The globe. (Huntingdon, Pa.) 1856-1877, May 18, 1859, Image 1

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41.ording to these terms.
eltct .o#x .
" Mother, the icy hand of death,
Doth chill my limbs, and stop my breath;
Read me those sacred words again,
They soothe my spirit, ease my pain."
She took the precious Book, and read,
How Jesus long ago had said,
"Let little children comp to rne,
For such shall heaven's household be."
She closed and laid aside the Book,
And in her arms the sufferer took;
His eyes grew dint, his utterance weak,
But still he struggled hard to speak.
lie struggled long ! what would ho say,
Ere death has sealed his lips for ayo?
"Don't shut it up," at length he cried—
" Don't shut the Book,"—then calmly died
"Don't shut it up," his spirit sings,
While upward borne on angel wings;
"Don't shut the Bible," seemed to say
His cold and pallid lips of clay.
"Don't shut the Bible," still I hear
It sounding sweetly in mine ear;
From morn till noon, from noon till even,
It speaks to me—a voice from heaven.
"Don't shut the Bible," God on high
With threat proclaims, or man will die ;
"Don't shut the Book,"—a voice of love
Doth over whisper from above.
"Don't shut the Bible," till its light
Dispels the gloom of Pagan uigh•t;
Till sin's dominion is no more,
And Jesus reigns from. shore to shore
'et.ect it ilr.
Of course there is a vast difference in the
mental capacities of different individuals, but
this difference is not always so real as many
seem to imagine. More people live in igno
rance, and sink into their graves unknown,
from the lack of will and purpose than from
the want of mental capabilities. It is the
presence of a firm fixed purpose, united with
unfaltering perseverance, that makes really
great men; and, the thousands who move along
through life, indolence and ignorance, profes
sing an admiration for genius and wondering
why they were not blessed with some of these
extraordinary powers of mind, have only
their own carelessness and inertness to
I Lave the story of a life in my mind
which is to the point, and I will relate it as
I know it, simply concealing the real names
of those concerned for reasons which will be
apparent to the reader.
Some five-and-thirty years ago, I was the
preceptor of the academy, in 1"—. It was
an excellent institution and we had sholars
from all parts of the country. One evening,
as I sat in my room alone, I heard a light rap
at the door, and I bade the applicant to en
ter. The door was opened, and I saw a boy,
poorly clad, holding his cap in his hand.—
The season was early winter, and as the cool
air came in through the open door-way, I
told the boy to conic in and shut the door.—
I may have spoken rather abruptly, for I
supposed the fellow only had sonic ordinary
errand to communicate, and I wanted my
time to myself. lie gazed at me a moment,
with a half-frightened look, and then closed
the door, but he closed it between him and
me, and I heard him hurrying away. I arose
and went into the hall, but he was gone; so
I returned to my books, and in a little while
the incident passed from my mind.
Two or three days afterwards I saw the
:same boy cross the street, and I asked a man,
who stood by my side, if lie knew him.
"Who—that fellow ?" said he, with a sort
-of contemptuous, pitying tinge in his tone,
.at the same time pointing to the boy.
"Yes," I replied. "Do you know him ?"
"Why—that is _Hugh Moran. He lives at
the poor-house."
"No," interposed a third party, who stood
at my elbow. "Mr. Amos Fisher has taken
him, and I shouldn't wonder if he made a
preity good boy."
"Is he an orphan ?" I asked.
"Rather worse than that," said my infor
•man t.
I soon learned that the lad was one of
those poor unfortunates, whose birth had
been clouded by shame, and who had
hence, been a mark for the cold finger of
scorn. His mother had sought the alms
house, in her ruin and degradation, and
there she had died. Her boy had lived there
until very recently, when Mr. Fisher, a kind,
upright farmer, had taken him, and given
him a home in his family: I became inter
ested in the little fellow at once, and resolved
to find out, on the first favorable opportunity,
what had beenhis object in calling upon me.
It seemed evident enough that he had came
upon his own account, for had -he been sent
by his guardian, he would not have gone
Away as he did.
Not many days after this I met the boy
,upon the side-walk. It was in the morning,
and I was going to the academy but I stop
lied and spoke with him. I asked him if he
was not the one who came to my room a few
evenings before. He seemed a little fright
"ened, as though fearful that ho had done
something wrong ; but I spoke kindly to him,
and managed to re-assure him.
"Yes," he said. "I came, but I did not
dare to stop and disturb you ."
"What did you come for ?" I asked.
Again he hesitated, but I finally learned
from him, that he came with the hope that I
could help him to learn something. I asked
him if he wished to learn, and, for the first
time, he answered me quickly and eagerly in
in the affirmative. I told him to come to my
TOM that evening, and I would talk with
lle promised to come and we separated.
1 50
About seven o'clock, Hugh made his ap
pearance at my door, and this time he enter
ed and took a seat. He was a fine looking
boy, with a keen, full eye. I very soon made
him feel that I would be his friend, and ere
he had been with me many minutes, he had
so far overcome his diffidence, that he could
speak without trouble.
"I have never been a bad boy, sir," he said,
when I asked him to tell me what had indu
ced him to seek me ; " but I have been very
unfortunate. It wasn't my- fault, sir, and I
never could help it. I wasn't born so happy
as other children are. A sin which others did,
come upon me, with its painful consequences,
and it has bowed me down in shame and sorrow!
Ile stopped here, and covered his face with
his hands. I laid my hand upon his head,
and told him that I knew the story of his birth
and that I should consider him the more de
serving of love and esteem, if he proved wor
thy of it, on that account.
"Look upward," said I, taking ono of his
hands, "for the Being who dwells above us,
and who is the Parent of all souls judges his
children by their LIVES, and not by any cir
cumstances of birth. If a halo of glory rests
upon the brow in the hour of death, and the
last memories of earth are of duties truly and
nobly done, it will matter nothing at all
where the cradle of infancy was rocked.—
The Son of God—the Savior of Man—was
born in a Manger, where the beasts of bur
den were stalled I"
I never saw so sudden a change, and one
so palpable and deep, come over a human
face, as had come over his when I 'ceased
speaking. There was a brilliant hopeful
light beaming out through his tears, and even
in the quiver of his lip there was stern and
holy purpose. lie told me he had been to
school some, but, that the boys laughed at
him and made sport to his misfortunes. He
dared not resent their insults, for then they
would only speak more tauntingly, and some
times strike home to his heart through his
mother's fall I The memory of one bitter
sneer would haunt him through a whole day,
and make his heart ache.
"I could not bear it," he said, and I "beg
ged of Mr. Fisher not to send me to school;
and finally, when I had plead very hard, he
said if I would study evenings, he would let
me try it. o—sir—perhaps you will laugh
at me, but I thought—if—at some day—l
could be a better and greater man than any
of those who have made sport of me—l should
be—be —"
"Be what ?" said I, as he hesitated.
"Be—happy—not out of spite, but happy
in my own success."
"And did you think I would help you ?" I
asked him.
"I hoped you would," he replied. "I
thought you looked very kind, and that you
would not turn me away. I heard some of
the scholars at the academy talking, and when
I heard them tell how they loved you, I felt
sure that you would be good to me." •
I fairly began to love the little fellow, and
as I made the emotion manifest, he seemed
to feel it at once, for he became more free,
and spoke his hopes and aspirations more
warmly. I soon comprehended the whole
plan he had been dreaming over. He had
resolved to be a great man if it lay in his
power, and every energy of his soul was bent
in that direction. The gibes of his compan
ions had given him the spur, and his ambi
tion had leaped up strong and powerful. I
told him I would help him all I could—that
he should have the use of any of my books,
and that I would hear as many recitations as
he could properly prepare himself for. He
caught my hand and pressed it to his lips,
and I think he would have gone down on his
knees if I had not held him up.
As soon as he had become somewhat calm,
I gave him a book, and asked him to read to
me. I was astonished to hear him, for I had
few scholars who. could read so well. He
told me that his mother taught him to read
when he was very small, and that he had
read all the old papers and books he could
get bold of. He knew nothing of grammar,
however, and but very little of arithmetic ;
so I gave him a work on grammar, and one
on arithmetic, and marked lessons for him to
I felt an interest on two accounts in the
new work I had thus taken upon my hands.
First :—I felt a real interest in the boy's
welfare, and meant to help him because I
actually come to love him. And, secondly,
I had a desire, to see how fast, and how far,
one under his circumstances, could go. I
saw that he bad a fair intellect—nothing
more—no great native points of mental
power, nor any brilliant parts. I knew that
all he gained would be due to his firm will
and perseverance, and I meant to see how
the poor, unfortunate child of shame and sor
row would fashion a future from the unto
ward circumstances which had thus far at
tended him through life.
On the next day I met Mr. Fisher in the
post office, and I spoke to him of Hugh's
visit to me. I -found the old farmer ready
and willing to help the boy all he could.
" He'll have a good many leisure hours,"
he said, " and he'd better be studying than
to be doing nothing. If you can teach him
so that he-can write, cipher some, and per
parse some easy grammar pieces, it
maybe a good thing for him."
I could not help smiling at the old man's
honest simplicity ; but I thanked him for his
promise to help mo in the work, and then
left him.
On the very next evening Hugh came to
my room, and he bad committed about six
times as much as I had given him to do ; and
ho had done it understandingly.
But I need not follow him through all his
studies. At first I believed that he must
have been over with the studies before ; but
when he assured me that he had n0t,..1 was
forced to credit him. He went through with
the grammar in one short month, and before
the winter was out he had parsed every word
in " Pope's Essay on Man," and conquored
the mysteries of cube-root, and gone some
into algebra. It presented a curious study
to me, and it showed me what an indomita
ble will and perseverance can accomplish.—
And then to think that he was doing all this
during his leisure hours. Sometimes he did
burn his candle rather later than people in
that section were wont to burn theirs ; but
he lost none of his freshness and vigor, his
high hopes keeping him in health and
During the following summer he had not
so much time for study, as he was determined
not to neglect his work. But he came to my
room twice a week, and his progress was
rapid. When winter came, he again took up
Latin and Greek; and here he gave me
the greatest surprise. He conquered the
rules of grammar and translation in an in
credibly short space of time, and began
reading Virgil on New Year's day, having
already got well into the Greek Testament.
But, after all, it is a singleness of purpose,
and directness of application, that serve best
in the study of the languages. The student,
with the will to know and 'understand, can
penetrate further into the mysteries of Greek
in one month, than he studies because
he is expected to study, will do in a year.
Hugh Moran remained with Mr. Fisher
four years, and at the end of that time I
could teach him no more ; but he could
teach me much. lie was a thorough classi
cal scholar ; a mathematician of rare powers ;
well skilled in chemistry; deeply versed in
philosophy and astronomy; and able to ex
press himself handsomely.
" 0 1" he cried, " if I could only talk as I
can think !"
" Then study to talk," I said.
"But where? I cannot do it here. None,
save you, know how I have labored for the
past four years ; and they shall not now wit
ness my exper•inwuts."
" Stop," said I. " You are bound to Mr.
Fisher ? '
" Yes—for three years more—till I am
twenty-one. The town bound me to him
when they let me out from the poor house."
" But couldn't we prevail upon him to let
you go ?"
"For what ?" gasped Ifugh, catching me
by the hand, and gazing into my eyes, for he
saw a new meaning there.
" ;Wait," I told him.
That evening I wrote to Daniel Percival,
an old lawyer, who lived in a neighboring
city, and who had been for Many years in
official positions which entitled him to the
prefix of " Honorable ;" and to him I stated
the case of my young friend as plainly as I
could, and asked for his assistance. On the
very next week, Mr. Percival himself, made
his appearance at my house, and in the eve
ning Hugh came. After conversing an hour,
the old lawyer expressed a desire to have the
youth go with him, to assist him in his office
and study law.
I saw Mr. Fisher, and had a long talk with
him. At first he would not listen to the idea
of Hugh's going away. He said he didn't
care anything about the letter of indenture—
he would throw that up in a moment, but
Hugh was like an own son to him. He could
not spare him—they couldn't think of it.—
But when I came to paint the youth's true
power, and show what ho might become in
the future, the old man wavered. And when
I explained that Ilugh's hopes and aspira
tions might all be crushed if they were nip
ped now, he began to ponder. Finally I
made him see, that he had in his power
to set the boy at once upon the road to
fame and honor, and consented to my prop,
So Hugh Moran went with Percival, and
I was not disappointed in my expectation.—
"Why," wrote the old attorney, a few months
afterwards, speaking of Hugh, " he will ere
long become a perfect cyclopedia incarnate
of legal facts and principles: He reads
Blackstone with the delight of a young miss
over a love story, and everything worth
treasuring up is thoroughly digested in his
mind, and then laid away in his memory.—
I will have him at the bar very soon, believe
During the following winter, notice was
given that Hugh Moran would deliver a lec
ture before the Institute in our place. Some
had the cool impudence to wonder if it could
be " our" rlugh—" Poor House Hugh," but
the supposition was immediately set down as
among the things impossible. Yet there was
a feeling—a sort of presentiment—gaining
ground among the people, that it might be
he, after all ; and when the evening for the
lecture came, the large hall was packed to its
utmost capacity.
Hugh Moran arose—a few recognized him
at once, but others failed at first to discover,
in the polished gentleman, who stood before
them, the Hugh of their own knowledge.—
He announced his subject as " The Battle of
Life"--and commenced. For a few moments
old memories seemed to coma over him with
a whelming force, but he finally started up,
up, up, till he had lifted every heart to the
shrine of admiration. It was a noble theme,
and he handled it with marvelous power.—
He :Tooke from _experience, and every word
came burning from his heart. When he
closed there was such a storm of enthusiasm
as was never witnessed in the old hall before,
and men, who had in by-gone times passed
him coldly by, now pressed forward for the
honor of an acquaintance.
An hour later, I found hirt alone in my
study. His head was bowed upon his bands,
and his manly cheeks were covered with
" What is it ?" said I, placing my hand
upon his shoulder.
"I was thinking," he replied, gazing up
into my face and wiping his eyes.
" Of what ?" I asked him.
" Of my mother," he said, in a tremulous,
musical tone. "I could almost wished she
had lived—l might have made her so proud
and happy."
Noble, generous Hugh! Even in that first
hour of triumph, lie could not boar to take
all the joy to himself. But he was not alone
—other hearts were with him. A simple
word brought his head upon my bosom, and,
while he blessed me for what I had done for
him, he wept outright ; and I, who am not
easily moved to tears, was a child then.—
Time passed on, and Hugh took sweet Mary
Fisher for a wife. She had been as a sister
to him in times past, and she knew how to
!, MAY 18, 1859.
Ive him and appreciate him.
j And Hugh marched on up the hill—never
• erving—never faltering. lle became a
right light in his profession—he went to
ongress—he became Governor of the State
. tat gave him birth—at this present moment
occupies one of the most honorable posi
ens in the nation.
And yet I know that Hugh Moran posses
,ied no more natural talents than thousands of
ose who have listened with wonder and ad
iration to his eloquence, and who have said
themselves, that God makes few men with
enius like that. No, no—he had will and
pergy. He had a noble purpose, and he per
pvered. From a. birth of gloom and shad
to a manhood of bright, effulgent honor
!xu.l. renown, he worked his own way, by
?Daily, hard, persistent labor. And others
sray do it—lF THEY WILL I
i o Mr. Brown's Mishaps.
Mr. Eliphalet Brown was a bachelor of
iirty-five or thereabouts ; one of those men
ho seem to be born to pass through the
orld alone. Save this peculiarity, there
as nothing to distinguish Mr. Brown from
0 multitude of other Browns, who are born,
row up and die in this world of ours.
It chanced that Mr. Brown had an omit
ion to visit a town some fifty miles dista on
tatters of business. It was his first to
he place, and ho proposed stopping for a
hay, in order to give himself an opportunity
0 look about.
Walking leisurely along the street, he was 1
11 at once accosted by a child of five, who
an up to him exclaiming :
" Father I want you to buy me some more
0 1: l l ' v a a t
s h e a l. c .E r
e w s a s
e s
d it
possible, h
at titlet a tbe ? " a b
c a o c u h
of believe it.
1 " Who are you speaking to my dear ?" he
\nquired of the little girl.
" I spoke to you, father," said the little
no, „r, s e n a r l
I p y r , i , s ,
e t d h . ought Mr. Brown, "this is em
i "I am not your father, my dear," he said,
*what is your name ?"
j The child laughed heartily, evidently think
ing it a good joke.
" What a funny father you are," she said,
"but you are a going to buy me some can
"Yes, yes, I'll buy you a pound if you
won't call me father any more," said Brown,
nervously. .
The little girl clapped her hands with de
light. The promise was all she remember
Mr. Brown proceeded to a, confectionary
store, and actually bought a pound of candy,
which he placed in the hands of the little
In coming out of the store they encounter
ed the child's mother.
"Oh, mother said the little girl, "just see
how much candy father has bought for me."
"You shouldn't have bought so much at a
time, Mr. Jones," said the lady, "I am afraid
she will make herself sick. But how did
you happen to get home so quick ? I did not
expect you till night."
"JoNns—l--madame," said the embarras
sed Mr. Brown, "it's a mistake ; I ain't Jones
at all. It isn't my name. lam Eliphalet
Brown, of W , and this is the first time
I have ever been into this here city."
"Good heavens ! Mr. Jones what has put
that silly tale into your head? You have
concluded to change your name, have you?
perhaps it is your intention lo change your
Mrs. Jones' tone was now defiant ; and this
tended to increase Mr. Brown's embarrass
" I haven't any wife, madame ; I never
had any. On my word as a gentleman, I
never was married."
"And do you intend to palm this tale off
upon me," said Mrs. Jones, with excitement.
"If you are not married, I'd like to know
who I am ?"
"I have no doubt you arc a very respecta
ble lady ," said Mr. Brown, and I conjecture,
from what you have said, that your name is
Jones ; but mine is Brown madame and al
ways was."
"Melinda," said her mother suddenly tak
ing the child by the arm, and leading her up
to Mr. Brown, "Melinda who is this gentle
man ?"
"Why, that's father ?" was the child's im
mediate reply, as she confidently placed her
hand in his.
"You hear that Mr. Jones, do you ! You
hear what the innocent child says, and yet
have the unblushing impudence to deny that
you are my husband ? The voice of nature,
speaking through the child, should overwhelm
you. I'd liko to know, if you aro not her
father, why you are buying candy for her ?
But I presume you never saw her before in
your life."
"I never did. On my honor, I never did.
I told her I would give her the candy if she
wouldn't call me father any more."
" You did, did you ? Bribe your child not
to call you father ? Oh, Mr. Jones, this is
infamous ! Do you intend to desert me, sir,
and leave me to the cold charities of the
world ? And is this your first step ?"
Mrs. Jones was so overcome that, without
warning sho foil back on the side-walk in a
fainting fit.
Instantly a number of persons ran to her
"Is your wife subject to fainting in this
way ?" asked the corners, of Brown.
"She isn't my wife. I don't know any
thing about her."
" Why, it's Mrs. Jones, ain't it ?"
" Yes, but I'm not Mr. Jones."
" Sir," said the speaker sternly, " this is
no time to jest. I trust you are not the cause
of the excitement which must have occasion
ed your wife's fainting fit. You had better
call a coach and carry her home directly."
Poor Brown was dumb-founded.
" I wonder," thought he, " whether it's
possible that I'm Mr. - Jones, without know
ing it Perhaps I'm really Jones, and have
gone crazy, in. consequence of which I fancy
that my name is Brown. And yet I don't
think my name is Jones. In spite of all, I
insist that my name is Brown."
" Well, sir, what are you waiting for ? It
is necessary that your wife should be re
moved at once. Will you order a carriage ?"
Brown saw that there was no use to prolong,
the discussion by a denial. He therfeore with
out contesting the point, ordered a hackney
coach to the spot.
Mr. Brown accordingly lent an arm to Mrs.
Jones, who had somewhat recovered, and was
about to close the door on her.
" Why, are you not going yourself ?"
" Why, no, why should I ?"
" Your wife should not go alone ; she has
hardly recovered."
Brown gave a despairing glance at the
crowd around him, and deeming it useless to
make opposition where so many, seemed thor
oughly convinced that he was Mr. Jones, fol
lowed the lady in. '
"Where shall I drive ?" asked the whip.
" I—l—l—don't know," said Mr. Brown
"'Where would you like to be carried ?"
" Home, of course," murmured Mrs. Jones
" I don't know," said Brown.
" No. 19, II street," said the gentle
man already introduced, glancing contemptu
ously at Mr. Brown.
" Will you help use out, Mr. Jones?" said
the lady ; " I am not fully recovered from
the fainting fit into which your cruelty drove
"Are you quite sure that I am Mr. Jones,"
asked Brown with some anxiety.
" Of course," said Mrs. Jones.
" Then," said he resignedly, " I suppose
I am. But if you believe me, I was firmly
convinced this morning, that my name was
Brown, and to tell the truth, I haven't any
recollection of this house."
Brown helped Mrs. Jones into the parlor,
but good heavens ! conceive the astonish
ment of all, when a man was discovered
seated in the arm chair, who was the very
fac similie of Mr. Brown in form, feature,
and in every other respect !
" Gracious !" exclaimed the lady, " which
—which is my husband?"
An exclanation was given, the mystery
cleared up, and Mr. Brown's pardon sought
for the embarrassing mistake. It was freely
accorded by Mr. Brown, who was quite de
lighted to think that, after all, he was not Mr.
Jones, with a wife and a child to boot.
Mr. Brown has not since visited the place
where this " Comedy of Errors" happened.
Ile is a afraid of his identity.
Totee an old hunter or trapper in his buck
skin garb, armed with rifle, knife, and toma
hawk, is not a very unusual thing in the city
of St. Louis, for that town is the head quar
ters of the North-western Fur Company, and
the names of the Choteau's, Aubrey's, &c.,
are historically affixed thereto.
Some few years ago, I was sitting in the
reading rem of the Virginia Hotel there,
conversing with a gentleman on business,
when an old man dressed and completely
armed as a hunter or trapper is when in his
accustomed wilds, entered and minutely scan
ned the features of every person present. lie
was evidently quite old, and very thin, and
feeble, looking as if he had recently risen
from a couch of sickness. Yet his dark eye
beamed brightly, even fiercely in its sunken
socket, and his erect form seemed to struggle
against the mortal darkness which pervade it.
The old man shook his head as he finished
his gaze around the room, and muttering in
a low tone, " The cuss is not here !" he turn
ed away.
Having finished my business, I also left
and went up to the Planter's House where I
boarded. When I arrived, it lacked but a
few minutes of dinner time, and the guests
were gathering in the sitting room waiting
for the gong to sound. I had just entered
when the old hunter, who had before attrac
ted my attention also came in, and as before
commenced an inspection of every counte
Suddenly his eye flashed with fire more
fierce than ever I saw glow in human face
before, and he strode up to a young fellow
who bore the name of being the most daring
hunter of the North-west Company, of which
he was a trading agent when on the hunt,
and the most reckless gambler and wildest
bauchee of the crowd, when he was in the
city. His name was Auguste St. Vrain.—
Only three days before, I had seen him on the
Bloody Island, in the river opposite St. Louis,
stand at ten paces against one of the best
shots in the city, and not a nerve trembled,
nor did his face pale, but he " winged " his
man as coolly as if he had been shooting at
a bird. Yet now, when that old man stepped
up before him, and he caught a glance of his
fiery eye, his courage and presence of mind
seemed utterly to fail him, and trembling,
while the old man's voice, loud and clear as
a bugle, rang in his ear.
" 1 have sought you long, Auguste St.
Vrain, and have found you? Remember
As he spoke, the ominous click of the old
man's rifle was beard. Astonished into si
lence, the crowd. drew to either side, while
St. Vrain, tearing his shirt bosom open, said
in a low, hopeless tone:
" Fire old man, I deserve it !"
The old hunter had scarce waited for the
word ; for, ere St. Vrain's last word was spo
ken, the bullet from the bunter's rifle had
passed through his heart. I3e sunk a corpse
on the floor, murmuring only one word—
" Adele."
The old man stood and gazed at the body
a moment, then muttered, "it is right—l have
fired my last shot I"
In a moment he was seized—he made no
resistance—and hurried off to prison. As I
was then a practicing attorney in the courts
of that city, feeling a sympathy for the old
man, I availed myself of my position to go to
him and freely offer him my services. - Ile
received me calmly and kindly, but his voice
was very feeble, as he replied,
" IVA little use you can be to me, sir, for I
Editor and Proprietor.
The Erunter's Last Shot
By the Author of the "Bond of Blood."
have fired my last shot and tramped my last
tramp. But as you seem to be about the only
friend I've got around here, I may as well
ease my mind and tell you why I shot St.
Vrain. Two years ago, I would have shot
myself sooner than raise a hand to harm a
hair on his head. lle was young, handsome,
brave ; as good a trapper as ever drew bead
on a grizzly's eye. I loved him."
The old man's voice grew husky, his lip
quivered ; he paused a moment, then he went
" I was not the only one that loved him.—
My Adele—then only sixteen, the image of
her poor dead mother—sun loved him, and
he pretended to love her. He promised to
marry her, and under that promise ruined
her. Age and shame made her keep the se
cret until it could no longer be kept ; then be
fled from her, left ber to bring a babe into
the world, and then to die broken hearted,
with it upon her bosom. Both of them sleep
in one grave on the banks of the Yellowstone.
For a time I thought I should have to lay
down there, too, before I found him, but I
kept up till my work was done. I care not
for life now."
NO, 47,
I tried to cheer up the old man. I told
him that the mere recital of his wrongs be
fore a western jury would acquit him, but he
only shook his head and muttered, "My last
shot is fired, I am at the end of my last tramp."
One week afterwards, a few of us, who had
discovered in him a brother of the "mystic
tie," gave him honorable burial in a neigh
boring cemetery ; for he passed away as qui
etly as if he had laid him down by a pleasant
camp-fire to rest, after a long and weary hunt.
Green were the sprigs cast in his grave, and
true the hands which threw them there.
A Washington paper gives the following
account of a domestic " what-d'ye-call it,"
which occurred in that city the other day.•—
The old proverb is, that " it never rains but
it pours.' The killing of Key seems to have
crazed the silly pates of several very roman
tic married women in this metropolis. A few
days after the Sickles tragedy, a married
lady living in the southern part of the city,
or what is known as the island, informed her
liege lord that she had been grossly insulted
the previous evening, by Mr. B—, an ac
quaintance of the family. The incensed and
outraged husband, with revolver in hand,
rushed to the office of the supposed offender,
and demanded satisfaction.
" Satisfaction for what ?" asked the aston
ished Mr. B.
" For having insulted my wife, sir, last
evening," responded the excited individual.
" Pray, sir, who dares charge me with ever
having insulted your wife, by look, word, or
action ?" again inquired Mr. B.
" The lady herself, sir, makes the charge,"
promptly rejoined the husband.
" With your permission, sir, I would be
pleased to face my accuser, and hear her
make the charge in my presence," mildly re
marked the imperturbable Mr. B.
" You shall be gratified, sir ; come, walk
with me," added the still exasperated hus
band, at the same time returning his six
shooter to his pocket.
But before giving the closing scene, it may
be well to intorm the reader of the facts.—
On the evening previous, Mr. B. had casually
called at the house of a friend, and there
found the lady in question, without an escort.
At a late hour she prepared to return home,
and Mr. B— kindly tendered his services
to see her safe to her door. The streets on
the island are not highly improved, and on
the night in question, was very muddy. At
one point the walk was quite intercepted by
a mud-hole, over which the lady and gentle
_man were compelled to pass. A knight of
old would probably have thrown down his
mantle, over which the fair lady might have
alked ; but our hero having no such appen
dage, proposed a spring, by which his com
panion, with the assistance of his hand, clear
ed the mud at a single bound.
Without further annoyance, they reached
the lady's residence in safety.
The excited husband now ushered Mr. B.
into his parlor, and rang for his insulted wife,
who promptly reported herself. Mr. B
looking the lady full in the face, asked:
" Madam, have I ever, by word, look, or
deed, offered you the slightest indignity or
insult in my life ?"
A breathless pause follow=ed. The lady,
after some hesitation, falteringly answered:
" I thought you squeezed my hand slightly,
in helping me over the mud-hole last night."
The revolver dropped, and after due apol
ogy to Mr. B—, the mortified husband
turned to his romantic spouse and adminis
tered a rebuke, to avoid the witnessing of
which, Mr. B— hastily left the house and
returned to his office, ruminating on the char
acter of female women, with the sage con
clusion, that at the present age of the world,
it was not entirely "safe to bau other men's
little girl had been attacked with severe pain
in the head, which ended in blindness. She .
was taken to an eminent oculist, who pro
nounced her incurable. She wished to know
what the doctor had said about her state, and
her mother told her, "What, mother 1" ex
claimed the child, "am I never more to see
the sun, nor the beautiful fields, nor you, my
dear mother, nor my father?-01 how shall
bear it ?" She wrung her hands, and wept
bitterly. Nothing seemed to yield her the
slightest comfort till her mother,
taking a
pocket Bible from the table, placed it in her
hands. "What is this, mother ?" inquired
the disconsolate little girl. "It is the Bible,
my child," Immediately a score of its most
consolatory passages presented themselves to
her mind. She paused, turned her poor, be
nighted eyeballs toward the ceiling, while an
angelic expression played on her countenance,
and then, as if filled with the Holy Spirit,
breathed forth in an impassioned, but scarce
ly audible whisper,—"Thy will be done on
curl, as it in Heaven ?"
xe— A preacher out West, while endeav
oring to impress the gospel upon his hearers,
pointed to a corner in which an Editor was
quietly taking a nap, and remarked :
" There is one in the corner who sheds the
Gospel just as a goose sheds rain l"
)3E3- A man from the country, whose wife
had eloped and carried off the feather bed,
was in search of them ; not that he cared
anything about the wife, "but the feathers,"
said he, "them's worth forty-eight cents a
Some ono was telling an Irishman
that some body had eaten ten saucers of ice
cream ; whereupon Pat shook his head.
" So you don't believe it?"
With a shrewd nod, Pat answered, "I be.
lave in the eramo, but not in the saucers."
,e&- It is a pretty saying of an old writer,
that men, like books, begin and end with
blank leaves—infancy and
A False Alarm