Lancaster intelligencer. (Lancaster [Pa.]) 1847-1922, February 12, 1868, Image 1

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THE RIVER IN THE MAMMOTH CAVE
NY OM. D. PILENTICE.
Oh, dark mymterlous stream, I sit by thee
In awe profound, air myriad wanderers
Have eat before, I moo thy waters move
From out the ghostly glimmering of my lump
Into the dark - beyond as noiselessly
As lf,thon wort a Nombre river drawn .
Upon a epeetral canvas, or the stream
Of dim oblivion flowing through the lone
And ehmdowy vale of death. There is no wave
To whisper on thy chore or breathe a wail.
Wounding its tender bosom on thy ahem
Aud Jugged rocke. In nurnaroue mingled tones,
The voices of the day and of the night.
Are over heard through all our outer world,
For Nature there lm never dumb, but here
I turn and turn my Liaoning ear and catch
Zoo mortal mound cave that of my own heart
That 'mid the awful 'Witness throbs aloud
Like the tar mea•murt'm low and measured brat
Upon Its rooky shore. hut when a cry
Or shout or mons In rained, how wildly back
Come the NV lord ochoem from u thoumaud roam
Am if unnumbered weary mentinele,
The genii of the moot, caught up the voleu
Ropeating it In wonder—a wild amaze
Of twirl t tones, a wilderneem of mounds,
Earth born but all unearthly.
Thou thud 00010,
Oh wizard stream, it river of the .100.1—
A river of come binged, perlithod, world,
Wandering forever In the male void.
No brevet) e'er mtraym. , uromm thy solemn tide,
No turd Leer break,. thy /111111“30 with Mb wing.
No titer, or mity, (Cr bow Is uvur slammed
Within thy deptlim, no llowo: or blade o'er
breathes
Its flagrance from thy bleak banks on the air,
True, here aro flowers or itomblancus of HoWOrti
Uarved by the magic lingers of the drops
That full upon thy rocky hattlaMentti—
FHA r roses, tulips, pinks and violets—
All white as comments of the canned dead ;
Hut they aro !lowers of stone, and never drunk
The sunshine or Lilo dew, Oh sombre stream,
Whence contest t ha n and whither guest? Fur
Above, upon the surface of old, earth,
A hundred rivers our time pass and swoop,
In music and In sunshine, to the Hoe,
'thou art nut born of teem. NVnence connect
thou
And whither guest? None of earth can know,
.No mortal o'er has Lomat upon thy source—
No mortal seen where thy dark waters blend
With tile abyss of Ocean, None may guess
'rho mysteries of thy course, Perchance thou
hest
A hundred mighty cataracts thundering dOwn
Towards earth's eternal centre; but this sound
Is not for ear of men. All we can know
Ix that Lily tide rolls oat, a spectre stream,
From you stupendous, frowning wall of reek,
And, moving on a little way, sinks down
Beneath another Muse of root us dark
And frowning, even 141 life—our lath.,
llfe—
Born of the futhornleee eternity,
hICaIH 011 a moment and thou dlnuphcurn
lu an etc rutty am rathoutlehm.
Xitentrm.
My Uncle Itoland's Tale
A TI 1111 l low Story
" It was in Spain, no matter where or
how, that It was my fortune to take
prisoner a French oiiicer of the same
rank that I then held—a lieutenant;
and there was so much similarity in
our sentiments that we became inti
mate friends—the most intimate friend,
sister, out of this dear circle. lie was
a rough soldier whom the world had
not well treated ; but he never railed at
the world, and maintained that ho had
his deserts. Honor was his idol, and
the sense of honor paid him fin. the loss
of all else.
''There was something similar, too,
In our domestic relationships, He had
a son—a child, an infant, was all in life
to him, next to his country and his
duty. I, too, had then such a son of
the same years.'' (The captain paused
an instant; we ekehanged glances, and ,
a stilling sensation of pain and suspense
was felt by all his listeners.) " We were
accustomed, brother, to talk of these
children—to picture their features, to
compare our hopes and dreams. We
hoped and dreamed alike. A short
time sutliced to establish this confidence,
my prisoner was sent to headquarters,
and soon afterwards exchanged.
"We met no more till last year. Be- ,
lug then at Paris, I inquired for my old
friend and learned that he was living at ,
R—, a few miles from the capital. I
I went to visit him. I found his house
empty and deserted. That very day he
had been led to prison charged with a
terrible crime. 1 saw him in that prison, ,
and from his own lips learned his story.
His son had been brought up, as he '
fondly believed, lu the habits and prin
ciples of honorable men ; and having I
finished his education, came to reside '
with him at R . The young map
was accustomed to go frequently to
Paris. A young Frenchman, loves
pleasure, sister, and pleasure is found
at Paris. The father thought it natural,
and stripped his age of some comforts
to supply luxuries to his son's youth.
" Shortly after the young man's ar
rival my friend perceived that he
was robbed. Moneys kept in his bu
reau were abstracted lie knew not how,
nor could lie guess by whom. It must
be done in the night. He hid himself
and watched. He saw a stealthy figure
glide in, he saw a false key applied to
the lock—he started forward, seized the
felon, and recognized his son. What
should the father have done? Ido not
ask, you, sister, I ask these men, son
and father, 1 ask you'?
"Expelled him the house," cried I.
"Done his duty and reformed the un
happy wretch," said my father. " Nemo
repente turpissimue limper full. No
man is wholly bad all at once."
" The father did as you would have
advised, brother. He kept the youth;
he remonstrated with him ; he did more
—he gave him the key of the bureau.
' Take what i have to give,' said he ;
would rather be a beggar than know
my son a thief.' "
"Right ; and the youth repented and
became a good man," exclaimed my
father.
Captain Roland shook his head.
"The youth promised amendment, and
seemed penitent. He spoke of the
temptations of Paris, the gaming table,
and what not. He gave up his daily
visits to the capital. He seemed to ap
ply to study. Shortly after this the
neighborhood was alarmed by reports
of night robberies on the roads. Men
masked and armed plundered travellers,
and even broke into houses.
"'The police were ou the alert. One
night an old brother officer knocked at
my friend's door. It was late, the vet
eran (he was a cripple, by the way, like
myself, strange coincidence! was in bed.
He came clown tu haste, when his ser
vant told him that his old friend woun
ded and bleeding, sought an asylum
beneath his roof. The wound, however,
was slight. The guest had been attack
ed
and robbed on the road. The next
morning the proper authority of the
town was sent for. The plundered man
described his loss,—some billets of live
hundred francs in a book on which was
embroidered his name and coronet (he
was a viscount.) The guest stayed to
dinner. Late in the afternoon the son
looked in. The guest started to see
him; my friend noticed his paleness.
Shortly after under pretence of faint
ness, the guest retired to his room and
sent for his host. My friend,' said he,
can you do me a favor? Go to the
magistrate and recall the evidence f
have given.
'lmpossible, (said the host,) what
crotchet is this?"
• " The guest shuddered. ' Peste !' said
he, Ido not wish in my old days to be
hard on others. Who knows how the
robber may have been tempted, and
who knows what relations he may have
—honest men, whom his crime would
degrade forever! Goodleavens! if de
tected, it is the galleys!'
"'And what then':—the robber knew
what he braved.'
" ' But did his father know it?' cried
the guest.
"A light broke upon my unhappy
comrade-in-arms ; he caught his guest
by the hand. You turned pale at my
son's sight—where did you eversee him
before? Speak.'
"'Last night, on the road to Paris.
The mask slipped aside. Call back my
evidence.'
" 'You are mistaken,' said my friend,
calmly, 'I saw my son in his bed, and
blessed him before I went to my own.'
"'I will believe you,' said the guest,
'and never shall my hasty suspicion
pass my lips; but recall the evidence.'
The guest returned to Paris before dusk.
The father conversed to the son on the
subject of hie studies ; he followed him
to his room, waited till he was in bed,
and was then about to retire, when the
youth said, 'Father you have forgotten
your blessing.'
" The father went back, laid his hand
on the bogie head, and prayed. He was
credulous—fathers are so ! He was per
suaded' his friend had been deceived.
He retired to rest and fell asleep: He
awoke, suddenly in the middle of the
night, and felt, ( f here quotihis words)
rfelt2 said he, ' as;11:# voice had
ii*Ompeil,Tme,,seying Hee and' search.
rose A once, struck a light, and went
~toosayson'sroom. The door was look
ic.edtal/ :knocked once, twice, thric,e—no
aniwer.c . 'l dared not call aloud lest I
shbuld rouse the servants. I went
down the stairs; I opened the back
door; I passed to the stable; my horse
VOLUME 69
was there—not my son's horse. My
horse neighed; it was old like myself
—my old charger at Mt. Saint Jean I I
stole back; I crept 'into the shadow of
the wall by my son's door and extin
guished the light. I felt as if I were a
thief myself.'
"Brother," interrupted my mother
under her breath, "speak in your own
words, not in this wretched father's. I
know not why, but it would shock me
less."
The captain nodded.
Before daybreak my friend heard the
back door open gently; a foot ascended
the stairs—a key grated in the door of
the room close at hand—the father
glided through the dark into that cham•
ber unseen behind his eon.
"He heard the clink of the tinder
box ; a light spread over the room, but
he had time to place himself behind
the window curtain, which was close
at hand. The figure before him stood
a moment or so motionless, and seem•
ed to listen, for it turned to the right, to
the left, its visage covered with the
black hideous mask which is worn at
carnivals. Mlowly the mask was re.
moved ; could that be hie son? the son
of a brave man? It was pale and
ghastly with cowardly fears; the base
drops stood on the brow ; the eye was
haggard and blood•shot. He looked
like a coward looks when death stands
before him.
"The youth walked or rather skulked
to the secretary, unlocked lt, opened a
drawer, placed within It the contents
of his pockets and his frightful mask
the father approached softly, looked
over his shoulders, and saw In the
drawer the pocket-book embroidered
with his friend's name. Meanwhile
the son took out his pistols, uncooked
them cautiously, and was about to se
crete them when his father arrested his
arm: ' Robber, the use of these is yet
to come.' "
"The son's knees emote together;
au exclamation for mercy burst from
his lips ; but when recovering the mere
shock of his dastard nerves, he per
ceived it was not the grip of some hire
ling of the law, but a father's hand that,
clutched his arm, the vile audacity that
knows fear only from a bodily cause,
none from awe or shame, returned to
him.
"'rush! sir," said he; " waste not
time in reproaches, for I fear the genii
d'arm are on my track. It is well that
you are here ; you can swear that I have
spent the night at home. Unhand me,
old man—l have these witnesses yet to
secrete," and he pointed to the gar
ments wet and drabbled with the mud
of the road. He had scarcely spoken
when the walls shook ; there was the
heavy clatter of "hoofs ringing ou the
pavement without.
" "They come,' cried the son. 'Off,
dotard ! Saveyour son from thegalleys!'
" "l'he galleys, the galleys!' cried the
father, staggering back; 'is it true—he
said the galleys!'
"There was a loud knocking at the
gate. The gens•d'arm surrounded the
house. 'Open in the name of the law.'
No answer came, no door was opened.
Some of the gens•d'arm rode to the rear
of the house where was the stable
yard. From the window of the son's
the sudden blaze of torches and the
shadowy forms of the man-hunters
could be seen. Ho heard the clatter of
their arms ns they swung themselves
from their horses. He heard a voice
cry, 'Yes,
this Is the robber's grey horse
—see, it still reeks with sweat!' And
behind, and in front—at either door—
again came the knocking, and again
tile shout, 'Open iu the name of the
law !'
" Then lights began to gleam from the
casements of the neighboring houses ;
then the space tilled rapidly with curi
ous wonderers startled from their sleep ;
the world was astir and the crowd came
around to learn what crime or shame
had entered the old soldier's home.
"Suddenly within there was heard
the report of a firearm ; a minute or so
afterwards the door was opened and the
soldier appeared.
"'Enter,' he said to the gens-d'arm ;
what would you ?"
" 'We seek a robber who is within
your walls."
" I know it, mount and find him. I
will lead the way.'
"lie ascended the stairs and threw
open his son's room ; the officers ofjus
tice poured in, and on the floor lay the
robbers corpse.
" They looked at each other in amaze
ment. ' Take what is left you,' said the
father. 'Take the dead man rescued
from the galleys; take the living man
on whose hands rests the dead man's
blood.'
" I was present at my friend's trial.
The facts had become known before
hand. He stood there with his grey
hair, and his mutilated limbs, and the
cross of the legion of honor on his
breast; and when he had told his tale,
he ended with these words : ' I have
saved the son whom I reared for
France, from a doom that spared the
life to brand it with disgrace. Is
this a crime" I give you my
life in exchange for my son's die
grace. Does my country need e vic
tim? I have lived for my country's
glory and I can die contented to satisfy
its laws ; sure that if you did blame you
will not despise ; sure that the very
hands that give my body to the heads
man, will scatter flowers over my grave.
Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look
round upon a nation of soldiers, and in
the name of the star which glitters on
my breast, I dare the fathers of France
to condemn me!'
" They acquitted the soldier, at least
they gave a verdict answering to what
in our courts is called " justifiable homl •
tide." A shout rose in the court which
no ceremonial voice could still, the
crowd would have borne him in triumph
to his house; but his look repelled such
vanities. To his house he returned, in
deed, and the day afterwards they found
him dead beside the cradle in which his
first prayer had been breathed over his
sinless child. Now, father and son, I
ask you, do you condemn that man??"
A Real Romance
During "Price's raid" in 1864, a skir
mish took place on the line of Chariton
and Howard counties, some four miles I
from Glasgow, in which one of the
" rebs" was left on the ground danger
ously wounded in the neck. While in
this condition, Miss Sarah J. Smith, a
school teacher in the vicinity, happened
to pass by. Seeing the wounded man,
she went to him and staunched his
wounds, probably saving his life. She !
remained with him until near nightfall, I
when he requested her to leave, as hie
companions would probably come in the
night and take him away.
If not, she would find him where he
was in the morning, living or dead.—
He said he was known by the name of
Tucker, but that his real name was H.
C. McDonald, and that he was from
Louisville, Ky. Next morning Mc-
Donald was gone, and Miss Smith
knew nothing concerning him after
wards. A few days ago, says the Glas
gow Timcs, Miss Smith (who still re
sides in the neighborhood) received a
letter from the Administrator of H. C.
McDonald, sr., informing her that she
was named in the will' of the deceased
as the legatee of $50,000, in considera
tion of having saved the life of his
nephew and only heir, the H. C. Mc-
Donald named in connection with the
ncident of 1884.
Skeleton Leaves
Dr. Dickson, of Edinburgh, thus de
scribes how leaves can be skeletonlzed:
A solution of caustic soda is made by
dissolving three ounces of carbonate of
soda (washing soda,) in forty ounces
(two pints) of boiling water, and adding
one and a half ounces of quick lime,
previously slacked: boil for ten minutes;
decant the clear solution, and bring it
to the boll. During the ebullition add
the leaves •' boil briskly for some time,
say an hour, 'occasionally adding
hot water to supply the place of that
lost by evaporation. Take out a leaf
and put into a vessel of water; rub it
between the finger under the wafer. If
the epidermis artiparenchoma separate
easily, the rest orthe leaves may be re
moved from the solution and, treated in
the same way; but if not, then the boil
ing must be - continued for some time
longer. To bleach the skeleton mix
about a drachm of •• chloride of lime
with a pint of water, adding sufficient
acetic acid to liberate the chloride.
Steep the leaves in this till they are
whitened—about ten minutes—taking
care not to let them stay in too long—
otherwise they are apt to become brittle.
Put them into clean water and float
thein out on pieces of paper. Lastly
remove them from the paper before they
are quite:dry, and place them in a book
or botanical press.
A Madman's Story.
Did I love her? you ask. Better, yes,
better than my life. Then why—
But
stay ; wait my story and you shall
know all. - " You smile; you think I can
not; youdall me mad. Nay, not so.—
But ymkpolnt to the cell in which we
are seated—to the high walls beyond,
which bliregress—to the piteous forms
outside, bowing, in the agony of their
impotence, their hands to and fro. What
of that? what of all this which you see
and tell me of? Do these things prove
me to be a madman ? Listen ; I say to
you, that in the huge city yonder, be
yond the preclude of this accursed'pri
son-house there wander at large in the
streets andi in the thoroughfare men
and women madder, ay, madder far,
than any imprisoned there. Is not all
their life one vast expanse of madness?
They weave, and the robe thus woven
is one of laughter, derision and scorn ;
they spend all their lives in sowing,
and yet they never reap. Fame, name,
wealth—day after day, night after night
they strive for these. Ceaselessly, pain
fully, feverishly, a little heap of gilded,
chaff is got together; then comas the
whirlwind :of sorrow and death, and
sweeps it—poor fools I—all away. It is
coming ail the time; they might know
It from afar oil', and yet see It not, or
seeing heed not. This—this is madness
—madness preordained of God, the
worst and most fearful there can be.
Thinking, then, of this, tell me not that
lam mad. The heart is the book of the
German sage; it will not let itself be
read.
But if I bo not a madman, you want
to know how came I to do what I have
done? With soberness, calmness, de
liberation I did it. Hear me, how
quietly I speak to you ; think you, then,
that I was a madman when I acted?
Why I loved her I do not know; by
what slow stages I grew to find that all
my life, all my soul was absorbed in
hers, I cannot tell you. A face beauti
ful and bright us tha t of an angel, a
heart pure and spotless as a sunny
Bummer sky, a voice whose every word
was a note of music—these surely were
fit reasons for love. And so gradually
did the spirit of love take whole posses
sion of my brain and being. Yet, from
the first, believe me, I knew well how
it would all end. You may place no
trust in presentiments; neither do I in
the presentiments of all men alike. But
there are some—l am assured of it—with
whom to feel ominously, in however
vague a manner, is to know. You can
not apply one and the self-same rule to
the spiritual organization of all. Your
presentiments may end as they arose, in
vanity or nothingness; not so mine.
Throughout life I have ever been able to
discern the future clearly looming
through the present; throughoutmy life
I have been able to hear in the midst of
sounds of mirth and joy, of happiness
and laughter, the unerring footsteps of
coming doom. With some men the
senses have a power of which those
who have not felt it cannot dream. In
the deep darkness of the nightthey can
hear the death-watch ticking in distant
walls—can hear the palpitation of some
loved one's heart when she whom they
loved is far removed. With me it was
not the senses, but the mind—or shall
I call it the spirit ?—which attained
this morbid development. And so, even
In those blessed hours of sunset, when
my darling nestled closer, closer still to
me ; when she talked, with an assurance
that nothing could break, of future
hours of sacred peace; and when I re
sponded to all she said with words of
equally confiding and trustful love—l
knew quite well what the end must be.
It was calm then, and happy; but I
could descry the phantom shadow of
disaster floating high above—soon to
overcast all.
I was wayward and wild. Her father
distrusted me; her friends interposed
words of bitterness and calumny be
tween us. Still she trusted me—told
me that nothing could ever shake her
trust. I smiled, and said I knew she
would be true ; but I smiled not because
my knowledge was hers, but because
it was far more certain and far less
bright. Poor child what was she to
do? We were parted, and then when
strange rumors reached her, magnified
threefold by the lying speeches of her
enemies and mine, bit by bit the rock of
her confidence gave way. Bravely she
bore up, till at last it was all gone. Her
love, I think, never left me ; nor would
her trust, had I been near, and had
she but been able to gaze, wrapped
close to my heart, into my face
and eyes as in the old bygone times.
But long leagues separated us, and she
fell away from me. The venom of
calumny had done its work ; the poison
of false counsel had diffused itself
through all her being • and so ceased to
be mine. I heard of her,r as being an
other's—or as soon to be another's. Yet
this too I knew—by the same unerring
signs as those I have already mentioned
—was destined never to come to pass.
Why or how I knew this, I could not
tell you then, nor can I tell you
now. It is enough that I had
the knowledge without being able to
account for the manner in which I had
gained it.
At last I heard that the day was fixed
on which she was to pass altogether
away from me. They talked of her as
soon to become as rich and great as she
was beautiful; they talked of her as
future mistress of houses and lands, of
wealth incalculable. Yes, in my pres
ence did they talk of all this,—actually
beford me—before me, who knew that
none of these things would be. Often
as I heard them, I laughed to myself,
often I wondered how they could be so
blind. But I said nothing. I left thein
to discover after the event that what I
had said to myself was true. And so
months and days rolled on ; and at last
it was the day but one before that which
was to be her bridal. We were miles
away from each other; but something
told me that on the night before the
wedding morn I should see her. To that
wedding I had been invited; but I said
ill health would not let me attend. I
waited to discover whither and how I
should be led to her; for I felt assured
that nothing would prevent it,
I was right. On the early morning
of the next day I departed to visit her
—for the last time. I had to travel a
long distance first—more than two hun
dred miles. Long watching and sleep
less nights caused me to slumber in the
train as I journeyed towards her. And
as I journeyed I dreamed a dream. It
was a simple dream, and easy to be rel
membered. Some form—half angel.
half devil—seemed to descend before
me and display to my eyes a cloth of
pure white—white as the driven snow ;
but dyed here and there with crimson
spots, I woke with a start, and, ponder
ing what I had seen, was at a lose to
know what it meant. Fool, and slow
of understanding! But I knew after•
wards. The train stopped, and I
alighted at the station. It was the
dusk of a glorious summer even
ing. The air was heavy with per
fume, but for some reason or
other, as I scented the breeze, the very
perfume terrified me. I had some miles
to walk before I could reach the house
in which she was, and some little diffi
culty in finding the path, which was
strange to me ; I reached it at last,
nearly an hour before midnight. It was
one of those old country houses Which
are now growing scarcer and scarcer
every year in England—low, long, and
rambling. Outside it was covered with
jasmine and roses and ivy. No lights
were to be seen down stairs, save in that
portion of the mansion which I knew
must be allotted to the servants, who
were busied about the coming marri
age festival on the morrow. But in all
the bedrooms the lamps were yet burn
ing. Round the house I wandered
stealthily and silently—treading on the
grass lest my feet should disturb the
gravel and raise an alarm ; keeping in
the shade of trees and shrubs, whence
I could observe everything around with
out myself being seen. 0, how care
fully I walked. At a suddenturn I was
met by a dog chalnedto his kennel, who
began barking furiously at me. But I
was not afraid; I crept cunningly
round, got behind him, and then, at a
moment when the brute was not look
ing, I stretched out my hand towards
his throat, clutched it tight,—so tight—
and in a minute the only creature that
could have disturbed me was dead.
As Ilooked at his body lying still
quivering and panting upon the earth,
there rose a strange feeling within me
—a feeling that I. cannot and do not
attempt to explain. I knew afterwards
what it meant, and I will tell you pres
ently. 0, it is a glorious thing to feel
that, mortal though one is, one can
hold in one's hand the keys of life and
death—to know that one has but to say
to oneself the word and do the deed,
and then in a moment another life will
LANCASTER PA. WEDNESDAY MORNING FEBRUARY 12 1868
have gone. It is this love of power that
makes many a man a murderer.
Still I continued groping my way
stealthily and silently—so silently and
so stealthily—round the house. I had
been there more than an hour now, and
except the servants through the
window, and a man, when that ac
cursed dog began to bark at me, thrust
his head forward from the upstairs
apartment, and withdrew it when I had
stilled the brute's barking forever, I had
not seen the trace of a living soul. It
was half an hour after midnight, and I
knew that I should soon have to see my
lost love, or not at all. Presently there
were no lights in any of the bed-'
chamber windows—none In any, save '
one. Something told me whose that was,
—it was my darling's. The window
itself was not twenty feet from the
ground, and, as you may often see In
such old-fashioned mansions, a flight of
stone stairs led directly up to It. Upon
this the window itself opened into a kind
of balcony. And now it was left ajar,
in order that whatever breath of wind
there happened to be stirring might waft
coolness and refreshment over the face
of the Blooper In the sultry July night.
For more than an hour did I linger I
beneath her window. I held my breath
quite closely, and I did not move muscle
or limb, so fearful was I that I might I
disturb her slumbers,-0 so fearful !
The window itself was guarded by the
gauziest of curtains, but still my eyes
could not penetrate through them.
At last made up my mind to ascend
the stairs. I felt quite sure that my
darling was still asleep, and I longed to
look upon her featuresonce again—only
Just this once. How noiselessly I crept
up them !—the serpent himself creeps
along less silently than I did then.—
Presently I reached the top, and my
breath was hot against the glass of the
window. Still I stood there, fearing to I
move a step. Then I pushed back first
one side of the window, then the other
—O, so cautiously! for I dreaded to
wake the sleeper. Next I listened ; but
1.111 was quiet. " Quiet as death," I said
to myself—" yes, as death ;" and, as I
repeated the word, I started, and my
foot jarred against the window ; and
my ears could tell me that my darling,
surprised by the sound In her sleep,
had moved. I think I must have wait
ed half an hour; but I heard no further
sound. So I pulled aside the light ,
gauzy curtain, and thrust forward my
head. I could see that my darling lay
stretched out before me lu a sweet, deep
sleep.
Cautiously—how cautiously !—I ad
vanced forward a step to let my eyes
rest once more on her dear loved face.
I was close beside her. I then perceived
that she must, in sheer weariness of
delight, have thrown herself on the
couch directly she had left the company
of her friends; for she still had on her
a robe of white muslin, and her dear
golden hair was still bound with the
blue ribbon that she always loved. Yes,
she was just as in the olden time! Not ,
a trace of difference had four years
wrought upon that lovely face since I
used to call it mine. ,Nine! I repeated
the word. She was mine no longer. But
why should she not be
Still I gazed down upon her; and still
she remained wrapped in slumber.
I thought I heard a noise of some one
behtitti me. I looked, but there was no
one there. It was merely the wind
lightly rustling the gauzy curtains; but
as I looked towards the window, I could
descry in the distant horizon the first
faint streaks which speak of the:coming
dawn, and then I knew that my time to
linger there was short.
hull I gazed down upon her—upon
that angel face, upon that wealth of
golden hair resting upon the mostspot
less of white robes. Suddenly the vie- '
ion of the morning seemed to appear to
me again. A robe of pure white, dyed
with crimson spots. What did i t mean ?
I had not known before, but I knew
then well enough.
White and crimson—rare colors ! rich,
beautiful! 0, the contrast—the crim
son of passion and the pallor of death!
Still I gazed—and as I gazed my life
blood came and went, now at fever, now
at freezing point. My whole frame
trembled, for I had interpreted the im
port
of my vision. My hand clutched
in my pocket a knife purchased long
since in a foreign land, containing in it
a dagger blade opened by a secret spring.
I drew it forth, I touched the spring, and
the dagger was bare. A wild, mad kiss, I
an uplifted hand, and then the dagger
was plunged hilt-high in my darling's
bosom. The ruddy torrent gushed forth,
and my vision was accomplished.
A shriek in the agony of death, re
' sounding through the low vaulted cor
ridors of the mansion, and the house
hold rushed to the chamber. I had
bolted the door; it was burst open, and
there they saw my darling's murdered
form—the robe of white stained with
the crimson of blood.
But they saw not me. I had moved
behind the window curtains—O, so
cautiously!—and I could see from my
station all the attendants, the father
and the mother weeping and wailing
for her who, in a few hours' time,was
to have been a bride. Last of all he,
the betrothed, came; and when he saw
the sight, be swooned in desolation and
agony of spirit. And seeing him, and
hearing his cry of woe from where I
had so cautiously stationed myself,
there came from me, by I know not
what impulse, a long, loud scream of
laughter; and the laugh betrayed me.
But in death, though not in life, I had
made my darling mine.
Concerning Skating—A Curtain Lecture
to Mrs. Mark Twain.
"Oh, go to sleep, you old fool!"
"Mr. Twain, I am surprised and
grieved to "
"Don't interrupt me, woman! I tell
you it's absurd—you learn to skate !
You'll be wanting to play fairy in the
Black Crook next. I tell you skating
is an accomplishment suited only to
youth and comeliness of face and sym
metry of figure. Nothing is so charm
ing as to see a beautiful girl, in the co
quettish costume of the rinks, with
cheeks rosy with exertion and eyes
beaming with excitement, skimming,
the ice like a bird, and swooping down
upon a group of gentlemen and pre
tending she can't stop herself, and land
ing in the arms of the very young man
her father don't allow her to know—
and darting away again and falling on
her bead and exposing herself—expos
ing herself to remarks about her care
lessness, madam—hold your tongue—
and always taking care to fall when
that young man is close by to pick her
up. It is charming!
`They look pretty and interesting,
too, when they are just learning—when
they stand still a long time in one place,
and then start one foot gingerly, and it
makes a break for the other side of the
pond and leaves the balance of the girl
sprawling on this side. But you—you
look fat and awkward and dismal
enough any time, and when you are
on skates you waddle off as stuffy and
stupid and ungainly as a buzzard that's
had half a •horse for dinner. I won't
have it, madam. And you get under a
little precarious headway, and then put
your 'feet together and drift along stoop
ing your head and shoulders and
holding your arms out like you
expected a church was going to fall
on you ; it aggravates the life out
of me! And Tuesday, when I was
ass enough to get on skates myself,
and kicked the Irish giant's eye out
the first dash, and lit on my head, and
cracked the ice so that It looked like
the sun with all its rays had dropped
where I struck, and they fined me
ninety-two dollars for ruining the man's
pond, I was terrified with the convic
tion that I had gone through to the
inside of the world, because I saw par
allels of latitude glimmering all round
me, and what was it but you, in your
awkwardness fetching up over me
with your tillers' on ? You've got to
discard those things. I can't stand the
pew-rent, and I won't."
" Mr. Twain, I am sure—"
" Hold your clatter. I tell you you
shan't bring odium upon the family by
your disgraceful attempts to skate,
sprawling around with your big feet,
like a cow plowing her way down hill in
slippery weather. May be you wouldn't
be so handy about displaying those feet
of yours if you knew what occurred
when I took your shoes down to get
mended."
What was it? Tell me what it was
—tell me what it was this minute. I
just know it's one of your lies."
" Oh, don't mind; it ain't of any con
sequence—go to sleep."
"But it is of consequence. You've
got to tell me ; you shan't aggravate me
in this way ; I won't - go to sleep until
you tell me what it was."
"Oh, it wasn't anything."
"Mr. Twain, I know better. You're
just doing this to drive me to distrac
tion. What did that shoemaker say
about my shoe? What did he do?
Quick I"
" Well, If you must know, he—he—he
—however, ft's of no consequence."
" Mr. Twain."
" Well, he—he took it, and gazed upon
it a long time in silence, and put his
handkerchief to his eyes and burst into
tears."
" Why, you born fool Twain, are
you going stark staring crazy ?"
" He just stood there and wept as if
his heart would break, poor devil!
There, now, let's go to sleep?"
" Sleep, you lunatic ! I'll never close
my eyes till I know what that idiot was
crying about—aud you won't, either, I
can tell you that. Come I"
" Oh, it don't matter."
" Mr. Twain, if you say that again, I
say I'll makeyou sorry for It; what was
that numskull crying about 'V'
" Well, he—ho—"
" W•e•l-1, he. Out with it! Do you
want me—to—to, Twain? I'll snatch
them pet fringes (Anil' the aide of your
head lo as bald as the top of it!"
" Well, he—poor fellow-11e said he
doted on her. She had nursed him, you
know, because his mother was feeble,
and so—Well, he came to this country
fifteen years ago, and first he set up in
the vegetable line, and got along pretty
well, and was about to send to England
for the old lady when hard times 00,028
and he got broke. He went into fruit
then, and after that into milk—into all
sorts of things, you know; but he got
disappointed every time, till this present
business fetched him out at install right
and he sent right off forthe old woman.
She landed here four weeks ago, but
died the very same night. It was hard,
very hard, after all his waiting and toil
ing for fifteen years, to get her over here
at last and have her die on his hands.
He—he—well, he was disgusted. How
ever, he laid her out, and he and his
friends eat up with her, and by and by
the memory of her virtues softened his
bitterness and turned it to a tender
grief—a settled melancholy that hung
about his spirits like a pall for many
days. However, by patiently striving
to keep sad thoughts out of his mind,
be was finally beginning to regain
some little of his old time cheerfulness,
when your shoe reminded him so pain
fully of his poor saluted grandmother's
coffin—"
"Take that, you brute, and If you
dare to come back here I'll kick you
out again. You degraded old ruffian."
Have We Any Women Among Us?
From the Peoria (III.) Democrat.]
In asking what may seem to some as
au exceedingly ridiculous as well as an
exceedingly impertinent question, we
have reference to something more than
merely the feminine gender in contra
distinction from the masculine. We
are perfectly, and had almost said pain
fully aware, that a very large and influ
ential portion of society is composed of
gentle beings who wear no beards, al
though occasionally accused of wearing
another part of their husbands' appa
rel ; who never swear or lose their tem
per; who have the best seats in the
theater, concert-room and synagogue •
the beet places at the dinner-table, and
the nicest portion of the dinner itself;
who are the only sufferers from "disap
pointed affection," the only victims of
broken hearts; who turn the planet topsy •
Curvy with their loves and their lovers:;
whose board and dry goods bill it is our
delight to pay; whose smiles are our
sufficient reward ; whose tears we can
never resist; who twist men around
their little ringers, and then fling them
away like soiled gloves ; who, by com
mon consent, are licensed to tell the
whitest of lies with the straightest of
faces, and to change their minds as
often as it may suit their interest or
convenience ; who never have to stand
the draft or go to war, but still do not
hesitate to embrace the profession of
arms ; who have been the fruitful text
of three-fourths of the fighting, and four
fifths of the poetry which have deso
lated and delighted the world ; whom
we may meet every day and live with a
lifetime, yet never know; whose ex
quisite tact is more than a match for
all our intelligence, and whose instincts
are better than all our culture; without
, whose presence Eden was a hell for
Adam, and with whose presence hell
has gained a liberal proportion of Adam's
children ; whose weakness is alike her
protection and her strength; whose
subtle influence "rules the court,
the camp, the grove," and is well
nigh omnipotent for good or ill;
who, in the pure and sacred relations of
mother, daughter, sister and wife, robs
earth of half its sorrow, and fore
shadows half the bliss of heaven; who
Is at once totally unaccountable and
totally indispensable, who are—as they
ought to be—the very dearest of all
luxuries—yes—we know that in this
sense of the word there are quite as
many women among us as can be con-
I veniently managed.
But we allude to women in a less ro
mantic and sentimental, though in a
much more important and practical
sense. We mean women in a complete
and perfect physical organization—such
as she was intended to be by nature and
nature's God. Have we any of these
among us? If so, where and howthany?
To a thoughtful, observing man, who
has passed the age when the mere sight
of crinoline, or the flutter of a dainty
pair of ankles dazes his brain and con
fuses his judgment, it would almost
seem that in America the race of women
are dying out, and will soon become
unequal even to the task assigned them
ty the cynical post:
To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.
Bright faces, sylph-like waists, fairy
like forms, unexceptionable toiletts and
and all the outward panoply of female
charms are by no means rare—but how
often do we see a really blooming,
healthy woman, fit to discharge the
solemn and all-important duties of wife
hood and maternity? Possibly once a
week; probably once a month. ;Stout,
well-built men are common enough ;
stout, well-built women are viewed in
pictures and read of in books, but they
seldom dawn upon our astonished gaze
on this side of the Atlantic—at least, in
" our best society."
Driving with a friend through the
streets of Chicago a few months since,
we were left in the carriage for a half
hour with no society but the coachman.
Fortunately we had drawn up just op
posite a celebrated depot of what is
technically known as "ladies' furnish
ing goods," and the huge plate-glass
windows displayed an assortment of the
aforesaid "goods," wigich would have
shocked a superlatively modest man.
Description would be as impossible as
improper, but we never before were
confronted with such papable proofs of
the deceitfulness of appearances and
the chronic dilapidation of the female
figure. Here werestrange contrivances
intended, like faith, to be "the sub•
stance of things hoped for, the evidence
of things not seen ; here were shape,
style and contour at so much apiece, ac
cording to the locality where each was
needed; here was material enough to
convict any lady who used it and mar
ried afterward of obtaining a husband
under false pretenses, and ground
enough to give him a divorce; here
were all the appliances of art and all the
burlesques upon nature ; here *as a
fashionable American woman of the
nineteenth century dissected and set up
for the wonder and shame of the popu
lace ; here :was beauty decidely' " un
adorned," but by no means "adorned
the most;" here was an awful sarcasm
upon our manner of living, its conse
quences, its sure result; here was an
ante mortem examination, whose grace
ful eloquence was more powerful than
an hundred lectures upon physical edu
cation, and here was the consummate
flower of our female civilization!.
Imagine such a spectacle as this in
the streets of New York, Boston or
Philadelphia even fifty years ago ! Our
grandfathers and grandmothers would
have fled from it as from the glance of
the Evil One. Yet, to-day it is a recog
nized institution to supply a recognized
demand. Women are dying by inches,
smitten with a sort of atrophy; lacking
in all the essential vital forces. Instead
of reaching their proper perfection in
marriage, and entering upon a more
graceful and beautiful physical career as
wife and mother, the wedding peal is
too often but a prelude to the funeral
knell, and the bridal couch a step
to the coffin. In England a woman at
thirty-five is in her prime ; in America
a woman at that age is generally a
faded broken-down invalid, with hard
ly ability or energy enough to put in
order her own room. In England wo
men sixty years old will take their
" constitutional" of six or eight miles
without noticing it ; in America a young
woman who could wal4 half the dis-
tance without coming home and going
to bed, would be sent for by Barnum.
In England women recognize the beno.
tit of open air and abundant exercise;
in America, she shuns both as though
they were a pestilence. The English,
as a race, are not deteriorating; the
Americans, as a race, are. We may be
saved from extinction by the new blood
brought into the country by emigration,
but that is apparently , our only hope.
When will we recognize the fact that
there can be no really sound mind with
out a sound body When will we obey
those simple laws of clothing, diet and
exercise which lead to health? When
will we go back to those old-fashioned
principles and modes of life which pre
veiled when the Republic was
"Nursed by strong mon with Empires In their
brains ?"
When will we cease to eaorifiee every.
thing which makes life desirable, to
etiquetteand conventionalities? When
will women give that attention to their
physical organization which they now
bestow upon a few trifling accomplish
ments that never survive the advent of
the first occupant of the nursery ?
For our own part, we had rather a
daughter of ours should have rosy
cheeks, sound lungs, straight limbs,
clear head and good appetite, than to
equal Lintz on the piano, Raphael on
canvas—or be able to ask for her break
fast in twenty diftbrent languages.—
Peoria Democrat.
The Sumner Scandal
mud the Truth
About
BOSTON, January 18.—Perhaps the
connection may not be evident, but I
am impelled to breathe a word concern
ing the gossip about the Hon. Charles
Sumner. However, as that is In itself
a matter of discohnectlon, there can be
no fault. It is seriously and sadly true
that the great prophet of the "higher
law" is not so married as he once was.
The announcement has been going the
rounds, couched in the tenderest terms,
that "incompatibility of tempera
ment," "difference of opinion upon
certain social questions," which were
" discovered only too late," have " pre
cluded the possibility of Mr. and Mrs.
Sumner's living together as man and
wife." The simpl9 fact is that Senator
Sumner and his young wife discovered
their " incompatibility" long ago.
They had been but a few months mar
fled when a personal friend of the par
ties—who, I need hardly mention, was
herself of the gentle sex—lnformed me
in confidence that Charles Sumner and
his wife were not happy. It was not
strange.
Mrs. Sturgis gave up a fortune of one
hundred thousand dollars to become the
bride of the distinguished Senator, who,
indeed, had little to offer her besides
his " distinction." She was young and
gay; he was at least middle aged and
ineffably stupid. She was born to be a
queen of society ; he—well, no one can
call ,fr. Sumner a brilliant society
man. Their tastes and their inclina
tions were totally at variance. The
senator would have liked for a wife one
who could live upon the breath of his
lips—who could find in his cold nature
all that a fervent woman desires. He
would have been satisfied with one who
would go home early and read his latest
speech, instead of leading the German
—who preferred stupidity to brilliancy,
and dead rhetoric to living small talk.
From the commencement of his mar
ried life, the senator found that he had
made a mistake. His wife naturally
claimed her right to the enjoyments of
society to which she had been accus
tomed ; while he grumbled at what he
was pleased to construe into neglect of
his precious self. In addition to this,
Mr. Sumner was not pecuniarily able
to maintain such an establishment as
was expected, and his endeavors to cut
down family expenses were not pro
ductive of an increased good feeling.
In this eminently unpleasant way
matters went on until that Holstein af
fair, when the Senator made a complete
ass of himself, and caused the estrange
ment which has never been patched up,
the result of which is the present sepa
ration. The main facts of the difficulty
alluded to are well known, and it is un
necessary to repeat them. The part
which Mrs. Sumner took, however, is
not so generally known. She is a lady
in every respect, high-spirited and
well-bred—which can hardly be said of
the Senator—and it is with regret that
her name is mentioned at all. Let it
suffice to say that, when Mr. Sumner's
foolish jealousy led him to cast reflec
tions upon her fair name—to foul his
own nest—with virtuous indignation
she denounced him, and, after a sting
ing rebuke for his lack of
manly dignity and respect for him
self and for his wife, she announced
her determination of quitting his
roof. She told him she would go to
Europe and remain five yeare, at the
end of which period he would be en
titled to a divorce, and she expected he
would procure it. The witness of this
scene tells me the Senator winced like
a whipped spaniel under the merited
and dignified rebuke of the insulted
lady. Mrs. Sumner went to Europe,
where she remained with her sister at
Paris. But Count Holstein was at Vi
enna, and Mrs. Grundy, who knew
there was a railroad between the two
capitals, began to remark that perhaps
the Senator was right after all. No one
who knows the lady would give breath
to such a suspicion ; but to save ap
pearances, Mrs. Sumner's friends urged
her return—in fact, almost commanded
it—and she came back, but not to the
arms of the Senator, as was so triumph
antly announced at the time. She never
for a moment retracted the indignant
words spoken when so stung by her
husband's meanness and folly! at Wash-
ington ; and those best acquainted with
her say she will never swerve from her
determination.
Such is the history of " incompatibil-
ity" in the household of Senator Sum
ner. It is no new thing,•nor is the
separation recently effected. The
former was discovered as soon as the
Senator's narrow and selfish character
began to manifest itself after marriage,
and the latter dates from his contempti
ble exposure in Washington. Mrs. Sum
ner has meantime, I understand, be
come possessed, through hereditary
bequests, of much of the fortune to
which she lost her claim by marrying;
and, as she also has property in her own
right, will doubtless lead quite as pleas •
ant and comfortable a life as when
mistress of the Senator's establishment,
subject to his whims and caprices.
A Remarkable Story
A gentleman, in whose credibility the
most implicit confidence may be placed,
relates the following singular story, the
parties to which, and the material facts
involved, are personally known to hiM:
A young lady named Helen Hunter,
living between Dyonsburg and Prince
ton, Kentucky, during a protracted
meeting held during the month of
November, under the influence of
religious excitement, fell into a
trance, and remained in a state
of apparent unconsciousness for a
period of five days. When she
was aroused from the state of leth
argy into which she had fallen, she
related the experience of the five days,
during which she professed to have
passed into the other world and witness
ed the glories of Paradise as well as the
horrors of the bottomless;pit. But the re
markable feature of the story is that she
predicted that three young men, then
apparently in the most robust health,
would die before the year was out. A
week after the prediction was made
one of the young men took sick and
died in a few days. A week or ten days
later the second died, and on the first
day of the new year the third one ex
pired.—Evcinavil2e Journal.
Eruption of Mount Vesuvius--Dreat Loss
of Life and Destruction of Property.
NAPLES, January 29, via LONDON, Janu
ary 30.--The eruption of -Mount Vesuvius,
which has continued with greater or less
intensity since its commencement in the
past year has culminated in an unusual
and very fatal catastrophe. Yesterdayeve
ning the side of Mount Vesuvius lying right
opposite to the gate of Castello Movo, one
of the fortifications of this city, situated be
tween the Royal Palace and the sea, fell,
tumbling outward. The detached portion
buried several houses built in the vicinity,
ankoverwheimed carriages and other con
veyances sassing on the highway at the
moment. The scene is melancholy and
full of ruin. The road running in the neigh
borhood of the volcana is filled with rooks
and earth, which lately formed part of the
mountain. This extraordinary event has
also been attended with considerable loss
of life, bat the number of persons killed has
not yet been ascertained.
The whole Southern section of Scotland
has been ravaged by a terrible gale. The
destruction of property has been great and
many lives were lost.
THS WAS OINICS.
Spicy Correspondence.
General Grant and the President—Oen.
Warble/ of Opinion—The Issue Direct—
Cabinet Officers Cited as Witnesses by
the President.
WesinriariMi t Feb. 4..—A huge batch
of deco eats , furnished by General
Grant, relative to the Secretary of War,
was laid before the House to-day in a
communication from Hon. E. M. Stan
ton, obedient , to a resolution of that
body, passed yesterday, the 8d instant.
Mr. Stanton's letter accompanying the
documents says that General Grant re
ports that they comprise all the oor
respondence between the General-in-
Chief and the President in relation to
the Secretary of War. Of himself, Mr.
Stanton says:
" I have had no correspondence with the
President since Abe 12th of August last.
After the action of the Senate on his alleged
reason for my suspension from the office of
Secretary of War, I resumed the duties of
that office as required by the act of Con
grees, and have continued to discharge
them without any personal or written com
munication with the Prolident. No orders
have boon issued from this Department in
the name of the President with my knowl
edge, and I have received no orders from
him. The oorrespondence sent herewith
em bniooe all the correspondent* known to
nw on the subject referred to In the resolu
tion of the House of Representatives,"
GENERAL GRANT TO TILE PRESIDENT
The first letter enclosed is the follow
ing from General Grant, dated January
28th, 1808, and addressed to the Presi
dent:
Sin : On the 24th instant I requested you,
in writing, to give me the instructions
which you bad previously given me ver
bally, not to obey any order from Hon. E.
M. Stanton, Secretary of War, unless I
knew that it came from yourself. To this
written request I received a message that
left doubt in my mind of your intentions.
To prevent any possible misunderstanding,
therefore, I renew the request that you will
give me written instructions, and, until
they are received, will suspend action on
your verbal ones. lam compelled to ask
these instructions in writing, in consequence
of the many gross misrepresentations af
fecting my personal honor circulated
through the press for the last fortnight,
purporting to come from the President, of
conversations which occurred either with
the President privately, in his office or in
Cabinet meeting. What is written admits
of nel misunderstanding. In view of the
misrepresentations referred to, it will be
well to state the facts in the case.
Some time after I assumed the duties of
Secretary of War, ad interim, the President
asked my views on the course Mr. Stanton
would have to pursue in case the Senate
should not concur in his suspension, to ob
tain possession of his office. My reply was,
in substance, that Mr. Stanton would have
to appeal to the courts to reinstate him, il
lustrating my position by citing the grounds
I had taken in the case of the Baltimore
police commissioners. In that case I did
not doubt the right of Governor Swann to
remove the old commissioners and to ap
point their successors. As the old commis
sioners refused to give up, however, I con
tended that no recourse was left but to
appeal to the courts. Finding that the
President was desirous of keeping Mr. Stan
ton out of office, whether sustained in the
suspension or not, I stated that I had not
looked particularly into the tenure-of-office
bill, but what I had stated was a general
principle, and if I should change my mind
in this particular case, I would inform him
of the fact.
Subsequently, on reading the tenure-of
office bill, I found that I could not, without
violation of the law, refuse to vacate the
office of Secretary of War the moment Mr.
Stanton was reinstated by the Senate, oven
though the President should order me to
retain it, which he never did. Taking this
view of the subject, and learning on Satur
day, the 11th instant, that the Senate had
taken up the subject of Mr. Stanton's sus
pension, after some conversation with Lieu
tenant General Sherman and some of the
members of my staff, in which I stated that
the law left me no discretion as to my ac
tion should Mr. Stanton be reinstated, and
that I intended to inform the President, I
went to the President for the sole purpose
of making this decision known, and did so
make it known. In doing this I fulfilled
the promise made in our last preceding
conversation on theleubject.
The President, however, instead of ac
cepting my view of the requirements of the
tenure office bill, contended that ho bad
suspended Mr. Stanton under the authority
given him by the constitution, and that the
same authority did not precludei him from
reporting, as an act of courtesy, his reasons
for the suspension to the Senate. That,
having appointed me under the authority
given by the constitution, and not under
any act of Congress, I could not be govern
ed by the act. I stated that the law was
binding on me, constitutional or not, until
set aside by the proper tribunal. An hour
or more was consumed,each reiterating his
views on this subject, until, getting late, the
President said he would see me again. I
did not agree to call again on Monday, nor
at any other definite time, nor was I sent
for by the President until the following
Tuesday.
From the 11th to the cabinet meeting on
the 14th a doubt never entered my bead
about the President's fully understanding
my position; namely that if the Senate re
fused to concur in the suspension of Mr.
Stanton, my powers as Secretary of War,
ad interim, would cease, and Mr. Stanton's
right to resume at once the functions of his
office would, under the law, be indisputa
ble, and I acted accordingly. With Mr.
Stanton I had no communication direct or
indirect, on the subject of his reinstatement
during his suspension. I knew it had been
recommended to the President to send'in the
name of Governor Cox, of Ohio, as Secre
tary of War, and thus save all embarrass
ment-a proposition that I sincerely hoped;he
would entertain favorably; General Sher
man seeing the President at my particular
request to urge this on the 13th instant.
On Tuesday (the day Mr. Stanton re-en•
tered the office of the Secretary of War)
General Comstock, who had served my offi
cial letter announcing that with Mr. Stan
ton's reinstatement by the Senate I had
ceased to be Secretary of War, ad interim,
and who saw the President open and read
the communication, -brought back to me
free:lithe President a message that he want
ed to see me that day at the cabinet meeting,
after 1 had made known the fact that I was
no longer Secretary of War, ad interim.
After this meeting, after opening it as
though I was a member of his cabinet, when
reminded of the notification already given
him that I was no longer Secretary of War,
ad interim, the President gave a version of
r the conversation alluded to already.
In this statement it was asserted that in
both conversations I had agreed to hold on
to the office of Secretary of War until dis
placed by the courts, or resign, so as to place
the President where he would have been had
I never accepted the office. After hearing
the President through, I stated our conver
sation substantially as given in this letter.
I will add that my conversation before the
Cabinet embraced other matter not perti
nent here, and is therefore left out.
I in no wise admitted the correctness of
the President's statement of our conversa
tions, though to soften the evident contra
diction my statement gave, I said (allud
ing to our first conversation on the subject)
the President might 'have understood me
the way he said, namely, that I had prom
ised to resign if I did not resist the rein
statement. I made no such promise.
U. S. GRANT, General.
WRITTEN INSTRUCTIONS.
The next paper is a note dated Jan.
24, also from Gen. Grant to the Presi
dent asking to have "in writing the
order which the President gave him
verbally on Sunday, the 19th January,
to disregard the orders of Hon. E. M.
Stanton as Secretary of War until he
(Gen. Grant) knew from the President
himself that they were his orders."
This note was returned with the follow
ing endorsement, signed by the Presi
dent, and dated Jan. 29:
"As requested In this communication,
Gen. Grant is Instructed, in writing, not to
obey any order from the War Department,
assumed to be issued by the direction of the
President, unless such order is known by
the general commanding the armies of the
United States to have been authorized by
the Executive.
AND LW JOELMON."
The next day, Janury 30, General
Grant, in a letter to th President, ac
knowledges the return of the above
note, with the endorsement thereon, in
which he says:
"I am informed by the Secretary of War
that he has not received from the Execu
tive any order or instructions limiting or
impairing his authority to issue orders to
the army, as has heretofore been his practice
under the law and the customs of the De
partment. While this authority to the War
Department is not countermanded, it will
be satisfactory evidence to me that any
orders issued from the War Department by
direction of the President are authorized by
the Executive.
"U. S. GRASiT, General."
LETTER PROM PRESIDENT JOHNSON.
A lengthy letter from the President
to General Grant, dated Executive Man
sion, January 31st, 1868, is the next
document given, as follows :
'1 GENERAL : Ihave received your commu
nication of the 28th inet., renewingyour re
quest of the 24th that I should repeat in a
written form my verbal instructions of the
19th knit., viz That you obey no order
from the Eon. Edwin M. Stanton ea/keno-%
lazy of War unless you have information
that it wail Issued by the President's dire°.
In submitting this repel, (with which I
NUMBER 6
complied on the 29th inetant,) you take oo•
cation to allude to reoent publications in
reference to the circumstances connected
with the vacation by yourself ofthe office of
Secretary of War, ad interim, and with the
view of correcting statements which you
term " gross misrepresentations," give at
length your own recollection of the facts
under which, without the planation of the
President, from whom you had received
and accepted the appointment, you yielded
the Department of War to the preeont
cumbent.
Am stated In your communication, some
time after you had assumed the duties of
Secretary of War, ad interim, wo inter
changed views respecting the course that
should be pursued In the event of non
oonourrenco by the Senate In the suspen
sion from office of Mr. Stanton. I sought
that interview, calling myself at the War
Department. My solo object in then bring
ing the sublect to your attention was to
ascertain definitely what would be your
Own action should such an attempt be Malta
for his restoration to the War Department.
That object was accomplished, for the in
terview terminated with the district under
standing that if, upon reflection, you should
prefer not to heroine a party to the contro•
verity, or should conclude that it would be
yuur duty to surrender the Department to
Mr. Stanton upon action In his Incur by the
Senate, you were to return the office to me
prior to a decision by the Senate, In order
that if I desired to do so I might designifie
some one to succeed you. It must have
, boon apparent to you-that had not this un
derstanding boon reached, it was my pur
pose to relieve you front the further dis
charge of the duties of Secretary of War ad
interim, and to appoint some other person
In that capacity.
Other conversations upon the subject en
sued, all of thorn having, on my part, the
HMO object, and lending to the same con
clusion as the first. It Is not necessary,
however, to refer to coy of them excepting
that of Saturday, the I Ith inst., mentioned
In your communication. As it was then
known that the Senate had proceeded to
consider the case of Mr. Stanton, I was
anxious to learn your determination. After
a protracted interview, during which the
provisions of the tenure-of-office bill were
fully discussed, you meld that, as had been
agreed upon In our first conferenbe, you
would either return the office to my posses
sion in time to enable me to appoint a suc
cessor before final action by the Senate
upon Mr. Stanton's suspension, or would
remain us Its bead, awaiting a decision of
the question by judicial proceedings.
It was then understood that there would
be a further conference on Monday, by
which time I supposed you would be pre
pared to inform me of your final decision.
You fulled, however, to fulfill the engage
ment, and on Tuesday untitled me in writ
ing of the receipt of your official notifica
tion of the action of the Senate in Cho case
of Mr. Stanton, and at the same ,time in
formed me that, according to the act regu
lating the tenure of certain civil officers,
your functions as Secretary of War, ad in
terim, ceased from the moment of the receipt
of the notice. You thus, in disri gard Mille
understanding between us, vacated the
office without having given me notice of
your intention to do so. It is butjuat, how
ever, to say that In your communication
you claim that you did inform Inc of your
purpose, and "thus fulfilled the promise
made in our last preceding conversation on
this subject." The fact that such a promise
existed, Is eviciedce of an arrangement of
the kind I have mentioned.
••. • -
You had found in our first conference
"that the President was desirous of keep
lug Mr. Stanton out of office, whether sus
tained in the suspension or not."' You
knew what reasons had induced the Presi
dent to ask from you a promise. You also
knew that In case your Views of duty did
not accord with his own convictions, it was
his purpose to fill your place by another ap
pointment. Even ignoring the existence of
a positive understanding between us, these
conclusions were plainly deducible from our
various conversations. It is certain, how
ever, that oven under those circumstances
you did not offer to return the place to my
possession, but, according to your own
statements, placed yourself in a position
when, could I have anticipated your action,
I would have been compelled to ask of you,
as I was compelled to ask of your prede
cessor in the War Department, a letter of
resignation, or else to resort to the more
disagreeable expedient of suspending you
by a successor.
As stated in your letter, the nomination of
Governor Cox, of Ohio, for the office of Sec•
rotary of War was suggested to me. His
appointment as Mr: Stanton's successor was
urged in your name, and it was said that
his selection would save further embarrass
ment. I did notthink that in the selection
of a cabinet officer I should be trammeled
by such considerations. I was prepared to
take the responsibility of deciding theques
don in accordance with my ideas of consti
tutional duty,and having:determined upon a
course which I deemed right and proper,
was anxious to learn the stops you would
take should the possession of the War De
partment be demanded by Mr. Stanton.
Had your action been in conformity with
the understanding between us, I do not be
lieve that the embarrassment would have
attained its present proportions, or that the
probability of its repetition would have been
so great.
I know that with a view to an early ter
mination of a state of affairs so detrimental
to the public interest you voluntarily offer
ed, both on Monday, the 15111 instant, and
on the succeeding Sunday, to call upon Mr.
Stanton and urge upon him that the gaod
of the service required his resignation. I
confess that I considered your proposal as
a sort of reparation for the failure, on your
part, to act la accordance with an under
standing more than once repeated, which I
thought had received your full assent, and
under which you could have returned to
me the office which I had conferred upon
you, thus saving yourself from embarrass
ment, and leaving the responsibility where
It properly belonged, with the President,
who is accountable for the faithful execu
tion of the laws.
I have not yet been informed by you
whether, as twice proposed by yourself, you
had called upon Mr. Stanton and made an
effort to induce him voluntarily to resign
from the War Department. You conclude
your communication with a reference to our
conversation at the meeting of the Cabinet
held on Tuesday, the 14;h instant.—ln your
account et what then occurred, you say
that after the President had given, his ver
sion of your previous conversations, you
stated them substantially as given in your
letter; that you In no wise admitted the
correctness of Ills statement of thorn,
"though, to soften the. evident contradic
tion my stutemet t gave, I said, (alluding
to our first communication on the subject,)
the President might have understood iu the
way he said, viz: that I had promised to
resign If I did not resist the reinstatement.
I made no such promise." My recollection
of what then transpired is diametrically the
reverse of your narration. In the presence
of the Cabinet I asked you:
First. If, in a conversation which took
place shortly after your appointment as
Secretary of Weir, ad interim, you did not
agree either to remain at the bead of the
' War Department, and abide auy judicial
proceedings that might follow non-concur
ranee by the Senate in Mr. Stanton's sus
pension? Or, should you wish not to be
come involved In such a controversy, to
put me in the same position with respect to
the office as I occupied previous to your ap
pointment, by returning it to me in time to
anticipate such action by the Senate?
This you admitted.
Second. I then asked you if, at the con
ference on the preceding Saturday I bad
not, to avoid misunderstanding, requested
you to state what you Intended to do; and
urther, if, in reply to that inquiry, you had
not referred to our former conversation
Haying that from them I understood your
position, and that your action would be
consistent with the undee 4 standing which
had been reached.
To these questions you also replied in the
affirmative.
Third. I next asked if ut the conclusion of
our interview on Saturday it was not un
derstood that we were to have another con
ference on Monday before tinal action by
the Senate in the case of Mr. Stanton.
You replied that such was the under
standing, but that you did not suppose that
the Senate would act so soon ; that on Mon
day you bad been engaged iu a conference
with General Sherman, and were occupied
with " many little matters," and asked If
General Sherman had not called on that
day? What relevancy General Sherman's
visit to me on Monday had with the rinr
rase for which you were to have culled I am
at a loss to perceive, as he certainly did not
inform me whetheryou had determined to
retain possession of the office or to afford
me an opportunity to appoint a successor
in advance of any attempted reinstatement
of Mr. Stanton.
This account of what passed at the cabi
net meeting on the 14th inst., widely differs
from that contained in your communication
for it shows that instead of having " stated
our conversations as given in the letter,"
which has made reply necessary, you ad
mitted that my recital of them was entirely
accurate. Sincerely anxious, however, to
be correct in my statements, I have to-day
read this narration of what occurred on the
14th Instant to the members of the cabinet
who were then present. They, without ex
ception, agree in its accuracy.
It is only necessary to add, that on Wed
nesday morning, the 15th, you called on
in company with Lieut. Gen. Sherman.
After some preliminary conversation, you
remarked that an article in the National
Intelligeneer of that date did you much in.
Justice. I replied that I hod not read the
Intelligencer of that morning. You then
first told me that it was your intention to
urge Mr. Stanton to resign his office.
After yon had withdrawn I carefully read
the article of which you had spoken, and
found that its statement of the understand
ing between ne was substantially correct.
on the 17th I caused it to be read to four of
thellve members of the Cabinet who were
tiresent at' our oonbrence on the 14th, and
they concurred in the general accuracy of
RATE or onvzsuoiro.
BMlSallia--ADViarriaMisra, Sla-a- yeas p r
3 care of tenUp's; SO per year for Smell ad
BAAL EITATS ADirmaTraina, 10 cantata Ithelfor
the Mai diaa Stouts faskaliolliadie4Mt in.
20111012 .. ' : ";.
1 311711141. IDVIMTaIItO7 essiters linclor the
tine, and *apt. tor, each -eub4equent Luxor.
Uon.
MO= Merton inserted in Local Coltman
/6 mate per UAL
Brllatia. Nemesia preoedin Mai
insertion, 41044408 °ante Der line f o r Mit insertion,
sno Somata rot every wobseoent insertion.
ImOLI , Mtn braes elomeiii—
ExeOlitOrs' 260
4 61 *UL:eters 2.50
=7, sea , notices, 2.50
1101.1508,. . .2.00
".NOUOVI." alraria, -
three times /750
its statements respecting our conversation
upon that occasion.
In reply to your communication I have
deemed it proper, in order to prevent For
tner misunderstanding, to make this simple
recital of facts.
Very respectfully, yours,
ANDREW JOHNSON.
GENERAL GRANT'S REPLI
. _
. ..
The answer of General Grant, dated
February ad, (yesterday) brings the
matter up to date, and is as follows:
FIEAQ' WI AIMIKA OF UNITED STATES,
WASHINGTON, D. C., lob. aosus.
Su ..&ccitency A. Johnson, President a the
Unitca Statca
Stu : I have the honor to neknowlodgo the
receipt of your communication of the ;list
ultimo, in anewor to min° of the ?.Nth ult.
After a careful reading and cotnparlsou of
It with the 'allot') in the A'atimod Intellt
gcncer of the ICah ult.; this artielo over do'
initlale ...T. 13. d." lit the Now York Worb;
of this 7th ultimo, purporting to be based
upon your statement and that of monsters
of the cabinet therein twined. I find it
only to be butts rultoriition—only notnowitat
more In dutall—ol the "many und grow
misreprenentatioue" contained in doom or.
ticks, told which my tantoment of Ito facts
sot forth lit my letter of the ;ISM ultimo wits
intended to correct, and here I reaseurt the
correctness of any statements in that hater,
anything in vours in reply to It to the con
tritry notwitlistundlog.
I uonfees my eurprlso thud this cabinet of.
'loan referred to should so greatly :Mem>.
prebend the Nuts in the matter of aohnot•
clans alleged to hove been outdo by mo at
the cabinet 'fleeting of t h e Mit 111{11110 its bo
suffer their anises to ho made this bosh of
the allergen in the newspaper articlen ro
furred to, In agree to the avetiracy, 114 you
affirm they do, of your account al what oc
tamed at that meeting.
You know that we parted on Saturday,the
11th ultimo, without any promise on my
part, either express sir Implied, t.t the Woe'
that I would hold on to Ulu otilro of Secre
tary of War ad 'Merin; egitiont the 'tenon
of the Senate, or declining to do St/
would surrender it to you before such action
wan had, or that 1 would see you again ca
any fixed time ou the subject.
The performance of the promises alleged
by you to have been mash) by me would
have involved a reslntance of the law, and
an inconsistency, with the w hoist history of
my connection with the suspension of Mr.
Stanton. From our conversation and Illy
written protest of August Ist, ISM, against
the removal of Mr. Stanton, you must
have known that my greatest objection
to his removal or suspension wits ale
fear that some one would be apointed in
his Wend who would, by opposition to the
Laws relating to the restoration of the South
ern States to their proper relation to the
government, omhtirrans the army In this
purformaneo of the duties especially im
posed upon it by the laws, and that It was to
prevent such an appointment that I irrupt
ed the appolutmont of Secretary lit War, ad
interim, and not for tam purpose of onabling
you to get rid of Mr. Stanton by my with
hoisting. It from him in opposition to the law,
or not doing so myself, surrender it to one
who would, its the stotemont and leettilllll
tioll4 In your communication plainly non
cote was sought.
Aud Uwe', to avoid this danger, Its well 11.1
to relieve you from the personal embarrass
ment in which Mr. Stanton's reireitatement,
would place you, that I urged the appoint
ment of Governor Coo, honeying shut it
would bo agreeable to you and also to Mr .
Stanton, medalled, its I was, that it WIN the
good of the country, and not the °thee, the
latter desired.
tin the 1:Ith till., in the presence ot t ;en.
Sherman, I stated to you that I thought
Mr. Stanton would resign, but did not slay
that I would advise him to do MO. ()II the
lilt, I did agree with (len. Sherman to go
and advise him to that course, and 011 lit,
10th I had an interview alone with Mr.
Stanton, which led me to the conclWilell
that any advice to him of this kind would
ho useless, and so informed (lea. Sherman.
Before I consented to advise Mr. Stanton I'
resign I understood front hint, In a OM
versutlon on the subject immediately alter
his reinstatement, that It was his opinion
that the act of Congress entitled "An act
temporarily to supply vacancies in tile Ex
ecutive Department In certain cases, ap
proved Feb. 20, 11363, was repealed by sub
sequent legislation, which materiality in
fluenced my action.
Previous to this time I hod no doubt Matt
the law of 1803 was still in force, 1111(i Tint
withstanding my action, a fuller examina
tion of the law leaves a question in my
mind whether it is or is not repealed. This
being the case, I could not now advise his
resignation, lost the Ell/710 danger 1 appre
hended from his first removal might fol
low.
The course you would have it understood
I agreed to pursue was in violation of law
and without orders from you; while the
course I did pursue, and which I never
doubted you fully understood, wee in ac
cordance with law, and not, in disobedience
to any orders of my superior.
And now, Mr. President, when my honor
us a soldier and integrity as a Irian have
been so violently assailed, pardon me
saying that I can but regard the whole
mutter, front beginning to end, us un at
tempt to involve mein the resistenceof law,
for which you hesitated to assume the re
sponsibility in orders, and thus to destroy
my character before the country• I um, in
a measure, confirmed in this conclusion by
your recent orders directing me to disobey
orders from the Secretary of War, my Su
perior and your subordinate, without hav
ing countermanded his authority I ant to
disobey. With the assurance, Mr. Pried
dent, that nothing less than u vindication
of my personal honor and character could
have induced this correspondence on my
part, I have the honor to be, very respect
fully, your obedient servant.
U. S• GRANT, General.
Grave Charges Against General Grant
LFrom tho Anti-Slavery Standard,'
This is an Anti-Slavery Journal. Look
ing out on politics as the negro looks on
them, it deals with public men and meas
ures only as they are true or fulstf to him.
But experience has abundantly proved,
even before the existence of the present ad -
ministration, that only temperate men can
safely be trusted with grave responsibili
ties. Temperance Is the substratum of all
other reforms. How sad the result, when
power is given to men who aro wont " to
put an enemy In their mouths to steal away
their brains," this war has most impres
sively shown us.
Now rumors reach us from Washington,
coming from different and trustworthy
sources, that General Grant 'has been semi
unmistakably drunk In the streets of that
city within a. few weeks. We know noth
itig. ourselves of the truth of these rumors.
We make no charge against General Grant
in this respect. But even the possibility
of the truth of these reports is of too mo
mentous importance to be lightly dealt
with. The nation is bound to inquire as to
the habits of candidates for high office.
After the experience of the lust three years;
It has no right to run the slightest risk in
this respect. No public man whose friends
are asking for him high ciffice, ought to
complain of the strictest scrutiny by the
public as to his habits in this particular.
We call, therefore, on the National and
State Temperance Societies to investigate
these reports. 'they have this subject in
their special charge. They are bound t.,
give us the facts, and save WI from ever,
the possibility of such another infliction as
the nation now suffers. Especially, We call
on the Hon. Henry Wilson, a pledged tee
totaler, to see that the whole truth In this
matter is given to the country. Ho has
devoted himself to the advocacy of Grunt's
claims. As II temperance man, he Is bound
to sea that wo run no risks of this
kind. Living In Washington, le 11111,1
know, or have ample mean. of know
ing, the truth us to this matter If we are
Washington, le
anxious, let hit relieve to
1 by trustworthy assurances that Grant is
,: now u temperate man, fully able Oil all IS`-
' casions, to withstand this temptation. If
the fact is not so, let him explain to his
temperance associates how he dares to ask
their votes for Grant. It is perilous enough
to give the Presidency toe man who was,
confessedly, an inveterate drunkard two or
three yearn ago. But it will be tine gravest
crime to give it to him if that vice still holds
him in its iron grasp.
Of course, fidelity to the negro must be
our first and decisive test of arty man's fit
ness for the Presidency.l But this test of
temperance is also vital.
' .
LEIZEIMIGEMI
Royal Pay for Negro LegialatoAi
The negro Reconstruction Convention of
South Carolina forms a high estimate of its
services. The Sambos who used to be glad
to get a few dollars a month for working on
the cotton or rice plantations have Used
their pay as constitution makers at eleven
dollars a day and twenty cents mileage.
Our white Congressmen, who get eight dol
lars a day, will envy these happy blacks.
When the darkies come to Congress they
will undoubtedly endeavor to raise the dig
nity and emoluments of our national legit".
lators in the same proportion. If u negro
member of . a State Convention be worth
eleven dollars a day. what ought a negro
Congressman to get ? Thirty dollars a clay
at least. How astonished these South Caro
lina negroes must be with their extraordi
nary change of fortune! They can hardly
realize whether they stand on their heads
or heels. To cap the climax of their ridic
ulous presumption they should have pro
posed to pay the white members of the Con
vention half what they get themselves ; and
that, after all, would be only somewhat in
proportion to the estimate in which the two
races are held in the South Just now. A
white man may be nearly half as good as
a negro.--1.7. Y. Herald. e
In 1867 the total value of the grain produ
ced in California was greater than the gold
product. There was exported to Europe
$12,600,000 worth of flour and wheat.' It la
supposed that the golden aandaof California
are running out, and will be lees every year
for the future. •