1 4.• - • :',.-r . .. - ..L:11,C,..... 1 !'1.-..:11./.._.. - -•• '• - .`i -.,:::'-i..•
SAMUEL WEIGHT, Editor and Proprietor.
VOLUME XXXIII, NUMBER 32.3
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rretrg.
Under the Cross.
I cannot. cannot ray—
Out of my braked and breaking heart—
Storm driven along a thorn-set way ,
While blood drops Marl
From every pore, as I drag on—
" Thy will, 0 God, be done."
I cannot, in the wave
Ofmy suango FrOITOW4 fierce baptism,
Look up to heaven, with spirit brave
IVith holy eltd.m;
And while the whelming rite goes on,
Murmur, “Cod's will be done."
I am not strong to bear
This sudden blast of scorch iv, breath,
Which blossoms Lorin black despair,
And life in death;
cannot say, Without the sun,
tlgy God, thy vela be dose."
I thought but yesterday,
My will was one with God's drar
And that it would he sw ee t to sa y—
Whatever is
My happy state should smite upon,
••Thy will, my God, be done."
Ent I was weak and wrong;
pplh weak of soul and wrong of heart;
And Pride alone an me was wogs,
Willi cunning art
To client me in the golden sun,
To say, “Clod's will be done,"
0 shadow, drear and cold,
Thal fights me out of foolish pride;
that through my bosom rolled
tii:towy udet
I said, till ye your power made known,
"God's will, not mine, be do.te.,
Now faint and sore afraid.
tinder my cross—heavy and rude—
My idols in the ashes Mid.
Like ashes strewed,
The holy word* my pule lire Rllllll
- God, thy will he dose."
Pity my woes, 0 God!
And touch my will with thy warm breath;
Put in my t;embliug hand thy rod,
That qu ieLens death;
Tint my dead faith may feel thy sun,
And say, •Thy will be done."
[IV. r.
Under the Ice
Untie: - the ice the water. run;
Under the ice our spatial lie;
The genial glow of the Allmmer sae
Shell looiien their fetters by end Irv.
Moan and groan in thy prison cold,
Raver of life—river of love;
The winter is growing worn add old,
The fro-t is leaving the melting mould,
And the sun shines bright above.
Under the we, under the snow,
Voir lives ore bound iii a ery.tal ring;
and by will the Foully wind, blow,
Attl :he rows bloom on the banks of .yiring.
Moan and gloan an thy fetters strong,
River of rife—river of love;
The nights grow Amt. tit., days grow long,
'eaker and weaker the hoods of wrong,
And the sun shines bright shove
Linder the ice our souls are hid;
UnJcr these our gout deeds grow;
Idea but credit the wren; we did,
never the motives that lay below.
Munn on I groan in thy fiction cold,
River of life—river of love;
The winter of life is growing old.
The frost is leaving the media" mould,
And the sun shines warm above.
rnder the ice we bide our wrongs—
Under the ice that has chilled u, through!
Old that the Irmo& who have known tia long
Dare to doubt that we are good and true.
Aloan and grow* in MYp r mon ccld,
River of life—river of love;
Winter is growing warm and old,
Roses stir in the inciting mould;
We shall be known above.
gelsrtionO.
The Mystery of Kiss Marsh's Lodger.
A TALC Or CIRCMIsTANTIAL ErmExct
Since the expiration of Miss Marsh's oc
cupancy, scores of tenants have come in and
gone out of 14 Great Rumball street. Just
now one would be puzzled to say who is the
representative tenant, it is let out to so
many divisions of handicrafts, all asserting
their respective claims to the portion of
door posts where their bells are ranged one
above the other; and the door itself—where
the French polisher in the parlor, the work
ingjewclet in the first floor, and the dress
and pelisse maker in the second, announce
Themselves in zinc; all, I should think, with
more than their full complement of offspring,s,
to argue from the children that truing upon
the raitings and play upon the door-steps,'.
and generally harass the skirts of the house.
But in Miss Marsh's time it was so differ
ent. That was, as I said, very many years
ago. Then it was all so trim and tidy.—
The windows shone. The old fashioned
balsams and mignionette from the sills
blossomed kindly out upon the street. The
blinds hung straight and snowy,- • The brass
knocker and door-knob were stainleSsly
radi
ant. It was q positive pleasure to see rosy
cheeked Marian come, in her clean cop and
rough check *prom, pith clinking pail and
twirling mop, to wash the steps in a morn
ing and Bluish and palish every speck away.
That was what old Mrs. Withers, who lived
opposite, said; and she ought to have known
if any one did, for she passed her life sit
ting in her easy chair, knitting, and look
ing out of the window at the world of Great
Rurnbsll street.
DEI
I do not think if Mrs. Withers' spectacles
had been of twenty times stronger tinseitify
big power they could have seen anything to
disapprove in her neighbor's arrangements.
All was so fru A til, and clearly, and patent
to. society. Front six &cluck in the morn
ing, when the window of Miss Marsh's bed
room was opened to the cheerful early sun
shine, to ten at night, when her candle was
extinguished, you might almost read her
daily life of simple industry on the other
side of the walls—at least in so far as any
one can read any one else's daily life. But
amongst other things which Mrs. Withers.
and the world in general, saw in the course
of time, was a change in Miss Marsh's cir
cumstances—long suspected, but openly an
nounced one day by a flag of distress in the
parlor window, bearing the legend, "Apart
ments to lett" and, in the course of time
also, they witnessed the arrival of Miss
Marsh's lodger.
I think, in a general way, householders
are disposed to resent the existence of
lodgers as a class—are disposed to view
them with suspicion and treat them with
rigor. So, in proportion to the good will
felt by Great nutnhall street to No. 14 was
its distaste to the newly-installed "first
floor." He was a young man. lle was a
medical student. lie was a fine, strapping
fellow. Given all these premises, would not
the fair deduction be late hours—rollicking
—dissipation--extravagance? Decidedly,
Miss Marsh was imprudent, to say the least
of it, to take suck an occupant under her
quiet, orderly roof—and with that young,
good-looking servant tool Had it been an
elderly lady now, or a blind gentleman, or,
in feet, any one else—although she would
hare done better to hare given up house
keeping altogether, and become a lodger
herself.
So the little world of the street settled the
affair of their neighbor for her, years upon'
years ago; just as the younger world of to
day arranges fur another generation of
neighbors just as my affairs are decided
fur me, and yours settled for you. •
Fur once, howerer, they were wrong; and
whether right or wrong, as the popular man
ner is, having had their say out, they soon I
forgot all about the young man who had oc
casioned it—only to Miss Marsh, and to
Miss Marsh's maid he became an object of
daily increasing interest.
Every man is a hero to some woman; so,
to these two, ho became part of daily life—'
his breakfast, his fire, his boots, his bed, his
books being made much of; just, only in
lesser degree, as his mother, the clergy
man's widow down amongst the Somerset
orchards, nod his young sister, and one
other, talked of hint, and prayed for him,
and kept him in their simple, loving hearts.
it was September when ltalph Sellwood
entered upon Lis lodgings; and now it is
May. All that time he had been studying
hard in the schools of medicine he bad come
to town to attend, making way steadily, and
becoming a favorite from a frank, genial
good nature, which am-riled well with his
vigorous good health and light heart, and
good looks. Many a day. a Item some jest of
t h e ta ,,, oent had been uttered, or some boy
iffkli freak had been played, they were re•
membered, and thrown into the casting np
of the stain. So much for the generalities'
of the young nian's fife. -
On Sunday. the 14th of May, as the hells
wore ringing for morning prayers, Mr. Sell
wood, coming down stairs, encountered at
the open hall door his landlady dressed for
church, and talking to a friend who had
paused without, also on her way to the ser
vice. The fresh sunshine lit up the street.
The sky was blue above. There were a
thousand sweet odors of eerly summer in
the air. vision of the fragrant summer
seized him, and smote him with the indefin
able longing that every one has experieoeed
—a longing to feel the foot on the green
sward, and to bare the head to the pure
breeze upon the bill! Miss Marsh, however,
with all her kindly sympathies, would not
have had one for such a want. The tender
sky, and the cowslip meadow, and the blue
hell bunk in 'Warped, wore things, so to
speak, to be put decently out of sight and
hearing, like the children's toys in the
drawer, from Saturday till Monday. All
this had often been discussed between young
Sellwood and his landlady—on one side with
raillery, on the other with the nearest ap
proach to acrimony that gentle nature was
capable of. But he was in no mood for a
lecture now; so, in reply to her question of
which church he was going to, he said, on
the spur of the moment, he was going to a
friend at some distance, with whom he
should remain to dine. Miss Marsh had
then said neither would she return for the
day, but would accept the invitation her ac
quaintance without had just been urging
upon her, to go to hear a distant preacher
and remain with her. As the young man
passed out, she stepped back to tell her
maid the change in her arrangements.
Ralph Sellwood was soon out of the
streets—it did not then take so long to leave
them behind as now. The streams of peo
, plo with prayer and hymn hooks, bound
sedately to church and chapel, gradually
declined into one or two late and hurried
•
El
"NO ENTERTAINMENTIS SO CHEAP AS READING, NOR ANY PLEASURE SO LASTING."
COLUMBIA, PENNSYLVANIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MARCH 8, 1862
stragglers. The bells had ceased, and as he
passed here and there a place of worship
he could hear the deep boom of the organ
within, or the voices of the congregation
singingtsome old psalm tune, that seemed
like a faint echo coming back, muffled and
indistinct, but familiar, from his boyhood.
A morbid sense of isolation weighed down
his buoyant nature as he strode on through
the bright, sad, Sunday street—a yearning
for home and the dear faces there, such as
a child might feel, fell upon him with fierce
impotence. As he stretched northwards
away by the then country villages of High
gate and Hampstead. and sat down upon
the wild Head) overlooking the great city,
it was not L radon below that he saw with
his vacant eyes, but the distant cottage with
the pear-tree against the gable, and the jes
samine around the porch, and the fragrant
cabbage-rises and sweet lavender in the
garden. It was his mother with her wid
ow's dress that sat at the open window of
the cool, low .parlor, and his sister and
young cousin, in their Sunday white frocks
and blue ribbons, that paced up and down
the path without, as he had so often seen
them. tinder that pure light gentle Mem
ory took his band, and opened many a long
closed chamber:
A cluck rudely struck out the hour, and
all the vision melted away. There was only
the wild heath, and the woods, and the stern
fact of London et his feet. Ile rose and
stretched himself. Ile felt tired, and cross,
and hungry, and in no mood for companion
ship. Instead, therefore, of seeking out any
of his friends, as he had had some vague in
tention of doing, he bethought him of turn
ing home again, and getting through an ac
cumulation of work in writing out old notes
of leotures which ho had neglected. So,
like a working-man he stepped out. There
is nothing like a brisk walk for restoring the
mental circulation. By the time he had
got past the fields and gardens on to the
flag-stones, he had left behind all the gloom
and reverie of his morning's idle dreams,
and was, through the elasticity of his na
ture, once more gay and sanguine as ever.
As he got into his own neighborhood they
were taking down the shutters from a pub
lic house much frequented by the students
of the hospital, and where he was well
known. There he turned in, and took a
glass of ale and bread and cheese; and as
the clock struck two let himself in with his
latelekey at his lodgings.
Everything Ralph Sellwood did, whether
it were work or play, he did in earnest, so
he lust no time in dreaming, but sitting
down to his table, commenced putting into
order the disjectra mem bra scattered through
his note-book. Ile read and he wrote, he
wrote and he read, on and on, fluently and
clearly, interested in his subject, and with
the indefinite, pervading glow of satisfaction
which attends any kind of successful labor.
The sunshine, which had streamed broadly
down upon the floor of the room when he
began, rose to the chairs, to the tables, to
the walls—higher and higher till it vanished.
The bells had again rung out their summons
to evening prayer, and all was still. Closer
and closer he bent to the task he had set
himself for his day's work. It was a race
between him and the fast-fading light. Nu!
strain his eyes as he might, he could no
longer see the faint pencil-marks to which
he referred, and he wanted but a few lines
more to finish all up! llis lamp, ready
trimmed, stood upon the dumb-waiter in the
canner; but in those days Lucifers were not;
it was the stern bid regime of steel and tin
der bus, and the place of the lire in the
grate was tilled WWI the fragrant beau pot
of ha wt h. wit and s weet-hriar. Putting down
his pen he rang his bell, therefore, fur a
candle, and sat waiting in the twilight. Ile
rang again and again, lie then bethought
hint that it was Sunday, and he had said he
would not return—there was, probably, no
ono at home but himself, so he went down
stairs to seek what he required. Everything
in the underground kitchen was quiet, and
so dusk that tor a moment he cooll not dis
' titiguish what was that atatioble•• heap yon
der—oulp a terrible instinct made his heart
stand still. In an instant he had stirred up
the sutuuldering embers of the tire into some
thing of a blaze, and had turned the purple,
swollen face to its light. Oh, horror! There
with protruding tongue, bitten through and
dropping blood, with wild, starting, dead
eyes, with fiercely clenched, blue hands, lay
Marian, the pretty, fresh maid ho had seen
but a few hours before. It was the work of
an instant to light a candle, to tear apart
her dress, to take out his lancet and open
the vein in her nook, Alas, no! The blood
was atilt warm, but it had-ceased to flow for
ever! Then, with a wild cry far help, Ralph
Sellwood rushed into the street.
This was on the 14th of May. The Criers.
inal Courts were then sitting. and, on the
11th of June following be was placed at the
bar of the Old Bailey on the charge of "wil
ful murder."
There could not he a °leveret , case cduaed
from circumstantial evidence. Read it, u
it stands in those dark annals side by side
with other cases, and you will see it fits in,
piece by piece to a complete mosaic, while
many of them, considered sufficiently proved
have hero and there irreconcilable gaps of
contradiction. .
The crown prosecutor had not many wit
nesses t call. The barmaid at the tavern,
who bad served the prisoner .rich drink at
half-past one she remembered the hour by
the doors baring been just opened)—and the
gentlewoman who )'rota her opposite win-
dons had seen him enter the house with his
latch-key as the clock struck two, were the
principal ones. The person to whom Miss
Marsh bad been'speaking in the morning
also bore testimony to the young man
having distinctly said he was engaged to
spend the day at a distance, and to his
having heard his landlady speak of her in
tention not to return till night. This Miss
.Marsh herself was obliged to confirm, and a
cross•exatnination only strengthened the
the impression of the intimacy which had
existed between the prisoner and the de
ceased. •
Now for the aspect of the house. -
Everything was undisturbed. Tho plate
gathered together in the basket was safe in
in its accustomed place. There was money
lying open in the girl's work-box upon the
dresser. The kitchen-table had been set for
tea for two persons, and there stood also
upon it a bottle of brandy, which was prov
ed to belong to Mr. Sellwood. Me had been
seen to enter the house at two o'clock, and
itnvas nearing eight when he called for as
sistance. What had he been doing in the
interim? It was in vain to point to the mass
of manuscript. That only referred to weeks
and weeks past, as the date of the notes and
evidence of the professors who delivered the
lectures wont to show, Nor could he at
tempt to prove having had any such engage
ment as he had spoken of.
As for the deceased, she was a quiet, re
served person from London, having no friends
in the country.
There was no question raised of "Death
from natural causes." It was a palpable
cuss of "murder," so palpable that Sell wood's
counsel advised him as his best chance to
plead guilty to the charge of "manslaughter;"
but to this, as to every imputation of the
crime, the young man, heart-broken and be
wildered as he was, persisted to the last in
returning an indignant insistence of his in
nocence.
Yes! to the last; and that was not very
far off, fur in those good old times there was
but little fear of the sword of jutice rusting
in its scabbard. Barely six weeks bad
elapsed from the committal of the crime to
that unclouded sweet summer morning when
the unhappy lad made that dreary journey
along Holborn and Oxford street, whose ter
mination was Tyburn. There he was "hang
ed by the neck till be was dead," and Jus
tice sheathed her sword, and rode home in
her coach.
Thirty years after that Juno, When fine
stuccuoed houses were beginning to rise on
the clearing of the ugly, fruitful Tyburn
tree, and when Justice, no longer taking her
morning drive westward, only made a good
breakfast and took but one step to the ad
joining scene of her triumphs, a relation of
the jotter-down of these facts was jogging
along, as country clergymen are wont to jog
through the green lanes of their rural dis
tricts. Ile was thinking of turnips, or tithes
or Sunday's sermon, or Monday's vestry
meeting—of nothing, or anything, rather
than what ho was riding to hear. roe, truth
must be told, the best of vicars riding to
visit a dying bed does not spur his beast.
wildly and think of nothing;but his mission
The call which the clergyman had received
I the night before as he paced, in the purple
evening light, by the south wall of his gar
den, peacolu I ly contemplating the strawberry
beds and the mellowing green giges, was
one which often came to the vicarage—"A
man was bad and wished to see the parson."
He was lying at a house at the extreme end
of the perish, a good four miles off, where
he had lived as a farm servant for some
time. Ile was now down with fever, and
all his cry was fur the minister. It was in
compliance with this request, therefore, that
the vicar mounted his mare next morning,
and rode through the rieh country, where
the ripening fields of corn and the fragrant
hay gave promise that the year should be
crowned with plenty.
The mistress of the farm was a kindheart
ed dame. well-esteemed by my relative, who
generally had a crack with her on market
day.. and who always saw her in her place
la church, ac became a decent %comm. She
now cilia° out to meet him Its he rude into
the yard. '•The sick man was still alive,
but sinking fast. lie had lived with them
fourteen years come next Martimas, and all
that time had never so much as once crossed
the church threshold. Some thought he was
a Papist, and some a Jew; but he was very
close, and nobody cared much to meddle
with him. lie was a steady, sober man,
and could not be said to be the worse for
liquor more than once or twice in the year.
It was after one of these bouts be had fallen
sick, a month or more ago." SJ the good
woman gossiped.
The room in which the sick man lay was
in a range of out buildings appropriated to
the farm laborers. A glance at the ashen
face, and tight, receding lips on the pillow
of the truckle-bed, convinced the vicar thnt
his hours were indeed numbered. At snob
diagonosis divinity is as skillful as physic.
The door was closed, and they were alone—
not a sound but the tioklin6•of the clergy
man's watch, and the buzz of the summer
insects by the window. Then the sick man
spoke, laboring in that sweat of his brow
w+ he had never labored in all his hard life
before.
"Witnt d-ttt. i: it?"
"It i 4 Iliur4day, my friend," anid the
vicar; "Thur.+ toy, the 26th day of June."
••That'll,l , .. Sit'en down there; l'reforne
thing I want'co to put dawn in writing."
Upon the table lay inkstand and paper'
ready prepared, and he sat down. I copy
verbatim from the document he wrote at
that bedside, taking down the words as they
slowly fell from his dying lips:
"My name isn't John Gibson. My right
name - is Thomas Dell. My cousin's name
was Marian Dell, and I was courting her a
matter of fire-and-thirty years ago. She
went up to London to place, and I had a
situation as helper in the stable at 'The
Three Crowns.' When we had saved a bit
of money we were to be married and take a
public-house--but that was all talk. When
she went away I got rtupid like, and didn't
care for nothing. I tried the Methody's, as
I heard people say that did them good;
but it didn't do me none. After that I
broke clean out, and took to drink, and
skittle-Flaying, and that finished by my
losing my place. Then I rummaged about.
and got from bad to worse; not because I
was thinking of the young woman. I 'most
clean forgot her, and I'm sure I didn't want
her to think of me. If I'd a known she
was coming down ono street, I'd a gone up
the other. I'd no character, and couldn't
get no employment, so I went on the cross
altogether.
I'd been in London a matter of two year,
when, one day, who should I see but my
young woman gain along with her basket.
I knew her in a moment, and she knew me,
for all the elmnge in me, and though I hadn't
a decent tuck to my back. We was very
good friends, and I often seen her after that.
I used to watch fur her when she went out
of errands. I think if she'd of taken up
with me again I'd hare turned over a new
leaf, but she seemed to have got proud and
upny: and whenever I talked of sweetheart
ing she'd take herself off with a bounce, as
though she wouldn't demean herself with
the likes of me."
"It was somewhere about Christmas that
r got into some trouble about a trifle, and
got four months for it. When I came out
side the gate I was in rags, and had only a
few half pence in my pocket. My position
was a most unpleasant ono. I was in the
wide world without a friend and without a
character. I feared every constable I met
was on the watch fur me, although I had
done nothing to care for. But yet I was
afraid. I didn't know what to do, unless I
went on the cross again. I hung about un
til Sunday, and was a'most starved out.—
Then I thought I'd go and make a hole in
the water, but that I'd just see the girl first.
"There was some stables running at the
back of the house whore she lived us servant.
I'd been up there before, and see her clean
ing the windows. When I got up there I
found one right close where the bricklayers
had been nt work, and left open. I easy
swung down, and crept under the wall of
the back kitchen to see if she was there; but
there wasn't a sign of her. Then I got a
handful of ashes and heaved it at the win
dow. In a moment out she comes, and when
she see me she looked quite white and scared,
as though she'd a fainted away. Then, with
out a word, she took me down into the
kitchen. It was 'most like a parlor, and she
was dressed fur all the world like a lady, in
a beautiful sprigged cotton grown. I've
seed it often enough since then! We didn't
say nothing much, but she set the tea and
put out a bottle of liquor, and I took a good
swig of it. I suppose it was my being so
right down clammed that made it get up
into my head. I felt as though I should
like to shriek out and hit some'at. I says,
'Come. Mary, give use kiss, my lass!' Then
she rises up like a queen, and says, •I'ou
wretched man, you'll never be no better than
n jail-bird, and a disgrace to everybody be
longing to you! Leave this house before
any one comes into it, and never let mo see
your face no more,'
"Then my blood was up, and I began to
reckon her about a young man that lodged
in the house, and we got to high words.—
Then I suppose the devil bad right hold of
me, for r caught her by the arm; but she
hit me with the other hand. She was going
to scream out, but I caught her by the
throat. She was very strong in the arms
and we had a tusgol for it. While we was
struggling the bell rang. I thuught we was
alone in the house, and 1 was most fraud*
mad; so I gave her a grip that did for her,
and she only fetched one moan, and fell
down straight off my hands. Then I was
frightened, and all my strength seemed gone
in a moment, and to run out of me in a cold
sweat, Bite water. I heard steps coming
down, and 1 had only barely time to hide
inn coal-cellar at the foot of the stairs be
fore the young man that lived in the house
came down. Lie was a doctor, and he tried
to bring her to, but 'twant no use. When
the crowd come into the house I got mixed
up with them, and nobody suspected me,
for they'd all made up their minds the other
young man had done it.
"1 went to his trial, and I went to his
execution. Ile was very geattel and pretty
spoken. I got a plats right under the scaf
fold, for I felt I must see the last of it. no
I was dressed all in black, with his hair tied
with a blue riband—somebody said bis
sweetheart ha I sent it to him. When his
arms were pinioned, he stood up facing the
crowd, very pale, but quite composed. as if
he was laid in his coffin, and he says. quite
distinct: 'Good 'people, I go to meet my God
; innocent of this crime!' and, as I live, he
lookel straight at mo with his shining eyes.
I -ma name was Mr. Ralph Seltwood. and
the place where it b tppened was 14 Great
Retntrall street, London.
$1,50 PEE YEAR IN ADVANCE; $2,00 IF NOT IN ADVANCE
"After that, two or three time:-, I tried to
make away with myself, but I couldiet.—
Once the rope broke, but Pre the welt of it
on my neck now.
•"On the 14th of every May, wherever I
am, I see Marian Dell in her flowered gown;
and on the 29th of June the young man!—
The first year they appeared they wasn't so
big as my little finger, but quite perfect,
eyes and all. The next year they were as
long as my hand, and every time they've
been growing bigger. I shouldn't have
minded so much if they was always the
same. 'Twas no use getting drunk; I've
tried that. This May I was mending a bar
row in one of the sheds, and she come and
stood looking in at the door. She was now
just her natural size, and I knowod by that
she'd never came no more.
"I feel I'm dying, and I solemnly declare
every word of this confession is true.—Juns
GinsoN, his mark X.
Exhausted by the lengthened effort, the
lids dropped over that dreadful long line of
light seen under half-closed dying eyes; the
fingers plucked feebly at the coverlet; the
thickening speech became incoherent as he
'fluttered fast. The clergyman stood, sadly,
trying now and again to deliver his message
of pardon and peac:....
Suddenly, with a wild cry and °nailing
arms, he rose upon his feet in the bed, glared
with a savage terror into vacancy, aud —was
gone!
Thirty years! Whose story lasts so long?
To whom could erring Justice come now
with a mournful acknowledgment of her
mistake? Those heart-broken women whom
it so cruelly concerned had long ago gone
to the Source of all truth and justice. And
as for the world—the world, buying and sal
ling, marrying and giving in marriage, eat
ing and drinking, and living the life of to
day; holds as little reckoning of that other
world of a dead and gone generation, as the
tenants that sleep, and rise, and sleep again,
under the roof of the old numball street
house, do of their preacessors more than
half a century ago.
Napoleon and the nothschilds
A great many stories have been told illus
trating the comprehensive powers of the
Rothschilds, but we reoollect no instance
more strikingly illustrative of such powers
than that related of them in connection with
the escape of Napoleon frmn Elba, and his
march to Paris. The st •ry is very well
told in Sharp's Magazine Io• Sevteather
1845.- Not haring the book iterore us we
shall attempt only the 21ubstance es it come,.
to us in memory:
It was about nine o'clock in the evening
of March —, a number of clerks wore bu , ily
engaged in the rooms of a celebrated bank
ing house in Paris, preparing letters to be
forwarded to different parts of Europe by
the morning. post. Suddenly the head of
the house breaks in upon the scene and dis
turbs the monotony of the hour. his swarthy
visage more swarthy by twine apparent dis.
turbine; cause. The clerks look up surprised
and astonished. (The house is that of the
ll,.thschilds—the person, the re+ide-t French
partner.) lie abruptly addressed them by
stating the startling news just received in
Paris. that Napoleon had left Elba and was
on his way to Paris: that the Bourbon mon
arch was packing Lis crown jewels, and
other valuables, preparatory to as hasty a
departure as his immense fat would allow,
and ending by exclaiming—
"Thu houso of Rothschild is ruined! We
hare fire millions in gold in the vaults. Na
poleon will require it as a forced I,mn. Oh,
that my brother in London was here! lie
is the genius of our house. lie alone can
save us."
ICI such a strain he continued alternately
to address bis clerks and to soliloquize.—
Presently a modest under clerk by the
name of Wulverdendon, a German, ventured
to ask—
'•{Vhy cannot your brother be communi
cated with before the news in regular course
crosses the channel?"
"Impossible!" shouted the excited Isra
elite, "the gales are closed. No one will be
permitted to leave but a courier from the
English Embassy; and if he gets the news
into London before my brother hears of it,
the house of Rothschild is ruined."
The clerk, emboldened by his success, ven
tured to incioire—
"What time does the courier leave?"
"At ten o'clock precisely, and it is now
only fifteen minutes to that boor." "Oh,"
said be, agonizingly, "if I could only get a
message in ahead, but it is impossible."
The clerk asked if the courier's name was
not Schmidt.
"Yes, the same," replied Rothschild.—
"Why do you ask?"
"Trust me. I will go and get to London
ahead of him, or lose my life."
Turning to the head clerk, R. asked,
"who is this young man—can he be trusted?"
"Yes," mis the response, "true as steel.
"I will run the risk—what do you want
young man?"
"Plenty of gold, a letter to your brother
and a token of recognition."
"Here is a ruby ring, valued at sixty
thousand francs. My brother will recog
nize it. But stop, take this," and he scrawled
upon a slip of paper a few tiobrow charac
ter., the interpretation of which was—" Trust
this young men in all things."
Seeing the gold, and taking the paper and
ring. Wolserdeuden with one bound cleared
the flight of steps into the street, rushed into
[WHOLE .NUMBEit 1,646.
1 the embassy, and found Schmidt seated in a
coach, with five horses attached. Schmidt
recognized him; they were old chess play
ers, and this was the secret by which Wol=
rerdenden hoped to overreach him. W.
was the best player, and at the last game
bad taken the odds. Schmidt knew nothing
of the employment of Wolrerdenden. When
the latter approached the carriage, be care
lessly inquired:
"Where now, friend S.:timid: across the
channel alone?" •
"Yes."
".1:), you hare lights in your carriage?"
"Yes "
••What a grand chance to play chess."
"Capital!" exclaimed 6...:1tt idt; elate, go,t:
in; 1 shall ba so lonesome without coMpany."
"You had better not aik a second time,'
said lVolverdenden; I hare got nothing to
d for a few (lays, and the trip would be de
lightful."
••llop in then, we are off."
Virolrorden.len rushed to the nearest cafe,
purchased a chess-board, returned to tho
carriage, and they were off—passed the
gates of Paris. They drove rapidly towards
Boulogne, Relays were awaiting them uloug
the route, and at Boulogne two conveyances
%reit awaiting to take the courier across the
channel. From Paris to Biulogne Wolver
deudett was busy studying out how he
should outwit Schmidt. Ti do this„and
get to London first, he was detctmined, and
oven the dark thought swept across his
mind of doing murder as the last resort.—
Arrived at Boulogne, a happy thought
struck him as the courier waited for rest•
and change of horses. 14ulverdenden saun
tered out in the street and found' a black
smith. Taking him to a carriage, lie signift
candy pointed to a nut fastening one of the
joints of the carriage.
"Sir," said he, "whet would ho the result
it this nut was removed?"
"The carriage would break down."
"What if this one was removed?" point-
ing to another.
"The carriage would go about two miles
and then open the axle."
"Ab, that is it; I have a ftocy for that
net. Remove it, and here are ten Napo
leons. The carriage will be returned for
repairs. You wilt repair it, but understand,
not under two hours. You understand?"
"Yes," said the shrewd blacksmith.
The carriage started. At two miles the
norident lis ppened; the earrings returned
and the same blacksmith was on band.
Schmidt retired to a roam to study out a
move in the gatue of chess be was playing.
Wolverdenden slipped out on pretence that
he did nut wish to di.turto his friend, rushed
into the street, called for the swiftest horse.
announced himself an advance of the Eng
lish courier, reached time quay, overcame all
objections of the coast-guard, paid the crew
tire guineas upiecc, crossed the channel to
Dover, passed time pucka that AVIS waiting
for the courier, reached the house of Roths
child ut tire o'clock, rushed into his room
and inculieref.tly broke the news to him; ex.
plained all, and handed him the token nod
scrip.
R. motioned him into an adjoining rum),
and in a few' minutes he made bis appear
ance oalm and collected.
"Young man," said he, "you have done
well;" our house is not in <Linger of - being
ruiaed, but its credit may be shaken. I
cannot now write, but listen to what I tell
you. and repeat it to toy brother. Call in
all undue bills that are issued with our ac
ceptance. Search Paris till every one is got.
If these do trot absorb the gold, tell my
brother to buy those acceptances in his pri
vate memorandum. Napoleon will want
gold: paper will do him no good. Moro
than this, people holding our acceptances
will gladly exchange thorn before the time for
gold, and pay ton per cent. bonus. More
than this, tell my brother to operate largely
in stocks through third parties. The Bour
bons will be frightened; but I have no cor.-
fidence in the success of Napoleon. Ile has
reached his climax—France wants nothing
else. I giv - o him a hundred days; then, ho
will be defeated, and defeated forever - . But
tell my brother to appear at the first recep
tion with all the graciousness imaginable."
These wore all the instructions. Purnial -
ed with a passport, of which the It's had a].
ways on hands a number of blanks, Wolter
denden reached Paris on the morning of the
9th of March. Napleoa ca 'aid not reach
P.iris till the 20th. T.relve days was am.
pie time. The fire millions of gold were
exchanged for paper, and a million of franca
gained by the exchange. Napoleon arrived.
A grand fete was given. The Rothschild,
according to his brothers instructions, was
present. The moment the Emperor put his
eye upon him, he remarked, "I see there
are two Napoleons in Europe." No one
but R. read the riddle, and luckily for
Napoleon bad his bands full. Ile afterwirds
laughed over the incident a: St. Deleon.
characterizing it as the moat splendid speci
men of strategy ho hal ever known. The
decisive battle of Waterloo followed. Peade
was restored. Bills of remittal to every
capital in Europe were in demand, and the
fire millions of gold came rushing bank to
the Rothschilds in exchange for snob bale,:
and a premium of five to eight per cent. 7.
Every one knows how moob this . laage i 411,
the rise of stocks. Wolverdenaen was re-,
warded. and Ilamburg boasts ttf no wealthier,
house than Wolverl:nden & CO., Banker,.,
?btu was Napoleon checked aUft isheak;
1 • 1.0
meted.