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,
'SAMUEL WRIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXIX, NUMBER U.]
;,lIKISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING
Office in Carpel Ball, „A r orth,scest corner of
1-Runi and Locust streets.
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grtEttifin,s.
Not Married for Love
''And so you are married, Melvil! Rather
a rapid proceeding for a curate just ordained
By-the-by, did you not say you wore mar
ried before you were ordained?"
"Yes, before I took my degree."
"I would have kept you out of that folly
if I had been at hand, at any rate. And of
course, you aro as poor as church mice?"
"As poor as church mice—not a doubt
about that;" and the young clergyman
glanced round his little cottage study, which
was luxuriously furnished with two cane
chairs, and a low-railed chair, cushioned
with gray chintz, which indicated a femi
nine occupation, a stained deal-tatale, and
heaps of books piled on shelves fitted into
the walls. It was summer-time, and as the
window was open to the lawn, with a frame
work of creepers all round it, and the sun
shining in, it did not look so very diseonso.
late as might have been supposed. Mr.
Melvil had often thought it a happy retreat
before, but he fancied it poverty-stricken
now, because his wealthy college friend
seemed to pity him for having nothing bet
ter.
"Married for love?" suggested his friend,
ironically.
The curate contemplated the threadbare
knees of his black trowsers for a minute or
two, and then said, confusedly:
"No."
"Not married for love, yet so indiscreetly
tied up! How was it then pray?"
"I'll tell you—iQvas for pity."
"Could not leave had a worse motive; but
that's by the way—go cm."
"You remember Sandp, our tutor."
"Yes—a good fellow."
"Too good by half. Ile provided for ev
erybody but his own family, as if he meant
to live forever; then at the most inconve
nient season possible he died, and his in
come died with him. There was the widow
and the two boys, and there was Clary—
you recollect Clary?"
"Yes; the wild little gipsyl but you
aural l y did not marry her?''
"Yes, Clary is my wife."
"Why she must have been a baby?"
"'She sires sixteen within a few weeks af
ter we were married. You see, the little
thing came to me crying, rind saying she
'.vas to be sent to some horrid school, where
she did not want to go—"
"1 perceive; and you, being soft-hearted,
,invited her to become your wifo on the
spot?"
"Precisely so."
"Atli she, blushing celestial rosy red,
.answered that she would be very glad!"
"Mamma consented promptly, and the
sacrifice was aczomplishod," said the cu
zeta in mock heroic style. "Clary is a good
girl, but I never WaS in love with her. Is
it not that sagacious worthy Sir Thomas
Moore, who says we never ardently love
that for which we have not longed? I had
never thought of Clary except as a child,
until pity for her forlornness surprised me
into the commission of matrimony."
If Mr. Melvil and his friend had been
quick-eared.or less absorbed,they might have
heard a light step crossing the turf as they
talked together, and retreating fast—fast as
*he last words were spoken. It was Clary.
Neither of them, however, saw either the
approach or the flight, and they went on
talking quite composedly.
"Benham offered me his London curacy;
but Clary hates London, eel took this, and
thought myself very lucky. We get the
r eottage cheap, and eighty pounds a year—
. a decent starving for the three of us; we
t have g treasure of an Irish servant, be
. sides ourselve to feed."
."And how many more by-and-by?" in
sinuated Mr. Warenne, spitefully.
Just in time to prevent a reply, the trea
sure of an Irish servant opened the study
door, and announced in her rich brogue,
"Place, Sir, t'tay's ready in t'drawing-room,
.an't' miscue waiting."
"Come along,:then, Warenne. I wonder
whether ( Clary will recognize pm."
The two gentlemen crossed the pasengo to
the opposite parlor, which Nura signified
,ts the "dhrawing-room," and found the
young mistress of the house seated before
the tray, prettily dressed in a clear blue
muslin, with her soft, brown hair flowing
in wavy curls, and with a smile on her
rosy moutb = the little hypocrite! Her
heart was fit to
,break Finder that gently
swelling boddice, where she had so daintily
fastened a cluster of George's favorite flow
ers. She had attired herself in her hest to
do her husband's friend honor, and as Mr.
Warenne skunk ids, and received the
welcome of an old acquaintance, he thought
in his own mind that—the indiscretion of
the marriage apart—she was as comfortable
a little wife as a man need desire to posses?.
She was not exceedingly pretty, but she
looked very nice and lovable; her skin was
so clear, her complexion so pure, her figure
so girlish and graceful. Then all her
ways were quiet and gentle; she bad affec
tionate eyes, and an expression sensible as
well as sweet, and her voice as musical as a
bird's. Unless Mr. Melvil had. told his
friend in so many wocds, that he was not
in love with his wife, Mr. Warenno would
never have discovered it, fur the curate was
as assiduous in his attentions to her as if
these were their courtinedays.
$250
Clary gave no sign that anything had
happened to grieve her; but she was re
lieved when tea was over, and George went
out with Mr. Warenne to show him time vil
lage, which was considered pretty by stran
gers, and which had been heaven to her.—
She had been very happy with her young
husband, and had found nothing wanting to
his content; but now, as the two walked
away through the garden, she stood watch
ing them with clasped bands and tears in
her sunny eyes, repeating under her breath,
"George said he did not love me; he mar
ried me for pity! What shall ldu? What
shall I do?"
Perhaps many young wives in Clary's
painful position would have made a virtue
of proclaiming their wrong, and inflicting
misery on themselves and helpmates; but
not so George's girl-wife. Her first impulse
was against herself, that she should have
been so blind as not to see that it was a
sacrifice and not a joy to him to marry her;
but then she reasoned that it was done, ir
revocably, and that she could only fret and
disturb his peace by betraying :what she
had accidently overheard; so she kept it to
herself, and only tried to make him love her
better.
"Though he does not love me, I know he
would miss me and be very sorry if I were
gone," she said in her heart; and after a
while the sore pain that Srst stab had given
her had passed away, and the same bright
face smiled by his hearth, the same light
tripping feet went by his side, and the
same affectionate sunshine filled his house
as heretofore.
There was plenty of work in his parish
for Mr. Melvil, for his rector was rarely at
home; but the young clergyman took a con
scientious view of his post, and did his
utmost. Clary was a great help to him.—
The cottagers liked her, and the school-chil
dren liked her. The people, and the 'squire
at the head of them, said the Melvil's were
an acquisition to the parish, and long
might they stay there! The young wife es
pecially was beloved; those who were in
trouble said she seemed to know how to talk
to them about faith, patience and comfort,
better than the curate himself, though what
trials could she have known at her age?,
In the village were many ladies, single
and double, portionless and well dowered,
pretty and plain, but among the whole troop,
had the curate been free to choose, he could
not have found one to suit him half so well
as Clary.
Greenfield had its drawbacks as well as
its delights, like other pretty villages; and
one of the most serious of these was a ten
dency to low fever when the spring had been
unusually damp.
A brook that ran across the green over
flowed in the rains, and when it retired to
its bed, left behind a deposit that bred pesti
lential vapors that poisoned the lives of the
people. The curate's cottage stood high,
and out of the influence of the baleful ex
halations; but his duties carried him to and
fro among the poor, and exposed him daily
to the contagion. No danger would have
made him evade these duties, heavier at
this season than any other; but when fever
was in the village, he laid his commands on
Clary that she should stay at home; and
Clary stayed, like the obedient little wife
that she was, instead of being rashly he
roic, and adding to his inevitable anxieties.
But Clary watched him with furtive ten
derness all the time, and was over ready
with dry clothing and warm slippers when
he returned home, to spare him the risk of
cold. But what was to be came to pass,
fur all her love and all her carol
One steamy April night, after a long and
fatiguing afternoon on the Marsh, as the
lower part of Greenfield was called, the cu
rate came home, ready to sink with weari
ness, and complaining of a pain in his bead
and sickness. Clary stole out of the room,
and despatched the Irish treasure for the
doctor. When the doctor came he ordered
George to bed, and said he hoped to set him
up again in a few days. But instead of im
proving, George grew worse; the fever rav
aged his frame terribly, and he was delirious
day after day. This went on to the climax
of the disorder, and then it took a favorable
turn; but a long season of uselessness and
inaction lay before the curate. lle must
leave Greenfield for sea-air, and lie by for
months. Meanwhile.jils absence mast be
supplied by another clergyman.
These inevitable musts, so trivial to other
people who have long purses, were purely
and simply a sentence of destitution to the
Melvils. George wanted to stay at home,
and get occasional help from his neighbor
ing clergy ; hut Clary made up a deter
mined little face, and said "No." They
must go over to the Isle of Wight fur the
summer months, and regain health and
"NO ENTERTAINMENT IS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 2,3, 1859
strength for him, even if Greenfield had to
be resigned altogether.
Clary managed somehow; she would not
give details, on the plea that George must
keep his mind quiet; and in the beginning
of June they found themselves lodged in a
retired farm cottage, standing in the midst
of delicious meadows, with a view of a glo
rious bay, cliffs, and distant towns. They
luxuriated in the beauty around them like a
pair of happy children; and, and, though
George was nut in love with his sunshiny
little wife, he would have got on there very
differently without her. She petted and in
dulged him to that extent that he grew 'Stout
and strong, and selfish to a very great de
gree; and would sometimes have forgotten
how very ill he had been if she had not
watched him and taken such extraordinary
care of him. She liked to hear herself
called in his short, imperative way; it
showed, ut any rats, that she was needful
to him. If she had gone into the polished
farm kitchen to superintend or to concoct
with her own hands some wonderful tempt
ing dish, to coax his delicate appetite, pre
sently he was heard from the parlor or gar
den crying oat, " Clary, what are you doing?
I want you!" Then, when she appeared
with floury paws and fire-beaten cheek, he
would just look up at her and say: " Why
do you run away and leave me for hours
together, Clary ?" and she would laugh and
tell him she had not been gone ten minutes;
what did he mean? and then disappear
again. Sometimes he would come into the
kitchen himself, and sit down in farmer
Hood's great chair, and follow her about
with his hollow eyes, and finally take her off
with his arm around her waist—although
he was not a bit in love, and only pitied
her!
He was not allowed to study solemn books;
but Clary permitted a light mental aliment
to be taken each morning and evening from
certain thin blue magazines, which she bor
rowed from the library in the nearest village,
which was slowly developing into a fashion
able watering-place. One evening, while
she was doing n little of the fine darning, in
which nobody excelled her, George, who had
been fur some time sitting silent over his
book, broke out into his merry laugh, say
ing: " Listen here, Clary ; here are some
beautiful verses! Hark how the lines limp!
I wonder how the editor could print such
stuff!"
He began to read the lines in a mock
heroic style, which certainly made them in
finitely ludicrous. At first Clary colored a
little; but before ho came to the end she
was laughing as heartily as himself.
He then volunteered to read a short story,
entitled "Patience Hope's Trial," which he
did with a running commentary, such as
" That is bad grammar"—" The punctuation
makes nonsense of every other paragraph"
—" Highllown, rhapsodical rubbish," &c.,
&c. ; and, when he came to the end, ho pro
nounced it the silliest little tale he had ever
read. Clary darned on most composedly,
and agreed with George that it was silly ;
but there was a mischievous sparkle in her
eyes, as if she were sorely tempted to make
a confession about the same silliest of little
tales; however, reflecting that the shock of
learning he had a literary wife might be too
much for his nerves in their present weak
state, she discreetly held her peace, and con
tented herself by making him imbibe her
earnings under various strengthening and
agreeable forms.
Befure the summer was ended, the thin,
blue magazine readers were familiar with
Clary's signature of " Ivy ;" but. after that
she disappeared suddenly from its pages, to
many people's regret; for its subscribers
were not, as a rule, highly trained, educated
college gentlemen, but day-workers and
toilers in the world's wide labor fields, who
find an agreeable relaxation in the perusal
of a silly little tale, whose interest turns on
the humble, daily virtues which they have
so much occasion to exemplify in their own
obscure lives. I believe the editor was in
quired of once or twice why "Ivy" had
ceased her contributions. "Icy" was other
wise occupied.
In the first place, Mr. Warenne, had pre_
seated George with a small living, and there
was a queer little rectory-house to paint,
paper, and generally embellish. Far be it
from me to derogate from Clary's dignity;
but I will toll ono thing of her, because I
think it was to her credit. The first time
Mr. Warenno went to see his old friend,
George was in his study, as usual, but it
had been made to look more cosy and home
like than that at Greenfield, and the young
rector looked proportionably more dignified
in it. After a little desultory chat, George
proposed to seek his wife—and bow does
everybody think they found her employed?
She was papering her own drawing-room—
that little drawing-room which was after
wards the admiration of the whole neigh
borhood I Mounted on some steps, in a big
apron, the property of the Irish treasure,
with her brown curls tucked behind her lit
tle eays, and with pasty hands, and sleeves
rolled up above her elbows, she wnssticking
the pretty, simple paper upon the wall—
the last hit. What did she do? Jump
down in blushing horror at being caught in
such dishabille, and cover everhody else and
herself with confusion? Not a bit of it!
She looked radiently over her shoulder, and
said—" You must wait five minutes; then
I'll speak to your and proceeded to finish
ber task, to the admiration of the Irish
treasure, who had acted as her assistant,
and also to the admiration-and not a bit
to the astonishment—of Mr. Warenne and
George.
The work done, she descended; and, as
the gentlemen had got possession of the
window-seat, she placed herself on the low
est step but one of her ladder, and they all
talked about the island, and the sea, and
George's recovery, and the new rectory, and
other interesting topics ; and Clary was 130
altogether bright, unaffected and charming,
that when George and his friend left her at
length, the latter said, "Melvil, if Clary
were not your wife, I should make up to
her myself:" And George actually laughed,
and said Ile had better take care what he
was about, or lie should be obliged to quar
rel with him ; and then he extolled her vir
tues very much, as if—as if lie were in love
at last ; but this time Clary was not near to
overhear.
This was Clary's first occupation; her
next was different, Perhaps the physical
and mental strain had been, for the last
twelve months, almost too much fur her
youth; for those who loved her began to
notice that her spirits flagged, and that her
brisk feet went slowly to and fro the garden
walks. George watched her anxiously; but
his friends told him to be patient, and wait
awhile, and she would be better soon. But
it is very hard to be patient when we see
what we have learnt to prize above all else
in the world fading slowly before our eyes
—and so Clary seemed to fade.
"George, you must take care of Clary, or
you will lose her," her mother told him
abruptly; "I do not like her symptoms at
all."
It was after this harsh communication—
for the mother spoke as if he was to blame
for her child's fate—that George involun
tarily betrayed to his young wife how much
he feared Jim her.
" And yon would grieve to lose me,
George?" said she, a little mournfully.
"It would break my heart, Clary! Oh!
don't talk of my losing you!" cried ho, kiss
, ing her thin, white hands. "Who have lin
the world besides you? Who loves me as
you do?"
"I think nobody loves you as I do, George.
it is selfish in me—but it is the happiest
time I have had for a long while, to see how
you would be sorry if I were gone. I should
not like to think you could forget me soon! ,
"Clary, you will live to bless me for many
a year yet."
"That must be as God wills, George; let
us both say, that must be as God wills."
"As God wills, my darling!" and George
hid his face on Clary's bosom, that she might
not see his tears.
Perhaps the covetous, watchful tender"
um that now surrounded the young wife
revived her courage and strength, for she
rallied visibly ; and, after n few months,
George had to baptise a little copy of him
self, and return thanks for Clary's safe de
liverance. After that day, nobody could
have persuaded him that there had ever
been a time when he was not in love with
his wife, or that he did not think her the
dearest treasure in the whole wide world.
There are three. children in the rectory
now, and it is one of the happiest homes
that can be found in-the country. Mr. Wa
renne, who has become more cynical than
ever, quotes the pair as an exemplification
of how well two people who are rightly
matched in other things may get on through
life, without falling into that enthusiasm of
love which hot-headed boys and girls es
teem the climax of existence. One day, in
the confideuce of friendship, he was so ill
advised as to remind the rector of the con
fession he had formerly made to himself, and
George was actually offended.
"Not in love with Clary? she is the only
woman for whom I ever cared a chip,"
cried he; "you are under a delusion, Wa
renno; I never can have said anything so
absurdly false,"
The rector thinks so now; and Clary is
converted to the same opinion. I do not
see what Mr. Warenne has to do with it.
Bygones should always be bygones. Clary
has never yet confessed about the silliest of
little tales in the thin blue magazine; per
haps it has slipped through her memory—
but all her love, devotion, and patience of
that time will never escape George's. If he
knew who wrote "Patience Hope's Trial,"
he would possibly be inclined to call it a
"gem of fiction" now, instead of what ho
did then, because he would see it from a
real point of view.
The Bandit.
A SUPERNATURAL TALE
Every system, it may be observed, is
founded upon conviction, and that convic
tion is based upon facts more or loss au
thenticated. The attempts made by the
skeptica explain away as hallucinations
the reaWes of individual experience, be
cause the facts themselves do not carry con
viction simply as recorded by others, are
always legitimate where there are many
obvious sources of error, or whore the will
to admit the truth of some popular super
stition or mysteries of a rarer description
is overtaxed. Few, for example, will be
ready to give entire credence to the story of
the worthy Vicar of Etampes, in which ho
details of a wondrous act of sensibility on
the part of a hanged man. The vicar in
question, devoted to the church nt an early
age, had received from his mother medal
consecrated nt the shrine of Notre w Dezme de
Li se. To the possession of this gift he
Wag is the habit of ascribing an unusual
amount of piety for which.bo bad' gained
Credit, not only with the laity, but even
among ecclesiastical colleagues. At the
period when this holy man flourished,
Etampes and its environs were continually
put under contribution by a daring suc
cessor of the Cartouches and the Mandrins,
one Artaifaille, whose wife, living in Etam
pes,was on the contrary:a model of propriety,
and who spent her days praying for the
conversion of her husband.
It happened that one evening, exhausted
by labors, - the holy man fell asleep in the
confessionalXand was awoke at midnight
by unusal sounds in the church. When
sufficiently aroused to a sense of his posi
tion, ho was enabled to discern that the
noise ho had heard, came from a man who
was busy striking a light by the choir. He
was a man of about middle height, carry
ing in his waistband two pistols and a dag
ger, and casting at once, a threatening and
searching glance, he prepared, his candle
being lighted; to force:open the tabernacle.
Thia he soon accomplished, and he drew
forth, first the holy pyx, a magnificent cup
of old:silver chiselled in the time of Henry
II.; and next a massive chalice, which bad
been given to the town by Queen Marie
Antoinette; and lastly, two crystal bottles,
Ho then shut the tabernacle, and drew from
beneath the altar a Notre Dame in wax,
crowned with a wreath of gold and dia
monds, and the dress embroidered with
precious stones.
Being determined that if possible such a
sacriligious robbery should not take place
thus quietly, the abbe issued from the con
fessional and confronted the robber. The
latter, on hearing footsteps approaching,
drew a pistol from bis girdle; but the trait
quility of the man of God awed even the
rudo bandit.
"Friend," said the holy man to the rob
her, "you shall not committ this sacrilege.'
"Who will present me?" inquired l'Ar
taifaille.
"I will—not by physical force but by
pursuasion. Friend, it is not for the
church r wish to save these things—the
church can afford:to buy other holy ves
sels; it is for your sake, who cannot pur
chase salvation at any price."
"My good man, do you think that it ie
the first time that l'Artaifaille has commit
ted sacrilege? Besides, as to my soul, that
concerns my wife; she is pious enough for
two, and will save mine with hers."
"Yes, my friend, your wife is a good and
pious woman, but who would die 'of grief
did she know the crime you are about to
commit. For her sake and your own, I
offer you 100 crowns; 1000 francs to be
given now, 2000 after I have sold my moth
er's heritage to obtain them, to restore
these objects to the place where you got
them."
"You mother is rich, then?" observed
the bandit.
"No; she is poor and will he ruined; but
she will giro up her all gladly, if sho knows
it will save a soul. Now will you follow
me to the presbytery."
The bandit did as was desired, casting
however many furtive glances around him,
lest he should be betrayed into an embus
cede. Arriving at the presbytery, he re
mained at the door, while the abbe went in
to bring the money. Be soon came hack
to the door, carrying a weighty bag with
him.
"And now," said the bandit, "I give you
six weeks to pay me the other two thou
sand; and you may place them in the hands
of my wife, but you must not toll her how
I came by the money."
"It shall be done; and sin no more." And
the good priest turned away, and bending
on his knees, he prayed humbly and earn
estly fur the conversion of the bandit. He
had not finished his prayer when there
came a knock at the door. "Como in,"
said the abbe, without rising; when he did
so, l'Artaifaille was standing behind him.
"Here," he said, "I bring you back your
money. Ido not want it, or your other
two thousand." And so saying he depos
ited the bag of money on the sideboard.
"What do you want?" said the priest to
the bandit, seeing hesitation depleted on
his countenance. "What you have done is
well; do not be ashamed to do better."
"You believe that, by the intercession of
our Lndy, a man, boa - over guilty, may be
saved at the hour of death?" observed
l'Artifaille. "Gird me then, in exchange
for my three thousand francs, a re]io or
chaplet, such as :I can carry about with
me, and embrace at the last moment."
The holy man did not ,hesitate; he took
the consecrated medal, which had wrought
so much good to himself, from about hie
own neck, and gave it to the" bandit. The
latter pressed it to his rips and hurried
away.
A year elapsed before tho good abbe
heard anything more of the bandit. At the
expiration of that period ho loft his diocese
for n short time, to visit his mother, who ho
ing unwell,he remained with her six weeks.
Upon his return he heard that the celebra
ted robber had been captured near Orleans.
and haring been condemned to death had
been ;sent to Etampes as the rrincipal scene
of his misdeeds, and that he had suffered
the last penalty of the law, the very morn
ing of his return,
Without stopp'ng even to shaky the duet
off his shoes, the good priest repaired at
once to the house (of the widow, who, he
was infi,rrned, hnd been incesennt in her
applications during his absence.
lli.bbo," she exclaimed on see-
$1,50 PER YEAR IN ADVANCE; 82,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE.
ing her visitor, "you came too late; he died
without confession. lie would not confess
to any other but you; and saying so, he
embraced with fervour a medal which hung
suspended from around his neck.
"Is that all he said?" inquired the good
abbe.
"No, he told me that you - would come to
see me to-night, and he begged as a last re
request—l dart scarcely tell you what
strange favor!—actually that you should
go where his body hangs, and repeat five
Paters and five Ayes. He said you would
not refuse."
"And ho said right," replied the holy
man, "I shall immediately go and do his
last bidding."
The widow embraced the hands of the
priest and wept with gratitude.
It was about half-past ten o'clock in the
latter days of April; the sky was clear, and
the air refreshing. The good priest follow
ed the city walls till he came to the gate of
Paris—the only one that remained open at
that late hour. The point to which Lis
steps were directed was an esplanAe which
domineered over the whole town, and upon
which to the present day aro to be seen the
traces of the sc.Lffuld, upon which in former
times three gibbets were erected. But we
shall now proceed with our story in the
words of the narrator—the worthy abbe
himself.
My heart beat. The feeling came over
me that I was going to see, not that which
I came to see, but something unexpected.
Still I kept ascending.
Arriving at a certain height, I began to
perceive the summit of the gibbet, com
posed of three pillars and their horizontal
beams of oak.
I distinguished at the same moment the
body of the unfortunate L'Artnifaille dri
ven to and fro by the wind, like a moveable
shade
Suddenly I stopped; the gibbet was now
exposed to me from its summit to its base,
and I perceived a. mass without form, that
looked like an animal on four legs, and that
moved about. I stopped and hid .myself
behind a rock. The animal was larger than
a dog, more massive than a wolf.
Suddenly it raised itself upon its hind
legs, and I discovered that the animal was
neither more nor loss than what Plato de
signated as animal with two feet and with
out feathers, that is to say, a man.
What could a man be doing under a gib
bet at such an hour, unless he came with a
religious heart to pray—or with an irreli•
gious heart to commit some sacrilege.
Under these circumstances, I determined
to watch. At the same moment the moon
came from behind a cloud, and shone bright
ly upon the gibbet, I could now distin
guish a man distinctly, and see every:move
ment that he made. The man picked up a
ladder from the ground and placed it against
the upright that was nearest the swinging
body. lie then mounted the ladder. The
nest moment lie formed with the hanging
body a strange group, in which the living
and the dead appeared to be confounded iu
a mutual embrace.
Suddenly a fearful shriek resounded on
the air. I saw the two bodies moving as if
in conflict. I heard cries of help shouted
by a voice which seemed to be strangling;
and at the same moment, ono of the bodies
detached itself from the gibbet, while the
other remained suspended by the cord, beat
ing about with his arms and legs.
It was impossible that I should compre
hend what was really taking place under
the infamous machine; but certainly the
work of man or the devil was taking place
—something that called for help, that
claimed assistance.
I accordingly hastened forward. At the
sight of a newcomer, the struggles of the
hanging man increased; while beneath him
lay the body which had fallen from the gib
bet, motionless and lifeless.
I ran first to the living. I hastily as
cended the steps of the ladder, and cutting
the cord with a knife, the hanging man fell
to the ground, and I jumped down to him
from the ladder. He was rolling on the
ground in fearful convulsions, while the
other body continued motionless.
I saw that the running knot was still
strangling the poor devil, so I quickly knelt
down, and with great difficulty loosened it.
Whilst so doing I saw his face, and recog
nized him as the executioner.
His oyes were starting out of their orbits•
his face was blue, his jaws distorted. I
placed him against a stone; gradually the
fresh air revived him; he breathed more
freely, and finished by looking at mo. His
surprise was not much less than mine had
been.
"Monsieur l'Abbe," be said hesitatingly,
'is it you?"
—Yes it is I. What were you doing
here?"
Ile appeared to take some time to collect
his ideas. and then turning round ho looked
at the corpAe lying close by.
"Oh. Monsieur ]'Abbe," he said, 'let ns
hasten from this place. In the name of
Ileacen let us go from here?"
"Why so? I have promised to say fire
Paters and fire Aces for the soul of the
gibbeted man."
"Fur his soul, Monsieur l'Abbe. He is
Satan personified. Did you not see him
when he hung met"
"Hang you, why I thought it wad you
who lead rendered him that particular ser-
"Truly Do; and I thought I had tiling him
[WHOLE NUMBER,I,SO9.
l as well as a man could be hung; but it ap
pears that I was deceived. I wonder when
he made me take his place, he did not take
advantage of the circumstance and run
away."
"Run away; why he is dead and motion
less. There is some mystery beneath this.
Tell me who brought you here."
"Well, I suppose I must tell you, in con
fession or otherwise. The miscreant then,
you know, Monsieur l'Abbe, would -not
confess, even at the last moment. He al
ways asked for you on his way here, and
again at the gibbet. "Is not the Abbe
come?" ho repeated at every step. "No,l'
I answered. There is nothing eo Annoying
as to be perpetualy asked the same Linea
tion. I put the cord round his neck, and
bade him mount the ladder. "Stop a mo
ment," he said, when we got up about one
third, "lot me see if the Abbe is not an
rived." "You may look I answered; and
thought I had hothing to do but to push him
off, but he anticipated me. "One moment
more," ho said, "I want to kiss a medal of
our Lady, which is suspended to my neck."
"Well, to that," I said, "it is but fair—kiss
away." "And my last wish," he added,
"is to be buried with this medal." "Hum,".
says I, "all that is found upon a man who
is hung belongs to his executioner." "That
does not concern me," he insisted; "I will
be buried with this medal." "You will,
will you," said I, losing all patience; "you
may go to the devil." And so saying, I
threw him off, and jumped on his shoulders:
"Our Lac y have pity," he said; but the
rope strangled the man and the sentence at,
the same time."
"Well, but all this does not explain to me
why you came here."
" That is because that is the most difficult
part of the story."
" Well, I will tell y. u; you came to take
the medal."
"You are right. The devil tempted me.
I said to myself, you will? That is all very
good, but when night is coma we will see.
So when night came I returned to the gib.
bet. ,I had loft my ladder in the neighbor.
hood, and knew where to find it. After
carefully looking around, and seeing that
nobody NTILS watching him, I placed my
ladder against the nearest upright, and got
up and drew the corpse towards me."
"Well, and what then?" ,„
"Inn,' had got hold of the Medelend
bad just succeeded in drawing it off the,
neck, when believe me if you will, _the
corpse seized me bodily, and drawing Its,
head from tho running knot, passed •my
head in instead of his, and just threw tner.
off as I had thrown him off. That is ex
actly what happened."
"Impossible, you must be mistaken." •
"Did you find me hanging or not ? Well ,
I promise you I did not hang myself." •
"And the medal, where is it gone to?" I
inquired.
"You must search for it on the ground.,
When I felt I was hanging, I was glad
enough to get rid of it.
I accordingly sought for the medal, and
was not long in discovering it. Having
picked it up I once more fastened it to the
neck of the ex-bandit.' At the moment
that it came in contact with his chest, a •
shudder pervaded his whole frame, and he •
uttered a sharp and painful cry. I thou
made the executioner replace the corpse in
its former situation, nod I then went down
on my knees and repeated the prayers
which the sufferer had demanded of me.
As I finished, midnight struck at Notre '
Dame.
"Come," said I to the executioner, "we
hare nothing more to do here."
The next morning, when I woke up,
was told that the bandit's wife was waiting
for me below.
Her face wore an expression of satisfac
tion, and of a mipd relieved.
"M. l'Abhe," she said to me, "I hare
come to thank you; my husband appeared
to me last night, just cs it struck twelve by --
Notre Dame, and enid to me, 'Go to-mor- '
row morning to the Abbe's, and tell hirri: '
thanks to him and to our Lady, I um eased-01'
Death of the Tutor
The natural end of a tutor is to r eriah bq
starvation. It is only a question of time.
just as with the burning of college libraries.
These all burn up sooner or later, provided
they are not housed in brick or stone and
iron. I don't moan you will ace in the reg, -
istry of deaths that this or that particular
tutor died of well-marked, uncomplicated .
starvation. They may, even in extreme ca-.
ses, be carried off by a thin, watery kind of
apoplexy, which sounds very well in there-.
turns, but means little to those who knese.l
that it is only debility settling on the head..
Generally, however, they fade and
der various pretexts—calling it dyspepsia:; -
consumption, and so on, to put a decent:up:.
pearance upon the case, and keep np The
credit of the family and the institutint
where they have passed through the smote"-
sive stages of inanition. ' '
In some cases it.takes a great many;years
V) kill a tutor.by;the process in queetion.
You see they do get food and clothes , and
fuel, in appreciable quantities, such aaitiitty
are. You will even notice rows of boolta
their rooms, and a picture or two—things
that look as if they had surplus roonen..bntw
these superfluities aro the tooter of Arystalli t
nation to scholars, and you can never zee •
them assay till the poor fellows -.damns •'•
into dust. Do not be deceived. Thatater
breakfasts on coifs made of beaus, adulteri-