The American Volunteer
I’UBMSIIED ETEBY THURSDAY MORNING
John B. Bratton.
OFF ICR SO UTH 31/I RKRT SQ. UA RR.
Terms.— Two dollars per year If paid strictly'
In advance. T* f o Dollars and Fifty Gouts If
paid within tl: months, after which Throe
Dollars will hr -Ml. These terms will bo
rigidly adhered * Instance. No sub
scription dlscont* aU \rrearages are
paid, unless at t* ..iou u. the Editor.
IpMkal
TO SEE OURSELVES AS OTHERS SEE US,
BY FRANK CLIVE.
UUI Baker owned a lighting dog,
' A brludle, coarae-halrcd brute,
Whose chief delight was to engage
In a canine dispute;
An 111-conditioned, vicious, cross,
Stub-tailed, bnre-Upped, crop-eared
And rod-eyed canine nuisance,
By tile neighboring canines feared.
Bill's dog came down the street on a’
Diagonal dog-trot,
A looking for somo other dog,
For whom to make it hot;
When, on a scrubby looking brute,
Ills vision chanced to fall,
Staring from out a looking glass
That leaned against a wall.
Bill’s dog surveyed that strange canine,
With sinister regard.
And doubted if Uo’il over seen
A dog look quite so hard.
The more he gazed, the less respect
lie felt within him stir,
For that demoralized, cross-grained
And imug-dog looking cur
That, stranger clog returned Bill’s dog’s
Insulting stare, lu .klnd,
WhlcU tended to still more disturb
Bill’s canine’s piece of mind ;
With every .bristling ha|r along
Ills back, ho llercely frowned,
And curled his tail until It raised
His bind feet from the ground.
Aud showed lila teeth and cocked.hls ears,
And otherwise behaved
Impertinently, as dogs do
Whose Instincts are depraved ;
Hut all his hostile signs were mot
By signs as hostile, quite,
And Bill’s dog felt hlrasell compelled
To slink away, or light.
lie Hew into that looklng.gloss
With all his might and main—
Filled'with chagrin and broken glassi
Ho soon flew out again,,
Kellootlou showed Bill's dog that,ho
Had got Into a scrimmage,
Through Indignation aftho sight
Of his own odious Image.
The knowledge of his aspect qnlle
Destroyed his self-esteem;
For the hldebns reality .
his wildest dream.
Life lost, at once, all charms lor him,
So mournfully ho steered
luto a neighboring sausage shop,
And never re-appeared.
The moral of this doggerel
Js obvious, I trust; .
(For there Is a moral lesson in •
Bill Baker’s dog’s disgust;)
If some men knew how they appear
To others, they would hide
Themselves within a sausage shop—
That Is, they’d suicide;
|p3telteeoiis.
AFTER LONU YEARS,
lIV ANNA SHIUIdJS.
“It is tile most absurd thing in tbo
world.’
.Mattie Caldwell spoke as if it was aa
irritat-inff nn It. uhunrd, tuio «««/««
(0711)8 sbo was npootraphizUlET- : Ifc '•' raa
uovel a ibiug to see Mattie in oven an
imitation of a,lit of temper, that Charlie
Caldwell, her equally even tempered hus
band, put down hie newspaper to gaze at
her in sheer amazement.
‘What is the matter ?’
'Edith. She won’t go to Newport with
us, and declares her intention of going
down to the Hill .farm for the summer.’
‘The Hill farm ! Why, I thought—’
'Of course you did,’ broke in his im
pulsive little wife ; ‘you thought she and
I laid suffered sufficient tyranny and nn :
kindness at the Hill farm to moke ua
hate the very name, much less the sight
of it. I'do,’
‘And Edith wants to go back again ?
‘Not to stay; Charlie; only for a few
weeks. Charlie’-and here Mattie drew
over her pretty face a mask of solemn
mystery in expression—T believe in my
heart it is because Douglas la coming
homo/
‘Do you ? I never could understand
why he went away so suddenly.’
'So you think it was Edith-?’ -
•I’ll tell you all I know about it, said
Mattie, perching herself upon her hus
band’s knee. ‘Before you came to Hill
farm, Douglas had been at Seaton for a
summer.’
‘I know that. He sent me there.'
‘He mot Edith at some village gather
ing, and certainly was pleased with her.
You know it was not very easy to court
anybody at Hill farm.’
‘I should say not,’ said Charles, with a
wry face.
‘Uncle James seemed to consider It his
duty to Edith and mo, after poor mamma
died, to keep us hard at work, and cer
tainly to.allow no male visitors.’
’How many times did he set the dogs
on me?’
‘I don’t know; but he treated Douglas
after the same fashion. Still, Edith
sometimes saw him, and certainly re
ceived letters from him. One morning
sho cameXo my room with the last hap
py face X ever saw her wear, and asked
me if I could enjoy the hard life alone a
little while—only a little while, and then
she would send for me to join her in her
now home. She would say no more; but
the next day, with a white set face she
told me to forget her foolish words, and
later I knew 'that Douglas Fisher had
suddenly left Seaton.’
■He came to me, Mattie, and told me
of the farm and of Edith. Certainly he
loved her, but I inferred from his half
confidence that his affection was not re
turned. He spokoof some sudden change
in her, and the next news I heard be Was
preparing to go to Europe. Ho had writ
ten to me from Baaton, and the next
summer X too visited the little village. I
confess to you X wondered how Edith’s
cold, impassive beauty could attract so
sunny a nature as Douglas had, especial
ly with her pretty saucy sister near it.’
’But, Charlie, she was not cold and im
passive then. There was not a brighter,
livelier girl in Beaton than Edith, before
Dougina Fisher left so unaccoutably.’
’You think she loved him?’
‘I am sure of It.’
‘And I am sure he loved her. And
now, after five years of separation, you
think she is running away because my
cousin Douglas is coming home?’
‘I think so; and as she baa no home
but this, since wo are married, of course
she has no place to go excepting to Hill
farm.’
‘Mattie, try to llnd out her side of the
story. lam sure there is some mystery
about it, and wo may bo able to sot it
right yet.’
BY JOHN B. BRATTON,
4 Oh, Charlie, I would give anything to
have Edith married us happily us wo tire.
Misery likes compauy/shoudd' <| mcneily.
and ran oIT.
.She waa not a very skillful diplomat*!.,
and finding Edith staring rather forlorn
alone, plunged headlong inlohersuhjt*ol.
‘Edith, why are you running away
from Douglas Fisher?*
The pale, stately girl looked at her
brightyoung sister a moment in haughty
amazement, but reading truly the love*
and pity in the fair face, answered:
. 'I had rather not meet him, Mattie.’
‘But, why?’ persisted her sister.
‘He is Charlie’s cousin, and 1 know
they are like brothers, so you see he will
be here constantly. Mattie, I could not
meet him here day after day, and,know
him to be so false as ho has been. Let
me go, dear. I am a wamau now, and
Uncle James cannot tread me down as
he did when we were mere children.’
‘But, Edith how has he been false?’
‘You know, darling, how hard our life
was ; how any change seemed like eun -
shine; and you know how Douglas tried
to win my love. I never went to the
village that he did not meet me, and urge
mo to marry him at once. I loved him,
Mattie, but I did not give my heart un
sought. One of Us, favorite pleas was
the home we could make for you, little
sister, nud I was. finally won to a con
sent. Still, it remained to set a time,
and form a plan for an elopement.’
‘Why did you not do as Charlie and I
did—just walk off to the minister and get
married, and then let Uncle James rage
as much as be pleased?’
’I don’t know. We didn’t. You know
the old gate post, Mattie, that had the
loose top?’
‘Yes;’
‘Dougins and I used that for a post-of
fice. We could slip the top back a little,
and there was a space under it where let
ters could lie secure from rain or wind,
or, what was more importaht, prying
eyes. Just at the time X had given my
promise to bo his wife, Uncle James was
informed of our meeting by some officious
friend, and kept so strict a watch over me
that it was impossible for me to go to the
village at all; The old gate post became
our only medium of communication, and
Douglas urged me still more earnestly to
leave the farm and be his wife. He
wrote me one day. that he must soon
leave Seaton, and begged me to write on
a slip the time and place where I would
meet him, and the train by which we
should leave Seaton after I became his
wife. ‘Darling,’ he wrote, ‘I am rich,
and Mattie shall come to us as soon as
you will. Tell me where to meet you,
aod I will have a clergyman ready to
make you my wife. Trust your life to
me, Edith, and you shall never regret it.’
Mattie, I wrote him a letter, appointing
a litnoaud place of meeting. I went
there. He did not come. Three days I
went,almost hourly to the gate post for
some word of explanation. None came ;
and when I next heard from Seaton,
.Douglas Fisher had gone away.’
—Jhiffalo Courier,
wrlllncr ...
■Without one word. He had written
that the letter I told you of was his last
appeal. ‘I have urged you so often,’ he
wrote, ‘that if you do not reply favorably
to Mis, I shall know lt Is coquetry, not
love, that makes you smile upon me.’ ’
‘Coquetry 1’ said Minnie, disdainfully.
‘A.s if you ever knew the meaning of the
wind!’
‘Probably he repented, Mattie, and
thought a poor country girl would not
grace his city home. But whatever . his
motives, ho left me, and I confess X
shrink from meeting him.’
Certainly you do. I will not urge you
to stay now dear; but after we return
from Newport, where I suppose Charlie
will have Douglas for his guest, you will
come home again?'
•Wo will see, Mattie, Ret me go now.’
‘I am afraid you will find Hill farm
just as horrid as ever.-’
, Just as hqrrid as ever Edith concluded
it was, after a week’s sojourn at the dis
mal farm she had called home during her
girl-hood- Her uncle did not domineer
quite so much over the dignified, stately
lady who came, after Qve years of city
life, to replace the unformed girl whohad
left him, but he was morose and ill-temp
ered ns over, and the dreary house had no
added charm.' Edith found there were
servants to do the churning, baking and
house-work she had shared with. Mattie,
and rambled about, the place, wondering
a little how many weeks of it would suf
fice to fit her for a lunatic asylum.
In one of these rambles, two weeks af
ter her arrival, she came upon a group of
men who were repairing the tumble
down fence and rickety gates about the
place. They were at work upon the old
gate-post she had turned into a post-office,
and she stood listlessly watching them
as they loosened the earth around it, to
lift the rptteu wood-work from its place.
The loose top was done, an 4 there were
wide cracks in the wooden slab under it,
whore the love-letters of five years ago
had iain waiting for eager hands and
eyes.
Edith felt her heart beating fast, her
eyes filling with tears, ns blow after blow
fell upon the hollow post, cracking,
bending it, till it fell to the ground, just
as the noon-day bell called the men to
dinner.
■Whan the curious eyes that might have
seen her were safely in doors, contem
plating meat and vegetables, Edith went
close to the old post, and looked Into the
hole where it had stood for so many
years. In the damp dark earth she saw
a added paper, evidently shaken from
the hollow post by the recent blows. A
strange suffocating feeling held her fast
for a moment, then stopped, reached
over and secured the letter. It was not
a dainty missive, such as she sent to
Newport, for it was not easy for her to
find scented paper and tinted envelopes
at Hill farm. It was a sheet of coarse
letter paper, folded, sealed, and stamped
with a thimble top, directed in a round,
girlish hand to Douglas Pishor; the let
ter she had written to appoint time and
pla-o for an elopement—the letter he had
never seen, that in her hurry and agita
tion she must have slipped through one
of tlie wide cracks down into the hollow
pOfct. ..
SSUo opened U carefully, her heart pity
log oven the simple girl who opened her
whole lovliig soul to her lover. The
very words were so different from those
she would use now. No polished courte
sy of address, no polite evasion of the
tender questions, but a frank, girlish out
pouring of her happy consent to leave
td \ id H Hates ot AdyOf.
lie : JmetwlE
f \ ' 1 • ... 1 year. 1000 15 00 29 00185 00| 4Q 00
Vs *' ' -"to asqpar»»
her hard, blitor life, and accept the sun
ny future her lover promised her. Edith
was cold, impassive and stately in the
days when she shared her sister’s happy
h mi It was a rare event to see her
show femotlou in any way, and Charlie
had wpnderod more than once at his
cousin’s admiration of her statuesque
beauty.
But as she read now the secret of her
lover’s apparent fickleness, the record of
her own young heart, the tears fell fast
upon the yellow, stained sheet, and sobs
shook her whole form. There was no
one to see her, no one to hear her, and
she knelt down by the fallen gate post,
and wept for her own lost youth and
broken hopes.
, She was still kneeling there, the open
letter in hep hand, when she beard a
foot-stop turn from the fond Into thenar
row lane leading to the, farm house. In
a moment it would be dt the gate. She
sprang to her feet, and faced a tall, heav
ily bearded man, who paused for a mo
ment, looked searchlngly into her face—
only for a moment—and then he opened
his arms.
. ‘Edith,’ he said, in deep, tender tones,
*1 never saw your letter.’
She was resting against his breast as
she put It now into his hand, and told
him how she had found it.
‘Mattie told me all,’ he said, ‘and I
came on at once. Oh, Edith, it seems
too much happiness now to find you still
single, still my own!’
Charlie and Mattie were fully prepared
for the return of the truants to Newport,
and the autumn collected a concourse of
dear friends to witness a grand wedding,
few suspecting the previous courtship of
the handsome couple who were united
after ipng years.
THE MEN 'WHO SURROUNDED WASH
INGTON,
Mr. Partoh, in the January Atlantia,
thus describes Washington and his first
Cabinet:
Age had not quenched the vivacity
of either of the four Secretaries—Jeffer
son, 47 ; JCnox, 40; Randolph, 87;
Hamilton, 33. When in the world’s
history, was so young a group charged
with a task so new, so difficult, so mo
mentous ?
Such were the gentlemen who had
gathered around the council table at
the President’s house in New York, in
1780; at the head of the table General
Washington, now fifty-eight, his frame
as erect as ever, but his face showing
the deep traces of the thousand anx
ious hours he had passed. Not versed
in the lore of schools, but gifted with a
great sum of intellect, the eternal glo
ry of this man is, that he used all the
mind he had In patient endeavors to
find out the right way; ever on tho
watch to keep out of his decision
everything like prejudice, never de-
Si/ivtß ut"6iiimeiUith- °irhausted every
Some questions he coiiid' uht a..
with his own mind, and he knew ho
could not. In such cases, he bent all
his powers to ascertaining how the
subject appeared to minds fitted to
grapple with it, and getting them to
view it without prejudice.
I am delighted to learn that Mr.
Carlyle can seldom hear the name of
Washington pronounced , without*
breaking forth with an explosion of
contempt, especially, it is said, if there
is an American within hearing.—
Washington is the exact opposite of a
fell Carlylean hero. His glory is that
he was not richly endowed, not suffi
cient unto himself, not indifferent to
human fights, opinions and prefer
ences | but feeling deeply his need of
help, sought it, where alone it was to
be found, in minds fitted by nature and
training to supply his lack. It is this*
heartfelt desire to be right which
shines so affectingly' from tho plain
words of Washington, and gives him
rank so far above the gorgeous bandits
whom horo-worshipers adore.
On the right of the President, in the
place of honor, sat Jefferson, now for
ty-seven, the senior of all his colleagues;
older in public seiwice, too, than any of
them; tail, erect, ruddy, noticeably
quiet and unobtrusive of his address
and demeanor; the least pugnacious of
men. Not a fanatic, not an enthusiast,
but au old-fashioned Whig, nurtured
upon “old Coke,” enlightened by
twenty-five years’ intense discussion—
with pen, tongue, and sword—of Coke
an principles. Fresh from the latest
commentary upon Coke—the ruins of
the Bastile—and wearing still his red
Paris waistcoat and breeches, he was
au object of particular interest to all
men, and, doubtless, often relieved the
severity of business by some thrilling
relation out of his late foreign experi
ence.
Opposite him, on the President’s left,
was the place of Hamilton, Secretary
of the Treasury, in all the alertness and
vigor of thirty-three. If time had ma
tured his talents, it had not lessened his
self-sufficiency; because, as yet, ail his
short life had been a success, and he
had associated chiefly with men who
possessed nothing, either of his fluency
or his arithmetic. A positive, vehe
ment little gentleman, with as firm a
faith in the apparatus of finance as
General Knox had in great guns. He
was now in the full tide of activity,
lobbying measures through Congress,
and organizing the Treasury Depart
ment-the most conspicuous man in
the administration, except the Presi
dent—as usual, his unseen work was
the best. In organizing a system of
collecting, keeping, and disbursing the
revenue, ho employed so much tact,
forethought, and fertility, that his
successors have each, in turn, admired
and retained his most important de
vices. He arranged the system so that
the Secretary of the Treasury, at any
moment, could survey the whole work
ing of it; and he held at command all
the resources of the United States, sub
juct to lawful use, without being able
to divert one dollar to a purpose not
especially authorized. Ho could not
draw his own pittance of salary with
out the signatures of the four chief
officers of the Department—Comptrol
ler, Auditor, Treasurer and Register.
CARLISLE, PA., X IHDRSDAY, JANUARY 9, 1873.
A JIASmOUS EVENT,
Mrs. Janet Mowbray aud her four sons
lived iu 1828 at Harwick Hall, In tile
county of Durham, England. Mrs. Mow
bray was a tall, powerful woman of
great energy and bravery, in her flfty
lourth year. Her sons were aged re-
spectively 34, 27, 24 and 21. Her hus
band had been dead many years. Her
two eldest sons were married, and their
wives and families lived with her. The
youngest, George, was wild and dissipa
ted, and bad given his mother much
trouble. He was deeply in debt, and
bad been repeatedly threatened with ar
rest. Mrs. Mowbray was wealthy, and
kept iu her bedroom—besides a quantity
of valuable plate—a large sum of money.
On Christmas eve, Mrs. Mowbray’s
eons and daugbters-!u-law paid a visit
to the residence of a relative, Mr. Cba-
ter, of Chatersburg. The domestics, re
lieved from duty, wore in their own por
tion of the dwelling, enjoying the festi
vities of the season. The watchman,
who was ordinarily on duty iu kitchen
garden, took a hasty survey of his beat,
and joined the revellers in tbe.k!toben.
On Christmas night they were to have
a small gathering of friends and. neigh,
hors, and Mrs. Mowbray began to con
sider the necessary arrangements, Bho
would require old punch bowl, and the
ladles and goblets which she kept in the
closet, of her bedroom. She went ac
cordingly and entered the closet
took out the silver and laid it on th\
shelf, ready for removal the next morn\
ing. At the same time, she took out a
large, old-fashioned carving-knife and
fork of a quaint pattern, and deposited
them on the shelf. She then returned to
the parlor. After sitting and musing for
some time, she took up the Bible, and
fumbled for her spectacles. She could
not find them, and at length remember
ed that she had left them on the shelf
in the closet. She at once returned for
them. Enterlng her bedroom, sbe placed
the candle on the dressing-table, and
lighted a small lamp, with which she
entered the closet.
As she took the first step inside the
closet, sfce heard the soupd of some one
breathing heavily. She looked up and
saw right before her the face of a man.
She was a brave, resolute woman; Sbe
advanced a step, and. observed that a
man’s bead, arms and body were thro’
the small window at the end* as though
In the act of wriggling himself through
the opening. In the man's right hand
was a pistol, and his left band bad bold
6f a shelf which ran along the side of the
closet* The man . raised the pistol and
fired. Mrs. Mowbray in an instant seized
the huge carving-knife which lay on the
shelf, and advanced toward the ruffian, ;
He was struggling to withdraw himself
from the window. His bands were on
the sill, and his head somewhat raised,
leaving his neck exposed.
Being unable to work himself out of
the aperture, be raised the pistol as tbo’
to hurl it at Mrs. Mowbray. The coura
geous old lady made one step forward,
ear! She then calmly retired, closed the
closet door, blew out the lamp, and tatt
ing up her candle returned to the parlor
first having satisfied herself that not a
drop of blood had stained her dress or
hands.
„ Half an hour after midnight lier chil
dren returned home. They found their
mother seated by the fire, serenely read
ing the Bible. They greeted her affec
tionately, and prepared to retire for the
night. Mrs. Mowbray said, * Boys, re
main behind a little. I wish to speak to
you. You, my daughters, can-retire.'
When she was alone with her chil
dren, she said, with dignity ond calm
ness, ‘My children, I have killed a
man ? You will find his body fast in the
small window of the closet of my bed
room.’
Her sona stared at her in amazement.
They at first Imagined that she must be
laboring under some mental disorder;
•but when she related to them, plainly
and rationally, and in her own straight
forward, terse fashion, the story as just
told, they saw that she was telling them
a simple fact. .
■Go,’.she said, ‘make what arrange
ments you please; I will wait here, and
you can tell what course is best to pursue
in this matter.’
The sous took the light ond went to
their mother’s room. They opened the
door, and there, sure enough, was the
body of a man hanging half through the
window. The floor was a pool of blood.
With difficulty the oldest sou got near
enough to the body without stepping in
to the gore to raise the head, whioh.yvas
drooping on the chest. He grasped the
hair ahd lifted the head so that the light
might fall upon the face. As he did so,
a cry of horror escaped them all.
‘Great God 1 It is our brother George.’
‘What did you say ?' asked Mrs, Mow
bray, in a voice horribly calm, from the,
doorway, whither she had followed un
perceived. ‘George I What do you
mean ?'
The oldest son dropped the head to
prevent, if possible, his mother recogni
zing it. and all of them endeavored to
explain their exclamation, and get their
mother away from the spot. It was In
vain.
‘Boys,’ she said, in her old, well
known tone of authority, ‘stand aside
and lot me see the face of the villain I
have slain.
With that she put her sons aside as
though they were mere lade, and walked
through the slippery gore that lay upon
the floor up to the body. Bhq took the
candle from the unresisting grasp of her
first-born, and, with a hand that trem
bled not, lifted the head of the dead roan,
so that the light shone full upon It. She
gazed at it steadily for half a minute,
then said, gently lowering It, until It
rested upon the breast again, ‘lt’s my
boy George.’
Mrs. Mowbray was the only ono in
the household who remained calm and
.motionless. The family was in the wil
dest state of sorrow. The three brothers
with difficulty extracted the body from
the window. The authorities were no
tified, and everything was kept as quiet
as possible. The Inquest was duly held.
Mrs. Mowbray was fully exonerated,
and the body was prepared for burial.—
The real story was known to few out
side the fatplly and authorities- It was
believed by them that George, Instead of
going to Devonshire, had remained lurk
ng In the neighborhood, and had plan
d the robbery, and If need.be the mur
de' of his mother. He knew that she
wm\d be alone that night, and that she
bad \ large sum of money and valuable
Jewelmn her room. The old nurae who
bad mid George In her arma when he
first a|w the light, took care of the body
and prepared It for tbe.tomb.
She dwelt tenderly on the familiar
marts upon the limba of.tbe face which
she Itaew so well, each of which bad a
[of youthful daring or folly cou
d with It. In due time the funeral
place. The corpse was laid In the
7 vault. Only the family and one
70 relatives attended, Mra. Mow
spent the beat part of each day by
ide<of her dead eon. She showed
ator;
necl
took
faml
laliy no signs ef emotion. Before
1 was closed sbe kissed the forehead
it oft' a look of his hair.
exlei
tho Ji
and (
Th day after the burial she gave di
rections to her eldest son to pay all the
dead|man’s debts, which was done at
once so far as known. Gloom settled
over the hall. The wing of the building
In which the tragedy occurred was clos
ed up, aud Mrs. Mowbray removed to a
bedroom up stairs.
On the fifth day after the funeral a
post'Chaise drove up to the door of Har
wich Hall, and from It stepped George
Mowbray, looking better than ho had
ooked for many a day before he had left
lome. The servant who opened,the hall
loor started hack, and almost dropped
with fright. His ' exclamations caught
the oars, of Mrs. Mowbray and her song,
who seemed to be dumb-founded. George
was as much astonished as any of them,
and gazed from one to the other, perfect
ly lost In bewildered surprise. There
no doubt of it. George Mowbray,
everybody believed dead and in
h!i grave, was living and before them.
‘Mother,' said George, advancing tof
warfl her, ‘what is the matter?
turn is easily, accounted for. On reach-
ing Tawville, I found chat my uncle’s
family had been unexpectedly summon
ed Uj London, as my,eldest cousin, Sir.
Johi Gray’s wife, was thought to be dy*
iacr. I took u night’s.repose, and then
stalled home again, and here 1 am.’
Mrs. Mowbray walked up to him, gaz
ed Into his face, and then, without a
word, folded him in' a passionate em
brace. Each of bis brothers grasped bis
hands and kissed him, as they were
wont to do when he was a boy and the
pet of the family. The old nurse, arous
ed from her noon-day slumber, em
braced and wept over him, and the ser-,
yants gathered around with wet eyes
and congratulatory expressions.
All this time George knew nothing of
the true reason , for. bis singular recep
tion; Soon, however, the mystery was
explained to him. The effect upon him
cannot be described.
.Measures were immediately taken to
have the body of the man who had been
buried as George Mowbray disinterred.
This was done, and as the living George
stood beside the dead man, the resem
blance was seen to be the moat extraor
dinary on the’fig£-fflf:
haCalso, ami the » nd
finger-nails were marvelously alike.
Who the dead man was, was never as
certained. After George’s return, how
ever, injuries were made, suoh os It was
never deemed needful to make, so long
OS the dead man was supposed to he
Mrs. Mowbray’s youngest son.
These inquiries led to the discovery
that the day before the tragedy, three
men, supposed to be from London, took
up their quarters at an inn in the neigh
boring village, one of them the landlord
thought he recognized as having been
In Mrs. Mowbray’s service as a groom.
The footsteps of three persons were also
discovered In the garden, and some time
after, a rope, ladder and horse trough,
which had been apparently been used to
lay upon the spikes at the tops of the
garden wall, were discovered in the
neighboring copse; but the name of the
dead man was never discovered.
AN INDIAN SNAKEET.
A Singular Collection of loathsome Eop-
tiles—A Disgusting Sight.
Near the headwaters of Cache branch
of . Indian creek, there resides an old
Shawnee Indian woman by the name of
Nettallaquah, familiarly Known In the
Immediate neighborhood as Aunt Netty.
She occupies n small log cabin In a rooky
cleft or gulch remote from the Aubrey
and Kansas City road,' and about one
mile from the road.. This old woman
cannot be less than nlnety.years of age,
although she will not, under any con
sideration, state her exact age. She Is a
perfect recluse, aa though she were dead
'and burled. Few visit her lonely cabin,
and those who intrude once on her pri
vacy seldom care to go there again,' An
attache of this paper, In company with
Mr. E. H. Downs, of Cass county, paid
a visit to the old Indian’s cabin, # a few
days ago, for the purpose of examining
a rare collection of reptiles, said to bo
kept by the old squaw. After some lit
tle difficulty the cabin was discovered In
the bend of the creek, completely con
cealed from view by precipitous rocky
banks, except from the south side of the
ravine. A huge, vicious mastiff, wolf
dog showed his ugly fangs and for a time
disputed entrance to the cabin. The door
opened, and a hideous old squaw made
her appearance at the aperture, and In a
guttural voice said something to the dog,
which at once retreated behind the stone
chimney, at-the end of the cabin. With
out bidding the party enter, the old squaw
retreated herself within the cabin, leav
ing the door open. Following the old
woman Into the cabin, our reporter and
his guide were for a moment blinded by
the smoke and darkness. Standing near
the door for a few moments, there ena
bled to see the old squaw seated upon a
block of wood near a smouldering fire,
smoking a small red pipe, and apparent
ly unconscious of, the presence of stran,
gers. Mr. Downs, well acquainted
with the old hag’s taste for whiskey
and tobacco, laid a quantity of
each in her lap. The sight of these un
expected luxuries, had a magical effect
upon the squaw. Her small, dull, black
eyes glittered with joy, and her leathery
face brightened with satisfaction. She
arose on being acquainted with the ob
ject of the visit, dragged out a large box
and a barrel from near the lire, which at
' first appeared to be tilled with leaves,
but on close examination was found to
. contain the old hag’s family pots. Mut
tering some whining, sing-song words,
evidently of endearment, she put her
band down Into the barrel and brought
forth first a huge “blue racer,” which,
half torpid, coiled itself slowly Into a
knot upon the stove hearth. Then she
took out several black snakes of various
sizes, one of which was not less than four
feet in length. Then, sbe lifted out a
perfect knot of mixed snakes—spotted,
striped and yellow, which were knotted
and oiftwlded in a coll ds large as a half
bushel measure. All of these loathsome
reptiles she said she had collected herself
la the country around about her. Borne
of them she said she had for years. Each
of the snakes she called by name, and
after laying the writhing mass upon the
warm hearth, left them to squirm and
uncoil in tho warmth generated by the
fire. Turning to the box, she opened the
lid, and pointed to a large yellow and
black boa constrictor which lay coiled
up, filling one-half of the box. She
caught it gently by the back o( the deck
and the tall, and lifted it also out upon
the hearth, and took therefrom a huge
brown snake of a variety unknown to
our reporter. Each of these monsters
was at least four or five feet in length,
and appeared to be far more active and
lively than the smaller snakes. She then
dragged forth an old wolfskin robe from
her bed In a corner near the fire, and un
rolled a perfect medley of rattlesnakes of
all hues, sizes, thicknesses and ages.—
These she bandied roughly, rolling the
squirming mass out upon the .hearth,
where the visitors, at a safe distance,
might view the loathsome sight at lei
sure. Upon the walls hung a variety of
snake skins, rattles, dried snakes’heads,
lizards, and pieces of dried meat. This
sight was the most repugnant ever wit
nessed by our reporter. The old hag sat
down upon . the hearth laughing hnd
chattering her hortld gibberish, and pro
ceeded to wind the two largest snakes
about her wrinkled heck, and then to
uncoil the half torpid masses of snakes.
In a short time she had her lop full of
the Squirming reptiles, and- appeared to
handle and play with them like so many
harmless kittens. The visitors, unable
to withstand the loathsome, sickening
sight, and this effluvia generated in the
close, doth den, soon took their leave,
leaving the old squaw to the company of
her singular pets. She devotes much of
her.time to playing with them, allowing
them to crawl over her bed and the floor.
She.leads them upon birds and insects.
The former she catches alive and feeds
to the larger snakes at Intervals of one
or two weeks. She works a small patch
of garden, and depends mostly for other
necessities upon the surrounding coun
try, in which she begs. She .refused to
follow her tribe south when they depart
ed a few years ago, and they loathed her
so much for her hideous habits that they
did not regret leaving her. In the warm
months she permits her pets to roam at
will over the cabin, and in no instance
has she been bitten by any of them, al
though
Aunt Netty Jma few visitors, and those
who have visited her are not anxious to
repeat the visit.— Kamos City Times.
TO THE PEOPLE OP THE NOETH,
Address of the. Horthern Eesidants Doing
Easiness in Hew Orleans.
New Orleans, December 13, 1872.
The undersigned representatives of
houses in the north, doing business with
the south, who have been visiting New
Orleans for many years past and at
present, and are thoroughly conversant
with the political feelings of the people
of this section, wish to express our
opinion at this critical juncture’ of
affairs.
Visiting New Orleans at a season
when the city is usually full of activity
and life, we find every channel of trade
paralyzed, the state house occupied by
troops, the officers of the State threat
ened and intimidated, and the people
cast into the deepest gloom by the .ar
bitrary usurpation of power and place
by political adventurers, backed by a
United States judge, who has called in
the assistance of the United States
troops to execute his decrees.
After an election which we believe to
have been conducted as fairly and.hon
estly as any, dn which the American
people over participated, finding them
selves beaten by a large majority of the
votes of the citizens of this city and
state, this unscrupulous and irrespon
sible body of men have resorted to
trickery and violence to defeat the
execution of the will of the people, as
thus expressed.
Believing this action the greatest
outrage ever attempted to be carried
out in our country, and one which
tends directly to the overthrow of the
liberties of the people, and to destroy
ing the power and sacredness of the
ballot box, we hereby enter our sol
emn protest against the high-handed
action, and appeal to our fellow citizens
of the north to unite in protesting to
Congress and the President, to the end
that the legally elected officers of the
state may be installed in office, and the
people of the community supported in
their efforts to exercise the right
of franchise, that they may redeem
their State from the bankruptcy and
ruin with which it is now threatened
through the action of those nameless
adventurers.
Charles A. Griffith, representing A.
D. Hopping & Wilson, 218 arid 219
Washington street, Now York.
John D. Dargen, John G. M’Murray
& Co., 277 Pearl street, New York.
George Lipsher, W. W. Eastman, 129
Broad street, Boston.
Thomas S. Darling, Detroit match
works, Detroit, Michigan.
E. P. Briggs, H. & J, W. King. 80
Chambers street, New York.
William O. Ilsley, Ilsley & Co., 254
Pearl street, New York,
W. S. Bldgway, G. W. Gaff <Ss Co., 11
Pub. Landing, Cincinnati, Ohio.
John W. Poole, William B. Warner
& Co., 151 North Third street, Phila
delphia. „ , . i,
J. H. Hapgood, Now York brush
Co., 254 Pearl street, New York.
Amos Patten, W. K. Lewis & Bto.,
03 Broad street, Boston,
VOL 59-NO. 31.
George D. Strong, La Bi
Bridgeport, Ohio. .
E. Nv Belt, of Cahn, Belt, & Co., 32
West Lombard street, Baltimore.
W. R. Bennett, Tilden & Co., Now
York. .
B. F. Loiber, B. Leiber & Son, 1U
113 South Water street, Philadelphia.
E. H. Packer, Whlttemore Bros., 579
Broadway, Now York.
E. H. Packer, Bachelor, Moore & Co.,
Boston. '
E. H. Packer, M. & H. Shrlenkheim,
N.Y.
E. H. Packer, Corry & Hooper, Bos
ton.
E. H. Packer, Bedford chain Co.,
N. Y.
Alexander Torgas, jr.,L. A.Strobel &
Bros., Cincinnati, Ohio.
A. Flesh, A. & D. Flesh & Co.,
Prankford, Germany, and 351 Broad
way, N. Y.
W. Q. Morse, N. Y. city.
0. E. Knapp, D. P. Ketchiira, N. Y.
city.
Frank Hegger, E. H. Van Ingen &
Co., N. Y. city.
Douglas H. Duer, John Duer & Son,
21 St. Charles street, Baltimore.
William C. Mudge, H. B. Mudge, 95
West Second street, Cincinnati.
.E. 0. Coolidge, John K. Coolldge, &
Co., 214 West Second street, Cincin
nati.
Ed. O. Berninghaus, John M’Klttrick
& Co., 522 North Main street, St.
Louis.
■ Edmund. J. Qodine, Wright Bros. &
Eo., 324 Broadway, N. Y.
1 Gustave A. Jahnj Frederic, Lyman
& Go., 90 Wall street, New York. .
W. 0. Simmons, jr„ Providence,
Rhode Island.
E* Maitland, F. W. Devoe & G 0.,, 116
and 117 Fulton street, N. Y.
A. Butzer, Star Linseed Oil Co., 135
Pearl street, N. Y.
. D. Hirsch, ofHirsch & Co., 174 Wa
ter street, N. Y.
Joe Harrison, Royal Chemical Com
pany, 191 Duane street, New York.
J. T. Butdeau’, agent Mississippi
Valley Transportation Company St.
Louis, Mo. "
R. E. Parker, agent M’Kesson &
Robbins', 91 Pulton street, New York. ■
T. Simmons, agent Joseph Scroeder
& C#., Baltimore Md.
John Butler, Austin,.Thorp & Cp. (
New York.
Albert Ingard, Rubber Clothing Co.,
New York, Chicago, St. Louis and San
Francisco.
John Butler, jr., John Thompson &
Co., New York.
Patrick J. M’Phillips, W. H. Horst
inann & Sons, New York, Philadelphia
and Paris, Prance. .
J. G. Case, General Supreintendent
Champion Cotton Gin Company, 102
Diicct, vjiuciuuuti.
J. J. H. Hill, Bodenheim, Meyer &
Co., 149 Duane and 9 Thomas- street,
New York.
Henry M. Woolf, Willard, Pelt &
Co., New York.
■ George Felthouse, same, Cincinnati.
J. T. Sanford, Giles, Wales & Co., 13
Maiden Lane, New York.
John G. Irish, Charles LippincOtt &
Co., 914 and 91G Filbert street, Phila
delphia. .
S. Y. D. Arrowsmith, Buckenham,
Cole & Hall, 10 Maiden Lane, Now
York.
J. P. Todd, firm of W. S. Do Van &
Co., Cincinnati, O.
Nath. P. Snelling, Pearson Bros. &
Co., Boston.
Alex. Lamby, Paton & Co;, New
York.
J. W. , Blake, of Hall & Blake, 20
Courtlandt street, New York.
TJ. F. Wilcox, John S. Dunham, 117
North Sixth street, St. Louis, Mo.
Samuel Friedman, 40 Malden Lane,
Now York.
Charles Lee, diaries Lee, Boston.
D. Davies, of A. M. it E. Davies, 508
Broadway, Now York.
L. Wilkins, A. Henderson, 82 Water
street, New Yoik.
P. C. Kogers, of H. A. Bogera & Co.,
50 and 52 John street, New York.
W. N. Johnson, of Mills, Johnson &
Co., Cincinnati.
Walter Lyon, St. Louis, Mo.
Cheap Coloihno.— For Slate Color,
take sumac berries, anil boil them in an
iron kettle In soft water, a gallon, of wa
ter to a quart o( berrlesT Throw a lew
bits of rusty iron into the liquid, to set
the color; wash the goods in warm,soap
suds, and then put in the dye; Wring to a
boll, and let it stand where It will keep
hot lor half an hour. Blnsje in salt and
water, and then wash in soap suds and
dry. It will color either cotton or woolen
goods, a nice color.
Brown, take the shucks from butter
nuts, and boll lu the same manner. It
rusty iron Is scarce, a piece of copperas
the size of a robin’s egg will answer
nicely. Jfiou can color every shade of
brown, from the lightest to the very
darkest brown, by keeping In the dye a
longer or shorter lime. The color is a
good durable one, and. does not rot the
goods.
To Color Nankeen, take two quarts of
hemlock bark to a gallon of water, boll
in brass; set with copperas, wring the
goods from hot soap suds, and dip lu the
boiling dye till you have the right shade;
dry the goods, before rinsing in salt and
water.
A man, stopping his paper, wrote to
editor: •! think folks ottont to spend
their munny for payper, ml dad diddont
and everybuddy sed he woz the Inteil
godtes man In the country, and had tho
smartest family of bolz that ever dogged
taters.’
A Bloomington, 111., jeweler adver
tises himself by furnishing an Item In;
which It Is stated that a burglar,entered
his shop with Intent to steal, hut re
treated, screaming ‘fire,’ terrified by the
glare of a diamond the size of a tea oup.
A YODNO man who went West from
Darbury a few months ago, has sent on
ly one letter homo. It came on Friday.
It said: ‘Bend mo n wig.’ And hl»
fond parents don’t know whether he la
scalped or married,
Twelve lines constitute a square.
Fort Executors’ and Adm.’nVNotloes. ' *4 £
For Auditors’ Notices, . __ 200
For Assignees* and similar Notices, s xT
For Yearly Cards, not exceeding six lines, 7 00
For Announcements flva cents per line un
less contracted for by the year;
For Business and Bpeouu Notices, 10 cen*
porllno.
Double column ad vet JsomenU extra.
tells glass Co.,
Agricultural.
BOIUSD CORNED BEEF CABBAGE.
Many a, farmer’s table, is weekly
spread with savory dishes composed of
boiled corn beef and cabbage; yet often
they are not as attractive as they should
be, because they are not properly cook
ed and served. The beef should always
be soaked over night, unless It has been
recently salted, and if so, It should be
well washed. Put the beefinto boiling
water, aud as soon as it boils up, skim
it well; then remove the pot from the
hottest part of the fire, and let It sim
mer constantly from four to six hours,
according to the size of the piece; half
an hour per pound is a good rule, and
it will apply to corned beef, tongues
and hams. ,
The chief' reason of so much of our
corned beef being tough, and not deli
ciously tender, is too rapid boiling, and
for too short a time. If the meat is to
be served cold, it is much better"to lot
it stand in the pot after cooking until
nearly cold; then take it out and press
it under heavy weights, first, pulling
out the bones. This will give you n
solid piece of meat, from which very
thin slices can.be cut, which will prove
a decided relish to the most fastidious.
Cabbage is considered In many houses
a forbidden indulgence, because the
odors which arise from its cooking are
so obnoxious, but if these directions are
followed, there will not be much if any
complaint. Quarter the • cabbage the
night before it is required, and remove
the bard stalk; wash it well,'and .cut
into small pieces;"; Next -morning
change the water, and. when ready to
cook, skim out the cabbage into a large
pot of boiling. water, with 1 a femali’ tea
spobnful of saieratua added to it. Boil*
steadily for forty or fifty.minutes, but
take care that the water does not boil
over upon the range or cooking stOvo,
fbr this is one of the chief causes of the
disgusting odor, which fills the house.
■ If you are cooking corned beef at the
same time, after skimming it thorough
ly youcan add a,pint;of. the liquid in
which it is boiling to the cabbage, as
some like the meaty flavor, and if there
is noliquor at hand, a piece'of beef suet
will answer the purpose; but cabbage
should never be boiled in th 6 kettle
With salted meat, as it spoils .the,-flavor,
of both. ;.,.i ;
When the cabbage is so well boiled
that it will easily mash with a knife,
skim'it out into a colander,, and press
out all the water, and sensop it with
butter, salt and pepper. Prepared in
this way cabbage really becomes an
inviting dish, arid is a very healthy
OnS. hut hwnnao > f t ' inD —■,*-
If you prefer to have tho cabbage
more in shape, it can only be hVlved
and the hard stalk cut out; then tie it
up in a piece of course muslin, and boil
for one hour, always putting it into
boiling water at first.
Corned beef can be pressed into a
mould by boiling down a small quan
tity of the liquor in which it is cooked,
and seasoning it highly with spices and
herbs. Then dut the meat Into small
strips, lay them, into a blancrmange
mould, hed turn the liquor over them.
A grated lemon with the juice will add
a pleasant navor to the jelly. When
turned out of tho mould, garnish it
with sprigs of parsley or celery and
slices of hard boiled eggs.
Starvation of Bees in Winter.
The close of the honey-season of 1871,
loft me in possession of twenty-nine
colonies ot bees, and quite a handsome
store of surplus honey in boxes. As
little buckwheat is raised in the neigh
borhood, no box honey was secured
after the white slovor honey harvest.
Instead of adding to the surplus ’after
white clover failed, a portion of the
honey stored in the boxes was removed
from the hive. My son had some half
dozen hives in. the. yard with mine, or
with a part of mine. I placed soveit of
mine in a yard a mile southwest from
the home apiary, arid eight'about tho
same distance to the northwest, thus
enlarging the honey Held.'
I concluded to winter- them- without
the trouble of moving them i and feel
ing pretty safe about them, left them
without particular care anti! midwin
ter. On examining" twelve that I
thought well secured for:winter, Ifdund
but one alive. Several of the others
were also dead, but I finally succeeded
in saving five of the twenty-nine.
Now I have no disease, no foul brood,
no dysentery, po moths to: charge.the
failure to. It was simply starving to
death. There were too many bees in
the field. But two colonies’ at‘ the
most, and I think but one, had honey
enough to carry them through the wiur
ter. The combs were, so perfectly
cleared of honey as to leave no possible
room for doubt. . . ■ _
With five of the twenty-nine left, I
commenced tho spring of 1872, Two of
the five were reduced so low as to, give
no new swarms, and but, little surplus
honey, three gave four swarifls'. .and
some surplus honey. I have no doubt
had I placed them in the cellar, with a
little care and feeding they might, ml
have been safely carried through the
winter. My beat colony, the best I had
ever seen is promising well. I pur
chased it in 1887, and have in the six
seasons had as much as 600 lbs. of sur
plus from it. One year it gave 200
another, 148 lbs. The past-season its
product was two new colonies and
some 60 lbs. of surplus. I left the hive
exposed to the sun, rather desirous to
increase my, depreciated stock front one
that had succeeded so well. \ ■
In a field furnishing honey during the
whole warm season, a larger amount
may be collected by each colony than
; where the production of honey ceases
> with the white clover.
lu such fields hives should be,- con
structed with more room in the breed
' ing and wintering apartment of tbe
hive. ~ ‘ ■' ‘ ‘
I think no one could have seen so
many hives so utterly starved, before
midwinter, and think there is no dan
ger of over stocking. Through' this
section of the country probably more
than three-fourths of the: bees died
during the winter.;*— Cor, Country
Gentleman ;
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