Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, January 17, 1867, Image 1
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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