Newspaper Page Text
2
library, and Reginald found no difficulty
in persuading his brother to go with
him.
“ One word,” said ’Duke, after Emily
had bidden them good-night and good
bye.
“ You will not say anything of this to
Amy. You know what I mean—the
matter we were speaking of when this
message came.”
*• I will not speak of it, certainly not,”
replied Emily.
Because something might occur to
make it unnecessary,” said Duke; and
it were best not to mention it just yet;”
“ True,” said Emily, not comprehend
ing his meaning though, ‘vl trust some
thing may prevent it; you deserve to be
happy, ’Duke, and 1 trust, will be.”
Reginald went up to his room to pre
pare for his departure. They were to
start at early dawn, and it was not far
from that now. Eugenia closed her eyes
when she heard the door opened, and
when Regie glanced at her he thought
her sleeping. Silently he moved around
the room, packing a few things together
himself, for he would not call a servant
at such an unseasonable hour.
’Genie’s glowing eyes were fixed upon
his graceful form as it flitted about the
room, and she almost lifted her hand to
caress his hair, so eagerly did she desire
to touch it. But Regie did not see her
looking at him, and when, at last, all his
preparations were completed, he reso
lutely turned his eyes away from her, lest
lie might be too stiongly tempted to press
one farewell kiss upon her lips, and left
the room.
“ Gone'.” murmured ’Genie, burying
her face in the pillow; “Gone! and with
out one word, without one look 1”
The soft gray of morning was spread
over the sky, when the travelling car
riage passed the park gates, and the sun
was shining when it passed through the
village. Midway*the main street, alight
handsome carriage dashed by them. The
occupant leaned far out of the window,
and gaily waived his baud to Reginald,
who bowed coldly.
‘* A right handsome fellow, upon my
word,” said ’Duke, ” Who is it, Regie?”
“ Lord Vernon,” growled Regie.
“ The Earl of Hastings ! He is going
to our house, is he not?”
“ I suppose so. Heaven forgive me,
I wouldn t care if he were to break his
neck before be gets there !”
“ Oil! hush, Reginald; don't encourage
such fearful feelings. Why don’t you
let him know that his presence is disa
greeable :”
“ Let him know it? He must know
it; but if I were to say anything to him,
’Genie would never forgive me.”
’Duke looked at his brother. What
advice could lie offer ? None. And so
they rode on in silence, each one inusiug
over his own misery.
CHAPTER XVII.
The King’s messenger had given Regi
nald no information that was not con
tained iu the note; but, as they neared
the city, the rumor of the calamity threat
ening the nation, reached his ears. The
Queen was ill, very ill, lying at the point
of death.
William waited in his private cabinet
for Reginald. All was quietaround; the
palace seemed deserted, for, after being ad
mitted through the outer door, Reginald
found none of the gaily dressed lords
and ladies who usually thronged the
rooms at that hour.
He looked around in amazement, and
scarcely dared knock at William’s door.
His tap, light as it was, reached the
King’s ear, and lie darted forward, open
ing the door himself,
‘•Ah! it is you, Reginald! I have
wished for you.”
Reginald bowed gravely.
“What! have you nyt forgiven me
yet ? JSV even now, when the direst of
War evil prophecies are being fulfilled!
Know you not that the Queen Is dying,
alone and desolate !”
“ Death is the common lot of all,” re
plied Regie ; but, desolate, and alone, so
great a Queen can never be !”
“ You have not noticed, then, that my
reception rooms arc empty *” asked
William. ■» v
“ I have noticed it, your majesty; but
con'd not account for it.
“ Ah ! Reginald, there are no diseases
that make even our dearest friends shrink
from us. Small-pox is one oi them!”
“ I>o you mean to say that the Queen
has small pox,” exclaimed Reginald.
• ‘ In its most malignant form,” groaned
the King.
“ Do you not remember —if you do
not Ido —your evil prophecy ? I have
lived to see my beautiful Mary a loath
some object to those around her!”
Oh! my dear lord, forget those wild
words; 1 knew not what 1 was saying
1 meant not to wish that this terrible
misfortune might befall you," exclaimed
Reginald, in great agitation.
“ 1 suppose not, my friend ; but I see
the hand of Providence in this; the blood
of Glencoe has called aloud to Heaven
for vengeance, and theory has been heard,”
answered the King, hopelessly. “ But a
few short months ago, the knife of the
assassin sought my life, from that time I
have lived with the constant fear of
death before me; and now, my Queen,
my wife. Oh! Reginald, be satisfied!
Your sister is avenged!”
“Forgive me!” cried Reginald, kneel
ing at the King’s feet; “ forgive me, my
lord, and offer me once more that hand
which I have clasped in dearest friend
ship. You hesitate! Ah! I deserve it,
my lord!”
“ I hesitate, it is true,” said the King,
“ but it is because 1 fear to convey to
you the disease.”
“ Then, do not hesitate,” interrupted
Reginald, clasping William’s hand, “I
do not fear the disease, and if I were to
take it, what difference would it make?”
“ It would make a great difference,”
answered William ; “ 1 would not like
to see your face seamed and marred, as
it would he, even if you did not die.
Your wife would not thank me for it,
Reginald.”
“ The Queen has sent for your majes
ty,” said a physician, entering the room
at this moment.
“ Y r ou will remain here until I return?”
said the King to Reginald.
“ As long as your majesty wishes,”
answered Regie.
One hour, two hours, passed by, and
still the King did not return. Wearied
by his hurried journey, and lulled by the
quiet repose of everything around him,
Reginald was dozing in an arm-chair,
when a servant touched him on the
shoulder.
“ The King is in his bed-room, and
desires to see you, sir.’’
“ Lead on,” said Reginald, wideawake
in an instant.
[to be continued.]
[Selected.]
Before the Blessed Sacrament.
BY R. D. WILLIAMS.
Teach me, O! God, the truest adoration :
Give me to know, in Thy mysterious ways,
Shall hymns of joy and fervent aspiration,
Or tearful silence best proclaim Thy praise?
Whene’er I bow in humble prayer before Thee,
So great my load of sorrow and of sin—
So great my joy one moment to adore Thee—
Sobs and hosannahs strive my heart within.
Wo for the soul that cannot here discover
Her own Creator and the angels’ King—
King of the angels—but Man’s more than lover,
Tortured and Blaiu for our vast ransoming!
And yet the vilest dust coucealcth wonders,
Teems with strange marvels, miracles indeed;
And Heaven hath distanced splendor, time and
numbers
Tho lordliest mind shall never grasp and read.
Still, Man, who sees Thee in tho humblest flower,
Who knows so little round him or above,
While he, perforce, admits Thy boundless power,
Presumes to set a limit to Thy love!
Had Heaven to me the shining sceptro yielded
Os some strong angel, whose bright throne maybe
O'er many a starry myriad lightning-shielded,
In glory marehiug thro’ Eternity—
%
Oh! happier far, in humble adoration,
Were I, to bend my pride, head, heart and knee —
And feel, no more a discord in creation,
My soul in harmony with her and Thee!
Before Thee then this world seems cold and narrow,
The spirit blossoms like the prophets rod;
And every sigh becomes a burning arrow
Whose bright point flashes thro’ the heart of God!
Thou hast unnumbered Seraphim to sing Thee
Adoring canticles from pole to pole—
But we, alas! faint praise, poor offering bring Thee,
Yet Thou hast died for this—the human soul!
Oh, make it Thine by grace and tribulation,
And when life’s brief calamity is o’er,
Crown us in love’s sublimcst adoration,
Where faith is lost in vision ever more!
For the Banner of the South.
AN UNHAPPY MAN ON NEW YEAR’S
EVE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF RICIITER.
At midnight, on New Year’s Eve, an
old man stood at his window, and looked
out, with a look of despair, on the im
movable ever shining Heavens above, and
on the still, pure, snow-covered Earth
beneath, on which there was no one so
joyless and sleepless as himself. His
grave was not tar (iff] it was baic in the
snow of old age, not covered with the ver
dure of youth; for, out of the riches of
life he had brought nothing but errors,
sins, and follies, a wasted body and
blighted soul, a heart full of bitterness,
and an old age filled with despair.
The beautiful days of his youth arose
around him like spectres, and recalled to
his mind the peaceful morning on which
his father had placed him on the cross
road of life. To the right stretched tho
sunny path of Virtue, which led to a
distant, quiet land, full of light, harvests,
and Angels; to the left, through the wide
tracks of Vice, stretched the path leading
to a black pit full of ever-dropping poison,,
crawling serpents, and dank, sultiy mists.
Alas! the serpents hung around his
breast, the poison drops on his tongue,
and he knew not where he w as.
Half frantic, and with inexpressible
grief, he cried up to Heaven, “Give me
back my youth ! O, father, place me
once more on the cross-road of life that I
may choose differently-”
But his father and his youth were in
the dim and distant Past. He saw will
o’-the-wisps dancing over the swamps,
and disappearing in the graveyard, and
he said, “Those are the days of my folly.”
He saw a star shoot from the sky, and
glittering in the fall, lie scattered on the
Earth. “Such am I,” said his bleeding
heart, and the serpent’s teeth of despair
guawed deeper into his wounds. His
heated imagination showed him night
walkers flying along the roofs, and the
wind-mill raised its threatening arms as
if to crush him, and a ghost lingering in
the dead-house gradually assumed his
likeness. In the midst of these horrors
and struggles within, suddenly the music
of the New Year flowed gently down, as
if from distant Church choirs. lie was
touched, and looking around the horizon,
and over the white Earth, thought of the
friends of his youth who were now teach
ers of men, fathers of happv children, and
blcsse<b Christians; and he exclaimed,
“0! I, too, c -uld sleep now like you, on
this first night of the year, with dry
eyes, if I had wished. 1 could be happy,
dear parents, if I had only fulfilled your
New Year’s prayers and teachings !
In the leverish remembrances of his
young days, it seemed as if the spectre in
the dead-house rose up, and, finally, from
the belief in the superstition that, on New
Year’s night, are shown us the Spirits of
the Future—it was turned into a living
young man.
He could look at it no more; he covered
his eyes; a thousand hot tears streamed
from his eyes, and sank in the snow; he
still moaned out, gently, “Only return,
days of my youth, return once more.
And they did return; for, on this New
Year’s eve, he had only had a frightful
dream. He was still a youth, his sins only
were now turned into a dream. He
thanked God that he, still young, could
turn back on the dark paths of Vice, and
gain once more the sunny path which
leads to the land of rich harvests.
Turn with him, 0! young man, if thou
still lingerest in the paths of Vice. This
frightful dream shall, in future, be thy
judge, and should you ever once call out,
“return, oh! happy youth”—it will be in
vain, for it never returns.
From the Melbourne rirgus.
AN UNPUBLISHED INCIDENT IN THE
LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Mr. Alexander Dick,, of Drummond
street, Carlton, has sent us an account of
an incident in Goldsmith’s life, which is
now published for the first time, and
which, we arc sure, will be read with
much interest and pleasure. This is
not the first occasion on which additions
have been made to the life histories of
the illustrious dead from the traditions,
or records of Australian families, for some
years ago, an original anecdote of Dr.
Johnson was discovered in a MS., domes
tic memoir in Sydney, and published;
and there have been some other similar
cases. The anecdote of Goldsmith, now
to be submitted is charmingly character
istic of the man. Affectionate, confiding,
and eminently sympathetic, he could not
have done otherwise, than as the narrative
describes without violence to his own na
ture. The biographers tell us that his
heart was so tender, and his manner so
sweet, that none could know without lov
ing him, and that even his tailor telt so
completely under his influence, that he
preferred supplying his wardrobe for
nothing, to losing the pleasure of his
visits. On the day of his death, the
stairs of his apartment were occupied by
the old and the infirm, to whom, he had
never turned a deaf ear, even when he
was struggling with poverty, and who
mourned his early death with sobbing
and lamentation. Nearly one hundred
years have passed since then, and Gold
smith’s genius and virtues still hold their
place in the public estimation. There is
no British poet remembered with greater
affection, or whose verses are more fre
quently quoted. Every reader has bits
of “ The Traveler,” and the “Deserted
Village” at his tongue’s cud, and knows
the “Vicar of Wakefield” almost by
heart; while playgoers make a prime
favorite of Tony Lumpkin, anu like to
trace reminiscences by the author in the
careless geniality of the “ Good-natured
Man.” Even Johnson, by whose massive
intellect and greater learning, Goldsmith
was overshadowed during life, is now
much less known to the general public;
and for one that knows “ Ilasselas,” a
dozen are familiar with the “Animated
Nature.” The great anxiety that the
reading public have always evinced to
know all about Goldsmith’s private file,
has caused the compilation of many bi
ographies. and diligent seui.ch has been
made at different times lor new facts and
anecdotes, the biographers sometimes
quarreling fiercely over the proprietor
ship of this or that incident or episode.
The addition now to be made would have
afforded much gratification to Percy or
Prior, IrviDg or Foster, had he been the
first to record it; and it is no diminution
from its value that it has been stored up
for one hundred and sixteen years, and
it is now published for the first time in
an antipodean city only thirty-three'years
old. The story runs:
“ On his farm near Falkirk, and about
the year 1750, my grandfather,'William
Dick, was caught by the press-gang, and
compelled to serve in the Regiment of Pi
cardy. My grandmother, Mary Dalg
leish, or Douglass, joined him. The
Regiment passed to Ireland, and it was
ordered on foreign service. Mary was
debarred from accompanying her hus
band. They had three children—Adam,
Willie, (my father,) and Jeauuie. It was
now 1752, aud the children were seven
five, and three years of age. Mary
resolved to return to Edinburgh. She
had not travelled a fortnight when she
was robbed, as she slept, of her money, her
clothes, and her children’s clothes. It
was a lone house, and the people had no
clothing to bestow. Marv and her child
ren went forth in their night-dresses.
Desponding, despairing, she travelled on,
but a ministering Angel was at hand,
and saved her. Oliver Goldsmith, on
horseback, met her. No salutation pass
ed. Willie and Jcannie were behind.
Jcannie—flow three years old—was
ashamed of her dress, and to hide from
the gentleman she got close to Willie.
He pushed her into a ditch, and ran.
Goldsmith cried: “What sort of a wo
man are you, that you do not look better
after your children ? ” Mary turned
round, and saw her daughter getting to
her feet quietly. Goldsmith drew near,
and Mary replied, “ I am the wife ot an
impressed soldier, and on my way to
Edinburgh, but last night I was robbed
of our money, and our clothes, and 1 am
almost distracted.” Goldsmith saw that
she was an educated lady, and he begged
pardon for the harsh manner iu which
lie had spoken to her, and said: “I am
sorry that I cannot give you more than
£1; but I wont leave you till I see you
all better clothed.” He turned back some
miles. They came to a mansion. Gold
smith addressed the inmates, told them
his name, begged clothes for his com
panions, and said that he would return
and pay for all that they could give. The
inmates gave Mary decent material to
make clothes for herself, and her children.
Mary got to Muiravonside, but she did not
go to Edinburgh. The friend that she
had lodged with there had died. She
was a widow that kept a small shop at
the foot of the Canongate. My grand
father’s brothers had occasion to call on
her successor. Goldsmith arrived in Edin
burgh, and he called frequently at the
shop to inquire alter Mary’s welfare.
He was informed that William had been
bought oft for £4O, and that he was work
ing at Cathcart, for 8d a day, that Mary
was sewing, and the children knitting,
and paying the money by instalments.
He sent them a few pounds- Honored
be the memory of Goldsmith, lie said
that it was the information that Mary
gave him of Edinburgh College that made
him make up his mind to come to it.
Goldsmith set out on a tour to the North
and West Highlands, and to visit Mary
at Cathcart; but his money failed him,
and he had to cut his tour short. He
expressed hiniselt greatly disappointed
that he had not seen the Loch Lomond
district, and that he had not seen Mary,
lie spoke constantly of taking another
tour, but lie did not set out a second
time.
This incident occurred in tho period
between 1749 and 1752, during which
Goldsmith made unsuccessful attempts to
enter the Church, and to commence the
study of the Law. Being disappointed
in both, he set off for Cork, with the in
tention of proceeding thence to America;
but, having paid his passage, he managed
to be out of the way when a favorite
wind set in, and the Captain set sail with
out him. On his retuni s from Cork to
his home at Ballymahon, he met with a
little adventure, something like the one
just narrated, which, in a letter to his
mother, he described as follows: “Upon
the way, 1 met a poor woman all in tears,
who told ine her husband had been ar
rested for a debt he was not able to pay,
and that his eight children must now
starve, beieft as they, were of his industry,
which was their only support, and 1
parted with a moiety of all my store (he
was 100 miles from home, and hud only
5s in his pocket;) “and pray, mother,
ought I not have given her the other
half crown, for what she got could be of
little use to her ? ”
The ultra Tory journals are in a white
heat over the appointment of .Judge
iO’Haganto the Chancellorship , simply
' because he is a Catholic.
NEW ORLEANS (LA) CORRESPONDENCE
OF THE BANNER OF THE SOUTH.
The Holidays in the Crescent City—
The Church—The Little Sisters of
the Poor, Etc.
New Orleans, Dee. 23, 1808.
Banner of the South :
These are days when it is pleasant to
reside in New Orleans. The Winter
Examinations of the Public Schools being
over, the streets are enlivened by th e
joyous throngs of boys and girls who are
now turned loose for the Christmas holi
days. The windows of the retail shops
are blooming with attractive displays of
brilliant novelties in jewelry, silverware,
costly robes, parlor ornaments, books,
paintings, and the infinite variety of cun
ning toys that Santa Claus manages each
year to invent for the delectation of
children, big and little. The solid at
tractions of the Restaurants, and the sweet
ones of the Confectioners, are especially
honored by the incessant admiration of
the longing eyes and watering mouths of
youthful watchers, to whose itching fingers
the envious plate glass offers a cruel
barrier. In tine weather, such as we
have had the latter half of this week, the
crowds in front of these show-windows
a e a serious obstacle to foot passengers,
and afford a fine chance for pickpockets,
who are always at hand for such opportu
nities. Resides these crowds, others are
! gathered around the peripatetic hawkers
of “Indestruotible Pens—bettor than gold
three for a quarter;” the portable
Astronomical Observatory, whose eight
foot telescope offers a “full view of the
spots on the sun for five cents;” the
Chariot of the • ’Chinese Grip—warranted
to mend all wares, leather, wood, &c., so
they cannot be broken agaiu;” the patent
“Lung Tester —for discovering incipient
consumption;” the countless bands of
wandering Minstrels, whose harsh voices,
with accompaniments of twanging harps
and screeching fiddles, make all hours
hideous; the übiquitous knife-grinder,
with his soul-haunting bell; and—biggest
attraction of all—the Balcony Brass
Bands of the Theatres, on St. Charles
Street, whose curb-stone audiences often
block the way for vehicles as well as for
pedestrians.
Now, when you consider that die
regular number of our citizens is always
doubled, at this season, by the accession
of sight seers, health-seekers, and adven
turers, male and female, of all nationali
ties—but chiefly from that neighboring
nation, self-dubbed the Universal—you
may form some idea of the almost impene
trable mass of humanity that swarms upon
Canal, Chartres, Royal, Camp, St.
Charles, and other leading streets, every
sunny day of Winter.
Our venerable Archbishop, notwith
j standing his weight of years, and the
: physical infirmities which cause him in
■ cessant suffering, is indefatigable in the
! performance of his pastoral duties. He
has just issued his order for the Annual
1 Christinas collection for the support of his
I Seminaries; another for the clerical re
: treat to be held about the middle oi
1 January; and a third, convening the
j Diocesan Synod on the 28th proxim >.
The next thing in order will be the in
stallation of the newly arrived Little
Sisters of the Poor, whose advent here
brings hope and consolation to many an
afflicted victim of poverty, disease and
old age. One of the most lovely and
superhuman traits of these devoted Indies
is their assimilation to the condition of
their poor proteges, by sharing and par
ticipating in their every discomfort, as
regards food, raiment, and shelter; ami,
in addition to all this, they assume the
responsibility of providing for all, and
performing, with their own hands, all tin
menial duties of the heterogeneous
family.
The exercise, in our midst, of sueff
heroic charities, must bring upon our
City an accumulation of blessings, that
will go far to offset the political cursi s
that are being re-imposed upon us in tn ■
shape of negro policemen and unscrupu
lous magistrates.
In the Third District, the zealuns
Father Foltier, who has recently com
pleted the erection of the solid and capa
cious Church of St. Vincent de Paul, fu
made arrangements with the Sisters
the Holy Gross to take charge of hi-'
parochial schools. Thus steadily m°' v ' s
forward the Church of true progres- n
her grand mission of Religion, Char.q
and Education. Southern Radical
A letter from Charles Kickharn, one t
the Fenian prisoners, gives a narrative
the terrible sufferings endured by hitnse;
and others at Pentonville.
The whole English Church property
in Irelaud is set down by the Cork r.
ammer, at three-quarters of a million a’-
nually. ’Tis understood that as soon
the Church disendowmeut shall have ae.
place, the available proceeds will he M"
plied in the reduction of the poor ran