Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, March 16, 1887, Image 1
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VOL. 33. ~ YORKYILLE, S. C.. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 16, 1887. NO. 11.
j| ferial ftarg. i
RETRIBUTION
BY 'THE DUCHESS."
CHAPTER VI.
Granit Boyle, emerging from behind
an evergreen, comes leisurely forward, an
inscrutable smile upon his Arm lips.
"Our dance, Millicent," he says, in the
Blow drawling tone to which she is so accustomed,
and which she has begun to
hate so heartily.
"I dare say," she says, coolly.
"Will you dance it, *or pass the time in
the gardens??they are astonishingly
pretty."
"That depends upon whom I view the
gardens with," says she, glancing at him
insolenty from under half closed lids.
W?fl r\9 A/MIWA 11 I
it ivu aibj wi vuui ov?
"Ah!?then I shall dance It"
"As yon will, my pretty cousin.,r
There Is a touch of vindictiveness in the
smile he bends upon her. "Perhaps,
even, you would prefer to neither dance
nor go into the gardens with ine, but
spend the half hour?another half hour?
here with Mr. Massareene?"
If for a moment he had supposed he
could confuse or disconcert her, he finds
out his mistake at once.
"Ye*, I should prefer that," she says.
Massareene at this makes a step toward
her, but Granit Boyle waves him back
with a curious laugh.
"No, no, my friend," he says genially.
"Yon can uot have it all your own way.
I would not give up this dance with my
?cousin." He pauses, and then laughs
aloud. "Do you know, Milly, I was very
near saying, 'with my wife;' but that
would have been unlucky, eh? Counting
before the happy time, eh* But really,
you know"?turning again to Massareene?"I
would not miss this dance with
Miss Grey for a great deal."
"It is astonishing how much you can
say in a little time," says his fiancee with
an ill disguised sneer, rising with deliberate
want of haste from her low seat
"Well, if this thing has got to be danced
let us go and do it." She lays her hand
upon her cousin's arm, and moves away
a step or two with bim. Then she
glances back over her sbouldder at Massareene,
who is looking a little white, and
comes to a standstill. "The next is
ours," she says in a very sweet voice;
"come for me as soon as vou can. I
shall be glad to see you again." This is
as much as to say she will be overjoyed
when her dance with the man who is her
affianced husband has drawn to a close.
Granit Boyle, with a smothered imprecation,
moves on again, and she perforce accompanies
him?but not to the ball room.
"I'm not going to dance this, nor am I
going into the gardens," she says, with
decision. "I am going to sit in the
smaller hall, and criticise the people
while they come and go. That will help
to pass away the time."
"Until you can with politeness get rid
ofme."
"Don't be rude, my dear Granit To
put an unpleasant truth in glaring color
is always a mistake."
"I will be mistaken twice, then, for
your benefit, and to prove myself by no
means a fool in your eyes. You will sit
here and criticise your neighbors until it
is time for you to return once more to the
arms?I beg pardon?the society of Gerald
Massareene."
"You have an excellent wit," says she,
with an untroubled smile.
"You cannot, however, deny the truth
that lies in it?"
"Why should I? You are such an extremely
clever young man that one must
believe you can see through the proverbial
stone wall."
Mr. Boyle bestows a glance that is not
altogether one of affection upon his future
wife.
"Then you don't deny it?" he says.
"Certainly not. I should welcome the
advent of any one who would relieve me
?I mean you?of the burden of your?
that is my?presence."
She laughs as she gives voice to this
lUtle impertinence?made all the more
pointed by tho affectation of modesty
that runs through it. Granit frowns
openly. If the day should ever come in
which he might claim this willful lady as
his own?if?(it seems very improbable?
at this moment specially so) he will certainly
teach her such a lesson in propriety
as she will not be likely to forget for the
remainder of her days.
"Don't trouble yourself to try to be polite,
even in ridicule," he says, in a voice
that suggests a good deal of hidden wrath
beneath the forced calmness of his demeanor.
"But even you and Mr. Massareene
cannot dance together all night
without laying yourselves open to unkindly
comment. An eiTetc civilization
has so ordained it, that the world has
grown to look on such vulgar exhibitions
of affection as?indecent."
Miss Grey lets her fan drop to her side,
A Kwincra "hov linnrlo TTTitVi n
sudden sharp movement.
"How daro you!" she says, in a low
tone.
"Hah! At last I have touched you,
my pretty cousin l" cries he, gayly. "A
little of that revenge, so wisely called
sweet has fallen to my portion to-night.
Why, you look positively pale! Come,
pull yourself together; call upon that indominitable
spirit in which you pride
yourself, and give mo back my blow!
What?still no words? no seething sarcasm,
no pointed barb environed? Pshaw!
I gave you credit for more go than you
possess."
His manner is maddening. Miss
Grey, rising slowly to her feet, with
parted lips, through which the panting
breath comes hurriedly, surveys him
with a glance that would have subdued
most mtn. But not Granit Boyle.
He rises, too, and picking up her fan
with a nonchalant grace, hands it to her
with a slight bow full of mockery.
"You look charming so," he says,
"with that haughty expression on your
handsome lips. Flattery is not only vulgar,
I know, but the crudest of mistakes
nowadays; but you will forgive me for
it, when you see how feeling has carried
me away. I am a devoted admirer of artistic
effects. This, of yours, is perfect.
I have always considered you pretty, my
cousin, but never really realized the fact
that you could be beautiful until now."
"You run it very fine," says Miss Grey,
in n vninn cn snhdiipd to be ftlmOSt U
whisper. "You arc daring. It would
hardly suit yon, perhaps, to be thrown
over by the heiress of the season."^
' The heiress of the season wo'**.l not
so serve a devoted lover," replies he,
still with that light mocking laughter on
his sneering lips. "If she did?why?she
might cc-use to be the heiress of the season."
lie had dealt his little blow in a soft
undertone, but it tells. It is all so true!
Her uncle, Timothy Boyle, her aunt,
Mrs. Brand, the two whose wills make
her an heiress, could as easily unmake
her, were she to go contrary to their
wishes. And they have decreed that she
is to marry Granit Boyle, the son of their
dearly loved dead brother, the first husband
of Lady Yalworth. A whim on
their parts. A serious matter with the
girl now standing pale with passionate
anger?with head down bent and a heart
that madly fights with cold reason for a
victory. To give up this man and a future
that will land her on the world's
stage as one of the richest commoners in
England, or to resign this man and
cleave to that other, who can give her
only a very modest income and a heart
all gold. "To be, or not to be!'" This
struggle is sharp, bitter, but shovt lived.
She has been too well trained to willingly
barter all for love. Cold reason wins the
day, and the heart, sobbing, rebellious,
fades into the background.
"As to the devoted lover part," she
says at last, with a smile as careless as
his own, "I will let you off all that sort
of thing. We shall fulfill our destiny,
you and I?we shall marry, and by such
means gain money, and we shall die in
all probability in the odor of sanctity?
but of love, I thank you, we will say
nothing."
"An excellent arrangement. They
say those who love deepest say least
about it. Shall we pose, then, as friends?"
"The least of all," returns she, with
an angry flash from her large eyes.
"What! neither friend nor lover?"
"I have said so."
"Nor friend, nor lover, but only hus- j
band!" laughs he. "A very unique little
affair altogether."
"Miss Grey, at last I may return to
you," says a low voice at her elbow.
With a convulsive start she turns, and,
as if involuntarily, holds out her hand
to Massareene. There is something in
the fond, kind, ugly face that now at this
instant?when her soul is filled with horror
of him whom she has promised to
marry?appeals to her strongly.
"Yes, yes?at last!" she murmurs,
brokenly, and moves away with him
without so much as a parting glance at
Granit Boyle.
CHAPTER VII.
It is midnight. Twelve hours have
been chimed by some great clock a mile
away, the strokes falling solemnly on the
cttll olr nf thfl cmmmpr riirrht, Tr/lfflft
I has ceased, and only the sonnd of an occasional
carriage may be heard, the red
lights from its lamps flaming upward
and sometimes casting a lurid shadow
upon the bed where Millicent lies sleeping.
The girl had appeared a little tired, a
little ennuyee for the last day or two, and
Mrs. Brand had decided upon her refusing
any invitation for this one night at
least. She should go to bed early, so
would Mrs. Brand?the whole household,
indeed, should retire at an abnormally
early hour, and Granit, who was acquainted
with all these circumstances
and arrangements, was forbidden to call
after six o'clock.
Boom ? boom?boom ? goes the big
clock somewhere. Millicent, as though
disturbed by it, turns uneasily in her bed,'
and, as growing consciousness gains on
her, sighs deeply. Alas! there are many
reasons why she, the petted debutante of
the year, should sigh profoundly. Her
body, indeed, is well (this seems rather a
grievance than otherwise), but her heart
is sick and sore within her. Oh! the
horror of having to marry Granit while
her affection is all concentrated on
another! And yet, to lose her inheritance!
To a girl trained as sho has been
?as hundreds of others are trainedsuch
a consideration is paramount. To
be cast from her throne, to be discarded
by her world, to sink from a comparative
supremacy to a sure mediocrity!?in that
lies the sting.
If only the matter could be altered,
and arranged for her on lines according
to her own liking! She had thought of
appealing to her aunt?had even hinted
to her that Boyle was not altogether so
dear to her as he should be. But Mrs.
Brand had pooh-poohed all such hints as
being mere girlish folly, and had told her
that in time she would find her cousin
was far above the average of the young
man <ili > met. and that thev had good
reason to believe a defunct title, thathud
once belonged to a branch of their family,
would be revived in his favor.
How quiet the night has grown! Even
in the heart of. this surging London, it
seems as though a time of rest can reign;
the stir, the roll of the odd carriage or
two only enhances the extreme deadness
of the calm. Millicent turns wearily upon
her pillow, and tries with passionate
anxiety to forget her woes in sleep. In
vain sho courts the wished for slumber;
in vain she seeks to kill her cruel
thoughts. Still they remain with her,
growing ever more persistent as wakefulness
grows upon her. Impatient, and
angry with herself, and finding the night
insufferably worm, sho half pushes the
. bedclothes from her, with tho intention
of rising nr.d flinging wide her window,
when a slight noise in the adjoining room
arrests her attention.
Is it a footstep? or one of those strange
sounds that break tho stillness of the
night!'?ghostly sounds that we all know,
coming from nowhere apparently, yet
loud euough to make tho pulses beat und
suggest a covering of tho head with the
friendly bedclothes.
Millicent, wide awake now, but uncertain,
listens intently. Sho has indeed
drawn bock her foot into the shelter of
the bed, but otherwise has shown no
fear. Is it a step? It hes stopped now.
After all, it might havo been auntio
coming for her cologne water, or one of
tho maids for the neuralgia enre that lies
on the mantelpiece in her boudoir. In
spite of these consolatory reflections,
however, she cannot conceal from herself
that she is growing frightened, and
is regretting with ever increasing earnestness
the fact that she is sleeping
alone, in a corridor cut off from the rest
of the house.
fsnnwi alter an, 11 was nuuaug?a
silly scare. Silence once more reigns supreme.
Not even the indomitable mouse
is to be heard. No scratchings, no
squeaks anywhere. Not even a
Good heavens! what was that? That
horrible stealing sound in the room beyond.
It is coming nearer and nearer!
Of that some horrible inner sense assures
her, though now she can hear nothing.
Oh, how the minutes drag! The
knowledge that even if she screamed
until life left her she coulJhnot be heard
by auy one member of the household
adds ten thousand terrors to her already
miserable situation.
Ah, there! There it is "again?that
stealthy footstep; more distinct now?
more real. All in one momeut every
shuddering recollection of people murdered,
every ghastly detail that she has
ever read or heard, recurs to her, and
makes the blood freeze within her veins.
Soon, perhaps, that blood will be frozen
eternally.
And now a maddening regret occurs to
her. The bell! why had she not thought
of that sooner? To cross the room, to
pull violently at it?even if her effort
failed to bring one of the servunts (a
most likely thing, as all the servants
sleep at the very top of the house)?at
least she might have alarmed this midnight
assassin, and sent him flying from I
the scene of his unlawful labors. But
now! Is it too late yet?
Almost paralyzed by fear as she is, she
rises cautiously upon her elbow, and is
just about to make a rush for the bell,
when
CHAPTER VIII.
The door beyond opens slowly, and a
figure that looms large and terrible in
the light of the dim lamp it carries appears
upon the threshold.
Millicent, benumbed, fascinated, staring
with wide eyes, sees a man dressed iu
the common course fustian suit of an artisan.
The face is hidden; over it a mask
of black satin is drawn carefully. This
gives a last touch of terror to a presence
already big with fearful mystery in the I
eyes of the poor girl gazing at it, in a [
smellhniiml rm<r?iOi from over the frilled '
and dainty linen sheeting.
It is an impossible thing, in spite of all !
wise writers to the contrary, to account :
for human feeling?to arrange for what (
it will cause the owner of it to do or say j
on certain occasions and under certain |
circumstances.
Millicent, a moment ago more dead !
than alive, when her fear was hidden !
from her, now that it appears before her !
in flesh and blood and an 'abominably j
bad suit of clothes, feels her soul rise !
within her, her courage grow apace, and j
lifting her eyes?though still in a very :
agony of doubt and horror?she stares nt j
the intruder with some small semblance j
of defiance.
The intruder, however, being no doubt
a man of base mind, to whom lofty sentiments
are unknown, returns her would-be j
haughty glance through his mask with
an air calm as a summer eve.
"Get up!" he says?neither more nor
less, but just this concisely.
It is a demand that Miss Grey in her
newborn fit of courage sees fit to scorn.
"I shall not!" she says from her stronghold
behind the bedclothes.
However ignominiously she behaves i
afterward, it must now be said of her I
that she is filled with a high courage.
"Won't you:'" says the man in fust- j
ian. His tone is remarkably high and j
squeaky; not?as'Miss Grey remarks, even
at this awful moment?like the voice of
any human thing she has ever heard.
"I give you just_ three minutes to get
into your clothes:"no more. T.oolc shnrp,
and never mind your hair. That is a
woman's first thought, isn't it? But it
must go for once."
lie laughs in so suppressed a fashion
that she hardly knows what the laughter
is like; but that it is wild and reckless,
and decidedly mirthful, is apparent to
her. It did not declare itself to her then,
but afterward it occurred to her that his
whole air was hardly in accord with the
fustian.
"I shall not stir," she says valorously..
"Then I regret to say that I must assist
you," returns he, advancing toward her
slowly.
This settles it, of course. Her high born
courage fades, evaporates. Her spirit
dies within her. With both hands she
clings to the bedclothes.
"No, no!" she gasps. "I will get uponly?only"
"Go? That, of course," says the man c
as argeenble as he can in his squeaky
tones. "I shull go to the next room, 101 i
precisely five minutes by my?no, by t
the way?your watch. Don't, let me ad- t
vise you, let it be longer." c
He strides toward the door by which
ho has entered, and then suddenly stops c
short. So does her heart. Once again I
she had dwelled upon , the hope of what 1
a ringing of the bell might bring forth; s
but, as if the mysterious being had read 1
her inmost soul, he now turns to her. 1
"By the bye," he says, "to ring your
bell may suggest itself to you. You i
might ring a thousand bells in this house, I
I verily believe, without result; but still
I decline to take the chance. After all, s
I think I shall stay here, in this remote 1
corner, while you put on your dressing r
gown." 1
"Oh, no!" i
The words break from Milllcent desperately.
a
"No? You would prefer not? But" I
"I swear to you I will not ring the ^
bell," declures she wildly. "I don't know ..
why you wisji mo to rise; but yet I give
you my word I will not touch the bell j
if you will only go into that next room a
and give me the five minutes you have t
promised."
"A woman's oath is not worth a half- j
penny, to cay nothing of her word," says f
the stranger pleasantly. "But still, I c
will grant your request with just this last c
word. If you play me false, if you seek ?
to summon aid in anyway, I shall"? t
drawing a revolver from his pocket and f
handling it tenderly?"blow your brains .
out!"
The words fall from him in a whisper .
?delicately?so mildly, indeed, that no
suspicion 01 violence snouiu rest wim
them. Yet Millicent, cs the door closes
behind liim, shuddera vehemently, and
her teeth chatter as though she has been
stricken with a sudden chill.
With trembling haste she springs from
her bed, hurries on her clothes, and having
covered herself finally with a soft
warm dressing gown, stands shivering
with expectation upon the carpet. She
must have got through her task with far
greater speed than she had imagined?in
three minutes, instead of the allotted
five, as a good while elapses from the
time cko had finished her hurried dressing
to tho dreaded moment when again
her foe appears before her.
"You are a paragon," he says. "Permit
me to congratulate you. I said five
minutes?I gave you seven; it uppears
three would have been sufficient. But
now to business. Where are those sapphire
and diamond ornaments that have
made you the envy of all beholders this
season, and added a faint luster to the
brilliancy of your charms)1"
Yes?certainly his manners are not in
keeping with his clothes!
"My sapphires!" gasps she feebly.
"And diamonds! Do not detract from
their value. Come!"?sharply?"let us
have no nonsense. I know you keep them
in this room or the one beyond; but
where? I assure you?I beg you to believe
that I would not for worlds have roused
you from your happy dreams had not
my failure to discover the jewels compelled
me to apply to you for assistance."
"My uncle always keeps them," begius
the girl, telling her lie without a regret
in the fond but vain hope that it may
save her sapphires. All at once the
suave manner of the man disappears, and
an angry oath escapes him.
"Look here, girl," he says roughly,
though his voice is fine and squeaky as
ever, "no trifling! I know these stones
to be in your keeping, and I shall have
them to-night or"
He pauses, draws the revolver again
from his pocket, and significantly clicks
it. "Where are the sapphires?"
"Over here," says Millicent, now fairly
cowed. She moves mechanically toward
the wall opposite, and raising her hand,
touches a spring that is evidently connected
with some secret press in the
wan?a press coiiceaieu uy uiu pupenug.
A small door flies open, and not having
the courage to actually give him her
treasures (jewels are always dear to a
woman, be she good or bad), she points
faintly to the disclosed cupboard.
The man in fustiun lifts his lantern,
peers curiously into the recess, and with
a low cry of triumph seizes upon the
different cases that lie side by side upon
the wooden shelf. Cool, even in the moment
of victory, ho opens the cases deliberately
one by one, to make sure of the
contents. Yes, they all lie there?the
beautiful glittering things, for which a
girl is crying, and for which a man is
bartering his souli
Lifting his head, after a sharp but hurried
examination of the stones that apparently
satisfies him, he sees that Millicent
too, is gazing earnestly at the
pretty baubles once hers, so soon to be
hers no longer; and that as she gazes, her
soft eys are full of tears.
"Seems cruel, ehl1" he says. "Well,
that you may say in the future I was not
ungenerous, I will leave you this out of
your treasures for which you are so ready
to shed your tears. I wonder if they are
dearer to you than" He pauses abruptly,
as one might who has been about
to say something better left unsaid.
"Thun your lover." He winds up with
that low, suppresesd laugh again, that
certainly does not belong to him, and
thrusts into her unwilling hands a small
but exquisite locket, heart shaped, glittering
with sapphires and diamonds.
"Think it is a gift from the man you
will marry," he says lightly, in that dis- ]
agreeable voice of his. "And now, fol- i
low me?or rather, go before me?to the s
door." ]
It is the door leading to the corridor
without to which he points. Millicent,
still as one in a dream, obeys him and
goes toward it. He opens it carefully,
and backing outward on to the corridor,
always with his eyes on her, comes there
to a standstill.
" I bid good night, mndaine," he says
mockingly. And then (she can remember
little about it afterward, so swift it
was) something was flung over her face,
and presesd there; there was a moment's
struggle?a moment that to her was an
eternity-jand then a strange dullness:
the sound of a door hastily closed; the
echoing of departing footsteps; a sense
of suffocation, and afterward a ceusing
from all knowledge, and a deadly blank.
CHAPTER IX.
It is eight o'clock on the ensuing morning
when Lucy, Millicent's maid, rushed
sobbing into Mrs. Brand's bedroom.
"Oh, ma'm! Oh, my young lady! Oh,
ma'm! Oh! poor Miss Millicent!"
"What! What is it? Speak, girl!"
commands Mrs. Brand, her face growing
pale with nervous expectation.
"Oil. ma'm! that 1 should live to see
this day! Oh, poor, dear Miss Grey!
Her as I wus fond of. Her as never said
a word unkind to mortal soul. To see
her now, and to think that only yesterday"
"What do you mean, girl!'" cries Mrs.
Brand, ringing the bell frantically.
"Good heavens! What lias happened to
Miss Grey!'"
"Oh, to only look at her, ma'm?I
thought I'd have dropped at her feet
when I pushed the door back, never
knowing why it was so hard to open and
she i/ing against it, with her poor
head''
"The woman will drive mo mad!" cries
Mra. Brand in a choked tone, and, hurrying
past her, made her way to Millieent's
bedroom.
Already two or three servants have
gathered there. The door is open, and i
;fcey are stooping over something lying
m the floor almost immediately beyond
he threshold.
Mrs. Brand, with a little cry, and pale
ind trembling, rashes forward, the servants
part involuntarily, and there lying
lpon the ground, to all appearance lifeess,
lies Millicent. Her head is thrown
backward, and one hand is tightly
flinched.
"She is fainting. It is only a faint!"
:ried Mrs. Brand, with an anguish in her
one that belies the meaning of her words.
'What are you all standing idle there
tor?" turning upon the terrified women.
'Has no one thought of sending for a
loctor?"
She is down on her knees now beside
he pale still form, and has raised the
:old head on her arm.
"Yes, mn'm; James has gone for a
loctor," sobs the housemaid nervously.
"Help me to lift her. So! Oli! bo genie,
girl! There?on her bed. Pull up
he blinds?what are they down for at
his hour??one would think she was
lead!"
She says this vehemently, with a sort
if defiance. But the awful word is too
nuch for her?it has hardly passed her
ips when her fictitious anger edres way,
he bursts into tears, and, falling on her
:nees beside the bed, she stretches out
ter arms to the unconscious body.
"Ohlmychlid! My pretty girl! What;
Bit? What has happened to you? Oh!
ifillicent, speak to me!"
The doctor entering at this moment,
he calms herself by a supreme effort, for
n truth the poor woman is terribly iinlerved?no
smallest suspicion of tragedy
laving ever come near her before, in all
ler calm, easy, luxurious life.
"H'm! ha!" says Dr. Thcsby, sniffing
.bout him suspiciously as he walks
Ightly to the bedside and stoops over Mil[cent.
"Young lady been playing
iranks with chloroform?"
"Oh, no! Impossible," exclaims Mrs.
Jrand.. "Indeed, I hardly think there is
my in the house. Certainly none that is
lot under lock and key in my own room."
"Nevertheless, there is chloroform
lere, or has been," says the doctor, snifing
again. He has been examining Milli:ent
while speaking, and now calls for
:ertain things to be brought him by the
ittending servants. Seeing Mrs. Brand's
listress, he turns kindly to her. "I can't
luite make it out yet, but pray compose
rourself, my dear madame. Your niece
s by no means beyond the power of man
ret."
And, indeed, at the expiration of half
in hour or so Millicent is so far recovired
as to be able to smile upon them,
md whisper a word or two to her aunt.
"No whispering, I think?no conIdences
just yet," says Dr. Thesby, rub)ing
his hands. "Though I agree with
rou, my dear lady, that no time should
)e lost about seeing into this?er?truly
ixtraordinary affair. What d'ye say, my
;ood woman," turning sharply to one of
.no mams.
"A handkerchief, eh? Picked up by
rou? Lying on Miss Grey's face?or
lartly so? eh? eh? Think what you are
laying now, my good girl, as I dare say
rou will have to repeat it pretty often
ater on."
Yes. The girl had picked it up when
Irst she stooped over Miss Grey. It
,vas not exactly on her face, but looked
is if it had slipped off it.
The doctor, folding it neatly, puts it in
lis breast pocket. "Important evidence,
nadame! If you will permit me, I will
ake charge of it. Heavily saturated
vith chloroform, I should say, from the
itrcngth of the aroma that still clings to
t."
"Let me see it," says Millicent sudlenly,
in a voice so much stronger and
vith such excitement on her pale face
hat the doctor thinks it better to accede
o her request, while still entreating her
0 "Be calm!?be calm! and above all
Lings to be calm!"
"As if," said Millicent afterward to
^adine, "any one could be expeceted to
>e calm who had just escaped being murlered,
and had had the finest sapphires
n Enlgand stolen from her!"
The handkerchief is a large, coarse,
lommon one, white in color, and of such
1 texture as might be used by a respective
artisan on u holiday making.
"It is a clew," says the doctor triumphantly;
but Millicent, though she could
lot have put her conviction into words,
'eels that it will never help to bring the
real offender to justice.
"But what brought the man here?
hat is what I want to know?" demands
Mrs. Brand, with a little spreading of
icr hands, when the doctor has called
lome hours later to find his patient has
'nL.nntnf# /nn'of lif liiu qKc/ITIOQ
JCirn 4UICUJ uuiiii^ uio cjwijwuwvj
ind litis only roused to consciousness
igain upon his entrance.
"Not a word have I let lier speak?not
1 word," says Mrs. Brand, with very parlonahlc
pride, considering the extent of
ler curiosity.
"Well, I must speak now," murmurs
Vlillicent, still very feebly, but with a
lecided increase of strength that the
loctor finds very satisfactory.
"Why, we shall liavo her downstairs
n 110 time," declares he jovially.
Then Millicent launches into a descrip:ion
of the man who had thrown a handkerchief
over her face and left her to
ive or die, as chnnce dictated, while he
nade good his escape. It is this infornation
that calls forth from Mrs. Brand
:he question as to what brought him into
ler house at all that unseemly midnight
lour.
"Ah! auntie!" says the girl, looking
it her out of her cushioned arm chair,
.vith great pathetic eyes that have grown
rrenter because of the regretful tenrs
:trit are filling them. "Do you not
know? Do ychi not guess? When you
ipened my hand, and the sapphire locket
Iropped out, did you guess nothing then?"
"No, child?no."
"That locket is a gift to me.'"
"A gift? I know that," impatiently.
'A gift from your Ucnle Timothy, with
ill the rest of those very beautiful
stones. A magnificent gift, truly."
"No!?ft gift from the man who has
stolen all thos<" unrr iled stones!"
"Stolen!" Mrs. Brand falls back in her
;hair, and gazes at Millicent with horror
stricken eyes.
"What! Gone-! Those priceless sapphires!"
:ries Dr. Thesby, who is an old
friend of Mrs. Brand's, and had been
shown the sumptuous gift of Timothy
Boyle when first presented to Miss Grey.
"Ah!" says Millicent, laughing hystercally,
"the burglar evidently did not
:hink them, as you do, priceless. No
loubt he is already pricing them?is arranging
how to break them up and sell
;hem?breaking up?my?lovely?necklet?my
beautiful"? Here, being still
t'ery weak, she gives up her mournful description,
and subsides into a storm of
:ears.
"There, there, darling! Oh, don't cry
ike that! Think of your weak state. But
what an ai^Jacious thing! Bless me,
what will your uncle say? Now, my
learust love, *1 implore you to control
yourself. Bemember how that unmitigated
villain nearly deprived you of your
ife only a few short hours ago. In this
i*prv rhiniihnr T)r Thncliv fill f tn think
)f it! It must have almost happened on
diis very spot1" Here she grows tragic,
md speaks in a deep bass tone that she
lelieves belits the occasion. "Oh! Milli:ent,
darling, you will break my heart
?your old auntie's heart?if you keep on
sobbing like that. Dear! dear! dear! to
;hink that those supphires?heirlooms,
ioctor?and the llnest in England?inleed,
in Europe, I might safely say?
ire now being melted down?that is,
iroken up, or whatever it is those terrible
nen do to them?while wc arc sitting inictive
here! Can nothing be done? Oh!
Ioctor?Dr. Thesby! What is the mater
with her now??has that wretch suc:eeded
in killing her after all?"
Milliccnt, in fact, driven to despair by
his prolonged lament, has gone into vioent
hysterics.
"No, ma'm, he hasn't," says the doc;or,
with severe meaning, who had tried
;o stem the ilow of Mrs. Brand's clojuence,
eagerly but ineffectually, during
he past live minutes.
[TO BE CONTINUKD.]
B*aT A ministry of prayer is a tninstryof
power.
|pjscella?e0tt$ finding.
COL. JAMES H. RION.
THE HE conn OF A MODEST ASD NOilLE
FIFE.
Judge Hudson's Personal Recollections of
the Distinguished Lawyer?An Example
that is Full of Encouragement and Instruction
for the Young Men of South
Carolina.
[From the Charleston Sunday News.]
My acquaintance with Col. Rion began
when a student in the South Carolina
College. When I entered the sophomore
class in December, A. D. 1849, he had
risen senior, and quite naturally, no intimacy
sprang up between us, because of
being thus far removed from each other.
Besides he was a member of the Clarios
i- ~ J T - r
opniu OOCieiy, tlUU X Ul MIC J^upiiiiiuiiin,
and the oportunity of knowing him and
of judging of his ability as a debater and
of his scholarly attainments was thus lost
me. Hence I could only rely upon his
standing with the faculty and his reputatloh'amobg
the 'students of-his class and
society in forming an opinion concerning
his intellectual strength. He was then,
as he ever after continued, of medium
height, but slender, of a quick step, lithe
and active. His eyes were keen, his face
thoughtful, his manners modest, his words
few. Except in the society of his intimate
friends he was not communicative,
but reserved. Being a close student he
had no time to indulge in even the mildest
forms of college dissipations, and so
by those who knew him not intimately
was regarded wanting in good fellowship
and geniality of temper. To his friends
and intimates, however, he was warmhearted,
and, in their society, an excellent
and instructive talker, but words he never
wasted upon any subject, either gay,
lively orsevere.
At this time he was, indeed, among
the students of the College the object of
interest and admiration. Especially was
this the case with those in the classes below
him, and to members of the Euphradian
Society he was an object of wonder.
The Clariosophics knew his wonderful
strength, but the Euphradians could but
gaze with wonder on one so little distinguished
in appearance, and who was held
up as the equal, if not the superior, of the
handsome, dashing, brilliant Barnwell.
The rivalry between the two societies,
the Euphradian and Clariosophic, was intense,
but of a kind ever to be commended?a
laudableambition toeclipse in numbers
and intellectual strength, but entirely
free from animosity. Each strove annually
to win the highest honors of the
College. The Euphradian candidate in
1850 for the first honor of that class was
Robert W. Barnwell, Jr., a young man
onnol io rorplvfnnnfl PTp Wflq nflS
TT IIUOV VV^UUi 1U ?i?* Av/Miiv.. .. w r
sessed of a commanding presence, a brilliant
eye, a countenance beaming with
intelligence, a musical voice, eloquent
tongue; was a born orator, charming talker,
and was gifted with a capacity, seemingly,
for universal scholarship. His personal
magnetism was far greater than
Rion's. We of the inferior classes, but of
the Euphradian Society, knew well the
eloquence of Barnwell, his splendid powers
in debate, and his broad attainments
in literature, manifested in his finished
essays and thrilling speeches.' I have no
hesitation in saying that the ablest speech
I heard delivered against the policy of
Secessson of the Southern States fell from
.the lips of young Barnwell, in a debate
in the Euphradian Society, during his
senior year, A. D. 1850. I make this assertion,
although we had the privilege ol
hearing, at the old Taylor Springs, such
men as Judge A. P. Butler, Col. John S.
Preston and Col. James Chestnut, Jr., during
that year, on the same side of the
question.
It may readily be understood, therefore,
why we of the Euphradian society could
not believe that our gifted orator and
scholar would be defeated by the silent,
modest, reserved, pale, slight attenuated
rival of the Clariosophic Society, James
H. Rion. The latter had entered college
with difficulty, being "noted" on Greek?
that is, failed to pass the entrance examination
on that branch?and was regarded
deficient in general knowledge. But we
counted "without our host," as the result
proved and as we began to fear before
the final trial came. Never before had
such excitement prevailed in the old College
over the first honor. Such was the
testimony of the oldest members of the
Faculty, who, likewise declared that two
more gifted rivals had not appeared in a
class within their recollection. Rion, however,
won, aud that, too, by the vote,
close though, of as distinguished a faculty
as the College ever had.
A kind Providence had made mean ininmate
of the family of the distinguihsed
president of the College, the Hon. Win. C.
Preston. From him I had learned much
of the real merits of young Rion, and was
more prepared in mind for his victory
than were many of my tenow J-jUpnraaians.
It was in this family, also, that I first became
acquainted with the accomplished
and highly intellectual Miss Kitty Weir,
whom Iiion afterwards married, and
who survives her distinguished husband,
a woman worthy in every respect of such
a man, and resembling him much in the
cast of his intellect.
ltion was the only son of a widowed
mother, and came to college without the
means to pay his expenses. lie is supposed
to have been aided by the great
Calhoun, but I think it is a mistake. I
have been told by one who was a G'lariosophic
and of a class ahead of him, that
Rion came to college under these circumstances
:
Each society supported one beneficiary
student. The beneficiary of the Clariosophic
Society having graduated, the
members began to cast about for a worthy
object of their bounty, when it was
suggested by, perhaps a son of Mr. Calhoun,
that there was in Anderson a
"smart little fellow," James H.-Rion, the
son of a widow lady, who wished an education,
and who would reflect credit on
the society if he could only enter college.
He was accordingly chosen, and requested
to come down and apply. He came,
applied, and was admitted, but was so deficient
in Greek that the kind hearted
Dr. Henry was forced to reject him. The
condition of his admission was, that within
a given period he should qualify himself
in Greek. He not only did this but
soon stood first of his class in this branch,
and maintained this piominence to the
end. His average stand throughout his
entire college career, which is a matter of
record, is said to exceed the maximum
on all the branches. The maximum being
!), his average was 9 plus on all
branches.
Within a month after graduating he became
engaged to be married to Miss
Woir u'hn then wpnt to her relations in
Pennsylvania, whilst he proceeded to
Winnsboro' and took charge in January,
1851, of a Professorship in Mount
Zion College, then, and for many years
previous, under the charge of that famous
instructor J, W. Hudson.
From 0 o'clock A. M., until 2 o'clock
P. M. ltion instructed his classes, and devoted
the remaining hours of the day to
the study of the law. At the end of the
year he went to Pennsylvania and married
Miss Weir, the union proving to be
a most happy one. This lady was the
only daughter of Samuel Weir, an editor
of one of the Columbia papers, a man of
decided parts. Upon his death he left
this only child surviving him. Having
in life been a strong friend of William C.
Preston, this good and great man felt a
deep interest in the orphan child, and she
was often an inmate of the family.
They began life in 1852; with no pecuniary
means except his small income of the
previous year; but rich in intellectual
gifts, in strong wills, stout hearts and
noble resolutions, in which essential
elements of success in life the young
wife was not inferior to the husband.
For a year or two after beginning the
practice of law Ition retained his
chair of professor in the Mount Zion
College, teaching a part of each day,
and devoting the other half to the
duties of his law office, whilst Mrs.
Rion taught with distinguished success
a private music class.
And thus was laid the foundation
of a career in life which was uninterruptedly
successful. At the opening
of hostilities between the Confederate
States and the United States
Ition entered the army and remained
steadfastly at his post to the end.
His career as a soldier was distinguished,
and is too well known to
need notice from me. His was
a marked example of promptness
I nnrl rlotrntinn tn rlntv of* viodlnncP.
sobriety, discipline and gallantry,
all accomplished, too in his usual
modest, quiet and unostentatious
style.
After the war he devoted himself
exclusively to^ the practice of the
law, and achieved a success uneqnaled,
perhaps, by any lawyer in Upper
Carolina, and surpassed by few in
the State. Hesteadily and firmly declined
political office, and this greatly
contributed to unbroken success
in his profession. But he felt deep
interest in the polltitical welfare of
the State, and in all the critical periods
in our eventful career since the
war he stood forth boldly for the
right, and contributed the full measure
of his great abilities towards the
redemption of the State from the
thralldom in which her citizens
were held by the monstrous Government
forced upon us by Congressional
folly and Federal bayonets.
A truer patriot the State never had.
His devotion to his old Alma Mater,
. the South Carolina College, was admirable.
His death is a great loss to
that noble institution. Of all the
alumni he stood in the forefront as
her champion.
Col. Rion's success in life was due
not merely to the possession of a
masterly intellect, butalso to his complete
control of his faculties and his
ability to exert them to their fullest
extent without a waste of energy.
Order was the first law of his nature.
A more systematic man in labor I
never knew. He was methodical
almost to a fault, if fault there can be
in method. Unlike the lawyers outside
of our cities, he, from the outset,
established hours of office labor,
beginning promptly at 9 o'clock, A.
M. and ending at 3 o'clock P. M.
From this rule he would not depart,
and gained instead of lost by its observance.
The remainder of theday
he spent at home with his family,
looking after the improvement and
regulation of his house and premises,
and the evenings and nights he
devoted to general reading. A law
book he would not carry home, nor
. would hesuffer himselftobetroubled
with professional labor or duties except
in his office, and during office
hours he would suffer nothing to divert
his attention from professional
labor. No one ever visited his office
as a lounger or loafer but once, the attempt
would not be repeated.
The result was that he accomplished
much in comparatively little time.
Heavy briefs for the Circuit and Supreme
Courts were prepared in mar.
velous short periods of time, and
when prepared were models of brevity,
pith and excellence.
During the sittings of Court he was
never out of place and always ready.
I do not remember ever to have
heard him make a motion for continuance.
His example in this respect
exercised a wholsome influence upon
his brethren of the Fairfield Bar.
He was courteous to his brethren
i and respectful to the Court. Another
beautiful trait of his was kindness to
the witness on the stand. He seemed
to appreciate the fact that the situation
of the witness generally is
very trying, and calls for gentleness
and* kindness of treatment from the
.attorney who occupies the vantage
ground. The witness is compelled
to attend Court, and takes the stand
ordinarily under trying circumstances.
His aim and purpose is to obV?*o
nofJi on/1 cnon Lr tho truth I
) SCI V U lilO W(iui (Uiu ojiviin iiiv k< u%ii|
and it is morally wrong and unkind
! for the attorney to take advantage
of his position and to browbeat and
. villify one who he knows cannot
call him to account, and who he
. knows is aiming to tell the truth.
[ It is unmanly, unfair and at variance
with the true ethics of the profession.
Rion recognized this, and
; deported himself with great propriety
towards the helpless witness.
* He knew also the great dangers of
the cross-examination, and conducted
it with consummate skill?this
skill often consisting in declining tocross-examine
at all. Many more
cases are lost than gained by injudicious
cross-examination ot witnesses.
Col. Iiion's extraordinary memory
and severe method in all his habits
and pursuits in life were, as is usual,
inherited from his mother. I was
told by Dr. Mcintosh, a native of
, Society Hill, but for many years a
citizen of Newberry, where he has
attained distinction in his profession,
a striking story of Mrs. llion's wonderful
powers of memory and method.
I)r. Mcintosh was assigned to
one of the Confederate hospitals, I
think in Richmond, where were
many sick and wounded soldiers.
It was the duty of the chief female
i nurse or matron, among the other
things, to take charge of the clothes
of these men and have them washed.
To avoid mistakes memorandum
books had to be kept, and, in spite of
these books and the greatest care of
the matron, confusion was constantly
occurring, greatly to the vexation of
the inmates. In course of time Col.
' ? A. -f it
moil's nioiner necame matron 01 inn
hospital. The hooks were given her
with special injunction to keep the
entries correct and toavoid confusion
of clothing. To the amazement of
the surgeons she declined to receive
the books, and assured them that no
mistakes would occur. They could
not credit it, hut in a short time she
knew the names of every soldier in
the hospital, and seemed to have engraved
upon her memory a perfect
' inventory of every article of clothing,
as clearly as the name of the owner.
To their astonishment she never failed
to distribute correctly to each soldier
his change of clothing as the
garments were received from the
laundry.
])r. Mcintosh stated that it was a
marvel to see this matron receive
the immense pile of clothes, and so
readily assort and distribute them
without the memorandum, and never
making a mistake. In all the
duties pertaining to her office she
was equally systematic and correct,
relying solely upon her never-erring
Va umnrlnf fhnn fhflf. hpP
only child should be so gifted, and
no wonder his success attended him
in all his undertakings.
The son's memory and his love of
method were equal to the mother's.
His law library is simply a curiosity.
The value and numbers of the books
are perhaps unequalled in any private
law library in the South, but
the curiosity is in the method of
the arrangement and classification.
The arrangement and disposition of
the law papers, stationery and cor
respondence is still more wonderful.
He could enter his office in the
dark and, unaided by any light,
bring forth any book or paper desired.
In general literature he was
well versed, and retained a clear
recollection of all he read. Of his
learning, however, he made no display,
and only intimate friends were
aware of its extent. His death is a
loss to the profession and to theState.
4|?|>
A DUXKARDS HONOR.
Near Hagerstown I had an experience
with an old Dunkard which
crave me a hif?h and lasting resneet for
the people of that faith. My scouts
had had a horse transaction with this
old gentleman, and he came to see
meaboutit. He made no complaint,
but said it was his only horse, and as
the scouts had told hiin we had some
hoof-sore horses we should have to
leave behind, he came to ask if I
would trade him one of those for his
horse, as without one his crop would
be lost.
I recognized the old man at once as
a born gentleman in his delicately
speaking of thet ransactlon as a trade.
So I assented to his taking afoot-sore
horse, and offered him beside, payment
in Confederate money. This
he respectfully but firmly declined.
Considering how the recent battle had
gone, I waived argument, but tried
another suggestion. I told him that
we were in Maryland as the guests of
fha T In l fori ftfntoc fhut oftni* aii?? rla.
viiv uuivvu ) tiiuu aitvi vui uv^
parture the Government would pay
all bills that we left behind, and that I
would give hi m an order on the United
States for the value of his horse,
and have it approved by Gen. Longstreet.
To my surprise he declined
this also. I supposed then that he
was simply ignorant of the bonanza
in a claim against the Government,
and I explained that; and, telling
him that money was no object to us
under the circumstances, I offered to
include the value of his whole farm.
He again said he wanted nothing but
the foot-sore horse. Still anxious
that the war should not grind this
poorold fellow in his poverty, I suggested
that he take two or three footsore
horses, which we would hav^to
leave anyhow, when we marched.
Then he said: "Well, sir, I am a
Dunkard, and the rule of our church
is an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a
tooth, and a horse for a horse, and I
can't break the rule.
I replied that the Lord, who made
all horses, knew that a good horse was
worth a dozen old battery scrubs; and
after some time prevailed on him to
take two by calling one of them a gift.
But that night about midnight we
were awakened by approaching hoofs
and turned out expecting to receive
some order. It was my old Dunkard
leading one of his foot-sores. "Well,
sir," said he, "you made it look all
right to me to-day, when ycu were
talking; but after I went to bed tonight
I got to thinking it all over,
and I don't think I can explain it to
the church, and I would rather not
try." With that he tied old foot-sore
to the fence, and rode off abruptly.
Even at this late day it is a relief to
my conscience to tender to his sect
this recognition of their integrity
and honesty in lieu of the extra horse
which I vainly endeavored to throw
into the trade.?General E. P. Alexander.
?
HARD MONEY.
During the war the genial, funloving,
Dr. T. C. Boulware, now of
Butler, Mo., and who by the way
Ci.joys a joke whether at his own or
another's expense, was a surgeon in
the Confederate service, and on duty
at Little Rock, Ark. As he was
needing a pair of new boots he decfded
to order them made, and called
on a city manufacturer for that
purpose. Having described what he
desired, he inquired the price, and
the shopkeeper said:
"Our charges for getting up such
boots will be$50 in Confederate scrip
or ?10 in hard money."
"All right said the Doctor; "you
may make and have them ready before
we receive marching orders.
But, now, remember your figures,
$50 in Confederate scrip or $10 in
hard money."
"Yes," rejoined the shopkeer; "I
think we now both fully understand
the terms."
In due time the Doctor put in an
appearance and was shown a fine pair
of boots, which upon trial proved to
be his ideal of a fit. After discussing
their satisfactory appearance,
good quality of material, etc., he
thrust his hand into his pocket, and
drew therefrom his wallet, and tak
out a $10 Confederate note, coolly
presented it to his shoemaker in payment
for them.
"Why, sir," said the astonished
son of St. Crispin, "I told you the
price is $50 in Confederate scrip or
$10 in hard money."
"And so I understand it," replied
the Doctor.
"But," said the shoeman excneajy,
"you have paid me only $10, and
that in Confederate scrip. It is $10
if paid in hard money."
"Of course, I did as you say," quietly
rejoined the possessor of the new
boots, "and I further claim that I
have fulfilled my part of the contract
; for, truly speaking, my friend,
that Confederate scrip is the hardest
money I know anything of."
And politely saluting the bewildered
shoemaker, he triumphantly
marched to his quarters.? Chicago
Ledger.
Tiie Better Life.?"When by
divine aid the soul has climbed to
some elevated region of which it had
never before dreamed, and finds itselfamidstflowersand
fruits that had
no existence in its former world, it
rejoices at the translation, and is disposed
to look upon that as the place
in which to pitch its tabernacle and
abide all its days. It is given it there
to sojourn for a while, but soon a
voice bids come up higher. It starts
to obey the summons, but finds, perhaps,
the same formidable enemies
that had been encountered below arranged
to hinder its further ascension.
It shrinks and says, "There is
no need; it is good to be here. God's
grace and a true faith brought me
liittioi- onrl herp if-. i? snflp fo nhide."
But presently the rainbow of peace,
joy and hope, the symbol of God's
covenant with the soul, lifts itself
from that region and removes to the
higher and fairer place whither the
soul is summoned. The soul of the
true believer then rouses itself to
battle with its foes, and takes no rest
until it finds it in the higher region.
This is still more heaven-like; but
it is not Heaven, and soon it is necessary
to ascend to a higher plateau,
"lam saved," says a soul, a thousand
times; hut the voice from Heaven
says, "lie that endureth to the end
shall be saved."?Rev. George, Boxcen.
The ^Apology.?In an affair of
honor between gentlemen, one man
was sentenced to offer an apology for
the affront he had offered to his
peers. Being a Frechman, and not
familiar with the English language, i
he appeared before his judges and
said: "Gentlemen; I 'ave zaid you
are the vorst old fools I 'ave zeen. i
Zat is true. I am under zentence to
offer you my apology. I am very
sorry for it."?Boston Beacon. 1
AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR.
At a meeting of the Loyal Legion the
other evening I was reminded of one of the
most peculiar incidents of the war, which
has never been published. While we were
before Atlanta we pushed up our lines
close against the breastworks of the Confederates
until we were within a few yards
of each other. There were two brigades,
separated only by a ravine. Every time
a man showed himself above his works he
was peppered at. Down in the ravine
was a spring, and both sides used to go
there at night to get water, nobody daring
to approach it by daylight. One day
a heavy log fell over the camp, and every
man at once rose up glad to stretch and
be able to walk around without being shot
at. Some of the men were cooking their
meat and boiling their coffee, others walked
around on the works.
Suddenly without an instant's warning,
a gust of wind came up and blew
the fog away about as quickly as you
could snap your finger, ana there were the
men of the two ODDOsincr brigades out in
plain view upon their works, so exposed
that a volley would have mowed down
half of them. But no one was prepared
for the emergencynot a gun in hand; no
one made an effort to arm hiipself. Thus
both sides faced each other in suspense.
Then, by some inexplicable impulse, a
party of the Confederates, which had evidently
started to the spring, pots in hand,
continued leisurely on their way. I do
not know why, but our men did not molest
them, and some of them even went down
to the spring themselves. What follows
seems strange. A tacit truce was declared,
and during the few days that the
two brigades continued to face each other
across the ravine it continued, and not a
shot was fired by the men on one side at
the men of the other. They would fire at
the brigades at either side and diagonally,
but never at each other, and the men
would meet in the ravine to trade and
converse. I tell this narrative to show
that there was no bitterness between the
individuals of the two sides. Both were
fighting for the cause.?St. Ijouis GlobeDemocrat.
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.
Thp rinncrer of relvinc too Stroncrlv on
circumstantial evidence in murder'was
forcibly illustrated recently in the ease of
Miss Journeaux, of the island of Jersey.
This lady, it will be remembered, went
out for a short row with a male companion
named Fame, and after they had
rowed some distance he lost his oars overboard
and leaped i?to the water to regain
them. He could not get back to the boat,
as the tide was running rapidly and Miss
Journeaux soon lost sight of him, though
he managed to reach the shore. This
was on Sunday night, and the poor girl
drifted helplessly about in the frail bark
until Tuesday morning, when she was
picked up by a French fishing vessel of
St. Mario. She was kindly treated by the
captain and crew, and landed, after a voyage
of twenty-six days, on the shore of
St. George's Bay, Newfoundland, from
whence she was sent to St. John's to wait
for a- vessel bound to France. In the
meanwhile Fame was arrested for murder
and imprisoned, and was not set at
liberty until a telegram arrived announcing
the safety of his former boating companion.
How different matters might have turned
out if Miss Journeaux had been lost at
sea! He might have been hung for a
crime which he never committed, and all
his protestations of innocence would have
been regarded as the wild pleadings of a
man who desired to escape the just penalty
of his misdeeds. No power on eartn could
probably have saved him, and he would
have gone down to posterity with the
brand of Cain upon his brow. Only the
interposition of Divine Providence seems
to have saved his neck from the halter.
The opponents of capital punishment will
find a strong argument in this case for the
abolishment of the death penalty.
The World's Rulers.?A European
paper figures that the Christian and monarchical
world.counts among its combined
reigning families 408 princes. If the female
contingent was taken into account,
this figure would almost be doubled. The
most nourishing dynasty is that of Holstein,
which holds the throne of Russia,
Denmark, Greece and Oldenburg, and
niimhora fiftv-t.hrpfl nrinces. including
twenty-five grand dukes, two kings and
an emperor. Next to it is the House o(
Stettin, uniting the royal crown of Saxony,
Great Britain, Portugal and Belgium,
besides the ducal and grand ducal scepters
of Weimar, Altenburg, Coburg-Gotha,
and Meiningen. The Bourbons, with
their forty-seven princes, have held Sicily,
Parma and Spain. More numerous than
the Hohenzollerns, the Hesses and the
houses of Savoy are the imperial Hapsburg-Lorraine,
with their thirty-three
archdukes, and the old race of Wittlesbach,
numbering twenty-three princes of
or in Bavaria, a distinction to which great
importance is attached. The once reigning
families mediatized since the congress
in Vienna in 1815 are represented by 724
princes, and these have retained but a
small portion of their privileges. The
Hapsburgs and the Whittelsbachs are
closely allied, not merely because they
both belong to the Teutonic race and
flourish on the same German soil but because
for many years and generations they
have constantly inter-married. The lovely-Empress
Elizabeth, of Austria, is the
daughter of Duke Maximilian, of Bavaria,
and her daughter, Gisela, is the wife of
Prince Leopold, cousin of the present
King and nephew of the Regent.
Laws Against Bachelors.?Some
years since a novel feature was introduced
in municipal taxation in Belguim by allowing
a rebate to all married men, with
an allowance also for each child of the
family, the chief burden thus falling on
the bachelors. In France it is now pronncpH
tn tax hachelors as they were taxed
in the days of the first republic, and there
is no doubt but that the measure would
be carried by an overwhelming majority
if the women had a voice in the matter.
It is a fact, by the way, that republics,
for some reason or another, have been
very severe in their laws against bachelors.
Plato the Wise, condemned them
to a fine, and in Sparta they were driven
at stated times to the Temple of Hercules
by the women, who, having undressed
the poor fellows, would drill and castigate
them.
The old Romans, too, were severe with
their bachelors, who were made to pay
heavy fines,, and worse than that, for
after the siege of Veii it is told how Camillus
compelled them to marry the widows
of the soldiers who had fallen in the war.
In the time of Augustus^ also, all other
things being equal, the married were preferred
to single men for public offices.
Then the Roman who had three children
was exempted from personal taxes, and
the bachelors not only had to pay for
them, but were prevented from inheriting
the property of any one not a Roman
citizen. So that the present revival of
laws against bachelors in France is no
novelty after all.? San Francisco Chronicle.
-- ?
m ? r* ? mi. ?
THE TIKE JiiATEK'fci OEt'KET.? Xiie SC-?
cret of the fire eater is said to consist infl
merely rubbing the hands and thorough-B
ly washing the inouth, lips, tongue and!
other parts that are to touch the fire withB
pure spirits of sulphur. This burns orB
cauterizes the outer skin until it becomes!
as hard as thick leather. When, by fre-B
quent applications, the skin has becomefl
so horny as to become troublesome, wash-B
ing the parts affected with very wannl
water will bring away all the shriveled!
skin. Blacksmiths may often be met with!
who will pick up a glowing bar of iron inl
their naked hands, or rake a live coatl
Prom the fire to light their pipes. JM