Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, July 10, 1873, Image 1
lewis m. grist, proprietor.) Jnbepenbcnt Jfamilj; ^tttosgaptri Jfor % promotion of t|e |JotitieaI, Sacral, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of t|e Sontjr. {terms?$3.00 a year, in advance.
VOL. 19. YOEKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JULY lO, 1873. NO. 28.
" ~ " ' ~ ~ .. ?
Au (Drigiual ^targ.
Written lor the Yorkvillc Enquirer.
JOHN'S WIFE.
BY E. VICTORIA LOMAX.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Have you come to see me at last, Mattie
Leslie ?" were his first words.
"Yes; I have been very ill. I did not
know, until this morning, that you wished to
see me."
"It was entirely on your own account, j
The doctor tells me I have not long to live, j
I don't believe him ; but if it is so, it is not j
worth while lor me to Keep my secret a?j |
longer, as it cannot benefit me."
"What secret?" I asked.
"The secret of your mother's will. Do you
know where that will now is ?"
"No, not exactly; but I know it is in some j
safe place."
"You think Owen Morris has it?"
"Yes."
"You are mistaken ; it is not iu his possession."
I thought he was delirious, and that it
would be useless to contradict him ; but he
suspected this and said?
"I see you do not believe me; perhaps you
will believe him. Ask him to come here."
When Owen came in, he said?
...
"Well, Walker, what is it you wish to speak ;
to me about ?"
"I have sent for you to tell this lady that!
the will she sent you for safekeping, is no J
longer in your possession."
To my astonishment, Owen remained silent, j
"Is he telling the truth, Owen ?" I asked, i
"Yes, Mattie ; the will was taken from me j
during my illness. I came on to tell you of;
it, as soou as I was able to travel, and was i
only waiting until you had recovered suffi- i
cieutly to bear the intelligence, to make it;
known to you."
"Now, I hope you are satisfied, Mattie ?" \
said Mr. Walker.
1 1 * i. 9" :
"is tins ttie only reason you sem iw uic i .
"No ; do you remember the man you shot?"
"Yes."
"He was the man who took the will from !
Morris."
"I thought you told me he was dead."
"So I did ; but when a man is dying, you !
know, he is rather more apt to tell the truth.'
You may believe what I tell you now. I was
the man who held the lantern on the night of j
the robbery, and the person you shot was
Stone?the mau John hired, and allowed to '
sleep in one of the attic rooms. I took him ;
to my house, where he remained concealed, j
until he recovered. It was about this time I ;
heard of Owen Morris' arrival in New York, j
I was led to suppose, from your manner, the j
first time I saw you after the robbery was |
committed, that you had sent the will on to J
him. I found a ready agent in Stone, as his {
feelings toward you were far from friendly.!
He consented to go to New York and try to
find the will. Owen can tell you what an excellent
nurse he was."
"I remember him perfectly, now," said I
Owen ; "my surprise is, that I did not suspect
something wrong, when he seemed to be so
well acquainted with you, and this part of the
country."
"Confound the rascal! I told him never j
to mention my name to you. But I will notj
abuse him, for he got that will and sent it on j
~ TV T 1,oft tr> rPTMV him. hv !
tu inc. iu uc cmt- m umv* vw .wp.^ , .j
making my will, and leaving all my property
to him; but that was nothing to me. I did
not care who had the place, so that none of
the Leslie blood owned it. He sent your
mother's will to me, and I destroyed it."
"Then, at your death, Elmwood will belong
to that man Stone ?"
"Yes; that is, if I do not change my mind
at the last moment, and leave it to you. I
think I owe you something for all that I have
made you suffer. Besides, you showed such
pluck, when you fired that gun, that I have
thought better of you ever since."
"Don't leave it to me; give it to John,
please."
"Hush! Mattie," said Owen, "there is no
time to lose now; let him do as he wishes.!
We can arrange matters afterward."
"Leave it to John ! No, I'll never do that, j
But send for some witnesses, and Elmwood :
will be yours by this4irae to-morrow."
Owen wrote off a will according to his
directions, and it was duly witnessed and
signed. I saw the excitement had weakened :
him very much, and I said?
"Shall I bring Nellie in to see you ?"
"No ; why should I wish to see her? She j
has never given me a kind word, or even a
look, in her life."
"She is your daughter, you know."
"She had better forget that as soon as pos- i
sible. Do you wish to leave me, that you
spoke of sending for her?"
"No, I will remain with you. Would you
not like to see a minister ?"
"A minister! What for? To have him!
come here, with his long, sanctimonious face,,
*^11 ><>/% T om rfAi'nf* fn flip rlpvil I
mill LCI i LUC JL am ^VUI^ XV ?..v V.W.... ,
He would not do me any good. I do not believe
in death-bed conversions. I don't think
I believe in auything much, except?"
"What ?" I asked.
"I believe in you. I had rather have one
prayer from you thau a dozen from those parsons."
"Is there anything you would like for me to
do for you ?"
t(\T>>nmnmKnr tlint whpll T WUS
1 CO f KIKJ J \J U IVIUVUIVW VIIM* " ..v? ?
put in the carriage after I was hurt, you rested
my head on your knee ?"
"Yes."
"I have never forgotten that. It was the
first act of kindness that had been shown me
by a woman since your mother's death. I was
conscious then?but soon?I forgot everything,
and now I wish?you?to?"
I waited for the remainder of the sentence,
but still he was silent.
"What is it you wish me to do?"
He put his hand on mine and said feebly
and slowly?
"I?wish?you?would?"
And then a change came over his face?the
change I knew so well; lor who can ever forget
the gray shadow that hovers over the face
of one about to leave us ?
"Owen, raise me quickly 1" were his next
words, and then with a cry of anguish he said?
"Great God, I'm dying!"
It was all over now, and God grant that I
may never witness such another death bed !
He was buried in the Elmwood graveyard, '
but not near our mother, for we could not let
him rest there.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
j Owen and myself had never mentioned to
John the circumstances attending the death
of Mr. Walker; and he was, therefore, igno!
rant of the disposition which had been made
! of the Elmwood property. I was iu favor of
saying nothing about it, and letting things
remain as they were?John to retain possession, i
and then at ray death I would leave hira the j
place by ray will. Owen did not agiee with j
me; he was opposed to anything like con-'
cealraent, and advised me to tell John every- j
thing.
After talking the matter over, I decided :
that I would see John the following day, and ,
tell hira my wishes. It was the next morn- j
ing that I found hira seated in the library,
looking over some papers. I never entered i
the room without a shudder; the events of I
that evening were indelibly stamped upon my !
memory, and I could not forget them.
"I am glad you have come iu, Mattie," said i
Johu ; "I have been looking over the old pa-1
pers in this desk, and I find some that I cannot
uuderstand. Here is a note from Mr.
Walker to our mother, which seems to have i
been written soon after he left her. He says :
4I am about to leave this country for Cuba;
therefore, you will not be annoyed"by my presence
in future. You need feel ho uneasiness as
regards the welfare of your children. In the
event of your death, I shall immediately return
and take possession. Perhaps it would bo well
not to inform them that you have made over the
Elmwood property to me ; it might occasion illfeeling,
and there is no necessity for its existing
between us, as I shall remember my promise to
you, and see that they are properly cared for. It
is not in my power to give you my future address.
Your afTectionate husband,
Wi r.r.iam Walkkr.'
What is the meaning of this, Mattie ? Did j
that man really own this place?"
"Yes," I replied; and then I told John
what had occurred in relation to the will.
When he had heard all, he said?
"Then, Elmwood belongs to you ?"
"But I came in here this morning to tell
you that I am not going to keep it. I am
having the papers prepared to make it over j
to you. Please do not raise any objection to j
this, John ; you will grieve mo very much [
if you do."
"What will Owen say, Mattie ? You must j
consider him, now."
"He agrees with me. You know we do not I
intend remaining here after our marriage,
and it would be a source of annoyance to me
to own property here; 110 money would com
pensate for being the cause of Mary and yourself
leaving Elmwood. No, John, you must j
not go. It was only owing to a sick man's !
fancy that the place was left to me. It is as
much yours, really, as it is mine."
"I must; see Mary first, Mattie, and hear j
what she says. Suppose we call her in now, i
and have the matter settled at once."
"Very well," said I; "perhaps it would be
best."
When Mary came, I asked John to let me
state the case to her. After I had done so,1
she sat quiet for several moments in deep j
thought. At length, she said, putting her
hand in mine?
"I am in favor of remaining at Elmwood,
John. I judge Mattie's feelings by my own,:
and I know it would grieve me, if I were in
her place. for vou to go away. I am not too
proud to be dependent on our dear sister j
Mattie for our home. We owe her more, I
now, John, than we can ever repay ; let us do
as she wishes."
"But, Mary, you forget that Mattie is soon j
to be married. We have no right to take her |
only 'portion' from her."
"If you say much more, John, I shall call
Owen in and let him tell you that he thinks !
I am worth a fortune in myself. He has !
ample means for our support, and he has also j
been offered a professorship in the College atj
Columbia. If he accepts that, we shall be '
quite wealthy."
"You cannot have too much, Mattie; and 1
as extravagant as you are, it will take a professorship,
and the proceeds from a farm, too, j
to support you."
"You are laughing at me, John, and that is j
a good sign. Nellie says, whenever she can '
make you laugh she knows you are going to !
say 'yes.' Is it so now ?"
"Well, I suppose I shall have to say it. It i
is not often that a man is 60 reluctant to accept
a fine estate; but I think our dear mother
would have liked me to remain here. It is :
just as much your home now, luaiue, us u ever
was; and I only accept it on this condition." j
"I consent to that very gladly, John ; and
you need not think you are going to get rid of,
rae so soon. We cannot be married for sev- j
eral months yet, I think."
"Iam so glad, Mattie," said Mary; "I cau-1
not bear the idea of your leaving us. What;
shall I do without you ?"
"You will get on very well, my little sister. ;
I suspect I shall miss all of you much more ;
than you will miss me. I have been such a :
great home body all my life, that I dread go- i
ing away, even though it is as Owen's wife."
"What is that about Owen's wife?" asked
Owen, who had coine in just in time to hear
the last words.
"It is well you have come in," said John.
"Here is Mattie making a pauper of herself
for my benefit, and saying she knows you pre-;
fer a beggar to an heiress for your wife."
"I did not say exactly that, Owen ; but I
did say that I knew you wished me to give up
my right to Klmwood. Is it not so?"
; "Yes, Mattie; though it is entirely in consideration
of my own comfort. I know you
: will be coming back here every week or two
' to look after your 'estate,' and I could not
i ?l,nf i'ndon<1 T lmvA U'Jlifpd so loilff
I Oiauu tUUk) IUUVVU* - V. ? 0
J for my wife, John, that I think when that
I lady arrives, I shall never let her leave me '
again."
j "Then you must make up your mind to
visit us very often, Doctor Morris," said
Mary; "for we must see Mattie at least two
or three times a year."
"And am I expected to agree to this prop|
osition ?" asked Owen, laughing.
"Yes," I said, "not only to agree, hut to
promise us you will do all you can to bring it
about."
And so it was settled, that John and Mary
were to own Elmwood, and I was to visit
them very, very often.
CHAPTER XXIX.
We were all sitting in aunt Patsy's room,
sewing, when the servant came in and said
i Miss Nancy Turner wished to see me.
"Do not go to her, Mattie," said Nellie;'
"bring her in here. I would not miss hear-1
iug her remarks on the coming nuptials for
a great deal."
"I am afraid it will annoy aunt Patsy,"
said I.
"No, indeed ! Once in a while I can en-1
dure her, especially if I have Nellie by to j
give her a sly rap or two without her know- J
ing it. Let her come in ; but if there is anything
of which you do not wish her to take J
the pattern, put it out of the way, or in less ,
than a week she will be dressed up in dupli- [
cate of all your wedding finery."
"I wish she would get ine to explain the ,
patterns to her," said Nellie; "I think I could
manage it so that they would not be recognized
again, after Miss Nancy had finished
with them ; but here she conies."
"My dear Miss Patsy ! How glad I am to
see you looking so well! And Mary and
Nellie, too ! Ah ! I see you are busy sewing !
for Mattie; and to think that she is going to
be married !"
"Yes, it is strange," said Nellie, looking
very grave ; "I caunot account for it, except
by Doctor Morris' eye-sight being very bad."
"Good gracious, Nellie! You don't mean
to say he is going blind, do you ?"
"Not going blind, ma'am, but gone; and
they say he has been getting gradually worse
for the last year."
"You must not believe Nellie, Miss Nancy,"
said I; "she is speaking on the principle that
all love is blind."
"Oh ! Mattie, you need not try to turn it;
off that way, "said Nellie; "you know Doc- j
tor Morris' sight has been affected for some
time. You may know how bad it is, Miss
Nancy, when he came in here the other day,
and took aunt Patsy for you."
"Well, he must be blind ! But what is it
you are making?a new-fashioned tunic, is it
not?"
"Yes ; don't you think it is pretty? It is
the latest fashion. Doctor Morris brought the
pattern with him from Cuba, and this is the
first that has ever been in this country."
"Indeed! Let me look at it; what are
these pieces at the side for?"
"Pockets, Miss Nancy. You see the ladies
there wear the pockets in the tunic, instead of
the lower skirt, as we do; and Doctor Morris
says they are so becoming worn in that way."
"I should think they would be; but, Nellie,
where is your baby ? I have not seen her
yet."
"Let me go for her," said I, risiug from my
seat, glad of an excuse to escape from the
room. I soon returned with little Mattie in
my arms.
"Isn't she a beauty, Miss Nancy?" said I,
holding the baby up for her to see.
"I think she is tolerably good looking,
Mattie; but don't you think she has a sort of
squint in her left eye?"
"A squint in her left eye ? What are you
talking about, Miss Nancy ?" asked aunt Patsy,
indignantly; "I am afraid you are losing
your eye-sight very fast."
"No, I can see perfectly well; and perhaps
I would not have noticed it, but for having
heard Henrietta Lewis say it is such a pity
Nellie's baby is so disfigured by its eyes."
"Just like Henrietta!" said aunt Patsy, in
an under toue. I was afraid she was going to
say something spiteful, so I remarked hastily~
, , , ,
" lie think Mattie's eyes are lovely ; but.
how was Henrietta when you saw her?"
"She looks awfully ! Of course I would
not like you to mention it; but I am certain
that Mr. Howard is unkind to her."
"What do you judge from, Miss Nancy ?" '
nalrort NV'llifi flllifit.lv.
ww"vv* - TL ./ *
"Just from what I have seen myself. I .
never believe what I hear ; but I cannot help !
believing what I see with my own eyes, you
know." . |
"And what did you see?"
"Well, Mr. Howard and Henrietta were
talking very earnestly together, and I saw
him stamp his foot and say?'the devil!' and |
then turn off. Now, what do you think of;
that?"
"I think it is perfectly dreadful, Miss Nan-1
cy," said Nellie; then turning to Mary, she
added?
"Mary, we must see to this; it will never
do to let our cousin treat his wife badly, without
tryiug to put a stop to it."
"I forgot he was your cousin," said Miss
Nancy, evidcutly alarmed, for fear her remark j
might cause more mischief than she intended. 1
"Yes, he is a very dear cousin of ours, and ;
I will get Harry to go over at once and see ,
about it. I suppose you have no objection to J
our giving you asour authority, Miss Naucy." !
"Oh ! Nellie, please don't mention it! I (
have not told a soul, except all of you, and
the Joneses, and the Tompkinses, and the
Stuitherses. I knew it would not do to talk
nhnnt it. an I have keDt as auiet as possible, i
No, indeed, child ; don't mention my name, if!
you please!"
"Very well, Miss Nancy ; but if Mr. How-1
aid ever whips his wife, it will be your fault 1
for not letting me tell Harry,so he could pre-,
vent it. But did you see or hear anything j
else wrong in the Lewis family, while you j
were there ?"
"Nothing about the Lewises, Nellie ; but I
do think that old Mrs. Travers is too aggravating
for anything. You know she hates
Mr. Howard, and she does not hesitate to show :
it. Only the other day she told him it was a
pity lie had not died when he was a baby."
"And whatdid cousin Richard say to that." !
"lie said he agreed with her; for in that
event he should have been spared the affliction
of knowing her."
"I think that was a very rude speech for t
cousin Riclmrd to make to an old lady," said |
Mary.
"She did not seem to mind it, for she said !
the reason she expressed the wish, was that he j
might have been ripe for glory then, and it
was what he never would be again."
"I think she is about right in that opinion," :
said Nellie, in a whisper, and turning to Miss
Nancy, she added?
"What other news have you heard ?"
"Why do you ask me, Nellie? I never go j
any where, and no one ever comes to see me.
But I did hear the other day?now mind, I
don't say it is true?that Mr. Wethered's
wife?you know who I mean?he is the pastor
of the Episcopal Church; had taken his old
white muslin surplice, which was given him
by his congregation, mind you, and had made
party dresses for her children out of it. Now
what do you think of that ?"
"I think she must have been in decidedly
I straitened circumstances for finery," said NelI
lie, laughing ; "but what did the ladies of the
congregation do? Of course they took some
steps in the matter ?"
"Yes, indeed ; just as soon as they heard of
it, they went to Mrs. Wethered and told her
how awful it was, and how some dreadful
affliction would be visited upon her family,
and asked how she could do so."
"And what did she say?"
"Now, what do you think? She said she
did not know it was against the canons of the
church for her to make use of her old clothes;
but if the ladies would wait a moment, she
would satisfy them. She went out and got
all the scraps of muslin she could find, made
them up into a bundle, and gave them to the
ladies. I think she was very impertinent, for
she said if there was anything else she could
dn fnr tliem in the old clothes line, she would
be glad to do it."
"Hurrah for Mrs. Wethered!" said Nellie, I
iu an under tone.
"And," continued Miss Nancy, having
taken a long breath, "they found out afterwards
that she had not cut up the surplice j
they had given, but one of her old dresses. I
am going over to see Mrs. Wethered as soon
as I can, and ask her to tell me all about it."
"I wish you would," said Nellie; and be
sure to let us know what you hear. Mary is i
so fond of hearing the news, that she enjoys
your visits very much."
"I ana glad to hear it. I will come around
often, then; but I will not interrupt you any
longer." And with this, she took her leave.
"Now, Nelle, I think it was really too bad
of you to say that about me. You know if
there is anything I do hate; it is gossip."
"I am sorry I have offended you, Mary;
but you see the remark about little Mattie's
'squiut' has made me spiteful. I am not
going to rest satisffed until I see Miss Nancy
dressed in a tunic with pockets on the outside.
I shall cut her a pattern and send it to
her to-morrow."
CHAPTER XXX.
About four weeks before our wedding,
Owen and myself were taking a ride on horseback.
We had been some distance, and were
on our way home, when, as we were passing
through the woods about a mile from the
house, we saw a man riding in front of us.
He kept so near that Owen said?
"Come, Mattie, let us ride on."
"Very well," said I; but on whipping up
our horses, the man did the same, and then
continued to ride in front.
"Confound his impudence!" said Owen,
impatiently. "If you were not with me, Mattie,
I would like to give that fellow a thrash
_ ))
in g.
"Never mind the man, Owen; we are near |
home now. I do not suppose he intends to
be impertinent. Have you decided on going
to Columbia to-morrow?"
"I ought to go ; but it is so difficult for me
to tear myself away. I feel as if no one else
can take as good care of you as I can."
"But I should think the past would make
you more trustful for the future. I am sure
I have taken very good care of myself for the
last thirteen years."
"I do not know about that. You certainly
did not show your 'good keeping' the first
time I saw you ufter my return. Do you remember
that day ?"
"Ah ! Owen ! how can I ever forget it? I
shall never be as willing to die as I thought I
was then."
"But you were not, really, for you never
said a word about dying, after you took that
nap. I shall always remember how happy
rtrtfn 1 tiAii 1 aaIto/1 no vnn l?v tliprp
ill J U jJCHLCl U1 juu iuunvuj j wm
asleep, with your hand in raiud. I could not
have given you up then."
"Do you intend to say you could do it better
now?" I asked smiling.
"No, Mattie; God knows it would be like
parting with my very life; but do not let us
talk about it. Have you decided yet upon
the 'happy day ?' "
"Yes ; the twenty-fifth of next mouth?just
four weeks from to-day."
"I think, then, I had better remain in Columbia
longer than I intended, that we may
have more time to remain at Elm wood when
we return from our wedding tour."
"How long will you be absent ?"
"Three weeks, I thiuk, now ; but I may be
with you before."
"Three weeks! How I shall miss you ! It
is so much harder for me to be separated from
you now, than it was when you first left me!
I have never realized how dear you were to
me, until now. Can not you defer your visit
to Columbia until after we are married ?"
"And have no home ready for my dear little
wife ?"
"But I would rather wait for the home,
than that you should leave me. I am beginning
to have a presentiment about your
going?something will surely happen."
"Yes, I hope so. I am going to select a
house; then furnish it; then I am goiug to
be installed as a professor at the College. Is
that enough to satisfy you, or would you Hke
something more."
"That is enough, thank you. I thiuk you
will be very busy for the next three weeks.
But see our friend has stopped, as if to let us
pass him."
The man had reined up his horse, and was
standing just where the road turned off toward
Elmwood. There was not much room
for passing, so that Owen was a little in front
of me. As I followed on, I glanced at the
man, who, to my great surprise, took off his
hat and bowed.
His face was familiar, but I could not remember
where I had seen it before. I was puzzling
my brain to find out, when Owen said?
"What is the matter, darling? If you
look so down-hearted as that, I can never
make up my mind to leave you."
"There is nothing the matter," I replied,
trying to speak cheerful; "I was only thinking."
"Then your thoughts must have been very
annoying, Mattie; I never saw a more abstracted
look than was on your face when I
spoke."
"I was trying to remember where I had
seen that man who passed us. I know I have
seen him somewhere."
"Suppose you have ; is that sufficient cause
to be looking sad, the last evening I can spend
with you, for three long weeks?"
"No; and I am not going to think of him
again."
As we entered the Elmwood gates, I said?
j "I have never thanked you, Owen, for acting
as you did about giving up this place.' It
| is such a comfort for mo to know we thought
i alike about it."
"You have nothing to thank me for, Mat;
tie. I should be sorry to see Elmwood owned
by any one but John?not even by my 'little
wife,'" he whispered, as he took me from my
horse.
Ah me! I think that evening I felt the
j most unalloyed bliss I had ever known. I,
| was happy afterward; though care and anxie-1
ty were mingled with it. But then my heart |
J knew no sorrow, and I felt the "fullness of
! joy" at loving and being loved.
I went up to my room to take off my riding ,
I habit, and as I put my hand on my table, I!
discovered a note lying there. Before I had J
J time to open it, the supper-bell rang, and I j
; was obliged to hurry down,
j What a merry party we were ! Owen and j
j myself came in for our full share of the jests,;
! but we did not raind tnem. as ne was 10
leave the next morning, the family retired 1
early, leaving us alone in the parlor. We sat
up late, discussing "soft nonsense," which is
i spoken on such occasions, and then we parted.
J As he kissed me, I said? *
| "Ccrae back to me, Owen, as soon as you
can.
"Of course T will, darling. Who ever heard
of a man staying away from his sweet-heart,
if he could go to her ? I hope I shall only
be away a fortnight. Do you think you can
take care of yourself that long ?"
"Yes, I will try. Tell me good-bye, now,
i and say?'God bless and keep my darling,'
j will you?" He said it, and kissed me, and
j then I left him.
The first object on which my eye rested, as
! I entered my room, was that note. I did not
care to open it then, for my first impulse was
j to throw myself on my knees and pray, as I
I had never prayed before, for his safety, and
| that I might be given strength to bear "all
j things."
Was my prayer answered, when on reading
that note, I trusted to my own judgment to
decide as to ray future conduct? I hope so.
I should like to think I was guided by higher
wisdom than my own, when I chose to bear
ray burden silently and alone.
The note contained the following :
"I am now in this neighborhood again. I understand
that the property which was once mine,
has been made over to you. I Avrite this to tell
you, if you do not relinquish your right to it, I
will surely have my revenge. If you will meet
me this evening in the chestnut grove, I may be
willing to compromise. Thomas Stone."
And his was the familiar face I had seen !
I sat up until nearly morning, thinking. I
decided I would not speak of the note to any
one, neither would I give Stone the interview
he proposed. No compromise could be made,
and as for his revenge?well!
[to be continued next week.]
CENTRAL PARK MYSTERIES.
On an eminence overlooking the lake in
; Central Park, and a couple of hundred yards
from seventy-second street entrance, the commissioners
have recently erected a wooden
structure, known from its shape as the Octagon.
It would stand in a square of about
i fourteen feet. Numerous funnels jut out
from the sides, straight or L shaped, with the
orifice downward. These are for ventillation.
There are two doors, but no windows. The
; Octagon stands upon a platform, and is ap
I proached by steps. As you enter tne aoor
j you see before you a round white table, about
; the size of an ordinary card table. Iu the
centre overhead is a cylinder that resembles a
piece of stove pipe. A metal rod like an
elongated car hook hangs from this within
reach of a man's hand. This Octagon is the
home of the camera obscura, the only one of
its kind in this country. It has been in operation
for some time, although the fact is
j known to comparatively few.
I Yesterday a Sun reporter visited the Octa'
gon. The courteous gentleman in charge inj
vitcd him to euter. He did so, and the door
was shut. All was dark except the surface
i of the table. Upon it was depicted a most
j beautiful landscape, with men and women
j walking about, children and dogs frisking,
I and horses trotting along at a brisk gait. The
j scene was at once recognized.
CENTRAL PARK IN MINIATURE,
j A perfect picture of the park to the south
! of the lake was spread out upon the table. A
i movement of the rod brought another section
: into view, and by and by New York city as
\ far down as Dr. Dellow's church was distinctly
| flung in miniature upon the table. Still an!
other movement, and Hoboken and the Palisades
were presented. The Eighth avenue cars
i rolled along on one side and steam cars rattled
past on the other. The spoke of every
wheel and the face of every passenger were
i clearly marked. Every color and tint of the
| foliage was there, and the slightest waving of
a leaf was faithfully represented. Every pori
tion of the park, not shut off by some physical
obstruction, was in turn reflected, and the attiJ
tude and motion of each person, walking or
seated, was distinctly seen. The camera pro|
duced upon the table a series of pictures most
beautiful and startling, the moving figures?
approaching, receding, crossing?making it
j seem like a glimpse of fairy land.
As may well be supposed, the camera has
yielded some surprising revelations to the
gazers. A New York detective, who has sev|
cral times made use of the camera for professional
purposes, accompanied the Sun reporter
. in his visit to the Octagon. The detective related
some interesting stories connected with
the camera, a few of which are given below.
A JEALOUS WIFE.
; About the beginning of April two elegantly
dressed ladies visited the Octagon, and
were admitted alone to see the wonderful
sights it reveals. They were both young.
One of them, who was very beautiful, was
greatly excited, and had to be restrained more
than once by her companion. Scene after
sceue passed before them, until at length the
lake came into view. An arbor on the opposite
shore was more than usually distinct, for
I the sun was shining full upon it. Inside it
were seated a lady and a geutleman in tender
I attitude. The features and dress of both
were as though they stood before the gazers
as large as life. The younger lady, after
gazing at the pair for a moment exclaimed,
"There ! I told you, it is my husband, just as
! I suspected."
She was intent on starting for the boathouse
to cross the lake by stealth and confront
the pair, but her friend restrained her.
AN ELOPEMENT.
Toward the close of March, an elderly gentleman,
a professor at a well-known college,
, visted the Octagon, accompanied by a detective.
Scene after scene was brought into view,
until at last a distant part of the park was
shown. Walking down a pathway in the
centre of the picture was a couple. The elderly
gentleman at once recognized the lady
as his daughter, and the gentleman as the
young artist with whom she eloped two days
previously.
Early this month Detective Lambert came
on here from Ohio in pursuit of a forger and
defaulter named McMurry. He received inj
formation that he was hiding somewhere in
Yorkville or Harlem. The detective on his
i way thither recognized McMurry on Third
avenue, near seventy-first street. The detective
sprang from the car, but his man had disappeared.
For two days the officer paraded
that neighborhood, but to no purpose. On
the third day he extended his walk as far
along Seventy-first street as Fifth avenue.
As he glarced toward the park he thought he
recognized McMurry near the Casino, some
three hundred yards away. He went toward
the spot and examined the neighborhood
thoroughly, but saw nothing of the man. The
New York detective before referred to happened
to be at the Casino on business, and
recognizing the Ohio officer said: "If you'll
come with me to that octagon building, they'll
show you the whereabouts of the fellow you
want, if he's in the park, in two minutes."
A FORGER CAPTURED. *
Detective Lambert went to the Octagon accordingly,
and explained his wishes. The
camera was put in motion, and in thirty seconds
he discovered McMurry seated in an arbor,
not two hundred yards away, calmly
smoking a cigar. In five minutes' time the
i officer had his mau. "I watched the whole
i proceeding," said the New York detective to I
j the Sun reporter, "as it was cast upon the |
table. I saw Lambert approach, McMurry !
start and try to dodge him, and the detective
grab him and bear him down to his knees.
Then I saw Lambert put the handcuffs away,
aud McMurry quietly light a fresh cigar,
I and hand another to Lambert, and both walk
j off apparently the best of friends."
I Last Wednesday a lady residing in Fifth
avenue visited the park with two friends, accompanied
by her little boy of four years.
While the lady and her friends were chatting
together in an arbor the child strolled away,
and when the alarmed mother became conscious
of the fact he was nowhere to be seen.
Search was made in every direction by the
lady and her friends, but to no purpose. At
length an officer who was consulted by the
; distressed woman, directed her to the Octa!
gon. Thither she and her friends went. The j
camera, like a good angel, went to work to
disclose the whereabouts of the lost boy, and j
in a few minutes a small white speck was dis-1
covered in the sheep-pasture. "That's most |
likely your child, madam," said the expert in !
charge of the camera.
A LOST CHILD FOUND.
The lady examined the speck carefully, and
: there sure enough was her darling, every feaj
ture and limb discernible, lying curled up on
the grass fast asleep.
4 J
A MAN OF HIS WORD.
The viciuity of Bastrop, in Texas, was made j
quite gossipy six or seven weeks ago by an ani-.
mated personal difficulty, in which a notably
veracious gentlemen from Arkansas felt
obliged to take the life of his opponent in an
argument. "If you repeat that assertion, sir,"
observed the Arkansas gentleman, in commentary
upon the other's use of certain forcible
biographical insinuations, "I give you nv ,
word I will shoot you." Heedless of the cour- j
teous admonition, the voJubJe oilenaer com-1
mitted the repetition, and?his funeral was j
attended by a large concourse of relatives and I
friends. "I gave him my word for it," remarked
the gentleman from Arkansas, blowing
into the discharged barrel of his pistol,
"and that's a pledge I always redeem." The
moral dignity of the speaker's position in the
matter could not be disputed, and excited
lively admiration among the chosen spirits
preseut|in the bar-room at the time ; but there
was still a certain facetious abstraction known
as law to be humored, and two smiling constables
invited the hero of the hour to bear 1
them company as far as the parish prison. "I
shall not go with you, my good fellows," answered
he, reproducing his pistol from its
pocket, "and I'll give you just three minutes
to get out of here; but I pass ray word that j
I'll report at prison in half an hour from now." i
There was a certain playful pointing of the
pistol after this, which induced the minions of j
justice to retire for further orders; and before j
these could be received and obeyed the gen- j
tleraan from Arkansas had presented himself j
at the jail, according to his word, and been'
placed under arrest for "homicidal frenzy." |
In a day or two thereafter a grand jury in-1
dieted him for murder; and, in the interval !
between the finding of this indictment and the
meeting of the court to try him, the captive
was likely to realize a most irksome delay.
The high character with which he had come
into the parish prisou induced the sheriff to
treat him with great respect and extend to
him privileges of most unusual liberty ; but a
prison is, at the best, but unsatisfactory quarters
to a gentleman of expansive nature, and
the prisoner pined for a change. One day
l ujKilo fko oliopifr wns rWrinir the dust from
I the key of the front door of his little bastile,
! his gue3t from Arkansas, who was lounging
listlessly about at the time, begged leave to :
examine the metalic curiosity. Happy to
confer the trifling pleasure, the dignitary of
the county handed over the key, and was
; much astonished to find himself simultaneously
tripped from his feet to the floor with a violence
of concussional cerebration, leaving him
momentarily stunned. Upon recovery of his
senses, and search of the institution under his
charge, he found himselflocked in, and a note
of hurried explanation thrust under the door.
The note was from the Arkansas gentleman,
and after grateful apology for the manner of
I his departure, gave the reason therefor: "Hav!
ing business needing my presence at home in
I Arkansas," he said, "I thought that I might I
| as well take a run up there during the holi-'
| day season between the indictment and the j
; trial; but you needn't worry, ray dear friend, |
j for I give you my word that I'll be back in time :
j for the meeting of the court." His head be-1
ing rather painful from its contact with the 1
| floor, and society "chaffing" him upon the j
j subject rather more than was agreeable, the ;
j sheriff regarded himself as the worst served
| of all men that ever put their trust in human
nature, and contemplated the approaching
session of the criminal tribunal with dread
j and fear of his own arraignment. He was!
present in court, however, at its meeting last J
J week, says the Bastrop Conservative, and,!
I while dolefully waiting to hear called the case
j of his escaped betrayer, was tapped upon the
; shoulder by a gentlemanly stranger who had ,
! entered behind him unobserved. He turned,
i he stared, and could scarcely credit his senses j
| at beholding once more the gentleman from
; Arkansas. "Here I am, you see," said the j
: Initor in rrnml finmnrpd eniovment of the offi
; lUblW, ... - J-J .
j cial surprise. Gasping for breath, the sheriff
| dived into one of his coat pockets for a writ of
j arrest; having served which, with tremendous
i energy he shook the gentleman by the hand.
| "You're a man of your word, if there ever was
; one," he exclaimed emotionally, "and my con!
fidence in human nature is fully restored."
| The spectacle moved court and spectators as
j pathetically as it deserved, and counsel for the
! defendant at once entered a plea of insanity,
I which is regarded as sure to result in a cor:
responding verdict.
A Woman Marries a Woman.?An ex[
traordinary lawsuit is now going on in Paris.
: Some years ago a surgeou made the acquaiu-,
1 tar.ee of a young girl who soon became a |
I mother. "1 cannot marry you," said the doctor,
(although he was not married,) "but if
j you can find any one else to make you his
i wife, and adopt the child as his own, I will '
j leave him all my fortuue." But a husband
j could not be found to accept these conditions.
However, among the girl's friends was aschool
companion of hers, whose brother had just
died abroad, and she proposed to take her
brother's name and attire, and to marry her
friend to save her from disgrace. This was
done, and they duly married and lived oeiore
the world as man and wife. The doctor died
in course of time, and, according to his word,
left his whole fortune to the child. The eoidistant
husband also died, and the secret was
discovered. Hearing this, the relations of
the doctor have brought an action against the
child to recover the fortune. The money,
they say, was left to the child of Monsieur
and Mamselle A., but as there was no Monsieur
A. there could be no Mamselle A; ergo,
the child could not be theirs. The suit is still
at this point, the plaintiff's case being alone
heard as yet.
A TERRIBLE PUNISHMENT.
Mr. James Greenwood has published a
fricrhtful account of the silent system which is
in operation at the Holloway Model Prison in .
London:
"It is an offense for a prisoner to speak one
word, and he is never addressed, except in
whispers, so that he may be in prison two
years without hearing the natural sound of
the human voice. The effect of all this is so
terrible on the mind that prisoners will speak
out in desperation, at the risk of any punishment,
rather than endure that horrible silence.
The prisoners never see one another, but
remain in perpetual solitude. One poor
wretch, driven to desperation by nine months'
solitude and silence, recklessly broke out, in
Mr. Greenwood's presence:
"For God's sake, Governor, put me in another
cell. Put me somewhere else. I've
counted the bricks in the cell I am in till my
eyes ache." The request of the tortured man
was refused.
There is a fine hole in each cell, and as the
wardens wear shoes with India rubber soles,
the prisoners can never be sure of being alone.
Those condemned in the tread-mill have to
ascend 1200 steps every alternate twenty minutes
for six hours. And this in a place so hot
and close that prisoners often lose in perspiration
thirty pounds in three months.
Every day the prisoners are taken to a
chapel, so arranged that they can see no one
save the chaplain, and him only through an
iron grating. And thus is the order of devotion
observed. Wardens are constantly on
the watch, lest for a slight instant they,
through the whole of the service, depart from
the rigid rule of "eyes right." They must
1 .'...lfii.tln at tlia nrooph(>r must raise
iUUK aicuuioouj uu tiiv ,
and lower their prayer book with the elbows
squared, and all at once, like soldiers at drill.
They may not scrape their feet without having
afterward to explain the movement They
scarcely wink an eye or sigh, without danger
of rebuke or punishment God help them,
poor wretches!
A Queer Trick.?An American adventuress,
giving her name as Maria Graindorge,
has been arrested in Paris on the following
charge of impudent and ingenious swindling.
She appeared well dressed, and with a handsome
baby in her arms, at the house of
wealthy Parisians, asking to see the proprietor.
As soon as she was admitted to bis presence,
she would rush at him, exclaiming:
"Traitor! wretch ! villain! have I found
you at last ?"
At the same time, the handsome baby,
having been trained for that purpose, would
extend its little arms toward the astonished
gentleman, and cry:
"Papa! dear papa!"
It may be imagined that "papa" preferred
to give the swindler some money, in order to "
I make her leave the house. When she was arj
rested at her residence in the Rue Deviver, no
fewer than seven trained babies were found in
the house; also 9,000 to 10,000 francs in
money. Mile. Graindorge, upon being closely
pressed by the examining magistrate, conj
fessed that her real name was Oaks; that she
was a native of New York, and that she had
been before at the St. Lazare prison. The
Paris Assizes found her guilty, and she was
sent for seven years to New Caledonia.
Those Queer Modoc Names?Our readers
have probably often wondered in what
strange way the Modocs came by their queer
names. Hooker Jim, Shacknasty Frank,
Boerus Charley, Captain Jack, have anything
but an Indian sound. An article by a writer
in the Savannah News gives the explanation.
In every tribe a large number of the Indian
youths have no names. Under a liberal construction
of our Indian treaties, every male,
if but a month old, is accounted a warrior,
and entitled to an annuity. The government
requires every warrior's name to be entered
by the United States agent in duplicate books,
so as to obtain a census of the tribes. These
infant annuitants are therefore given names
according to the fancy of the agents, who often
tax their ingenuity and expose their want of
good taste in giving them unmeaning and ridiculous
epithets?names which mar the nomenclature
of Indian tribes. Singularly
enough, when these names are given and recorded
in the book of record, the Indians,
catching the words, though ignorant of their
meaning, religiously adhere to the names
given to their children, believing that by
changing them they would forfeit tneir annuity
rights.
A Singular Case of Mental Aberration.?The
Tribune tells of a very touching
case of mental alienation in a charming young
lady, as described by a careful observer. Not
long ago, her mother found her in her room
energetically darning stockings, and soon
after she appeared in the kitchen and assisted
that wondering dame in making and baking
bread and pastry. Alarmed by these fearful
signs of intellectual disorder, her fond parents
immediately sent for a skillful physician
who watched herthrough'a keyhole while she
sewed buttons on her father's garments and
mended those of her little brother. Much
affected, the venerable man remarked that
never, during a practice of twenty-five years,
had he known any young person to manifest
such symptoms as these. The most heartrending
phase of all, however, was shown the
other day, when her kind father, with a faint
Lnno nf rnn?inor her from her sad state, gave
her $200, and told her to buy a new dress.
Alas! 'twas useless. She instantly observed
that she didn't need a new dress, and if he
would let her keep twenty-five dollars to pay
a poor widow's rent, she would much rather
he would take the rest of the money for himself.
For a few moments that grief-stricken
old gentleman gazed upon his hapless child,
then, hiding bis face, muttered between his
sobs: "Her mind is gone! Her mind is
gone!"
teaT A pair of opera glasses lost a long time
ago in that part of the California desert
known as Death Valley, was recently found.
The most singular fact connected with them
is that every object within range of where the
j glasses have been lying lor a year or more, is
distinctly photographed upon them. Both
object glasses are covered with perfect and
most beautiful photographs of etchings of
desert shrubs, stems, branches and leaf stalks.
Leaves and leaflets are as distinctly marked
as if laid on by a master hand. There is no
mixture or confusion of one plant with another,
each having a clear border of unmarked
glass, rendering it probable that the sun or
lightning photograph, or whatever it may be,
was received through the eye-glass.
fcaT "You ought to let me pass here free of
charge, considereng the benevolent nature of
my profession," said a physician to a toll-gate
keeper. "Not so," was the reply ; "you send
| too many dead heads through here now."
The doctor didn't stop to argue the point.