, this young man,
in which he noticed hie boots were pretty well
worn. It lasted long enough for him to say to
hia wife:
“ Haven't I got any other boots I can wear ?
These are awful.”
“ Yes,” she said, “ there is a pair of side
button boots in the closet there.”
He fetched them out.
“ How does it come that I’ve had these boots
all this time and been wearing these worn out
ones Then be put them on. “ Yes, I knew
there must be something the matter with the
blamed boots. They don't fit mo at all. leant
walk in them.” And he made faces as he
stamped up and down the room. “They are
not my boots, yet they are a man’s boots.
Madam, who is so familiar in this house as to
have a pair of boots ”
“ Well, dear, they’ll perhaps bo more com
fortable if you’ll put tho right boot on the light
foto.”
HUMOR OF THE HOUR.
BY THE DETROIT FREE PRESS FIEND.
SOME COMING.
“Any pews?” asked tlio reporter of a Ger
man, on Clinton street.
“ Vhell, I can’t say as dere vhas shuat now.”
“Then you expect some?”
“Ido. Der man who makes der taxes vhill
be here to-day, und I oxpeot dot I shall lick
him all to pieces in shust two minutes py some
clocks. Come aroundt to-morrow.”
WHAT HE MEANT.
“ Witness,” said a lawyer in the police court
the other day, “you speak ot Mr. Smith being
well off. Is he worth $5,000 ?”
“No, sail.”
“ Two thousand ?”
“No, sah, he ain’t wurftwenty-five.”
“Then how is he well oft?”
“ Got a wife who s’ports de hull family, sah I”
IT FAILED.
It was raining hard, and he stood under the
shelter of a Jefferson avenue awning and
watched until the right sort of a man came
along. Then he stepped out and said:
“Ah, I was laying for you, old fellow ! That
umbrella was stolen from me three months
ago I”
“ Chestnuts !” was the reply,
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Hushl I just got it five mimrtes ago by
playing this same game. Tackle the next man.”
AN ARTFUL SHOPPER.
A woman entered a dry goods store and ap
proached one of the clerks.
“Please do these up,” she said, handing him
two old newspapers."
He looked surprised, and she explained:
“I ain’t out on a reg'lar shopping tower, and
ain’t agoin’ to buy anything, but there’s that
Mrs. Simpson, that has half of our pew at
church, just loaded down with bundles. She II
never know the difference."
As the clerk was tying up the newspapers she
said, in a low voice:
“Make it look as much like a silk dress pat
tern as you can, mister; it’ll worry her more.”
COMMERCIAL FLATTERY.
It is an old saying that,
Flattery to the face
Is open disgrace."
Whether this be true or not, it is, to say the
least, in very poor taste. A lady ot this city
once'rebuked a flatterer in so decided a manner
as to show she was angry at the presumption.
She was visiting a millinery establishment
with her young daughter, who was attracted to
a Paris imported hat. The milliner, desirous
of selling it, said:
“ Take it, my dear. I bought it for your
pretty face.”
The mother immediately responded:
“ Leave it, daughter, for some other pretty
face,” and indignantly left the store.
A CHOICE OF TERMS.
Dr. M is a very enthusiastic surgeon and
delights in cutting up the defunct m the cause
of his profession. He was lately called upon to
attend a case at St. Mary s Hospital. A poor
fellow had his face filled with bird shot and one
arm nearly taken oft. The Doctor had come
directly from the dissecting room and his head
was full of his work there. Walking into the
ward with both hands in his pockets, as is his
way, he approached the bed.
“ Is this the subject?” he asked briefly.
“ No, Doctor,” the poor fellow answered,
“ I’m not a subject yet, I’m only an object," and
he smiled comically.
The doctor nodded grimly (he likes a joke,
even at his own expense), but he gave an extra
touch to his professional care for the witty
patient.
STILL LARGER.
“So you are homo from New York ?”
“ Yes.”
“Been there often?'
“ This was the tenth time.”
“ Did the city look as large as when you first
went there ?”
“ Much larger.”
“It did? That’s just the opposite of my ex
perience. After the third or fourth time I was
not at all impressed with its size ?”
“ Well, I stood on Broadway at Canal street
and looked around me, and it seemed to me that
I could never get out of the city.”
“ Shoo I That was a queer impression.”
“ Well, 1 dunno. I just had my pocket pick
ed of my last dollar, didn’t know a soul to bor
row from and the hotel clerk was making out
my three days’ bill. Yes, the city seemed to be
forty miles across to me.”
HE HAD A CHOICE.
In one ot the Miohgan rigiments engaged at
the battle of Second Manassas was a private sol
dier named Abo McDowell. Abe was looked
upon as a soldier who had an eye open for a
safe place during a fight, and on this occasion,
as soon as his regiment had become a little dis
organized, he sought the shelter of a dry ditch.
His captain found him there and asked what
was the matter.
“Sleepy,” replied Abe.
“ Now you come out of that I” exclaimed the
captain. “Do yon want all the men to call you
a coward ?”
“Callin’ names don’t hurt nobody.”
“ W hat did you enlist for ?”
“ To die lor my country.”
“ But you seem to have changed your mind.”
“Oh no, I haven’t. I’m going to die for her,
just as I swore to, but instead ot letting the
robs knock me over I’m going to sleep to
death. Good-by, captain—farewell to all th?
boys I”
r.z.ACllr.t> THE LIMIT.
A Detroit peddler of tinware took out some
egg-beaters on his last trip, and as the price
was only fifteen cents each, and they worked on
a new principle, he calculated on big sales. Hie
first experience will answer for all others. He
drove up to a farm house in the western part
of Wayne county, and took a beater in to ex
hibit. The people liked it exceedingly well, but
the old farmer said:
“Young man, I want to see your patent.”
“I have none.”
“Then your written authority to make sales.”
“Don’t need any.”
“Then you must give me a bond, with two
sureties, in the sum of-fl,ooo that you willstand
between me and any trouble.”
“ But I can't do that.”
“Then I can’t buy. I’ve just had to pay a roy
alty on a drive well, damages for using an in
fringement on a patent gate, and have a law suit
about a hay-fork and another over a windmill,
and we don’t even buy a dishpan without a bond
that it don t infringe on somebody’s patent bath
tub.”
NO JOKE ON HER.
A woman living on Columbia street east came
down town the other day with a “ yearling ” in
a baby carriage, and when she reached a cer
tain dry goods store she left the cab at the door
and went in to trade. The youngster was good
natured over being left alone, and one of the
clerks in the store who knew the mother well
thought to play a joke on her. While she was
busy trading he slipyed out and wheeled the
carriage into an adjoining store. A rush of cus
tomers prevented him from seeing the woman
as she went out. She stood at the dpor for a
moment, as if wondering if she had forgotten
something, and then started off and went
straight home.
By that time “bub” had' become uneasy and
was raising a row, and they sent in for the clerk
to come and get him. The mother having de
parted for home, he was obliged to follow her
with cart and baby, the latter howling at the top
of his voice and attracting general attention.
The clerk had reached the gate when the wo
man came out, and as she saw baby and cart
she threw up both hands and exclaimed:
“ Dear me, but I thought it was a spool of
twist I had forgotten I”
WHY DO PEOPLE DROWN ?
THE OPINION OF AN EXPERT.
(From the Pall Mall Gazette.)
The obvious answer to the above question is
because they cannot swim. But Mr. Johnson,
the well-known swimmer, in the following inter
view, goes deeper:
“ I suppose,” I remarked to Mr. Johnson, that
such a cork as yourself can not quite understand
how a person sinks.”
“Oh, yes, but loan. It is only such as my
self, who study the science of floating, that can
understand the mystery of sinking. A swimmer
becomes a swimmer by endeavoring to find out,
not so much how to swim, as how not to sink.
Man or woman can float-there is no exception.
The big secret is knowing bow and being self
noesessed enough-that is, in cases of emer
gency—to take advantage of. one’s knowledge.
But directly the boat capsizes, or the canal bank
subsides, or the sands shift, or the deep part of
the river asserts itself, the ignorant mortal
(ignorant of how to use his powers of buoyancy)
sets about to sink himself.”
“Sinks himself, Mr. Johnson?” I observed,
dubiously.
“ Yes; sinks himself. Up go his hands, and
down he sinks like a flagstone. Of the 10,001
frenzied actions in which a drowning man in
dulges, notone is there that tends a tittle of
buoyancy. In the first place he catches at the
proverbial straw, and there is no surer way of
sinking one’s self than by thrusting the hands
out ot the water. The consequent lurch of the
bodv strikes fatal terror in the man’s heart, he
struggles spasmodically, and then, bereft as he
is of all consciousness, vanishes to his doom.
Take as instance the yachting accident off Ilfra
combe the other day. A jovial party set sail in
a crazy fishing smack, an extra capful ot wind
upset her. Instantly there was chaos and con
fusion, as is always the case, and fourteen luck
less souls drowned themselves. It is simply
suicidal for a non-swimmer to risk his life in
uncertain craft.”
“ Suppose, then, Mr. Johnson, that you and I
are cruising. The boat has capsized ; we are
in the water. What am I, a non-swimmer, to
do ?”
“If there is anything floating, catch at it
steadily. The least particle will support you.
This beading (which was no more than an inch
souare) would keep your head above water.
But if there is nothing at all within reach, this
is what you should do.” At this juncture Mr.
Johnson sprung to his feet. Throwing back his
head and placing both hands in the small of his
back, his form assumed a slanting position.
“So long as you remain as I am now, so loug
would you float.”
“ Then it is not necessary for the require
ments of floating that one’s toes should be level
with his nose ?”
“ Not in the least. The mode of floating in a
moment of emergency is as I have just illus-
trated-or at least, my experience tells me that
it is the safest and the easiest. It would be an
inconsiderable matter lor people to familiarize
themselves with the principles of floating, and 9
simple acquaintance with the subject might
prove to be of life-long service. To be ot any
real service swimming must be studied to per
leotlon. A man or woman is termed a good
swimmer (and the man or woman comes to
tninK so, too) who can manage, say, a score
lengths of a bath twenty yards long. Here the
water is tepid and smooth, but it is different at
sea. How many yards would that same swim
mer traverse in troublous waters ? But the
chances are that ho could float till rescued,
which is always the end sought after.”
A MARTLIf PEOPLE.
GERMANS AS DUELISTS—THEIR
WONDERFUL LOVE OF ARMS.
(From the Nashville American,)
A reporter yesterday had a very interesting
conversation with Mr. Joseph G. Branch, who
has spent several years at German universities
and has recently returned home. Speaking of
the military spirit in Germany, he said:
It prevails everywhere, penetrating every
thing, not being confined to the men and wo
men of the empire, but the very children aro
imbued with it.
It is a common sight in Germany to see on
the streets a child dressed cap-a-pie in the Ger
man uniform, dragging his toy cannon.
In a few years he exchanges this toy for tho
ienoing foil of a student, and this for the gun of
a private soldier or the sword of an officer.
The father gives his child, for toys, minia
ture forts, cannons, flags, tin soldiers and the
like, while the mother buys books and pictures
illustrating the great deeds of their military
heroes. No people carry hero worship to such
an extent as the Germans. One can enter few
German homes without seeing pictures of the
emperor in ha full regimental uniform, dec-b
--orated with his numerous orders, or busts of
Bismarck or Moltke.
The most popular pictures are war pictures,
especially those representing scenes in the lata
Dranco-German war; around these always lin
ger admiring and patriotic crowds.
Tb.e “Zenghaue,” or arsenal, is ever crowded
with parents and children, while the evolutions
of the sentinels, on going on and off guard,
never fail to attract a crowd.
No city presents a more martial appearance
than a German city, crowded as it ever is, with
soldiers and officers.
In Berlin alone are stationed twenty-seven
thousand soldiers, or more than the standing
army of the United (States.
The child is reared, his mind enthused, by
such surroundings, by such books and pic
tures. He is taught that the grandest life is
the h eot the soldier; the noblest death, to die
for his emperor.
In Germany there are two classes, separate
and distinct. To the first class belong “difl
allgemeine Leute,” consisting of the laboring
class, while to.the second class belong the no*
bility, the soldiery and the professional men.
The professional man is held in high repute,
owing to tho long training, both military and
academic, through which it is necessary for
him to pass before acquiring a degree. On the
contrary, the soldier, earning only twenty
cents a day, looks witn distain upon the mer
chant following a profession “ fit only for a
Jew.” XV bile every German subject must serve
in the army from one to three years, according
to his means, his military education really be
gins from childhood.
1 have seen two little Germans expertly fenc
ing, while their delighted parents looked on
applauding every advantage gained by one or
the other. When the age ot childhood is passed
there is implanted in the mind a martial spirit
that is life-long. He enters a university, his
faculties thoroughly trained by tho excellent
course in the gymnasium, his body finely devel
oped, and his spirit as martial as that of the
Spartan of old. His first duel is to him of great
expectation, to his mother of anxiety, not that
he may be injured, but that he may not con
duct himself with true bravery. 1 remember
well seeing the first duel of a young German
friend. His expectations knew’no bounds, all
his friends were invited, while his “kneipe,” or
club, were present in full force.
The two combatants on taking their stands
presented a striking contrast, the one with his
face so scarred from numerous duels until it
was revolting to see, and when contrasted with
the smooth, youthful face of his antagonist,who
was now to fight his maiden duel, made a sight
more disgusting than is usually seen even iu
German duels.
I noticed my debutante closely, but not a
quiver was to be seen in his face. He took the
long, keen sword handed tG him by the master
of ceremonies with a hand as firm as his vete
ran antagonist.
He fought as coolly as when practicing with
his fencing master.
The first cut he received was a mere scalp
wound, the second a frightful gash laying open
his cheek from his eye to his chin; yet ne never
flinched nor moved his head until the word
“ halt ” had been given.
But his nerve is only what is seen in every
German duel.
He had fought his first duel, had vindicated
his honor and was the happy possessor ot a
frightful scar. What more could he desire ?
While dueling is prohibited by law, it really
is encouraged by thoss in power, even by the
emperor himself. Bismarck, in his day, was
one of the finest of fencers, and still bears the
scars of more than one duel upon his person—
scars of which he is yet proud.
It seems strange tne admiration tho young
ladies evince for young men wbuse races are
ohdPDod almost beyond recognition. The
smooth-faced young man is looked upon as
effeminate and too much like a merchant. He
stands no chance as a lover until he adorns his
face, not with a mustache, as the American
youth does, but with hideous scars, which serve
to give his countenance a variegated and inter
esting appearance. In order to make the scars
more inflamed, and hence more attractive, he
often rubs beer in the fresh-cut wounds. Tru
ly, tho beau ideal of a German girl is a soldier
—of course in the German uniform.
I remember I was once refused permission by
some young ladies to introduce an officer in the
German army who happened to be dressed iu
citizen clothes, “because he was a civilian.”
On informing them oftheir mistake, their apolo
gies were profuse.
But this military spirit is not confined to the
young ladies and students alone; even the
street-car conductorsand drivers array them
selves in gaudy uniforms, regulated by the gov
ernment with military precision.
Not to be outdone, the droschee, or cabmen,
strut about in flaming blue garments, while
even the street cleaners try to present a martial
appearance in their loose, white blouses and
blue caps. Almost every one wears a uniform
except the merchant, and he will not be allowed,
even if he wanted to so adorn himself, for the
line must be drawn somewhere—so thinks the
cabman. The result of this military spirit, even
fostered by Bismarck and inflamed by the vic
tories ot 1870-’7l, has been to make the German
army the most perfect in existence and the peo
ple a race of soldiers.
PECULIAR HOHB.
THE KIND THEY HAVE IN AR
KANSAS.
(From the Arkansaw Traveller.)
The Tennessee hog is a character, individual
and alone in h;s peculiar collection of traits. In
the magnificent belt of country in which Nash
ville is situated the hog is conventional, but in
the mountains, and especially in the ridge por
tion of Sumner county, he is a character. He is
not always particularly wild, but is nearly
always lean, and has a habit of winking at a
stranger.
“ Well, it’s about train time,” said an old fel
low who lived near Richland Station. “ I sec
the hogs goin’ out.”
A man who had just arrived in the neighbor
hood looked up in surprise. “ What bearing
do the hogs have upon the running of trains ?”
he asked.
“ Why, they always go out to see the trains
pass. At a certain time o’ day, hogs that live
way out in the country will strike a trot an’
never stop till they get to the railroad. Then
they wait for the tram. They know the time,
an’ if the train happens to be behind, they git
restless an’ grunt an’ walk about. 1 havo
knowed ’em to wait till twelve o’clock at night,
waiting for a train. They don’t try to keep
track o’ the freight trains. Bless you, when
they air expecting a passenger an’ a freight
comes along it makes them as mad as a hornet.
They know all the conductors.”
“ What I”
“ Yes, sir, know them as well as I do. W’y,
they have a special likin’ fur an old feller that
runs the commodation, an’ there’s an old spotted
sow that belongs to Lias Fulgum that waves her
tail at him as long as he is in sight. You’ve seed
great knots of mud bangin’ to hogs’ tails,
haven’t you ? Well, sir, tell you what that old
sow did: She hunted all over the country till
she found some white clay an’ plastered a great
lump o’it on her tail. Wanted it white so it
would look more like a handkerchief. Some
times the old feller fails to recognize her, an’
then you ought to see her. Fights everything
that comes along.”
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