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WILD WORK;
A Study of Western Life.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
CHAP'iER XXX.
^ When she went in, she fouud her little neioe
Nelly deep in consultation with Mrs. Vincent
abont getting up a sumptuous dinner for the
men who had so opportunely come to their res
cue. Several negro women stood by, eager to
help, as humble now as they had previously
been insolent. They thought in their hearts
that ‘slave time’ had come again, they did not
know but their hus auds and sons would be
hunted and shot down in the swamps, but all
this would not prevent him from eating a hearty
dinner and enjoying their pipe or a nap after
wards. Such is the African nature.
A long table was set on the back piazza and
spread with a varied abundance—dishes of fried
ham and eggs, of bacon and greens (the na
tional dish) mounds of biscuits and potatoes,
a huge peach pie, baked fowl, and sardines and
crackers from the store. To this table a part
of the hungry men sat down, while the others
had their dinner on the porch of the 6tore, a
dinner cooked in her best style, by Mandy,
who flew around with an alacrity born of her
anxiety for Tom. That prisoner had not yet
been released, but his wife had contrived to
whisper a word of hope in his ear. After din
ner was over, all being satisfied with what they
had eaten, Hirne proposed tc release the cook’s
husband out of compliment to his wile’s skill
and good-nature, adding that Tom was simply
a numbskull who had let himself be led, and
was ready now to swear on his knees to his fu
ture good conduct. Tom was set free and his
voluble gratitude was ludicrous to hear. He
trotted off with his baby in his arms, the glad
dest darkey in the parish.
It was now sunset, and the men who had
gone to Cohatchie had not returned. The oth
ers were eager to cross the river and see what
had become of their comrades and what was
being done in Cohatchie.
‘Go on’ said Hirne ‘I and four others will
be enough to stay and guard this place. I ap
prehend no further trouble here. Send word
to me immediately what they have decided to
do with the Radicals.’
The men crossed the river, the last red sun
beam glinting on them as they rode up the
baDk on the opposite side. The four men who
were left sat talking and smoking on the gal
lery of the store, while the quiet dusk came
down.
Hirne went over to the house Zoe was sitting
on a cool little side porch rocking to sleep the
two years’ old baby that the new-comer had de
posed. She was crooning softly the German
cradle song :
Sleep, baby sleep
Thy rest shall angels keep.’
The picture she made was beautiful to the
soul of the man so long used to bloody and
turbulant scenes. He stood unseen listening to
the soothing strain, looking at the girl’s sweet
face, flecked with moon light and leaf-shad
ows.
The sigh that escaped him betrayed his pres
ence. Sbe stopped singing and asked him to
come in. He sat down on the steps at her feet.
The stars were coming out—pale in the linger
ing sunset radiance.
‘How still and sweet it is !’ Zoe said, breaking
the silence. ‘I can hardly realize that a few
hours ago such confusion and terror, and such
evil passions were at work, or that in the woods
vender that rise so dim end solemn in the
moonlight, lies a mang ed human body to bear
witness to the violence the day’s sun has shone
upon. When will such violence and evil passion
bo done away with ? We see so much of it here.
I am heart-sick of it. Better the dreamy mono
tony of a lotus-land. But that would be no Eden
to yon men. Your restless spirits would not
endure the quiet. I think men invented poli
tics as an excuse for endless strife.’
He said nothing for a moment, only looking
up into her face, so fair in the moonlight. Then
he said slowly:
‘The nearest I knew of happiness for many a
day came from change and strife. But now,
somehow, these fail to quench the thirst in my
breast. I feel myself growing out of taste for
them, and to-night, as I sit here, facing the eve
ning star, with your sweet hush-a-by song in'
my ears, it seems to me it would be happiness
to sit at the feet of one sweet woman and know
her to be yours.’
Zoe made no answer. She had net heart to
rebuke the man she secretly liked so well, the
man who had just been the cause of saving her,
it might be, from a terrible fate, but this pas
sion, so suddenly grown bold and rash needed
checking. She sat and thought how she might
most gently adinister the check. It was Hirne
who spoke first.
•Yes, mine has been a storm-tossed bark; it’s
little better than a wreck; there is no hope for it
UDless—it might be anchored to this little hand.’
Suddenly turning, taking up her hand that
lay lightly across the sleeping child, and press
ing it fervently to his bearded lips ‘the hand
that belongs to another. Does it? Tell me, are
you still bound to that man ?’
‘Y’es.’
‘And you love him and will marry him ?'
‘I do not kn 1 mean, you have no right
to ask such questions.’
‘No right, why my happiness for life is bound
up in your answer. Tell me you do not love
him best. You are silent. .What a fool I am!
Of course you love him best. Doubtless, he is
one of fortune’s darlings. Hi= person is slick
anti fair as his fortune, while I—I am rugged as
my fate. I would be mad to think that you
could love me better than the virtuous, elegant,
successful gentleman which the accepted lover
of such a woman is like to be. Y~et I have been guil
ty of that very madness at times. Only for a min
ute though Way out on the plains when the north
er chilled my marrow as I rode, I have pictured
a home and a lighted hearth, and within its rud
dy radiance, a woman with a dainty shape and
soft, dark eyes and the sweetest mouth this side
of angel-land, sitting there, waiting to smile
when she heard my step, to spring to kiss me—
to clasp my rugged neck with her soft arms, to—
pshaw ! it was the merest mirage, that picture
that rose before me as I rode in the cold and
dusk with miles of tall, dry grass bending and
roaring under the wild trampling of the North
wind. But 1 feel like fighting with fate for
your possession. I don’t deserve you, only by
my love. I have loved you ever since your eyes
looked on me with sucL divine pity, as I sat
chained in the hold of the Lavaca. I never
could bear pity before. It grew almost as sweet
as love when it shone out ot your eyes. Long
afterwards when I carried you in my arms wet
and shivering in deadly ague, when I held you
to my heart for warmth, and covered your little
marble hands with hot kisses, I fancied when
yon were reviving you called my name—called
it tenderly as if you loved it.' You think it pre
sumption in me, a straDRer, a rough Texas ran
ger, to talk to you so. You think in your gen
tle heart, this man has done me a favor, he is
unhappy, he is foolishly infatuated; I hate to
repulse him unkindly, but I know nothing of
him except that he is an escaped Government
prisoner, that he gambles, fights, gets into
scrapes, is an alien from society. A black array
of disreputables certainly. She were a rash girl
who would let such a man woo her; and for a
dainty, proud, sweet woman like you!—And yet
Miss Vincent, bad not circumstances thwarted
my life and twisted my nature, I would not have
been so mean a rival of that other man whom
yon mean to bless with your hand. My birth
is good. My parents were honorable people. I
am not poor, vagabond though I seem, and I am
not devoid of talent. I have been called a genius
by my comrades to whom I sang, or recited mv
wild rhymes by a camp fire. Some of these it
may amuse you to read sometimes. I have them
here in my pocket, scribbled in an old note
book—a blood-stained relic of war days. I was
not a bad soldier, Miss Y r incent, and I earned
a rank of M«jor by good fighting. I have never
done a wrong to any human being that I know'
of, though my hand has been ready to punish
the oppressor and the cowardly' imposer upon
the weRk. ^am not sueh a foe to society either.
I hate its shams, I care nothing for its applause,
but I do not despise my fellow men. 1 would
like to do them good it I could. I am educa
ting two boys—orphan sons of brave soldiers
—and I pension two widows whose husbands
fell fighting at my side. I don’t tell you all this
to praise myself; but I would like the woman I
love toiknow my better side that she might not
shrink from me as an iniquitous monster—in
nately wicked. That I am what slickly re
spectable and cold blooded ones call wicked,
is due as much to fate as to innate crookedness.
•If yon knew my story—’
‘Tell it to me; you promised onoe that I should
hear it.’
•You have not forgotten that? Then you have
thoaght of me, my 1 will tell you my
story, though you will think stifl worse of me
maybe, but you shall hear it. I was born and
reared in Texas. My parents had lost a large
fortune in Virginia, and bad come to Texas as
much to hide their poverty as to retreive their
fortune. I was a passionate, willful child, but
love and kindness could control me. My pa
rents did not understand this; their plan was to
quell the offending Adam in me by harsh rule.
My brothers, who were cast in a gentler mold,
they loved and praised. I was looked upon as
a black sheep, punished inordinately in child
hood, given over to my own devices as I sprang
into precocious manhood. As a consequence,I felt
myself an alien. 1 hunted and fished by myself or
with the overseers son—a dissolute youth. I
read every book in the queer, miscellaneous li
brary my father brought with him from the
States. Rinaldo llinaldini, Mephistopheles in
England, and Byron's Corsair, as well as Rasse-
las and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. I carried
the battered books with me stock-minding on
the prairies, I read them at night by the light
of a tallow dip, I scribbled verses on the fly
leaves, and saw visions and dreamed dreams.
At seventeen I fell in love—gave up my whole
crude, fermenting nature to a mad passion for a
girl with blue eyes and long lashes—one of those
blushing, dimpled creatures that near-sighted
fools imagine artless and angelic. I thought her
truly an angel and lived in elysium when she
promised to marry me—boy that I was, not yet
eighteen. On the very night before we were to
have eloped, she had promised to marry another
man. I had heard that day that the marriage
w ould be, but I wculd not believe it. That even
ing I went to her house. As I opened the door,
1 saw lights, an unusual gathering of friends,
and my angel dressed in celestial white,standing
before the priest, her hand in my rival’s. 1
hardly know what I did, but my madness broke
up the wedding. The only thing I remember
distinctly after that sight of the white-robed
bride, is standing by the roadside at night with
my brother holding a saddled horse. He was
roughly shaking me.
‘Get to your senses; mount and ride,’ he said,
and in answer to my inquiry ‘What had happen
ed ?’ he said, ‘Look at your bloody hands. You
have had a fight with Melvoi. lie has given
yon a scratch on the shoulder and you have
stabbed him, maybe to death. They’11 be after
you; mount and go; there's money in your pock
et.’
‘At first I refused but he prevailed on me to
go. Neither he nor I thought I was seriously
wounded, but before the day dawned I fell oif
my horse with faintnesR from loss of blood, and
w’as picked up by a Spanish half-breed and
nursed till my strength came back. Then I
mounted my horse again and went on, hardly
caring where, but with my face towards the set
ting sun. I passed over into Mexico and got
among the Indians. They were friendly, but I
did not stay with them. I built me a hut and
camped to myself, and lor over a year led a sort
of hermit’s life—not once seeing a white face.
Ouce I helped the Indians in their fight with a
tribe that encroached on their rights. At last 1
grew restless. I wanted to hear my native
tongue, and to look into a white lace,—I had a
little store of geld dust and some stones I knew
to be of value. I left my hermitage and started
eastward. As I neared the borders of my native
State, my heart beat faster. I heard the sound
of running water and rode to the boundary river
just as a horseman on the opposite side ap
proached its banks. He greeted me with a hal
loo, spurred his horse down the bank and across
the stream, and dismounted and shook hands
with me where I stood. I drank from the river
and pledged him ‘Our Country,—the United
States forever.’
‘Take back the toast,’ he oried, ‘there's no
United States,' and then for the first time I learn
ed that the South had severed from the Union
and was fighting for her independence. He
himself was in the service and had been sent on
a secret mission to Mexico. The news of war
stirred my blood. I pressed on tojoin the army.
Stopping at home, I found changes there. I nad
not Killed the man Laura was to have married.
He recovered, but before heiwas well, Dews came
that he was an imposter, that he had already a
wife, So my rash act had saved her from that
marriage.
But she was most unhappy. Her father had
died—she had lost her mother long before—
and she was left without money, dependent
upon relations who made her a drudge, and
grudged her the bread she ate. It hurt me to
hear this, though the girl had deceived me so.
I would not see her, but I begged my father to
offer her a home with him. I was going straight
to the seat of war, and I asked him to take her
into his family in my place. He did so, and I
went to Missouri and joined Gen. Price’s di
vision. Afterwards my two brothers went to
^Srginia and fought under Lee. My father fol
lowed them—went back to his native country
and bought back his old home, taking Laura
with him. I went home once severely wound
ed and remained three months before I was
strong enough to sit in the saddle. When I re
turned to the army, Laura was my wife. She
made me believe that she had always been true
to me, that her father had forced her to do as
she had done; I believed her, trusted her, mar
ried her the night before I left, and tore myself
from her arms in a passion of grief and tender
ness, to retnrn to my duty. I thought of her
only in weary marches, in campB and battles,
and in the long days of pain and loneliness and
torturing longing for home when I lay a pri
soner in a Northern hospital. I had been taken
up wounded and insensible from the battle
field. In the same battle my two brothers were
killed. One fell by my side; as I stooped to
put the canteen of water to his dying lips, a
fragment of shell struck me in the breast and
another here where this lock covers the scar on
my temple.
When I was free again, the war was over; our
cause was lost I harried home, or to the place
where my home had been. I found only a heap
of ashes. I asked for my wife, my parents; the
neighbors told a sickening tale. A party of
marauding yankees had burned my home,
bound my father, struck him with bayonets and
otherwise maltreated him until the old man
died. They had sacked and fired the house.
My mother died a few days after from the shock
of grief and terror and the exposure to the cold
of the winter night. ‘But my wife! my wife!' I
cried. The people looked at each other and
shook their hea<ts. ‘She is dead then; the de
mons killed her.’ Still they shook their beads.
At last one said: ‘It is a pity she had not died,
friend. The yankees occupied the town after
wards, and she went off with one of tbem
with the same officer that had commanded the
maraudiug party that killed your father and
burnt your home.’ Could a man hear these
words and keep his brain cool? Mine was on
fire, yet outwardly I was calm. 1 went at once,
I hunted out the wretch who had murdered my
father and dishonored my name. I ought to
have shot him down like a beast without giving
him a chance for bis life, but I could never do
that. I provoked him to fight, and I killed him
in fair combat. I was taken and thrown into
jail. I made no defense. I knew none would
he admitted ; I had killed an officer of the con
quering and glorified Yankee army; I was a
Southerner—a Confederate officer. I was tried,
condemned to be Long. Afterwards the sen
tence was commuted to confinement in the pen-
etentiary for life. I was three years an inmate
of the prison- One night there was an attempt
on the part of the prisoners to burn the build
ing: I helped to save it. I silVtod the life of the
keeper when some of thejfincendiaries were
about to kill him. For this I was recommend
ed to mercy, set free—pardoned. Pardoned
after suffering three years of misery and dis
grace for having done a just deed. I had rath
er they had hung me, but for one thing. The
chance to get revenge, I have hunted for this
revenge. I have taken it wherever I could get
it; what ever I could do to thwart or harass the
aliens that rule our land, I have done. I have
been a wanderer here and there, wherever there
was a chance for me to strike a blow against
my enemy.’
‘And the woman,' asked Zoe, ‘your ?'
‘My wife ? I never saw her face but once after
I parted from her twelve«hours after our mar
riage. One night, as I was passing along a
street in New York, I heard m usic and wild
merriment in an upper hail. 1 glanced up, a
blaze of light streamed from the window, a wo
man came to the window and stood there look
ing down. She wore a gossamer robe, jewels
were on her bare neck. It was Laura—just
as fair, blooming and seraphic; no shame or re
morse had changed her. That night, while the
revellers were dancing, a portion of the build
ing gave way. Laura was a.jnong the hurt. She
was injured so badly that 'i£he never walked
again. I provided for her comfort until she
died, but I never saw her, except that one
glimpse ot her at the lighted window. She was
a soulless syren— a soft-eyed, pink-cheeked
simulater of innocence. 1 am glad you are in
no way like her, my dark, proud little love,
with the true eyes and the firm, tender mouth.
Don’t be angry with me. I mean do disrespect.
One may love the angels, or the mild-eyed ma
donna and praise her, sitting at her feet, as I at
yours. I have told you the circumstances that
made me what I am. You know that I have
been condemned to die on the gallows, have
lain in the states prison, though I never wrong
ed a woman or harmed an innocent man. But
ah! mine were rough ways and a wild life, and
blood and chains will stain, though one be shed
in a just cause, and the other unjustly worn.
I'm not fit to be your associate, my white inno
cence.’
He sprang to his feet as if the thoaght stung
him to the quick.
‘ Yon are glad. I -vour Huf>’- & .nd
that is tc be, has no such stains; that he is a
reputable man, who has made money and taken
care of himself and kept to smooth, beaten
ways. Society smiles on him: so it might on
me, had I been as little tempted and made of
colder stuff. Then you might have respected
me, given me your hand as a sign that you took
me for an honest man and a triend, if no more.’
She stretched out her hand suddenly
• I do take you for an honest man and a
friend,’ she said. ‘I believe in your honor.
You have passed through the furnace of trial,
you were more than mortal if you did not bear
the scars, but scats are only skin deep. Your
real nature has assimulated none of the strife
and evil in which circumstances have lei you
to partake; and you may yet ’
She was going on to read him a homily, but
she faltered, embarrassed. Tuat clasp in which
he held her hand, that look, were too lervent for
the friendliness she wanted him to pledge her.
‘Oh my sweet,’ he said, bending over her.
‘ That otner man may be worthier of you, but
he can never love you as I di/L If you would
be my saint, I would worship goodness—in yon
—forever, your voice could calm my demon of
revenge, and unrest—you—’
He had knelt down at her feet, still holding
her hand, as if it were a last hope. He started
as he heard horsemen riding up to the front gate
and heard his name called aloud.
‘Here,’ he answered and in a moment they had
ridden round to the back gate, and he went out
to see them. Zoe rose with her pretty sleeping
burden and went in. Harrying back, she stood
on the steps and heard the answer to Hirne’s
question ‘what news from Cohatchie.’
‘The Radical officers are to be sent out of the
State to-morrow with an escort to' protect them.’
‘Sent off? Were they not convicted of having
incited the negroes to rob and murder the white
people of the parish ?’
‘They were. One of the darkeys that was
hung confessed that he was put up to firing on
the patrol by the Radicals.’
‘And are all those frantic calls for armed men
to help put down a riot instigated by Radicals
to result in the hanging of a few negroes, while
the real offenders are sent safely away ? Are the
men here so mortally afraid of prospective blue-
coats and bayonets that they lcVmurderers go
free?’
‘No Cap’n, all are not such cow’ards’ cried a
deep, coarse voice and Cobb rode forward.
There are mon yonder who are mad enough at
the cowardly verdict. They’ve got nerve to
break it up, but they want sombody to go ahead.
Let me speak to you a minute Cap’n?’
He drew him aside and talked with him in
low tones. Zoe heard Hirne say aloud.
‘I’m with you. I'll saddle my horse and be
ready in ten minutes.’
‘Y’es’ Cobb replied. ‘By tie time we cross the
river and ride to Cohatchie it’ll be daybreak;
and our foxes leave cover at sunrise.’
Zoe shuddered. She knew well what that
meant. ‘I will see Hirne before he crosses the
river,’ she resolved. ‘I will tell him my reas
ons for believing these men innocent.’
She called him in a low tone as he was going
on through the yard to saddle his horse that had
been listened near the store. He came to her
on the piazza and she began with trembling
earnestness.
‘Don't go on that mission to-night, Captain
Hirne.’
‘ Are yon afraid to have me leave you ? A
guard will stay here to protect you. I have no
idea the negroes will attempt any harm.’
‘ I know they will not. I would not be
afraid to stay without protection. Levi is dead.
Only his influence gathered the negroes togeth
er into that hasty show of violence—half-armed
handful as they were, come together with a
erode notion of self-defense and revenge.’
* How is that ? You don’t believe the move
ment here was a part of the riot planned by the
Radicals ? ’
‘ I do not believe any riot was planned by the
Radicals. It would be too senseless an act for a
party that had already the balance of power in
the parish to plan to kill itself out in such a
way. I have other reasons f*r believing that
the disturbance among the negroes meant no
deliberate plot but was a consequence of their
being scared by the excitement and hostile dem
onstrations in Cohatchie and a little confused,
revengeful feeling because of some cruelties
committed upon them last week by some un-
knowt , lawless pir on.'
‘Mis* Zoe, do you moan to 6ay you do not
believe there was any negre riot about to break
out ?’
‘ I do. Where is the ground to believe there
was any ? There was some sore feeling among
the negroes about the shoo ing of one of their
number and some other outrages done by some
outlaw, but it amounted to nothing. The shot
that was fired by a hare-brained negro was after
the excitement had broken out and while armed
white men were riding about. The confession
that he was put up to it by Rtdicals was a con
fused one I hear, and may have been dictated
by fear, and hope of shifting blame from him
self. The report of firearms, said to have been
heard by a youth as he rode through a Held at
Brownton, a mile or two below here, may have
meant nothing. No one else there heard or saw
anything of a body of armed negroes.’
‘What then did the excitement in Cohatchie
mean—this great hue and cry and calling to
gether of armed men to suppress a riot? ’
‘ Captain Hirne, I believe it was a political
plot, not on the part of the people—I do not
think they are privy to it—but of one man. or
maybe more, for the purpose of securing office
for himself as well as of ridding the country of
Radical rule. You will say that last is a good
motive. I grant that the riddance is one that
every southerner must desire. I long, as earn
estly as yon can, to see onr country freed from
the tyranny of this alien rule. I would feel
that almost any means would be justifiable to
attain it—except assasination. It would be an
awful deed to kill these six men under guard
in Cohatchie when it is more than probable
they are innocent of the crime charged upon
them. They may have been in some instanees
the agents that carried out another’s unjust exac
tions, but they are men who have lived among
us, whom we have received into society an it
have found no fault with socially, who have
been cordial and friendly and have done many
a kindly act to some of our citizens. Ore of
them has just married a girl from our people;
ail but two haye families. I cannot bear to
think of them shot down upon our soil, alter
they have resigned their offices and only asked
to be allowed to leave the State and that their
wives and little ouos shall be suffered to follow
them. Captain Hirne, have nothing to do with
their killing, I beseech you.’
The Texas ranger stood like a blood hound
suddenly checked and lea: hed in sight of the
quarry. The wrongs he had received made him
over-ready to believe everything evil ot the
people at whose hands he had suffered. His
indignation was roused by th~ picture Cobb had
painted of the plotted riot and the R idieal com
plicity. All the old strife was stirred up in his
breast; the smouldering lire of vengence and hate
1 had blazed up once more. But he would harm
J no innocent man, he would only punish the
guilty. And he listened in grave, startled atten-
] tion to Zoe's words.
‘That is a strange revelation,’ he said. ‘A
political plot, one of our men the instigator!
Miss Vincent will you tell me how you know
that to be true ?’
‘I do not know it, I only believe it; partly,
from putting various things together, but chief
ly from what I heard from the lips of a man
who a<.<•!<>r«s he wsn employed in a p.ovioud plot
to bring on a riot in a somewhat different way.
That plan failed, the man was badly wounded;
he was on this place, and it was while he was
so low that he told me this. I knew of his
sending to the instigator for money, and of his
receiving notes and messages troin him. Yet this
wounded man was a stranuer— an acknowledged
desperado.’
‘ Where is this man ?’
‘He is here.’
‘ Will you send him to me ?’
‘ I will. I believe he will repeat to you what
he told me.’
As she turned off she siw a dusky form slink
closer into the shadow of the vine-hung post
near her. It was Cobb. Standing on the ground
below them, he had caught the import of Zoe’s
appeal to Hirne, and resolved to lorestall her.
He watched her and saw her And Dan, who was
leading his horse tro.u the stable.
‘I’m going with them if I die for it. I can’t
stand it any longer,' Dan said.
She stopped him and made her request that
he would tell Hirne what he had told her, con
cerning Alver.
‘ Anything to please you,’ Cobb heard Nolan
say, ‘I owe Alver a grudge, anyhow, and if he
has done anything to Jim, he wont plot much
more. ’
Zoe went back to the house and Cobb approach
ed Dan who was fastening his horse to the
paling.
‘ Where’s your Captain ?’ Nolan asked him.
‘Yonder, • said Cobb, pointing to the store,
‘but you had better think twice, my friend, be
fore you blab to him what you've got on your
tongue. If you don’t value your life you do
money, I reckon. You keep what you know to
yourself and it’ll be a constant sword over Alver,
and as good as a sma 1 bank account to you be-
s.des. You can check on the Colonel when
you’re hard up occasionally, but blab it and
where’s the good to you or anybody ? Another
thing, don’t you stand in your own light.
Them fellers don’t start off empty-handed in the
morning. It may be interesting for you to know
that, before you do anything to spoil sport.’
Dan thought a moment. ‘I believe you’re
right,’ he said, ‘I'll take your advice.’
He went up to Hirne and said,
‘I am the man Miss Y r incent told you about.
I am sorry she did, for 1 don’t know anything.
That was all a hoax. I said some foolish things
when I was out of my head with fever, She ask
ed me about tbem afterwards, and I didn't re
tract. I added to them, just to seem big and
important in her eyes. It was foolish, but I
thought nothing would come of it, one way or
another. Now she’s made a serious matter of it,
I must out with the truth.’
‘Are you telling me the truth man?’ Hirne
said in his incisive way.
‘Do you think I’d tell you anything else ? I—’•
Cobb came up.
‘Not saddled up yet Cap’n ?’ Where’s your
horse? I’ll get him ready for you.’
‘Thank you. I’ll go over and say good bye to
the people who have been so kind to us. *
‘They’re all gone to bed I believe,’ Cobb said,
but Hirne went on to the house. Zoe was in at
tendance on her brother. He waited' awhile,
and thinking she had retired, went back to the
store.
‘Women—at least angels like that young girl
—are too tender hearted for justice. They can
not comprehend the stem necessity of punish
ment,’ he said to himself.
Ten minutes afterward, he and Cobb, Dan No
lan and the soldier who had brought the news
from Cohatchie, rode down to the landing and
put themselves over the river in the flat Not
till they were half way across the river did Zoe
find out they were gone.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
A youngster who had been stung by a bee told
his father he had kicked a bug that had a splin
ter in his tail.
Two Women.
BY MRS. LOUISE CROSSLEY*
The first volume of poetry ever published in
America, appeared in 1642 The author was
I Mrs. Ann Bradstreet. daughter of Thomas Dud
ley, governor of Masstcbsetts from 1634 to 1650.
Here is the title of the work, verbatim et Literatim:
‘Several poems, compiled with great variety of
wit and learning, full of delight; wherein espe
cially is contained a complete discourse and de
scription of the four elements, constitutions,
ages of man, seasons of the year, together with
an exact epitome of the three first monarchies
viz: the Assyrian, Persian, Grecian, and Roman
Commonwealth, from the beginning to the end
of their last reign, with divers other pleasant
and serious poems. By a gentlewoman of New
England.’
Shade of Apollo! If a volume should appear
with such a title in this fast period, would ou*
lightning-express readers ever get beyond the ti
tle ? But in those slow-coach days, it was, no
doubt, aufait in literature, and we are told that
Mrs. Bradstreet recieved for her poetical tal
ents the title of the Tenth Muse, and the most
j distinguished men of the day were her friends,
and the admirers of her genius. The third e li-
tion of this volume of poetry was published in
1658, and the preface thus sketches the author’s
character. ‘It is the work of a woman honor
ed and esteemed where she lives for bar gra
cious demeanor, her emiuent parts, her pious
conversation, her courteous disposition, her ex
act diligence in her place, and discreet manage
ment of her family occasions; and moreover,
these poems are the fruits of a few hours cur
tailed fiom sleep, and other refreshments.’
So, we see that she was a model among wo
men, as well as an author ‘at the head of the
American poets at that time.’ I should think a
woman wno had written three histories in verse,
‘from the beginning to the end,’ might bo capa
ble of most anything. That Mrs. Bradstreet
was a model wife, read the lines below, and then
deny it if you can. They are quoted from a
poem addressed to her husband, during a tem
porary absence:
If ever two were one, then surely we;
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife were happy in a man.
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
Queen Caroline, wife of George II. of England,
was in some respects, more tuan an ordinary
woman. To great beauty, and many gentle and
womanly qualities, she united a clearness of per
ception and strength of understanding that
often aided the King’s feeble intellect. Taking
j great interest in the affairs ot her royal husband s
! kingdom, she had well acquainted herself with
: the English constitution, and her interposition
and counsel were often beneficial to the country.
These services she always gave in the most un
assuming manner.
It is also stated by her biographer, that she
had the rare good sense to see and acknowl
edge her errors, without feeling any irritation
towards those who opposed them. She once
formed the design of shutting up St. James’
Park, and asked the prime minister, Sir Robert
Walpole, what it would cost.
‘Only a crown, madam,’ was the laconic, but
siguifiicant reply; and she instantly owned her
imprudence with a smile. When, during the
king's absence on the continent, she found her
authority as regent insulted by the outrageous
proceedings of the Edinburgh mob, who had
violently put Captain Porteus to death, she ex
pressed herself with great indignation.
•Sooner,’ said she to the duke of Argyle, ‘than
submit to such an insult, I would make Scot
land a hunting-field ’
‘In that case, madam,’ answered the high-
spirited nobleman, ‘I will take leave of your
majesty and go down to my own country to get
my hounds ready.’
Such a reply would have irritated a weak
mind, but it calmed that ot the queen.
It is also stated, that notwithstanding the
king's infidelity towards the queen, he loved
her as well as he was capable oi loving any one;
a distinction (if distinction it can be called)
she well merited. She was not only the king’s
political adviser, but, strange to say, was also
his confident in all his love affairs, of which she
openly approved. By thus consenting to the
shameful but ruling vice of the royal profligate,
she preserved her influence over him nndi-
minished, and made herself the mistress of his
mistresses. He always preferred her, however,
to any other woman, and during his absence on
the continent, though she often wrote him let
ters ef nineteen pages, yet he would complain
of their brevity.’ This, at least, was certainly
in the role of a lover, married though he was.
Queen Caroline made it a rule never to re
fuse a desire of the king, who was very fond of |
loug walks. More than once, when she had J
gout in her foot, she would plunge her whole
leg in cold water to drive it away, so as to be 1
ready to attend the king. This imprudence !
and over exertion under such circumstances,
brought on an illness that terminated her life
at the age of fifty-five. ‘The king showed the
greatest sorrow at her death, and often dwelt
on the assistance he had found in her calm and
noble disposition in governing his kingdom.
Some years ago a Frenchman, who like many
of his countrymen had won a high rank among
men of science, yet denied the God who is the
author of all science, was crossing the great Sa- i
hara in company with an Arab guide. He no
ticed with a sneer that at certain times his guide,
whatever obstacles might arise, put them all
aside, and kneeling on the burning sands, called
on his God.
Day after day passed, and still the Arab never
failed, till at last one evening the philosopher,
when he rose from his knees, asked him, with a
contemptuous smile—
How do you know there is a God ?’
The guide fixed his eyes on the scoffer in won
der for a moment, and then said, solemnly:
‘How do I know there is a God ? How did I
know that a man and not a camel, passed my
hut last night in the darkness ? Was it not by
the print of his foot in the sand ? Even so,’ and
he pointed to the sun, whose last rays were
flashing over the lonely desert, 'that footprint is
not that of a man.’
A clergyman was annoyed by people talking
and giggling. He paused, looked at the dis
turbers, and said: ‘I am always afraid to reprove
those who misbehave, for this reason. Some
years since, as I was preaching, a young man
who sat before me was constantly laughing,
talking and making uncouth grimaces. I
paused and administered a severe rebuke. After
the close of the service a gentleman said to me,
‘Sir, you have made a great mistake; that young
man was an idiot.’ Since then I have always
been afraid to reprove those who misbehave
themselves in chapel, lest I should repeat that
mistake and reprove another idiot.’ During the
rest of the service there was good order.
It has been decided by the chambers of depu
ties that the palace of the Tuileries will be re
built almost on the former model, and a sum of
five millions of francs have been voted for the
purpose.
Persons who go to Paris ‘green,’ come home
looking mighty ‘blue.’ The visitor is charged
ten cents for a match and twenty-five cents for
a candle which he doesn’t use, and other neces
saries in proportion. Hotel rates have been so
terribly increased since the Exhibition opened
that a man, if he intends to remain a month or
two can save money by purchasing a hotel and
giving it away when he leaves. WK