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. ..harm for me. When night approaches,
muler the shade of these grand old trees
I He down, not to repose, but to sigh
an d weep. Vim! Vivia! happiness
would return to this heart now grown
cold with sorrow, if tny eyes could be
hold thy life blood flowing, and my ears
hear the wailing of thy agony!”
“But what has Vivia done?” inquired
\for, astonished at the vehemence with
which the old man denounced his enemy.
“What has she done to drive thee to such
tits of desperation ? Has she ever load
ed thee with chains or cast thee into a
dungeon ? 1 repeat, I cannot understand
thee. Was it not her mother who pro
cured thy freedom and has even given
thee the herds which we see around us
and which afford thee the means ot ex
istence V’
‘•True, I admit, hut the only treasure
I prized in this world has been snatched
awav from me by that infamous Vivia.”
“What doth thou mean, Sylvan ? who
is this treasure of which thou speakest ?
I fear that old age has troubled thy rea
son.”
“Hast thou forgotten, Afcr, that 1 have
been a father ? The young companion
of my' youth died years ago, but she left
me a pledge of our mutual love. The
name of that child was Fatima. I watch
ed over her cradle and guided her infant
steps with ail tiic love of a tender parent,
and often I returned from the day’s work
sooner than usual to attend to her little
wants. And when the early dawn would
find me at work, the thought of that dear
child would renew my vigor and make
me forget the drops of sweat that fell
from my brow. I would return towards
the close of day, and I would feel my
heart dilate as I beheld her little hands
outstretched to welcome me, as her face
beamed with an angelic smile. I would
take her up in my arms and press her to
my bosom as I covered her with kisses.
Often a tear would fall but it was a tear
as sweet as those that I have since shed,
have been sorrowful and bitter.
If Fatima was ill, I would pass asleep
less night I eside her pillow, giving her
the most tender care and using every ef
fort to assuage her suffering'. When the
light of the morning would appear, 1
would confido her to the care of my old
friend Fatuma, but not without feelings
of anxiety lest anything should happen
in my absence. It is true that my mis
tress often took care of her. and it would
be ingratitude to forget tho kindness
with which she ministered to her wants.
Oh! why did she not die in those suffer
ings ? Why’ did she not go and join her
who had given her birth ? Fool that I
was, I prayed to the immortal gods to
preserve her ! But I could not lift the
impenetrable veil of the future and fore
see that I should one day blaspheme the
gods for having heard my prayer. Par
don the grief of a father, Afcr, and take
not scandal from what I have done. Be
sides, if I mistake not, Jupiter inspires
you with no more terror than that
crucified Jew whom the impious sect of
Christians adore.
‘ Fatima grew up the imago of her
mother, sweet and lovely like her. When
I would come home from the fields she
would run as usual to meet and wipe the
sweat from my brow, and her first word was
some kind word of love and encourage
ment. She would have the water al
ready prepared to wash my feet, and re
fresh me after the labors of the day
‘ She now becaino the property of Vi
via and for two years she received from
her the same kind attention which she
had before experienced from the wife of
Hanno. 0.. e day, however, Fatima ap
peared to me to bo somewhat dejected
and unhappy; she appeared grave,
thoughtful and seriou3. Her conversa
tion had lost its natural vivacity and her
thoughts were deeply pro-occupied. Was
she concealing anything from me; she who
was always so open and affectionate ? I
was afraid to ask her, for after all there
was always something so sweet in her
smile, something so tender in her caresses.
What was it that gave her pain ? Had
she found her position irksome and un
pleasant ? Was she suffering from the
pride and ang'er of her mistress? I
could not ask her.
One day as I returned home at the
usual hour, I was astonished at not see
ing hatima. She had not come out to
meet me as she was wont to do and I
could not but rush into all kinds of wild
conjectures ns to the cause ot her ab
sence. The stars had become bright in
tii .' heavens and still I heard not the step
c my beloved.ichild. At length I heard
the noise of sbme one approaching. I
listened attentively. It was she! I ran
to eaten her in my arms, but I stood
back in horror, as it a thunderbolt from
the gods had smote me to the earth! Fa
tima no longer wore the dress of an hum
ble slave, but, pardon, 0 immortal gods!
flic white robe of a Christian! A loag
veil of the same color hung gracefully
over her head, half concealing her beau
“a^r - Upon her breast glittered a
small gold cross, the symbol of the
faith which she had embraced. She had
been deceived; her ingenuous simplicity
had been abused and she had been in
duced to apostatise from the worship of
those gods which she had been taught to
reverence from her infancy, and this to
join that impious and accursed sect of
Nazareeus. That was the secret she
withheld from me; that was the mys-ery
that hung over her and which l was so
anxious to find out. I had conjectured
many things indeed but that had not
struck me even in my wildest dreams.
“I stood there transfixed, unable to
utter a single word. She cast down her
eyes and trembled as she came forward
to embrace me. Her lips touched my
forehead and I heard her softly call me
father. But the thought of what she had
done came to my mind and 1 rudely
cast her back. I reproached her in bit
ter terms, and though she fell at my feet
and besought mo to have pity and forgive
her, I raised my hand and imprecated
curses upon her head, i bade her be
gone and never cross the threshold of
her father’s house. Afer, I hate the
Christians. I have sworn to have re
venge, and by the gods of Olympus I
will have it before this withered form is
borne to the grave. But lam inconsid
erate. Take a little rest, Afer, for fchou
needost it. The shades of night have
closed in upon the mountains, and repose
here in peace. As for mo, I cannot rest.
My brain is on tire and ray heart beats
with the deadliest feelings of rage and
hatred. I will tell you all I have to say
to-morrow, and l will then let you know
the project which 1 have in view and
which I hope to realize with the aid of
our immortal gods. Success is sure, be
lieve me, and then indeed I shall taste
how sweet vengeance is to a heart that
hitherto has sighed for it in vain.”
“To-morrow be it as thou sayest,”
replied Afer, rising and pressing the
hand of Sylvain ; until then, mayest
thou rest in peace.”
[to be continued.)
THE CANCAN DANCE —WHAT IT
MEANS AND WHITHER IT TENDS-
The Home Journal has an article on
the balls and dances of the winter, from
which we quote the following.
The whole tendency of the hour is to
make New York the Paris of the new
world; and it is characteristic of imita
tion to seize upon the-more prominent
points of its model first. So true is this
that born and bread Parisians look with
unfeigned astonishment upon the amb
ling facility with which we not only
copy, but exaggerate the vices of their
native ctiy. Paris sends us her fashions
not only in dress, but in moral laxity, in
amusement, in festivity, in dissipation.
All these we adopt with the eager
voracity of a brilliant but spoiled child,
knocking down and pulling up by the
roots one after another the old time
honored and once revered social land
marks, safeguards, and hedges.
The present day' might be aptly
termed the cancan period in our history.
The students and grisettes of the Latain
Quarter and the habitues of the Jardiu
Mabille, in the wildest of their mad
revels, have a dance made up of graceful
vulgarity and gymnastic indecency, in
which extravagant suggestiveness is the
principal feature. Through the medium
of the stage we have been introduced to
this dance, and its devastating influences
have spread far and wide, like a wild-fire.
It tickled the popular fancy, fed the
growing appetite for sensation and sen
suality, and, before we knew it, became
fashionable. Not many weeks siuce it
was presented nightly, in one form and
another, at ten nominally first-class
theatres in this city before audiences res
ectable in the best sense of the word,
but respectability cannot shield from
taint in such an atmosphere; and when
wc remember what a large proportion of
our citizens are theatre-goers, and what an
immense influence for good or evil the
theatres exert, we can but tremble in an
ticipation of the result of this subtle ad
mixture of sensuous vice with our most
popular diversion.
Probably' nothing reflects the social
condition of a people more clearly than
their contemporary diana—or, iu this
case, that which usurps the place of the
drama, without even the temerity to
adopt its name. The spread of the
cancan fever among all classes and in
every circle cannot be attributed to its
introduc'ion with opera but rather
to a morbid and diseased state ot society,
which made it absorb the infection at
once. The poison worked quickly, and
the disease has naturally assumed a viru
lent and alarming aspect. One of its
phases lias been very prominet at the
public balls of the season now near its
end. At these the queenly Anonymas
of the metropolis have swept the floor
with their satins and laces, and eclipsed
iMHif ©i eh im
the radience of the chandeliers with the
regal lustre of their jewels. They have
jostled the ladies of our most select
circles, and looked down with an air of
supercilious patronage upon the bells of
our best society. Around them have
clustered thickly’ and eagerly the sons of
the former, the brothers of the latter —
the representatives of the best blood of
the rising generation— the young men,
ready to make any sacrifice of honor for
a smile, or go down on their knees for an
encouraging word; and that, too, with
the consciousness that thousands of in
quiring eyes were fixed upon them.
At the masquerade balls especially,
with scarcely a single exception, the
cancan spirit has seemed to pervade ev
erything and everybody. Here, these
same young men and these same Anouy
mas have introduced the dance iu its
most ungraceful, grotesque, and exag
gerated form. In vain have experts been
imported directly from the Bal Mabille
to teach them its Parisian delicacy of in
delicacy and spicy flavor of wickedness.
They have left their instructors far be
hind, and preferred to Americaniz?—and
vulgarize—it. The excess to which it
has been carried has more than bordered
upon insanity. At the height of one of
the e balls, in the Academy of Music, a
single couple, occupying a proscenium
box, began dancing the cancan in full
view of the assemblage. Upon the floor
beneath the watching and applauding
crowd widened and widened until those
two young persons absorbed the entire
interest of the moment' Cheer upon
cheer greeted each fresh endeavor on
their part; their audience was on the
very tip-toe of excitement; flushed and
breathless, they danced on only’ stopping
to throw kisses and powers to the sway--
ing crowd, until, ready to faint with ex
haustion, they were literally unable to
stand a moment longer. On such a scene
as this gazed the wives and mothers, the
daughters and sisters of respectable citi
zens of New York, interested and una
bashed, if not altogether unblushing. In
the very midst of such a scene as this jos
tled—glowing, and elated with artificial,
unhealthy’, mad excitement—respectable
citizens of New York themselves. Can
any comment be more eloquent than the
bare facts presented?
Gathering force and impetuosity, the
great wave of sensuality has rolled on,
seemingly without an obstacle to check
its progress, until length, it seems to
have reached a climax, and to be curling,
foaming, and towering above our heads,
ready to fall upon us like a destroying
deluge. The last poblic masked ball held
in this city was a public disgrace to
America, and an insult to the civihritiou
of the nineteenth century. It was ad
vertised in the public press, the tickets
were on sale in public places, and every
outward claim was made to at least or
dinary respectability. But for many
days beforehand it was the foremost topic
of conversation with what might be called
“Young New York,” and simultaneously
anticipated as a delightful innovation by
tho immates of scores of houses of prosti
tution. These two classes met and
mingled within the walls of a popular
theatre, and scenes of revelry, carousal,
and dissipation followed that beggar des
cription. Here at last the mask was
thrown off; nobody'claimed respectability
vice herded with vice, corruption with
curruptiorr But in the frightful mael
stromc were whirled far down the dizzy
road to ruin hundreds of young men
fitted by birth, training, and education
for the most exalted positions in society;
and it was affirmed that there were res
pectable women present; and it is certain
that ordinarily staid and sober men,
th gray hair and faces lined with care
and experience, witnessed and applauded
tho horrible parody upon enjoyment
with a zest only too evident. The bestial
spirit of sensuality and licentiousness
ruled the hour. High and low alike were
reduced to a flat and uncompromising
level of degradation. Quadrille, lancers,
schottisch, waltz, and polka, wore all
arbitrarily cancanized. Women were
tossed from boxes to floor and back again
like so many packages of dry goods, or
borne alo!t in the crowd, shameless, upon
tiic shoulders of shameless men. Not one
faint flicker of refinement, not one feeble
remonstrance, marred the consistent ef
frontery and debauchery of the occasion.
Paris was outdone by New York; the
ecceiu ricities of La Closerie paled before
the extravagances of Mi-Careme; and the
long night of revelry went out in the
rrray twilight of day break like a garish
meteor that drops Iroiu the zenith to the
horizon, leaving a ied tiuil of blood
behind it. Even the voice of Mrs.
Grundy was awed into silence by such
splendid and fearles sin. One or two
newspapers denounced it mildly; the par
ticipants winked at once another with
blood shot eyes for a day or two, then it
became a thing of the past. Does not
blot remain? Is there no sear left?
The wave that did not break above
the heads of the reveler of Mi-Careme
still rolls on with accumulative force and
fury*. Lifting its glittering crest am
bitiously heavenward, it is almost
glorious in its terrible fascination. What
is its aim, its destination? On what
wild, storm-beaten, wreek-strewu reef
will it break at last, with all the youth,
and beauty, and talent, and ambition,
and wealth, which it bears along in its
mighty embrace? What will be the
next contribution to its inestimable trea
sures? Watching its darkly majestic roll,
and listening to the moaning undertone
which rises from the sea ot humanity be
neath, as it dashes on, wc may well ask,
with anxious foreboding: of the
night?
A VISIT TO DR- MUDD-
His Return Home —A Talkiciih Him
llh Reminiscences of .Booth's visit —An
Interesting Personal Sketch,
(Correspondence of the New York Herald.)
The Doctor says lie is 35 years of age,
married in 1860, buift. the house in which
ho now lives after his marriage, owned a
well stocked farm of about thirty acres,and
was in the enjoyment of a pretty extensive
practice up to the time of hissrres in 1865.
The world went well and smoothly wuh
him previous to that unhappy event. His
house was furnished with all the comforts
of’a country gentleman’s residence. He
had his horses and hounds, and in the
sporting season was foremost in every fox
hunt and at every uauly out-door sport.
He had robust health, and a vigorous, ath
letic frame in those days, but it is very
different with him now.
Above the middle height, with a reddish
moustache and chin whiskers, a high fore
head and attenuated nose, his appearance
indicates a man of calm and slow reflection,
gentle in manner, and of a very domestic
turn. He says he was born within a few
miles of this house, and has lived all his
life in the country. llis whole desire now
is to be allowed to spend the balance of
his days quietly in the bosom of his family.
In his sunken, lustreless eye, paiid lips,
and cold, ashy complexion, one can read
the words, “Dry Tortugas,” with a terri
ble significance. In the prime of his
years, looking prematurely old and care
worn, there are few indeed who could gaze
on the wreck and ravage in the face of
this man before them without feeling a
sentiment of sympathy and commiseration.
“I have come home,” said the Doctor,
sorrowfully, “to find nothing left me but
my house and family. No money, no pro
visions, no crops in the ground, and no
clear way before me wherein to derive the
means of support in my present enfeebled
condition.”
There are no deceptions here- In the
scanty furniture of the house, and in tho
pale, sad countenance of the speaker, there
was evidence enough of poor and altered
fortune. It was now evening and grow
ing rapidly dark. A big fire blazed on
the ample hearth, and Mrs. Mudd, an in
telligence and handsome lady, with one of
her children, joined the Doctor aud our
selves in the conversation over the events
of that memorable April morning after the
assassination.
“Did you see Booth, Mrs. Mudd?” we
inquired, with a feeling of intenso interest
to hear her reply.
“Yes,” she replied, “I saw himself
and Harold, after they entered this parlor-
Booth stretched himself out on that sofa
there, and Harold stooped down to whis
per something to him.”
“How did Booth look ?”
“Very bad. He seemed as though he
had been drinking very hard. His eyes
were red and swollen, and his hair in dis
order.”
“Did he appear to suffer much ?”
“Not after he laid down on the sofa. In
fact, it seemed as if hardly anything was
wrong with him then.”
“What kind of a fracture did Booth sus
tain?” we inquired, addressing the Doc
tor.
“Well,” said he, “after he was laid
down on that sofa, and having told me his
leg was fractured by his horse-falling on
him, during his journey up from Rich
mond, I took a knife and split the leg of
his boot down to the instep, slipped it off,
and the sock with it. I then left careful
ly with both hands dowa along his leg, but
at first could discover nothing like crepita
tion, till, after a second investigation, I
found on the outside, near the ankle,
something that felt like indurated flesh,
arid then, for the first time, I concluded it
was a direct and clean fracture of the bone.
[ then improvised, out of pasteboard, a
sort of boot, Fiat adhered close enough to
the leg to keep it rigidly straight below the
knee, without at all interfering with the
flexture of the leg. A low cut shoe was
substituted for the leather boot, and be
tween five and six o’clock in the morning,
Booth and his companion started off for a
point on the river below.
“How did Booth’s horse look after his
long ride ?’ ’ we inquired.
“ she boy, after putting him in the sta
ble,” the Doctor replied, “reported that
his back underneath the forward part of
the saddle was raw and bloody. This cir
cumstance tallied with Booth’s account
that he had been riding all day previous
from Richmond, and no suspicion arose
in my mind for one instant that the man
whose leg I was attending to was anything
more than what he represented himself.”
“You knew Booth before, Doctor?”
“Yes,” replied the Doctor. “I was
first introduced to Booth in November,
1864, at the church yonder, I spoke a few
words to him, and never saw him aft«>r
ward until a little while before Christnias
who- T. happened to be in Washington
making a few purchases and waitiug f, r
some friends from Baltimore, who pv orn .
ised to meet me at the Pennsylvania House
and come here to spend the holidays, |
was walking past the National Hotel* at
the time, whes a person tapped me on the
shoulder, and, on turning round, I
covered it *as the gentleman 1 was intro
duced to at the church, about six weeks
previously. He asked me aside for a mo
ment, ami said he desired an introduction
to John H. Surratt, with whom he p re .
sumed I was acquainted. I said that I
was. Surratt and I became almost neces.
sarily acquainted from the lact of his liv
ing on the road I travelled so often on my
way to Washington, and having the onF
tavern on the way that I cared to visit.
Booth and I walked along the avenue
three or four blocks, when we suddenly
came across Surratt ahd Welchman, and
all four having become acquainted, Wu a j_
journed to the National ‘Hotel and had a
round of drinks. The witnesses iu n , v
ca?e swore that Booth and I moved to \
cornet-t>f the room and were engaged f or
an hour or 83 it* secret consultation,
was a barefaced iu*. Ike whole four of u <
were in loud and open conversation all the
time we were together, sad when we
separated we four never met Main,
“You told the soldiers, Doemf.
course the fugi ives pursued after leaving
your house ?”
“I did. 1 told them the route that
Booth told me he intended to take • but
Booth, it seems, changed his mind after
quitting here, and went another way. This
was natural enough ; yet I was straight
way accused of seeking to set the soldiers
astray, and it was urged against me as
proof positive of implication in the con
spiracy.”
“You must have felt seriously agitated
on being arrested in connection with this
matter?’’
“No, sir; I was just as self-posses«ed
as I am now. They might have handed
me at the time, and L should have fae.d
death just as composedly as I smoke This
pipe.’’
NEPOTISM IN WASHINGTON-
The Cincinnati Enquirer speaks of
the machine run in Washington as the
“G. G. G. E.,” that is “Great Grant Gift
Enterprise”:
General Grant, as President $25 oui
Father Jesse R. Grant, as Postmaster at Cov
ington, Kentucky 3 ( vjo
Son Grant, Cadet at West Point ’754
Brotlier-in-law Dent, Brigadier-general (and
board at White House) 3^ss
Brother-in law Sharp, Collector (about) ir.loxj
Brother-in-law Casey. Assessor 3’^
Brother-in-law Cramer, Consul f-'-JOO
Distant relative to the Dents, Long-street, Sur
veyir, (a 1 out) 7,503
Wynants, Postmaster at Newport, Ky., hus
band of the cousin of General Grant’s
wife 7000
There are others who ought to be in
this list, whose names we do not, tit this
writing, recollect.
The Enquirer illustrates the ah >ve bv
the following quotations and remarks:
In the seventy-sixth number of the
Federalist , written by Alexander Ham
ilton, in favor of that clause in the Fed
eral Constitution which associates the
President and Senate together in the
power of appointment to office, Mr.
Hamilton said:
“To what purpose, then, require the
co-operation of the Senate ? I answer
The necessity of their concurrence would
have a powerful, though silent, opera
tion. It would be an excellent check
upon a spirit of favoritism in the Presi
dent, and would tend greatly to prevent
the appointment of unfit characters, from
State prejudices, from family connections,
from personal attachment with a view to
popularity. * * * He (the Presi
dent) would be ashamed and afraid to
bring forward for the most distinguished
and lucrative offices candidates who had
no other merit than that of coming Tom
the same State to which he belonged, or
being in some way cr other personally
attached to him , or of possessing the
necessary insignificance and pliancy to
render them obsequious instruments oi
his power.”
So wrote the leading author of the
Federalist. How fearfully mistaken h
was, the events of the present time prove.
He thought, very naturally, that the
President, with a Senate who mi-l»
check him, would be ashamed to appqiiH
his family connections to office. Looking
down the vista of the future, he did n
perceive that we should ever have a Limu
Grant Gift Enterprise in operation. •
it was, he supposed the Senate w"' ll '
stop it. Alas! lie gave that body crew
for more honesty and independence toJ *
it possesses, and lie misunderstood Ut ;
violence and vehemence of its persoaa*
attachments. We have a President w w
is not ashamed to appoint his kitn u.<-
kin, down to the lowest degree oi couni.
ship, to lucrative places, and we hau ,l
Senate that consents in all this nepou-m.
Cubans in New York claim t( J
private advices from London that tnt - ‘.
lish government has consented to recofc ‘ j
the Uubau insurgents as belligerent, _
allow the purchase of war material ,
ish ports. It is believed that France w»u w
low the English example.