Dodgeville chronicle. [volume], October 04, 1866, Image 2

About Dodgeville chronicle. [volume] (Dodgeville, Wis.) 1862-current

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ptefepnif.
WONDROUS AUTUMN TIME.’
. t
0 Rnirr of tm waning year!
Uo calm wlflo summer lingers hero
Is thine encJianU -1 sleep—
When murmuring w ■!* are full of noogt.
And all green le ires are whispering tongues,
A Ini fields gruw- rich and Uoup.
.TUI \w’sen(-<i by the shrilling sound
'Of the sharp scythe ai.in ; the ground,
.9 : e-ajbrough Nature’s flowering heart,
Or shouts of Jocund harvest home,
a lii! the ocuuiuaadult.; -
From laughing hills apart.
HVw hhp a tplundor ever lies
Within thy royal waking eyes.
■ O Asrmr ttmfl " ' T '
Dike th.e gl j-y round a good man’s head
Whe# anghi’s lofTlt’kiiou/hi” hed,’
And wst nH thoughts subßpo.
"Awl who ccnlAdream yon srff, sweet light
{ A)ieik,heraU; onthe .w ar’s dark night,
- Ana north sHn-'i’s siorfhy breath—
That all these tints of red and gold.
—— BtrmlngVbrTOgli fcVrrj-. starry fold,
Weiesigusof nature’s death!
Ah, me h th? c.lgning stirs tease, ’ ■
At ev ■,k photaKcadinpihe ,ce •
fin- troopffof feat*. x '
We think perforce of days gone by,
Atjd dittStCbat swiftly fly—
p Kite whig thihe errand here.
We cannot yim the swallow’-•
8f c* Jft and shun Ch■!gloomy days thatbe
. • So.fnilof winter enow;
* WepasaTnto onr Ti nt ! nd
Across dark seas win-re some bright hand
Calls from the deeps below.
Thou art the gloomy spirit of all
The wondious years that rise and fill
Witiun the piaos of lime. :~ f ■ ' ]
i Tli n wert in fir oi dtjpd’s hound ,
Wbtii Ita.-t ‘he tiild-lLb ArtkAwuuground,
Exulting in her prime.
Born when the filer' biM crowded the hills,
And vfolete p*a-ed the so?* that fills
. Wbenjk’orv thorn her snow-white crown,
. < And chest ant -pi c- feU -oftlydowa
‘j ■ Am .Bg the golden surge.
“■* Fttll tbr Area ’ pinions, as of old,
The sylvan hills and vales enfold
O ur all tuc pre .and og land t
And tut-fL'- -t tl e. on’e bright and oiHa
As the fair -- h-nd fact, fid,
Is sewed as wilh a brai-J
jSf UAfitiJlW.’Wtsdrc- spirit feels,
gT V;JR Ur and wi ie me ea-t wind ptal*,
(W; ile &s preter all heaven is bowed.)
X-,. ] :i sji vAlley blowing I’jna, ■
TL-." ante hid blast of Jeuth:
poor tTiKJsrnE.
“ I remember it 50- yews ago, Fred,” an
man said to bis boy companion, as they
if ok ig through the Sunshirtc at
OK> grafct /rent, of the cathcdtal at Rouen.
■ ‘*Ys,■fifty years ago I stood before if as vfc
are standing now, and I tbipkfhe very same .
birds were building their nests then up ovcl
the porch there. Look how they fly in and
out! How many grmer tiops of them have
lived there do you Irina, ! my boy V”
They stood in the open square. with their
backs to the cafes and shops, the
sunlight falling tenderly on the great gay
sculptured, walls, beftp'Ojyiem, lighting up
snait and capital and qawlio with all their
wbmlrous workmanship "of living form and
clustered pinnacle.
“ Fifty years ago,” he again sjiid softly
“ Poor Christine!”
Fifty years ago Frank Liston spent a sum
mer holiday in Rouen; ho was about 19
then, a high-minded, enthusiastic youth.
His father was dead, and ho was educating
himself to be an artist, and was looking
forward with all,the eagerness of a gener
ous to the time when he should be
able to remove his mother, who was poor
now, above all want, \oung as he was, he
had worked so hard already, that ho had
more thau once earned some;lung for her,
and with a flashing chetk had poured his
golden guineas into Lor lap ; and she, by
hard pinching, had saved some of these
guineas, and this summer, because in striv
ing after such early wages he had begun to
outrun hie strength sue made him take a
few of them again, and sen. him across Jio
channel to visit '(what ia his heart sSe
knew he longed to sec some cae ore woof
the old picturesque French ■ ls.
It was bright June weather -wiee w*
reachedfihe first of them at wh.ii we mean:
to half, Rouen, and saw from for av>y tae
dark tld city, towards win - y .airs : i.,f
artist’s heart hai tern lid. ■ o
amidst the windings :f me reiaD fia had
been laughed at by one ir *-v-i mfoise in
started unJiia aati oa.i- .nmn .ud
wa.i n .hii.tg ant. a-mnwr
able town cf grimy .ot.. '.ring tousea mil
blackened char ;.. ;-i .. uejmura ami
returned laugn for la-fgh. 1; 5 it.tnw v tl!
what hecro-; :ed sea to ■<■• and in
knew that, he . - ~<v- fa-,; to Sod ~
even in tie roide'. r.f toose donayUg -0.-.nsns
anfl those . fou-ori il
in narrow streets and a e v A'i cocne-’s;
and wheresoever 1 oisno-r?-.’ x! i
in open square -■■••• ? he ■>, - -
it as men hail the sign-.of . song
unseen friends’ faces’ ffa ■■■•> brong.bfc ai
Bketchiag board *t> *• mafe/'.Ais for
drawing vj h turn, ar- - Holiday ‘fcoogh it
WAS, did 090*0 1. it, „■/ ■, . -,oy fri*.
the novelty and ion. -.ess of everything
about him and. .• vote - ■■■'■> ■"> at first, that a
few days had i hr. ore he oof; I do any
thing but roam an i gate %t .dn J hbi. He
had been three lays ,u Kover; before at.
length he took hie s 5 \> r fore the cathe-
and began to draw, ft wa a aiil i,
yipth aumwer's day, an! te waft
verry quiet, .Ov y af people passing in
and out of the on or no, a-- * one ;-ionai)y a
child or two attracted t>y n arto-- ty to steal
near and stare at him, di.v’irbed turn as he
worked, and hour after hour passed happily
over him. During hour after hour, too,
thjcxe wA¥lonypbi *0 beside* him self who,
haVifig Come td tfie square before him, re-<
maiaed till long after he had gone away—a
girl selling rosaries and little images at the
cathedral door. After he had been working
for some time he nolietdher. When his work
was over, and he came forward before he
turned homewards to enter for a few mo
ments into the chirrafiT, he stopped when he
came to where she sat in the cool shadow by
the porch, and looking into her basket took
up in his hand a little rosary of coral beads.
~ “ How much V’ he asked.
4 l A franc, monsieur,” she said.
She smiled and thanked him as he gave
the money to her, ana he took his beads
and passed on. He thought a for moment,
“ What a pleasant smile she has !” and then
he thought -no more of her till the next
morning, when he came back to resume his
work, and found her in her place aeaiu.
That day he took note of how picaresque
the quaint old Normandy dress looked on
her,t tjte-fgreat high cap, po scrupulously
starched had white, the short petticoat so
bright 'in hue. A trim, neat figure, too,
rounded and light and firm; a young,
bright face, not beautiful, but pleasant to
look upon. He should like to maae a sketch
sonje morning of her, he thought, and that
day when his work was done he went up to
where she sat, ana entered into talk with
her. He had a frank, fearless, boyish habit
of talking to every kind of persons who
, tame across him, man or won* m, gentle or
simple. For years already, ever since he
had thought of becoming a painter, he had
been accustomed to roam about the country,
attaching himself sometimes in all simple
faith to strange enough companions, falling
into odd adventures, running occasionally
some risks, and yet always, by some good
guidance or instinct, escaping scatniess
from all; bringing his fresh, honest,'trust
ing nature, that, thinking no harm itself,
suspected no harm in others, unminded and
unsaddened out of .very trial. lie went up
to the girl and asked:
‘‘ Ho you come here with your basket
every day ?"
Tney had already exchanged a little nod
of recognition.
“Yes, -mo’csieuf, every day,” she an
swered. ......
“Well—and don’t you get very tired of
it ?” he said.
“Tired of it!” she repeated, with a
smile that showed {wo rows of even, snowy i
teeth “Oh no, monsieur; I know every
body who passes here, and I amuse mjsclt
with watching for them. There are hun
dreds who come every say- winter and sum
mer, as regular as the clock there, 1
see all the strangers,” she exclait ed, in a
tone of gentle exultation; “there is not. a
creature ever cornea to Rouen, they.say, but ■
becomes here ”
“ Well, if you look out for strangers you j
will soon see plenty of me." Frank said,
good-humoredly q “ for I shall be here avory
day, I dare say, for the next two or three
weeks.^
“ 1 saw monsieur the first day he came,”
she answered with a smile ; “ he came and
stood looking up there,” pointing with her
Sager to the chutch-ffoirt, “ til! 1 thought
he was counting all the figures on it.
He gave a laugh, and then colored a little;
young as he was, he blushed for a moment
at the thought that when he did not know
it a woman had been watching him.
“ Well, I was not counting the figures ex
actly,” he said ; “but do you know what I
have been doing these last two days I 1
am a painter, he said, with youthful dig
nify.
“ Ah! so ?” And the bright brown eyes
looked up into his face, not'®. we- struck, bqt
a littlenurioufl and wondorihg.
“I wi l show you my picture presently,
when I have got on a little farther with ity
and then you shall tell me if you think 1
have male it like. Now when you sit here
all day, hour after hour,” h$ said, inquir
ingly', “do you ever think muoh about the
church ?”
“ Monsieur I” she said, and the brown
eyes opened wider.
“ I mean, do you look at it much and try
to find out what the figures ou it mean .' Ho
you ever think about the people who built
it I”
“ Monsieur, the church is very old; they
are all dead.”
“AU dead! I should think they were,”
he answered, quickly. “ Hut what is to
prevent yon from thinking of them, though
they are dead ? v or. know they were alive
onco. Now one of them must have cut these
little twisted shafts here once; have you
never wondered who he was, or what be
came of him ?”
Bhe shook her head placidly.
“ What would be'tho use? I could not
find out,” she paid.
“No, you could not find out; but you
might try to fancy them all at : work here,
might, you not ? and how they came, just as
you corao, day after day, all these hundreds
of years ago, and set up stone after atone,
und carvjpd figure after figure. Think how
they must have watched their work amt
grown happy at the sight of it. Just tiling
of Onjpv all here, with their hammers strik
ing the st one, and I lie noise of every blow
in the air, all of them talking in a language
that would be almost like a strange tongue,
to us now. Vou know it. till was bo; why
can’t you think fit it ?” 1;
“It, may be easy for monsieur to think of
the dead,” she answered, simply, “ but for
mo 1 do not find it easy, unless it may bo of
the blessed saints,” and she crossed herself,
“ but thou wo know that they lived ; whilo
as for those others ” she said, and,
slightly shrugging her shoulders, broke oil'
her sentence with a dubious smile.
He had nearly burst into an answer about
the saints that was more impetuous than
reverent ; but happily ho checked himself
in time, and Instead of speaking stood look
ing for a moment in silcuco over t. o great,
dark, glorious church-front., and wondering
at what she had said. Out from the gray,
solemic stoucs thcl‘<? seemed a thousahd
voices that spoke to him; how could it be,
be thought, that this girl Lad passed her
lito under the shelter of its shadow, and yet
that to her every stone of it was dumb.
“Then you don't care for it?” he said,
abruptly, at last, turning to her again.
••Nay, monsieur is mistaken,” she an
swered. “ See, it is like home to me here ;
when it is hot summer I sit here in the cool
shade ; when winter comes I. shelter myself
-.here w-.hin the p:rch. It is like a good
frteioJi to se: ether things change, but it
ufiTsr changes. When I am glad Igo in
u: i kneel lawn and thank the blessed Vir
ria, -ind when. I in ?,.ad I go there too, and
lay my nr ay era. st. nor. nsr.vir is wrong;
I jar 3 far it.”
Fie ••i-a.i u ’.•>. it.a a irnddetr wdle m
ilia jn.-.itii( ; an if, jag ..• v, r.?;, r; -hat all too
vac’.* (HMMtf far v.-.a..-. for a
u* 'ivn ;.-v ft / wi'o t,tnn ‘-.nthuai
u *a x a ! yr. r. pi t-,-j contentment
ae g,;c. < ol.*r, honest -.y<•.*>, and—
■ I %tt> glad yoo like it,” be aid
.vwvj./i “I thought you coolrf not have
.i 1- -j t.'-rs jo many year ;l . and have cared
Hr,... in? for ,t. You have lived In Rouen all
7 ..* ii* ( do you say? how long a time ia
i v * •>.
“ I am twenty,” she said.
“Are you? Why you are older than I
then ! Arid what is yoifr name?”
“Christine, monsieur,” Dhe answered,
Horne one passing into the church had
stopped beside her basket, and wan begin
ning U) look over its little stack of images
ahd beads. Hbe had to turn round to attend
to him, and then before bis purchase was
made, another customer came. Frank lin
gered and looked on for a few minutes;
t.-itm h' ■■aid, “ flood-bye,” and the boy and
■y.rl smiled to one another, and-parted with
a friendly nod.
He went home, and there was something
pleasant to him in the thought which
crossed him onoo or twice during the re
mainder of the and ry that in the morning he
jnhorijd see I hristv>a ( gain. Several times
her face rose brightly up before him, with
1f e contented, honest smile, and sent a kind
of warmth into bis heart; tor, fair and
dear to turn as was this old Rouen, yet he
moved as a stranger in it, and no other lips
than those of hers had given cither greet
ing or kindly word to him. And sc, when
he went to his post again the ncirdday, and
she, who had been watching for him, at
once when he appeared nodded and smiled
to him across the square, instead of station
ing himself iu his accustomed place and
beginning his work, as he had meant to do,
he walked straight to her in a sudden im
pulse of gratitude for her cheery little token
of welcome, and, like a thorough English
man, put out his hand to her.
“You are the only creature that I know
in llouen!” he exclaimed, “except my
landlady, aud she is quite old. As I came
along just now, I was wondering whether
you would be here before me.”
“Ah, raonsieps,” she said, laughing, “I
have been here for hours. Look there, it is
ten o’clock. Do you think I begin my day
so late as a* ten o’clock?”
“Is it'really ten ? Then I must be quick
and begin my work, too. By the way, I
wonder—oh, may I call you Christine ?"’ he
asked, abruptly.
“ Certainly, monsieur; it is my name.”
“ Thank you. Well, I was going to say,
I wonder, Christine, if you would let me
make a sketch of you?”
“ Of me?” and the girl blushed with sud
den, half-shy pleasure.
“ I think I could do it if you wouldn’t
mind sitting to me. I don t catch likeness
es always very well, but I think I should
succeed with yours. May 1 try 3”
“ But monsieur could find so many pret
tier girls—’” . T ~
“Oh, I don’t want prettier girls; I would
rather have you,” he interrupted her blunt
ly. “You will let me do it, then, wont
you? When may I begin? If I Were to
1 come early to-morrow —say at eight 0 eloex
would you be here then? Would that
suit you?”
“Any hour that suited monsieur.,
“Very well, then; eight o’clock to-mor
row mdrhing. Aud now I must to my
i picta*fc. ’ He turiwjL’half away, w.nd then
looked suddenly back. “ Have you a father
and mother, Christine?” he said.
“No father, monsieur, but I have a good
mother. ?hc makes up all my rosaries for
me- 1 buy the beads and take them to her,
and she strings them—so. She makes
tbi-so crosses, too. Site is very feeble, but
she does all that forme.”
“And then you come and toll them,
Christine?” he said, quickly. “Ho you
know, I have a mother, too, and I work for
her. We are not very-rich, and 1 make
drawings and seUThem.”
“ God bless you, then, monsieur,” she
answered,'fervently, “you will never be
sorry for doing that.”
He was touched by her genuine tone of
sympathy. j '
“ No, 1 know I shall not. Fwould rather'
help her than do anything else in the
world,” he said, and the color rose up to his
che ;k.
tihe smiled, looking in his face as he
spoke.. After a moment’s silence she said,
simply and earnestly:
“ It is sometimes hard to me to earn a
living—harder than I hope it will over be to
you, monsieur;: but I would rattier be just
a poor girl as 1 am, and have my mother
wjih me, than be the greatest lady in Rouen
without her.” And then she glanced up
with asunny look that cleared away the
tears which had risen for a moment to her
eyes, and said; “Hut even me—the world
does not treat nic very badly. It is only a
little hard to-’Wo now and then, and when it
iti. igoin therfeand pray to the dear Virgin,
and before long the sunshine comes back
again. It never stays long away. There
are many good people in the world, mon
sieur, to keep the poor from starving,’’!
Bhc had a sweet voice, lower and softer
than Frenchwomen’s voices often are. The
face, too, had sweetness in it. He saw that
now, though he bad only noticed its bright,
pleasant honesty before.
“But I am keeping you from youji pic
ture,” she ff id smilingly, after a moment’s
silence.
That was true ; bo with a few more words
ho turned away, and stationing himself iri
his place, began to work. It was a calm,
gray summer day, wiridiCGS and sunless, yet
with a softened brightness in it that shone
through the thin clouds.. He sat and
worked, and, as his sketch went on bit by
bit, ho seized and made a'possession for
himself of the loveliness before-him, in the
very joy and lightness of his could
have sung aloud. He had Worked so well
yet upon no other Ho had been so
happy upon no other; all life seemed full
of gladness to him, and his life especially, 1
his glorious painter’s life, so great and
noble. Ho had no genius, probably, this
boy Frank Liston; but his cheek cou|d
burn and his heart could beat with the love
of all noble things. He never made the
world ring will* his na.me, but in his bright
youin there were (his was one of
them—when it nhfiosl seemed as if the pow
er was given him to cut his way through the
diamond gates. ; . ,
Ho worked till it was growing late. All
day, amongst the many things that had
made him happy, one thing had been the
presence of Christine. A bond of sympa
thy had sprung up between him and the
simple, untaught, poor French girl,—real
human sympathy, such as made even the
sight of her across tire square a thing that
kept his young heart warm. He liked to
lookup now and then and catch her smile;
it was as good as sn” li ght to him. The old
Stones had their voices for him and tales to
tell him, noble and sweet and sad, but while
ho listened to them it was good also to lift
his eyes up sometimes and look upon a
friendly, living face. He knew it was; he
knew as he sat at work that his day had
been tho brighter for Christine.
Nor was it the last, by many a one, that
she helped to brighten for him. From this
time forward she bee ime his one friend end
one companion in Jlouen; and no gentler
friendship, no more honest and pure com
panionship ever existed than that between
those two stray wanderers —the girl, whose
portion in this world was the selling of her
Deads at the church porch, and the boy,
whose beckoning beacon light was burning
on the high hill.
He made his sketch of her. It was a
feebie little sketch, yet like enough to*er,
and true enough to fill them both with
pleasure and pride. She sat to him morn
ing after morning till he had finished it.
He drew her just as she was, in her com
mon dress, with her basket by her side, and
the grey sculptured wall beside her, and he
made her talk to him all the time he worked.
She had tried to begin at first by sitting stiff
and prim, with her eyes immovable and her
lips closed, but he had soon laughed her out
of that.
“ 1 ::haJl never make anything of you un
less you begin to talk,” he told her.
“ Hut how can monsieur draw my mouth
if 1 talk ?” she asked.
“Oh, never mind that; I’ll tell you when
I come to your mouth,” he said, and by de
grees he got her to talk, and presently she
talked so cheerily and heartily—for brrna
turc she was no lover of silence, but coulid
chatter and chirp like any bird—that she
often altogether forgot that she was sitting
for her picture, which was exactly what ht
wanted her to do.
And sc at last the little sketch was fin
ished, and they looked at it, holding it be
tween them, with proud, bright, happy
eyes.
“ Ah, if my mother could see it!” she
said,, with a sigh of simple delight.
“ Weil, why shouldn’t she see iti/Lhe
asked. “ Let us take it to her together,
Christine.”
“ Would monsieur wish it?” she said, half
timidly.
“1 should like to see your mother, and
she would like to see this, lam sure; and
then ” he paused and looked at the little
picture “Well, you see, I don’t
think I could exactly give it to her, Chris
tine,” he said, “because I want so much to
keep it myself, but I will tell you what I
will do, if she likes it, I will make a copy of
it for her.”
“Oh, monsieur is too good'” But the
color flushed up into her face witn pleasure
“I shall like to make a copy, and you
know it would be unfair not to give you one;
so that’s settled. And now will you take
me home with you to see your mother ?”
They had before this had more than one
walk together. She knew the old town well,
and on several evenings, after the cathedral
doors ware closed, they had rambled side
by side for a little while about the streets,
seaching out the old houses that he loved,
or had lingered, young and hopeful as they
were, U>,luok in at bright shop windows.
But he never yet had gore home wjth. her.
She had talked about her mother to him
often, but with intuitive delicacy she had
never even hinted at a wish that he should
go and see her in the poor home where they
lived.
Yet she'had no false shame, and when
they set out on their walk together this even
ing she merely said to him once, simply and
quietly, “It is but a poor place, monsieur,”
and then without farther apology she took
him to it.
It was an upper room in a small house in
a very old street. The stairs that led up to
it were so dark that as they ascended she
had to take him by the hand to guide him
up; but the room itself was bright enough
when they entered it, for its two high win
dows looked to the sunset. A clean and
pure room, too, bare enough of furniture,
but with fresh air entering it through the
open panes, and a scent of flowers coming
in frem pots of mignonette upon the sill.
A small, shrunk, siekly-looking woman was
sitting in an old arm chair close to th'e light,
and Christine went softly to her side and
kissed her.
“Ma mere,' this is monsieur, who has come
to see you,” she said, quickly.
And then he came forward and took the
thin hand into his. It was a delicate, white,
worn face, “Not like Christine’s,” he
thought—until she spoke, and he suddenly
caught upon her lips what whs like the dy
ing shadow of Christine’s smile.
Long afterward# when many years had
passed, Frank Liaton sometimes tried to re
call and bring to life again the many hours
that he stthseqhontly passed within this
room. ITow were they spent? What bad
he done? What had they talked of? What
had been the charm that had made these
three so unlike in all outward circum
stances as they were-s-draw to cadi'other*?’
He could never tell,—could never breathe
life again into the dead ashes of those hours.
Twenty years afterwards, could he have
gone and spent hours each dyy wt*h two
poor untaught women—women who could
nor read nor write, who nelTlicr knew nor
dreamt of the height or dc|xbfi>of anything
in this great world, whoso universe wfl-ii
almost bounded by the four square walls of
the mean habitation where they dwelt,—
could he’ have passed hours each day with
such as these and found his hcarit grow;
knitted to 'them? He ctuld not. But he
did it once in the old, dead days of his early
faith, and hope, when he saw a brother or a
slstferMn every kind face he looked on, and
where the pure high heart gazed forth on all
the world though the light of its own trans
figuring sunshine.
Day after day, and even week after week
passed on, and he remained still in Rouen.
He had meant when he loft home tt>‘'visit
some three or four, of, the Normpn or
Bretaigqe towns; but he had lot his heart
get wedded to '.his one old city by the
and he could notdeave.it till his holiday was
ended. It called him to stay with voiOes
that, he could not resist; it spread its silebt
beauty out before him, discovering to him
day by day some new unexpected loveßness,
it gave him its old grey wadis ,to -study, the
records of its grandeur and its decay; it
gave hlm'ltA old heart to disinter; audit
gave hinuChristina. i’Perkaps she kept him
more than all beside;; pevhapa the one hu
man interest was deeper than all, that could
attach itself to sculptured stones;‘ but he,.at
least, if it was- so, was scarcely conscious of
of it. He did not-Seek to weigh the sepa
rate interests apart ; ho only knew.that she
was to him,' that'she remained to Mm
through his whole one inseparable por
tion of Rouen, and of that summer's) hoii
day., -
It was a perfect holiday, even although
each day till almost sunset lie worked riw'ay
bravely at those sketches of his—those
sketches which were half right, because the
feeling in him for' everything around him
Avas so deep and so true, and yet Avhich in
their execution were nearly always so im
mature and feeble, except when here and
there some momentary inspiration .gave to
the baud a’eudden strength, ft Avould have
been po holiday to him at all if he had been
compelled to jay his pencil down. Such
Work 'as he did here vraa his best refresh
ment, his dearest rest. With never-ending
delight he drew all day; and every evening
he passed with Christine.
Sometimes they spent the whole of those
evenings up ia the poor garret of the nar
row street ; but more often she would carry
her basket aud her earnings home, and-then
they would wander far out of the town’
together, southivard across the river, or out
to the open country, north and Wfeit, or
eastward, away ppon.the hills. They would
sit in the woods and fielda*_, playing some
times like children, gathering flowers and
filling the hollows of their hands with water
from the hill stream. She could sing pret
tily, and she Avould teach her merry French
songs to him, singing them again and again,
till he learnt both air and words. And
then he would talk to her. He was full of
dreams aud hopes about his lrtp, ai)d of love
for a hundred things, living and dead, that
she never heard of, and bf enthusiasm and
reverence and faith; and of all
talked to her; he would spqnd hours so,
pouring out his boyish heart; hojwjfalf of
all he said to her must, in her ignorance,
be liko a dead language to her—he forgot
that; she listened and sympathised with
him, and that was all he asked.
They spent sis weeks so. At the end of
that time they parted. The last hours that
they spent with one another were on a
bright soft Sunday evening. They took
their last walk eastward by the river, and
then up v-n the rising ground to the summit
of Mount St. Catharine, and there sat doivn
on the hill-top, with the fair city lying at
their feet.
“Oh, Christine, I shall not see it all
again, perhaps!” he said, when he had sat
gazing at it for a long time.
They had come here together -and had
spent other evenings so before now; the
hill, the town, the river, the dark cathedral
towers against the summer sky, had all be
come familiar to the boy’s eyes that were to
see them now no more.
“ Perhaps you will come here again next
Sunday, when I shall be hundreds sf miles
away, Christine,” he said. “ I wonder if
all this will seem like a dream then?”
‘Mi will not seem like a dream to me,” she
answered softly. “ You will have other
things to do; you will be at home then with
the people that you love about you; but I
shall have nothing to do, monsieur, but to
sit still and think of all this time.”
She always called him “Monsieur,” even
still. He had asked her long ago to call
him by bis name, but she had never done it.
“I have never been so happy in all my
life,” he said presently; he had thrown
himself down on the grass, aud laid his
head upon her knees; he was looking at the
old town, not at her. “If I lived for a
hundred years I should forget t(iese
weeks. If ever I have a holiday again,
shall I come bank, Christine?”
“ I should be glad if you came back,” she
said. , ;
She was bending down a little, not touch
ing him, as he lay, but only looking at him
with the lashes low over her eyes.
“If I come -back next summer —I don’t
think I could, but supposing I did—should
we have all our old walks ever again ? Do
you know, Christine, they say we never
enjoy the same thing twice in the same
way. But I don’t believe that. If I were
to come back again next year, why should
we not be just the same as we are now ?”
“ Perhaps we change when we do not
know it,” she said.
“ We need never change in somethings,’
he answered, hastily. “1 don’t know
whether you mean to forgot me, Christine,
but I shall remember you to the last hour I
live.”
“ Monsieur, I shall not forget you,” she
answered softly, after a moment’s silence.
What shall I have to do when you are
gone, but to remember ? When I come here
can I forget how we walked and sat togeth
er ? When Igo home to my mother qa u I
forget how your coming used to make her
face bright?* It is not those who remain
behind that forget. Ido not think you will
forget us when you go away ; perhaps you
will think of us often; but you will think
of us—you said it truly—as if we were
parts of a dream ; while we ” with a
passionate gesture that he did not see, she
clasped her hands, and uttered her last
words with a broken sob; “monsieur,
when we lose you, we lose our daily
bread!”
He turned his face round, and looked up,
and saw her cheeks wet with sudden tears.
Then, at that sight; half awed and wholly
touched, the youth reached up his hand and
clasped hers in it, and drew her arm round
his neck.
“ Christine, I owe you more than I have
given you, a thousand times,” he cried.
And holding her hand still, he raised it to
his lips, and reverently and almost passion
ately kissed it.
His last night in old Rouen I Long after
he Had parted from Christine he was still
wandering About tire, dark- eld- streets, all
lying quiet under the solemn summer sky,
and going from church to church that he
had loved, to take his last farewell of every
noble front and kingly porch. And long
after even that ftunl walk was ended, ha
stood at his own xvindow, leaning on his
balcony, and looking doxvn upon the river
that flowed silently^beneath the stars
dreaming some dreams, the memory of
which—all colored by the glorious illusions
of his youth—remained with him through
after years, till both boyhood and youth
j had fled.
j He went, away very early in the morning.
| The diligrni.e in which ho was to leave
began its journey at six o’clock, and by a
quarter to six Christine and he were stand
ing together indue cour<yftid whence it was
to start. TMylsAooft !|parfitriih the other
passengers, away from the coxifusion ami
the jostle of the people, very quiet, hand
in hand. J i ’ '
: They were together for about ton minutes,
but. there was something during those min
ut'eft' in the thrbafs 6f Loin of them that
almost choked their’words.
“Christine, 1 will come back again,” he
said to her, two or three times.
Once he looked in her face and said,
“Don’t forget tafe'!’-’ Arid the poor girl’s
as lie spoke, with a look that
he never afterwards forgot.
He stood clasp nig her hand in his until
he heard hta name called, and the summons
given -him to take his place. Then ho
lurqcd round into her face, and
said, 1 nalf-audibly :
“ Christine 1”
.“ Monsieur she answered, witL a wild,
Sudden pob; -i Y
She threw her arms aboiit,
By one passionate iffiphlse they kissed' cacjii
other; and with that first and last embrace
they parted and never met,more. f
The old man hail t old this story, standing
in the shadow of the church,
“And did you never see her again, grand
falfcor-?”[t,h-u-
-“ Never,, my bby? - It was a dozen years'
before I bam’enere qga’>h, arid sh,c was gone
then; I could never discover when or
where; she might havie becu somewhere in
town, but I could not. find her.,, /I'Jie traces
that the,poor leave behind them soon ;
away.”
“ But she may be alive and here, yet; blio
may be here now--’
“ Ay, Fred, f she may. She may he in
here,’ 1 not 1)0 feet ”away from tfe,' .selling
her beads at this moment amongst, the old
women kneeling on the floor, But if J.
knew that she wgs, do you think that I
would go in and try to find her ?” Me shook
his head, aud grniled half sadly. “Wc can
not put, life into dead bones, Fred,” he said,
“ nor throw a bridge gcross from youth to
age. If I found her 1 now, do you think wo
should rush into each other’s arms ? Nay,
jny liyd, the girl and boj’ we have been talk
ing of died and were buried fifty years
'ago.”
He stood and leaned upon his stick, look
ing up again to-whiere., the swftUlows were
flying in and oqt aboyp Ahe porch, till pre
sently there came a' softnd of music towards
them through the door.
“We are losipg the mass, my boy ; let us
go in.”
And so they went, in, and listened to the
'gorgeous music that was rolling and swell
ing along transept and aisle.
sijJaMAfre ov jl'me week.
General IntelMgencc.
General Dix has accepted the mission to
France.
Uniteu States Treasurer Spinner is now
prepared to furnish samples of the new per
forated postal currency.
A Washington dispatch states that the
Paymaster General has been instructed to
commence paying the extra bounties at
once.
It is definitely settled that the trial of
Jef:. Davis cannot take place in the adn
journed court, next month, and will cofise
quently have to be postponed till some fu
ture time. ,i- ; .
It is reported from .Ogdensburg that a
large number of Fenians are concentrating
in Northern Vermont for a raid upon Cana
da. Considerable excitement exists in those
counties which border on the Canadian line.
The Canadians are arming at the threatened
points.
Tidings of the lost and dead have come
up out of the sea. The snip City of New
York, missing since she sailed from New
Fork in December been heard from
through a bottled message found upon the
coast of Scotland. George Adams, carpen
ter of the ill-fated ship, briefly announced,
“January 13, boats all lost —ship going
down.”
The Atlantic cable had been looked upon
as so hopelessly lost that the underwriters
had paid the full amount insured. The
Great Eastern will new be entitled to a large
amount of salvage money, and so it may be
hoped, that the long run of ill-luck? which
that vepeel has,, had to endure has come to
an end, and that her shareholuets will at
last get rich by her.
Since the completion of the Atlantic
cable, and the successful fishing up of the
old one, whereby there a,re p.ow. two cables
in successful operation, the Russian exten
sion of the Western Union Telegraph has
been regarded as a failure, even if it should
be completed, because, on account of the
great length o? time it will require to trans
mit messages, it can never compete with the
Atlantic cables.
The Postmaster General has recently
issued instructions making provision for
planting of business cards oh envelopes in
any desired form or design, with requests to
return letters; provided that not less than
five hundred envelopes are ordered, and the
persons wanting them furnish the cuts or
plates, prepared for the press, from which
to have the printing done. Postmasters are
to receive the orders on the usual terms,
the cost being the value of the plain envel
opes with the addition of the amount of
the required stamp.
The use of the Atlantic cable in equaliz
ing transactions between London and Few
Y-rk is nowhere better shown than in the
great business now being done.in United
States bonds, and the turning of the tide of
gold back upon the United States. Several
millions in bonds are being purchased and
shipped weekly, upon orders per cable, and
it is not an uncommon thing to have ordeis
for bonds countermanded by the Ocean Tel
egraph when just on the eve of being
shipped, in which event fchebonds are usually
thrown immediately upon the market and
re-sold—the parties ordering the bonds
being charged with whatever less may be
sustained.
A valuable statistical table, exhibiting the
rate of increase in the population of the
different States in the Union since the State
census of ISOS',’has been received by the
department from seven States, and the in
crease of population, even during the exist
ence of the war, in which the mortality was
unive:sally large, is as follows: Minneso
ta, 40per cent,; Illinois, 26 percent.; Wis
consin, 12 per cent.; lowa, 12 per cent.;
Michigan, 7 5-10 per cent.; Rhode Island,
4 per cent.; Massachusetts, 3 per cent.
Taking the general average of this increase,
13£ per cent, as a fair representation of the
ratio of increase in the other States, the
Census Bureau estimates that the population
of the United States and Territories has In
crease from 31,443*248, the number found
by the census of 1860, to 35,500,000.
Foreign Wevrs.
A plot b.as been discovered to overthrow
the Government of Paraguay. The discov
ery, of course, has defeated the plana of the
revolutionists.
A flaw has been discovered in the indict
ment against the Fenians captured at Fort
Erie, which will probably necessitate their
discharge.
There was a fearful gale of wind bn the
22d o?l the .east coast of Newfoundland, and
a great many wrecks have been reported.
A French frigate was lost at St, Pierre, and
several coasters were wrecked. Over 150
dead bodies were picked up at St. Pierre on
Sunday, which were lost from the different
vessels. ' ’
The London Post’, after reading Secretary
Seward’s exposition of the Monroe doc
trine, as given in his circular on the Span
ish war hgaist Chili, expresses the opinion
that the European monarchs need not have
,mueh fear of tho United rStates in such
cases, as “ tho American bark is worserthan
its bite.”
A fearful tragedy Is reported to have hap
pened at Shoukonmkale, in Circassia, in con
sequence of the efforts of the Russian
authorities to put ft,stop to the sale of Cir
cassian young women to the Turks. Some
of the leading -ei-iizens, who v/ere interest
ed in the', traffic, conspired .to massacre the
garrison and, ihe Christian population of the
place,' arid then start ’ for Turkqy with their
Slave girls 5 . Their infamebo plot partially
Hitaheeded; ! About 100 Russians, including
worn n and children, were butehered”:n a
night attack; but the garrison proved too
much for the conspirators, and killed 200 or
30!) of them, after which martial laty was
established.
T’We Nouth.
The experiments with heavy gung at'-
Foplrcss Monroe still continue with-gratify
ing success.
The National Express and Transportation
Company, of wnich the rebel Gen, Joe
Johnson' is President, has made an assign
ment.
The cholera is raging to an alarming de
gree in Nashville, There were 88,deaths
from that,disease during 24 hours ending 0
o’clock on the Only about 0,000 citi
zens remain in tile town.
Many rebel citizens of Erenham Texas,
have risen in arms against the email de
tachment of United States troops stationed
there, and- the State authorities, it is re
ported, have offered to assist the rebels with
five hundred well armed men if necessary.
Meanwhile, gallant Phil. Sheridan is hasten
ing to the scene. ,
The laws of Ohio allow intermarrying be
tween blacks and whites. The laws of Ken
tucky prohibit it. A case is to be tried in
Kentucky next month, which will decide
whether a negro and white person, legally
married in Ohio, can, if they move to Ken
tucky, live together as mau and wife, when
the laws of that State prohibit their cohab
iting together.
The Plaftevillc (La.) Fzprcss states that a
box was recently skipped from Baton Rouge
to a radical merchant in Platteville, which
turned out to be an infernal machine, so
fixed as to explode when opened. Fortun
ately, the merchant suspected a trap, opened
the box at the bottom instead of the top,
and disclosed the apparatus without injury.
Its origin will be searched for.
The West.
A semi-weekly French newspaper, Lc In
dependent, is now published in Chicago.
James K. Hood, of Tennessee, has been
commissioned as Secretary of the Territory
of Colorado.
The Oregon legislature on the 21st, passed
the constitutional amendment by a vote of
25 ayes to 22 noes.
The election in Montana on the 4th inst.
is reported to have resulted in a Democratic
victory by a majority of 2,000.
One Carlotta Brown, who was ejected
from, the street cars,in San Francisco on
account of color,, has recovered a judgment
of $640 with costs and interest.
The Omaha Herald (Dem.) of the 14th
inst., says: “George Francis Train is to
enter the field as an independent candidate
for Congress.”
A lad nine years old, was run over by a
locomotive in Chicago on the 24th, and'fiad
both legs cut off near the knee. His recov
ery is hopeless.
The city of Freeport, 111., by a vote of 154
ayes and 300 nays, has decided not to ore-,
ate a loan of SIO,OOO for the purchase of a
steam fire-engine.
The Chicago Times has enlarged, come
out in a handsome eight-page dress, and
moved into anew building, with new type,
press, engine &0., at a cost of SIIO,OOO.
On the 20th, about 50 colored men from
Washington passed through Detroit, en route
to Battle Creek, where they ape to work on
the farm of Henry Willis, of that place.
Senator Wilson of Massachusetts, passed
the night of the> 2Jth in Chicago. In the
evening he was serenaded, and responded
in a speech giving his views of the present
politicaL condition of the country.
Six men were buried in the ruins of a
building that caved in on the 24th, at Mil
waukee. All were rescued alive, though
one died soon after, and it is believed that
at least one more will die from his injuries.
The Soldiers and Sailors Convention met
at Pittsburgh on the 25th, and organized
by choosing Private L. Edwin Dudley tem
porary Chairman, and afterwards Gen. Cox,
of Ohio, as permanent President.
A disaster occurred on the Hannibal &
St. Joe Railroad, on the 18th, near St. Joe,
which resulted in the demolition of a freight
train,, the death of the fireman, Albert Kin
neman, brakeman C. L. Newman, and se
rious injury to the engineer, David Kinne
man.
The Producer’s Bank, of Chicago, which
failed last week, was owned by one Harvey
Doolittle, who o.n the day before the failure, j
sold $21,000 of bogus eastern exchange,
r verting the soundness of his bank as ho
did so. The liabilities are $183,000 and
the assets only $lll,OOO.
John L, Scripps, for many years editor of
the Chicago Tribune, and Postmaster of that
city under Mr. Lincoln, died on the 22d, at
Minneapolis, Minnesota, whither he had
gone for his health. It will be remembered
that his wife died suddenly on last New
Year, while receiving calls.
One of the largest tfhisky distilleries in
Milwaukee is now in the hands of the Rcv
eana Department for trying to evade tin
lawn -the offense charged is instituting an t
using a fac simile of the inspector’s stamp,
and thus escaping Ihe payment f duties,
and putting, thaw whisky into the market
as inspected, wher. it never had-been.
Peter, -laborer,
residing at Lawrence’ Kansas, has, for sev
eral months kept up a ‘clandestine, alliance
with a negro named Wallace, who, last
Tuesday night,'l9fh, shot lnWdcr to
make good his own escape'from the' house,
and has not since Toeen arresTecf.** The
and
the doubly injured husband will, recover.
State ¥ airs have bceu well
The lowa and Michigan Fairs closed in tiie
21st and 22d, and lllinois and Wiscon
sin Fairs opened ip the, 24th, and 25th.
The first s of- tbp, .Colorado Fair
commenced at Denver -on. the 18th. It was
well attended/ ! The most attractive feature
of the fair was the nunierbus specimens of
ore from the different mines in the.Terri
toY- , jU;. " .
A verdict was recently given in the Cir
cuit Court in Jefferson countyp! Wisconsin,
by ’which the administrator of Francis L.
Bishop recovered $3,000 fiora the G._& N.
W. railroad company as damages for'killing
the little girl of the deceased, aged 11 years.
The train did not stop long enough for her
to get from the gar, and she was cfifshcd to
death.in making tlia attempt. The accident
happened at Fort Atkinson, ia March, 1865.
A late census o£..Nebraska City shows a
population of eight thousand inhabitants,
and ovOi. one thousand' new buildings—pri
vate residences and btefeincss house’s—have
;bocn i-yecied during the anWraesa The
Bluffs and is
now under contract;, on the east bank of
the Missouri Mhe city, and
cars will be running from Nebraska City to
Council Bluffs, a distance of fifty mijes, by
the first of December next. .mil:/.-
' GUr SHttff cTayTTSs’S, at the Chicago
Driving Park, dming a-rape.between the
noted trotting horses, Butler aud Coclcy, the
rideO of the former was foully murdered by,
seems certain, interested in bis
defeat. At 'the fifth and last heat, wViich
took place afte# dark, Butler came in with
cut-hisjriilprjjOnc McKeaver, who was. after
wards found dead on the course, with a large
fractuns’-on his skull. The utmost excite
ment prevailed, and the rider of -other
horse, along with a man named Hickey, are
under arrest. It lit believed that a long
board was hfeld up ’so that McKeaver in
riding would strike his head against it.
The ISast.
The old Tammany Hall, New York, is
shortly to be sold to the highest bidder, the
warriorshaving resolved to build another
hall.
The Episcopal Diocese of New York, sow
in session, has voted a donation of $2,000
to Bishop Potter, in addition to his salary
of $6,000. '■ ’ v;’. ■ *
There is mourning and lamentation among
the disciples of King 'GaSibrinus in New
York, the supply of lager
out, and no worthy substitute baling been
furnished. Sundry of the beer shops have
been compelled to shut up for lack of the
fluid. ''
A family of five persons were burned to
death in a tenement house in New York, on
the ,24th. The position of their remains in
dicated- that they had met, their terrible
fate in J each other’s embrace, ,potherJfam
ily of five persons saved themselves by
jumping from a fourth story window upon a
feather bed held up to receive them. Two
of them were seriously injured.
Mrs. Fisher, of Yarmouthport, Mass.,
who was disturbed last week by p, nfan con
cealed under her bed, who fled on discov
ery, has since received a -letter containing
sls, stating that the writer was tlie Individ
ual under the bed, but that he was there for
no criminal purpose, and that the money in
closed was to pay her for the trouble she
had been put to. ~
A Coroner’s inguest upon the Johnstown
(Penn.) calamity reports “that the essen
tial timbers of said bridge or platform were
partially rotted, the whole structure de
fective and insufficient to support and sus
tain the number and weight of persons
drawn to and invited upon it, and was in
general necessarily dangerous; that the
said (rain stopped at an unusual point at
said station, and thereby drew the people
upon the most weak and dangerous pant.of
said platform, and had said train stopped
at the usual place of stopping at said sta
tion, the said accident would not probably
have happened.”
, j i
A New Itace in tlie West.
“The true America,” says M. Langcl,
“only begins for the western farmer oh his
own slope of the Alleghany ; chain; the na
tional pride that burns in his heart is not
fed by democratic passion alone; it Is also
inspired by the sight of those, bouadhss
plains open to his giant
rivers, some running.tp-Juid polar regions,
others to the tropic seas,. The old States
have remained th many respects dependent
on Europe. They from it not only
goods and machines, bat ideas. *'i'he West
entirely escapes the European influence.
By, I cannot tell what inexplicable, charm,
what powerful fascination, those who go
toward the Rocky Mountains never look
back towards the Atlantic. The emigrant
from New England never regrets cn the
prairies the hills where he,was born; the
Irishman never dre'ams of going back to
his 4aqopisland; the German himself faith
ful still, to his native language, Br-eomes un
faithful to his native country. From these
varied sources spripga j.hs
the generous soil that fears it, proud and
independent. The love,of liberty aird the
feeling of equality become like coageniSl
passions .for it; its political convictions are
not, as with the European, arms against a
tyranny; it is not obliged to wrap them in
formulas; its faith is a living faitii.
Au Inquisitive Ilooslcr.
An exchange vouches for the truthpf this
anecdote: While Lord Groevenor was trav
eling in the west of America., he wasjpne
day waiting at a country station fora tardy
train, when one of the farmers of the neigh
borhood entered into cqnveisation -wuuiaiMi.
“ Been about these‘lpnrts
stranger.” “ Ves, for some length -’hi
time.” “Like ’em pretty welt, eh ?” “ Yes,
pretty, .well.” How long bin
here?”' A few weeks/’ “What’s *er
business?” “ 1 have no business.”, “ What
are you travelin’ for, then?” HOnly for
my ; own pleasure.” “ Don’t yem dp any
business? How do you get yer livin' then?”
“It isn’t necessary for me to work fpf jny
support. My father is a man pf property,
and gives me an-allowance eufiieiept for my
wants.” “ But-s’pg§6 tfUrfflcf
die?” “In that case I dare say he’d leave
me enough to live upon.” “Buts’posehe
should bust up?” Here the conversation
ended, and Lord Grosvenor walked away,
evidently struck with anew idea.