Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 January 1894 — Page 4

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Graeme. ** ■ CHAPTER XXVll—Contlnned. She was no countess after ali; the gorgeous fabric of wealth and magnificence had crumbled to nothing beneath her feet. She was no countess — nothing but Leonie Rayner; the grand inheritance of Crown Leighton was not hers, after all: she who had lavished thousands on petty caprices and graceful fancies had not one shilling in the world that was legally her own. “I was so happy," moaned the girl—“l jrm so happy, and now " Then rose before her the dim vista of years when poverty and privation would be her lot—hard work, toil, obsaurily her portion—and this after 6he had reigned queen of the bright, gay world. She was too stunned for tears —no words could describe the chaos of her thoughts, the whirl of her emotion. No longer a countess —no longer the mistress of that superb mansion—no longer a queen- no longer one of the richest heiresses in Kngland, of whose wealth men spoke with wonder. It was as great a fall as woman ever had. Two minutes before she had reached the climax of • magnificence and grandeur, peerless in her radiant beauty, dressed in the robes and jewels of a queon. Now, what was she? An usurper, an intruder, an interloper. She had no right to Crown Leighton—no right to the diamonds that crowned her—no right to the name that had been as music in her ears. A cry of despair escaped her—utter, hopeless despair. “I will kill myself,” she said, in her anguish; “for I never can go back to that life again. ” How long she crouched there, her brain burning and her mind full of dark, confused thoughts, Leonie never knew. A noise upon the stairs aroused her, and she started up. Her first honest impulse was to rush down through the crowd, to tell Paul Flemjng, and to place the will in his hands. That was her first impulse, and she rose to act upon it. As she passed the lrrge mirror, she caught a glimpse of herself, and it frightened her. Was that the radiant, beautiful girl she had seen so short a time before? All the bloom had died from her face, leaving it ghastly white; the violet eyes were dim and wild; the light seemed to her excited fancy to have laded from her jewels. Oh, cruel mockery, that diadem of gems, those queenly robes! She laughed to herself—a harsh, discordant laugh, unpleasant to hear. *1 am no longer a countess. lam penniless, obscure, a paupar, not a queen.* It was surely the sorest blow that could have befallen her. She had loved her position, her magnificence, so well. She had enjoyed them so well —she had graced them so prefectly. “I will go and put this in his hands,” she aaid, “and then I will go straight out from that brilliant crowd—out to cold darkness and death. I have drunk of the wine of life, and cannot taste the lees.”

Whs there a hot breath on her white shoulder, or was it only her fancy? Was there a voice hissing in her ear, or was it a delusion? What was the voioe taying? “Let it be as it is for one night longer. Go down and complete your triumph—go down where men wait for you with honeyed words. Reign queen to-night —to-morrow let poverty come and do its worst. There is no need to make a sensation among ull those people—no need to publish your downfall to-uight.” "Was there a hissing, sharp voice whispering these words, or was it her own fancy? She pushed the diadem and the golden-brown hair from her brow. “Many a woman would have been driven mad by such a shock,” she said to herseif. Then she stood hesitating, with the parchment in her hand. “Shall I take it to him now, or shall I wait until to-morrow? “To-morrow will do,” said the tempter. “What difference can it make? Enjoy your reign a few hours longer—make the most of’the next few hours. Leave it until to-m»rrow.” i “I might just as well wait until tomorrow,” she said, piteously; “it would be bo sad to spoil the fete and turn all Into confusion." Then sudden hot anger flushed in her face and fiamod in her eyes. “I would fain do as Sardanapalus did," she cried—“burnCrown Leighton 1 to the ground, and dio in the ruins. ” Then the fierce hot anger died. “I was bo happy,” she said, despairingly; “Heaven might have lot me keep wnat I believed to be mine. Perhaps I had better take this to Paul at once—it will be less torture than keeping it by me until to-morrow.” She walked toward the door; she saw herself seeking him;' placing the will in his hand, and saluting him by his new title —Earl of Charnleigh. Then came a vivid remembrance of the time when her heart had thrilled with ecstasy at the sound of her title. “I will not be so hasty—l will wait until to-morrow,” she said; “I will enfew hours, and then ” In the anguish of the moment she even forgot her love and the lover who was waiting for her. She took the parchment, hid it in the wardrobe, locked the door, and then slowly descended the stairs. “To-morrOw,” she moaned to herself —“it will be all over to-morrow. ”

CHAPTER XXVIII. “Leonie, how long you have been, my darling! What is the mattery Your face is white, your lips tremble. Leonie, have you been frightened?” Although she loved Bertram better than her life, in the supreme aneruish of that hour she had forgotten him; and now, at the sound of the kindly voice—at the sight of the frank handsome sac keen sense of what she was losing came over her. She went up to him, and as he stretched out his hands to her, she laid her head on his breast, forgetting everything in her sick, hopeless despair. “My darling,” he said, anxiously, "what is the mattery Ten minutes ago you were all radiance and light—now you are pale, depressed. What has happened to you, Leonie?” She raised her colorless face, t “Is it only ten minutes since I left you, Bertram?” "That is all,” he said. “It seems to me ten long years—ten long, dreary, despairing yoars. I am so tired. Oh, Bertram, how that music wearies me! Will it never stop? lam so tired. ” “My darling, you have been doing top much. Your spirits carry you away, and then you are exhausted. 'Do not go back to the ball-room—let me bring you some wine and rest yourself. I wid not even speak to you, nor will I allow any one else to tease you. ” “.'so. no,” she said, “I must go back— I have been away so long. ” She made a desperate effort to r ouse km&if. He looked at her in silent •oader. She reminded him of a fair mad bis Otoing flower blighted some

anoe had kft her face—even the queenly, graceful figure seemed to snrink and grow less, while the regal robes I and jewels had lost half their brightness. “Leonie,” said Sir Bertram, “you frighten me. lam quite sure you are “I am not. Do as you propose—go i and fetch me some wine, and Dring it : to me in the morning-room." He placed her in a chair, and left her without a word. Her brain was whirling. “To-morrow,” she said—“all this will be over to-morrow. I shall be flattered and loved—l shall be queen of a brilliant fete—l shall be mistress of Crown Leighton until to-morrow; and then all will be over, and the sun of mv life set. To-morrow! Shall I live to face it all j —the comments, the gossips, the J sneers! These fine ladies who protest that I am a model of graceful manners, will find out then that I am low-bred and very deficient—what has passed for animation will become vulgarity. I know the world, and hate it while* I love it. Its triumph over me shall not begin to-night. For this one night it shall be at my feet, and I will trample on it.” Then Sir Bertram came in with the wine, and she drank it. It brought the warmth and color back to her face. He was much relieved. “You are better, Leonie. Oh, my darling, you must never look that ivay again! Promise to be careful of yourself; you are not strong. You alarmed me when I saw you. I thought the ghost that haunts the oak room nad appeared to you.” A deep, tearless sob broko from her lips. “The ghost of the oak-room,” she repeated, wearily—“l saw it, and it has nearly killed me.” Ho thought her manner strange, but ascribed it all to over-fatigue. He drew nearer to her, and rearranged her diadem, which had half fallen from the fair, stately head. “You have all a queen’s dignity, and all a woman’s charm,” he said. “Oh, Leonie, was any one ever so fair and so peerless as you?” She smiled; the wine had given her a kind of courage that she mistook for strength.

“Are my jewels all in order, or need I send for Florotte?” she asked, carelessly. . “They are in perfect order. Your appearance now is my care, Leonie; it concerns no one but myself.” He did not know what had happened. What would he say or think when ho had discovered that she was simply poor and obscure Leonie Rayner, the ex-governess? Would it make any difference to his love? She looked up at him. “Give me your arm, Bertram. I must go to the ball-room. Hark! that is my favorite waltz. Tell me before you go —do you love mo very much?” A beautiful light came Into his face. “You will never know how much, sweet.” “Would you care just as much for me if I were very poor, and you knew me only as Leonie Rayner?” “Just as much,” ho replied, *my love does not depend on your circumstances. If yon were made queen to-morrow, I should love you just as dearly; and if to-morrow you became a beggar, it would make no difference in my affection—nay, lam wrong—l should love you all the better.” “Is it true?” she asked. “Most assuredly it is; the only thing I should regret in that case would be that I am not a rich man- that I could not surround you with all the luxury and magnificence to which you have been accustomed.” “Are you not rich, Bertram?” she asked, wistfully. He laughed. “No. my queen—not what people call rich, in these luxurious times; my estates are mortgaged. I wish that I were rich enough to purchase the wholo world, so that I might endow you with it." “You shall not spoil that compliment by any other,” she said; “we will go. Where is my programme? I have missed two dances. I have to apologize to two gentlemen. The next is the ‘Lancers,'and I am engaged to Lord Holdene. He ought to thank me for these silver buckles.”

Then from the very depths of her young heart there came a most woeful sigh. If he had never asked for those buckles, that will would perhaps never have come to light. For a few minutes after she re-en-tered the ball-room, Leonie stood bewildered Then she recovered herself. Lord Holdene came up and offered a hundred apologies for having mentioned the silver buckles. She 1 lookod up at him with a vague, dreamy smile, as though sho did not even understand the words. She was thinking to herself that it was not his fault —that it was not what people would call fate or chance that had led her to the oak-room, but the very hand o Providence, and he had been led thither in order that justice might be done. Then Captain Flemyng saw her and hastened to her. “I could not imagine what made the ball-room so suddenly grow cold and dim, Lady Charnleigh,” he said. “Why have you been so long absent?” “I have been searching in a haunted room for silver buckles,” she replied, trying to still the quivering of her lips and speak in her natural voice. But something in the tone struck him as strange—a weary, hopeless ring that told of pain and sorrow. He looked tenderly ana anxiously at her. “You are over-tired, Lady Charnleigh. Let me persuade you not to dance, but sit down and rest.” She laughed. “No, I could still; I like continual movement. Where is Ethel? Is she enjoying herself ?” “Yes; and so is every one The young ladies of the county ought to be deeply grateful to you; i' have heard many of them say that they never enjoyed an evening so much before. You must give us some more charades, Lady Charnleigh, and more balls.” She laughed again. How little ho knew that this was the last night of her reign—that with the sunrise of the morrow all her wealth and magnificence would vanish into thin air—that henceforward he would rule at Crown Leighton, and and parties—that he would succeed to the glorious inheritance she had valued so! “They shall remember my last night at Crown Leighton,” she said to herself; "they shall talk of it, and tell each other that I died a queen.” ' With Leonie, to will was to do. She called all her magnificent courage into play, she resolutely trampled under foot all remembrance of the oaken chamber and what it contained, she remembered only that this was her last api e trance as Countess of Charnleigh, and that people must not forget it. Such was the case; no one so brilliant or beautiful had been seen there for many long generations. She danced, and the grace, the perfection of her movement, was marvelous; she talked, and men gathered round her, charmed out of themselves. She had never been so brilliant. Her anecdotes, her repartees, her sparkling sallies were repeated one to the other; her beautiful face grew brighter and more radiant every minute. People no longer won-

dered at the spell she oast around her, there were men in that room who thought that to have won a smile from her they would have gone through any difficulty. As the cloud of homage rose i and seemed to float round her, she smiled bitterly to herself, saying: *Tt is my last triumph; to-morrow the dark waves of poverty will rise and ingulf me, and the world will bear no more then of Leonie, Countess of Charnleigh.” CHAPTER XXIX. It was when the ball was drawing to a close that Paul Flemyng found an opportunity of slipping a folded paper into Lady Charnlexgh’s hands. “Read this, Leonie,” he whispered, “and permit me to call for the answer to-morrow. * She took it and placed it in the folds of her dress. To.morrow he would know all—to-morrow he would be Lord Charnleigh, and she Leonie Rayner; their positions would be reversed. Then came the faint gray dawn of the June morning, and one by one the guests departed from the brilliant scene. Each visitor expressed so much pleasure, and seemed so truly delighted, that no greater compliment could have been paid to their hostess than their regret at leaving. "Give us another bail soon, dear Lady Charnleigh,” whispered one of the younger girls; “this has been so delightful!” Leonie laughed aloud; the young girl started back at the harsh, “unnatural sound. “I am tired, my dear,” said Leonie, seeing the startled look; “remember that 1 have been making myself amiable ever since nine o'clock this morning, and to be constantly amiable is the hardest task in the world. * Sir Bertram came up to say farewell. “I shall come for my answer to-mor-row, Leonie; you have given me hope thia evening. “Not to-morrow, Bertram," she pleaded, piteously. “I am so tiredwait until Thursday. I shall have recovered then. ” “I will wait just as long as you F#Dase,” he said. “You will be mine in the end, Leonie; that is all I care for.” A sudden impulse came over her to throw herself into his arms and tell him all—ho would console and comfort her; but she set her foot resolutely l upon the impulse. This night should ' pass over without her secret being known. So she stood until the last of her guests disappeared, graceful, bright, and charming to the end, her gay words never faltering; then she was left in that brilliant ball-room alone. She looked around, with a flush on her face, on the flowers and the lights, the wondrous combinations of color that she herself had effected. “I have died a queen,” she said. “I have not given way for one moment. I have smiled with the bitterness of wrath in my heart. I have talked and laughed when like Caesar, I would fain have folded my mantle round me and (lied. Now I look my last on the brilliant paradise that will know me no more. ” |to be continued, t

WALKING ON STILTS.

It Ii a Common Practice In One Province of Franco. The majority of the people in the western portion of the French province of Gascony walk on stilts. That is a district known as the Landes, with a sea liqe bounding the French side of the Bay Iff Biscay and extending at its greatest breadth about sixty miles back into the country. The Landes form one of the wildest and strangest parts of France, and the inhabitants are fully as strange and uncultivated as the black pine forests, the dreary swamps and the far-spreading deserts of fine white sand which they inhabit. Most of them are shepherds, and they elevate themselves on stilts five feet high in order to be above the marshes and the sand blasts. These stilt-walkers present strange and uncouth figures as they progress over the wilderness of country In attendance on their flocks, sometimes at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. They rest by the aid of a third wooden support, pursuing meanwhile their everlasting occupation of knitting. In appearance the Landes shepherd looks like an uncouth mass of dirty wool. On his body he wears a fleece like a rude paletot, his thighs and legs on the outside are protected by greaves of the same material, and his feet are encased in sabots and coarse woolen socks. In some parts of Malaysia the natives walk almost habitually on stilts. Nature and necessity have brought about this result, as excessive inundations of river and sea often submerge the whole surface of the land in many places, rendering ordinary modes of locomotion impossible. In parts of Holland also it is a very ordinary sight to see people walking about upon stilts of various sizes.

This Seems an Outrage.

There is a queer kind of justice in this world. A lawyer in New York, Francis Henry Weeks, who embezzled over $1,000,000 from the widows and orphans whose fortunes lay in his hands, was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment in Sing Sing. Then a little lad, not yet out of his teens, was sentenced to fifteen years in the tame prison for having stolen a watch, chain and locket, the value of which was $75. This may be lawyers’ justice, but it doesn’t seem the justice of common sense nor is it tinged with one streak of Christianity. Sentencing the arch betrayer of widows and orphans and the embezzler of $1,000,000 to undergo a less severe sentence than that inflicted on a youthful and an ignorant boy is not the way to impress the American people or anybody else that we are living under equal laws. Sing Sing is a fit place for Lawyer Weeks; a reformatory should be the place for the youthful stealer of a watch, locket and chain.

The Omnibus in Paris.

An excellent of the omnibus system of Paris the stations which occur at frequent intervals along each line, at which all vehicles stop. Here passengers may wait comfortably, protected from sun, rain and wind, provided with seats, and in winter furnished with fire. Here they take numbers, that is, tickets wfcich entitle them to places in the omnibuses when their turn comes. The seats in Paris omnibuses are not to those who push the hardest. It is only at the stations that the vehicles stop. Passengers may descend at any point, and the regulations require that if seats are not full the cars stop when signaled for those who wish to mount. The trains and omnibuses accommodate forty persons with seats. Six more are permitted on the rear platform. Twenty of the seats are on the roof and are reached by a rear stairway..

Exhibited the Corpse in the Window.

In Philadelphia the other day there was a striking evidence of the intense desire of some people to “exhibit the remains” at funerals. A man had died of diphtheria and the authorities very properly refused to permit a public funeral. So the family had the coffin containing the oorpse stood on end in front of a window of the house so that the face of the dead could be viewed fron. the street. —New York Tribune,

THE DARKEST HOUR.

Ti* always the darkest boor Before the dewn doth thine. Ever the moment of fear and gloom, . In that troubled heart of thine: Heavy the spirit and tad thy sigh. While brightness and lightness are drawing nigh! Look to the shafts of morning As they play in the moving clones; Their arrows moat cleave the darkne ■ dense Which now like a veil enshrouds; Mountain and valley, village and stream, Shall smile in the glow of the sunrise gleam. But, 0, in the vigil of watting, Before that dawn appears. Worn with the night of watching, Thou art filled with doubts and fears. Doubt not, true non!! Faint not, brave heart! In the joy of the dawn thon shall have thy part! I know thou art weary, §o weary; I know thy hopes seem dead; Bouse! for thy cares and sorrows With the night and the gloom »re fled. They are fled! And thy faith, like the lark to the skies, Bise up with a song in thy glad emprise.

HIS FIRST OFFICIAL NIGHT.

BY W. P. CHAMBERS.

Years ago, when the ambitious city of Weston was simply a village, there lived on the hill beyond the creek a man who divided his time about equally between deer hunting and tilling the few rocky, sterile acres that constituted his farm. This man—George Bently, by name—was a prominent figure in that sparsely-settled region. He was a giant in strength, daring in danger, cool in emergencies and fertile in expedients. Though illiterate, he was by no means uneducated so far as the love of forest aud stream was ooncerned, and his skill in deciphering the volume of human nature was of no mean order. So at thirty-five he was an acknowledged leader among his fellows. About this time a general election occurred, and during the day somebody suggested that George Bently be voted for Justice of the Peace for Weston Beat. The suggestion beiug acted on, that individual returned home about sunset, and with pardonable elation informed his wife that he had been elected a magistrate without opposition. Without giving the matter any consideration, either as to the duties appertaining to the office or his own qualifications for their performance, lie made the necessary bona, and in due time his commission, bearing the great seal of the State, was reoeived, together with a copy of the Code. Now our new official had never uad a law book in his hands before, and he felt somewhat dismayed, but rather important withal, as he surveyed the bulky volume, bound in legal calf. Thrusting his commission into the pocket of his pantaloons, for he had no coat, and taking the huge volume under his arm, he wended his homeward way. If his gait was more staid and his bearing more dignified than usual it was simply because he felt himaelf au exponent, if not a part, of the State, in her sovereign capacity of making and administering laws. As soon as supper was dispatchd he, with the aid of his wife, spelled out the commission, and then taking up the Code he began at the title page. He had got nearly to the end of the report of the Codifying Committee when drowsiness overpowered him, and he began to disrobe for the night. As he was in the act of lying down a loud “hello!” was heard at the yard gate. When the door was opened a voice it) the darkness called out: “Does ‘Squire Bently live here?” “I’m the man,” was the rather pompous reply. “I want a warrant for Jake Jones.” “What’s ho done?” “Him and Pete Brown got into a row at old man nail's house-raising this evenin’ and he knocked Pete down with a handspike, and it looks like he’s guin’ to die.” “All right—come in ” By the time the officer had donned his clothes aud replenished the fire the other man—one John Graham—had entered. Had 'Squire Bently been required to make an astronomical calculation he would not have been more completely at a loss how to proceed. But he felt that his official honor was at stake and so, after a hasty but fruitless search iu the Code for a “form,” he proceeded to bring forth from his inner consciousness the momentous document.

The first difficulty to be surmounted was the fact that there was not a scrap of writing paper in the house. Not anticipating emergencies wherein it would be required, no stationery had been provided for official purposes. Unwilling to be balked, he tore a blank leaf from the back of the Code, and borrowing a pencil—for it was developed that no pen, ink or even a lead pencil belonged to the Bently household—he sat down, and, after infinite pains, produced the following warrant:’ “taik jaik joans G. BENTLY, esq., j. p.” As Mr. Graham received this document, he asked: “Who will serve this warrant?” “You can do it as well as anybody else, can’t you?” “I guess so 1 Where must I take him to?” “Bring him here, of course.” “When?” “At once—oi sooner, if you can find him.” “All right!” and tho Special Constable took his leave. Our officer now retired, but the incident of the warrant had unsettled him somewhat and he vainly courted sleep. After an hour or two of restles tumbling he was about entering dreamland when there was another call at the gate. Going to tbe door he was again met by the inquiry: “Does ’Squire Bently live here?” “Yes; what do you want?” “We want to get marriedl” was the rather hesitating and huskily spoken reply. “Come in!” and again the official hauled on his pantaloons, and out of deference to the occasion a coat was also donned. By this time a very young man and a shrinking maiden had reached the door-step. “Come right in! Take chairs and sit down,” came from the hearth, where our officer was trying to fan the smoking embers into a flame by blowing on them with his breath. When this was accomplished he arose, brushed the dust and ashes off his knees, and, reaching for his law book, demanded: “Are you runaways ?” “Yes, sir.” “What’s your names ?” “Mine is William Wright, this young lady's is Mary Banks.” “Are you a son of John Wright?”

“I xn, •Jr." “And is that one of old Txn Banka’ gala?” “Yes, sir.” “What did you run away forV' “ ’Cause her folks were not willin’ for us to marry.” “Hare you got airy pair of licenser* “Yes, sir, I nave the license. We expected Preacher Gray to marry us, but he wasn’t at home, so we earns to you. Here, sir, is the license.” “Keep ’em, young man, keep ’em. I don’t want ’em! I only axed to see if you had ’em; for it’s agin the laws of the United S'ates to marry in this State without a pair of license. The law only axes if you paid for ’em, aod how much.” As he said this, ’Squire Bentley opened his book very wide and assumed a stern, judicial air. “Yes, sir, the license is paid for, and cost one dollar.” “Where did you get ’em?” “At the oourthouse, of course. If you please, sir, will you proceed?” “You bet I will 1 Hold up your right hands 1” » ° The young couple exchanged glances. If the truth must be told, the requirements of etiquette during the performance of the ceremony had formed an important factor in their conversation since leaving the paternal roof. After » little hesitation both hands went up. “You solemnly swear that you will live together as man and wife, sick or well, and that you will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God! Answer, ‘I do.’ ” “I do,” was the faint response. “I pronounce you husband and wife,and may the Lord have mercy on your souls 1” The astonished couple still sat with uplifted hands, gazing at the Magistrate with open-mouthed wonder. “That’ll do!” said he in a less severe tone. “Is it over?” asked the bride, with a sigh of relief, as she lowered her hand. “I reckon so!” was the rather doubtful response of the groom. “Yes, certainly. You’re hitched as hard and as fast as if the Guv’nor had done it.”

“Huw much do I owe you?” “Not a ceut, younjr man, not a cent,” and then he added, in a semi-confiden-tial tone, “You see, I’m a sorter new beginner, and I hain’t sot my prices yet. Where are yegoin’ to stay till mornin’?” “We expected to go from Mr. Gray’s back to Uncle Bill Wright’s, on Cane Creek; but that’s ten or twelve miles from here. Isn’t there a tavern in town?” “Ye-t—but why not stay here? It won’t oost you a cent, and I ’drother you’d stay.” With a little more urging, they consented ; and while the groom and the ’Squire were out stabling the horses, Mrs. Beutly had arisen and prepared a room for the bride and groom. After a slight repast which the young people really needed (though both stoutly protested against the extra trouble), they were left in possession of the spare room, which had twice served as a law office that night. An hour had passed, and most of the inmates had fallen asleep, when there was another loud “hello!” at the gate. “Who is it now?” asked the master of the house, as he opened the door. “It’s me —here’s your prisoner,” sang out a voice in reply, that evidently belonged to Special Constable Graham. “Who else is with you?” “Jim Hall, and brother Tom.” “All right—come in!” While our hard-worked Magistrate was again dressing himself, his wife suddenly inquired, “Where will you take ’em, George?” This wa9 a poser. The spare room was already occupied, and, worse than all, his lawbook was in there too! Meeting the Constable in the yard he brifly explained the situation. “We can build up a fire out here,” he suggested at last, and the others assenting, the fire was accordingly kindled, and then ’Squire Bently realized that he could proceed no further without his lawbook. Going to the door of the guestchamber, he softly knocked. “What is it?” inquired the groom. . “I want to get my book.” So the young man unfastened the door, nnd held it open till the officer went inside and “felt around” till he laid hands on the coveted-volume. Returning to the yard, he opened court by administering an oath to all present (including the constable and the prisoner) to tell just now it was. The day had been a warm one. As the night wore on, the clouds began to threaten rain, and before the testimony was all in, a heavy shower came up. Thik necessitated an adjournment to shelter—and as the smokehouse was the nearest buildiDg, thither all hands repaired. While waiting for the shower to cease, anther horseman came galloping up. •‘ls ’Squire Bently at home?” “Yes; that’s me!” was the reply. “They want you at Sim’s Mill. There’s a dead woman there, and they want you to hold an inquest.” Further questioning elicited the fact that a negro woman had died very suddenly, and the physician who had been called, deeming the circumstances suspicious, desired an inquest. It was now past midnight, but our officer, feeling that he ought to act promptly in the matter, decided to go at once. But, unfortunately, the two Grahams and Jim Hall all felt called upon to go, too. What to do with the prisoner was the question. Somebody proposed taking him along with them, but the prisoner himself stoutly opposed that plan, but of sered to pledge himself to be on hand whenever wanted. Our Magistrate, actingon the principle that “one bird in the hand is worth two iu the bush,” resolved tomakesureof Jake Jones. So, after bringing a few bundles of fodder from a stack near by, and two or three quilts from the house, he prepared a bed for his prisoner, and locked him up in the smokehouse till his return, and the five men rode away. In the matter of the inquest Dr. Smith assumed entire control. He prepared all the necessary papers, and it was only required of G. Bently, Esq., to set “his hand and seal” to various documents. It. was near 10 o’clock when the ’Squire and his party returned from the inquest. They were all Very drowsy and very hungry. Our officer found a rather unpleasant state of affairs on his arrival at home. As the meal and flour, as well as the bacon, were kept in the smokehouse, and as the door thereof was securely locked and the key safely stored away sis his pocket, none of the family had broken their fast. The bride and groom had gone off apparently happy; the children were fretting; their mother was scolding, iib(J Jake Jones,from the inside of his prison, was indulging in some very loud, very profune and very disparaging remarks. In fact, that individual was only brought into a state of respectable quietude by the court’s oollaring him, giving him a good shaking, and promising to wipe up the ground with him after adjournment. Before this occurred, or even break-

fast was served, Pete Brown rode up. He had concluded not to die; he and Jake made friends and the case was die-: missed. After a hearty breakfast and dinner in one, his visitors departed, leaving ’Sqaire Bently to cogitate over the events of “His First Official Night.” —JLouisville-Courier Journal.

WAR MEMORIES

A sl,i>6o Meal That Was Spoiled by an Inconsiderate Missile. Connected with the Tobacco Exchange at Richmond, Va., is a gentleman who, according to the Detroit Free Press, was living “under the hill” in Petersburg during the perilous days. After several shot and shell had passed over his house, his family left it for safer quarters, but one evening decided to return. Everything was quiet for an hour, and then a shot came booming over. This was enough for wife and children, but the husband got mad and declared he would stay there that night if every gun in the Federal intrenchments was turned loose upon him. Half an hour went [by, and he was patting himself on the back over his grit, when tne h ederals suddenly opened five or six heavy guns at the hill. Shot and shell roared and hissed and screamed, and the man’s hair began to crawl. He stuck there, however, until boom! bish! crash 1 came a cannon ball as big as his head plump through one side of the house and out of the other, and then he flew outdoors and struck a gait Just a little faster than greased lightning. Singularly enough, that was the only shot which ever hit the house, though dozens fell around it.

After Grant had his guns in position, and more especially after he began reaching out for the Weldon railroad, he could have knocked Petersburg to pieces in twenty-four hours. He would probably have done so had there been any excuse for it, but there was none. The Confederate lines were a mile and a half away, and Petersburg was only held by non-combatants. Nevertheless, Grant did not propose that any one in reach of his guns should sleep soundly or forget his presence. Occasionally shots were therefore pitched into the city to cheek any enthusiasm, and if anybody got over an hour’s sleep at a time it was considered something to boast of. One night during a heavy firing to the left of the crater, tne Federal guns were for a time so elevated that every missile cleared the Confedeiate lines, howled over Petersburg and fell among the houses under the hill. One shell entered the window of a house and exploded in the parlor. A part of the front of the house was blown out, one side demolished, the chamber floors driven through the roof and the whole building weakened. The people had moved out, but left all their goods and a dog to watch them. No one could say just where the dog was when the explosion took place, but he was not killed.

During the same fire, and five minutes after a family had taken up their quarters in a bomb-proof of the back yard, a shell drove in the front door, penetrated the floor and exploded under the house. There were five rooms below and four above, and the explosion shook off every bit of plaster and knocked down every partition in the lower part. The family well was at the back of the house, and so much 'debris was driven into it that no water could bo got for days. In the winter of 1864 a citizen who had unexpectedly received $2,000 in Confederate currency ou an old debt, determined to have a good square dinner, and company to help to eat it. Rye, coffee, baeon, meal, rice and molasses were about the only provisions iu market; but at a cost of $1,960 the citizen scraped together enough to justify him in inviting a company of six friends. The guests were in the parlor, the table set, and the cook was over the stove, when a shell entered the dining room through the side of the house. The explosion so wrecked the room that no one could enter it. The table, pieces of which I saw, could not have been demolished any better with an ax, and the plaster in two or three rooms was shaken down.

A Remarkable “Artist.”

The feelings of the government detectives were much shocked three weeks ago by the turning up of a counterfeit treasury note for SIOO. It was the series of 1880, check letter A, with the head of Lincoln on the face. It was the latest contribution from a remarkable artist, who has been puzzling the authorities for more than a decade. Like all of his other productions in this line, it was done entirely in peil and ink. It was actually accepted as genuine at a United Startes sub-treasury and was sent thence to Washington for redemption. One of the experts in the redemption division of the Alma C. Smith, discovered it, and the teller who took it in at the sub-treasury will lose SIOO by the transaction. The counterfeit will not bear close scrutiny, the imitated lathe engraving being only a mass of pen scratches, but it has the dangerous quality of a good general appearance. •» This pen-an 1-ink artist is a most extraordinary individual. Up to date he has produced about twenty-five such counterfeits. They all reach the treasury eventually, and several specimens of his handiwork are on exhibition at thb office of the secret service here. Four out of five of his Botes have been twenties, and there have been two fifties. The new one is the only one for SIOO that he has yet turned out. He makes them at the rate of -two a year, apparently, and it must take nearly all of his time to do the work, which is evidently executed under a high power magnifying glass. Of course the labor cannot be profitable, and it is supposed does it for amusement. It is his little fad. Inasmuch as they come from till parts of the country, it must be that he is a gentleman of leisure and travels from city to city. Little hope is entertained of ever catching him, and it is likely that ho will always remain a mystery.—[Washington Star.

How A Swordfish Can Fight.

Captain Amery, of the schooner Origin, which has arrived at Plymouth from Labrador with fish, reported that while on the outward voyage from England the vessel was attacked by a swordfish, whose sword penetrated the hull and broke off ns the fish attempted to withdraw it. The fish then turned several somersaults and disappeared, as if either stunned or killed by the force of tlis shook. The left in the side of the ship measured eighteen inches. Before Newfoundland was reached the vessel made oVer a foot of water, and the crew are of opinion that if the fish had succeeded in withdrawing its sword the vessel would have foundered. —[London Daily News. About one-fifth of the whole number of Gotham’* eriminUa »ro women.

FULL OF ELECTRICITY.

A Connecticut Xu Who is m Human Barometer. For thirty five years Os we 11 Powell has lived the life of a hermit in the woods six miles north of Hadlyme, Conn., in a locality known as Partridge Run. The man’s seclusion, says the New York Press, was forced upon him by a circumstance that happened when he was about 28 years old. At that time Powell was a prosperous and happy young fanner. He had been two years married, and his domestic relatfbns were extremely pleasant. While attending the county fair one day he came across a friend who was anxious to test his ability to hold electricity, and the two sought a battery that was doing a heavy business in the fakirs’ corner of the fair grounds. The men tried the machine, and a goodnatured dispute as to who was the best man arose between them. Powell’s friend claimed that he could hold the most electricity, and he started in to prove it. He sent the needle aroand the dial to the 320 mark. Powell pulled off his coat and clutched the handles. The operator sent a stream of electricity into him that took the crook out of his elbows and caused him to stand on tiptoe. Still Powell called for more and got it. The needle swung around eighty points, and yet Powell howled for more. The charge was sent into him, and, leaping into the air, he came down flat on his back. He had put the needle up to the 410 mark, but nearly killed himself in doing it. He was dazed for several hours, but finally came out of it apparently ail right. In less than six months after this experience there ifas trouble in the Powell house. Mrs. Fowell left her husband and refused to live with him any longer. She said that he was kind to her, but there was something about the man that repelled her, and the strange power, whatever it was, seemed to be growing on him. Powell told his fatb«r-in-law that he hadn’t felt like himself since tho day that he tried his hand at the eleotric machine. He said that he couldn’t blame his wife, and be made no effort to reclaim her. It was evident that Powell’s nerves had somehow been seriously affected. Expert medical advice was taken, and a good deal of money was spent by Powell in searching for a cure, but to no purpose. The strange power grew upon him, and finally became so strong that the cattle shrank from his touch. Finally Mrs. Powell was induced to return to her husband’s house but the two occupied separate apartments. They lived in this way three years, thep Powell left and took up his residence in his house that hn built in Partridge Run.

The man suffers a good deal «f pain just before a thunder storm. He is a sort of human barometer, and during the haying season the farmers consult the man regarding .the weather probabilities. His prognostications are seldom incorrect, and the visits of his neighbors in the summer season became so annoying to him that he adopted the plan of pasting weather bulletins on a tree near the road so that the farmers could get an idea of what the weather was going to be without disturbing him. Daring the times that Powell suffers pain, medicine has no effect on him. The most powerful sedative administered to him is as so much water. The only relief that he gets is by laying his hands on oats, and he has surrounded himself with these animals that appear to be warmly attached to him. When he feels a spell of suffering coming on he takes to stroking the cats, and by this-meaus his suffering is greatly lessened.

DESTRUCTIVE OCCUPATIONS.

Poisons That Lark for Flax and Artificial Flower Workers. Very little is known of the danger to life and health that exists iu many occupations where women are largely employed. In England a league has been formed to call attention to the facts of the case, and Mrs. C. Mollet has made extensive investigations, In the linen trade, the flax has to be left to soak in the water, and rheumatism, bronchitis and pneumonia seize upon the women who have to deal with it in this stage. In the flax carding department, the fine dust produces lung disease and kills its victims at thirty. In fur cape making, the odor and the fine fluff are both extremely injurious. A singular injury is caused to artificialflower makers, especially those employed in making white flowers by gaslight. The dry dust causes inflamed eyelids, and the work is so trying that women are worn out long before middle age. In the china trade, the slay dust Betties year by year in the laogs until consumption results. In the white-lead trade, horrors are found quite equal to those of the phosphorus match trade. Lead is in itself highly poisonous, and the most dangerous parts of the process of making the ordinary blue pigs of lead into the deadly white carbonate is carried on by women, because it requires less muscular strength than the relt. Cakes of lead are put to ferment in tan and acetic acid for three months, and then the cakes have to be grubbed out of the mixture by band, the poison getting under the finger nails. After being ground to powder nnder water, the dishes of damp lead have to be placed in a stove to dry for a fortnight. The worst part is when these poor women have to take away the dry, hot, white carbonate of lead from the stoves. Even the muffled heads, the woolen respirators, the sack overalls fail to keep out the deadly dust. They rarely live many years; sometimes a few weeks or months bring on the symptoms oPacute lead poisoning, to which they rapidly succumb. This white oarbonafe of lead is used for glazing china and enamel advertisements. The only safeguard would be in prohibiting the manulacture, nnd it would be possible to do so, for various substitutes are already in the market.—[New York Sun.

Novel Way to Clear a Common.

In 1808 when Jamestown, N. Y., was Brst settled, the inhabitants hit upon a novel plan for clearing off the public common. The plot set apart for that purpose was covered with trees,' which were gradually cut down by the settlers at odd times when not otherwise engaged. But the stumps still remained, and their removal was a problem that caused many discussions among the city fathers. At last they struck a brilliant idea, whereby their object was not only attained, but the intemperate members of the community were taught a salutary lesson.| It was duly enacted that the penalty for getting drunk was to dig up a large stump, but if the culprit "was only moderately tipsy he was assigned to a smaller one. It was not long before every stump disappeared, much to the credit of the originators of the scheme and to the discomfiture of the tipplers.—[Chicago Herald.