Watertown republican. [volume], November 03, 1880, Image 3

About Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906

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SHADOW LA*Do
Fbr from the world that wo live iu to-day
Shadow land li> e;
None know how far it ie. none know the way.
What are. itp boundaries no one can say,
Only surmise;
No one in life has set foot on that shorn.
Formed from the wreck ot the sad nevermore.
Memory gov erns this shadowy land,
lleipning supreme;
Oltthuos there come at her word of command
Forms we have known from the. far distand strand,
Faint as a dream;
Forms of those dear in the days which have, flown.
Forms of beloved ones in life's morninor known.
\\ ith them thev bring long-lost scenes of the past
Book to our view;
Pictures of friendships not destined to last.
Loves that grew weak 'neath adversity’s blast,
Painted anew;
Kidges and ripples in time’s shifting sand.
Hidden till now in the far Shadow land.
— Tinslett's Mana ziu r.
[From the Youth’s Companion.]
A Gold Miner’s Adventure.
An acquaintance of the present writer,
who has but recently returned from a
sojourn of several years, mining and pio
neering in the far west, gives the follow
ing graphic account of an adventure of
his with the Unca papas Sioux:
In Septem her, 1878, he said, I made a
tour of the Black Hills camps, and while
at a place then known as “Turners
Wash-Out,” fell in with a Nova Scotian
named McMouagle, who had been pros
pecting on the Little Powder river. The
fellow was quite ignorant as to the value
of ores; but he had brought iu some
specimens which looked to me vers*
promising; and after some talk, he and I
made a bargain to go to the place whence
he had come and prospect it still farther.
We bought a mule and collected some
provisions and mining tools, ready for a
start. But on the very night before the
morning we had planned to start, Mc-
Mouagle got into an altercation in one of
the saloons, or gambling rooms, and
was shot dead by a -Texan named Doni
phan.
That hindered the expedition. But
after a day or two, I concluded that I
was as much McMonagle's heir as an3'
one. and I determined to make the jour
ney* alone, there being nobody else at
the camp whom I cared to take as a
partner.
There was some risk from the redskins
who were now and then hostile to the
miners. But prospecting parties were
going out every* day; and I resolved to
incur the perils.
Prom what McMonagle had told me, I
supposed it was a three days’ journey* to
the place he had described.
About thirty* miles to the northyvest of
“Turner’s ’’ there was an old camp called
“Caswell’s Hollow,” abandoned a year
and a half before, after a short period of
mining there. Nol tody went near to it
now. But the old trail yvas still fair
traveling; and as it was my* route y r ery
nearly, I took it and reached the site of
the former “city” a little after sunset of
my first day* out.
At one time there had been a dozen or
fifteen log shanties here, but they had
now all been burned or carried off piece
meal but one. This one was of logs
with a slab roof, and stood beside the
weed-grown trail, near the lower end of
the hollow.
Here I stopped for the night, and
hitched my mule among some willows
down under the bank of the creek, fif
teen or twenty* rods from the shanty. I
gave him a part of his com and pulled a
big hamlful of grass for fodder, and this
done, went into the shanty* to cook my
own supper.
An old stove with the top part of it
broken, two or three greasy benches and
a mouldy bunk of straw were all there
was by way of furniture.
From the ashes in the stove and from
a kettle with several fresh bones in it,
which had been set away in a corner, I
was led to t hink that some prospecting
party* had occupied the camp not very
long before,
I had brought along a frying-pan of
my own. and lighting a fire in the stoy*e,
proceeded to fry pork and make a
miner’s late dinner off* that and hard
tack, with a cup of strong coffee.
Meanwhile, it had grown dark. At
first, I had intended to go down the
bank and sleep in the willoyvs beside the
mule. But a heavy dew was falling, and
it now seemed so damp out that I con
cluded to stay iu the shanty. Taking
some of the straw out of the bunk, I
made a bed of it 1 >efore the stove, and
then, drawing oft' my heavy boots, rolled
up in my blanket and lay with the b :t
--toms of my* feet to the warm oven—y T er3*
comfortable.
But I had not been lying there long
when I heard a rustling of the straw,
and a moment after something quite
heavy began to slide over my two ankles!
It was a snake! as I felt sure the instant
I felt the touch of it, and I started in
spite of myself.
The moment I stirred it rattled! It
was a rattlesnake, a big one, I felt cer
tain by the weight.
I knew now that my only safety from
its fangs lay in remaining motionless.
With the sweat fairly breaking out ail
over me, I lay still, bracing every mus
cle to keep from starting. When I had
stirred the reptile had stopped sliding
over my ankles, and now I could feel his
head gliding over my leg to see what I
was, I suppose.
A few moments after a brand in the
fire blazed up, and I had a glimpse of
the creature as it lay across my legs.
At length, to my infinite relief, it be
gan to slide on again; and it was with a
throb of gratitude that I felt it glide
away.
As soon as, judging from the rustling,
1 thought it out of striking distance, I
bounded to my feet and jumped ou one
of the benches. But the blaze had now
gone out, and it was dark again.
Before I could light a match and some
splinters which I cut oft the bench with
my knife, the reptile had retreated out
of sight; and though 1 now beat about
the shanty in all the comers, I could not
discern its w hereabouts.
There was a partial loft in the shanty,
consisting of six or eight loose boards
laid ou the beams; and not to run the
risk of the snake’s creeping in upon me
again, I now got up here with my car
bine and blanket, and once more com
posed myself for the night.
I had been lying up there half or
three-quarters of an hour, I think, —for
the touch of that snake had so worked on
my nerves that I comd not at once go to
sleep, —when a murmur of low voices ac
companied by muffled footsteps caught
my ear; and rising on ellxiw in some
alarm, I saw five dark figures step, one
after the other, through the open door
way of m3- shanty! They spoke, and the
moment I heard their voices inside, I
kneyv they were Indians.
You will readily believe me that I
would have paid well to have been
be3*ond the reach of the perils that
environed me.
One of the redskins threw doyvn some
thing heavy on the ground, which
proved to be the carcass of a deer, or a
buffalo-calf; and then another struck lire
and they soon had a blaze going in the
stove. The light flared around, and I
expected every moment they yvould look
up and espy me. It seemed as if they
must hear my heart beat 1 I grasped my
carbine, Imt did not dare cock it, but lay
motionless, though resolved if they* did
see me, to assume the defensive.
Two of them now began skinning the
deer, and when they had finished and a
good bed of coals was burned in the bot
tom of the sto\*e, they each began roast
ing the meat in small slices on sticks—•
eating it as they toasted it.
As they sat there, I was expecting each
instant that some of them would spy* out
m3* frying-pan which I had stood to drain
behind the stove.
Near an hour must have passed iu
this way*, which seemed an age to me;
and the five of them ate all the eatable j
portions of the deer. Then they lighted !
their pipes, and sitting on the benches j
round the stove, smoked and told stories j
and laughed as heartily as I ever heard
a party of whites. *
One story had iu it an expression that j
sounded, as the redskin spoke it, like j
chock-weet, choek-weet , niilli-rhti-ioif, ■
repeated every feyv minutes as he went
on narrating: and as often as he used the
expression the others would burst out
laughing uproariously.
All this while I dared not so much as |
stir for fear the boards would creak.
Finally, after they had smoked and j
told all the stories they could think of,
the3* loosened their belts and prepared to
lie down. < )ue of them went to the
bunk, but had hardly stretched himself
out in it, ere he leaped out yvith a low,
deep exclamation. All the others sprang
up iu a moment. I thought to be sure
the3* had discovered or heard me noyv,
and was just on point of cocking ray
carbine to shoot when I heard the snake
rattle. The reptile had crawled into the
bunk, and the Indian had laid doyvn on
it. No wonder he jumped out.
Iu a trice one of the others lighted a
splint; and then laughing, they poked
the bunk, till the snake raising its head,
struck at the muzzle of one of their
guns. With that, another of them in
stantly pinned it down with a piece of
board: when a third snatching it up by
the tail, severed the reptile’s head com
pletely, at one snap, as with a whip.
Then they’ laughed again, and after cut
ting off the “rattle,” threw the body of
the reptile out.
But instead of lying doyvn again, two
of the Indians took their guns and yveut
I out. I listened intently, but could not
: determine, from their softly moccasined
feet, which way they yveut. They did
| not come iu again, and soon the other
three lay do^m.
It was new very dark in the shanty,
and I resolved that if the redskins went
to sleep, I would escape somehow. For
if I remained till daylight, they would
hardly fail to discover me.
After a time the hard breathing of the
first one, then another, of them assured
me they were falling asleep, and pretty
soon one of them began snoring loudly.
Now for the first time, for at least
three hours, I ventured to turn over and
stretch out my cramped legs. Yet,
though I felt certain they were all three
sleeping, I doubted if it would be possi
ble to get down ofi the boards without
waking them up.
I then thought of tlying the roof,
which was close to my head. On push
ing against it with my hands, I found
that the slabs were not nailed on very se
curely. Creeping along, I tried first
one, then another. I could start them up
off the rafters, but they creaked, and but
for the heavy snoring which the Indian
made, I never could have accom
plished it.
Timing my efforts to his breath, I
would push up when he drew one of his
snores, and in that way blended the
creaking of the old rusty nails with his
nasal music.
At length, I pushed one slab free and
turned it back on the other, upon the
outside. The next one I got oft' a little
easier; but on attempting to turn it back
as I had the other, it commenced to slide
off the roof, and to my horror fell down
to the ground with a loud clatter.
The snoring stopped. I thought I
would be discovered now, and clutching
my carbine, held my breath, expecting
they would all three leap up with a
whoop. But though I heard them turn
and stir, they did not wake; and soon the
snoring one was breathing heavily again,
louder than ever.
Now that I had the two slabs oft', there
was just about room enough for me to
crawl out. As softly as possible, I did
so, and getting down to the eaves,
swung oft'to the ground and stole on tip
toe away.
Sliding down the bank, where my mule
was, I unfastened and repacked him, and
then looking out a path up the side of
the gully into the trail, went on as fast
as I could lead him.
But my perils that night were not over
yet. A late moon, now in its last half,
was just rising in the southeast, but the
trees and bushes still shadowed the trail.
After going half or three-quarters of a
mile, I crossed a bridge over the creek,
built in the palmy days of “Caswell’s
Hollow,” of half logs, split in the cen
ter, and supported ou posts eight or ten
feet high, set in the creek bed. 1 had
proceeded only a few rods beyond the
bridge when the mule suddenly pricked
up his ears and stopped short. I glanced
ahead and at first saw nothing; but,
continuing to look sharply, for the mule
was peering intently along the trail, I
caught sight of two Indians coming
rapidly towards us. No doubt they were
the two who had left the shanty the
evening before.
They had not sighted us. Dropping
to the rear of the mule, which stood
stock-still as a post in the trail, I scud
back to the bridge, and, jumping down
into the nearly dry creek-bed, took
refuge under the bridge.
For as much as ten minutes I heard
nothing of the two redskins. I supposed
they had spied the mule and were recon
noitoriug, thinking rightly that there
was someone, or more, whites, not far
off. But at length, I heard them eom
ing up to cross the bridge, conversing in
low tones.
They crossed the bridge and went on
I for some distance, with the mule. I
[ ventured to take breath again. But a
i moment after, I heard one of them com
j ing stealthily back. He came on to the
bridge and stood there for some mo
ments; then as if an idea of my where
abouts bad suddenly come to him, he
got down ou his hands and knees and
peeped over the ends of the logs. The
instant he fairly shewed his arm and
head, I fired the carbine, which caused
him to leave in terror, probably
wounded.
1 knew the report of my carbine must
have waked the three Indian* whom I
I had left at the shanty, and that I
should Soon have all of them after me.
So the instant 1 had tired, 1 ran from
under the bridge, down the creek, for
two or three hundred yards, then climbed
the bluff on the cast side.
As I went up the bank, the redskin
back at the bridge uttered a savage yell
and sent a bullet into the gravel be
side me.
This salutation I did not stop to re
turn, however, but took to the pines;
and I made such good time through them
aud over the gravel hills, that before
eleven o'clock that forenoon, I was back
at “Turner’s Washout.”
MOUNT VESUVIUS.
1
Up the World-Famous Volcano in a Cr---Wtch- |
ing Explosions.
[Home Correspondence New York Evening Post.]
The new road recently made by the
company now permits the carriage which
brought you from Naples to ascend two
miles further. This alone would great
ly diminish the fatigue of the ascent, i
The road is about two miles long and 1
winds like a knotted white riband over I
the steep ascent. A liveried officer i
touches his cup as he issues from a lit- j
tie cabin built at the point where the I
road begins, and asks for your ticket.
Travelers who ascend the mountains in
their vehicles not belonging to the j
society are charged $3 from this point j
for the use of the road. The carriage at
last reaches the broad stone platform
and elegant building at the base of the
cone, used as a station and restaurant.
The atmosphere is au exquisite ming
ling of sea breeze and mountain air, and
the view below, when the day is clear, is
charming. Sorrento, Castolmare, Capri,
Naples—all cities whose very names re
call enchanting natural scenery—lie be
low in a vast and beautiful panorama.
The low, one-story house, built to resist
earthquakes, is decorated in the Pom
peiian style. The mosaic pavement at
the door greets you with a “salve,” and
all around ou the walls are photographs
of Vesuvius. You eat breakfast here
—roast beef, with a glass of Vesuri an
wine—the price, of course, being as ele
vated as the position of the restaurant on
the mountain. Water, they told us, was
all brought there in barrels on donkeys’
backs, as none is over found in the earth
there. It is ground that has been un
heaved unnumbered times, aud, even if
it were not near the top of the mountain,
water could not lie expected there.
The car is in two compartments at
different levels, and carries up eight per
sons at each voyage, which occupies niue
minutes. The heavy oak beams laid up
the side of the* cone, at au angle of fifty
degrees, looks stout enough to hold the
cable-wire and the wheels on the lapillo
of the cone, and giving to the winds ail
misgivings, you begin the ascent. This
rolling up the cone, with a conductor
mounted on au elevated seat in front of
the car; this leaving the world which we
have known hitherto so far behind gives
j a curious sensation of mingled wonder
and fear. The movement is slow and
cautious, as if man feared to tempt the
mighty power below, and all is silent ex
-1 cept the creak of the wire over the iron
wheel. When at last you are landed at
the upper station the ascent so far has
been made without fatigue and the
promises of the society are fulfilled. But
! a part of the cone is still before you, if
i you would arrive at the crater, aud this
ascent is steep and fatiguing. The
| guides hover round each group of travel
' ers here, hoping to find some wdio, as in
! former times, will require their aid. Al
; though the walk, which is about fifteen
i minutes, is fatiguing, it gives only the
i faintest idea of the difficulty of the for
j mer mode of ascension. The only ques
| tion, on looking back at the cone, is
i ‘ ‘ How r did so many delicate women ever
jdo it ?” It used to be considered a
I matter of course for any traveler who
visited Naples to ascend Vesuvius, but
! even with the aid of the guides it must
i have been a serious effort. Even those
i who permitted themselves to be carried
i up in a chair must have experienced a
j nervous sensation on finding themselves
! thus strangely suspended ou the shoul
i ders of struggling men between earth
j and heaven. After this panting ascent
w r e found ourselves near the base of the
; small cone which has been raised within
| two years. There is a field of yellow T
lava here ejected by Vesuvius in the
eruption of 1872. By leaping from one
rock to another it is possible to go even
I nearer but it is not safe to go on the
! cone on account of the burning stones
' tii at are constantly falling over it. By
I ascending a hill to the right may be seen
I the fissure in the top of the cono, through
which the lava runs in a narrow stream
! down the side toward Pompeii. But I
( confess that my courage failed here, and
j I contented myself with sitting down m
j the ashes aud watching the explosions
I which frequently occurred. The fine
1 black ashes fell in showers, and the hot
I sulphurous air burned my face and dis
j colored the steel ornaments of my dress.
Clouds came every few moments to
wreath the cone in darkness, and the
i frequent explosions shook the ground
under foot.
A Wonderful Watch.
Mr. H. L. Borden, of Elgin, 111., is
the possessor of a most wonderful watch.
It gives the hours, minutes and seconds,
the week, the day of the month, the
name of the mouth, the lunar month of
twenty-nine days, and the phases of the
moon ot all times. It provides for the
thirty and thirty and thirty-one day
mouths, twenty-eight days in February,
every fourth year twenty-nine days
in I ebruary for leap year, making all its
own changes at 12 o’clock night. It is a
chronograph for timing horses to the
fifth of a second. And, lastly, it strikes
the hours, quarters and minutes. This
extraordinary time-piece was made in
Switzerland, and cost #1,500.
1 fall and winter fashions.
I ItBBoNH have become real works of art.
Tuk new felt skirts are very handsome.
Old-fashioned side-combs are again
worn.
I A modified “poke” is remarkably
becoming to young, round faces.
. <>f the new gloves have the tops
finished with puffs of satin, running
either lengthwise or around the arm.
Pearl and mauve are the prevailing
colors in the Persian brocades shown for
opera dresses.
Chenille surcots should be made for
slight figures only, us that material al
ways makes the figure larger.
VV hole cloaks are now made of
chenille, which, for this purpose, is very
thick, and sometimes powdered with gold
or steel.
A Good way for ladies to employ thou'
old worn laces this winter will be on the
large collar’s and fichus which will he
worn.
The most novel freak in finishing a
basque is to cut the lower edge into
leaves, and to insert a pleating between
the leaves,
A Direototkb hat, covered with blue,
red and chenille, and trimmed with feath
ers, matching the chenille, is the most
amazing thing yet invented to wear on
the head.
Home of the most elegant ball dresses
in preparation for the coming winter are
of black tulle, embroidered with gold,
amber aud iridescent beads, and have a
most dazzling effect.
Butterfly bows and rosettes of satin
ribbon, with drooping ends to fall on the
low coiffure, are worn by young ladies
in preference to the broad Alsacian
bows.
New breakfast caps are fanchons of
mull, or else butterfly bows held by two
pretty rosettes of loose loops of satin rib
bon. The gold-dashedlndia muslins are
also used for caps.
Pall skirts for street dresses have the
side-breadths shirred lengthwise, or are
trimmed with an apron of brocade or Pe
kin velvet. The back breadths form two
great plaits.
The new shoe buckles are beautifully
chased and encrusted. Oue of the fa
vorite designs is a star, and another is
the pretty hook and eye, now so fashion
able for dresses, in cut steel.
Large sleeves are the universal fea
ture of new wraps. Dolmans are called
risites, and for the fall months are of
light goods, lined with satin of some rich
color aud trimmed elaborately.
Slippers for fall dress are made of
white nr black satin, or of white or black
French kid, with long French heels; and
the approved trimming is what is called
the horseshoe bow, curving around the
instep.
Worth is using heavy Sicilienne silk
as drapery to be worn over velvet skirts
this winter. This is decidedly a bad
year for fat women, for the draperies are
so heavy and the tight dresses so close
fitting that there is nothing in which
they look well.
Low-throated linen collars, with a
point each side and flaring behind, are
worn by young ladies/ High linen
collars are worn very close indeed, and
are made quite straight, with a stud
button at the top of the collar and a
second stud lower down.
The peasant gown, with an apron
front, and a polonaise of almost any cut
that any one chooses, is the street cos
tume which seems to suit the fancy of
the million better than anything. The
secret of this is that any one can cut and
fit the gown.
The dressmakers seem to be striving
; hard after a flounce or some kind of skirt
trimming that cannot be brushed or
! cleaned in any other way and which will
i take endless time to make. The last
! complication that they have produced
j has flat double plaits with seven narrow
j plaits between each pair of them. The
flounce is faced, and turned up on each
plait to show the facing, and the plaits
j are drawn together at the bottom by four
| rows of gatherings.
Among the many shapes to be seen
! the greatest novelty for ordinary wear
are the grey kuock-about felts or plush
hats. The shape is a modified capote,
with the felt folded carelessly andloose
j ly over the crown, a brim formed of feath-
I ers or plush, with clusters of ostrich tips
j in any shade or color preferred nestling
at the side. Nothing more chic has
i been seen this year, and if plain felts are
| pronounced old-fashioned, the “ knock
about” will speedily revive one’s interest
in so pretty a rival of the thick plushes
and beavers.
Hiding Money in Spain.
In old Spanish houses says Temple.
Bar , there is generally a very cleverly
contrived secret receptacle for money,
akin to the “ secret drawer ” of the Eng
lish desk. Even now this secret cup
board is much used, the Spanish idea of
security being (an idea found on bitter
experience of many years) to cage the
windows in iron bars, lock up the house at
night in winter, look at the money, and
then say, in security and self-congratul
ation:
“ Why, I am veiy safe; all I love and
all I need is contained within the four
walls of my casa. ”
There is a vast deal of distrust of
banks and government securities, and a
great holding to the proverb, “No
friend save God, and a dollar in your
pocket. ” And now with the middle class
there is no banking of money.
The bankers, to begin with, give no
interest as rule; and so, just as in Scot
land in the troubled year of 1650, the
goldsmiths were the only bankers, so
now, in Spain, the gentry constantly
hoard their money in their own houses;
some put their jewelry and plate in the
montes de piedad.
A Model Wife.
[N. Y. Herald’s Arctic Correspondence.]
It is the duty of the Inuit woman to
attend constantly to the lamps, to melt
water for drinking and clicking and to
cook the food. They also turn the wet
shoes and stockings inside out and dry
them at night. A “good wife” is one
who sleeps but little after a hard day’s
march, but attends constantly to the
articles upon the diying frame, turning
them over and replacing the dry with
wet. When one frame full of clothing
has been dried she places the articles
under her in the bed, so that the heat of
her body will keep them warm and dry,
and replaces them upon the frame with
other articles. Hhe gets up long before
any one else is awake, and look carefully
overall the clothing to see what mend
ing is require< I. Her position when not
asleep is with her bare feet bent under
her in Turkish fashion, and there she
sits all day long before her tire engaged
in making clothing, cooking or other
household duties, and is seldom idle.
When at work she lifts up her voice and
sings. The tune lack melody but not
power. It is a relief to her weary soul,
and few would be cruel enough to de
prive her of that comfort, for her pleas
ures are not many. She is the slave of
her children and her husband, and is
treated to more abuse than affection.
An Idyl of Wild Life.
A curious story of wild life witlun
the borders of civilization was recently
brought to the surface at Narrowsburg,
N. Y. The story goes that in 1835 Lucy j
Ann Lobdell, daughter of a lumberman, !
-7-the girl being then ‘2O years old,-mar- I
ried a raftsman, George Slater, who de
serted her and an infant daughter in a I
year after marriage. They lived at Long |
Eddy, Delaware comity, N. Y. Lucy!
Ann Sluter had been brought up to hunt- |
big for a living, felt independent, aud |
took to the woods, leaving her child in I
the care of her parents. She put on
men’s clothes, took her ride aud fishing
tackle, and built herself a cabin in the
wild woods and hunting lodges wherever
she wandered in the mountains. She
could play the violin as well as hunt and
fish, aud chop wood, and raft, and ac
companied her sports with music in the !
wilderness. She was skillful and lucky j
among the game aud carried the skins of j
such wild animals as the mountains 1
afforded to the settlements, where she i
exchanged them for ammunition and I
such other articles as she needed. In j
men’s clothes she was known as Joseph i
Lobdell. Those who knew of the dis
guise called her the “ Huntress of Long j
Eddy.” So she lived eight years in the 1
woods, and at the end of that time ascer
tained that her child had been placed in \
the poor house at Delhi. This incensed
her against her parents, aud confirmed \
her in the wild life she had chosen. I
Years after one Joseph Lobdell appeared j
in a Pennsylvania village as a teacher of j
music, and played the fiddle for country 1
dances. One of Lobdell’s female pupils j
fell in love with him, and then the young
men of the village found out that the ;
fiddling music teacher was a woman, —
tnd none other than Lucy Ann Slater, ;
the huntress. She left suddenly aud just'
escaped a coat of tar and the ornamenta
tion of feathers. In 18C8 the huntress j
was hunted and caught, and put in the:
poor house at Delhi, from whicli her
daughter had previously gone, only
to become at outcast. J ust about
the same time Marie Louise Perry,
a young woman of beauty and
education, who had been wronged, came
to the poor-house sick, and Lucy Ann
Slater attended her as nurse during her
illness. A strange friendship sprang up
between the two, and the young woman
having recovered, both ran away from
j the poor-house at the same time. Noth
ing was seen or heard of them for two or
I three years. In 1871 a man and woman
' were arrested as vagrants; in Monroe
county, Pa. The man gave bis name as
Joseph Israel Lobdell and the woman
claimed to be his wife. They had been
living in caves and the people were af laid
of them. Joseph Israel was lodged in
jail and the woman was let off, and took
to the woods and caves. Writing with a
split stick and using pokeberry juice for
ink she drew up a petition to the County
Court asking for the release of her <4 hus
band, Joseph Lobdell, in consequence of
his ill health, which compelled her con
stant care. ” The paper is said to have
been “a marvel of neat penmanship and
; correct composition.” The County
1 Court yielded and Joseph Lobdell was
released. The pair then went to Damas
cus Township, Wayne county, Pa., and
squatted on a piece of ground where
they lived until a year and a half ago,
i when Joseph disappeared. Some months
afterwards, the remains of a person were
| found in the woods not far from the farm,
i and were buried as those of the missing
i huntress. The woman of the Lobdell
l copartnership remained on the patch of
! ground where both had lived. Lately
■ the acquaintances of Lncy Ann Slater
were surprised to see her at Long Eddy
dressed in the male garb, tattered anil
tom, while she was weary and worn and
insane. She wts put in the asylum at
Ovid, and henceforth will be restrained
from roaming. And Marie Louise Perry
is still living alone in her cabin in
Damascus.
Stonewall Jackson.
Mrs. Arnold, the sole surviving sister
of “Stonewall” Jackson, now lives at
Buckhannou, West Ya. She was through
out the war a faithful unionist, although
every member of her family except one
—a young nephew—was a secessionist.
For her brother she entertained the rev
erence of an undying love and affection,
and she insists that it was with extreme
reluctance and profound misgiving that
he took up arms against his country.
He declared that he would never go out
side of Virginia to fight; he voted against
the ordinance of secession in old Virgin
ia, and urged his sister to use her influ
ence to keep West Virginia fast to the
Union. A profound religious man, he
was wont to say, even after he had taken
up the sword: “If we are light, God
will prosper us; if we are wrong, God
will destroy us.”
“ First Efforts.”
[l'roru the Atlantic Monthly.]
I long for some patent method of con
vincing every man, woman and child,
who is poor, unhappy, or wants pin
money, that they cannot rash into litera
ture pell-mell, and make money at will.
Above all, I should like a legal effort im
posed on every oue who sends a “ first
effort” to me. It is an equal “effort,”
and by no means my “first” for
me to read their poetry, and for them I
write it. lam fast becoming a misan
thrope from the amount of trash,
garnished with neither sense, grammar,
rhyme, nor metre, that my fellow’ crea
tures perpetrate with a view of fame and
fortune. Will any oue ever com luce
this crowd of imbeciles that to write even
decently demands previous cultivation,
information and common sense; or that
real genius is like any other diamond,
and needs careful cultivation and polish
ing V I suppose not.
THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE.
BT CHARLES TEXNYSON TtTRNJ K,
1 Ae on my bed at dawn T mused and prayu’d,
i saw m> lattice prankfc upbn tho wall.
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal—
A sunny phantom in erlaced with shade;
“ Thanks be to heaven ! ” in happy mood I said,
*• What sweeter ild'my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the ea#t hath made
Who holy sleights hath God. the Lord of all,
To bid ns feel and see ? w r e are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight glooms-
And at prime hour, behold ! He follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms! ”
PERSONAL GOSSIP.
Governor Wright, of the Indian Ter
itory, is a converted’Choctaw Indian.
HenbT WAniiACE and Jane Wallace, Ins
wife, have entered college at Weslevau
university, Connecticut as “freshmen.”
Among the-treasury clerks at Wash
ington are great-grand-daughters of
Thomas Jefferson and Robert Morris.
Hamtteij H. Gladstone, cousin of the
premier, is now in this country. He in
tends to buy up Colorado lands.
Jedge Porter, the newly-elected gov
ernor of Indiana, is a widower of wealth.
His, only child is a daughter, and one of
the prettiest girls in the Hoosier capital.
Moses Leonard, of Pierpont, X. Y.,
now aged 75, and hale and hearty, has
been a famous hunter. In thirty years
lie has killed 44 panthers and 1,500 deer.
He once killed three panthers in one day.
Mr. H. H. Warner, of Rochester,
has presented Professor Lewis Swift, of
that city, with a check for SSOO for the
discovery of the new comet. The gift
was made in accordance with a promise
given some time ago.
The Lanville (Ya.j Time,* tells a won
derful story about John R. Ragsdale,
who lives in that county. He is now in
his 90th year. His hair has been as
white as snow, but it is now turning
black again.
The death of the venerable Peleg
Sprague leaves Hannibal Hamlin as the
senior living representative of Maine in
the United States senate. All who had
preceded him are now dead, as well as
Nourse and Fessenden, who came after.
Mbs. Petek Skye, widow of Peter
Skye, the Tuscarora Indian, who carried
Gen. Porter off the battlefield at Fort
Erie, in 1812, died on the reservation in
Genesee county, X. Y., a few days ago,
aged ninety-eight.
Mayor Rose, of Davenport, lowa,
threw the first shovelful of earth in the
work of excavating for a soldiers’ monu
ment in that city. “Twenty-one years
ago," he said, in his address, “1 was
shovelling very near this spot for a dol
lar a day.
Ramon Tristan y, the famous Carlist
leader who has just died in Paris, was,
during his soldier-day, so fond of dis
cipline that his men gave him the name
of ‘ ‘ The Schoolmaster. ” He was 74 years
old when he died. Only last year he
married a girl of twenty-four,
Mrs. Isabella Pigeon, a weaver in
one of the mills at Fall River, Mass., has
fallen heir to $150,000 by the death of
an uncle who died in Australia, leaving
a large fortune. Mrs. Pigeon takes her
good fortune pldlosophically, and pro
poses to go back to work in the mill until
her fortune is secured.
Joseph Field, who lives near Fair
View’, N. J., did not marry until his
seventy-fourth year. He is now eighty
eight, and has three children, a boy and
two girls. He works every day on his
farm of 400 acres, directing all the de
tails, and he carts a great part of the
produce of his farm.
The Spanish Marshal Serrano’s eldest
son, who has lately been residing wi th a
gentleman in London in order to ac
quire the English language, has just
married Mile. Sautanta, a young lady
with a dowry of £250,000; and the eldest
daughter of the marshal is about to
many the bride’s brother, who has a
similar fortune.
The Hindoo girl Torn Dutt, who died
a little while ago at 22 years of age, had
already been recognized as the most
promising woman of letters. She knew
San sent, and translated from it into
English; she wrote in English and
French as well as in her native tongue,
and she killed herself by mental over
work. Now what she wrote is eagerly
sought by English publishers.
Henry Holtenburg had black hair
and a ruddy complexion when he married
Miss Schwarz, at Nashville, Tenn.. a
year ago. She supposed he was about
dO, though he made no statement on that
point. The honeymoon was scarcely
over before his hair became gray, his
cheeks lost their color, and he showed at
least 60 years. The fact was that he had
discontinued the use of dye and rouge.
The angry wife wanted to sue for divorce,
but the lawyer told her that the grounds
were not sufficient. The worst she could
do was to desert him, which she lost no
time iu doing.
Queen Anne was fat and not very dig
nified, but she was always simple and
kind, at least until the jar came. When
the poor little Duke of Gloucester died,
and Anne became childless, there is
something in her adoption of the title
“unfortunate” in her simple letters
which goes to the reader’s heart. A
mother of many children, but childless,
the wife of a harmless drone, separated
from all her natural kindred, what was
the simple soul to do but to surround
herself with that little band of friends?
When a Marlborough’s only son died she
entreated to be allowed to go to them,
protesting that only those who knew the
same grief could comfort ‘-ach other.
In this, as in the heart of many a humble
sufferer, lay the tragedy of her life.
The Grand Duke Constantine is a
maritime Chesterfield. He has a ready
compliment for every one who ap
proaches him in society, arid has a good
deal of light chit-chat for all sorts of
persons. But in private his speech is
curt, and he deals in those expletives
without which the sailor’s vocabulary
would be incomplete. The grand duke
was married young to the handsomest
princess in Germany—a blessing he
never much valued. He travels abroad
by himself, and the Grand Duchess
Constantine by herself. Const"
has navigated and a
good deal as an officer of the Russian
ua\y, of which he is now the lord high
admiral. His carriage has the bolt up
right stiffness of the Prussian officer,
and his trousers fit as if held down with
straps. His trunk is clothed in a kind
of naval pea jacket.