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VOL. IT.
The Dying Year.
BY THE I.ATE EDWARD F. MOREHEAD.
Will) mournful wail, the wandering gale
Laments the dying year;
It sings a strain of pleasure and pain
That melts in the mist of a tear —
A mingling of sorrow that knows not a
morrow
With joys that no shadows invade ;
Os hopes that, shall sleep in eternity’s
deep
With fancies that love has arrayed.
There’s a clashing of arms, with war’s
dread alarms,
And victory’s boisterous cry;
And the flag of the free, on a blood-pil
lowed sea,
Still dashes its folds to the sky.
And many a name that is hallowed by
fame
Burns bright on the year that departs,
Like a lantern of hope to illumine the
slope
Os the future for patriot hearts.
Oh, valiantly cast off the gloom of the
past,
Look bravely to days far ahead,
When the carnage shall cease, and the
bright rays of peace
New light on our country shall shed.
Dry the tear for the brave who have won
them a grave
Which the lustre of glory enshrines;
For the coming year brings on its hunt
ing wings
New hopes to unshadow our minds.
[From Dicken’s All the Year Bound.]
AO HOST STORY.
It was eight-and-thirty years ago, and
I had been married five or six years,
when I went to live at Manorbere Lodge.
The ship in which my husband had been
first lieutenant was paid off. He had
got his rank as commander, but had no
immediate prospect of employment afloat,
so his mind naturally turned to the occu
pation he loved best, next to his profes
sion—fox-hunting; a passion for which
sport came to him by nature, as the
second son of a Lincolnshire squire. His
youDger son’s portion, with my dowry
and his pay, though altogether making
up a comfortable home, would not suffice
for that very expensive amusement, un
less we could find a house in a good
situation, at a moderate rent; and we
were looking for such a house, when one
day Dick came in, radiant with expecta
tion, to tell me lie had heard of one be
yond the dreams of avarice, or rather of
economy. It was in the heart of the
shires, within easy reach of three first
rate packs, had capital stabling, and was
all to be let by the year at a fabulously
low rental.
It is a maxim with me that nothing is
to be had for less than its value, so 1 was
nut quite so sanguine as Dick; but I
agreed with him in thinking it worth
while that he should run down and look
at the place.
He went and came back delighted.
He had spared no pains to find out what
there could be amiss with the house, but
had come to the conclusion that it was
almost faultless. Indeed, it seemed to
him such a prize that he had feared to
lose it by delay, and had taken it at once
lor a year certain. “I am sure you will
hke it, my love ”he said. “It is an old
house, a great deal larger and handsomer
than we want, but that does not matter.”
> was quite conteut so that .he pleased
himself, and very few days saw us settled
a t Manorbere.
1 found the place all that Dick had said
it was. The house, as it now stood, had
apparently been only a wing of the
ancient mansion. Part of the principal
building had been completely pulled
( lown, but for some reason or other a
p rtion abutting upon the present house
hud been left standing, and was convert-
ed, the lower part into a cart-house, and
the first floor into a place for carpenter’s
work, lumber and so forth.
On the ground floor, the communica
tion had been walled up, where a door
had formerly opened upon a passage
running nearly the length of the present
house. A similar corridor ran along the
first floor, and here the disused part of
the house was divided from the dwelling
only by a strong oaken door, heavily
barred and bolted. A staircase led up
from the ground floor to this end of the
corridor; but it was seldom used, as we
inhabited the rooms at the other extremi
ty, and the ’ servant’s chambers were
reached also by a different stair. The
door itself looked as if it could resist
everything except treachery in the gar
rison, and even a tiaitor would have
had some difficulty in removing the de
fences, so rusted were they in their
places.
There’ was nothing at all gloomy about
the house. The rooms were large and
light, with the ample windows character
istic of English houses erected before
the imposition of the window tax gave
our builders their present traditions. The
principal sitting-room was a very large
one on the ground floor, looking nearly
south, and catching all the sunshine in
its bay windows. These opened on a
raised terrace, beneath which wa3 a pret
ty flower-garden, and there was a pad
dock with fine trees beyond. The stables
were of much later date than the house,
and were excellent.
Os course we soon made acquaintance
with our neighbors, and the assemblies
to see the hounds throw off on a fine
morning were very pleasant and socia
ble. We had no close carriage, and our
house was at a considerable distance
from any visiting families, so at first we
declined all dinner invitations. But
that sort of thing never goes on long
when those cencerned are still young,
cheerful, and sociable, and very soon we
got into the way of going frequently to
dine and sleep at our neighbors’ places.
At the very first of these dinner parties,
the truth came out about Manorbere.
"It is very nice having you and Cap
tain Macnamara at Manorbere,’’ said a
certain lively Mrs. Brodrick to me, when
we ladies went to the drawing-room after
dinner. “I do so hate having a house
shut up; and, indeed, there was a talk
last year of its being pulled down, since
nobody would take it.’’
"But, why would nobody take it? I
think it is charming,” said I.
“Well perhaps it is foolish; but you
know a great many people really do not
like living in a house that has such a
name.”
"A name for what ?”
“Being haunted.”
“Haunted!”
“Good gracious! did you not know
about the ghost ?”
I burst out laughing. “So that is the
reason of our getting it so cheap ? lam
really very much obliged to the ghost.”
“How odd that you should not have
heard of it! But lain so sorry I men
tioned L. You are so much alone there.
I hope it won't make you uncomlortable.”
“Thank you ; it only makes me laugh.
But do toll me the story of the house.”
“Hush 1” said another lady; “don’t talk
about it now. Here comes Mrs. Dor
mer (our hostess), and she never quite
likes the subject.”
My curiosity, however, being roused, 1
bogged Mrs. Brodriek, the first time an
opportunity offered a teteatete , to give
me particulars as to our tiers-parti at
Manorbere. And this is the substance of
her narrative:
The last family that had lived in the
house was that of Colonel Fearon, a
widower with three daughters. They
were a very pleasant, cheerlul set; hos
pitable as tar as their means, which were
not very large, would allow ; and ready
to promote or to join in anything that
was proposed in the way of social amuse
AUGUSTA, GAA., FEBRUARY 12, 1870.
meut. But, unfortunately, a few months
after their arrrival, the colonel got a bad
fall out hunting, and became, for a time,
a confirmed invalid. He recovered ul
timately, but at that period it was feared
that he never would be himself again.
His nervous system was so affected by
the blow he had received on the spine,
that he could bear hardly any noise or
company, and he was so weak as to be
reduced to a wheel chair in which to take
air aud exercise. The family had se
lected for their own occupation the same
set of rooms we had chosen for our
selves at the opposite end of the corri
dor from the condemed door, aud the
rooms near it were reserved for guests.
The hitherto gay and lively house had,
however, for some time become quite
changed in character, the girls giving up
all society at home uncomplainingly, for
their father’s sake. Eleanor, the eldest,
thought, however, after a time, that it
was a pity her young sisters Effie aud
Lucy should be debarred from taking
part in the gayeties suited to their age
which were going on during the Winter;
so the girls took it in turn to go out two
and two together, some neighboring ma
tron being always ready to act as chape
ron when they joined her at the ball or
soiree. On one of these occasions two
young friends, who had come to the party
from some distance on the other side of
Manorbere, had been offered a night’s
lodging at the latter place to save them
the long winter drive after midnight, and
also, that they might a company the
Fearons to a ballon the ensuing evening.
Though it was not very late when the
girls returned, the invalid had retired to
rest, and Eleanor was ready to follow his
example, wden she heard her sisters
and their friends coming up stairs, and
went out in her dressing-gown to meet
them, and see that they had all things
comfortable in their rooms. The girls
wtre in high spirits, aud, though subduing
their voices lest they should waken their
father, Eleanor feared that some incau
tious laugh or exclamation might disturb
him, so enjoining silence by a gesture
she led the way to the chamber at the
further end of the corridor which had
been prepared for her guejs, stirred the
fire into a bright blaze, li t hted the can
dies, and told them now might laugh
and chatter their fill. The young folks
did not hesitate to avail of
the permission, and hung over the fire
discussing the party of that evening, aud
the prospect of the morrow’s ball, till
Eleanor declared she must take her sis
ters away, or they would talk all night.
She had twice risen with this intention
without getting them to follow her, aud
was now standing with the door half open
in her hand waiting for them, when they
saw her suddenly put her finger on her
lips, and peep cautiously out; then she
set down her caudle, and stepped softly
into the passage. The others ceased
talking in a minute, and looked inquir
ingly towards her. “What is it Elea
nor !” whispered Lucy, coming to the
door.
“The most extraordinary thing! I
thought I heard the door opeu.”
“What door ?” said Eftie.
“Why, the great barred door.”
“My dear Nellie, you must be dream
ing It is time we went fco bed, indeed,”
said Effie, laughing, aud takiug up her
caudle. Eleanor took hers, also, but in
stead of returning to her room, walked
straight up to the door and examined it
closely, followed by Lucy, who looked at
her in smiling wonder.
"Are you satisfied, dear ?” said she
pointing to the cobweb*, which in many
places stretched across from the door to
its lintel.
“Yes, I must have been mistaken. But
it is very odd.”
“What did you hear Nellie?” eagerly
asked the others, comin- to their room
door.
“The first time I signed to you to be
silent, I thought 1 heard footsteps coming
gently and cautiously up the stair, and
fancied it was one of the maids. They
know I do not allow them to sit up so
late, and I waited to see who it was steal
ing up this way where they have no busi
ness. But instead of passing by this
room, the footsteps seemed to stop at the
top of the stairs, an i then the door
turned slowly on its hinges.”
“Did you see it?” asked Lucy.
O no! It only sounded so.”
‘-The wind or something,”
“Perhaps. Now do go to bed, chil
dren.” And they all separated.
The next evening one of their visi
tors, Isabel Murray, being rather tired
declined to go to the ball, and said she
would prefer staying to keep company
with Lucy, whose turn it was to remain
with her father. After he had gone to
bed, the two girls became so absorbed in
a game of chess that the time slipped
away unobserved, and they then be
thought them of sitting up for their
sisters, to give them what is called in
Ireland “a raking pot of tea,” on their
return. The bright idea was immedi
ately carried out. The tea things were
set in the guest chamber, the fire was
made up, the maids were sent to bed,
and the girls, after partially undressing,
met together, wrapped in their dressing
gowns to enjoy the vigil. They had
brought up their chess-board and books,
but presently agreed that if they took a
nap they would be all the fresher by
and by; so, curling themselves up on a
sofa, they were soon asleep. Perfect
silence reigned throughout the house, and
in the room nothing was heard but the
soft breathing of th3 sleepers. Suddenly
and simultaneously both awoke and sat
up, Lucy’s little dog at the same time
starting from his slumbers and pricking
his ears.
“Is it the carriage?” said Isabel Mur
ray.
“I don’t know. Something woke me,
but I can’t tell what Yes, it must be,”
continued Lucy, as the dog was sniffing
to the door, and she opened it and looked
out. “I hear footsteps, but there is no
light. How quietly they have come in.”
Just tfen Pincher who had run out
when the door was opened, came cower
ing back with drooping tail, and at the
same moment came the grating sound
of a door turning on rusty hinges, and
then quietly closed. Isabel sprang to
Lucy’s side, and, softly closing all but a
chink of the door, stood listening.
Nothing more was heard. The girls
looked at each other, aud drew a long
breath. “There’s something wrong here,
Lucy,” said Isabel. Lucy quickly shut
the door and bolted it.
“0 Isabel, lam so frightened? Only
think if anybody can get in here in the
dead of the night. We may be all mur
dered !”
“We must tell Eleanor, and, ol
course it must be looked to. But the
strange thing is that the door seems as
if it had not been opened for a century ”
“0 dear! that’s nothing, these people
are up to all sort- of tricks—”
“What people ?”
“Why housebreakers and burglars !”
“I don’t think it cau be a burglar,”
said Isabel, “as he has been here already ,
and nothing appears to have been stofi-n.
Perhaps one of the maids has a f< .Hewer
whom she lets in by stealth. What is
there on the other side of the door ?”
“I don’t know. 0 yes, I do! A sort
of lumber-room and carpenter’s work
room.”
“We ought to go to-morrow aud ex
amine it on that side. I do not think
there is any danger for to-night, as the
intruder, whoever he be, seems to have
departed. What’s become ot Pincher?
Did you shut him out ?”
On examination, the dog was found
under the bed pressed closely against
the wall, and trembling all over. Lucy
had some difficulty m coaxing him out,
and even when she had got him in her
arms her caresses failed to restore him to
his usual spirits. “Is he ill poor feliow ?”
asked Isabel.
"Only frightened, I think ; but he is
usually so courageous! I cannot under
stand it. You may be sure he has seen
some ore who has terrified him some
how. I wish the others were come
home.”
After this the “raking pot of tea” was
not so jovial an affair as they had in
tended. The two watchers had not quite
got over their alarm, and the others
heard their account with anxiety and
uneasiness. Eleanor agreed that the
first thing to do was to scrutinize both
sides of the door, but cautioned them all
to keep entire silence on the subject
meantime.
Tiie next day they made their investi
gation of the carpenter’s workroom, which
w.is entered by an outside wooden stair
way. Eleanor made the pretence of
wanting a piece of old seasoned wood for
a drawing-board, which gave them an ex
cuse for poking about unsuspected. Not
only were the door and all its adjuncts as
rusty and cobweb tapestried here as on
the inside, but they found heaped against
it a quantity of wood which had been cut
up for making new hurdles.
"They might be put there only for a
blind,” Isabel suggested in a whisper; so
the astute Eleanor put a leading question
immediately.
“Have you not been a long time about
those hurdles, Jones ?”
“Well/ ma’am, the hurdles is ready,
and has been any time these three weeks.
It ain’t my fault they bean’t put up long
ago, and I’d be glad to get ’em out of my
way lumberin’ here. Perhaps you’d
speak about it ?”
Eleanor promised to do so, and re
marking that her father’s illness had
caused some neglect of out-door work,
gave directions about her board aud
withdrew.
“No light thrown on the mystery yet,”
she observed, as she walked away.
That door cannot have been opened for
years, I am positive.” The Murrays
were to leave the lodge next day. “I
shall move into that room to-morrow.
When the servants know that one of the
fam ly is close by, they will hardly dare
to carry on any clandestine meeting ”
“Hut that’s no good,” said Lucy: “if
it is one of the servants the man will be
left in elsewhere. Dear Nellie, do get
at the bottom of it. lam sure if you do
not, I never can teel we are sate for a
single night.”
“My child, it is not proved that any*
body did come in. On the contrary, it
seems impossible.”
“We will watch to-night, anyhow,”
said Eflie.
When night came, however, Eleanor
desired her sisters would go to their
own rooms, as she thought so many of
them together could hardly keep quiet
enough to avo.d giving some warning to
the mysterious visitor She also begged
the Murrays to go to bed as soou as they
were ready; aud they had done so,
tin nigh they could not sleep. And now,
in the dead of the night, she sat in the r
room, the caudle closely shaded and the
door aj ir, breathlessly awaiting she knew
not what. She had, without saying any
thing about it, brought with her one of
her father’s pistols. The fire burned
low and red, and everything was pro
foundly still, when the ominous creaking
struck on their terrified ears. Eleanor
quickly seized her candle aud ran intv)
the passage, followed by the other two,
who had instantly sprung out of bed.
Footsteps were distinctly audible descend
ing the stairs. “Who is .there ?” de
manded Eleanor. “Answer, or I shall
fire!’ No voi-e replied. They held
their candles o. or tneir balustrade, tur
no o.e was to oe seen. At the same
moment Lucy darted from her room, and
cam** down the corridor to join the group.
“Is it broken !’’ .said she hurriedly.
“Broken v Wnat?” Lucy ran p ist
them to the stairs, bidding them follow.
No. 48-