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  • THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, …€¦ · OLD I.EVTKR*. There, speak in whispers; fold me to your heart, Deaf love, forIhave roamed a weary,weary way; Bid my
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OLD I.EVTKR*. There, speak in whispers; fold me to your heart, Deaf love, for I have roamed a weary, weary way; Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart, Oh, I have been among the dead to-day, And, like a pilgrim to some martyr' 6 shrine, Awed with the memories that crowd my brain. Fearing my voice I woo the charm of thine; Tell me thou livest, lovest yet again. Not among graves, but letters, old and dim Yellow and precious, have I touched the past, Reverent and prayerful as we chant the hymn Among the aisles where samte their shadows cast; Reading dear names on faded leaf that here Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond, These drowned in plashing of a tender tear, Or with death's tremble pointing "the be- yond." And love, there came a flutter of white wings — A 6tir of snowy robes from out the deep Of utter silence, as I read the things I smiled to trace before I learned to weep; And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago, Came soft before me, till I yearned to press Wad kisses on their whiteness — then the woe, The sting of death, the chill of nothingness! One was afar, where golden sands made dim Shining steps of the poor trickster Time: And one was lo6t. Ah! bitter grief for him Who wrecked his manhood in the depths of crime; Another, beatuiful as morning's beam Flushing the orient, laid meekly down Among the daisies, dreaming love's glad dieam, And one swoet saint now wears a starry crown. And thus there stole delicious odors still, From out the relics of the charmed past, Sighs from the lips omnipotent to will And win rich tribute to thn very last; But death, or change had been among my flowers, And all their bloom had faded, so that I Yield my sad thoughts to the compelling powers, Of the bright soul I worship till I die. Nay, never doubt me, for by lotc's divine And toarful past, I know my future thine. STKPHANI*. BY F. E. M. MOTLEY. In that wildest portion of the Ardennes •where the woods grow more stately and the giant ash and elm and pine stretch on and on to the Black forest, there lies in the very heart of the green a village, which I will name St. Elmo. It is wonderfully beautiful; except Bouillon, the birth- place of the renowned Godfrey, there is Hot a hamlet in the forest that can vie \u25a0with its picturesque rocks and its wild scenery. Many years ago I went to St. Elmo for a week's fishing in the brawling, troubled stream, which, pouring over rock and rapid, comes leaping from the forest and dashes by the village on its way to the Mcuse. My road lay through glens and woods filled" withbeauty. All around my path sang the oriole and nightingale. As the day grew hot, I plunged deep- er and deeper among the soft shades of green, till about midday, when every breath was still with heat, I reached a magnificent forest glade six miles long, straight as the arrow flies, and arched above by interlacing branches and roof of leaves. Beautiful exceedingly wa3 the arched roof, and so refreshing in the heat to every jaded sense, that the eye bathed in its green sea, and the ear drank in its stillness, and the hand longed to touch its dewy verdure. "Surely the very place," said I, "for an Arcadian feast." So 1sprang from my horse and fastened him to a ttee. Then I took the basket hung on the saddle, and unfolded its con- tents and spread them on the sward. A goodly repast for an anchorite v*as mine, and 1 enjoyed it like a hermit — a won- drous sense of solitude, of praise, of life fillingall my being. "Here is thine own health, wayfarer," I said aloud, as 1 took the tankard in my hand. "1 will trinquer with the stranger," cried an unexpected voice. I looked all around, and up and down the green glade, hut through the whole length of the lonely avenue of trees, the sea of leaf and grass remained unspotted by aught but flittingbirds and tremendous, flickering shadows. "Cuckoo-oo la, la!" sang the voice again. This is the refrain of an Arden- sais song sung by the peasants in the old Walloon tongue, the tune having a fresh- Bess about it redolent of forest life and freedom. The merry voice echoed me among the leaves, and looking up 1 saw, swinging on a great bough of beech, mid- way between me and the great roof, a wild figure with long hair, sunburnt face and great dark eyes, somewhat restless, though full of glee. Seeing that I perceived him, he swung himself to the ground from the swaying branch, and would have tied away, but that, starting up, I seized him by the arm. He was a youngster of about four- teen, wild,shy and free as a wild wood bird. "Let me go," he cried, "we are playing 'cache- cache.' If you don't let me run, Stephanie will find me." A little, blooming face peeped out from among the leaves as he spoke, but disap- peared like a frightened bird on seeing a stranger. "Now fetch me Stephanie," I said, "and you and she shall have these cakes and all this fruit you see piled upon the grass." On he darted like an arrow, as 1 left him, and I doubted whether the hope of cakes would be strong enough to conquer his savage shyness and bring him back. But he came; or rather the girl came lead- ing him. She was smaller than he, but she had an older, calmer look. As I looked into her eyes, 1 saw in them an ex- pression never found in any girlish faces, in places within the pale of civilization — an expression so unwitting of evil, "so de- Toid of that species of conscious bashful- ness which brings the reddening cheek and the averted glance, that it came near- er to my thought of angels than anything 1 had ever yet seen on earth. Then, too, she was beautiful, and her beauty was of a most rare order. Her complexion was of that clear olive that at night shines with the luster of ivory, her email figure was the perfection of grace, and her hands and feet tiny. Her hair •was of a peculiar brown, like the brown of a bird's wing, and utterly unbrighten- ed by any lighter tints. This is her description, but words fail to do justice to the power and wonder of her beauty. It is the magic and charm of loveliness, not the form alone, that con- stitute its true dominion. In blundering words I asked the child her name. "Stephanie, the Stranger," she an- swered. "I too, am a foreigner, Stephanie." She gazed at me more earnestly here. "Are you from my mother's country?" she said. "Are you from England?" "Yes, I am from England." "Then you may kiss me if you will." And then she presented first one cheek and then the other, inthe French fashion, while 1 stooped and touched them with my lips. Perhaps she saw on the boy's face slight anger at this caress, for she stole her hand into his and drew him »waj. "Come, Gustave, let up play cache- cache again." "Take the fruit with you, my chil- dren, ' I cried. The boy looked back, but he did not move until Stephanie came toward me; then he waved her back and caught up the little basket himself. "Are you, too, a strangor, Gustave?" I asked. "No. lam an Ardennais. " "Then you are not Stephanie's broth- er?" I said, a little surprised. "Not her brother! You. are mistaken; I have no sister but Stephanie." He ran off, and I watched them wander away down the long, arched avenue, un- til their pretty figures disappeared be- neath a canopy of leaves. As I rode, an hour later, into the little street of St. Elmo, my friend, the doctor, seized the bridle of myhorse. "I expected you long ago," he cried, "but, thank heaven, you have arrived in time!" "What is the matter? What has hap- pened?" "The Englishwoman is dying — our village mystery — our ten years wonder!" "My dear friend," I interposed, "you forget that this is my first visit to " St. Elmo, and I know nothing of your vil- lage mysteries." Indeed, hitherto the doctor and I had only met at Brussels, and it was there he had given me an invitation to his cottage in the Ardennes. "Come with me," he answered, placing his arm within mine. "I will tell you»the mystery on our way." He drew me at a rapid pace, talking as he went. "Twelve years ago," said he, "a lady, dressed in black, descended from the dili- gence on the grand route and asked her way to St. Elmo. She directed her lug- gage to be left at the Barriere, and walk- ing herself by the shorter way through the woods, reached our solitary village ©n foot. She had a child in her arms — a little girl about a year old " "Stephanie!" I cried. "Yes, that is her name. The lady found lodgings at the bouse of a smail farmer, and there she has resided ever since. And during this time she had never had a visitor, and with the excep- tion of two packets a year from Paris, evidently from some notary or man of business, she has never had a letter. She has livedlike one buried alive. "And who is she?" 1 asked. "No one knows. She calls herself Mme. Grey. Her means appear to be very small, yet sufficient in a place like this for necessaries. But lately she has needed a few luxuries, which I have done my best to supply her with. She ha* struggled against consumption these two years; to-day she is dying. lam taking you to her." "Have you any idea for what reason she wishes to see a countryman of her own?" "I can only guess. She may have some communication to make, some re- quest to prefer— perhaps respecting the child. "Is she a widpw?" I asked. "I cannot tell .you," returned the doc- tor, with a terrific shrug of his shoulder. "I only know that for twelve years she has led here the life of a saint, and ex- cept for the companionship of her child, she has been utterly alone. She has em- ployed herself in working for the poor and in educating her little daughter; giv- ing her as a fellow pupil, Gustave, the farmer's son. Like Paul and Virginia, the two children have been inseparable. The people here always seeing them to- gether almost forget they are not brother and sister." We had now reached a wild and lonely glen, walled in with broken and fantastic cliffs, over which hung woods of dwarf beech, ash and hazel. Beneath one of the tallest of these cliffs stood a thatched cottage, with a small garden spread around it, and just beyond this the river, which ran through the valley, narrowed itself between two rocks, and then sprang over a fall of about twen'y feet. "This is the cottage," said the doctor. We entered; and in a moment more I found myself in the presence of Madame Grey. The dying woman looked at me eager- ly, with large, wild eyes, then she held out her hand to me, saying feebly, in English: "I want to speak to you alone." The doctor and the farmer's wife, whom we had found sitting by the bedside, in- tuitively understood her wish, and left before 1 could speak it. "1 am grieved to trouble a stranger. 1 trust you will forgive me," said Mrs. Gray. Mindful of the doctor's counsel not to waste time in ceremony, I came to the point at once. "Make no apologies, Mrs. Grey, but tell me, I beg, what I can do for you; and be- lieve that, stranger as I am, I would do much to be of assistance to a countrywo- man." '•It is a little thing to do, sir, and if you willgive me your promise to perform it I shall die content." I gave her my promise, and then she drew from beneath her pillow a small pocketbook; from this she took a card, which she placed in my hand. '^Vhcn I am dead will you write to that address, and tell him to send orcome for his child?" My eyes fell on the name and address of an Austrian noble, reputed to be of im- mense wealth and known to be one of the proudest of the exclusive aristocracy of Vienna. \ glanced at the dying woman with deep compassion. On her attenuat- ed face there lingered the remains of great beauty. And on this wasted page I fancied I could read her history. "And if the count will not acknowledge his daughter, ifhe will neither come nor send for her — what are your wishes then?" I said. A faint flush suffused her cheek as she answered me painfully: "It was of me — his wife— that he was ashamed; even his pride will not hinder him from acknowledging his daughter." "Good heavens! are you the Counte3S Yon H ?" I exclaimed. "And dying here, like this! ' I scarcely knew whether to believe her words or not. Itseemed impossible that a man like the count would let his wife perish slowly in such obscurity and want. But the dying woman did not heed the doubt implied by my exclamation. "We have both much to forgive," she said, faintly. "Tell him I implored his pardon. Mypride was even greater than his — may God forgive me!" She fell back on her pillow, fainting, but rallied again, as she heard below the merry voices of the children, who, band in hand, came in together, singing. "I have hidden from the poor child the fact that lam dying," she said to me, sorrowfully; "and who will comfort her when I am gone?" "You have done wrong to conceal the truth from Stephanie," I answered; "tell her now. 1will send her to you at once." With a kind farewell I withdrew, and on descending found, indeed, that not only the shildren, but the farmer and his wife, were in ignorance of the dying state of the English lady. As I dis- closed to them the truth they burst in- to passionate weeping, except Stephanie, who, with a look of disbelief on her face, crept softly upstairs to her mother's room. Mrs. Grey never saw the sun rise again, but before she breathed her last I had the happiness to put into her hand a loving message from her husband. "'1 come, Mary, instantly. Live for me and our child*!' " I had accomplished this by a ride of about thirtymiles to the nearest telegraph station, whence I had dipsatched a mes- sage to him, and awaited an answer. My heart ached with fear as I galloped back to St. Elmo, lest I should arrive with these comforting words too late. But I reached the village just before the break of day, and accompanied by the doctor I hurried to the cottage. My eyes were blinded as 1 put the paper in Mrs. Grey's hand. But she was past reading it. It was the little Stephanie who opened and read the message amid sobs and bitter' tears. Then she flung herself down by the bedside. "I can never love but you, mother!" she sobbed, wildly. "Stephanie, you will love your father for ray sake. But where — where is Gus- tave, cried Mrs. Grey, stretching out her hand blindly. Choked with sobs the boy knelt down by Stephanie's side, and the thin white hands of the dying woman were placed on the heads of both. "Never forget each other, children, while you live. Stephanie, do not for- sake Gustave. Bo not let pride " But the lingering tide of life ebbed fast, and the lips were still. One other murmur broke from them: "Stephe! my love? my love!" Then her head fell back and we led the chil- dren away. In two days from this time Count Yon H — stood by the c«ffin of his wife and looked down upou her dead face. What his thoughts were I know not, but on his haggard cheek and trembling lip remorse and shame. Later inthe day a hearse and a grand coffin, velvet covered, arrived from a dis- tant town, and the poor lady who had lived so humbly was borne away in pride to be laid in death among those who had scorned her living. It was after the departure of the sad cortege that the Count came to me and requested a few minute's conversation. "I come, sir," he said, "to clear my dead name of any shadow that may linger about it in your mind. It was no fault of hers that we parted, and she lived here in pain and poverty for twelve years." His lips shook, and his hand, which he extended to me, trembled. "Allow me to thank you for your kind- ness. I depart this evening with my daughter. Igo to Vienna to present her to my family, after which I shall place her in a convent to complete her educa- tion. Sir, itis natural I should wish her to forget this sad time. If you ever meet her again I shall trust to your honor not to recognize in the Countess Yon H the little Stephanie Grey who has lived so long among these poor villagers. With this the count and I parted. In the evening he and little Stephanie quitted St. Elmo, and I wondered what the proud man thought as, all through the length of the long avenue, the boy Gustave followed the carriage, some- times flinging himself on the sward to sob passionately, then rising with the old cry: "Stephenie! sister Stephenie! say good- by to me once more. Promise me again that you will come back!" Then Stephanie waved her hand from the window and her childish voice, an- swered: "Be sure I will come back, Gustave, and we will play here again at cache- cache. Do not weep any more, brother. Wait for me next summer, here in this road. I will come, Gustave; I will surely come." "Poor children," I said to myself, "they will never play together again be- neath the bright canopy of leaves." Going that night to the farmer's, 1 found him and his wife both enchanted with the count's generosity. "And what will he do for Gustave?" I asked. "Gustave is to be a priest; he is to go to the seminary, and the count pays all expenses." 1 had my thoughts respecting this, but I held my peace. My Ardennes life, with its simple re- miniscences, was put away from me and almost forgotten, when, one night at a brilliant ball inParis, I saw the face of Stephanie Grey. Five years had passed since I last saw her, but I could not mis- take so rare a face as hers. "Will you tell me who is that young lady?" 1 said to the friend with me. "She is the young Countess Yon H , one of Ihe richest heiresses now in Paris. ' ; "Her face is strangely beaatiful. What is her history?" " 'A blank, My Lord,' " said the lady, quoting Shakspaere. "Literally a blank for the first twelve years of her life; but we take her father's word for it that she has been abroad with her mother. That is her father standing beside her, looking at her so proudly." "Andthe mother?" '•Oh, she is dead. Hers was a sad story. I will tell it to you some day; the Count little guesses that I know it, but I was a school-fellow of Mary Grey's and she trusted me with her secret." . I would have asked her eagerly for the story, but at this moment the orchestra commenced a wild and joyous air, resem- bling so much in its cadence the old Ar- dennais song which the children had car- olled in the forest, that I remained silent and startled. Breathing faintly all the time, through the strain — now lost, now returning — came the echo of the free woods, and I saw Stephanie Grey turn toward the musicians a wild look painful in its intenseness. Then her face grew deadly white, and leaning heavily on the arm of her father, she murmured a word in his ear. Evidently itwas a request to retire, for in another instant both passed us on their way to the hall; I started up and followed them. A string of carriages was at the door, and around them pressed a great throng of people, straining eager eyes to catch a glimpse of the great wealth and beauty that liitted by. In a loud voice the Count's carriage was called for by an attendant, and as it reached the door there was a struggle in the crowd, and a j'oung man rushod to the front. A gaunt, haggard creature, clad in rags, misery in his aspect, famine in his looks, but on his face an expres- sion of such eager, intense longing that all eyes followed his in wonder. And their gaze fell on a young, shrinking girl, in "the shimmer of satin and sheen of pearls," whose paleness shone out like death, and whose dark eyes passed wist- fully over the wild face bent toward her. "She does not know me!" he shrieked aloud. Then I saw his arms flung up- ward, and he fell down among the crowd. The Count hf ted his daughter into the carriage and it drove away at a rapid pace. "The young lady has fainted," said a voice. "This madman frightened her, too, at the last ball to which she went." That despairing cry had been shrieked out in the old Walloon tongue, and I knew the wretched wanderer, whose hag- gard face had bent so near the Countess Stephanie, was her foster brother, the poor, forgotten Gustave. I rushed in among the crowd, hoping to find him, but on every side I found a wallof strange faces, of whom I soon found it was vain to ask questions. None knew, or none cared to say, by what road that gaunt figure departed. "You ask me the story of Mary Grey," said my friend. "It is soon told. She was the daughter of a ruined merchant— a weak man, as unfit for the business of life as he was for the business and the wealth his father bequeathed him. After the total loss of his fortune he lived here in a small apartment. And here it wa- that his daughter had the misfortune to meet with the Count Yon H . You know the Austrian nobility is the most exclusive in Europe. Only those ac- quainted with society in Vienna caa un- derstand the wall a parvenu finds extend- ed against him. Having heard some- what of this, Mr. Grey justly thought his daughter could be no match for the count, and he forbade him the house. It was too late. Mary and her" lover fled to Eng- land and were married. Whether mar- riage in England, with every Austrian formality unfulfilled, constituted mar- riage in Austria, I know not. I only know that Mary wrote tome fromNaples, telling me that although her marriage was still a secret from her husband's friends, she would be happy if only her father would write to her and forgive her. It seemed all her letters remained unanswered. "Ayear passed away, and then I heard from Mary again. She wrote in fearful anguish. Her husband had gone to Vienna to attend the death-bed of his mother, and in his absence she had opened a letter from his sister. This, like some rude shock, awoke Mary from her dream. "I cannot wonder," said the writer, "that you hesitate to acknowledge your mad marriage. If you do so you are ruined. No one willspeak to the daugh- ter of a bankrupt and a suicide. You must lead this woman about in her lone- liness, feeling ashamed of her and of the folly that has shut you out from the society of your equals. If her father had not made away with himself, she might bear it. As it is, the whole thing is hor- ror. When our poor mother is gone, from whom I have scrupulously kept the secret, I counsel you to make up your mind to part with this poor drag on your existence. Ascertain if your marriage is valid or not inAustria, andjact according- ly. If you have not firmness to do this I warn you that your career in your own country — a noble one, if you would — is over, and you are henceforth a wanderer and an outcast.' "When Mary Grey laid down this letter her heart was broken — the news it told her was so bitter. Her father, then, had died by his own hand, and she, scarcely a wife, was a drag and a curse to the man she loved. In her way she was as proud, nay, prouder than he was, and she now resolved to leave him forever. Even ifshe was his wife it was horrible to feel that he whom she loved so dearly, was ashamed of her, and felt her a curse and a drag. She hastened to Paris. There she learned that her father — ever a weak man — had destroyed himself in a fit of frenzied grief the day after her desertion of him. This fact her husband had piti- fully kept from her, but Mary knew that he had brooded over it in disgust and horror, and it added terribly to his bur- den of shame in his marriage. If she had resolved to quit him before, this dire truth confirmed her resolve. Henceforth her loneliness should be a penance self- imposed. She wrote me this from Paris, adding that her love for her husband was too great to let her ruin him. He was free; she restored him to his home, his friends, career. 'If she had a son, she could scarce feel justified in doing this, but her child was a daughter, and it would be happier for her to be brought up in obscurity and love and marry some poor man.' "I never heard fromMary Grey again — I never knew, tillyou told me, how she lived or how she died." "Andhow did the loss of his wife and child affect him?" I asked. "Verydifferently, I believe, from the expectations of his sister. He did not return to Vienna; he sought out no hon- orable career. Alost and lonely man, he wandered about Europe purposely, until five years ago he electrified the fashiona- ble world by burying his wife, with all sorts of ghastly honors, in the family vault in some old chateau in the Tyrol. At the same time he introduced and acknowledged his daughter, who is very beautiful, \ery accomplished and very unhappy." "How do you know that?" I asked, eagerly "Her face tells me. I hear she hates the world, refuses all offers of marriage and only implores leave to enter a con- vent. Her father, who adores her, is in despair. She is very restless, and he wanders about with her from ci'-y to city. But people say it is all useless: the same strange event follows them everywhere — but then, of course, that is impossible." "What event?" 1 cried, and I felt my heart beat painfully as I bent forward to listen. "Why, people say the poor young coun- tess is haunted by a madman — a wild, gaunt creature, who follows her with a most piteous and heart-breaking love. Who he is none know. The count has offered a reward many times to find him, but in vain." I held my peace. I did not say this poor, lost creature was Stephenie's fos- ter-brothar, once the happy child of the Ardennes. With much pity in my heart I sought him anxiously many days in Paris, but when 1 heard the count and his daughter were gone I ceased my search, feeling by a sure instinct that this city no longer held Gustave le Fou There is no need to relate what busi- ness or what pleasure took me two years after this to St. Elmo. 1 went by the same road, and it was with strangely sad feelings that I now looked up to the great roof of green leaves and thought of the two joyous children whose happy voices had started my solitude. In deep silence I rode on over the sun- flecked turf, leaf and shadow twinkling around me, flashing oriole and resplen- dent butterfly darting and playing among the branches, all bearing to me less of sunshine and of joy than of old. And almost at the same spot where I had stopped to lunch, beneath the same huge beech where the boy had swung himself from the branches, there stood a wild fig- ure, with long hair and dark eyes, sad and restless. He looked at me mournfully as I ap- proached him. "Do not tell them at home that you have seen me," he said. "lam waiting for Stephanie She promised to come again in the summer and play cache-cache in the woods." "She cannot play now, Gustave," I answered. "Come home with me to St. Elmo, I will let you ride if you will come." He looked wistfullya moment, and then turned away. "No, I will not go to St. Elmo; death is there — I have seen it. I will wait in ihe woods. She will not break her prom- ise, and she mast rind tnc here, wher \u25a0 we- played so often." ""Who is dead at St. Elmo?" 1 askeU, thinking to turn his thoughts to another theme His answer startled me. "Stephanie is dead. She died in the spring when the flowers came." "Then ifStephanie is dead, Gustave, why wait for her here?" "The lady is dead— Stephanie, the lady who came back to St. Elmo with a pale, pale faci j , and wept with her head on my breast -she is dead. But the other Ste- phanie who loved me, who played with me in the woods; she is not dead. I saw her go away with her father, and she said 'Onstave, I will come back — wait for me!' She'll keep her word—she will re- turn to me. You may ride off, stranger. 1 am waiting, you see, in the woods-am waiting till Stephanie comes. Lorio! lorio! Ah, the loriots and I are great gnends. She loves the loriots, but the cuckoo is gene." Here he burst into the oldsong, "Cuc^- -00-oo la la-cuckoo-oo la la!" and went wandering away down the long avenue, till my eyes lost him among the long shadows and green leaves. At St. Elmo the doctor toldme his sad story. "Poor Gustave went to the priests' seminary," he said, "but he had no vo- cation for the church Why the count wished him to be a priest 1 can only guess. Inthree years, having refused to enter the priesthood, he returned to St. Elmo much improved in culture and appear- ance, bnt strangely unsettled in mind. The love he had ever borne to the child Stephanie had, with his increasing years, taken another phase and become a hope- less passion. His sole thought was to see her again. Patiently he waited an- other year, trusting to hear news of her, but none came. Then there grew npon him a feverish restlessness and he left the village abruptly. By what strange magnetism he knew that Stephanie loved him, and pined amid all the wealth and splendor around for his companionship and the free woods again, I cannot tell you; yet it was certain that it was so, and his heart knew it. But though he wan- dered from city to city in quest of her, they did not meet. He was so ignorant of the world, so poor, so lonely, that it was no marvel his search was unsuccess ful. He did not even know Stephanie's real name. You will remember the count made it known here only to you and myself. But at length they met—he a poor wanderer in the streets, she the dainty queen of some royal fete, stepping into her carriage. He recognized her in- stantly and sprang forward, crying, 'Stephanie! Stephanie!' The gens- d.armes thrust him back and he fell among the crowd, beaten down like some poor weed. "The girl heard his voice, and clinging with passionate tears to her father, she implored him to seek out her brother— her dear brother. She called him by that name still. The count soothed her and gave her many promises, then placed her within the palace, while he sought out the guard and begged that the quant fig- ure might not be allowed to disturb them again. "The frightened count left that city in a few days; Stephanie, meanwhile, having vainly striven to find the poor wanderer who tracked her steps. But what can a young girl do? Her weak efforts to dis- cover him were futile indeed. The count traveled from place toplace, but at Rome, Paris, Brussels, the same wildfigureburst through the intervening crowds and struck Stephanie senseless with his hag- gard face. "Day by day the girl seemed perishing of some great, unspoken sorrow. At last thinking the change might save her life, her father pressed her to marry; then she flung her arms around him and whispered the truth: " 'I pine for the free forest, father, I pine to see Guatave again. Everywhere I go I hear his voice, everywhere I see the deep dells, the rugged hills, the foam- ing rivers of the Ardennes. Take me home; let me die there!' "The count's pride gave way. " 'Try to live, my child;' he said. If you love this young man he shall be my son.' "He sought the outcast now as earnest- ly as he had before tried to avoid him, but the search was useless. And in sor- row and gloomy foreboding, he traveled to the Ardennes with his sick daughter. "There are strange mysteries in our nature — I speak as a doctor— but strang- est of all these are those mystic forewarn- ings of the future which we call fore- bodings—those prophetic voices which at times speak to the soul in clear and awful tones. "Whether these brought Gustave hither, whispering that Stephanie was coming, who shall say? 1 can but tell you that in the woods where they parted there she found him. As the carriage drove beneath the solemn, arched roof of leaves he stood forth to meet it—a mad- man—a child as she had left him, ready to weep, to laugh, to play, as in the old, old days when they were children to- gether. "Gustave told you truly. She wept upon his breast, and she died for sor- row.'' "She had come in hope, and it was quenched; she had come in love, and it was drowned in pity. The shock, the grief killed lier. On the last day of her life, as we stood around her, she turned suddenly toward her father, and thanked him sweetly for bringing her hither: "*I die where I had wished to die," she said, "where my mother closed her eyes, inmy home, with all I love around me. Turn my face to the window that I may see the forest again. Poor Gustave! take care of him when 1am gone away. And, father, bury me at St. Elmo, and let him one day lie by myside.' "The count obeyed her. After his daughter's funeral he left us, a broken man. As for me, I moralize and wonder why the sins of the parents are visited so heavily on the children. I ask, too, whether the count's pride or Mary Grey's disobedience caused all this sorrow?" This was the doctor's story. Thus from different lips have I woven together the history of Gustave le Fou. He went by that name for many years, and when he died, they laid him by the side of a grave on which stood a single stone with the single inscription— "Stephanie. Aged nineteen." Faced by a Grizzly. [Tuolumme (Cal.) Independeßt.j : Bill Morris, the great hunter from the Yellowstone, -who has resided in Sonora a number of years, was making his way over the mountains with his trusty rifle one night last week, on board the Bodie stage, and encountered a heart-thrilling adventure near Cow Creek Station , as follows: The stage had stopped ;at this station to change horses, getting there about 1:30 a.m.; The nights are frosty at this altitude, and Bill, who had been riding with the driver, had got down while the team was being hitched up and started on ahead "on foot to "warm up," leaving his rifle behind. Coming to an elbow in the road a few, hundred yards beyond, he cast his eye upward to a tre- mendous rock on the right, from whence emanated a thundering growl, and in the bright moonlight thereon perched was a tremendous grizzly bear. "William was petrified in his tracks. Down jumped the bear, and standing erect in the road with his mouth open, confronted him in savage attitude ' and followedhim up as he retreated backward. Morris shouted lustily for assistance, and at thi3 juncture the stage hove in sight and the driver and passengers, five in number, hearing cries of distress, all shouted at the top of their voices. The stage swung around the curve at the critical moment when the bear was about to strike him down. So unnatural was the surprise that the grizzly turned about and beat a hasty re- treat down the mountain. A bonanza with one million "in the door" eouldnot have been a more welcome sight to Mor- ris than was the Bodie stage at that mo- ment. The tracks of the monster meas- ured in the moonlight : about fourteen inches. He is supposed to be the same the stock men have been watching for killing ; stock . just • previous to this ad- venture. \u25a0 \u0084 . .-. - The First Trophy ot the Kevolntion. From a paper written by the late Theo- dore Parker, and read before the New England Historic Genealogical Society, we learn the following particulars regard- ing the gun presented by htm, in his will, to the State of Massachusetts: Both Hancock and Adams were stay- ing at Lexington, with Rev. Jonas Clark, an eminent patriot, on the afternoon of April19, 1775, when several British sub- ordinate officers were seen riding up the main road in the town. This excited the suspicions of men who knew them to be British soldiers, although they were disguised. In the night, intelligence was brought to Messrs. Hancock and Adams that a British expedition was on foot, destined for Lexington and Concord, to get pos- session of their persons, it was supposed, and to destroy the military stores at Con- cord. They gave the alarm to the proper persons, whom Captain Parker — grand- father of the eminent divine-had selected lor tkat work, and he sent men through the town to give notice for assembling the militia. The church-bell was also rung. Captain Parker lived about two and one-half or three miles from the meeting- house. He had been there late in the evening, and conferred with Hancock and Adams, and made arrangements, in case it was necessary, to call out the soldiers. He went to bed late that night, and ill. About two o'clock he was called up by the men referred to above and went to the meeting-house (the Council is just behind it). He formed his company a little after daybreak. About one hun- dred and twenty men answered to their names, armed and equipped. But as the intelligence was not quite certain, he sent out other scouts to obtain information of the advance of the enemy, and dismissed the soldiers, telling them to be within call and assemble again at the beat of drum. They dispersed. Not long after one of his scouts returned and told him the Brit- ish were near at hand. He ordered the drum beat, in front of the tavern close by the Common. Seven- tymen appeared, were formed into four platoons, and marched on to the Common. His nephew, Jonathan Harrington, the last survivor of the battle, then a lad of sixteen, played the fife, which with the drum, formed the only music. He formed them in a single line, then wheeled the first and fourth platoons at right angles, stepped in front and ordered every man to load his piece with powder and ball. When this was done, he said: "Don't fke unless fired upon. But if they want to have a war, let it begin here." He then -wheeled back the two wings into a continuous line, and stood a little in front of the end of the right wing. Soon the British came close upon them, and some were soon terrified and began to skulk off. He drew his sword and called them by name to come back, and said he would order the first man shot who should run away. All bright young scholars know what followed— the fire of the British, the re- turn of the fire by the Americans — the killing of eight of his company, his order to them to disperse and take care of them- selves. After they were gone, the Brit- ish soldiers gave three hurrahs, and stopped half an hour and ate their break- fast, and then resumed their march to- ward Concord. After they were gone, Captain Parker and his men came back, took upjt he dead, looked after the wounded, etc. Captain Parker saw a British soldier who had loitered behind a little drunk, seized him and made him a prisoner. He was com- pletely armed, having the musket stamp- ed with the royal arms, a knapsack, blanket, provisions, cartouch-box, witli sixty rounds of ball cartridges, etc. Cap- tain" Parker kept them as spoliaopima, as did also his son, and then the Rev. Theo- dore Parker. The late Governor Andrew, it will be remembered , on receiving it on the State's behalf, in the presence of the legislature, Jan. 22, 1861, kissed the gun and said: "I am proud to be the humble instru- ment of its transmission to the Senate, in whose chamber itis requested by the will that it ; i ay be preserved." The weapon is placed in the Senate chamber on the left of the drum and other relics from the battle of Benning- ton. >apoieon and Maria Lonis;'.- The marriage excited the greatest in- terest throughout Europe, and the feasts, the balls, the shows, the poetry, and the addresses and other pieces in prose to which it gave rise, were endless. From Vienna toCompiegne, the road by which the Princess passed, seemed to be strewn with flowers. Paris almost leaped for joy. The civilceremony in Paris took place on the first of April, and the religi- ous ceremony followed. The robe in which tho Empress appeared at the festi- val was so magnificent as to beggar de- scription. It was embroidered all over with diamonds, and the intervals were filled with Malincs lace, its value being estimated at GOO.OOOf. (about .£22,000). On the four interior fronts of the tri- umphial arch of L'Etoile, were twelve emblematic medallions. The first, on the south front, represented the Emperor, with this inscription underneath: "The happiness of the world is in his bands." The second was the cipher of the Emper- or and Empress, the inscription being: "We love her from our love of kirn; we love her for herself." The third, a cupid holding a helmet, etc.; "She will charm the leisure hours of the hero." The fourth, a tree: "He is the author of our glory; he will render it eternal." The fifth, a sun, rainbow, etc.; "She an- nounces to the earth days of serenity." The fif tb, an animal, etc. The seventh, on the north front, the Empress: "She will be to the French a tender mother." The eighth, the cipher of the Emperor and Empress: "We own to him the hap- piness of the august spouse, who has given to him so exalted a place in her thoughts." The ninth, the Seine: "His love will recognize the gift he ha.s made us." The tenth, the Danube: "He en- riches us with what he most dearly values." The eleventh, the arms of the Empire. The twelfth, the arms of Aus- tria. The illuminations were upon the most gorgeous and costly scale. A Qnack's Defense. At the correctional tribunal of the Seine, a quack is brought in, accused of having been guilty of a nuisance by col- lecting a crowd, and obstructing the Point Neuf. The magistrate demands: "Thou scamp? How is it thou drawest such a crowd about thee, and selleßt so much of thy rubbish?" "Monsieur le Juge, do you know how many people cross the Point Neuf in an hour?" "How should I?" "Howmany do you think, Monsieur le Juge?" "I tell tuee I don't know." "Well, then, M. le Juge, let us nay ten thousand. Now, how many of these do you think are wise enough to go in when it rains?" "Oh, peste! Perhaps a hundred." "It is tuo many; but I leave them to you, and take the nine thousand nine hundred. Those are my customers, M. le Juge. Can I help itif God made them fools?" Case dismissed for want of evidence. ' The Sentinel Just after the Franco- Prussian war, the Adjutant-Major of a certain eorp& d'in- fanterie, in order to test a new sentry who had been placed upon a responsible post, approached, and affecting to have forgotten the word, at length, by means of threats prevailed upon the ignorant soldier to allow him to pass without giv- ing the word. This he immediately re- ported, the result being that the poor young fellow was sentenced to be shot, this decision fortunately being commuted to banishment to Algeria by influence brought to bear from high quarters. This adjutant-major at length met with a well-merited rebuff, as the following narrative, the dialogue of which we give in English, shows: Finding a newly- joined man placed on a similar duty, he determined to repeat his former "experiment. Fortunately, however, the sentinel had been warned by his comrades, and was resolved not to be out-witted. As the mgln wore on, he observed the officer approaching alone, lantern in hand, and at once challenged: "Who goes there?" "Officer of the guard," at once came the response. "Approach to the word, officer of the guard," continued the sentry. The officer, approaching, said: "I've forgotten the word, and you must let me finish my rounds without it." But forewarned, the only reply made by the sentry was: "The word! Stand back or 1fire!" "I have forgotten the word, I teUyou," persisted the ollicer. "Can't pass without the word," was the only answer made by the sentry, as he kept him at bayonet's point. "Youknow me perfectly well," insisted the officer, in a tone of chagrin. ''1 am your officer — your adjutant." "I don't know you. Keep back or I fire," was the only reply vouchsafed him. "You dare not fire on your superior; and as itis, I will have you severely pun- ished for thus detaining me from my duty." So saying, the officer seized held of the bayonet, and endeavored to force his way past. The sentry, once again shouting, "Stand back!" drew away his bayonet and made as if to charge the officer. Stepping back, the officer drew his sword and came on again, but was in- stantly disarmed by the sentinel. Seizing hold of the rifle, he next endeavored to wrest it from the .sentry's grasp. The sentinel, being new to the corps, and knowingperfectly who his opponent was, refrained from firing, not knowing what the consequences might be of firing on his superior, even though the pass had been refused. In the struggle, however, the rifle went off, and the bullet whizzed past the officer's ear, carrying with it a piece of his head-dress. Half-stunned and utterly confused by this unexpected turn of affairs, the officer last his presence of mind and actually took to his heels, and without reflecting on the probable ocaisequences of his act he reported the fact of his being fired »n by the sentry, who was immediately marched off to the guard-room as a pris- oner. Next morning a court-martial was con- vened, and the sentry, after having been charged with firing on his superior, was asked what defense he had to make. In a few simple words he explained that he had been placed on duty at a certain spot with strict orders not to allow any one to pass without giv'ng the countersign: that an officer whom he now recognized to be the adjutant had endeavor to force a pass without giving the word, and on heing prevented, had seized his rilie, which had gone off by accident. The adjutant-major, on being interro- gated, could not but admit the truth of his statement, and the Colonel, a severe but just disciplinarian, amid the cheers of those present, gave judgment as fol- lows: "The adjutant will remain in his quar- ters during the next eight days, having unnecessarily endeavored to cause a pri- vate to perform a breach of du*y. The name of private D — , will be entered on the ordres dv jour, and remain there dur- ing the same period." This was equivalent to eight days" im- prisonment for the officer and to the highest raise given to privates, the entry in the ordres dv jour being read to the assembled regiment at each morning par- ade as follows: "Monsieur le Colonel compliments Private D — on the zealous performance of his duty under the most trying circumstances." This public rebuke to the officer had a salutary effect. However, to his credit be it said, he never attempted in any way to molest the sentry for his share in the affair. A Dead Horse. In France, when a horse has reached the age of twenty or thirty it is designed for a chemical factory; it is first relieved of its hair, which serves to stuff cushions and saddles; then it is skinned; the hoofs serve to make combs. Next the carcass is placed in a cylinder and cooked by steam, at a pressure of three atmospheres; a cock is opened, which allows the grease to run off; then the remains are cut. up, the leg bones are sold to make knife han- dles, etc., and the coarser of the ribs, the head, etc., are converted into animal black and glue. The first are calcined in cylinders, and the vapors when con- densed form the chief source of carbonate of ammonia, which constitutes the base of nearly all ammonical salts. There is an animal oil yielded which makes a capi- tal insecticideand a vermifuge. To make gluo, the bones are dissolved in muriatic acid, which takes away the phosphate of lime, the soft residue, retaining the shape of the bone, dissolved in boiling water, cast into squares, and dried on nets. The phosphate ol lime, acted upon by sulphur- ic acid and calcined with carbon, pro- duces phosphorous for Incifer matches. The flesh is distilled to obtain the car- bonate of ammonia; the resulting mass is pounded up with potash, then mixed with old nails and old iron of every de- scriptiou; the whole is calcined and yioids magnificent yellow crystals, prussiate of potash, with which tissues are dyed a Prussian blue and iron transformed into steel; it also forms the basis of cyanide of potassium and prussic acid, the two most terrific poisons known in chemistry. All the, iJiffm-nce It is an old story in England, the heart- less obstructions placed in the path of young inventors, authors, and others, seeking for recognition. In America anybody, everybody, is considered entit- led to a hearing. "Why do we get along so well in thisgreat establishment, and how is it every man and boy ibout the place looks so earnest and so hopeful" asked the chief of a remarkable New Yorkinstitution, repeating my question. "Because every boy and man in the place knows that he has a clear prospect of advancement. If the lad who sweeps the office comes to me to-morrow morn- ing and says, 'Sir, I think I have discov- ered a plan whereby you can save an hour or a dollar in a particular operation,' I should listen to him with respect and attention. In your country, 1 am told, he would very likely be kicked out of the place for his impertinence." He had struck the true cause of much ofthe hope- lessness of the prevailing toil among the English masses. THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1881.

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Page 1: THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, …€¦ · OLD I.EVTKR*. There, speak in whispers; fold me to your heart, Deaf love, forIhave roamed a weary,weary way; Bid my

OLD I.EVTKR*.

There, speak in whispers; fold me to yourheart,

Deaf love, forIhave roamed a weary,wearyway;

Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart,Oh, Ihave been among the dead to-day,

And, like a pilgrim to some martyr'6shrine,Awed with the memories that crowd my

brain.Fearing my voice Iwoo the charm of thine;

Tellme thou livest, lovest yet again.Not among graves, but letters, old and dim

Yellow and precious, have Itouched thepast,

Reverent and prayerful as we chant the hymnAmong the aisles where samte their shadows

cast;Reading dear names on faded leaf that here

Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond,These drowned in plashing of a tender tear,

Or withdeath's tremble pointing "the be-yond."

And love, there came a flutterof white wings—

A 6tir of snowy robes from out the deepOf utter silence, as Iread the thingsIsmiled to trace before Ilearned to weep;

And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago,Came soft before me, tillIyearned to press

Wad kisses on their whiteness—

then the woe,The sting of death, the chill of nothingness!

One was afar, where golden sands made dimShining steps of the poor trickster Time:

And one was lo6t. Ah!bitter grief for himWho wrecked his manhood in the depths of

crime;Another, beatuiful as morning's beam

Flushing the orient, laid meekly downAmong the daisies, dreaming love's glad

dieam,And one swoet saint now wears a starry

crown.

And thus there stole delicious odors still,From out the relics ofthe charmed past,

Sighs from the lips omnipotent to willAnd win rich tribute to thn very last;

But death, or change had been among myflowers,

Andall their bloom had faded, so that IYield my sad thoughts to the compelling

powers,Of the bright soul Iworship tillIdie.

Nay, never doubt me, for by lotc's divineAnd toarful past, Iknow my future thine.

STKPHANI*.

BYF. E. M. MOTLEY.

Inthat wildest portionofthe Ardennes•where the woods grow more stately andthe giant ash and elm and pine stretch onand on to the Black forest, there lies inthe very heart ofthe green a village,whichIwillname St. Elmo. Itis wonderfullybeautiful; except Bouillon, the birth-place of the renowned Godfrey, there isHot a hamlet in the forest that can vie\u25a0with its picturesque rocks and its wildscenery.

Many years ago Iwent to St. Elmo fora week's fishing in the brawling, troubledstream, which, pouring over rock andrapid, comes leaping from the forest and

dashes by the village on its way to theMcuse. Myroad lay through glens andwoods filled" withbeauty. Allaround mypath sang the oriole and nightingale.

As the day grew hot,Iplunged deep-er and deeper among the soft shades ofgreen, till about midday, when everybreath was still with heat, Ireached amagnificent forest glade six miles long,straight as the arrow flies, and archedabove by interlacing branches and roofofleaves. Beautiful exceedingly wa3 thearched roof, and so refreshing in the heatto every jaded sense, that the eye bathedinits green sea, and the ear drank in itsstillness, and the hand longed to touch itsdewy verdure.

"Surely the very place," said I, "foran Arcadian feast."

So 1sprang from my horse and fastenedhim toa ttee. Then Itook the baskethung on the saddle, and unfolded itscon-tents and spread them on the sward. Agoodly repast for an anchorite v*as mine,and 1enjoyed it like a hermit —

a won-drous sense of solitude, of praise, of lifefillingall my being.

"Here is thine own health, wayfarer,"Isaid aloud, as 1took the tankard in myhand.

"1 will trinquer with the stranger,"cried an unexpected voice. Ilooked allaround, and up and down the green glade,hut through the whole length of thelonely avenue of trees, the sea of leaf andgrass remained unspotted by aught butflittingbirds and tremendous, flickeringshadows.

"Cuckoo-oo la, la!" sang the voiceagain. This is the refrain of an Arden-sais song sung by the peasants in the oldWalloon tongue, the tune having a fresh-Bess about it redolent of forest life andfreedom. The merry voice echoed meamong the leaves, and looking up 1 saw,swinging on a great bough of beech, mid-way between me and the great roof, awild figure with longhair, sunburnt faceand great dark eyes, somewhat restless,though fullof glee.

Seeing that Iperceived him, he swunghimself to the ground from the swayingbranch, and would have tied away, butthat, starting up, Iseized him by thearm. He was a youngster of about four-teen, wild,shy and free as a wild woodbird.

"Letme go," he cried, "we are playing'cache- cache.' Ifyou don't let me run,Stephanie will findme."

A little,blooming face peeped out fromamong the leaves as he spoke, but disap-peared like a frightened bird on seeing astranger.

"Now fetch me Stephanie," Isaid,"and you and she shall have these cakesand all this fruit you see piled upon thegrass."

On he darted like an arrow, as 1lefthim, and Idoubted whether the hope ofcakes would be strong enough to conquerhis savage shyness and bring him back.But he came; or rather the girlcame lead-ing him. She was smaller than he, butshe had an older, calmer look. As Ilooked into her eyes, 1saw in them an ex-pression never found inany girlish faces,inplaces within the pale of civilization—an expression so unwittingof evil,"so de-Toid ofthat species of conscious bashful-ness which brings the reddening cheekand the averted glance, that itcame near-er to my thought of angels than anything1had ever yet seen on earth.

Then, too, she was beautiful, and herbeauty was of a most rare order. Hercomplexion was of that clear olive that atnight shines with the luster of ivory, heremail figure was the perfection of grace,and her hands and feet tiny. Her hair•was ofa peculiar brown, like the brownofa bird's wing, and utterly unbrighten-ed by any lighter tints.

This is her description, but words failto do justice to the power and wonder ofher beauty. Itis the magic and charm ofloveliness, not the form alone, that con-stitute its true dominion.

Inblundering words Iasked the childher name.

"Stephanie, the Stranger," she an-swered."Itoo, am a foreigner, Stephanie."She gazed at me more earnestly here."Are you from my mother's country?"

she said. "Areyou from England?""Yes,Iam from England.""Then you may kiss me if you will."

And then she presented first one cheekand then the other, inthe French fashion,while1stooped and touched them withmy lips. Perhaps she saw on the boy'sface slight anger at this caress, for shestole her hand into his and drew him»waj.

"Come, Gustave, let up play cache-cache again."

"Take the fruit with you, my chil-dren,

'Icried.

The boy looked back, but he did not

move untilStephanie came toward me;then he waved her back and caught upthe little basket himself.

"Are you, too, a strangor, Gustave?" Iasked.

"No. lam an Ardennais."

"Then you are not Stephanie's broth-er?" Isaid, a littlesurprised.

"Nother brother! You.are mistaken;Ihave no sister but Stephanie."

He ran off, andIwatched them wanderaway down the long, arched avenue, un-til their pretty figures disappeared be-neath a canopy of leaves.

AsIrode, an hour later, into the littlestreet ofSt. Elmo, my friend, the doctor,seized the bridle of myhorse."Iexpected you long ago," he cried,

"but, thank heaven, you have arrived intime!"

"What is the matter? What has hap-pened?"

"The Englishwoman is dying—

ourvillage mystery

—our ten years wonder!"

"My dear friend," Iinterposed, "youforget that this is my first visit to

"St.

Elmo, and Iknow nothing of your vil-lage mysteries."

Indeed, hitherto the doctor and Ihadonly met at Brussels, and itwas there hehad given me an invitation to his cottagein the Ardennes.

"Come withme," he answered, placinghis arm withinmine. "Iwilltell you»themystery on our way."

He drew me at a rapid pace, talking ashe went.

"Twelve years ago," said he, "a lady,dressed in black, descended from the dili-gence on the grand route and asked herway to St. Elmo. She directed her lug-gage to be left at the Barriere, and walk-ing herself by the shorter way throughthe woods, reached our solitary village ©nfoot. She had a child in her arms

—a

littlegirl about a year old"

"Stephanie!" Icried."Yes, that is her name. The lady

found lodgings at the bouse of a smailfarmer, and there she has resided eversince. And during this time she hadnever had a visitor, and with the excep-tion of two packets a year from Paris,evidently from some notary or man ofbusiness, she has never had a letter. Shehas livedlike one buried alive.

"And who is she?" 1asked."No one knows. She calls herself

Mme. Grey. Her means appear to bevery small, yet sufficient in a place likethis for necessaries. But lately she hasneeded a few luxuries, whichIhave donemy best to supply her with. She ha*struggled against consumption these twoyears; to-day she is dying. lam takingyou to her."

"Have youany idea for what reason shewishes to see a countryman of her own?""Ican only guess. She may have

some communication to make, some re-quest to prefer—perhaps respecting thechild.

"Is she a widpw?"Iasked."Icannot tell .you," returned the doc-

tor, with a terrific shrug of his shoulder."Ionly know that for twelve years shehas led here the lifeof a saint, and ex-cept for the companionship of her child,she has been utterly alone. She has em-ployed herself in working for the poorand ineducating her littledaughter; giv-ing her as a fellow pupil, Gustave, thefarmer's son. Like Paul and Virginia,the two children have been inseparable.The people here always seeing them to-gether almost forget they are not brotherand sister."

We had now reached a wild and lonelyglen, walled in withbroken and fantasticcliffs,over which hung woods of dwarfbeech, ash and hazel. Beneath one ofthe tallest of these cliffs stood a thatchedcottage, with a small garden spreadaround it,and just beyond this the river,which ran through the valley, narroweditself between two rocks, and then sprangover a fallof about twen'y feet.

"This is the cottage," said the doctor.We entered; and in a moment more I

found myself in the presence of MadameGrey.

The dying woman looked at me eager-ly, with large, wild eyes, then she heldout her hand to me, saying feebly, inEnglish:

"Iwant to speak to you alone."The doctor and the farmer's wife, whom

we had found sitting by the bedside, in-tuitively understood her wish, and leftbefore 1could speak it.

"1am grieved to trouble a stranger. 1trust you will forgive me," said Mrs.Gray.

Mindful of the doctor's counsel not towaste time in ceremony, Icame to thepoint at once.

"Makeno apologies, Mrs. Grey,but tellme, Ibeg, whatIcan do for you; and be-lieve that, stranger asIam, Iwould domuch to be ofassistance to a countrywo-man."

'•It is a little thing to do, sir, and ifyou willgive me your promise to performitIshall die content." Igave her mypromise, and then she drew from beneathher pillow a small pocketbook; from thisshe took a card, which she placed in myhand.

'^Vhcn Iam dead will you write tothat address, and tellhim to send orcomefor his child?"

My eyes fell on the name and addressof an Austrian noble, reputed to be ofim-mense wealth and known to be one oftheproudest of the exclusive aristocracy ofVienna. \glanced at the dying womanwith deep compassion. On her attenuat-ed face there lingered the remains ofgreatbeauty. And on this wasted page Ifancied Icould read her history.

"Andifthe count willnot acknowledgehis daughter, ifhe willneither come norsend forher

—what are your wishes then?"

Isaid.A faint flush suffused her cheek as she

answered me painfully:"Itwas of me

—his wife—that he was

ashamed; even his pride will not hinderhim from acknowledging his daughter."

"Good heavens! are you the Counte3SYon H ?" Iexclaimed. "And dyinghere, like this!

'Iscarcely knew whether to believe her

words ornot. Itseemed impossible thata man like the count would let his wifeperish slowly insuch obscurity and want.But the dying woman didnot heed thedoubt implied by my exclamation.

"We have both much to forgive," shesaid, faintly. "Tellhim Iimplored hispardon. Mypride was even greater thanhis

—may God forgive me!"

She fellback on her pillow, fainting,but rallied again, as she heard below themerry voices of the children, who, bandin hand, came in together, singing."Ihave hidden from the poor child the

fact that lam dying," she said to me,sorrowfully; "and who will comfort herwhenIam gone?"

"You have done wrong to conceal thetruth from Stephanie," Ianswered;"tell her now. 1willsend her to you atonce."

With a kind farewell Iwithdrew, andon descending found, indeed, that notonly the shildren, but the farmer andhis wife, were in ignorance of the dyingstate of the English lady. As Idis-closed to them the truth they burst in-to passionate weeping, except Stephanie,who, with a look of disbelief on herface, crept softly upstairs to her mother'sroom.

Mrs. Grey never saw the sun rise again,but before she breathed her lastIhad thehappiness to put into her hand a lovingmessage from her husband.

"'1come, Mary, instantly. Live forme and our child*!'"Ihad accomplished this by a ride of

about thirtymiles to the nearest telegraph

station, whence Ihad dipsatched a mes-sage to him, and awaited an answer.

Myheart ached with fear asIgallopedback toSt. Elmo,lest Ishould arrive withthese comforting words too late. ButIreached the village just before the breakof day, and accompanied by the doctor Ihurried to the cottage. My eyes wereblinded as 1put the paper in Mrs. Grey'shand. But she was past reading it. Itwas the littleStephanie who opened andread the message amid sobs and bitter'tears. Then she flung herself down bythe bedside.

"Ican never love but you, mother!"she sobbed, wildly.

"Stephanie, you will love your fatherfor ray sake. But where

—where is Gus-

tave, cried Mrs. Grey, stretching out herhand blindly.

Choked withsobs the boy knelt downby Stephanie's side, and the thin whitehands of the dying woman were placedon the heads of both.

"Never forget each other, children,while you live. Stephanie, do not for-sake Gustave. Bo not let pride "

But the lingering tide of life ebbedfast, and the lips were still. One othermurmur broke from them:

"Stephe! my love? my love!" Thenher head fell back and we led the chil-dren away.

In two days from this time Count YonH

—stood by the c«ffin of his wife and

looked down upou her dead face. Whathis thoughts were Iknow not, but on hishaggard cheek and trembling lipremorseand shame.

Later inthe day a hearse and a grandcoffin, velvet covered, arrived from a dis-tant town, and the poor lady who hadlived so humbly was borne away inprideto be laid in death among those who hadscorned her living.Itwas after the departure of the sad

cortege that the Count came to me andrequested a fewminute's conversation."Icome, sir," he said, "to clear my

dead name of any shadow that may lingerabout it in your mind. It was no faultofhers that weparted, and she lived herein pain and poverty for twelve years."

His lips shook, and his hand, which heextended to me, trembled.

"Allowme to thank you for your kind-ness. Idepart this evening with mydaughter. Igo to Vienna to present herto my family, after which Ishall placeher ina convent to complete her educa-tion. Sir, itis natural Ishould wishherto forget this sad time. Ifyou ever meether again Ishall trust to your honor notto recognize in the Countess Yon Hthe littleStephanie Grey whohas lived solong among these poor villagers.

With this the count and Iparted.In the evening he and little Stephanie

quitted St. Elmo, and Iwondered whatthe proud man thought as, all throughthe length ofthe long avenue, the boyGustave followed the carriage, some-times flinging himself on the sward tosob passionately, then rising with the oldcry:

"Stephenie! sister Stephenie! say good-by to me once more. Promise me againthat you willcome back!"

Then Stephanie waved her hand fromthe window and her childish voice, an-swered:

"Be sure Iwill come back, Gustave,and we willplay here again at cache-cache. Do not weep any more, brother.Wait for me next summer, here in thisroad. Iwillcome, Gustave; Iwillsurelycome."

"Poor children," Isaid to myself,"they willnever play together again be-neath the bright canopy ofleaves."

Going that night to the farmer's, 1found him and his wifeboth enchantedwith the count's generosity.

"Andwhat willhe do for Gustave?" Iasked.

"Gustave is to be a priest; he is to goto the seminary, and the count pays allexpenses."

1had my thoughts respecting this, butIheld mypeace.

My Ardennes life, with its simple re-miniscences, was put away from me andalmost forgotten, when, one night at abrilliantball inParis, Isaw the face ofStephanie Grey. Five years had passedsince Ilast saw her, but Icould not mis-take so rare a face as hers.

"Willyou tell me who is that younglady?" 1said to the friend with me.

"She is the young Countess Yon H ,one of Iherichest heiresses nowin Paris.

';"Her face is strangely beaatiful. What

is her history?""'Ablank, MyLord,'

"said the lady,

quoting Shakspaere. "Literally a blankfor the first twelve years of her life; butwe take her father's word for it that shehas been abroad with her mother. Thatis her father standing beside her, lookingat her so proudly."

"Andthe mother?"'•Oh, she is dead. Hers was a sad

story. Iwilltell itto you some day; theCount littleguesses that Iknow it, butIwas a school-fellow of Mary Grey's andshe trusted me with her secret.".Iwould have asked her eagerly for thestory, but at this moment the orchestracommenced a wild and joyous air, resem-bling so much in its cadence the old Ar-dennais song which the children had car-olledin the forest, that Iremained silentand startled. Breathing faintly all thetime, through the strain —

now lost, nowreturning

—came the echo of the free

woods, and Isaw Stephanie Grey turntoward the musicians a wild look painfulin its intenseness. Then her face grewdeadly white, and leaning heavily on thearm of her father, she murmured a wordinhis ear.

Evidently itwas a request to retire, forinanother instant both passed us on theirway to the hall;Istarted up and followedthem. Astring of carriages was at thedoor, and around them pressed a greatthrong ofpeople, straining eager eyes tocatch a glimpse of the great wealth andbeauty that liittedby.

In a loud voice the Count's carriagewas called for by an attendant, and as itreached the door there was a struggle inthe crowd, and a j'oung man rushod tothe front. A gaunt, haggard creature,clad inrags, misery inhis aspect, faminein his looks, but on his face an expres-sion of such eager, intense longing thatall eyes followed his in wonder. Andtheir gaze fellon a young, shrinking girl,in"the shimmer of satin and sheen ofpearls," whose paleness shone out likedeath, and whose dark eyes passed wist-fullyover the wild face bent toward her.

"She does not know me!" he shriekedaloud. Then Isaw his arms flung up-ward, and he fell down among the crowd.The Count hfted his daughter into thecarriage and it drove away at a rapidpace.

"The young lady has fainted," said avoice. "This madman frightened her,too, at the last ball to which she went."

That despairing cry had been shriekedout in the old Walloon tongue, and Iknew the wretched wanderer, whose hag-gard face had bent so near the CountessStephanie, was her foster brother, thepoor, forgotten Gustave.Irushed in among the crowd, hoping

to find him, but on every side Ifound awallof strange faces, of whom Isoonfound itwas vain to ask questions. Noneknew, or none cared to say, by what roadthat gaunt figure departed.

"Youask me the story of Mary Grey,"said my friend. "Itis soon told. Shewas the daughter ofa ruined merchant—a weak man, as unfit for the business oflife as he was for the business and thewealth his father bequeathed him. Afterthe total loss of his fortune he lived hereina small apartment. And here it wa-that his daughter had the misfortune tomeet with the Count Yon H . You

know the Austrian nobility is the mostexclusive in Europe. Only those ac-quainted withsociety in Vienna caa un-derstand the wall a parvenu finds extend-ed against him. Having heard some-what of this, Mr. Grey justly thought hisdaughter could be nomatch for the count,and he forbade him the house. It wastoo late. Mary and her" lover fled to Eng-land and were married. Whether mar-riage in England, with every Austrianformality unfulfilled, constituted mar-riage in Austria, Iknow not. Ionlyknow that Mary wrote tome fromNaples,telling me that although her marriagewas still a secret from her husband'sfriends, she would be happy if only herfather would write to her and forgiveher. Itseemed all her letters remainedunanswered.

"Ayear passed away,and then Iheardfrom Mary again. She wrote in fearfulanguish. Her husband had gone toVienna to attend the death-bed of hismother, and in his absence she hadopened a letter from his sister. This,like some rude shock, awoke Mary fromher dream."Icannot wonder," said the writer,

"thatyou hesitate to acknowledge yourmad marriage. Ifyou do so you areruined. No one willspeak to the daugh-ter of a bankrupt and a suicide. Youmust lead this woman about in her lone-liness, feeling ashamed of her and of thefolly that has shut you out from thesociety ofyour equals. Ifher father hadnot made away with himself, she mightbear it. As it is, the whole thing is hor-ror. When our poor mother is gone,from whomIhave scrupulously kept thesecret, Icounsel you to make up yourmind to part with this poor drag on yourexistence. Ascertain ifyour marriage isvalid ornot inAustria, andjact according-ly. Ifyou have not firmness to do thisIwarn you that your career in your owncountry

—a noble one, if you would

—is

over, and you are henceforth a wandererand an outcast.'

"When Mary Grey laid down this letterher heart was broken

—the news it told

her was so bitter. Her father, then, haddied by his own hand, and she, scarcely awife, was a drag and a curse to the manshe loved. Inher way she was as proud,nay, prouder than he was, and she nowresolved to leave him forever. Evenifshe was his wifeitwas horrible to feelthat he whom she loved so dearly, wasashamed of her, and felt her a curse anda drag. She hastened to Paris. Thereshe learned that her father

—ever a weak

man—had destroyed himself in a fit of

frenzied grief the day after her desertionof him. This fact her husband had piti-fully kept from her, but Mary knew thathe had brooded over it in disgust andhorror, and itadded terribly to his bur-den ofshame in his marriage. Ifshe hadresolved to quit him before, this diretruth confirmed her resolve. Henceforthher loneliness should be a penance self-imposed. She wrote me this from Paris,adding that her love for her husband wastoo great to let her ruin him. He wasfree; she restored him to his home, hisfriends, career. 'Ifshe had a son, shecould scarce feel justified in doing this,but her child was a daughter, and itwould be happier for her to be broughtup inobscurity and love and marry somepoor man.'"Inever heard fromMaryGrey again

—Inever knew, tillyou told me, how shelived or how she died."

"Andhow did the loss of his wife andchild affect him?"Iasked.

"Verydifferently, Ibelieve, from theexpectations of his sister. He did notreturn to Vienna; he sought out no hon-orable career. Alost and lonely man, hewandered about Europe purposely, untilfive years ago he electrified the fashiona-ble world by burying his wife, with allsorts of ghastly honors, in the familyvault in some old chateau in the Tyrol.At the same time he introduced andacknowledged his daughter, who is verybeautiful, \ery accomplished and veryunhappy."

"How do you know that?" Iasked,eagerly

"Her face tells me. Ihear she hatesthe world, refuses all offers of marriageand only implores leave to enter a con-vent. Her father, who adores her, is indespair. She is very restless, and hewanders about withher from ci'-y tocity.But people say it is all useless: the samestrange event follows them everywhere —but then, ofcourse, that is impossible."

"What event?" 1cried, and Ifelt myheart beat painfully as Ibent forward tolisten.

"Why, people say the poor young coun-tess is haunted by a madman

—a wild,

gaunt creature, who follows her with amost piteous and heart-breaking love.Who he is none know. The count hasoffered a reward many times to find him,butinvain."Iheld my peace. Idid not say this

poor, lost creature was Stephenie's fos-ter-brothar, once the happy child of theArdennes.

With much pity inmy heart Isoughthim anxiously many days in Paris, butwhen 1heard the count and his daughterwere gone Iceased my search, feeling bya sure instinct that this cityno longer heldGustave le Fou

There is no need to relate what busi-ness or what pleasure took me two yearsafter this to St. Elmo. 1 went by thesame road, and itwas with strangely sadfeelings that Inow looked up to the greatroof ofgreen leaves and thought of thetwo joyous children whose happy voiceshad started my solitude.

Indeep silence Irode on over the sun-flecked turf, leaf and shadow twinklingaround me, flashing oriole and resplen-dent butterfly darting and playing amongthe branches, all bearing to me less ofsunshine and of joy than of old. Andalmost at the same spot where Ihadstopped to lunch, beneath the same hugebeech where the boy had swung himselffrom the branches, there stood a wild fig-ure, with long hair and dark eyes, sadand restless.

He looked at me mournfully as Iap-proached him.

"Donot tell them at home that youhave seen me," he said. "lam waitingfor Stephanie She promised to comeagain in the summer and play cache-cachein the woods."

"She cannot play now, Gustave," Ianswered. "Come home withme to St.Elmo, Iwill let you ride if you willcome."

He looked wistfullya moment, and thenturned away.

"No,Iwillnot go to St. Elmo; deathis there

—Ihave seen it. Iwill wait in

ihe woods. She willnot break her prom-ise, and she mast rind tnc here, wher \u25a0 we-played so often."

""Who is dead at St. Elmo?" 1 askeU,thinking to turn his thoughts to anothertheme

His answer startled me."Stephanie is dead. She died in the

spring when the flowers came.""Then ifStephanie is dead, Gustave,

why wait for her here?""The lady is dead— Stephanie, the lady

who came back to St. Elmo with a pale,pale facij,and wept withher head on mybreast -she is dead. But the other Ste-phanie who loved me, who played withme in the woods; she is not dead. Isawher go away with her father, and shesaid 'Onstave, Iwillcome back

—wait for

me!' She'llkeep her word—she willre-turn to me. You may ride off, stranger.1am waiting, yousee, in the woods-amwaiting till Stephanie comes. Lorio!lorio! Ah, the loriots and Iare greatgnends. She loves the loriots, but thecuckoo is gene."

Here he burst into the oldsong, "Cuc^-

-00-oo la la-cuckoo-oo la la!" and wentwandering away down the long avenue,till my eyes lost him among the longshadows and green leaves.

AtSt. Elmo the doctor toldme his sadstory.

"Poor Gustave went to the priests'seminary," he said, "but he had no vo-cation for the church Why the countwishedhim to be a priest 1can only guess.Inthree years, having refused to enterthe priesthood, he returned to St. Elmomuch improved in culture and appear-ance, bnt strangely unsettled in mind.The love he had ever borne to the childStephanie had, withhis increasing years,taken another phase and become a hope-less passion. His sole thought was tosee her again. Patiently he waited an-other year, trusting to hear news of her,but none came. Then there grew nponhim a feverish restlessness and he leftthe village abruptly. By what strangemagnetism he knew that Stephanie lovedhim, and pined amid all the wealth andsplendor around for his companionshipand the free woods again, Icannot tellyou; yet itwas certain that itwas so, andhis heart knew it. But though he wan-dered from city to city in quest of her,they didnot meet. He was so ignorantof the world, so poor, so lonely, that itwas no marvel his search was unsuccessful. He didnot even know Stephanie'sreal name. You willremember thecount made itknown here only to youand myself. But at length they met—hea poor wanderer in the streets, she thedainty queen of some royal fete, steppinginto her carriage. He recognized her in-stantly and sprang forward, crying,'Stephanie! Stephanie!' The gens-d.armes thrust him back and he fell amongthe crowd, beaten down like some poorweed.

"The girlheard his voice, and clingingwith passionate tears to her father, sheimplored him to seek out her brother— herdear brother. She called him by thatname still. The count soothed her andgave her many promises, then placed herwithin the palace, while he sought outthe guard and begged that the quant fig-ure might not be allowed to disturb themagain.

"The frightened count left that city in

a few days; Stephanie, meanwhile, havingvainly striven to find the poor wandererwho tracked her steps. But what can ayoung girldo? Her weak efforts to dis-cover him were futileindeed. The counttraveled from place toplace, but atRome,Paris, Brussels, the same wildfigureburstthrough the intervening crowds andstruck Stephanie senseless with his hag-gard face.

"Day by day the girlseemed perishingof some great, unspoken sorrow. At lastthinking the change might save her life,her father pressed her to marry; then sheflung her arms around him and whisperedthe truth:"

'Ipine for the free forest, father, Ipine to see Guatave again. EverywhereIgo Ihear his voice, everywhere Iseethe deep dells, the rugged hills, the foam-ing rivers of the Ardennes. Take mehome; let me die there!'

"The count's pride gave way."'Try to live, my child;' he said. If

you love this young man he shall be myson.'

"He sought the outcast now as earnest-ly as he had before tried to avoid him,but the search was useless. And in sor-row and gloomy foreboding, he traveledto the Ardennes withhis sick daughter.

"There are strange mysteries in ournature

—Ispeak as a doctor— but strang-

est of allthese are those mystic forewarn-ings of the future which we call fore-bodings—those prophetic voices whichat times speak to the soul in clear andawful tones.

"Whether these brought Gustavehither, whispering that Stephanie wascoming, who shall say? 1 can but tellyou that in the woods where they partedthere she found him. As the carriagedrove beneath the solemn, arched roof ofleaves he stood forth to meet it—a mad-man—a child as she had left him, readyto weep, to laugh, to play, as in the old,old days when they were children to-gether.

"Gustave told you truly. She weptupon his breast, and she died for sor-row.''

"She had come in hope, and it wasquenched; she had come inlove, and itwas drowned in pity. The shock, thegrief killedlier. On the last day of herlife, as we stood around her, she turnedsuddenly toward her father, and thankedhim sweetly for bringing her hither:

"*Idie where Ihad wished to die,"she said, "where my mother closed hereyes, inmy home, with allIlove aroundme. Turn my face to the window that Imay see the forest again. Poor Gustave!take care of him when 1am gone away.And, father, bury me at St. Elmo, and lethim one day lie by myside.'

"The count obeyed her. After hisdaughter's funeral he left us, a brokenman. As for me, Imoralize and wonderwhy the sins of the parents are visited soheavily on the children. Iask, too,whether the count's pride or Mary Grey'sdisobedience caused all this sorrow?"

This was the doctor's story. Thusfrom different lips have Iwoven togetherthe history of Gustave le Fou. He wentby that name for many years, and whenhe died, they laid him by the side of a

grave on which stood a single stone withthe single inscription— "Stephanie. Agednineteen."

Faced by a Grizzly.

[Tuolumme (Cal.) Independeßt.j :

BillMorris, the great hunter from theYellowstone, -who has resided in Sonoraa number of years, was making his way

over the mountains with his trusty rifle

one night last week, on board the Bodie

stage, and encountered a heart-thrilling

adventure near Cow Creek Station, asfollows: The stage had stopped ;at this

station to change horses, getting there

about 1:30 a.m.; The nights are frosty

at this altitude, and Bill, who had been

riding with the driver, had got down

while the team was being hitched up andstarted on ahead "on foot to "warm up,"leaving his rifle behind. Coming to an

elbow in the road a few, hundred yardsbeyond, he cast his eye upward to a tre-mendous rock on the right, from whence

emanated a thundering growl, and in thebright moonlight thereon perched was atremendous grizzly bear. "William was

petrified in his tracks. Down jumped

the bear, and standing erect in the roadwithhis mouth open, confronted him insavage attitude

'and followedhim up ashe retreated backward. Morris shoutedlustily forassistance, and at thi3 juncturethe stage hove in sight and the driverand passengers, five innumber, hearingcries ofdistress, all shouted at the top oftheir voices. The stage swung aroundthe curve at the critical moment whenthe bear was about to strike him down.So unnatural was the surprise that thegrizzly turned about and beat a hasty re-treat down the mountain. A bonanzawith one million "in the door" eouldnothave been a more welcome sight to Mor-ris than was the Bodie stage at that mo-

ment. The tracks of the monster meas-ured in the moonlight :about fourteeninches. He is supposed to be the samethe stock men have been watching forkilling;stock .just •previous to this ad-venture. \u25a0

\u0084

. .-. -

The First Trophy ot the Kevolntion.From a paper written by the late Theo-

dore Parker, and read before the NewEngland Historic Genealogical Society,

we learn the followingparticulars regard-ing the gun presented by htm, inhis will,to the State ofMassachusetts:

Both Hancock and Adams were stay-ing at Lexington, withRev. Jonas Clark,an eminent patriot, on the afternoon ofApril19, 1775, when several British sub-ordinate officers were seen riding up themain road in the town. This excited thesuspicions of men who knew them tobe British soldiers, although they weredisguised.

In the night, intelligence was broughtto Messrs. Hancock and Adams that aBritish expedition was on foot, destinedfor Lexington and Concord, to get pos-session of their persons, itwas supposed,and to destroy the military stores at Con-cord. They gave the alarm to the properpersons, whom Captain Parker

—grand-father of the eminent divine-had selectedlor tkat work, and he sent men throughthe town to give notice for assemblingthe militia. The church-bell was alsorung.

Captain Parker lived about two andone-half or three miles from the meeting-house. He had been there late in theevening, and conferred withHancock andAdams, and made arrangements, in caseitwas necessary, to callout the soldiers.He went to bed late that night, and ill.About two o'clock he was called up bythe men referred to above and went tothe meeting-house (the Council is justbehind it). He formed his company alittleafter daybreak. About one hun-dred and twenty men answered to theirnames, armed and equipped. But as theintelligence was not quite certain, he sentout other scouts to obtain information ofthe advance of the enemy, and dismissedthe soldiers, telling them to be within calland assemble again at the beat of drum.They dispersed. Not long after one ofhis scouts returned and toldhim the Brit-ish were near at hand.

He ordered the drum beat, in front ofthe tavern close by the Common. Seven-tymen appeared, were formed into fourplatoons, and marched on to the Common.His nephew, Jonathan Harrington, thelast survivor of the battle, then a lad ofsixteen, played the fife, which with thedrum, formed the only music.

He formed them ina single line, thenwheeled the firstand fourth platoons atright angles, stepped in front and orderedevery man to loadhis piece with powderand ball. When this was done, he said:

"Don't fke unless fired upon. But ifthey want to have a war, let it beginhere."

He then -wheeled back the two wingsinto a continuous line, and stood a littleinfront of the end of the right wing.Soon the British came close upon them,and some were soon terrified and beganto skulk off. He drew his sword andcalled them byname to come back, andsaid he would order the first man shotwho should run away.

Allbright young scholars know whatfollowed—the fire of the British, the re-turn of the fire by the Americans

—the

killingof eight of his company, his orderto them to disperse and take care of them-selves. After they were gone, the Brit-ish soldiers gave three hurrahs, andstopped half an hour and ate their break-fast, and then resumed their march to-ward Concord.

After they were gone, Captain Parkerand his men came back, took upjt he dead,looked after the wounded, etc. CaptainParker saw a British soldier who hadloitered behind a little drunk, seized himand made him a prisoner. He was com-pletely armed, having the musket stamp-ed with the royal arms, a knapsack,blanket, provisions, cartouch-box, witlisixtyrounds ofball cartridges, etc. Cap-tain"Parker kept them as spoliaopima, asdid also his son, and then the Rev. Theo-dore Parker.

The late Governor Andrew, it will beremembered ,on receiving iton the State'sbehalf, in the presence of the legislature,Jan. 22, 1861, kissed the gun and said:"Iam proud to be the humble instru-

ment of its transmission to the Senate, inwhose chamber itis requested by the willthat it ;i ay be preserved."

The weapon is placed in the Senatechamber on the left of the drum andother relics from the battle of Benning-ton.

>apoieon and Maria Lonis;'.-

The marriage excited the greatest in-terest throughout Europe, and the feasts,the balls, the shows, the poetry, and the

addresses and other pieces in prose towhich itgave rise, were endless. FromVienna toCompiegne, the road by whichthe Princess passed, seemed to be strewnwith flowers. Paris almost leaped forjoy. The civilceremony in Paris tookplace on the first ofApril,and the religi-ous ceremony followed. The robe inwhich tho Empress appeared at the festi-val was so magnificent as to beggar de-scription. Itwas embroidered all overwithdiamonds, and the intervals werefilled withMalincs lace, its value beingestimated at GOO.OOOf. (about .£22,000).On the four interior fronts of the tri-umphial arch of L'Etoile, were twelveemblematic medallions. The first, on thesouth front, represented the Emperor,with this inscription underneath: "Thehappiness of the world is in his bands."The second was the cipher of the Emper-or and Empress, the inscription being:"We love her from our love of kirn; welove her forherself." The third, a cupidholding a helmet, etc.; "She willcharmthe leisure hours of the hero." Thefourth, a tree: "He is the author of ourglory; he will render it eternal." Thefifth, a sun, rainbow, etc.; "She an-nounces to the earth days of serenity."The fiftb, an animal, etc. The seventh,on the north front, the Empress: "Shewillbe to the French a tender mother."The eighth, the cipher of the Emperorand Empress: "We own to him the hap-piness of the august spouse, who hasgiven to him so exalted a place in herthoughts." The ninth, the Seine: "Hislove willrecognize the gift he ha.s madeus." The tenth, the Danube: "He en-riches us with what he most dearlyvalues." The eleventh, the arms of theEmpire. The twelfth, the arms of Aus-tria. The illuminations were upon themost gorgeous and costly scale.

A Qnack's Defense.At the correctional tribunal of the

Seine, a quack is brought in, accused ofhaving been guilty of a nuisance by col-lecting a crowd, and obstructing thePoint Neuf. The magistrate demands:

"Thou scamp? How is it thou drawestsuch a crowd about thee, and selleßt somuch of thy rubbish?"

"Monsieur le Juge, do you know howmany people cross the Point Neuf in anhour?"

"How should I?""Howmany do you think, Monsieur le

Juge?""Itell tuee Idon't know.""Well, then, M. le Juge, letus nay ten

thousand. Now, how many of these doyou think are wise enough to go in whenitrains?"

"Oh, peste! Perhaps a hundred.""Itis tuo many; but Ileave them to

you, and take the nine thousand ninehundred. Those are my customers, M. leJuge. Can Ihelp itif God made themfools?"

Case dismissed for want of evidence.

'The Sentinel

Just after the Franco- Prussian war, theAdjutant-Major ofa certain eorp& d'in-fanterie, in order to test a new sentrywho had been placed upon a responsiblepost, approached, and affecting to haveforgotten the word, at length, by meansof threats prevailed upon the ignorantsoldier to allow him to pass without giv-ing the word. This he immediately re-ported, the result being that the pooryoung fellow was sentenced to be shot,this decision fortunately being commutedto banishment to Algeria by influencebrought to bear from high quarters.

This adjutant-major at length met witha well-merited rebuff, as the followingnarrative, the dialogue of which we givein English, shows:

Finding a newly-joined man placed ona similar duty, he determined to repeathis former "experiment. Fortunately,however, the sentinel had been warned byhis comrades, and was resolved not to beout-witted.

As the mgln wore on, he observed theofficer approaching alone, lantern inhand, and at once challenged:

"Who goes there?""Officer of the guard," at once came the

response."Approach to the word, officer of the

guard," continued the sentry.The officer, approaching, said: "I've

forgotten the word, and you must let mefinish my rounds without it."

But forewarned, the only reply madeby the sentry was: "The word! Standback or 1fire!""Ihave forgotten the word,IteUyou,"

persisted the ollicer."Can't pass without the word," was

the only answer made by the sentry, as hekept him at bayonet's point.

"Youknow me perfectly well,"insistedthe officer, in a tone of chagrin. ''1 amyour officer

—your adjutant."

"Idon't know you. Keep back orIfire," was the only reply vouchsafed him.

"Youdare not fire on your superior;and as itis,Iwillhave you severely pun-ished for thus detaining me from myduty."

So saying, the officer seized held of thebayonet, and endeavored to force his waypast.

The sentry, once again shouting,"Stand back!" drew away his bayonetand made as if to charge the officer.

Stepping back, the officer drew hissword and came on again, but was in-stantly disarmed by the sentinel. Seizinghold of the rifle, he next endeavored towrest itfrom the .sentry's grasp.

The sentinel, being new to the corps,and knowingperfectly who his opponentwas, refrained from firing, not knowingwhat the consequences might be of firingon his superior, even though the pass hadbeen refused. In the struggle, however,the rifle went off, and the bullet whizzedpast the officer's ear, carrying with it apiece of his head-dress.

Half-stunned and utterly confused bythis unexpected turn of affairs, the officerlast his presence of mind and actuallytook to his heels, and without reflectingon the probable ocaisequences of his acthe reported the fact of his being fired »nby the sentry, who was immediatelymarched off to the guard-room as a pris-oner.

Next morning a court-martial was con-vened, and the sentry, after having beencharged with firing on his superior, wasasked what defense he had to make. Ina few simple words he explained that hehad been placed on duty at a certain spotwith strict orders not to allow any one topass without giv'ng the countersign: thatan officer whom he now recognized to bethe adjutant had endeavor to force a passwithout giving the word, and on heingprevented, had seized his rilie,whichhadgone offby accident.

The adjutant-major, on being interro-gated, could not but admit the truth ofhis statement, and the Colonel, a severebut just disciplinarian, amid the cheersof those present, gave judgment as fol-lows:

"The adjutant willremain inhis quar-ters during the next eight days, havingunnecessarily endeavored to cause a pri-vate to perform a breach of du*y. Thename ofprivate D

—,will be entered onthe ordres dv jour, and remain there dur-ing the same period."

This was equivalent to eight days" im-prisonment for the officer and to thehighest raise given to privates, the entryin the ordres dv jour being read to theassembled regiment at each morning par-ade as follows: "Monsieur le Colonelcompliments Private D— on the zealousperformance of his duty under the mosttrying circumstances."

This public rebuke to the officer had asalutary effect. However, to his creditbe itsaid, he never attempted inany waytomolest the sentry for his share in theaffair.

A Dead Horse.InFrance, when a horse has reached

the age of twenty or thirty itis designedfor a chemical factory; it is first relievedof its hair, which serves to stuff cushionsand saddles; then it is skinned; the hoofsserve to make combs. Next the carcassis placed in a cylinder and cooked bysteam, at a pressure of three atmospheres;a cock is opened, which allows the greaseto run off; then the remains are cut. up,the legbones are sold to make knife han-dles, etc., and the coarser of the ribs,the head, etc., are converted into animalblack and glue. The first are calcinedin cylinders, and the vapors when con-densed form the chief source of carbonateof ammonia, which constitutes the baseof nearly all ammonical salts. There isan animal oilyielded which makes a capi-tal insecticideand a vermifuge. To makegluo, the bones are dissolved in muriaticacid, which takes away the phosphate oflime, the soft residue, retaining the shapeof the bone, dissolved in boiling water,cast into squares, and dried onnets. Thephosphate ollime, acted upon by sulphur-ic acid and calcined with carbon, pro-duces phosphorous for Incifer matches.The flesh is distilled to obtain the car-bonate of ammonia; the resulting mass ispounded up with potash, then mixedwith old nails and old ironof every de-scriptiou; the whole is calcined and yioidsmagnificent yellow crystals, prussiate ofpotash, with which tissues are dyed aPrussian blue and iron transformed intosteel; italso forms the basis of cyanide ofpotassium and prussic acid, the two mostterrific poisons known in chemistry.

All the, iJiffm-nceItis an old story in England, the heart-

less obstructions placed in the path ofyoung inventors, authors, and others,seeking for recognition. In Americaanybody, everybody, is considered entit-led to a hearing. "Why do we get alongso well in thisgreat establishment, andhow is it every man and boy ibout theplace looks so earnest and so hopeful"asked the chief of a remarkable NewYorkinstitution, repeating my question."Because every boy and man in theplace knows that he has a clear prospectofadvancement. Ifthe lad who sweepsthe office comes to me to-morrow morn-ing and says, 'Sir,Ithink Ihave discov-ered a plan whereby you can save anhour or a dollar ina particular operation,'Ishould listen to him with respect andattention. In your country, 1am told,he would very likelybe kicked out oftheplace for his impertinence." He hadstruck the true cause of much ofthe hope-lessness of the prevailing toil among theEnglish masses.

THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1881.

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