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LEWI?r^;,^RIST' ~~~ ~~ 5 >;ti?rprnbfnt /amtln |lfepaptr: |or % fronttlroMif % f olitital, Sccial, ^gricultoral aS Contmtrtial |nfosfs of % g>?4- ^ YOL. 12. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 17, 1867. v- NO. 38. I rif'lt/t ? fflertrd fodrg. . TRIP LIGHTLY. P Trip lightly over trouble, f Trip lightlv over wrong, We only make grief double By dwelling on it long. WhV clasp woe's hand so tightly ? Why sigh o'er blossoms dead ? Whv cling to forms unsightly ? Why not seek joy instead? Trip lightly over sorrow, Though all the day be dark, The sun may shine to-morrow, And gaily'sing the lark ; Fair hopes have not departed, Though roses have tied; Then never lie down-hearted, But look for joy instead. Trip lightly over sadness, Stand not to rail at doom ; We've pearls to string of gladness On this side of the tomb; What stars are nightly shining, And the Heaven is overhead, Encourage not repining, But look lor joy msieau. Jtn Original ftottMlrtte. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. SPECTRE OF THE FIRESIDE. BY JOHN WITHERSPOON ERVIN. CHAPTFR IV. "Strange Is the story vou have told, old man, Stranger than aught I've heard before. My blood Chills at thy words, as though a ghost were here. Letting the secret out of other worlds" Old Plat. Immediately upon reaching his home, without encountering any one, Guiscard ascended to his chamber and laid aside his wet and soiled garments. On leaving his apartment, he found Phillipe? Agatha's husband?standing at the foot of the stair-case, ready to light him into the supper-room. Guiscard greeted the old man kindly, as was his wont, and as they were passing through the picture galleiy, Guiscard paused, and taking the light from the hands of the old man, halted and gazed upon the family portraits with feelings of interest, such ? ' a.?:_ as had scarcely ever betore Deen excueu vy uucu familiar features. Old Phillipe stood respectfully silent, as though he almost divined the thoughts that were busy about the heart of his young master. His face, hard and passionless in expression, was embrowned and wrinkled by age, and his hooked nose and quick but steady eye, black as ebony and flashing with rthe light of a polished sword blade, seemed to belong to a hero of the olden time. His white moustache was thick but closely trimmed, and his beard and hair, frowsy and thin with age, were as white as new fallen snow. Phillipe was in fact an octogenarian, and his shoulders were bent with the years that rested upon them, but his step was rapid and regular, and his small jet-black, rat-like eyes, still retained the vivacity of early youth. Standing with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the floor, he now and then glanced up, and his face seemed full of pity and troubled thoughts, when his glance rested upon the young man, who passed from portrait to portrait, scanning each with an earnestness unusual and strange in one to whom they were so familiar. The old man's glance followed the gaze of Guiscard as he turned to one portrait after another, and his look at last became troubled and the vivacity of youth faded from his eyes. Unconsciously he uttered a deep prolonged sigh, which sounded most startlingly in the empty hall. "My good Phillipe, you take no pleasure in gazing upon these old portraits," said Guiscard, turning to him. The old man shook his head in reply, while a sad and painful expression stole over his features. ' 'It makes me sad to look at them, master Robert,'1 said he. "It almost freezes my old blood at times, when I look up to them and remember how beautiful and good they were, and how soon they were gone. It seems but only yesterday that I held the bridle of your great grandmother's palfrey for hei to mount. I was but a little boy then of nine 3'ears. There'sj-our grandmother, too; that fair lady with the soft blue eyes and the flaxen curls falling around her alabaster shoulders. Ah! me, master Robert, I was a strong, hale man, when she came into the family. There's your mother too; you never knew her?she died too early for that. It makes me sad ?sad ?sad. They were all so beautiful, so good, and I knew them, too, so well! They are stranger* to you, master Robert, but I knew every smile oi their rosy cheeks, even* look of their soft eyes; had many a comforting word from their sweet lips, and it makes me shudder to think so much beauty is now nothing but dust?dust?dust! But your sup' per is waiting, master Robert; I should only spoi your appetite if I were to talk more." "But, mygoodPhillipe," returned Guiscard, "1 would wish to hear more of those who are so near to me, and whose histories you know so well." I will tell you all you wish ,o know, master Robert, after you have supped," said Phillipe. "It is a sad story for me to tell, but I shall await you here, Your tea, I fear, will be getting cold." I will return in a few minutes, and I hope t< W} hear from you something of my female ancestors. I know their story is a sad one, and, therefore, 1 have never spoken of it before." Thus saying. Guiscard took his way to the tea-table, leaving old Phillipe in the picture gallery, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Agatha had already poured out the tea wher G uiscard took his seat at the tea-table. The choict dainties which the aged house-keeper ever tool [ care to set before him, failed to provoke his appe tite. His thoughts were absent, and even the gar rulous and kind hearted Agatha, failed to divert hii mind from the subjects of thought thatpre-occu pied his attention. After a light and hasty repast he called for a glass of generous Burgundy, which after the fatigues of the day, was quite refreshing It helped too, in some degree, to dispel the gloom} thoughts that oppressed him. Filling up a capa cious flagon for old Phillipe, who was awaiting hin in the picture gallery, Guiscard took up a light anc , at once proceeded thither. "Here, my good Phillipe," said Guiscard, pre senting him the goblet, "this draught of wine wil not be amiss to one who has painful things t< speake of." "You may well say that, master Robert," sak the old man, receiving the glass with alacrity; "an< painful you well may call it, for one to speak of olc friends long in the grave, when their faces ar< staring down on him just as they looked years ag( when in the flesh. There are no wrinkled facei here. It was the fate of the wives of them whos< bread I have eaten, nigh on to eighty years, not t< grow old like Agatha and myself. I must speak o your great-grandmother?but first I must hike i sip of this old wine, for I cannot speak of her with out a trembling of the nerves. " The old mai bowed profoundly to Guiscard, and half emptying the goblet, set it by him and proceeded with hi; reminiscences: "She w;ts, as you may see from her portrait, a beautiful as an angel. I was scarcely nine years oh when Louis Guiscard, your great-grand father made her his wife. That was seventy-one year ago! Ah! me, I was a happy child then. It wa [ my business to wait upon her about the house an< to lead her palfrey up to the door when she wouh 1 ride; and many a time, when she was lonely, a her bidding, I would place her harp by her side h and sitting upon a stool at her feet, would drink ic with delighted ears the rich music she drew from ; the chords of her harp, and the still richer music of her voice. Though I was but little more than a servant about the house, she treated me like a favoured child. Though she was dark eyed and highspirited, yet never saw I one so gentle and loving to all around her. Your great-grandfather was as kind to her as husbands usually are; none could charge him with neglect or want of attention, yet I have thought?and I know he too felt it afterwards?that it would not have been too much to have studied to gratify her every whim and caprice. He thought , perhaps, that there was a long life-time before them, and tnat they would travel so long a journey, hand in hand, and so many occasions would come for showing her that his love was always ready to support her when the way was rough or dark, that he need not take especial pains to show himself a lover after he became a husband. t 1? ? i tic.i " ; x rememDer, one oeaucuiu luuniiug in uui^, occmg them on the porch together. The horse of your great-grandfather stood saddled at the door, and he i was going away to stay some few djys. I saw there was unusual sadness and gloom in the face of my mistress. But she tried to smile! Ah, yes! women will try, for the sake of those they love, to look cheerful and pleasant when there is a load upon the heart, that would crush down the spirits of a strong man." "Let me have your horse sent back to the stable, Louis, and remain this day with me ? Oh! if you will, I will try to make it so pleasant a day to you!" And she smiled so sweetly, that I know not how any man?much less one so kind as my master was ? could have had the heart to refuse her. "The appointment is made and my friends will expect me, Henrietta," replied he, and I thought he spoke very coldly. "Remain with me this one day, dear Louis, and if you must go, let it be to-morrow." There was an unusual earnestness and anxiety in her tones which either escaped the notice of my master, or was misunderstood; as for myself, boy as I was, I felt it. It went to my heart "You women are all alike, Henrietta," said my master with a forced laugh. "You make most unreasonable requests with, I believe, no other motive than to see if you can cany your point. Were there any reason in your request, I would cheerfully comply vjth it, but I do not wish my wife, as much as I love her, to think I am a mere puppet in her hands." After these words?the harshest that my master had ever uttered ? he descended the steps and was moun'ing his horse. "You mistake me, dear Louis, indeed you do!" cried she, following him to the door; "but if you must go, part not from me now, even in seeming I displeasure. Let me throw my arms around you , and give you one kiss before you go." Poor, pleading woman, begging for one slight ! token of reconciliation! He heeded, perhaps, he [ heard her not There was a slight flush of displeasure on his cheek, as he turned and galloped from the yard. My poor mistress turned deadly : pale and pressed her hand convulsively upon her , heart. She re-entered the house and summoned i her women. I was dismissed to my play, and the scene passed from my mind, in part, but still, at intervals, her face pale, and death-struck inexpres, sion, rose up before me. It saddened me; but there was to-morrow! I would go and sit by her side as usual and she would be so cheerful again. By and by, I forgot everything but my play. I was employed all day in building a mimic dam across the small stream at the foot of the hill and in planting it with wild-flowers from the woods. The sun was brighter and the flowers sweeter to me that day, than they have ever been since. I played until I was called to ray evening meal, and then went | to my little bed, wondering that my dear mistress had never called upon me during the day to do any little sen-ice for her. It was so pleasant, master Robert, to attend upon that kind mistress and live | where the sunshine of her good kind face was shin, ing upon you. It was seventy years ago, ? a long , time that is ? but I remember the next moming as . well as if it were but yesterday. I rose early, as was my wout, and carried to the door of my mis( tress' chamber the bouquet I was accustomed to bring her. I heard the wailing of a new born infant that had com i in to this world of sin and sorrow , since the last sun. I stood silently at the door for . more than a minute, not daring to knock for admittance. Soon the door was opened and one ol her maids, who was weeping, bade me come in. I ! had brought flowers for the living, but ah! me, ? they were laid on the bosom of the dead! My I kind mistress had passed away some hours before, i i T i j i?i j j | anawnen 1 Kisseu ner nanu, as uicy miiuij suucicu 5 me to do, it was stiff and as cold as ice. I remember but little more that passed on that day or the I next, for I felt stunned by the sudden blow. The sunshine seemed no longer cheerful, but where its light fell it seemed darkened as by an eclipse. r About noon, on the second day, a horseman came galloping up to the door. It was my master, who had been sent for. I remembered the scene that [ had taken place as he was leaving, and one look told me that he, too, remembered it but too well. I do not think that his parting from his wife evei ( passed away from his thoughts; it was a vulture that gnawed at his heart continually until he, too, - was laid at rest in the family vault. He went into the chamber where his dead lay. When he came I out he was a strangely altered man. He was soI licitously kind to me while he lived, but I nevci saw him smile again.'' , The old man sighed, wiped his forehead with a ? hand now tremulous from emotion, drained the : goblet to the bottom, and proceeded more calmly _ with his story. " Your grandfather grew up to manhood rapidly. s When he was about twenty years old, we laid hi; . father at rest in the family vault. He was but litf tie more than forty years old when he died, yet he looked like sixty. Your grandfather, who was named Adolphus, found his life a lonely one here f after the death of his father, and he had barely . turned twenty one, when amid much feasting and ! rejoicing he brought to the Old Hall a young wife. 1 In good truth, she was a beautiful creature, and yet, how unlike my first mistress! The one was . dark-eyed, with raven hair, as beautiful as INigtii J with her starry train ; the other was blue-eyed with ) a neck and shoulders like alabaster, and see, niastei Rpbert?for her portrait is done to the life ? hov 1 gently her flaxen tresses fall around her snowy neck. 1 with their soft lights and shadows. Ah! this one J is the picture of soft balmy Day, with fleecy cloud; i and gushing sunshine. Look at your grandfather's ) portrait. The painter saw in him what few out ol s his own family ever saw. He did not always seen ; so sad as his picture would make him, yet the sad ) ness was there for all that Strangers might f think him a merry and light-hearted man; but w< i who were in the family knew, too well, he felt the . fate that rested so sorely upon all his blood. Ah ! sir, they were, all of them sad, men; each genera r tion sadder than the one that went before it, so fat s as my memory runs back, except when they exert ed themselves to seem cheerful and gay, and then s what bright faces they wore! 1 "Your grandfather was devoted to his wife , whom he called Rosalia. He was ever by her side s as though he feared the Spectre, that seemed U s haunt the family would snatch her away, if In 1 were parted from her but an hour. Ah ! he migh i well have feared that she would be torn away ever t from his side. A twelve-month passed on and you: , father was born. Your grandmother?it sound i strange to my old ears to call a beautiful vision like i that your grandmother?did well after the birth of ! the child, and all, but Agatha and myself, trusted t that the evil spell was broken ; but ah! we knew better than that, for we had heard from the old butler, in our childhood, the whole story of the family, i Though others knew it not, we knew, too well, i there was a curse on the family ? pardon me, mas[ ter Robert, for repelaing his words; they may of, fend you; but I only tell what he told me." "Go on with your story, my good Phillipe, I i take no offence. I fear, as you do, there is a curse upon my family, that will never pass away but i with our name. Ho! Francois, bring me a bottle , of Burgundy." These last words were addressed i to a servant who was passing through the further end of the hall. The wine was promptly brought, and Guiscard filled up the old man's goblet, that i stood empty on the table within his reach. Motioning the servant to retire and close the door behind him, Guiscard again settled himself in his arm chair in front of that occupied by Phillippe, and waited attentively the completion of his stoiy. "I said," continued the old nlan, "that your grandmother, Rosalie Guiscard, did well after the birth of her son. In a month she was up again, and her fair cheeks were as fresh and blooming as i before her confinement If ever there was a being ; who had a passion for horses, your grandmother certainly had. She acquired this fondness from her habit of accompanying your grandfather daily i in his rides, since he was unwilling to leave her at home. She was a skilful rider, too, when they first married. Your grandfather delighted in pur! chasing for her the best and handsomest horses that money could command; and truth, it was a brave sight to see them galloping along on horse; back, the handsomest couple in all the land.? When your father was barely two .months old, your grandfather had two horses saddled and led up to the door. Your grandmother was equipped for a ride on horseback, but as the horses were led up, her heart seemed to misgive her. She stood irresolute and undecided, and would, I think, have given up the ride altogether for that day, but her favorite mare, Queen Genevieve, pressed nearer the door-way, and by a low whinny, seemed to invite her to a gallop on the green sward. That decided the matter. She tripped back to the nursery to give her infant one more parting kiss, and came back with a happy smile, but there was a tear in , her eye. "I knew you would not disappoint me of my ride, Rosy," said your grandfather, as he lifted her lightly into the saddle; and I think an hour's gallop will make you feel like a new being." "It will be delightful!" replied the young moth er, her eye kindling with animation, as she adjusted her foot in the stirrup. "There! now, you and the Queen are ready for a pleasant frolic" rejoined your grandfather gaily. "I knew you loved riding too well to hesitate about going when you saw Genevieve ready saddled.? Before you had our little cherub of a boy to engage your thoughts, you were so passionately fond of riding that I used really to think whenever your time came to die, Death would find you on horseback." "The two cantered off from .the door as happy and gay as young people, who have no thought but for one another. I think I see Queen Genevieve now, with her milk white coat, and no fleck or spot about her, save her left ear, which was the color of iron. She was so steady and smooth in her gait that one might have carried this full goblet of wine on her saddle bow without losing a drop from the brim." "It was in the month of June, and they had not left the house an hour, when a dark cloud arose in 1 the north-west and rolled angrily along. I won; dered that my master and mistress had not at once returned, but it was their first ride together in ; some months, and they had perhaps prolonged 1 it far beyond their ordinary limits, or perhaps they were too full of other thoughts to notice it until it was nearly above them. It came on with wings ! wide outspread, like some terrible bird, and I could hear a roaring and crackling high overhead in the ' air as it came near. I could see the black cloud 1 lighted up now and then, as if by the glimmer of 1 lightning, but there was no peal of thunder. The i^in had not even begun to fall when I heard the 1 sound of horse's feet, and going to the portico, I saw my master and mistress coming up at half speed. Mounted on Queen Genevieve, my mistress was some eight or ten lengths ahead, her flaxen hair floating on the wind, her cheeks were as red as roses and her teeth as white as pearls, as she turned hei laughing face to her companion whom she was outstripping in the race. Suddenly there came a vivid glare of light that left me bliud for more than a minute, and a crashing burst of thunder that deafened me for months. "When the blindness left me, I thought I saw a ! terrible shape, like a man, but gigantic and dim, ! stauding where the thunderbolt had fallen. I then i frrrvmViWP fnr T helieverl it. in be the Aveneine Snee tre of which they told ine, that has so often brought i evil to your house." The old man's teeth chatter> ed with a vague fear, and before continuing his story, he half drained the goblet that stood within : his reach. "However that maybe, master Robert," con tinued he, at length, "my blood was chilled with ! horror at what I saw. Queen Genevieve had fallen in her tracks, and my mistress lay a few feet > distant, on her left side, where she had been hurled > by the lightning, stone dead. Even the golden bracelet which she wore, had been melted from her ' beautiful arm, and the diamonds were scattered among the grass. Your grandfather's horse had ali ready managed to rise, and though bewildered and i stunned, found his way to the stables. Queen Gene vicve lay where she had fallen, with her limbs doubled under her, dead. I assisted your grandfather to his feet, but he was never the same man i again. His heart was buried with his young wife. He was a sad ? sad man, ever after that da}'. We ; took up his wife, Rosalie, and bore her into the > house. The flush still lingered on her cheek, and s a smile was on her lip, but she never moved again. r "Such was the fate of two of the wives of the ' Guiscards, whom I knew and served. Your mother, I need not tell you of?you know her stoiy ? I she died, as the others?young, master Robert, > like a rose bud broken when but half blown. Ah! t uie, it is a sad fate for an old man to outlive so 1 many generations of young and beautiful creatures, who left behind them hearts that felt so keenly the r merciless shaft that laid them low. Their story is i a warning to us all, master Robert, to be kind to all to whom God has bound to us. Husband and wife > seem to think that the journey of life, which they > have to travel together is a long < ne. If little jars f and misunderstandings occur, they think there is i enough time on the way to set all things right again; when they come to part they intend to part in kindt ness. But they only travel a part of the way to! gether. Partings must come, oftentimes so sudi denly, that there is no time to press hands and say ! farewell! With other men, it is a thing that may and does happen; with your race, it is a fate. It r is a terrible thing to a young husband who dotes upon his wife, and loves everything her hand has ? touched, to know that some day, without one word of warning or farewell, she will disappear from his , home and fireside forever. There is a Spectre that , haunts every fireside, whether or not it be a fate, ) aswithallof your blood." i "Do you not think, my good Phillipc," said t Guiscard, intently watching the features of the old i man, "that it may be only a fatality, simply of more r frequent occurrence in my family, than among 3 others?" "Ah I no?no ? no," responded Phillipe, with ' a sad, but resolute shake of the head. "It is a fate?a destiny ? a decree, a curse awfully pronounced and rigidly exacted. Besides those of whom I have spoken, and whom I knew so well, there are seven others. There hang their portraits. Servants of the family, who were old men when I was a boy, told me their history. They were all taken away in the bud. Listen, and I will tell you how and when the curse came. The old man again filled his goblet and swallowed a draught of wine before he continued his stoiy. ' 'CountRobcrt Guiscard, the founder of your family, lived more than two centuries ago. He was a man of pleasure, as you might judge from his portrait He was more?he was a brave and fearless knight, and not easily turned aside from any object of ambition or pleasure. Henri Quartre, of a simple gentleman, made him a Count, and conferred upon him an estate which enabled him to keep a multitude of retainers ? many of them unscrupulous men, and little better than brigands. During the war in Spain where Count Robert gained his renown, he became acquainted with a beautiful Moorish maiden whom, after his wild way, he loved. The war had closed and Count Robert returned to France, but the image of the dark-eyed Moorish girl haunted him sleeping or waking. Those were times of disorder in France, when a sharp sword and a strong arm were worth more than right or justice. Count Robert determined to possess himself of the Moorish beauty by force, if fair means failed. He made a journey alone into Spain, and obtained a clandestine interview with the beautiful Estella, whom her father had entrusted to the care of a haughty but honorable Spanish nobleman, he himself, having been obliged to quit the kingdom on account of his religion. The Hidalgo who was a vidower of middle age, was himself enamoured of the Moorish beauty committed to his charge, and when he discovered the interview that had taken place between the Count and Estella, his rage and jealously knew no bounds. Estella hardly knew her own heart. Count Robert had gained a rather reluctant consent from her to become his bride, and then, as any frank gentleman would have done, he called at the castle and demanded of her guardian her hand in marriage. It soon came to high words with them ? for Count Robert never stopped to Count his enemies?to draw swords. The Count had but his owu sword for defence, and the Hidalgo had a score of servants within call, who, as soon as they heard the clashing of swords, rushed in to the assistance of their master, and the Count was speedily disarmed and secured, but not till he had slain two of his enemies and wounded several others. The old Hidalgo, who had received a slight sword thrust in the left, arm, raged like a tiger. The Count was thrust down into a loathsome dungeon where he lay for many dreary weeks. While he lay there, Estella was married to the old Hidalgo. She was weak and without a protector, and he half persuaded and half forced her to become his bride.? Even when he lay in his dungeon Count Robert could hear the rejoicings upon the occasion, and the Hidalgo, to aggravate this sufferings, had taken care that he should be informed of the marriage. His cheek blanched, and he bit his lip when they told him of the happiness of his rival. He was silent, but in his heart he vowed a terrible revenge. It was, in truth, hard that he should suffer the double loss of his freedom and his promised wife, and a more gentle man might have vowed revenge ? aye! and have kept his word ! While the marriage revels were still going on, the Count's prison door was unexpectedly opened one night, just as the clock in fnnnr ur-iu tpllinrr tViP Viniir ftf mirlnicrlif OnP of the maids of the newly married wife had got possession of the key to the dungeon, when the warder was drunk, and by command of her mistress had come to set the prisoner free. A purse of gold was provided him, and a horse stood ready saddled in an adjoining wood to facilitate his escape from the neighborhood of the castle. "Ah! had you but brought me a sword!" exclaimed the Count, returning the gold. He followed his fair guide by a back way through the castle , and crossing the moat in a light shallop, which the maid seemed accustomed to manage, and was soon concealed in the shadows of a wood where a noble horse stood ready for his service. "Tell your fair mistress," said the Count, as he prepared to mount, "that I thank her from my inmost soul. Liberty is sweet! sweeter than aught but love. Tell her that, before many days, I shall set her free from her bondage ? a bondage more loathsome than mine has been. He shall have unexpected guests, and wilder revels than any with which his castle has yet rung before yon moon has filled again." He pointed, as he spoke, to the cresent moon, just sinking behind the hills. He pressed upoiathe fingers of his fair guide a rich diamond ring, in itself, a fortune for one in her condition of life, and gallantly bestowing on her cheeks a kiss, was off for France. The castle in which he had been confined was at the foot of the Pyrennes, and before the sun had risen he had crossed the boundary and was safe in France. You may be sure his revenge did not sleep long, Before a fortnight, he crossed the boundary again, but this time not as a fugitive; some three score attached and resolute men followed at his heels. The moon had not yet quite filled, for the Count, whether for good or ill, always kept his word to the letter. It wanted a good hour to midnight when the revels at the castle were rudely disturbed by the clash of angry steel. Taken by surprise, the servants of the Hidalgo, though outnumbering the retainers of the Count two to one, were soon overpowered or slain. The Hidalgo, bearing his young bride along with him, and followed by four of the bravest of his men, was driven to the battlements. Count Robert followed him, sword in hand, burning with revenge. He was a magnanimous foe, and finding so few with the Hidalgo, lie called four of his retainers to his side, bade the others stand aloof, and leave them to fight it out. The old Hidalgo saw at a glance he had nothing further to expect from the clemency of his enemy, and he fought with the desperation of a tiger. His men were soon disabled, and as they fell, at a sign from Count Robert, they were tumbled over the battlements into the moat below. "You shall follow them in two minutes' time," ejaculated Count Robert, as the last of the Hidalgo's followers was lifted over the battlements. The Count put in his thrusts as cooly as if practising for his amusement, but his sword began to drink blood at every thrust. The moon was riding high overI v.n.i/4 nnA oVilHirnr onhrifrht.lv that everv thrust could litUU m?UOMU?.l6 WVV..Q. J be counted on the Spandiard's doublet. Finding his strength failing, he fought more furiously, still striving to beat down his adversary, by a sudden outset. Count Robert cooly parried all his blows, and when at last he began to grow weary of the strife, he sent the Hidalgo's sword full twenty feet into the air, whence it fell gleaming through the moonlight, like a falling star, into the moat below. "Overwith him, intothemoat!" cried the Count, stamping his foot as a signaL His retainers rushed on the Hidalgo like fierce dogs upon a tottering bull. "Beware what you do!" cried he, clinging to the battlements and struggling to save himself. "Beware ! Count, beware ! Peace shall never again rest with your family if you thus use a wounded and vanquished man! The Avenger shall visit, on all generations of your family, your wrongs to me.? You have murdered me for my young bride, and to Heaven I appeal for vengeance. May its curse light upon all your Wood and every bride of your house perish untimely." "Over with him men!" cried the Count Why do you hesitate ? Was not the stake an even one, and the game played out fairly ? Down with him into the moatl" "The Hidalgo grappled with his executioners, and strove to save himself from the fearful fate, but his strength had ebbed with his blood, and he was already fainting. He uttered a wild, fearful cry, as they hurled him from the battlements. The waters of the moat were dashed ud in SDrav and glittered like diamonds where he fell, and its undulations could be seen rising and falling, for a brief space, like molten silver gleaming under the splendid moon; then all was dark and still. Count Robert returned to France, bearing with him the prize for which he had fought Whether Estella loved him or not, who knows? Willingly or unwillingly, she became his bride ; for in those days women dared not say nay, when a powerful lord went wooing with sword and spear. But an unwilling bride is a sore burden to the heart Count Robert became a moody and morose man, and, I fear me, the bride won with so much blood, brought but little comfort to his fireside. He did his part by her, for his love passed the love of man. He built a villa after the Moorish style and surrounded her with gardens and pleasure grounds, and fountains after the Moorish style, that one of her blood loved best "There was a kiosk in the garden, whither the Count often retired to repose, during the warm evenings of summer. He often remained there alonof until deep twilight ' One warm afternoon, he had, according to his habit, retired to that spot to pass an hour or two alone. Reclined upon an easy ottoman, he had passed some hours in painful unrest Just at the hour of twilight, when he wa.< about to return to his apartments, a tall strangei stood before him. The Count suffered no one to intrude upon his privacy, whilst he was reposing here. "What do you here?" cried the Count, angrily, and eyeing the stranger sternly. "Ibut come for my own," answered the strange apparition, folding his hands humbly upon his breast, after the fashion of the East The Counl would have sprung to his feet and seized upon the intruder, but that he stood unarmed and in a submissive attitude. He took time to examine the features of the stranger closely. In the twilight, he seemed of supernatural height, and of a stern or gloomy aspect. His lips wore a mocking smile, and his rayless black eyes met the angry gaze ol the Count, unshrinkingly. The Count, although a brave man, felt a chill at his heart for which he could not account; but he resolved to curb his indignation and to question the intruder closely, that he might learn his motives for his strange and illtimed visit "For your own, say you ? You speak in riddles; I cannot understand you," rejoined the Count; "and I think you are an entire stranger, too." The stranger laughed, in a low tone. "We shall be well acquainted, in time," said he, significantly. "My shadow shall often fall upon your threshold." "Oh, ho! you are a mendicant priest!" muttered the Count "Well, you shall always meet with a welcome, at my fireside." "Your fireside will then be the first, where a welcome has ever met me," replied the stranger.? "But you mistake my office?I am no Priest". "What are you, then," asked the Count, "who dare to intrude upon my privacy ?" "I treat Kings with as little ceremony as I show to beggars," replied the stranger. "Their doors, though closed to others, can never be closed against me. I wait not to know their leisure. I visit them at the council board, or on the throne; and I go to the secret chambers of maidens, where even the lover dares not go. I expect no welcome ? I ask none." "Tell me who, and what you are, or I will have you flogged at my gate," cried the Count, angrily. "Such insolence deserves the halter! Who arc you?" "I am an avenger that shall never depart from your house, until the past is atoned for!" answered the intruder in a stern and majestic manner, while his form seemed to tower aloft to superhuman height. "Hearken to me!" continued he, while the Count shrunk, awe-struck, before his gleaming and threateniner eve. "Remember vou the aDDeal of him, whom you murdered for his bride ? Are your ears so dull that they ring not still with hu cry of supplicating agony, as you hurled him from the battlements of his own castle ? It is to avenge him that I have come!" "It was a'fairly fought combat," muttered the Count, faintly. "My life was waged against his, and had he vanquished me, I should have fared a he did. We played with even stakes." "Had you a young bride to throw into the scale, against his?" asked the other. "She loved me," expostulated the Count, in a feeble voice. "Count! you know that you lie!" said the intruder, eyeing him sternly. "Nay! start not.? My shadow is upon you! You cannot rise! If rests upon all on whom it falls, with a mountain weight; and if this hand but touch, you become as dust! Be still, and hearken. The bride whom you wooed, with the blood of her husband upon your hands, loves you not I She abhors your very touch! Sooner would she repose on this breast of mine ? aye! she would fly to it for rest!" "As he spoke he parted his robe and disclosed the skeleton ribs of Death ! "Hah! mortal, am I now known," cried the Spectre. "Know you now why my mere shadow is so heavy? The bride whom you tore from another shall fly with me this hour. From this moment, she is mine. There shall be no parting words between you, and so shall I do with your descendants. I shall be the Spectre of their Firesides. When they wed, I will stand by the altar; and when they vow, my hand will it be that shall clasp that of the bride! Until vengennce is satisfied, I will, without time for a parting word, bear away every bride of your race, before even the eyes of love can see a shadow on her brow." "The awful shadow then vanished. The Count ? i . i ? 1 strove to summon His servants, Dut nis tongue ana his limbs were paralyzed so that he could neither speak articulately, nor rise to his feet. He was found by his servants, an hour later, in this helpless condition, and borne to his chamber. Estella, his Moorish bride, was sent for, to come to his bedside, but she could nowhere be found. She had mysteriously disappeared) and notwithstanding diligent search and inquiry, was never heard of more. A son who was but a few months old, at the time of his mother's mysterious disappearance, lived to inherit the title and estate of the Count, who lived on in his helpless condition for many years. The fatherconfessor of the family labored to convince him that what had occurred at the kiosk was only a dream, but the Count maintained to the last that it was no sleeping vision that had visited him. He became a sad man and lived to see the wife of his son die with fearful sadness, after a brief term of married life. Ah! master Robert, there are strange things that happen in this world of ours ? so strange that none understand and few believe them. I would not have told you what I have seen, and what I have heard from others, if you had not questioned me. I fear me, it will make you sadder for being the wiser." Guiscard rested his brow on his hands in a thoughtfiil reverie, for some moments, before he spoke. "It is well, however, Phillipe,'' said he at length "that I should know all that concerns my fami ly. You have done but right in telling me all tha you know. Whether it was a dream or a vision that Count Robert saw, it is at least certain tha an evil fate follows all of my family. Would tha I oould penetrate the mystery and learn yet more!' "That you may, indeed," replied the old man "it is said that any of your fiunily who is bold e nough to sleep in the chamber where Count Rob ert's portrait hangs ? the one which was taken af ter he became a ruined man?will learn more.? But " and the old man hesitated and shook hi head sadly. "But what, Phillipe," asked Guiscardquickly "think you I am so superstitious as to have anj fears about sleeping in the old chamber?" "You must hear all, master Robert," rejoine< the old man, "You will hear nothing from any one .M A be it mortal or gbost that appears, untu alter yoi have spoken for a bride." , . '.'Weill and wK*tm/m??" mIcm! Gniwiard. ' 'If what you see or hear there to-night leads yoi to give up all thoughts of marriage in pity for he 1 whom you would make your wife, the evil fate am the early death will come upon yourself?so have always been told," added the old man, in ei tenuation of his statement "Be it so!" rejoined Guiscard; "I accept th destiny of my family. I will sleep there this night' "Oh! master Robert, think well what you do!' 1 cried the old man, in alarm. ' "When you pass th door of that fyted room, there is death in you choice ? death for you or for some bright-eye 1 creature who dreams not that her fate is this hou 1 being weighed in the balance 1" "I must sleep there to-night," responded Guii card, almost shuddering at the solemn actfuratio: 1 of Phillipe. "It is useless to argue against fate,' ' continued he, seeing the old man ready to expostu 1 late. ' 'I shall not need you to show me the way > I prefer to go alone." "God and his holy angels guard you!" sal Phillipe with much emotion, as Guiscard lighte his lamp and strode from the room. "Amen!" responded Guiscard reverently, as h 1 disappered through the door way. "Poor boy!" muttered Phillipe, as he took u ' the light 'and clattered along to his own room."It was the way with them all 1 They went t 1 question their fate as calmly as to slumber. Ah me! only to think that by sunrise to-morrow h 1 will have a load upon his heart that will go wit! , him to the grave! To know that the young an beautiful whom he loves so dearly, must be tor ' away from his side while the smile of love is sti 1 warm upon her cheek; or that he, the last of hi blood, must die to save her?die young?die sue ' denly ? die and let a stranger clasp her hand am win her love! Poor boy! Well may I pray tha God and his holy angels may be his guard" The old man reached his chamber, disappear? through the doorway, and silence, unbroken by ai echo, reigned in the mansion where Fate was bus with her web. [to be concluded next week.] IIIMlaownis Reading. ADVERTISING. In a recent lecture on "money-getting," Mr. I T. Barnum said: ' > Men should be careful in their business that the have a good article for sale. Then advertise it, fc the greater number of people who know of the ei Lstence of the genuine article, the better it is fo the owner. The ways of advertising mav be diffei ' ent in different cases, but always the puSlic shoul 1 be made aware of the article which tne advertise * has for sale. t . Advertising must be persisted in. The nail mm be hammered well and then clinched. A Frenc writer has well said that the first time an advertisr ment is inserted a man does not see it; the secon time he does not read it; the third time he read it, but does not think of it; the fourth time h I thinks about it; the fifth time he speala to hi wife about it, and the sixth or seventh time he i ready to purchase. This will be found to be nearl correct, and a man must remember that if he do | not advertise his goods the sheriff will advertis them for him ; in this case it is better to act pei 1 sonally than by proxy. The speaker next proceeded in a humorous mai ; ner to describe the different kinds of advertise | ments adopted by different people. Some peopl , may say that they never could do this dashing kin of advertising, for the community would call thei 1 humbugs. Well, what then? Mr. Barnum ha 1 known men who lived through that [Laughter. Humbugging amply consists in putting on glittei ing exteriors to suddenly arrest public attention., The great English blacking maker once sent hi agents to Egypt to print on the-Pyramids th words, "Try Warren's Blacking, 30 Strand, Lor 1 don." He was humbugging the tourist who sa1 it, but it was not a cheat, for the article was a goo one.. The English who read it were indignant c the sacrilege, and like all English do. or threate k to do, they wrote to the Times. What was th consequence ? The letters were copied everywher so that all through the country the papers teeme with the advice, "Try Warren's Blacking," an the maker thereof made his fortune." When Jenny land first sang in America, ticxei 1 were sold by auction. One enterprising tradesma i outbid the aristocrats, and took the first ticket a i $225. As the result of this act the name of "Gee in, the hatter," was spread all over the country , and every man looked to see who did not wear , "Genin hat" That man also made his fortune b his ingenuity. The speaker said he himself had been spoken c as one of the most notable humbugs of the day.In his acceptation of the term, he did not deny il He had for many years been sending up little sk; rockets, all intended to attract the popular eye.Twenty years ago he took the American Museum at New York, for a song, for it had been losinj money. He determined to spend all the money hi made the first year in advertising. He placed ad vertisements in the papers, covered walls with flag and handbills, and did everything else he could t< attract the popular eye. One day heemployodai " fists to cover his museum "outside, with pictures o about every animal that ever lived, and about hal , a dozen thrown in that had never existed. As i * consequence of these advertisements, he soon sa^ the people crowding to his place, and, ere lone found that he had more patronage than he couE accommodate. CHANCES OF LIFE. An old document contains some interesting infor i mation unknown to many, and rarely encountere< in the papers. Among other things it contains i table exhibiting an average age attained by person employed in the various popular professions of th( day. In this particular,*as in most others, th< farmers have the advantage over most of the res of mankind, as their average is sixty-five. _ Nexi upon the docket comes the judges and justices o. tka MOM thp JiVnitv of whose lives is lengthened |/v?vvj v?v ?o * - , out to sixty-four. Following them immediately 11 the catalogue of longevity, is the bank officer, wh< sums up nis account at the age of sixty-three.? Public officers cling to their existence with as mucl pertinacity as they retain their offices?they nevei resign their offices, but life forsakes them at fifty six. Coopers, although they seem to stave througl life, hang on until they are fifty eight The gooc works ofthe clergymen follow them at fifty-five.? Ship-wrights, hatters, lawyers and rope-maker (some very appropriately) go together at fifty-four, The "Village blacksmith, like most of his cotem poraries dies at fifty-one. Butchers follow theii bloody career for precisely half a century. Car penters are brought'to the scaffold at forty-nine Masons realize the cry of "Mort!" at the ageo: forty seven. Traders cease their speculation at for ty-six. Jewelers are disgusted with the tinsel" o life at forty-four. Bankers, manufacturers, anc various mechanics, die at forty-three. The paint e*\yield to their cholic at forty-two. ^brittle thread of the tailor's life is broken a \ ~T-??^^?^??7-; ; 7T? ... | H/-iWSffv >, forty-one. Editors, like all other beings who oome under the special admiration of the coda, die oomt paratively voung; they accomplish their errand of mercy at forty. The musician redeems his last ' note and playB his dying fall at thirty nine. Prin1 ten become dead matter at thirty-eight, (bei!? unt able to "setup" any longer.) The machinist is ' usually blown up at thirty-six. The teacher usually ; dismisses his scholars at the ace of thirty-four; ' and the clerk is even shorter lived, for as mast needs prepare his balance sheet at thirty-three.? ' No account is given of the avenge longevity of * wealthy uncles. The inference is fair, therefore, - that they are immortal.?Albion. a ? ? STRANGE 8TORT OF A NEGRO CONVICT. ; The Warren (Ohio) Chronicle of December 29, 7 has the following strange story: Edward Day. col-, ored, convicted of burglary at the last term of die court, was taken last week to the penitentiary. 1 malting his third term at that institution. He , seems to be an incorrigible fellow, but cttmsAo a have been more sinned against than aummr. Jtts claims to be the victim of a mercil ess set of peraecutore-an organized band,of. thi$yea and counter' Tbluoiab a Our readers will remember that we latelypubr lished two instances in which surgeons extracted i needles from Day's neck and breast, while injail I awaiting his triaL Four large button needles were cut out of his person, and the surgeons say he has a great many more?perhaps fifty?in different parte of his body. But as the needles do not sene ously affect him, except when they work to some ' especially sensitive part, he does not fike to have ' the surgeons operate on him. We were present en e one occasion when he was being examined byasurgeon. and it was easy to observe the locality of , needles in his faoe ana neck. d When first asked how they came to he in him, he i obstinately refused to tell; but taking sick, and thinking, perhaps, he had not long to five, he yieJdi ed to frequent persuasions to divulde his secret, Q under oonaitaon that it should not be made public , until he was out of the way of his persecutors. He claims that his principal business has been-to discover the schemes and rascalities of certain psr- . - ties, and then to black-mail them to keep himfitm divulging. Some eight or ten years sinoe the Trtse(j orer's office in Ashtabula county was robbed. - Day j claims he was made cognizant of the robbery, ana employed to cany several thousand dollars to a certain party, but instead of doing so, he approe priated the money to his own use. Thisso incensed his confederates they determined to punish him. p He was taken and bound, and while in this help_ less condition hot needles were forced into his flesh, A and he was forced to swear eternal secrecy, under ? u c . i:L? ffX.m A',A penalty ui DUiiciiii^ a iac puuioumcuv u uv uw l' Dot keep his promise. TwoyeHcs.&go last summer e a party of counterfeiters in this plaoT endeavored b to engage him to do some work for them. (Davis d a tolerable engraver,) After finding oat their puns n he refused to do the work, but told them he wanted I several hundred dollars hush money. One night he was decoyed into a place on Main street, knocked 3 down, manacled, and carried to a certain point on 1- a back street, ana put to tortures that would shame d the cruelties of the Spanish Inquisition. ,t One plan was to tickle the soles of his feet until he would faint under the excruciating agony, Af, ber somewhat reviving,, red-hot needles were driven in his body, legs, arms and cheeks. He says he D knows theparties bat is afraid to make their names y public. How much truth there'may be in his story, we will not pretend to say, The fact that his body is literally a needle cushion, leads to the inference ?r that some forcible means were probably used to ' 5 place them there. This strange story of cruelty and wickedness is hard to believe as having occurred in these days, _ yet there are certain circumstances that in some ae~ gree corroborate his statements. Had a sharp, discreet detective obtained the confidence of Day. \ he might have learned much that would have aided in unearthing gangs of thieves and their nefarious schemes. We have no doubt there are many men *. at large who are as deserving, to say the leant of ._ Day's fate as himself. Although he is probably a "r thief himself, he is a sort of Ishmaente among them, because of his black-mail levies upon them, d He says he met several members of the gang in the >r Penitentiary, and that he was not free from their hate and persecutions even there, and that the ^ prison-keepers were at a loss to know why he was h concerned in so many quarrels with the prisoners. >. He did not dare tell them, because he did -not d suppose he would be believed. He is more than |s ordinarily sharp; has a good common education, e and read law for awhile with John M. Langston, of IS Oberlin. He is a good penman, and says counter Is teiters used mm to imitate signatures to Loeir duo. y He learned the art of engraving, no doubt, to ""H !a his services more valuable in the counterfeiting burie ness. When arraigned before the bar for his late r sentence, he made a short speech in his defence, in which some points were made with considerable i. ability. His attorney, however, did not consider >. his case defensible,.the proof or his having come mitted burglary being too positive to be evaded, d He goes to the Penitentiary for three years, but he Q told the jailor before he left there he dul net expect d to live through the term. It is hard to realise what ] there is in life to render it desirable to hi _ HI^ORY OF JANUARY. is We condense the following from the "Book of e Days:" *- "It is very appropriate that this should be the * first month of the year; as far as the northern hemd isphere is concerned, since its beginning, being near it the winter solstice, the year is thus made to pren sent a complete series of the seasonal changes and e operations, including equally the first movements e of spring and the death of annual vegetation in the d frozen arms of winter. Yet the earliest calendars, d as the Jewish, the Egyptian and Greek, did not place the commencement of the year at this point. a It was not done till the formation of the Roman n calendar, usually attributed to the second king, ,t Numa Pompilius, whose reign is set down aatermii nating in 672, B. C. Numa, it is said, having de', creed that the year should commence now, added a two new months to the ten into which the year had y previously been divided, calling the first Janarius, in honor of Janus, the deity supposed to preside if over doors. (Latin?a door.) who might very nat-" - urally be presumed also to nave something to do - with the opening of the year. y Although, however, there was a general popular - regard to the 1st of January as the beginning of > the year, the ancient Jewish year, which opened ? with the 25th of March, continued long to have a 2 legal position in Christian countries. 'In England - it was not until 1752 that the 1st of January became s the initial day of the legal, as it had long been of ? the popular year. Before that time it was custom ary to aei-doWdatea-between the laT uf January f and 24th of March inclusive, thus: January 30, f 1648?'9 meaning that popularly the year was 1649 a but legally 1648. In Scotland this desirable change p was made by a decree of James VI, in privy couni cil, in thevear 1600. It was effected in Prance in 1 1654, in Holland, Protestant Germany and Russia, in 1700, and in Sweden in 1753. According to Vestirrar. in his curious book, the restitution o/dc cayecfintelligence, (4to. 1628,) our Saxon ancestor* . originally called this month Wolf-monat?that w j Wolf month ? "because people were wont always i in that month to be more id danger to be devoured 3 by wolves than in any season else of the yew, foe 3 that through the extremity of cold and snow those j ravenous creatures could not find beasts sufficient t to feed upon." Subsequently the month was t named by the same people Aefttr Yule ? that is f after Christmas. It is odd that we should have a| bandoned the Saxon name of the month while rei taining those of the days of the week. ) ? ? - W&* A French work recently published maintains i that every 10,600 years the waters of the sea pass __ * r from one pole to the other, submerging and over- " - whelming in their passage the earth and all its inhabitants. According to the author of this theory f; i M. Paul de Jouvencel, the last of these deluges 1 occurred 4,500 years ago: the next one is due in - 6,000 years more. M. Jouvencel recounts this 3 great cosmical drama with the vigor and pictorial . effect of an eye witness. Six thousand years ? sixty centuries ? then, only are left us wherein to r do our whole world's work, and to complete and - perfect that civilization which has yet haroly dawn, ed on the greater number of mankind! Sixty old f men may touch hands across the interval between the present moment and the hurt hour of thq world f as it exists; then all will be finished, all consumed, 1 all, all will disappear! The sea for 10,509 years in - its immeasurable depths will crush our history and leave nothing of it all but a few fossils 1 ?so, at t least, says M. Jouvencel