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hands in the pockets of his sailor’s jacket, while
his assistant, a snn-bnrnt, good-natured looking
lad of sixteen, fanned himself with his palmetto
hat.
“ She’s all right now, I think, Jep,” he said,
turning to the boy; “tight and ready for work j
again. We’ll take her out to-morrow, if the day's !
fair.”
“ Why not to-day, Captain Head ?” said Mari
an, coming up. “It is fair enough to-day, and
I should like a sail of all things. Can’t you take
me to that little island yonder—the farther
one?”
“ ‘Dead-Man’s Island,'you mean. Well, that’s
something of a good piece off, and there’s prom
ise of foul weather.”
“Wnat!—with such a bright, warm sun as \
this ?”
“Such days are storm-breeders, and we are
likely to have something to cool the air this eve
ning. Look yonder.”
He pointed out to sea, where a dusky vapor
w‘as seen slowly boiling up and staining the ho- j
rizon like the smoke of a distant chimney.”
“What do you think it will be — wind or i
rain ?”
“ A little blow, mebbe, but more thunder and !
raiD than anything. The air’s thick and sul
try.”
“Well, I’m not afraid of thunder, and a little j
rain won’t dissolve me—nor will it be anything i
to such an old tar as you are, who have so often
cut through water to the tune of a wet sheet.
Shall we go?”
“Yes, we can, if you want to go particularly.
It’s not so far but we can make it and back be- 1
fore yon cloud comes up; and Jep’ll lend a help
ing hand.”
“ I do want to go particularly, and I will thank
you very much to take me this evening. If Jep
will ‘lend a helping hand,’ he shall have a new
fiddle.”
The boy blushed with bashful pleasure, and
obeying his senior’s direction to “ Come ahead,
then,’’jumped into the boat with alacrity.
Marian took her seat; and, spreading the sail
to catch the faint breeze that was beginning to
stir, Captain Head seized the oar with his
brawny hand, and the “Go-Lightly” bounded
over the water. The bay was smooth as glass,
save now and then a tremulous shudder con
vulsed its mirror-like face, and then gradually
passed away, leaving it fair and calm again -
“When were you last at the island?” asked
Marian.
“I haven't set foot upon it for six years—not
since I took a party over there in my boat to
nab a fellow who had run away from justice,
sod hid himself on the island for a> matter of j
six months afore they tracked him out. He was !
sitting down in his log cabin, whistling a tune,
and waiting for his fish to fry, when in walked
the detectives, and took him perfectly on sur
prise. He turned as white as ashes, and not a
word could he speak. I was sorry, from my
heart, for the poor wretch.”
“ What became of him ?”
“I saw him slip the rusty fluke of an old an
chor into the pocket of his great-coat, when he
put it on to go with the officers; but I never |
mistrusted what 1 was for until we got into
deep water, when plunge ! he went over the I
side of the boat, and down he sank like a bul- I
let. He never rose to the surface; the fluke
kep him down. I’ve never liked the island
since.”
“ And is that the reason why you do not go
there ?”
“ I’ve never had anything to take me there.
There’s no good fishing round the island, or 1
never had auy luck there with net or hook.
And it’s an oadeniable fact that some bad luck j
happens to almost everybody that goes there.
Last year, a couple of chaps from Newport
went there so.shoot curlews, and one of them
killed the other by accident The island be
longed to the old man De Forest, and that cabin
on it was built in his time, but nobody’s ever
lived in it except the forger and the queer old
on that stnj s there now. ”
‘>-You mean the dumb fisherman ?"
‘Do you know him ?’
‘J have seen him. Who is he? Where did
he come from ?”
‘Nobody about here seems to know. It’s
now about four years since he came. ’Peared
all of a sudden, as if dropped down from the
moon. I was out betimes one morning, making
the best of the mullet season, when I see smoke
rising out of the old chimney, where there
hadn’t been a fire since the poor forger fried his
last fish. When I got closer, I see a boat push j
out w ith this queer customer sittin’ at the bow,
pulling away at the oars rather awkwardly, like
a green hand at the business. But he’s got the
hang of it now, and can manage a boat as well
as I. ”
“Have 5,ou never had any dealings with
him ?”
“Never. I’ve come alongside him once or
twice, and given him a friendly good-day, and
‘ what luck, mess-mate ?' and the only answer
I’ve ever got was a surly look and a shake of the
head.”
“You forget he is dumb.”
“ Yes, but there be plenty of ways to show a
friendly disposition besides by the tongue. I
let him have his island and his grum looks to
himself, and so has everybody else, unless it be
Mr. De Forest,” he added, looking questioningly
a Marian.
“Does he support himself by fishing? ”
“I never saw him sell a fish in my life; but
he buys provisions in Newport, and pays for
’em in gold. Mebbe he has found the treasure
that they say Karl, the forger, left buried on the
island.
“Had he no family? ’ inquired Marian, re
membering the female garments he had furn
ished to Adrienne and herself.
“None when he came to this place. He has
lived a perfect solitary life.”
“He is a mysterious person, said Marian. “I
am going to the island for the purpose of pay
ing him a visit. I—I want to see him—partic
ularly.”
The old sailor looked at her inquisitively, but
forebore to ask any questions.
Working steadily at the oars, they rounded
the island, and made the landing to the left of
the cabin, where Marian had stopped before.
“I think he has gone,” said Captain Head,
looking around him.
“Why, here is his boat, is it not?” asked
Marian, pointing to the small, light skiff that
was fastened to a stake driven in the sand. It was
painted a sea-green, and looked like a toy on the
water.
“Not that cockle-shell. That used to belong
to your brother-in-law yonder, and it’s a clip
ping little shallop for a pleasure row; but Dum-
by's got a serviceable boat like this, and he s
likely out in her somewhere,” throwing a keen ;
eye over the bay.
“Let us go up the cabin and see,” said Ma- !
rian.
Leaving Jep in the boat, they went by the
winding path through the thicket of myrtle and
dwarf palmetto to the cabin of the fisherman.
There was no smoke nor any sign of life, as they
crossed the little yard with its dilapidated fence,
and the matted melon and tomato vines grow
ing rankly around. The front door was slightly
ajar. They pushed it open and went in. It
was untenanted by any human presence; only a
gaunt black cat lay coiled up in front of the fire
place. The creature got up and snarled at the
intruders as a dog might do. Then it walked
out of the house with a dignified, offended step.
The door leading to the inner room was locked.
They knocked at it and called, but received no |
k answer. Marian begged Captain Head to go out i
land look about a little ; the fisherman might b« j
walking around his narrow premises. As soon
as he was gone, she got down on her knees by
the door, and putting her lips to the key-hole, j
besought any one who might be within to open
the door.
“ It is a friend,—it is Marian," she said; then j
waited breathless and pale for a response. But !
none came; and, after standing a moment in !
thought, she went around to the low back win
dow of the little room, and climbed up by the
knotted vine, until she could open the closed
wooden shutters and look within. The room
was arranged as it had been when she and |
Adrienne saw and wondered at it; but there was
no one there,—no one on the bed or in the deep
easy chair, or anywhere, and no sound was re
turned when again she knocked upon the shut
ter and called. She closed the blind and turned
off with a sigh.
What, wild hope had Marian suffered to enter
her mind ? She had scarcely acknowledged one
to herself; but the fading of the eager look
from her face, and the sad, dejected one that
replaced it, showed that some kind of hope had
been built upon the words she had heard spo
ken by Mr. De Forest. These words, very likely,
meant nothing. They might have been uttered
in the confused, B3mi-conscious moment between
sleeping and waking; they might have referred
to something which did not concern her. She
smiled bitterly at the absurdity of the hope she
had caught at; but the eager light flashed into
her face again the next moment, when, going to
the other end of the cabin, she saw Captain
Head looking intently towards a clump of cab
bage palmettos, a little distance off.
“ What have you seen? ” she asked.
“I am not sure it was anything. I just saw a
movement yonder—a glimpse of something
black. I didn’t think there was a live creature
on the island, since Dumby and his dog are off
on the bay.”
“Let us see what it was?" cried Marian, mov
ing rapidly in the direction of the palmettos.
The captain followed more slowly, wondering at
the interest she manifested in the dumb fisher
man.
Marian reached the spot he had pointed out,
put aside the broad, fan-like leaves, and looked
eagerly around. Nothing was to be seen. A j
clear space was just in front of her, with other
tall shrubs and palmettos a little further off.
She heard no sound of step or movement; but
at this moment a low, rumbling peal of thunder
fell upon her ear.
“The cloud is rising,” said Captain Head.
“We must be getting under way, or we shall
have the thunder-storm upon us like a broadside
from a man-o'-war. There ! you see what it was
I saw—that black cat scowling at us out of her
red eyes. I have a sailor’s misliking for black
cats, and I like the looks of this one as little as
I do of her grum master.”
“You are sure it was the cat ?’’ asked Marian,
looking down at the ground, although the short
grass was not likely to retain a foot-print.
“Nothing else; nothing but the old witch
herself, jumping over the weeds and shaking
the palmeeter fans. We’ll walk fast, if you
please, Miss Marian. ”
Beaching the boat, they pushed off in haste.
But wind and tide were against them. The cloud
rose rapidly. The boatmen pulled at their oars
in silence, and Marian sat behind them, buried
in gloomy thoughts. She tried to watch the
grandeur of the approaching storm. Two clouds
were about to meet in the zenith; one a dark,
formless mass, the other shaped like some gigan
tic grotesquely magnified shadow—now of a
man, now of a beast. Marian watched it, re
peating:
‘‘There rose in the east
A cloud, with the forehead and horns of a beast,
That quick to the zenith mounts higher and higher,
With feet that are thunder and eyes that are fire.”
The clouds met over-head. The sky and air
were darkened almost to the duskiness of twi
light. A vivid flash rent the darkness, and
crashing thunder followed. Peal after peal suc
ceeded, increasing in violence and in the blind
ing blaze of lightning. A boat containing a
single man was seen rapidly approaching. As
it came nearer, Marian recognized the proud
carriage and the white, floating hair of the dumb
fisherman. Wind and tide were in his favor,
and his strong oar-strokes sent tLe boat flying
through the waves. The two boats were hardly
fifty yards apart, when there came a terrific flash
of lightning, darting down like a sword of fire,
and simultaneously a peal of deafening thun-
tbunder seemed to rend the very heavens apart.
Stunned and blinded, Marian? fell upon her
knees at the bottom of the boat; the oars fell
trom the hands of Captain Head and his assist
ant; the boat shook and rocked with violence
upon the agitated waves. All felt the shock of
the electric messenger. Captain Head first re
covered his senses, and caught the oar that had
dropped from his hand. He turned round to
the assistance of Marian.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, stretching out his
arm to help her.
‘’No,—only stunned. Thank God that you
are both safe! ” she cried, feeling that, had it
been otherwise she would have been the cause of
the misfortune. “But look!” she exclaimed,
springing to her feet. “ The other boat is empty;
the man has fallen overboard.”
“No,—there he lies in the bottom of the boat.
He’s been struck by the lightning,—he’s been
struck, beyond a doubt. Mebbe, though, he’s
only stunned. Pull for him, Jep,—pull with a 1
will, my hearty. We may bring him round.”
They struck out vigorously for the boat, while
the thunder yet pealed, and large drops of rain
began to fall. In a few seconds they were along
side the skiff. The fisherman lay in it, face up
wards, his features rigid, his white hair elec
trified by the shock, standing out in wild dis-
hevelment about Lis face. Jep caught the chain
that was fastened to the bow of the boat, while
Captain Head jumped into it, and seizing a tin
bailing bucket, dipped up a quantity of sea
water and dashed it over the insensible man.
Another bucket full, and another, but still the
fisherman gave no sign of life.
“Let me see if his heart beats,” said the cap
tain, speaking to Marian, who had sprung after
him into the boat.
Stooping down, he hastily unfastened the
blouse of the man, and was about to place his
hands over his heart, when suddenly, with a cry
of astonishment, he staggered back. Marian
had also bent over the body. She saw the cause
of her companion’s amazement. She saw that
the breast he had exposed was that of a woman.
The strange and startling discovery struck I
them both speechless with astonishment. They
stared blankly at each other, without uttering a
word. Marian was first to collect herself. She
stooped down quickly and covered the exposed
breast ot the woman, drawing the folds of the
coarse blouse together. She inserted her own
hand beneath them to feel for the beating of the
heart. But there was no movement; nor could
she feel any pulsation when she grasped the
wrist.
“Have you a stimulant about you? ” sheasked, \
turning round to her companion.
He produced a flask of brandy, and the effort
was made to pour a portion of it'down the throat
of the inanimate woman. Bat it was to no pur
pose. It became certain that she was dead.
“It’s no use. She's gone to her long sleep,
messmate,” the captain said, turning to the boy.
“Fasten the skiff to the ‘ Go-lightly,’and let’s
make for the shore. It rains like a second del
uge.”
They pulled for the shore, lowing the beat that
contained the corpse, while the rain fell in tor-
rents, and the thunder died away in more dis
tant reverberations.
“Back safe, thank God!” cried the captain,
leaping to the shore and dragging up his boat
by the chain. “Was I not right in saving that
‘Dead-Man’s Island' was an nnlucky place?”
“What will you do with the body?” asked
Marian, shuddering as she looked at the drench
ed, stony face and dripping hair.
“Take it up to my cabin, and let Mr. De For
est know what has happened. The poor crea
ture was his tenant. He may know something
about him—her, I mean. He had the cabin fixed
up for her use.”
“He is ill now,” said Marian. “ It might not
be fit to excite him by news of death— especially
of such an awful and sudden death as this. Dr.
Norris will be there this evening. I will send a
note, asking him to inform Mr. De Forest what
has taken place, if he thinks it would be right
to dc so.”
She did so directly she had changed her wet
garments. She left Alice, who knew nothing of
the strange adventure, or of the presence of a
dead bodv in the house, and with her own hands
she prepared the corpse for burial. She dressed
it neatly in plain black clothes of her own, and
smoothed the strangely white hair upon the
temples. When her task was done, she stood
over the dead and mused. Now that the wild
eyes were closed, and the features composed by
death, the face showed traces of having pos
sessed more than ordinary beauty. Careworn
and sun-burnt, and haunted still by a look of
pain, the features were cast, notwithstanding,
in a large and majestic mould. The white hair
and furrowed brow seemed more the work of
care and grief than of years. Who and what
had this strange being been? What had once
been her station in life? thought Marian, re
membering the books, the writing-desk, and
other articles of taste and elegance she had seen
in the island hut. Why did she live in such
mystery and seclusion? Why had she assumed
the disguise she had worn so long? Was it for
the purpose of concealment from the consequen
ces of crime or of shame?—or had wrong and
wretchedness driven her in disgust from the
world? Who could tell? Could Mr. De Forest?
Had her history been known to him ? Had this
man of mystery been in any way associated with
the mysterious woman before her? And then
Marian's mind went back to its one theme of
painful thought and torturing conjecture—her
lost sister. Dr. Norris came in while she was
standing gazing vacantly at the dead face, upon
which her thoughts were no longer fixed.
“You had my note,” he said, as he came to
her side. “Did you tell Mr. De Forest?”
“l’es; but when I did so I had no idea of the
effect it would produce.”
“What effect,” she asked, eagerly.
“A very remarkable one. When I told him,
he sprang up on his knees in bed, stretched out
his arms, and exclaimed: ‘The judgment of
God!—the judgment of God upon an accursed
family! ’ Then he fell back upon his pillow,
and lay there shuddering convulsively. Sud
denly he leaped out of bed, and stood for a mo
ment firmly on his feet. ‘ I will accept no warn
ing,’ he cried. ‘ The devil and destiny are con
spiring against me. I will not be overcome. I
will go: I will not stay at this accursed place.
I will master this miserable disease. I will not
be warned,—I will not be terrified ! ’ He walked
about the room until his feverish strength gave
way, and he was forced to sink into a chair. He
wrote a few lines in pencil, and asked me to give
them to you.”
Marian opened the envelope he handed her.
A bank note enclosure fell to the floor. She read
the few scarcely legible lines the paper held.
“Do me the kindness to see that the body is
decently interred. Let it be buried in the fam
ily burying ground, but not inside the enclo
sure where oPfc-^raoeois De Forest is interred.
Her bones must not rest by those of a De For
est.” ' T '
“ He must have known her previous history,”
said Dr. Norris, when Marian read this note
aloud. “There must have been some tie of
friendship, of pity, or of old acquaintance, be
tween them. It is a mysterious affair. “That
face,” looking at the set features of the corpse,
is not a common one. There is power of some
kind there, though the shape of the head does
not show a well-balanced brain. There is a
look about the face that reminds me of some
other face I have seen.”
“I have also been puzzled by its shadowy
resemblance to some one I cannot name. The
eyes, especially, alter I had seen them first,
haunted me for a long time with their half-fa-
miliar look. Here is a miniature I found hang
ing around the neck of the corpse. It i3 a child’s
picture, but it bears the same indefinite likeness
to a face I have seen or dreamed of.”
She handed him a small, old-fashioned locket,
fasted to a black cork. In the single gold case
was set the picture of a child. The face was
radiantly lovely. The black, bright eyes, the
small, crimson mouth, the little queenly neck
and head, might have belonged to a Spanish In
fanta.
Dr. Norris studied the face a moment, and
looked from the picture to the corpse.
“I see what is . now!” he exclaimed. “It is
Madame Floris. Both these faces are like hers.
This dead face resembles her now. She must
have looked like this picture when a child.”
“But the expression is quite different.”
“Yes; but do you not remember how Madam
Floris looked on the night when she forget her
self, and sang so gloriously ? Do you not see
her likeness to this picture?”
l’es, Marian saw it now, and the resemblance
to the dead woman, too. And, in an instant,
there flashed across her mind the remembrance
of the conversation between Madalon and an
other, which she had overheard that summer
night, This, then, had been the other speaker
in that strange dialogue. It was her fierce, stern
voice which Marian had thought masculine in
its tones. Dumbness had been only a part of
her disguise, or else it was the caprice of a bit
ter spirit that wished no intercourse with its
kind.
“She must be her mother,” mused Marian,
“and this picture must be Madalon’s. Why
have these two women shrouded themselves in
such mystery? What claim have they upon Mr.
De Forest ? Is crime or misfortune the secret of
this mystery? ”
It was a dreary funeral which Marian attended
next day. She went alone in the family car
riage.
Mrs. Head remained with Alice. Marian and
Captain Head were the only persons of her own
race and color who followed the nameless woman
to the grave. It was a gloomy day. The
Summer was dead. The thunder-storm of the
previous day had been its knell. Tuere was
a chill in the air; the earth was drenched —
the flower stalks broken and beat in the ground;
the wind blew with the dreary, melancholy
sound peculiar to autumn. The grave was dug
under a moss-shrouded live oak. Marian read
the burial service, while the negroes of the plan
tation stood around with awe impressed upon
their dusky faces. All knelt, while the gray
haired black preacher said a prayer for the re
pose of the dead. Then, one by one, they came
up close to grave and threw a handful of dirt
into it, saying solemnly:
“May God Almighty have mercy upon the
soul of the dead ’ ”
Marian stood by until the grave was filled, and
the mossy sods, which she had had smoothly
spaded away, were carefully replaced. Then she
re-entered the carriage, and was driven slowly
back under the clouded and dismal sky. The
negro driver, who had fidgeted on his seat for
some time unnoticed by Marian, at last turned
round in his seat, and, touching his hat respect
fully, said:
'
I
“Be it true, miss, that the deaf and dumb
fisherman turned out to be a woman ? ”
Marian replied that it was true.
“I wonder what made’im pnton man's ’parel ?
Must a been hidin' from jestice, like the forger
what drowned hisself in the old man Francois'
time. Hope to goodness she'll rest quiet in her
grave, now she’s had Christian bnryin’. Last
night her sperit was rovin’ about mighty miser
able and onrestless like."
“That was only imagination," said Marian.
“ No, miss, it's true as there’s a God in Heaven.
I saw it with my own livin’ eyes, and uncle Pete,
that prayed just now, he saw it, too. We went
to the house last night after some medicine for
uncle Pete's ole woman. I was ridin’ behind
hinu, and jest as we come to this very place, we
see a tall woman, dressed in a long. wlHfc& shj-oudi
cornin' up that path there that^oes to the riFer.'t
And that mule, he stopped.short off, and begun
to snort, and wouldn’t go on no how ! .And uncle
Pete he commenced to pray, and the ghost come
right along straight and S3j?w, without turnin’
its head, and come up eld^e .to ,us. It was a
dead woman’s face—’fore Godi*K^aS. miss; and
she passed us and went on to that^ thicket be
hind the orchard", and there she vamosed. And
that's the truth, as I hope to set to heaven; and
uncle Pete’ll tell you so, He’s a ’sciety man,
and he can read his Bible without spellin’.
You’re bound to b’lieve him. if you don’t me.”
“What did the face look like?”
“I tell you it was a dead person's face, miss.
It was white as a sheet. It was orful.”
“And you did not see where it went?"
“It went up to that thicket behind the or
chard, and there it vamosed in a flash of blue
lightning.”
“ There is no truth in such an absurd story,”
thought Marian, failing back against the carriage
and resuming her own melancholy thoughts.
But it was not the last she was to hear of the
ghost of the bay.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
apologized on account of the ‘death of a dear old
friend-’ ”
In letters to his eldest son, Scott seldom fails to
tell him how things are going on with the domes
ticated animals. For example :
“ Hamlet had an inflammatory attack, and I be
gan to think he was going mad, after the example
of his great namesake; but Willie Laidlaw bled him
and he recovered. Pussy is very well.”
Next letter: •• Dogs all well—cit sick—supposed
with eating birds in their feathers.”
Shortly afterward: “ All here send love. Dogs
an i cats are well. I dare say you have heard from
some other correspondent that poor Lady Wallace”
(a favorite pony) “died of inflammation after two
day s iilness. Trout ” (a favorite pointer) “ has
returned here several times, poor fellow, and seems
to look for you; but Henry Scott is very kind to
him.”
In a succeeding letter we have the account of
an accident to Maida: “On Sunday Maida walk
ed with us, and in jumping the paliugat the Green-
tongue park contrived to hang himself up by the
hind-leg. i’e howled at first, but seeing us mak-
iug toward him, he stopped crying, and waved
Ins t: iT, by way of signal, it was supposed, for as
sistance. He sustained no material injury, though
his leg was strangely twisted into the bars, and
he was nearly hanging by it. He showed great
gratitude, in his way, to his deliverers.”
Maida died in October, 1824, and is commemora
ted in a sculptured figure at the doorway of Ab
botsford. His attached master wrote an epitaph
on him in Latin, which he thus Englished:
“ Beneath the sculptured form whictflate you wore.
Sleep soundly. Maida, at your master's door.”
(For The Sunny South.)
j Cupid and the Old Bachelor.
BY r. m. o.
OUR DUMB FRIENDS.
Sir waiter Scott and His Dog 1 .
BY W C.
One of my pleasant recollections is that of see
ing Sir Walter Scott out on a stroll with his dogs ;
the scene being in the neighborhood of Abbotsford,
in the summer of 1824, while as yet the gloom of
misfortune had not clouded the mind of the great
man. There he was limping gayly along with his
pet companions amid the rur.il scenes which he
had toiled to secure and loved so dearly.
Scott’s fondness for animals has perhaps never
been sufficiently acknowledged. It was with him
a kind of second nature, and appears to have been
implanted when as a child he was sent on a visit ]
to*the house of his grandfather, Robert Scott, at I
8a dyknowe, in the neighborh >od of Dryburgh.
Here, amid flocks of sheep and lambs, talked to
and fomiled by shepherds and ewe-milkers and
reveling with collies, he was impressed with a de
gree of affectionate feeling for animals which lasted I
through life. At a subsequent visit to Sandyknowe J
when his grandfather had passed away, and the
farm operations were administered by “ Uncle
Thomas,” he was provided with a Shetland pony
to ride upon. The pony was little larger than
many a Newfoundland dog. It walked freely in
the house, and was regularly fed from the boy’s
hand. He soon learned to ride the little pony
well, anl often alarmed “Aunt Jenny” by can
tering ovsr the rough pa 3S in the neighborlico
Such were the beginnings of Scott’s intercourse
with animals. Growing up, there was something
extraordinary in his at achments to his dogs, his j
horses, his ponies, and his cats ; all of which were
treated by him, each in its own sphere, as agreea
ble companions, and which were attached to him
in return. There may have been something feudal
and poetic in this kindly association with humble
adherents, but there was also much of simple good-
heartedness. Scrott added not a little to the hap
piness of his existence by this genial intercourse
with his domestic pets. From Lockhart’s “ Me-
mo'rs of Sir Walter ” and other works we have oc
casionally bright glimpses of the great man’s fa
miliarity with his fourfooted favorites. We can
see that Scott did not, as is often the case, treat
them capriciously, as creatures to be made of at
one time, and s. oken to harshly when not in the
vein for amusement. On the contrary, they were
elevated to the position of friends. They possess- j
ed rights to be respected, feelings w'hieh it would |
be scandalous to outrage. At all times he had a
soothing word and a kind pat for every one of
them. And that, surely, is the proper way to be
have toward the beings who are dependent oa
us.
Among Sir Walter’s favorte dogs we first hear of
Camp, a large bull-terrier, that was taken with
him when visiting the Ellise3 for a week at Sun-
ninghill in 1803. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis having cor
dially sympathized in his fondness for this animal,
Scott, at parting, promised to send one of Camp’s
progeny in the course of the season to Sunning-
hill. As an officer in a troop of yeomanry cavalry
Scott proved a good horseman, and we are led to
know that he was much attached to the animal !
which he rode. In a letter to a friend written at
this period (1803), hesays:
“ I have, too, an hereditary attachment to the ani
mal—not, I flatter myself, of the common jocky
cast, but because I regard him as the kindest and
most generous of the subordinate animals. I hard
ly even except the dogs; at least, they are usually
so much better treated that compassion for the
steed should be thrown into the scale when we
weigh their comparative merits.”
For several years Camp was the constant parlor,
dog. He was handsome, intelligent, and fierce,
but gentle as a lamb among the children. As the
same time there were two greyhounds, Douglas and
Percy, which were kept in the country for cours
ing. Scott kept one window of his study open,
whatever might be the state of the weather, that
Douglas, and Percy might leap out and in as the
fancy moved them. He always talked to Camp as
if he understood what was said—and the animal
certainly did understand not a little of it; in par
ticular, it seemed as if he perfectly comprehended
on all occasions that his master considered him a
sensible and steady friend; the greyhounds as vol
atile young creatures whosi freaks must be borne
with.
William Laidlaw, the friend and amanuensis of
Scott, mentions in the “ Abbotsford Notanda” a
remarkable instance of Camp’s fidelity and atten
tion, It was on the occasion of a party visiting a j
will cataract in Dumfriesshire, known as the Gray
Mare's Tail. There was a rocky chasm to be as
cended, up which Scott male his way with difficul
ty on account of his lameness. “ Camp at ended anx
iously on his master; and when the latter came to
a difficult part of the rock, Camp would jump down, -
look up to his masters’s face, then spring up. lick
his master’s hand and cheek, jump down again,
and look upward, as if to show him the way and
encourage him. We were greatly interested with
the scene.”
Failing from old age, Camp was taken by the
family to Edinburgh, and there he lied about Jan- 1
uary, 1809. He was buried on a fine moonlight
night in the little garden behind the house, No, 39 j
Castle Street, immediately opposite the window
where Scott usually sat writing. His daughter, ,
Mrs. Lockhart, remembered “ the whole family
standing round the grave as her father himself
smoothed down the turf above Camp with the sad
dest expression of face she had ever seen in him. !
He had been engaged to dine abroad that day, but j
Cupid, when be slings his quiver over his
shoulder, filled with his magic arrows, which
once when they touch the heart produce love
or a desire to be loved, and starts out on his
journey, he seldom returns without having ac
complished his object. On one occasion he saw
a widower with some half dozen children around
him, and as the father looked upon them he
drew a deep sigh of sorrow and anxiety. The
God of Love has the happy faculty of reading
the thoughts as well as the power of exciting
the heart.
The thoughts of the widower were: “ How am
I to raise these children without a woman’s
help ? Who can I trust to teach and impress my
daughters, just beginning to bud into young
womanhood ? A wife I want, and a wife I must
have. Some one must be a mother to my mother
less children.”
Cupid came to his relief, and touching him
with one of his arrows, and doing the same
pleasant thing for a widow of his acquaintance,
ere many moons had waxed and waned, the two
were made one flesh.
Cupid was delighted that he had made two
mortals happy, and had given to children a
mother on one side and a father on the other.
It so happened that near the widower there
lived an old bachelor, and Cupid seeing no
woman or child about his house, was somewhat
surprised that one whose hair was turning
slightly gray, and who looked as if he was up
into his forties, could boast himself neither a
husband or a father. How came it that he had
not touched him when a young man ? Or if he
did, had some coquotish maid soured his heart,
temper and mind towards womankind ?
Could not his heart be reached as easily as that
of an old maid’s? And so thinking, Cupid let
dy one of his best and sharpest arrows. The
arrow hit the heart, but it did not glance as the
one did from the heart of the old maid. It
seemed to hang in a kind of network which
grew around the bachelor’s heart. It hung en
tangled. doing no good, and rather a thing of
contempt to look at.
“By the great Jupiter! what sort of a heart
has the man ?” thought Cupid. “Can it be a
tangled mass of ravelings, a filmy heart, with
the shreds of indifference, coldness, selfishness,
impatience, and dislike of woman, knotted to
gether? I will go and see my mother Venus,
tor she knows as much about a man’s heart as
any woman, mortal or immortal.”
cupid’s talk.
“Mother, I have told you in the past of my
adventures with widows’ and old maids’ hearts. I
never have much trouble with maidens and young
men; nor do I find any with widowers. But I
hit a strange heart to-day, and it belonged to a
man, and one who, from his looks, was in his
frosty forties or fussy fifties. ”
“Cupid, you shot at the heart of an old bach-
elor.one more peculiar than that of an old maid’s.
Bachelors, like old maids, have their histories.
Some can tell of an over-weaning vanity on their
part, and of hearts they have won bat never
claimed, and because the victory was easy, did
not appreciate a woman’s pure and unselfish
love. Others can tell of strong and ardent woo
ing, and wounded pride made them sour toward
womankind. Others can tell of a deep and de
voted love crushed and insulted by coquettish
treatment. Others can tell of familiarities and
liberties taken which gave them a low opinion
of woman’s love or her modesty; for men flee
that which pursues them, and pursue that which
flees them. Others, again, can tell of their own
vile and depraved hearts, which rendered them
unflit for any virtuous woman’s love; for every
man is a worse man in proportion as he is unfit
for the marriage state.”
“But, mother, bachelors have hearts, and can
they not be reached ? Ail are not like the one I
shot to-day. Can you not give me an arrow that
will arouse their love?”
“Well, Cupid, perhaps I can, but it is no easy
task after a bachelor gets of a certain age. Un
like widows or old maids, they are not tied down
to one spot or circumscribed in their habits.
They do not feel the want of company, nor does
old age create a desire for companionship. Old
bachelors have their habits—habits that will give
them any kind of companionship they may
desire. With them, home is simply a place to
sleep or to eat, nothing more; and the less I
particularize about the general habits of the
majority, the better. It is enough to say they
do not seek the votaries of Diana much, but of
that bewitching and fascinating goddess, Las-
civia, not to mention others I know. With no
home influences, they have no home ties. A few
may have, but the majority have not.”
“But, mother, what about my arrows? I do
not care about their habits, and if they are not
very good, I do not know who can better reform
them than a good wife.”
“That is so, Cupid, and I will give you some
arrows that may have the desired effect. They
will excite in the heart a love for domestic vir
tues—a desire for purity of heart, for woman’s
companionship and woman’s deep love. But
after all, Cupid, see to it that you put in his way
a widow suited to his years—young enough to
charm by her person, fascinate with her eye,
win with her tongue, and throw such a spell
over him that, like the charmed bird, to fly
away is impossible. A widow’s tactics cannot
be approached by maiden or old maid.
“Then, with your arrows and the peculiar
charms of a bright widow, many an old bachelor
can be rescued, redeemed, regenerated and dis
enthralled, and made a good husband, father,
and citizen. If, however, you find them slaves
to fixed habits or evil ways, you mav weU save
your arrows, for they will hang in the net-work,
or filmy covering of the heart.” <
DBTINCT PRINT