Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 3, Number 10, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 7 September 1872 — Page 6

lift

v.

HOW THE YOU NO COLONEL DIED.

Yon want to hMurine tell yon how the jonng Colonel died Ood help mc, memory will not foil on that or tongue be tied Aye, write it down and print, In your biggent type of gold, For sure a braver heart than his no mortal breaat could hold. Twos the second weary night of that hot and bloody June, Through the brush, alone the picket, we walked beneath the moon Behind us, sixty miles of death, Virginia's thickets lay Before us was Cold Harbor, the hell to come next day. We talked about old Bufl&lo, and bow the girls we knew At the door-atepa, with their sweet-hearts, sat in all er dew.

And, looking at the fields below, where the mist lay like a pond. :i We seemed to ste tne long dark streets and r,t the white take far beyond.

Then, turning sadden, "George," he said, "I'm glad a moon so bright Will hold her face to mine when I lie dead ii»*, to-morrow night."

We charged at noon the Colonel led green Ei I a's ©Id Brigade

"Twos Longatrrevs biasing cannon behind ssjeiss their breastworks played, We charged till, lull in front, we felt that flery breaker swell—

A sea Of rattling muskets In a storm of grape and stiell The Colonel led, In fire and smoke, his sword would wave and shine, And still the brave sound of his voice drew on the straggling line. Then all at once our colors sank I saw them reel and nod nS8 The Colonel Jumped and took them before they touches the sod 5 Another spring, and with a shout—the rebs will inind ft well— ,, He stood alone upon their works, waved the old Flog, asd fell

As o'er the surf at WickloW I'vfe seen the t3?5" sea-gull fly, ills voice had sailed above the storm and gjtar': sounded clear and high. it seemed, I swear, I had notheard the hellish rack and din,

Till then, all sudden, on my earb, the thunffl der crash rushed in.

1

'Twas vain to stand up longer what could they do but yield Our broken remnant melted back across *«•,**. the bloody field.

I stayed to help the Colonel, and crept to where he lay A smile came tender o'er his face, but he .i,. motioned me away. bent to watch his parting lips and shade him from the llglit—

I'm torn to pieces, George," he said, "Go ivjjii save yourself—good night!" jw'As tender as my mother's, that smile came up, and shone

Once more upon his marble face, and the gallant son was gone!

Three times the same full moon arose and ,iii4 looked him face to face, Beforo the rebels flung a truce above the {"f cursed place:

We laid blm near Cold Harbor, but the spot is bleak and bare— I hate to thtnk now I'm at home and he if m, still lying there. ii doubt his sleep will not be sweet, nor his $ hi?* loving spirit still, .I'Till he lies among the friendly dust of yonng lull, iti'^Where from the streets he loved so well

der slanllni

might float their dally hum, «And the Lake's low roar upon the beach in quiet nights would come.

Ah! well the tow* might plant his tomb, with marble words to tell tflow the bravest of her blood was poured when young McMahon fell

[From Scrlbner—September.]

One Day at Arle.

•*.1.-3'

,h

•flililit

Vn

One day "at Arle—a tiny scattered wishing hamlet on the northwestern Vi!!j3EngliBh coast—there stood at the door 1of one of the cottages near the shore a woman leaning sgftiBSt tbe lintel-post 'and looking out a wo ma J) WOllW twve boon apt to attract a stranger's

1

i©r

when the unsteady.

6V6,

-"^have taken in a Becon_ —r-T

too

-a woman young anu_ handsome

Tirst glance would id would

This was what a

rT

"been apt to teacb mora and loavd & less

4s*jleasant

expression. Sho was young

enough to bave boon girlish, but she was not girlish in the least. Iler tall lithe, well knit figure was braced against tho door-post with a tense sort of strongth her handsome faco was just at this time as dark and hard in expression as if she had been a woman with years of bitter life behind her her handsome brows were knit, her lips "were sot from bead to foot sbe looked Unyielding and stern of purpose.

And noithor form nor face belied her. The earliest remembrances of the noast people concerning Meg Lonas lad not oeeu 9v^-p1en8ant one8 she had nover been ft favorite ^ern. Tho truth even as tho child who used to wander up among tbo rocks and on the beach, working harder for hor scant living than tho oldest of them. Sbe had nev-

a word for them, and never satisfied their curiosity upon tbe subject of the troatment she received from the illconditioned old grandlather who was iher only living relative, and this last peculiarity had rendered ber more unpopular than anything else would have 'done. If she haa answered their questions they might have pitied her but as she chose to moet them with stubborn silenco, they managed to show Xhelr dislike in many ways, until at last it became a settled point among them that the girl was an outcast in their midst. But even in those days she gave their, back wrong for wrong, scorn for scorn and as she grew older nho grew stronger of will, less prone to forgive her many injuries and slights, nnd more prone to revenge them in an "-obstinate, bitter fashion. But as she -grew older she grew handsomer too, and tho tlsher boys who had jeered at liar In her childhood were anxious to gain her good-will.

The women floated her still, and she defied them openly the men found it •wisest to be humble in their rough style, and her defiance of them was xuore scornful than hor defiance of their mothers and sisters. She would revenge herself upon them, and did until at last she meta wooer who was tender enough, It seemed, to mow her. At least so people said at first but suddenly the lover disappeared, and two

or

1

th

r-'-*

three months later tbe whole community was electrified by her sadden marriage with a suitor whom she had been wont to treat worse than all the rest. How she treated him after the marriage nobody knew. She was mors defiant and silent than ever, and goaaipers gained nothing by asking questions. So at last she was left alone.

It was not the face of a tender wire "waiting for a loving husband, the faoe that was turned toward the sea. If she ^"had hat*d the man for whom she watched, she could not hare been more unbending. Ever since her visitor had led her (she had had a visitor during 'the morning) she had stood in the same position, without moving, and when at last the figure of her husband came «louehing across the sands homeward fehe remained motionless still.

And surely his was not the face of a Iiappy husband. Not a handsome free at its dull best, it was doubly unprepossessing then, as, pale and breath loss he passed the stern form in tbe doorway. his nervous, reluctant eyes avoiding her*.

Yo'Il find yo're dinner aw ready on th* table," she' said to him as passed be

inkverythlng

was neat enough inside.

The fireplace was clean and bright, tbe table was set tidily, and the meal upon it was good enough in its way bat

roan entered be uncomprehending

iprebenaing glat._

around,"and when he had flung himself into a chair he did riot attempt to touch the food, bat dropped bis face upon his arm on tbe table with a sound like little groan. ghe must bave heard ft but she aid n?t notice it even by a turn of feetAead, but stood steadfast until be Spoke to ber. Sbe might have been wtgtiQg for his words—perhaps she was.

Tha canst come in an' say what tha has to say an' be done with it," he said at last, in a sullen, worn-out fashion, ,.

She turned round thon and faced »im, harder to be met in her rigid mood than if she bad been a tempest. "Tha knows what 1 getten to say, she answered, her tone strained and husky with repressed fierceness. Aye! tha knows it well enough. I ha not much need to teU thee owt. Be comn here this morning, and he towd me aw I want to know about thee, Seth Lonas—an' more too."

He comn to me," put in the man. Shp advanced toward the table and struck It once with her hand.4

Tha'st towd me a power lies, Sbe said. "Tha'st lied to me Irom first to last to serve thy own eends,an tha st gained 'em—tha'st lied me away fro th' man as wur aw th' world to niet but th' time's come now when tby days o'er an' his is comn ageu. Ah! thou bitter villain 1 Does ta mind how tha comn and towd me Dan Morgan had gone to the fair at Lake with that lass o' Barnegats? That wor a lie, and that wor the beginning. Does ta mind how tha towd me as he made light of me when tbe lads and lassies plagued him, and tbreeped 'em dawn as be did na mean to marry no such like lass as me—him as wor ready to dee lur me? That wor a lie and that wor the eendin', as tha knew it wonld be, fur I spurned him from me th' very neest dey, and wouldna listen when he tried to straighten out. But he got at the truth at last- when he wor fur from here, and he brought the truth back to mo to-day, and theer's th' eend fur thee —husband or no."

The man lay with his head on his arms until she had finished, and then he looked up all white and shaken and blind.

Eer

4 ol,

Wilt ta listen iiI speak to thee? ho asked* Aye," she answered,"listen to more lies!'

And she slipped down to a sitting

osture on the door step, and sat there, great eyes staring out seaward, her hauas lying loose upon her knee, and trembling.

There was something more in her mood than resentment. In this simple gesture she had broken down as she had never broken down ij her life before. There was passionate grief in her face, a wild sort of despair, such as one might see in a suddenly wounded, untamed creature. Hers was not a fair nature. I air. not telling tbe story of a gentle, true-souled woman—I am simply relating the incidents of one bitter day whose tragic close was the ending of a rough romance.

Her lite bad been along battle against the world's scorn she bad been either on the offensive er the defensive from childhood to womanhood, and then she had caught one glimpse of light and warmth, clung to it yearningly for one brief hour, and lost it.

Only to-day she learned that she had lost it through treachery. She dared ilot to believe in ber bliss, even during

A A a A an 1 an on if

had workedagaioitbirawUb wlsestor'es ap4 f»}»e prtofii. her fierce pride had caught them, and her revenge had been sharp and swift. But it had fallen back upon her own head now. Ibis very morning handsome Dan had come back again to Arle, and earned his revenge too, though he had only meant to clear himself when he told her what chance had brought to light. He had come back—her lover, the man who had conquered and sweetened ber bitter nature as nothing else on earth had power to do—he had come back and found her what she was—the wife of a man for whom she had never cared, the wife ol the man who had played them both false, and robbed her of the one

Eoor

gleam of joy she had known. She ad been hard and wild enough at Aret, but just now, when she 8»PPed down upon tbe door-step with her back turned to the wretched aian within—when it came upon her that, traitor as he was, she herself had given him the right to take her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his tender power —when the fresh sea-bre6Rd blew upoh her face and stirred her halhetid warm, rare sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine helped her to the end, so that she broke down into a sharp, sharp sob, as any other woman might have done, only tnat the repressed strength of her poor warped nature made It a sob sharper and deeper than another woman's would have been. "Yomought ha' left me that!" she said. "Yo mought ha' left it to me! There wur other women as would ha' done yo, there wur no other man on earth as would do me. Yo knowed what my life had been, an' how it wur hand to hand between other folk an' me. Yo knowed how much I cared fur him an' what he wur to me. Yo mought ha' let us be. I nlvver harmed yo. wouldna barm yo so sinful cruel now."

Wilt tajislen ho asked, laboring «sif fln* breath. Aye,71 she answered him, "1 11 listen, fur tha can na hurt me worser. Th' day fur that's past an' gone."

Well," said he, "listen an' I'll try to tell yo. I know It's no use, but I mun say a word or two. Happen yo didna know I loved yo aw' yo're lifehappen yo didna, but it's true. When yo wor a little lassgat^erin' sea-weed on th' sands I watched yo when I wor afeared to speak—aleared lest yo'd gi' me a sharp answer, far yo wor ready enow wi* 'em, wench. I've watched yb fUr hours when I wur a great lubberly lad, an' when yo gettin' to be a woman It wur th' same thing. I watched yo an' did yo many a turn as yo knowed nowt about. When yo war sesrehin' furdrllt to keep up th' fire after th' owd mon deed an' left yo alone, happen yo nivver guessed as it wor me as heaped little piles I' th' nooks o' th' rocks so as yo'd think 'at th' tide had left it theer—happen yo didn't, but it wor true. I've stayed round th' old house many a neet foared sum mat mought harm yo,' an' yo know yo nivver gave me a good word, Meg. An' then Daa oomn an' he made way wi' yo ss he made way wi' aw th' rest— men an' women anr children. He nivver worked an' waited as I did—he nivver thowt an' prayed as I did everything nome easy wi' hlm-everythlng alius did come easy wi' hlin snr when I seed him so light-hearted an' careless about what I wor cravin' it ran me daft an' blind. Seenit like be oonldna cling to it like I did, an' I begun to flsht agen it, an' when I heerd about that lass o' Barnegats I towd yo, an* when I seen yo believed whst I didna believe mysen It run me daftor yet, an' I put more to what he said, an* held back some, an' theer it wor an' theer it stands, an' if I've earnt a curse, lass,

I've gotten II, fn*—for I thowt yo'd been learnin', to oare for me a bit sin' we wor wed, an' God knows I've tried to treat yo lair an' kind i' my poor way. It worna Dan Morgan's way, I know—his wur a better way than mine, th' snn shone on him somehow— but I've done my best an' truest sin'."

Yo've done yo're worst," she said, "Th' worst yo could do wor to part us, an' yo did It. If yo'd been half a mon yo wouldna ha' been content wi' a woman yo'd trapped with saylu' 'Aye,' au' Who cared less lor yo than she did for th' sand on th' sea-shore. What's what yo've done sin' to what yo did afore? Yo cannot wipe that out and yo cannot mak' me forget. I hate yo, an' th' worse beoause I wor beginmn' to be content a bit. I hate invsen. I ought to ba' kupwed"—wildly—"he would ba' knowed whether I wor true or false, poor chap—he would ha' knowel."

Sho rocked herself to and fro for a minute, wringing her hands in a passion of anguish worse than any words, but a minute lator she turned on him all at once.

All's o'er between yo an' me." she said with flercft beat "do yo know that? Ifyo wor half mon yo would."

He sat up and stared at her hum* ly and stupidly. Eh?" he said at last.

Theer's not a mon i' Arle as is not more to me now than tha art," she said. "Some on 'em be honest, an' I canna say that o' thee. Tha canst get thee gone or I'll go mysen. Tha knows't me well enow to know I'll ne'er foraie thee for what tha's done. Aye"—with tbe passionate band-wring-ing again—"but that wunnot undo it."

He rose and came to her, trembling like a man with the ague. Yo dunnot mean that theer, Meg," he said slowly. "You dunnot mean It word fur word. Think a bit."

Aye but I do," she answered him, setting her white teeth, "word fur word." "Think again, wench." And this time he staggered and caught hold of tbe door-post. "Is tber nowt as '11 go agen th' wrong? I've lived wi' tbee nigh a year, an'I've loved thee twenty —is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, duunot be too hard. Tha was alius harder than most womankind try an' be a bit softer like to'rds th' mon as risked his soul because he war a mon an' dare na lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my shoulder last neet. Ave, lass—las-3, think o' that fur one minnit."

Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she laltered a little—what woman would not have faltered at such a moment?—but the next, the memory of the sunny half-boyish faco she had clung to with so strong a loye, rushed back upon her and struck her to the heart. She remembered the days when ber life had seemed so full that she had feared ber own bliss she remembered tbe gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at once she cried out in a fierce impassioned voice: "I'll ne'er forgie tbee," she said—"I'll ne'er forgie thee to th' last day o' my life. What for should I Tha's broke my heart, thou vttlian—tha's oroke my heart." And the next minute she had

Eouse.

ushed past him and rushed into the

For a minute or so after she was gone the man stood leaning against the door with a dazed look in his pale face. She meant what she said: he had known her long enough to understand that she never forgave—never forgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn strength had held her to enmities all her life, and be knew sbe was not to be won by such things as won other women. He knew she was havuet than most women, but his dull nature could not teach him how bitter must have been tbe life that rendered ber so. He bad never thought of it—he did not think of it now. He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had tried to make her happy and had failed. There were two causes for tbe heavy passion ot misery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse.

His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had loved and worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had its dull pang of weight and wretchedness. "I've come to th' eend now surely," he said, and, dropping into her seat, lie hid his face.

As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling toars with the back of his rough hand.

I'm forsook Sofflbhow," he said— "Ay#, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart 5* chap to tak' up wi* th' world. She wor all th' world I oafted fur, an' she'll ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un— she is. Aye! but I w\ir fond o' her! I wonder what she'll dto—I do wonder i' my soul what she's gettin' her tiiind on!"

It did not occur to trim to ttall to her or go and see what she was doing. He had always stood in tome dull awe of her, even when she had been kindest, and now it seemed thtt they were too far apart for any possibility of approach at reconciliation. SO fee sat and pondered heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shining soft and warm upon tbe house, and the few common flowers In the strip of garden whose Barrow shell walks and borders be bad Md out for her himself with m«chotu!ttsy planning and slofcr labor.

Then he got up ana took his rough working-jacket over his arm. "I man go down to th' Mary Anne," be said, "an' work a bit, or we'll ne'er get her turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a molt o' trouble." And sighed heavily.

Half-way to the gate he stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle, and perhaps for tbe first time in his life was conscious of a sudden carious admiration for them. "She's powerful fond o' such like bits o' things—posies an' such like," he said. "Thems some as I planted to please her on th' very day as we were wed. I'll tak' one or two. She's most fond on 'em—for such a hard un."

And when he went out he held in his hand two or three alender stems hang with the tiny pretty bumble bells. Who knows whether some subtle laflaence st work in soal or body, or even the air he breathed, did not prompt tbe novel mood.

He had these very bits of simple blossoms in his hand when he went down to where the Maxy Anne lay on tne beach for repairs. So his fellowworkmen said when they told the story afterwards, remembering even this trivial incident.

He was in a strange frame of mind, too, they noticed, silent and heavy ana absent. He did not work well, but lagged over bis labor, stopping every now and then to psss the back of his hand over his brow as it to rouse himself!

Yo look as if yo so' th' missus had had a fallin' out an' yo'n getten th' worst o' th' bargain," one of his comrades said by way of rough jest.

They were fond of joking with him about his 'love for bis handsome taciturn wife. But be did not langh this time ss'he usually did.

TRRRE-HATJTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL. SEPTEMBER 7,1872.

Mind thy own ftaekle, lad," he said dully, "an* I'll mind mine." From that time he worked steadily among them until it was nearly time for the tide to rise. The boat they were repairing had been a difficult Job to manage, as they oonld only work between tides, and now being hurried they lingered longer thsn usual. At tbe last minute they found it mult be moved, and so were detained.

Better leave her until th' tide ebbs," said one, IJUt the rest were not of tne same mind. "Nay," they argued, "it'll be all to do o'er again if we do tbat. Theer's

S[eave

lenty o' time if we look sharp enow. again, lads." Then it was tbat with the help ol straining and tugging there came a little lurch, and then it was tbat as the Mary Anne slipped over on hpr side one of tbe workers slipped with ber, slipped half underneath her with a cry, and lay on the sand, held down by the weight tbat tested on him.

With his cry there broke out half a dozen others, and tbe men rushed up to him with frightened faces.

Aroyo hurt, Seth, lad?" they cried. "Are yo crushed or owl The poor lellow stirred a little and then looked up at them pale enough.

Bruised a bit," he answered them, "an' sick a bit, but I dunnot think theer's any bones broke. Look sharp, chaps' au' heave ber up. She's a moit o' weight on me."

They went to work again one and all, so relieved by his words that they were doubly strong, but after toiling like giants for a while they were compelled to pause for breath. In falling the boat had so buried herself in the sand tbat

Bhe

was harder to move than ever.

It had seemed simple enough at first, but it was not so simple, alter all. With all their efforts they had scarcely stirred her an inch, and theircomrqde's position interfered with almost every

Elanthis

suggested. Then they tried again, ut time with less effect than before, through their fatigue. When they were obliged to pause they looked at each other questioningly, and more than one ot them turned a trifle paler, anc} at last the wisest of them spoke out. "Lods,"he said, ''we canna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi' thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide '11 flow."

Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up.

Eh be said, in that blind stupid fashion. "What's that theer tha's sayin' Mester

Th' tide," blundered the speaker. "I wor tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw."

The poor fellow moved restlessly. "Aye! aye!" he said. "Look sharp —he mun do that. I didna think o' th' tide." And he shut bis eyes again with a faint groan.

They strove while the messenger was gone they strove when he returned with assistance they strove with might and main, until not a man among tbem had tbe strength of a child, and the boldest ot them were blanchiug with a fearful, furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowd had gathered round by this time—nieu willing and anxious to help, women suggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in rough earnest style, children clinging to their mothers' gowns and looking on terror-strick-en. Suddenly, in tbe midst ot one ot their mightiest efforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from tbe edge of an anxious group a brief warning tbat struck terror to every heart that beat among them. "Eh! Mesters!" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up a bit."

The men looked around with throbbing pulses, tho women looked also, and one of the younger ones brake into a low cry, "Lord ha' mercy!" she said, "it'll sweep around th' Bend afore long an'—an'—" and she ended with a terror in ber voice whicii told its own tale without other wcrJs.

The truth forced itself upon them all tkon. Women began to shriek and men to pray, but strange to say, the man whose life was at stake lay silent, though with ashen lips about which tbe muscles were tensely drawn.

His dull eyes searched every group in a dead despair that was yet a passion, in all its stillness.

How long will it be," he askfld slowly at last—"th' tide? Tirenty minu'es?"

Hupptm Stt," Was the answer "An,' lad, lad! W6 canna help thee. We'n tried bttt best, lad"—with sobS teven frbm the uncouth fellow who sjioke. *'Theer is na one on us but ud leaVb a lihib behind to save thee, but theer is na time—theer is na—"

One deep groan and he lay still again —quite still. God knows what weight of mortal ugony and desperate terror crushed him in that dead, helpless pause.

Then his eyes opened as before. I've thowt o' deein'," he said with a queer catch of bis breath. "I've thowt o' deein', an' I've wondered how it wor an' what it felt like. I never thowt o' deein' like this here." Another pause and then—

Which o' yo lads '11 tell my missus t" Ay! poor chap, poor chap!" wailed the women. "Who on 'em will

Howd tha noise, wenches." he ssid hoarsely. "Yo daze me. Theer is na time to bring her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to her. I'd ha' liked to ha' said one word Jem Coulter—" raising his voioe—"canst tha say it for me "Aye," cried the man, choking as he spoke, "surely, surely." And he knelt down. "Tell her 'at if It wor l»ad enow— this here—it wor not so bsd as it mought ha' been—for me, I mought ha' fun it worser. Tell her I'd like to ha' said a word if I could—but I oonldna. I'd like to ha' heard her say one word as happen she would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell her 'at if she had ha' ssid it th' tide moasht ha' comn an' welcome—but she diana, an' theer it stands." And tbe sob that burst from his breast was like the sob of a death-stricken child. "Happen" —he said next—"happen one o' yo women foak say a bit o' a prayer—yo're not so for fro' safe sand bnt yo can reach it—happen one o' yo ha' a word or two as yo could say—such like aa yo teach yo're babbies."

Among these wssone who had—thank God, thank God J—and so, amid wails and weeping, rough men and little children alike knelt with uncovered heada and bidden eyes while this one woman faltered tbe prayer that wss a prayer for a dying man: and wben It waa ended, and all rose glsncing tearfully at the white line of creeping foam, this dying man for whom they had prayed lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest of them all—quiet with a strange calm.

Bring me my Jacket," he said, *'sn lay it o'er my face. Theer's a bit o' a posie in th' button-bole. I getten it out o' tb' missus's garden when I comn away. I'd like to hold it i' my hand if it's theer yet."

And as the long line of witite came

creeping onward they hurriedly did as he told them—Isid the rough garment over his faoe and gave him the humble dying flowers to hold, snd haVlng done this and lingered to the last moment, one after the other dropped away with awe-stricken souls nntil tbe last was gone. And under the arch of sunny sky the little shining waves ran up tbe beach, chasing each other over the glittering sand, catching at shells and Sea-weed, toying with tbem for a moment and then leaving them, rippling and curling and whispering, but creepinjt—creeping—creeping.

Save

Eunnot

Usi

They gave his message to the woman he bad loved with all the desperste strength of bis dull yet unchanging nature and when the m".n who gave it to her saw her wild, white face and hardset lips, he blundered upon some dim

uess as to what that single word might been, but the sharpest of tbqm never knew the stubborn anguish that, following and growing day by day, crashed her fierce will and shook her heart. She was as hard as ever, they thought but they wero none of tbem tbe men or women to guess at the longdormant instinct of womanhood and remorse that the tragedy of this one day ot ber life bad awakened. She had said she would never forgive him, and perhaps her very strength made it long before she did put surely some subtle chord was touched by those heavy last words, for wben, months later, her first love came back, faithful and tender, with his old tale to tell, she would not listen. "Nay, lad," she said, "I amna a feather to blow wi' th' wind. I've had my share o' trouble wi' men foak, an' I ba' no mind to try again. Him as lies i' th' churchyard loved me i' his way—men toak's way is apt to be a

oor un—an' I'm wore out wi' life. come here courtin'—tak' a better woman." 1p

RVf

BOSTON SOCIETY EXCITEDp1

A Wealthy Patrician Weds an Lish Maid Servant.

No little talk has prevailed for weeks

E!nd

ast in lashionable circles at the West in the view of an approaching marriage between a well-known gentleman of immense wealth, and a member of one of our oldest families and moving in tbe very highest circles, and a young daughter of Erin. Four and twenty years ago, fn a comfortable farm-house in the county ot Limerick, Ireland, and on one of the pleasantest spring mornings that can well be Imagined, was ushered into existence a tiny morsel of humanity, to whom, out of regard for its sex, was subsequently given at the baptismal font in tbe old parish church the front name of Mary.

Well, time rolled on, and brought with each recurrring season changes in the fortunes of Mary's parents, till at length they concluded to emigrate to "the land of the free and the nome of the brave." The project was accordingly put into execution, and some years ago the family arrived in Boston, and took up their residence at the South End, in tact, on Seneca street, where at present some of the members jet reside.

Mary, however, is not here, for soon after lier arrival nere, finding that she must do something to earn her own living, she sought and obtained a situation as lady's maid, her mistress being the wife of one of Boston's most aristocratic citiaens, a gentleman in whoso veins flows the blue blood of the Barclav's, and who can count his dollars by the hundreds of thousands. Mary's situation in the family was a very pleasant one her cheerful, winning ways soon endeared her to her mistress, and between the two a felling of regard soon sprung up, and as their associaciation continued grew stronger and more binding.

It was, however, with a deep sadness that the maid within a few years observed in her mistress tbe insidious approach of that curse of our New England clime, consumption, which fastened on the estimable lady and at length carried her to her grave, ber death occurring about two years ago. During her illness she was attended with most exemplary devotedness by Mary, who scarcely left the couch of the sick lady for a moment anticipating her every wish and smoothing her palhway to the grave by every little attention that could possibly conduce to the comlbrt of the dying woman.

During his wife's illness the husband was a sorrowful but attentive witness of tho care bestowed on her by the maid and, as subsequent eveuts proved, keen IV ttUUIOVimfW *MV tion. Suffice it to say that one fine day not many months ago, he sought a private interview with the blooming maid of Erin, and then there revealed tbe love which burned in his bosom. Whether the fair one manifested any surprise or not is unknown, but she asked for time, time to oonsider the proposal, and, her request being granted, she retired to the solitude of her chamber and communed with her thoughts.

The result of her self-questioning and meditation was lavorable to the suit of her admirer, for she reasoned as many before her have, that "it is better to be an old man's darling than a yowg man's slave," and acting oo tbat conviction she signified her acceptance of the proposal of marriage. Bnt tne little remains to be told. The happy suitor, anxious to cement his happiness insisted on an early union, te which his betrothed gave her assent, whereupon he departed at once for Europe to o?tfer a trousseau benefitting his intended bride, and to make arrangements for their marriage and homey moon on the continent.

Those arrangements have at length been completed, and a few weeks ago Mary, the whilom maid, received a letter from ber attaaced, desirirfg ber to hasten at once to his arms. She quietly obeyed tbe summons in company with her brother, and whoever is curious in such matters will find their names in the published list of cabin passengers who left thlsport last Tuesday in the steamship Hecia.—[Boston Times*

NOAK WEBSTER'S Spelling Book is still "consumed" to the amount of aboat one million copies per annum. Its publishers report the sales the last year to have been nine hundred and seventy-nine thousand two hundred and lour copies. His dictlonsry is spreadng a true knowledge of our language to the uttermost parts of tbe earth. The gentlemen Merriam, of Worcester. Mass.. lately filled an order for 10 copies of Webster's Unabridged, from Co.ombo, capital of tbe island of Ceylon, in tbe East Indies. During May they had two orders from Japan, one of 80 and one of 36 copies also one of 12 copies from Constantinople 90 copies also went to the China and Japan market in April, from San Franciapo.

"ijulte mooney out," said a swain, after walking silently with his nympb for three-quarters of an hour. "Yes," said she, "good many stars in tbe fundament."

MY EXPERIENCE.

"Well, if this isn't ridiculous! I have always had a great admiration for Gail Hamilton, and didn't think she could write anything.so silly."

Why, what does she say Listen. Here in her new work, 'Woman's Worth and Worthlessness,' sbe makes this remark 'Women haa better dress unhealthy than unbecomingly.' And I am surprised that a woman of her caliber and Influence should risk her reputation for wisdom on such an assertion. I know full well that most women are now in abject slavery to the unwise and burttul demands of fashion, audit ill becomes one like her to rivet the chains more tightly."

You men don't know how devoutly thankful you ought toTba for your sensible mode of dress. Your clothing is equally distributed over your body, leaving respiration and locomotion free, whilst we—"

Well, why don't you women dress sensibly, too? I am sure no one would object." "Now, what is the use of talking in that way? You know the truth of the old adage. 'You might as well be out ol the world as out of the fashion, and if I were to follow tho dictates of common sense in this matter, I should appear odd, and subject myself to invlaious remarks."

Well, all I have to say is this—if I were a woman I would dress to suit myself, no matter what people would

I concluded to argui' the VjUestion no further with my husband, but resolved if I live another day, to put this theory to test. Accordingly, the next morning I rolled my hair up in an elaborate coil, about the size of half a walnut, and dispensed with all superflous supports and drapery. Thus comfortably aud classically arrayed, I descended to tbe break fast table.

My husband looked suprised, but contonted himself with the kindly inquiry, "If I were not well?" I answered, "Perfectly so."

After breakfast I congratulated myself upon such a fine arrangement, as now I need opend no time upon my toilet, but could sit right down and have a long forenoon in which to sew.

After being thus engaged for a short time, there came a tingle at tho doorbell. I answered it myself. Thero stood a gentleman, who gave me a small parcel, with the request, "Please hand it to the lady of the house."

I bobbed him agraceful courtesy, and said, "Yls, sir." At dinner-time my youngest hopeful came bounding in from school, with the salutation,?'Whyma! is that you I didn't know you."

My husband seemed still more bewildered, and asked, "Did I have a pain in my head Hadn't 1 better lie down and apply wet bandage?"

I hastened to assure him tbat '-I never felt better In my life." In the afternoon I concluded to put on a good old-fashioned sun-bonnet, go into the yard and tie up some shrubbery. While thus engaged, I was accosted by a man from over tbe fence with the iuquiry, "Did I know of any other strong, good-looking girl, like myself, he coula hire to do bis housework?"

I replied, "I did not." "Weil, then, did I think of changing my place if so, he would give me as good wages as anybody, perhaps better than I was getting."

I informed him "I bad not the least desire to change, for I had a very indulgent mistress and as for the man «f the nouse, I really liked him right woll. And furthermore," I said, "that no gentleman would endeavor to hire a servant from her place." I proceeded to convince him of the faot, when ho recollected he was in a hurry, aud must look turtber.

Then I asked myself the question fa la Francis Train,) "How do you like it, so far as you have gone?"

However the worst was to come yet. About tea-time I happened to go to tho front door, when lo and behold who should be coming in at the gate but tny husband—and an old time beau Now, if a woman has one weakness above another, it is to appear well before a quondam admirer, not from a spirit of coquetry, but for tho satiflfacol having him admit to himself. "What a lucky man my rival was." Well here was a dilemma which horn should I take—advance or run? I instantly chose the former, and met him very cordially, but thought I detected in his quick glance an expression which seemed to say, "Thank my «.tars that I escaped that woman." Ho Was even so ungallant as to tell mo that I "had changed greatly, and had ho met me unexpectedly he should not have known me."

In the course of the evening, as I inquired after my girlhood friends, ho seemed to take especial pleasure in telling me "they were very nne-looking women."

Finally, tbe evening being warm, tbe gentlemen proposed to walk down town for ice cream. I exclaimed delightfully, "Ob, thank you that will be nice just wait a moment, until get my sun-bonnet."

Then up spoke my husband, as one having authority, "Not in that rig, if you please, madam."

I said, "Why not? It is very comfortable, and surely you ought to give me credit for sufficient independence to dress with a view to convenience rather than appearance."

vision, and as I explained tho "situation to our mutual friend, ho joined heartily in the merry laugh, feeling relieved that there was no immediate necessity for a trip to a certain asylum.

So after all, I have concluded that in one sense, Gall is right. And while we are in Turkey we bad bettor do as Turkeys do.—[tariespondence Woman's Journal. ,.^1^ ,,

"dNB of the funniest stories tbat we have read in along time is the following, which we found in an exchange: An old Teuton found guilty of selling liquors contrary to law, and sentenced to be imprisoned in the county jail for thirty days, protested as follows "Chail! Go to Chail! Me go to C'hail! But I can't go! Dere's my pizness— my pakery. Who pakes my pread' wnen I pen goneVf Then casting hiseyes aboat tne court- room, appealingly, they fell upon the good-natured face of Jolly Chris Ellwaner, a fellow-country-man, "rolt no pizness," and forthwith a brilliant Idea occurred to him. Turnto the Court, he said, in

sober

earnest:

"Dere's Chris Ellwaner! He's got nothing to do. Send him." |,

JOXKS and bis wife were always quarrelling about their

comparative

talent

for keeping a fire# She Jnslstfed that just so surely as he attempted to rearrange the sticks with the t^ngs, he put the fire out. One night the churchbell sounded an alarm, and Jones sprang for his fire bucket eaget to rush to the conflagration. Mr. Jones," cried bis wifo as he reached the door,

Mr.

Jones, take the tongs!'?