6
WAVES ©r THE SEA.
By luouise S.tentoii.
Waves of the sea waves of the sea
What art thou ever whispering to ma
Sparkling and free, laughing in g ee,
Would I were ever listening io tiice
Birds are singing, o’er thee winging,
Mingled lights and shadows flinging;
Winds are bringing, to them clinging■!
Odors sweet as love-bells ringing 1
Waves of the sen waves of the sea
Would that thy white arms were enfolding me;
Sp riling and free, laughing in glee,
Would I wore ever floating o’er thee
LUCY~MAVIS;
OR;
HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “MILDRED, THE FALSE.”
CHAPTER XI.
IN STBAKGE COMPANY.
Philip kept his word to Dick Frazer, and
tried his best to redem the fearful lapse the
last few weeks of desperate dissipation had
made in his career the helping hand came in
at the very moment when it was most required.
There is a certain depth of moral degrada
tion from which escape is almost hopeless,
and the artist was drifting into that, depth
when his faithful henchman came to tho res
cue. Had Philip left the tavern as he was
about to leave it, penniless, destitute oven of
Beli-rcspect, and with his very wardrobe held
In bondage for an account in which wines and
spirits figured with sad predominance, he
would have had no resource except to seek
out tho wretched crew of bar loungers in the
city purlieus, and cast in his lot with theirs
for tho sake of such drink and sympathy as ho
might have found.
Dick is a good fellow,” Philip said to him
self and that is saying much in these days,
when good fellowship moans so little as a rule.
I owe it to him as a duly to do my best, and
not disappoint him his generous, unaflected
friendship' makes mo feel to tho full what a
miserable part I have played.”
He took to thinking deeply as he walked
through the quiet streets reviewed his whole
course of conduct with honest shame. He
had tho rare quality of moral courage, and ho
brought it into action now. He was only un
just in one thing—he could not think kindly
of Lucy, not because she deserved unkindness,
but because she had been a witness to his
Shameful humiliation.
That is at end forever,” he determined,
though it was not without a pang he made tho
resolution. Dick Frazer had touched him by
recalling tho old times, but the remembrance
faded before tho recollection of that one fatal
scene, when Lucy saw him bumbled and
ashamed. “I should never make her nappy
she wants a gentler, better man than I am
yet, or ever may be.”
Philip strolled through the streets with no
distinct aim or purpose, except that he wanted
to be alone. Ho sought the quiet thorough
fares, and walked on with his head down,
passing near the old, dangerous haunts, but
speaking to no one, even when he mot some of
the men ho knew. He dined at a city eating
house, achieving a conquest over himself by
being content with a plain, single course, and
a small tankard of ale, instead of indulging in
such a little Sybantish entertainment as would
have been his choice at any other time while
he had ten pounds in his pocket.
The limit to sentiment is fixed at hunger;
romance is apt to got elbowed off the kerb in
these dull, prosaic days. Philip saw himself
tho hero of a broken heart, and a career
broken in the beauty of its promise but be
had to move and act and look very much as
other men; the very pavement plodders who,
not being geniuses, worked their eight or nine
consecutive hours a day, acted and spake and
looked.
A month ago,” he thought, with a tinge of
bitterness in the reflection, and I, this self
exiled outcast, driven hero in the region of
clorkdotn, had before mo as fair a future as
over the hand oi fate unrolled, and now, there
is not one, not the poorest of all these, who
might not envy me if no but knew.”
It is not ths habit of genius, even when
blighted, to make a coufldant of its nearest
neighbors, so Philip ate his under-done mut
ton and warmed potatoes in silence. The pair
near him were not conducive to confidence,
oven had ho been inclined to give it, his vis-a
vis being a stout man, who breathed heavily
into his plate and wiped liis thumbs on the
table-cloth while «n his left hand was a slim,
bony-wristed youth, who impaled himself with
his diuner with a rapidity at once alarming
and appalling.
“And it’s my own fault,”Philip said, with
self-contempt, that I am compelled to mix
with such as these.”
To shut them out of his sight while he
trifled with a morsel of cheese, he picked up a
newspaper. It was tho Era, filled, as usual,
with advertisements mysterious except to tho
initiated, and interesting to most people.
Ono in particular arrested his attention.
The Royal Witton Theatre.—Wanted a
complete dramatic company, to open m Sep
tember. Old favorites are requested to send
also a scene painter, one who could combine
general utility preferred. Useful men will bo
welcome. No mustaches.”
I think I could do the scene painter who
could combine general utility, with no mus
taches,” Philip said “but where on earth is
Ditton? Stay, it is Witton.”
Witton proved to boa small place on the
road near Windsor, and Philip found the
theatre in a narrow turning, with no thor
oughfare. The manager lived in a cottage
next door to his Thespian temple, and was as
unlike any other manager as ho possibly could
bo.
Mr. Burnly had been an actor. That ho told
Mr. Hamilton at the outset, and Mr. Hamilton
believed him. He had tho remains of a bass
voice, a newly-created corpulence, which, to
gether with a slow delivery of words and a too
careful use of the aspirate, gave him a rather
imposing bearing.
I want not only actors and gentlemen,” he
said, after they had broken ground, but gen
tlemen and actors, sir. This little edifice, un
known as it may bo to fame, and neglected as
it was, until it came under my management,
that little edifice was—has been a nursery to
more than oue man of genius—genius, sir. It
is not for me to say who, but you, I dare say,
know I say, sir, I dare say you know.”
Philip said he thought he had a tolerably
shrewd suspicion, and he had hoard of Mr.
Burnly before.
“I have seen you, sir,” said Mr. Burnly, in
Bow street.”
“No doubt,” assented Philip “I have been
in Bow street frequently.”
And in company, sir, with—with gentle
men who are not only gentlemen, but actors,
bit. There are some euch who are not actors,
but I never mention names, and I dare say
you know.”
I regret to say
“You are quite right, sir it is a subject for
regret when we find gentlemen as we do find
them, gifted with genius—l say genius, sir,
and physic” (he meant physique), “who have
no genuine regard tor their vocation. A pro
fession which sheda.lu.stre over such names as
—as wo might mention—when wo find them, I
say, sir, thinking only of such paltry matters
as—as salary, sir, without giving clue consid
eration to the finer principles of this
art; why, then, sir, I say, what are ws to ex
pect
“You are right, Mr, Burnly, and I agree
With you entirely.”
“Now, you, Mr.
Hamilton Philip Hamilton.”
Own name
“Yes.”
Capital name for the bills—Philip Hamil
ton, from the Theatres Royal, London. You,
sir, 1 say, strike mo as being what we require
in this, if small—l say, if small, still highly
select locality; there is, I may say, a Shak
sperian air about you.”
Philip bowed.
“Now, I may say to you as a gentleman—a
man of discernment, and you are nothing
without discernment—no man is. I suppose
you agree with mo in that 1”
“Beyond question.”
“Then, sir, wo agree, and I believe wo shall
do well together. You paint
“I am an artist by profession, but my in
clination at present would take mo to the
stage,”
There is no but in the matter, my dear
boy; every gentleman, who is an artist by
profession, would naturally take to tho stage.
Now, you hove written? Don’t tell me you
have not written—you have, sir.”
In a very modest way, I have.”
“Pure genius, sir you have written plays
Remembering a live act tragedy, or so, re
posing, in blank verse and bad penmanship,
at the bottom oi his box, Philip admitted that
he had.
And your line, sir, is light comedy
“My line is anything you may require/’
said Philip, in the way of general utility.”
“Stop, sir you will not want to play ‘Ham
let for your ben,”
“My bon?”
“Your benefit, sir. I have noticed it as a
striking peculiarity of genius, that every young
gentleman who combines scene painting with
general utility, does want to play Hamlet’ for
his ben. Now, you will not; I say I am. sure
you will not.”
If you particularly wish it, certainly I will
not; but are you personally prejudiced against
the Prince of Denmark?”
“A word, in your ear,” and Mr. Burnly
Whispered, with brandy-and-water solemnity,
the inhabitants of Witton are nearly all am
ateurs, and they take ‘Hamlet in turns them
selves. I have known as much as twenty
pounds come in for parts beside tho certainty
jpr a lull house."
P r P ml --dto forego ‘Hamlet,’and tried
so Bring his eccentric friend down to a busi-
Beso arrangement, Hq could, r;i;d bis man
thoroughly. Mr. Burnly was but one of a verj
largo typo belonging to the theatrical profes
sion.
“I must raise the question of salary,” sail
Phii.p, and i! you can ensure mo a couple o:
pouiltis a week while your season lasts, yoi
shall have any reasonable amount of genera
utility, combined with scene painting, and the
absence of a mustache.”
He had some difficulty in bringing the Wit
ton manager to an arrangement so entirely at
variance with the higher interests of the art,
and his own private interests. Mr. Burnly
was simply an adventurer, without a shilling
of capital, and he opened his theatre purely
on speculation, trusting to the receipts of tho
week to pay his company on the Saturday.
“You shall havo that amount byway of sal
ary,” ha said, finding that Philip adhered to
his point. “I am going to meet a friend at
the White Lion shall wo adjourn thero. and
libate? He is my leading low. An old favor
ite here. He may not prepossess you, Mr.
Hamilton, at tho outset, but on the boards
Jemmy Watley can hold his own. A great
character, sir—l say a great character.”
Philip found him, on the contrary, a very
small character—a little man, barely five feet
in height, with a weak eye, and a face tinted,
by exposure to the weather it would be chari
table to suppose; a little, mysterious man,
with an uneasy habit of muttering to himself,
and, what struck Philip as most singular, a
thick, straggling, red mustache.
“Jemmy,” said the manager, extending a
patronizing hand toward Philip, “this is our
new general utility—a gentleman, sir; and an
actor—l say a gentleman, and
What’s it to me?” inquired the great char
acter, putting his battered white bat on the
back of his head, and glaring .at the Witton
manager with peculiar fierceness.
“His way,”whispered the manager “don’t
notice him. An awfully funny fellow—Jemmy,
my boy—won’t do, you know.”
What won’t do?”
Mr. Burnly touched his own lip, and pointed
to the low comedian’s mustache.
“I have been waiting nearly an hour for
you,” said Watley, steadying himself by the
counter and I want the half sovereign I
lent you yesterday. You a manager? Tell
you what, my young general utility—you get
back to London before this vampire borrows
all your money.”
“Funny,” muttered Mr. Burnly, faintly:
“awfully funny. Always his way. But you
mustn’t, Jemmy, you mustn’t wear a mus
tache.”
Who’s to pay the barber said Mr. Watley,
turning so suddenly upon the manager, that
Hamilton feared a sudden attack “your sala
ry never runs to it.”
Philip did not stay with these men longer
than he could help. He had thought he might
like the excitement of a theatrical life but he
felt how little honor or profit there was to be
derived from the companionship of such men
as thalow comedian and the manager.
“I will think over your offer, and let you
know whether I will talie it or not,” he said to
Burnly.
“Very well, sir.” Tho manager took him
asida»- You mustn’t notice our friend here
he has been drinking a little, and sometimes it
affects him this way. They do say he is not
quite right in his head since he lost his sister.”
How did he lose her
“She drowned herself two years ago. One
of the prettiest actresses you ever saw; but
she went away with a gentleman who lived in
the neighborhood here. I have oiten heard
Watley swear to have his life.”
“He does not look a dangerous character,”
said Philip, glancing at the little man with
mingled pity and contempt.
“No but on that one point he means what
he says and I believe if ever Mr. De Vere
meets him, there will be some mischief done.”
Mr. De Vere 1 I know a gentleman of that
name, myselt.”
“Mr. Baville De Vere is tho one I mean.
He played here several times as a gentleman
amateur.”
“And he lives in the neighborhood, you
say
“That villa on the right hand side of the
road, which you pass on the way to the rail
way station, belongs to him, but he is not
there very often. When may I expect to hear
from you, sir
In the course of a day or two,” said Philip,
and he made his way out, convinced that the
road to fame and fortune, as a scene painter,
did not iie through the theatre at Witton.
“I will go back to Lucy and Christian
Meadows, ii they will have me,” he said to
himself; and I will see if old Simmonds will
take some of my sketches again. It is a
heavy drop from Pall Mall, but 1 havo only
myself to blame.”
CHAPTER XII.
A FALSE FBIEND.
When Arthur Egerton left the studio on the
night of Philip’s scene with Ethel Stafford,
there was, perhaps, just the shadow of a sus
picion in Ins mind that Ethel may havo been
a little to blame.
“For it is almost incredible that a man, no
matter bow madly infuriated, should so far
forget the difference between their relative
positions, unless some slight encouragement
were given, whether intentional or not; and
then, all women are coquettes more or less.”
Miss Stafford and De Vere were walking very
slowly toward Piccadilly when Arthur joined
them; De Vero was speaking of tho matter
with his usual cynicism it had pleased him
to a certain extent.
Is your protege better he asked, resign
ing his place to Egerton, and going to Ethel’s
other side. “It was really quite a tableau;
the end of the fitth act in a tragedy, the
destruction of the picture, and the fall, would
havo brought the house down at any of those
theatres where they go in for sensation.”
“He is better,” said Arthur, gravely; “I
did not stay to speak with him.”
A pleasant duty deferred for the present.
It was a mistake to pick the fellow up as you
did, Arthur. Men of his class are best left to
their own ways. You made him think himself
a hero and a prince, when, after all, he was
but a very ordinary painter; and he had not
tho common sense of gratitude to remember
what you had done for him.”
“The best intentions fall short sometimes,”
said Arthur, drily but there is a little merit
in trying to do good. Did he alarm you,
Ethel?”
“No. The poor young man made me feel
very sorry,” replied Miss Stafford. I had no
idea people ever did such things, except, as
Mr. De Vere says, on the stage. Was that
young person a relative of his?”
“Miss Mavis? No; simply a fellow-lodger.
She was to have been his wife, I believe.”
“Would have been by this time, had you left
him at Chelsea,” said De Vere. “I suppose
we shall have some tears and a broken heart
or so. She is a pretty little girl.”
“I never saw anything sweeter or more
touching than her face when she knelt Over
him,” said Arthur; “it was so saint-like and
touching.”
Miss Stafford said nothing. It is a question
whether the best and noblest woman that ever
lived likes to hear another’s beauty praised by
the man she loves and De Vero had mentioned
Lucy to her more than once.
Arthur Egerton was deeply pained by the
scene to which he had been an unwilling wit
ness, and felt it hard that Philip should have
made him so poor a return for the kindly in
terest ho had taken in tne young painter’s wel
fare.
Ho said very little to Miss Stafford on the
subject. In Ins heart, he did not entirely ex
onerate her from blame, and tho suggestions
of the ever-rcady cynic at his elbow did not
tend to make him change his opinion.
Thero is no excuse for the fellow’s audaci
ty, no matter what Miss Stafford may have
done,” said De Vere even if, like tho gener
ality of her sex, she played with him when she
saw how infatuated he was.”
“I do not think Ethel would do that.”
“Every woman is a coquette at soul, Ar
tuhur and so slight a conquest as that over
your Chelsea genius was worth counting. By
the way, what are you going to do with him
I do not understand.”
“You cannot overlook his conduct; you will
horsewhip liim, of course?”
“His own self-humiliation will be sufficient
punishment,” said Arthur, in his usual quiet
tone. “I am more sorry for than angry with
him. I cannot help thinking Ethel must have
given him some encouragement.”
“Or somothing which ho may have construed
into encouragement,” said Saville. “Men of
his kind havo more than their share of vanity
as a rule. You are to blame for having picked
the fellow up you had bettor have left him to
the Strand print-seller and the people at Chel
sea.”
It is easy to propheoy after the event,” said
Arthur, slightly annoyed, and they dropped
the subject then but Egerton went home with
an unpleasant impression concerning Ethel’s
conduct. Ho detested a coquette; and noth
ing, he thought, could have been more cruel
than for her to trifle with a young, inexperi
enced man liko Hamilton.
“She has been very reticent on the subject,”
he thought. I must ask her to toll mo exact
ly what occurred.”
With that intention he went to Princes’ Gate
next morning, so gravely quiet as to be almost
stern. He passed the studio on his way, and
found it closed ringing tho boll in vain, he
was about to turn away, when he met Dick
Frazer.
What ho heard from Dick made him very
sorry. Frazer know that Mr. Egerton had
moro than ordinary influence over the wayward
painter.
“I don’t know what has happened,” said the
faithful Dick but he soems strangely upset.
He has ordered mo to send for an auctioneer,
and ho tells mo ho is going to give up painting
forever.”
Give up painting
“Yes, sir, so he says, and ho certainly moans
it; ho is not like a man in his right senses, ex
cept that he is thoroughly determined on do
ing this.”
“I can understand him,” thought Arthur,
regretfully the terrible humiliation has
crushed him, and the kindness given him witl
so much good intention, is likely to prove his
ruin. I wish I knew bow to keep him Iron
taking this rash step.”
On reflection, he did not think it likely Philij
would go so far.
“He cannot be in the mood to receive advioi
just now,” Arthur reflected; and this send
ins: for an auctioneer is a step taken in tin
NEW YORK DISPATCH.
heat of the moment; bo will think better of it
in a day or two.”
Mr. Egerton went on thinking seriously.
I .Savi.la Do.Vcre’s remark had touched him,
f though he let it pass unnoticed at tho time,
i “.Every woman is a coquette at soul,” the
1 cynic had said “and even so slight a con
quest as your Clielsea genius was worth count
ing.”
When he arrived, he went straight to the
morning room, as was his habit, without wait
ing to belannouneed he saw Mr. Stafford there
instead of Ethol.
The two gentlemen sat talking together some
time, and Mr. Stafford was on the point of
withdrawing, when lie said
“De Vers is with Ethel in the conservatory,
I think. He has been here some time.”
Now jealousy is a word which no thorough
bred gentleman admits into his vocabulary.
The green-eyed reptile has no place with the
elect ton thousand of Mammon, but something
very near akin to it shows its influence now
and then. Mr. Egerton had no sympathy with
the Othello species. Ho pitied that misguided
man as an unfortunate nigger, who knew no
better; but he would, none the less, have
made him answerable to the laws of his coun
try for tho cruelly, clumsy killing of Desde
mona—poetry and pathos notwithstanding.
Yet ho felt an unpleasant twinge as ho
mounted the stairs. De Vere was his friend—
knew that he and Miss Stafford were engaged
and every honorable sentiment was against the
supposition that Savillo would ever abuse his
privilege as a frequent visitor.
But Arthur’s instinct told him that De Vero
admired Miss Stafford with a warmer admira
tion than is generally given to a friend’s fiancee
—and he was at Prince’s Gate very often.
Many a time when Arthur wont, he found that
Saville had just been, or was there before him.
“And if. as by his own showing, Ethel is a
coquette,” he reflected, “she may think it
worth her trouble to add him to her list.
Thero always has been a dangerous undercur
rent of by-play between them.”
Tho conservatory adjoined the drawing
room, and Arthur looked toward it as he open
ed the door. His-glance was arrested by what
ho saw reflected in a large glass from tho man
tel piece. He saw Ethel rise from her seat by
De Vere’s side, snatch her hand from his indig
nantly, and turn away with flashing eyes.
Arthur stood quietly in the doorway, and
looked on.
Weil,” he hoard Da Vero say. in a careless
tone, though it was tinged with subdued an
ger, “I shall not suffer alone, I know. You do
love me, as you have half confessed more than
once, and part of my revenge will bo to watch
you with your boyish husband, who does not
care for you an atom.”
“Is this brave or generous, Mr. De Vere—
even if it were true
“Let us dispense with etiquette,” said Sa
ville we are its slaves so much that it is re
freshing to tell the truth now and then, and
though you havo made me love you with a pas
sion that stirs my very soul, you will never win
from him one tithe of the affection he has for
his little Chelsea heroine. Surely, you cannot
have been so blind as to think his interest was
centred in the man!”
Ethel paused, remembering the pitying ten
derness with which Arthur had spoken of Lucy
Mavis. It was but for a moment, and then
hor confidence returned.
“Leave me, Mr. De Vero,” she said, with 1
dignity “I can bear no more.” i
Yet it is truth.”
“As if your word for that would add to her
belief,” said Arthur, entering the apartment.
Have you taken a lesson from my Chelsea
genius, Mr. De Vere
The real and cutting irony was worse to Sa- i
vibe than any burst of auger. Ho turned pale
with bitter rage, but did not lose his self-pos- 1
session.
You have changed the role, I see,” ho said, 1
between his teeth. “You have played the 1
philanthropist and the lover; now you play
tho listener. I shall bo glad to see the next
new character.”
It will be the one you yourself suggested,”
said Arthur, with a significant gesture, and
a horsewhip will take an active part in it.”
“You shall repeat that elsewhere.”
“Anywhere and in every place where wo
have been known together.”
Quietly as the words were spoken, the threat
was a terrible one to a man in De Vere’s posi
tion. It meant expulsion from the clubs, the
necessary centres of resort for gentlemen, and
expulsion from the clubs meant expulsion from
society.”
We shall sec,” ho said, if you will dare to
keep your word.”
And he went out. Arthur only smiled con
temptuously.
You are angry with me,” Ethel said, ap
proaching him timidly. “You think lam to
iflame.”
Ho folded her in his arms with a tender
smile.
No, my darling but I must keep you out
of danger for the future. You will be safe
when you are my wife. Shall it be one week
from to-day
“That is so soon.”
Seven long days, dear.”
Will you forgive him for my sake, then
“Not as a condition; but thinking of that
sweet seventh day, I shall have no room in my
heart for anything but love.”
Five days afterward Saville de Vero was
found dead in the garden of his own villa at
Witton. He had been shot through tho heart
by a man named James Watley, who had done
tho deed while in a fit of delirium, brought on
by drink. The man was feared to be incurably
mad, but there was a remarkable semblance of
sanity in the perspicuity with which he told a
utiful story of a pretty sister who drowned
lerself after being betrayed and deserted by a
gentleman named Savillo de Vero. As, how
ever, he invariably wound up by saying they
ought to let him out of Bedlam to take Rob
son’s place in low comedy, and give him a lit
tle more cold brandy, they thought tho whole
story was madness simply.
(To be continued.)
A STRANGE STORY.
Married, Lost, Ruined and Mivorced In
One Short Week—A Record of Myste
rious Natality.
“Let no man be accounted happy until ho
die,” is the wise maxim of a wise people. Day
after day we realize its truth, and when from
the clear sky of commonplace there falls upon
us such a thunderbolt as we have now to re
cord, truly we may say that misery accommo
dates itself to all conditions, and is the only
heritage which cannot be alienated. If it is a
strain upon the imagination ever to conceive
tho terrible transition from the fair and virtu
ous life of eighteen years to tho joyful and
contented embrace of a shameful career, in the
short circle of a week, what then shall we Bay
of this simple Btory, truthfully relating as a
fact what the mind cannot realize as a fiction
A short time since, in one of our most
thriving and beautiful western towns, the
name of which and of the parties we will for
the present suppress, thero was united in the
oonds of matrimony two young persons, who
had for the past two years been recognized as
engaged. The young lady was the daughter
of a very respectable citizen, and was pecu
liarly exemplary in her conduct, having been
for a long time a teacher in the Sunday school,
and a constant attendant, if not a member of
the Episcopal church. The husband is en
gaged in business, and is good-looking and
prosperous. The marriage was celebrated
with the usual flourish of bridesmaids and
and other surroundings that go to make up
the modern stylo of this ceremony. It was
noticed—and this is the only thing that now
remains in the memory of the attendants at
the wedding to mark any peculiar action of
either party—that the bride did not appear as
happy as usual—there was a certain" distraint
and quiet about her, that while it added greatly
to the charms of her position, was noted as
peculiarly foreign to her usual habit. This, how
ever, has only been developed since the culmi
nation of the tragedy at the time nothing of
doubt or mistrust was excited. After the
minister had fulfilled his office, and tho at
tendant congratulations had passed’the par
ties entered the carriage and were driven to
the New York Central depot, tickets were pur
chased, farewells spoken, and the happy pair
started on a trip to the city of New York. Of
what transpired until the train reached Albany
nothing except what is recorded in the follow
ing letter is certainly known, tho husband
being unwilling to make any statement or
revelation regarding it. On Monday of this
week a paper in a western city contained the
following letter
Octobeb 22, 1871.
Eduob You will please exercise your own discre
tion in publishing this note. On the morning of Oc
tober 15th, I was going East on the early train and
noticed the bridal party at the depot at The
newly married couple entered the car in which I was
and seated themselves directly in front of me. I no
ticed nothing peculiar until after wo had left Syra
cuse. My attention was then directed to them by
reason of tho very earnest conversation in which
they were engaged. In fact they had entirely for
gotten whore they were, and it was only owing to the
tact that tho car was only partially filled that they
did not become the centre of curious speculation.
At first the young lady was crying and seemed to bo
upbraiding herself in a manner most painfully earn
est. The husband seemed angry and partially start
ed from his seat; then, as if changing his mind, he
sank back, looked paiufu’ly sad, and turning to the
with seemed to argue with her and to earnestly rea
son with her upon what I thought was some unrea
sonable wish that she had forcibly expressed. I left
the cars at Utica, but before that time the trouble
seemed to be entirely passed over. I Write this be
cause of the rumors prevail of the mysterious disap
pearance of tho late Mrs. Ella
Very respectfully,
Tho husband’s story, as told us by. the at
torney who has charge of the divorce, is as
follows: On our arrival at Albany, my wife
seemed in good spirits, although not entirely
1 recovered irom. tho effects of a conversation
which we had on the cars before reaching that
city, and which I do not consider it important
to reveal. She asked me to get out and bring
her a cup of coffee and a sandwich this I pro-
1 ceeded to do, and on my return, after looking
1 through every car, I could find no trace of her.
1 You can imagine my feelings; I had forgiven
1 her the story that she had kept locked in her
bosom until after our marriage, and had first
1 told mo ih the cars, and we had mutually prom
ised .to try and make the life of tho other
1 happy. I jumped off the cars, fearing that she
had thrown herself under tlio wheels in her
trouble; but there ws MO Indication of baron
s tho platforifi. I again entered tbo car and
asked if any one had seen a lady leave tho
seat. Several gentlemen remembered seeing
her get up and leave the car, but could not sav
upon which side she got off, or whether she
got off at all. At this moment I saw the Boston
train leaving the depot, and supposing that
she had passed to that train, I at once jumped
on it, and before I could look through the ear
the tram was moving so rapidly I could not get
off. I did not find her, aud leaving the train
at East Albany I waited for the Central cars,
entered them when they came, and before I
could make a thorough search they had so in
creased their speed that 1 was obliged to re
main. Not knowing what to do, utterly unable
to account for my wife’s action alter'what had
transpired in the cars, I was bewildered and
remained in the cars until arriving in New
York. Once here I telegraphed to the police
at Albany, and gave a full description to the
police of this-city. Day after day passed and I
received no word Irom any quarter except the
stereotyped anstwr, No word yet.”
Ou Saturday wternoon, about four o’clock,
as I sat in my room m tho Fifth Avenue Hotel,
a card was brought to me containing tho name
of one of the detectives who had charge of the
case. He was at once shown to my room, and
I saw by his grave manner that he had some
thing to communicate. Utterly unmanned, I
sat without speaking. At last he said
Mr. prepare for sad news. Your wife
is not dead, but she is dead to you. She is at
the house of Mrs. in Twenty-sixth street,
and is waiting to see you-”
What could Ido I ordered a carriage, and
we drove to the house, and thero, sitting in tho
parlor, dressed in the unseemly costume of a
woman of the town, sat my wife. Mechanically
I asked her if she would go home.
No, Jack, I am better here, and shall stay.”
Unable to account for this change in the pure
girl that I had so long known, I asked hor wliat
was the reason of her sudden dislike for me.
“I don’t know, Jack. I thought I loved you,
but while we stood up in the church there camo
over my mind a dislike so intense that I could
not control it. ihe story 1 told you in the cars
is all false. I hoped it would make you angry
enough to leave, but it did not, so I tried an-
other way. When you got out of the ears I fol
lowed anil walked past you in the street, found j
my way to the boat, and got to New York on
Monday morning. lat once sent for a young I
man of questionable reputation who used to 1
live at and told what I wanted. He
brought me hero, and you can imagine tho
rest.” i
My first idea was that she was insane; but,
half remembering that our laws were peculiar
about divorce when one of the party is crazy, I
ielt it wiser to do myself justice than to run j
the chance of being tied for a long time to one
whose insanity took so questionable a course.
I havo no care for the woman, and shall insist
upon proceeding for a separation.
The girl has been taken home by her father,
and physicians are inclined to believe that her
actions were caused by that peculiar form of
mania that has so often developed in newly
married people inmost cases, however, only
showing itself by a predisposition to suicide,
and generally in persons of middle age, who 1
exchange the bachelorship or old maid state j
for the matrimonial.
This is certainly a very curious case of men- 1
tai disorder. Ii the girl’s story is true, and no 1
one soems to doubt it, this dislike came in-
stantly, and destroyed the affection that had 1
developed tipon an acquaintance of two entire
years. 1
A story is told of an eminent English divine
who, after a life-long service of God, and an 1
entire suppression for forty years of the pas
sions of this world, was, on bis death-bed, so
tortured by a desire to shriek out oaths and
curses, that ho sent for Dr. Johnson to reason
with him. The doctor succeeded in exorcising
the evil spirit. I have not come across another 1
case that bears any resemble to this.— Albany
Knickerbocker.
FRED BECKHARD'f'S LOVE.
BY EMMA. J. OPPENHEIM.
“We may ns well have it out now as any
other time, for I won’t stand your domineer
ing.”
It was Hazie Null who spoke. And they did
have it out, and with a vengeance.
She was quick and passionate, while he, her
lover, was cooler and moro considerate. But
a man lias feelings if lie is slow, and she did 1
rouse fearfully the dormant passion in Fred
Beckhardt’s heart; and so they quarreled, aud
about nothing—an insignificant bouquet.
“You must accept no more bouquets, Hazie,”
he said, in that proud, imperious way of his.
1 will not allow it.” i
“Allow!” she jibed. “I do not recognize
your right to allow or not to allow me to do as
I please, Fred Beckhardtl”
“Hazie,” he said, passionately, “you are my
promised wife; and if you must have flowers
let me give them to you, but do not accept
them from strangers—men who have no right
to breathe their love through flowers, now that
you are mine.”
“I am no man’s promised wife,” she said,
haughtily, “least ot all yours, who presumes
to dictate and order me before marriage. Bet
ter find our tempers out now, Fred Beckhardt
—better, ten thousand times, before than after
marriage; it has saved us both many bitter,
bitter heartaches.”
“Hazie, darling,” he said, “donot ba hasty.
I know, when roused, I havo a hateful tem
per.”
“No excuse, pray, Mr. Beckhardt,” she said,
putting out her little hands doprecatingly.
He caught them both in his broad palm
but snatching them away, and tearing the
sparkling diamond ring from her finger, she
almost throw it at him.
“Take your ring, Fred Beckhardt, and take
also your miserable love, which will wreck my
life.’’
With eyes of wonder he stared at her. Could
it bo possible that this angry woman, with
flaming eyes and heaving bosom, was bis
quiet, sweet-tempered Hazio
She felt uncomfortable under his steady,
penetrating eyes for she guessed what his
thoughts must be, and she fidgeted nervously
with tho guard chain of her watch.
Well,” she said, after he bad gazed at hor
full ten minutes, have you finished your in
spection, sir?”
Now that hor passion had cooled she half re
gretted hor angry words, but her pride would
not let her show that she loved him after once
giving him back his ring.
You are right, Hazie, he said gravely, after
another pause, it is best that we part.”
She bowed mockingly, but with tears in her
eyes, she thought ho would plead and beg to
bo taken back, but there she miscalculated the
man.
Snatching up a beautiful boquet which lay at
her feet (the one which occasioned the quar
rel). Hazie buried her little nose among tho
fragrant buds, as she lisped.
‘“How beautiful my flowers are,” and laughed
a mocking, discordant ripple to annoy him.
Estelle,” to her baby sister, toll cousin
Arnaud to send me some more roses, and just
like these.”
“Hazie do you mean that?” Fred asked
huskily; “do you moan to sot my wishes at
defiance
“At defiance if you mean to so construe it
Mr. Beckhardt,” sbe answered.
“Very well then, Miss Null, perhaps when
cousin Arnaud brings the flowers, you will not
only accept them, but him also.”
“Perhaps,” she flashed; “at all events I
need not go a begging a husband.
Take him and welcome Miss Null,” he said
bowing, I withdraw all claim to your hand
and heart.”
Thanks, you have saved mo the trouble of
asking a release.” Her eyes were hard and
cold when she spoke those words, but her
mouth quivered tremulously.
He bowed, the fire was dying out of his eyes,
the white passion heat from his heard.
Hazio, forgive me,” he said, striding for
ward to clasp her to his heart. “My darling,
forgive me—do not let us quarrel.”
“Forgive you,” she repeated, curling hor
beautifully lips scornfully, “forgive you Fred
Beckhardt. Never."
“Do not lot us partin anger,”he eagerly said,
Hazie, I—l —let us at least bo friends.”
With a superb look of disdain, sbe lifted her
little head, and sweeping her trailing dross into
one dimpled hand, left him then and there.
Three years slipped away on times fleeting
wings, and Hazie is still Hazie Null. “Fred
she had never seen since their quarrel, for he
had gone to Europe while she remained in
Montgomery, trying to drown, in fashionable
turmoil, the tiring of her conscience at so hav
ing treated the noble man who loved her.
She had never told Fred that Cousin Arnaud
was not a dashing, black-eyed youngster, as
Mr. Beckhardt imagined, but an old, silver
haired man, almost seventy, who, knowing her
passion for flowers, sent daily a bouquet of
choice exotics from his hot-houso.
She blamed herself afterward, but thought
Fred thought she must know who Cousin Ar
naud was, and in her moment of pique would
not tell him that he was a veteran, and so, with
foolish prido between them, they allowed an
innocent old man, with his feet tottering on
the borders of eternity to separate them for
ever.
On her twenty-first birthday, Hazie resolved
to give a grand bat masque, to which the elite
of Montgomery were invited.
Flower girls constituted ths greater part'of
the assemblage, so Hazio chose a quiet, unpre
tentious costume of white and roso silk, and
filmy laco.
Before ths close of tho fete, Hazie grew
wearied of the bustling hum, of the jostling
crowd, and stealing silently away to tho con
servatory, leaned out of an open window to
i allow the fanning evening air to kiss her heat
ed brow, while the sweet perfume of tube loses
and heliotrope swept dreamily about her.
By-and-by a tear fell from her large eyes.
“How different,” she murmured, “to-night
is from my last gathering, three years ago I
He was with me—Fred, my darling, noble lov-
i er—was by my side. To-night, for a foolish
difference, lam alone.”
“Not alone,” said a deep rich voice at her
elbow, “for lam here.”
Turning, Hazie saw a tall, corsair-like man,
with a fierce black mask, bowing before her
in his hand he held ajfare «r>d nostlv bouquet
i of white rosea-”
Extending them toward Ilazie, he spoke, m
a husky voice
“A bouquet,' three years ago, parted two
fond hearts who would always have loved each
other but for a senseless bunch of flowers.
Madame, permit a stranger-friend to present
these to you. and wish that you and your lover
be reconciled.”
Starting back with a low cry, she wailed
“Are you from him—from my darling? I
And she sank down, sobbing and trembling.
Loosening the inky mask, and throwing it
among the exotics, the man stepped forward.
“Don’t you know me, my darling?” he
asked, eagerly, clasping the trembling girl to
his heart. “Look up, Hazio don’t you know
your Fred
“Fred! Fred!” she cried, winding'her soft,
dimpled arms around his nock. “Oh, Fred!
I am so glad
“Aid 1, too, darling!” ho said, kissing her
rapturously. “Como, lot us go, unmasked,
into the happy throng, for you are happy—are
you not, darling And this fete is like the
other gathering. Wo were together there, as
now, and you are not, as you imagined, alone.”
“Did you not think Cousin Arnaud had con
soled me she asked, saucily, feeling secure
in his love, now that his strong arm encircled
her waist.
“Cousin Arnaud!” ho repeated, a frown
overshadowing his brow. Hazie, where is
he
“There!” she laughed, pointing to the sil
ver-haired old man approaching them, leaning
on bis staff. There, Fred, is Cousin Arnaud,
of whom you were jealous.”
“What!” he ejaculated in surprise—“that
patriarchal old man your Cousin Arnaud?”
“My mother’s cousin,” she explained, “and
a dear, good friend, who has known mo all my
life.”
“Why didn’t you tell mo so, Hazie?” ho
asked. “Why didn’t you toll me Cousin Ar
naud was not twenty-livo years, as I thought.
“You bad no right to bo Jealous,” she said,
slowly; for when I promised to be your
wife, Fred Beckhardt, I loved you, and all the
men and bouquets in Christendom could not
have made me change.”
“Dearest darling 1” ho said, fondly embrac
ing her, “you love me still—do you not?”
“Yes,” she whispered, nestling closer to his
breast; and Cousin Arnaud, coming up, laid
his trembling, withered hands on their young
heads, and whispered:
“I see that you arc reconciled, my children.
God bless you!”
And Fred Beckhardt, bowing reverentially to
tho old man’s blessing, knew that his patient
waiting and love of three years had not been
in vain.
SOME FUN.
BY MAX ADELUK
A JUDICIAL SOLOMON.
Here is a vigorous narrative related by a
California journal of Judge 8., who was tho
first judge who ever held court in Santa Cruz.
The judge, like many old Californians, was
fond of hot whisky at night, and would, at
times, with a circle of congenial friends, keep
watch until morning, in consequence of which
his brain would be slightly muddled when he
went upon the bench. On one occasion, after
a night of deep potations, a Spaniard was
brought before him to be tried for horse steal-
ing—a crime punishable at that time by death.
The judge, but a short time previous, had a 1
valuable horse stolen from his stalls. The de
fendant was a hard-featured, wretched speci-
men of a Greaser, and when the judge hoard
the indictment read be took one unsteady,
searching look at him, and said
“J. 8., stand up 1 X believe you are the in
fernal scroundrel who stole my horse. The
sentence of the court is, that you be hanged
by the neck until you are dead—dead—dead 1”
But, sir,” said the District-Attorney, the
man has not been tried.”
The judge, sternly—“ Sit down, sir; this
court knows its business, and don’t want any
of your impertinence. Mr. Sheriff, see the
judgment executed immediately. The court
stands adjourned.”
The officers of tho court and the spectators
wore astounded, but they knew the temper of
tho old man too well to trifle with him in his
present condition, so nothing could be done
but to remand the prisoner to jail until the
galge should become sober.
After the adjournment the officers of the
court determined to have the judgment duly
entered by the clerk, and to have the Sheriff
make a return that me had executed the de
fendant. Next morning the judge went on the
bench sober, and, glancing over the calendar,
called the case of the People t>s. J. B. The
sheriff replied:
Your honor, the man has been hung.”
Hung 1” replied the judge. How’s that
There has been no trial yet.”
“No, your honor,” replied the clerk “but
your honor yesterday waived the trial and sen
tenced the ’defendant, and peremptorily or
dered the sheriff immediately to carry the or
der of the court into execution, and it was
done.”
“Umph 1” said the judge “let the trial pro
ceed nunc pro tune*— all orders and judgments
of this court must be justified by good and le
gal proceedings bad.”
The judge was in earnest ;jthe joke was ended,
and nothing remained but to bring in the pris
oner for trial. It need not be said that the
sentence of the court was justified, and that
shortly after there was one horse thief less in
that part of the country.
*A judgment of nunc pro tunc can be entered only
when the delay has arisen from the action of tne court.
AH AFFECTING ANECDOTE.
The country papers and the Sunday-school
journals are engaged just now in publishing
an affecting anecdote about a young woman
who made a fatal mistake in life. A young
mechanic visited this girl, and asked her to be
his own. She turned up her nose at him, and
said
“I don’t like mechanics!”
Then the story goes on to say
That was tho last time the young man vis
ited that young lady. He is now a wealthy
man, and has one of the best women in the
country for a wife.
“The lady who disliked the name of a me
chanic is now the wife of a miserable fool—a
regular vagrant about grog-shops, and the
miserable girl is obliged to take in washing in
order to support herself and children.”
Tho moral of this pathetic tale is, of course,
that if a girl does not say Yes” suddenly and
emphatically whenever a mechanic asks her to
marry him, she will eventually have to take in
washing for a living. Another lesson is, that
it is of no use to try to become a wealthy man,
and to obtain the best wife in the country, un
less you are a mechanic, and a girl turns up her
nose at you. The third impressive lesson is,
that if a woman marries a man who is not a
mechanic, or if a man himself determines not
to boa mechanic, ho will inevitably turn put to
be a miserable fool, and a regular vagrant
about grog-shops cud the fourth instructive
moral is a warning against the practice of
hunting up idiots and utterly hopeless donkeys
to write stories for country papers and Sunday
schools, upon the theory that the babes in the
schools, and the whole rural population, are as
great fools as the same idiots. We do not be
lieve that there is a Sunday-school class in the
Tropic of Cancer which, if the question were
asked Of what Scriptural object does the au
thor of the mechanic story remind you? would
not rise up, and shout in instantaneous chorus
Why, Balaam’s ass, of course!”
UHTIiVIELY RACE.
There is in circulation a story of a man who
got into such a condition of excitement while
reading, a few months ago, the narrative of
tho outrages committed by tho British during
the war of 1812, that he seized his hat and
cane and went around to tho store of an En
glishman, whom he flogged unmercifully, until
ho fully satisfied his thirst for vengeance
against the enemies of his country.
The untimeliness of this patriot’s rage re
calls tho excuse offered by the old toper whose
habit of drinking a pint of raw whisky every
day provoked a remonstrance from a member
of tho temperance fraternity. The child of
Bacchus urged in extenuation of his libations
that his great-grandfather was bitton by a
rattlesnake in the Wyoming Valley tho year
after the massacre, and his descendant was
determined to eradicate the poison from the
family system at any sacrifice.
Of a similar character was the belated emo
tion of a certain Indian chieftain who galloped
into Omaha, one day, and darted into the office
of the Mayor. He threw his arms about the
neck of the magistrate and burst into tears.
The Mayor thought the noble savage had suf
fered a grievous affliction of some kind, and
he questioned him tenderly respecting the
cause of his agitation. The broken-hearted
red man declared, in a voice shaken with sobs,
that he had heard of the death of William
Penn in 1718, and ho could not hold in a mo
ment longer.
FRACTIONAL FEMALES.
We learn from a recently-published statisti
cal work that the proportion of the sexes is
nearly equal. In fact, for every one hundred
and fifty men that are torn, one hundred and
seventy-two one-hundredths women come into
existence. We have such strong confidence in
the truthfulness of the author ef the book
that we will not undertake to contradict this
statement. But we would like to know how a
woman can only have seventy-two one-hun
dredths of a woman about her, and what her
remaining twenty-eight one-hundredths are.
Wo should think that seventy-two one-hun
dredths of a woman would make a poor sort
of a wife and, if there are so many of these
fractional beings about, laws ought to be
passed to compel them to wear placards an
nouncing the fact. It is going to bo very in
teresting when a seventy-two one-hundredths
wife has children whose father is a one-hun
dred man to cipher out just what kind of a
fraction the offspring are, and to ascertain the
exact relationship existing between say a
ninety-three one-hundredths child and an
eighty-five one-hundredths aunt and her
ninety one-hundredths daughter. Peoplo will
become insane puzzling over this business yet.
BASE AND DESPICABLE.
They will not treat tho female sex with gen
erosity. No, sooner does somebody circulate a
paragraph complimenting a heroic woman than
some abandoned scoundrel of an editor at
tempts to bring the whole matterinto ridicule.
For several months past, we have been deeply’
affected every day or two when we read the
statement circulating through our exchanges
that a Tennessee girl broke her arm on the
eve of the wedding, and bravely went through
the ceremony with her arm in a sling.” Well,
here, a few days ago, we picked up a paper,
and saw that some disgraceful fiend had ap
pended to that beautiful story a remark like
this: “But the bridegroom was even bolder
than sho was, for ho bravely went through
several slings, and then took tha ceremony
afterward, too.” How plainly do these cruel
attempts to desecrate whatever is beautiful
and holy prove that Man is, after all, but a base
and despicable creature 1
MRS. TODDLES.
Mrs. Toodles is a type—hardly exaggerated
—of a very familiar and very large class of wo
men. At a sale in a Montgomery county farm
house, a few weeks ago, a woman bid with reck
less indiscretion upon the articles offered,
being apparently eager to obtain possession of
anything cheap, whether it was a bed-slat or a
seven-octavo piano. A huge churn was knocked
down to her for ten cents. She seized it, and
elbowed her way through the crowd, exclaim
ing
“I ain’t got no cow, and I never expect to
have none, neither; but it’s cheap enough to
hold water.”— Philadelphia Sunday Dispatch.
BEAUTIFUL BLONDES.
Discussing blondo-struck young men, the
Chicago Post's table talker suggests an infalli
ble remedy for the disease in the form of para
graphs such as this: Miss tho beautiful
blonde now playing in this city, has deservedly
become an immense favorite with our young
men, and if they only knew her history in its
completeness, we feel sure that their admira
tion would be redoubled. She has not only
beauty and talent, but hers is that sweet, do
mestic virtue which, the world over, appeals to
the heart and challenges our esteem. Miss
is.one of-the noblest women in the profes
sion. Her name, is, of course, a stage
title, her real name being Muggins—Jemima
Muggins. Her husband, Mr. Ebenezer Mug
gins, died many years ago, leaving her, with
tears, alone in the world. She adopted the
stage as a profession, and scrupulously devoted
herself to the education of her child, one of
the twins having died at an early age. Sho
sent him through college, and watched over
his study for the ministry with the yearning
love and jealous care of a mother. That son
is now the Rev. Elipbalet Muggins, a mission
ary in Assam, and his mother is about to retire
from tho stage which she has adorned for the
last twenty-seven years. She appears to-night
in the “Field of the Cloth of Gold.”j
MY CROSS 6S HEAVY,
By Jennie Joy.
My cross is heavy, and 1 fain would rest;
My path is steep, and lonely is the way;
Flowers blossom on the slopes; and now the west
Dons crimson robes, to meet the god of day.
May I not pause upon this mountain side,
And gather flowers until the eventide.
“Stay not to cull the flowers! methinks I hear,
The uplands teem with gorgeous, glorious bloom;
Gray evening should not find thee loitering here,
Pass on thou’lt reach the loftiest summit soon;
There shall thou rest, O, pilgrim—sweetly rest,
Upon the mountain’s loftiest, highest crest.”
The sun’s slant beams, athwart this goldren cross,
Dazzle my eyes, hiding the narrow way;
Down at my feet may I tho burden toss,
Then gladly will I climb till close of day;
With naught to stay my progress, blind my sight.
I’ll safely hasten to the loftiest higbt.
“Rash pilgrim, lower thy cross! yet still it keep,
Believing this, no cross, no crown, for thee;
One holier far than thou, up Calvery’s rugged steep,
Bore, uncomplainingly, a heavier cross, and He
Commands thee ‘Follow me!’ Hear and obey,
Soon at His feet thy burden thou may’st lay.”
“He trod the narrow path thou treadest now,
In pain and weariness marked out the way;
Great drops of agony crimsoned His sinless brow,
While those He loved left Him alone to. pray.
Behold Hisfootprints! follow, and be strong;
Thou’lt lose thy burden, wear thy crown ere long.”
I hear, sweet guiding voice—hear and obey;
I mark the jagged path His feet have trod,
And gladly follow, clasping close, alway,
My little cross, till I shall rest with God.
Its weight is light, compared with His, who died
That I may live forever, with the Crucified.
—[Detroit Commercial Advertiser.
Senator Nye’s Last.—The Galaxy
gives the following Scene in a far Western
State: A village composed mostly of rude
mining huts called houses,” cottages,”
taverns,” &c., though really they are but
shanties.” An old man sick on his bed. “A
friend, Gov. J. W. Nye, seeing that his end was
close at band, showed him many kind atten
tions, and endeavored to oase his suffering in
every possiblo way. One day, when it was
quite evident that the poor patient could last
only a tow hours, the Governor said to him
‘•Davis, it is undoubtedly best that you
should know the truth you are a very sick
man, and will, in all probability, live but a very
short time. Are your affairs in the condition
that you would like to have thorn? I should
bo glad to do anything for you, you know.”
“Yes; they’re all right.”
“Well, would you like mo to write to any of
your folks, East?”
“No, not now—after it is over.”
•‘Would you like me to call a minister?”
The sick’man, by a great effort of will over a
weak and shattered body, drew himself up in
bed, so as to be in a sitting posture, and stern
ly, most soberly said:
Why, Governor, what should I want a min
ister for I never voted the Democratic ticket
in my life!”
An Involuntary Deserter.—During
one of Napoleon’s remarkable campaigns, a detacn
ment of a corps, commanded by Davoust, occupied
the Isle of Rugen, which they were to evacuate.
They embarked with such precipitation, that they
forgot one of their sentinels, who was posted in a
retired spot, so deeply absorbed in the perusal of a
newspaper containing an account of one of the Em
peror’s splendid victories, as to be totally uncon.
scious of their departure. After pacing to and fro
for many hours upon his post, he lost patience, and
returned to the guard-room, which he found empty.
On inquiry, he learned, with despair, what had hap
pened, and cried:
“Alas! alas! I shall be looked upon as a de
serter; dishonored, lost, unhappy wretch that I
am!”
His lamentations excited the compassion of a
worthy tradesman, who took him to his house, did
all in his power to console him, taught him to make
bread, for he was a baker, and after some months
gave him his only daughter, Justine, in marriage.
Five years afterward a stranger sail was seen to ap
proach the island. The inhabitants flocked to the
beach, and soon discovered in the advancing party a
number of soldiers, wearing the uniform of the
French army.
“I am done for now—my bread la baked,” cried
the dismayed husband of Justine.
An idea, however, suddenly occurred to him, and
revived his courage. He ran to his house, slipped
into his uniform, and, seizing his firelock, returned
to the beach, and posted himself on sentry at tho
moment the French were landing.
Who goes there he cried, in a voice like thun
der.
“Who goes there, yourself replied one in the
boat. Who are you
A sentinel.”
How long have you been on guard hero
Five yearsl” rejoined our man.
Davoust laughed at the quaint reply, and gave a
discharge in due form to his involuntary deserter.
An “Accommodating” Railroad.—
The Peoria (Ill.) Review is responsible for the fol
lowing:
In these days of great complaints against the ex
tortion of railroads, it is retreading to hear of cor
porations that study the comfort of tneir passengers.
Such an one, according to J. W. Parker, is the
twenty miles of road from Jacksonville to Waverley.
A lady wished to get off the train to see a neighbor.
They stopped the cars fifteen minutes until she
went up and found her friend at home. Then sho
made up her mind that she would stay thore; where
upon the conductor and brakeman seized her trunk
and carried it to the honse, distance about a quarter
of a mile. For this piece of politeness the lady
ieturned hor thanks and a peck of apples. The
railroad men accepted both, and returning, divided
the apples among the passengers. One of the pas
sengers had a note that was overdue, on a farmer
near tho track. The conductor stopped the train,
hunted up the man, they sat down, reckoned tho
interest, paid the money, and the happy recipient
got on the train again, and proceeded on its way.
By this time the apples presented by tho lady had
been consumed, and as the train was passing a large
orchard, tho conductor stopped the train tor a third
time to allow the passengers time to fill their
pockets. In answer to remarks that it was an emi
nently accommodating road, he replied: “This is
the accommodation, tram, and we do about as the
majority want us to. If they say stop, why we stop.”
This is an actual occurrence. Can any other place
show bo accommodating -a set of railway officials
A Surprised Bar-Tender.—A bar
tender was interrupted in the process of scouring
his ale pump, the other morning, by the entrance of
a somewhat seedy-looking chap, bearing under his
arm a bundle, done up in an old newspaper.
“Look-a-here,” said the stranger, dropping the
bundle down on the counter in a devil-may-care
manner, “I’ve got something here what you don’t
find every day—a real, ginooine curiosity. A chum
o’ mine got it out of a mooseum.”
So saying, the stranger opened the bundle, when,
to the astonishment of the benzine dispenser, there
was revealed the dead body of a pretty moderate
sized female baby. Benzine dropped his scrubbing
rag, his hair rising to a perpendicular, and started
back in horror. The idea of a man traveling around
the street with a dead body under his arm was too
much for him, and his first impulse was to rush out
and halloo “Watch!” But, as his nerves became
quieter, his curiosity increased, and he finally com
menced to examine the lump of inanimate flesh.
“What a fearful smell of alcohol there is about the
th course,” replied the stranger; “that’s the
pickle wat they keep it in at tho mooseum; ’twant
wiped dry when ’twas taken out of the souse, I
reckon.”
The “curiosity” was sent to a coroner*
A Long-lost Father Turns Up.—
A singular enough circumstance has occurred in
Massachusetts. About thirty-five years ago a man,
named Colburn, ran away, leaving his wife and two
children destitute. The mother and daughter died,
ffie sou struggled on. obtained an eduoatloa, :s now
Sunday Edition. Decenfber 3,
a Methodist minister, and chaplain of the State
I nson. He has never heard of his father, and sup«
posed him dead. But suddenly there came to hiih a
letter from the old gentleman; he is not dead in tha
least, but aiive in Washington Territory, and quite
rich. He also announced his intention oi coming to
Boston, where he hopes to spend the remainder of
his days m “peace and plenty.” The Boston Jour*
nal says that the Rev. Mr. Colburn is now daily ex«
pecting the arrival of his long absent father. Thia
is the sort of thing which it would not surprise us to
read in a novel, but in real life it is not of the every
day sort. The number of chaplains whose fathers
ran away thirty-five years ago, and are now able to
comeback rich and repentant, must be small; butt
II any more such sires there be, let them road this
paragraph and start at once.
“The Goose Hangs High.” —Tha
origin of this expression is as simple and plain as
need be. You in the Atlantic and Western States
have two kinds of wild geese, viz.: the small yellow
legged, spotted breasted goose, called the laughing
goose,” and the large dark goose, properly called the
Canada goose” (Anser Canadenis). This last always
flies northward in early Spring time, in flocks under
a leader, who heads the column, and at brief inter*
vals gives out a deep, dull cry, honk—honk—honk!
From this note they are called in the West and
Southwest “honkers.” If the weather is fair and
prospect always pleasant, these geese fly straight
northward high in the air, the leader “honkling”
loudly as he flies; but, if otherwise, they fly lower*
and in anticipation of storms, break up their narrow
shaped organization, and look for a place of alight
ing; ’Then comes the expressive and forcible ex
pression, “Everything is lovely, and the goose honks
high;” the word honks having been misunderstood
or corrupted into hangs” by the whites who hoard
it, as I have heard it many times years ago used by
the nogroes in the Mississippi Valley.
Ancestral Wisdom.—-In Pennsylva
nia, not many years ago, dwelt the descendants of
Peter Van Schrenbendyke, who had cleared his own
farm, guarded it carefully from the attacks of the
Indians, and willed it to his son Jacob. The farm
was transmitted in regular order from father to son,
and at last became the property of Heinrich Van
Schrenbendyke—a good-natured, stolid Touton,
whose son, Johannes, a bright and lively youth of
sixteen years—was told to saddle the horse and ride
to the mill with a grist, and hurry back. The grist
was on such occasions placed in one end of a bag,
and a large stone in the other end, to balance it. Jo
hannes, having thrown the sack acro-s the horse’s
back and got the grist evenly divided, had no need
of the stone to balance it. He ran to his father, and
cried
“Oh, father, come and see; we don’t need tho
stone any more.”
The old gentleman calmly surveyed the scene, and
with a reproachful look, said:
“Johannas, your fadder, your grandfadder, und
your great grandfadder all went to de mill with da
stone in one end of de pag, and de grist in do odder.
Und now you, a mere poy, sets yourself up to know
more as dey do. You put de stone in de pag und
never let me see such smartness like dot.”
Brazee’sßevenge. Good gracious!
Here is, indeed, an astonishing series of domestic in
cidents. In West Troy, a week ago, G. W. Brazes,
returning to his home, found on a sofa the wife of
his bosom and an unscrupulous tailor named Hayes.
He was naturally indignant at this, and determined
to be his own Judge Lynch and private avenger. Ho
therefore procured a pot of tar, ripped open a feather
bed, and did actually then and there tar and feather
his own wife—an act, it is believed, quite unprece
dented in the annals' of domestic life. This done,
this enraged good man proceeded to deal with tha
tailor, and as a new, signal, and impressive revenge,
burned off the whiskers of the serpent. What thia
stern gentleman did next we are not informed, but if
he finds this sort of proceeding a relief to the be
trayed and overburdened heart, he should publish a
certificate of the fact for the benefit of his fellow suf
ferers.
The Strangest ofDeaths,—A young
French volunteer from Orleans was lately attending
a birthday festival of an uncle in Paris. During tho
evening he enlivened the gay throng by recounting
his many “hair-breadth ’scapes by flood and field,’ 5
until all agreed that he was born under a lucky star.
The party had scarcely adjourned to the drawing
room when the volunteer remembered that he had
loft something in the dining-room, and went back to
look for it. In a dark passage he met a servant car
rying a pile of plates, from the middle of which there
stuck out the blade of a carving-knife, against tha
sharpened point of which he ran. The end of the
handle pressed against the girl’s chest, and tha
weight of the plates gave the weapon a deadly impe
tus. The steel entered the young man’s breast, and
so severely wounded him that he died in a few min
utes after he had told his friends how the accident
happened.
Horrible Murder in Alabama.—
The Montgomery (Ala.) Mail states that a brutal
murder was committed a few days ago in Bullock
county, that State, near Thomasville, the victim
being Miss Emma Gilmore, and the alleged mur
derer her own uncle, William J. Gilmore. It is
stated that some ten or twelve months ago reports
were in circulation to the effect that a criminal in
timacy existed between Gilmore and a niece of his,
and not long since she gave birth to a child, where
upon said Gilmore was tried by the church of which
he was a member, and expelled upon the testimony
of Miss Emma Gilmore, cousin to the guilty party.
Immediately after the trial in the church Gilmora
loaded his gun with buckshot, and placing the muzzle
of the gun to her head fired, killing her instantly.
Ho then fled. The Governor has issued a proclama
tion offering a reward for his arrest.
Beautiful Phenomenon. —The Los
Angelos (Cal.) News, of the 9th inst., contains the
subjoined:
“One of the most beautiful phenomena probably
ever witnessed in this quarter was observed here
about half-past eleven o’clock on the night of the 7th
inst. The first intimation given of its presence wag
that of a slight rustling sound overhead, evidently
caused by its passage through the air. The meteor
seemed to descend from the zenith toward the south
ern horizon. When about midway, the descending
mass burst noiselessly, separating into a shower of
coruscant particles of divers colors, darting forth in
all directions, and strikingly resembling a mammoth
rocket. For a few seconds the light shed forth from
it possessed a *brilliancy almost equal to sunlight,
illuminating the whole country. Long after the me
teor itself had vanished, its track through tho heav
ens remained visible in the form of a well-defined
silvery streak.
Fastidious.—A young lady, with a
number of others who were injured by a railroad ac
cident, was carried to a hospital. The surgeon cam®
around and said to the young and fashionable miss:
Well, madam, what can I do for you?”
“Doctor, one of my limbs is broken,” said she.
One of your limbs!” said he; “well, which limU
is it!”
“O, I can’t tell you, doctor; but it’s one of ms
limbs.”
“One of your limbs thundered the doctor, out
of patience, “which is it—the limb you thread a
needle with
“No, sir.” she answered, with a sigh, “it’s the
limb I wear a garter on.”
The doctor attended to her, and then said
“Young woman, never say limbs to me again In a
hospital. If you do, I shall pass you; for when a
woman gets as fastidious as that, the quicker she
dies the better.” _____
Singular Case of Honesty and
Meanness.—A singular case of honesty in a thief
was recently shown at the Putnam County (N. Y.)
Circuit Court. It appeared that a person, late ona
night, entered a country store through a door which
had been inadvertently left open, and proceeded to
empty the money drawer. After accomplishing hla
purpose, the interloper looked around and discov,
ered the keeper of the store fast asleep on the coun<
ter. Moved by a strange impulse, he went up to
him, shook him awake, and handed him back tha
money. Notwithstanding this extraordinary mag
nanimity, the merchant preferred a criminal charge*
and the trespasser was lodged in jail. The Grand
Jury, however, failed to indict him, and he was dis
charged.
A Romantic Marriage.—The New
Albany, Indiana, Ledger gives the following account
of how the nuptial knot is tied in that State:
“This afternoon a highly romantic marriage took
place in this city. James A. Reasor, an old Ken
tuckian, of some fame as a stock-raiser, and author
of a work on hog-cholera, and Margaret Cleveland, of
this county, weie married in this street, in front of
the residence of the Rev. C. Hutchinson, the loving
couple rising in a wagon, with an umbrella over fi
while the genial and good-natured clergyman leaned
against his fence, and, with the rain of Heaven spat
tering in his face, pronounced the words which mad®
the couple happy.”
Singular Course of a Bullet.—A
Californa paper of a recent date says that two years
ago a man was shot in the region of the heart in a
bar-room difficulty in San Juan. The surgeon
probed the wound unsuccessfully, and failed to ex
tract the ball. The wounded man recovered, and
until recently has suffered no inconvenience from the
wound. Feeling an unaccountable sensation under
his right arm, he underwent a medical examination*
and the missing bail was found immediately in the
rear of the upper arm joint. The bullet had traversed
the body underneath the skin, making an almost
complete circuit of the body, and lodged ia th©
neighborhood of the right armpit.
Compulsory Education. Comp ul
sory education is the order in Illinois. Tho youth
ful aspirant for knowledge is encouraged with such
cheerful inscription as, “behave or get your head
broke;” “learn or die,” written in large characters
over the door of the school-room. One zealous
schoolmistress, prompted, doubtless, by a vague con
ception of shooting in connection with the
idea, indulges in the pleasant practice of burning
mstiches under the noses of her pupils. A commit
tee, appointed to investigate the matter, brought in
the lucid verdict of “Improper, but severe.”
DOT VOOMAN’S MEET3NK.
[From the Evening Telegram.
Say, Go a Head—l vas ofer last Monday nide tci
saw dot Woodhull speak by Steinway Hall, about der
free lofers und dem other nice dings. Vel der places
vas filled ub mit gracy pebbles und nice girls (dot is,
I subbose, der vas ail nice,) or dey wouldent haf®
gone oud in all dot rain, aind id aboud dor time id
vas eight o’clock dot lettle door of der stages obened*
und dot advocater of free lofers (dot she male who
vas mixed ub aboud who her own father vas) came
oud followed py a lot of long haired, vide leefer, sick
looking vellares vich Woodhull had pud a spell on in
der green room. Ven der peebles go ofer stambing
der hands und clapping der feet, Mr. Tilton intro
duced dot Cincinnati speeller to der peebles, und he
said owt she had been vaiting aboud a coubble of
hours to find some fool who vould took dot responsi
bility, und he vas der only one who vould stood py
her, und he did. Of he vas a free lofer, und an olc|
fool dot he could not help id, as id came natural, sq
efery body say dot is ride, ole man; stick py her*
und she make a man of you.” Und so ho take his
sead, ven dot sheeky dame got up und told us dot
her private character vas bully, und alvays vas, und
of any vellar mit a large bank accound dond poleave
dot stuff, vel den come ofer by her house once, und
see of id vas all ride. Of course Tenny (dot vas her
bardner) vas dere in a brivate box, und I shust dold
you dot she look purely. Of all der free lofers vas so
burdy like her, I vas gone for a free lofer too. Any
vav, sho vas der champion maccaroni cader of New
York. Dot lee tie Italian vellar down by Fourth ave«
nuo a’most got rich by her; but dot is ail ride. Efery
body has got to ead, ain’t id Of she got baid for all
of cler pebble in der hall, dot makes good beesness,
I staid dill der oid voman slwmped down on der
sta"e und van ted to fight mit any man bud Sigel, und
Mrs Woodhull told us dot ve vas nod shure whoa
cur father ve vas, und shust den der boleases coma
in und break id all üb. Bud I got cud all ride, und
of you vas gone down to Washington next month mill
mjlvill took you obey to see der woman who vas
willing to be der noxd President, und we take Sb 1
drink mil Vours, truly,
Parley