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GALLAHER’S INDEPENDENT,
PUBLISHED EVERY SATVUDAY AT
QUITMAN, GA,
by—-
J* C. GALLAHER.
TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION •
TWO DOLLARS pet' Annum in Adranef.
(Written fur GaUaher* Independent. J
I LOVK MX NATIVE LAND THE BEST.
BT OKI*. WM. U. BATWAID.
America, my native land,
Star of th© glorious West,
To thee 1 ring ray bovhootf* song,
*‘l love my native land the bn^t."
Tho* I have roamed 'n distant clime#,
like a dove in search of rest.
To thee 1 turn and Ring once more,
“1 love my native land the heat.*’
In many places in the world
War rages dreadful peat:
Here peace and plenty amiling reigns ,
“I love my native land the bent.”
Hero freedom pure forever dwells.
The Eagle is her crest,
Here grows tho tree of Liberty
“I love my native land the Lest.”
And men renowned for noble deeds,
Who fought and stood the'test;
Brave heroes of America.
“1 love my native land the best."
The Holy Bible, here is free.
Our gtiide to moke us blest:
Home of my birth, I cling to thee,
“I love my native laud the beat. *
Our power is felt on land and sea,
As crowned heads attest
The foreign nations of the world.
Acknowledge onr dear land the best.
Columbia, now. and evermore.
All tyrants we detest;
The glory of my song shall be:
“I love my native laud the best/’
Baltimore, Md., July 4, 1874.
BEECHWOOD REVEL.
CHAPTER I.
BEECHWOOI> CASTLE.
Tho country around Reechwood Castle
is h dead level, and underlying the tliin
crust o/ sandy soil are rich beds of marl,
which the plow stira up to mingle kindly j
with the surface and make the grass grow j
rank and green for the steers and heifers ;
who stood in it knee-deep and contented; j
and the beech trees, which love this limy '
soil, tell in their hill, smootli-barki'd
trunks, their great outspread branches,
and their close-grown leaves, how wide!
and how deep their roots have struck into j
the nourishing soil below.
There are no other trees than the j
beeches in this track of country, but no j
one who knows the true beauty ami vari- '
cty of this tree w here it grows to perfec- |
tion would regret tins. They were here
of every age and kind; there were sapling *
trees, feathering their branches gracefully
to the earth, like the wide-spread wings of
Mime great bird; there were ttie great forest ;
giants,round whoso huge trunks men walked j
admiringly, and whose boughs held aloft. I
in summer-time, clouds of green leaves, j
mid looked like great ships sailing under
press of canvass; and there were the an-;
eieut moss-covered trees —most beautiful ;
of all—with lichen-stained trunks, with!
ferns growing in the clefts and crannies of ;
the wood, and oil the smooth bark a lain- j
ilred names of lovers dead and gone long 1
generations ago—trees that, shorn by t,ian-.
of half their branches, still put forth their i
delicate green leafage in Spring, and !
and changed it to red and gold in the Au
tumn. This who e district was a forest of.
these trees, known .is Beochwoods, and ;
the great house set iu the midst of it was j
Beech wood Castle, where lived Sir Philip ;
ud Lady Sandon, aud Miss Eugenia Han- j
don, their only child.
Beech wood Castle was in name and in 1
facta real nsedhevai castle, with moat,
turret, and projecting bartizans, aud Sir
Philip Sandon was a man w orthy to have
inherited such n monument of the old j
time. If every individual of tho genera- J
utions of men through whose hands the
tenements lmilt in ancient days have come l
to ns hud preserved his precious heir-looms
us Hir Philip had done, the England of
to-day would lie full of buildings erected
by men who knew the art of building
churches, houses and hulls ns well as vu
shall ever know it.
Hir Philip had been at pains to restore
his house to its pristine condition. He
hud trowu down a wing added iu the Eliz
abethan period; be had, with less hesita
tion, removed an Italian portico of a later
date, and with zeal of an iconoclast he had
ruthlessly demolished, a hideous facade
which had defaced one side of the house
since tho time of the second George. The
same tasteless period had filled in the
moat; he cleared it out, and could with
difficulty bo induced not to replenish it with
stagnant water.
The house now stood as it stood in the
fourteenth century, when it was built*—a
dwelling-house aud a strong hold. Every
stone was as the meduevul builders had
left it. Home men love ancient buildings,
not so much for what they are now; love
the moss that time has gathered upon
them, the weathered stone surfaces that
the lichen stair gray and yellow, aud the
ivy—abettor in the ruinous work of time
—which steals like a thief from tho earth
and clutches the stones in its grasp to drag
them down; but Hir Philip was far too log
ical and uncompromising an antiquarian
to give in to the mild lestlietseism of such
likings. He treated his residence as its
first castellan would have used it—kept it
clean and neat. If lichens or moss showed
on the walls, they were scraped ofT; if a
stone moldered away, it was replace by
ouc similar in shape, aud taken from the
ipiarry w hence the old builders had hewn
out its predecessor. Nothing better
pleased the possessor of Beeehwood Castle
than to hear a stranger say it looked as if
it lmd been built yesterday.
Bo it w:is that if on this bright ■Tuna day
any one had traveled by the straight avenue
of "great trees, and had caught glimpses of
the castle, with its towers and turrets
glittering in the sunlight tlirongh the vis
tas of this sweet woodland scenery, the
moat-surrounded outer wall, the portcullis
chains in their places, and the draw-bridge
let down, he might almost forget the four
or five hundred years that had passed,
and dream for a moment, if it so pleased
him, that he was in real truth a knight or
a burgher of the old times, coming to seek
hospitality at a medhevnl castle.
Bucli a traveler, possessed with such a
fancy, if he had happened to be coming to
Beech wood Castle on this particular June
afternoon of my story, might indeed have
thought himself dreaming with his eves
open.
Under the walls of the castle, standing
about in groups on tlie broad expanse of
turf which stretched from the moat to
where the leafage of the woods rose up
like a huge wall against the sk v, was an
assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, dress
ed not as we expected in the days to see
onr countrymen attired, but in the strange
costume of a long passed age. There were
Indies with tall erections of stiffend silk
Upon their heads, in shape such as are
(SallaljiT's infocpcniintt
VOL. 11.
still worn by the peasant women of France
and Germany, and wearing bright-colored
dresses with long trains that trailed be
hind them upon the close-shaved lawn.
The younger men were dressed more
brightly even than the indies, in tight
fitting hose of red or yellow, and jerkins
of rich silk with sleeves of a different color
quilted, padded and trimmed with various
liucd silk and velvet, their heads bare, or
covered by the small velvet plumed caps
that were worn in the early part of the
fifteenth oenturv- There were but few' el
derly men, tod these wore a garb that
hotter comported with their years—loose,
fur-trimmed gowns and hoods.
It was a masquerade at Beeehwood Cas
tle, and as the fashion of to-day sets
strongly toward fancy-dress balls, and as
storngly, in the country, toward day enter
tainments, it liad been Lady Sandon's
whim and pleasure to combine those two
things into one. There was to be dancing,
but it was to be in the dusk of evening, on
a polished floor tomprttorily laid in a syl
van glade. There were to be fancy dress
es, but they must bo of one period—of
the age when chivalry was flourishing and
when troubadours still sang the prowess of
knights and the beauty of high-born ladies.
This had been Lady Sandon's edict, aud it
had been cheerfully obeyed by aneighlior
iuiod who took all their fashions and many
of theirjideus from the Lady of Beeehwood
Castle.
During the whole previous Spring little
else had been talked about, and the an
tiquarian knowledge of Hir Philip Sandon
had never been so highly prized in the
country. The choosing of their dresses
was a lesson in history to a great many la
dies and gentlemen who had seldom j
troubled themselves to read a pago of it.
and most learned talk prevailed as to ns
rujfions and baludnnts, v<tir and mini rev,
among people who hod looked out those ;
words in the dictionary an hour before. j
The day came, tho people assembled, j
and the masquerade was a success, i here :
was something for the stupidest guests to j
talk about, a good deal to admire, and. I
most delightful of all, a very great deal I
to laugh at. It is not every lady who can !
manage a train; it is not every gentleman j
who feels comfortable in garments which
are iu these days seldom worn but by ,
harlequins and circus riders.
English people, as a rule, have too much j
dignity and perhaps too much shyness to
shine as masquuders, but hero there was
oue cause of dill', renco removed. Every
one was dressed alike, or more or less alike;
and no one, therefore, hud to brave out a
more eccentric or a more ridiculous dress
than his fellows.
There w ere, of course, among the crowd
of guests some people whose dress seemed
to suit them better than others. Some
figures, both of men and women, seemed
admirably suited to the tight-fitting cos
tnme, who looked as if they had stepped
from the canvas of some of the great early
paiuters. Two such persons were ospeci
allv noted -Miss Eaudon, the heiress of
Beeehwood Castle, and tier affianced hus
| band, Lord Vender. Every one had
i known that lie was a good-looking young
; man, fair complexipned, fair haired, ainia
| tile and popular, aud Miss Sandon had been
i recognized as a beauty even in London,
i when she bad to come out, two years he
j fore; but to-day there was no end to the
j admiration which these two young persons
i excited. People who were almost stran
| gers ki them stored at them with a half
: imbecile smile of admiration. Nothing so
I exquisitely graceful, nothing ho positively
i beautiful bad ever been seen iu shire
as this pair of lovers.
The whole county had been full of medi-1
mviUism for a month past, studying old
books in coiintry-lionse libraries, poring I
over illuminated missals, and someone, a j
little better informed than bis neighbors, j
said they were like Auenssin and Nicolette. s
the famous pair of Provencal lovers of j
whom the old ballads sing she with the |
skin so white that tho daisies looked dark j
as her naked feet pressed them; he, tlie,
slim, golden-haired knight, with “eyes of I
vuir"—Aueassin, “li biu.r, ti f/lon” —and j
this sentence was caught up and went from I
month to month, and almost every one
talked of Aueassin, “li hiax, li blun ,” and j
pretended to consider the phrase extreme- j
ly applicable.
There was cause for these raptures. He j
was marvelously handsome, and his slight j
figure showed to advantage in the tight , j
! liosen of pale crimson, in his doublet of j
[ green silk slashed with silver gray, with a j
I dagger in a jeweled scabbard borne in a
j broad silver belt. Ilis young, fresh face, j
jon which not even a moustache lmd yet j
1 appeared, was, some severe critic:
i thought, hardly so manly ns it should be, 1
! but if so.it would be but all the more suit- j
i ablo to the impersonification of Aueassin, j
Whose sword, the ballads say, would drop |
I from bis hands in tho midst of battle, so ■
I forgetful of his knightly duties was he in
! his love for Nicolette.
To bo sure, if tho Nicolette of tho bal- j
lad was like Miss Sandon, there was ex
cuse enough. She, too, had tho hair
j which “grew in golden rings” of the lml-
Muddiiongors, and lnr eyes likewise were of
i the intense gray-blue which the singers j
, likened to the color of “rail-,” tho rich
l foreign fur then worn. Her figure matched j
his in its slim graceful contour, dressed as
she was in a narrow, long-trained robe of
dim blue pearl, sewn to mark the delicate
| lines of her body. lier hair was drawn
: back from the fair forehead, and the soft.,
sweet expression of her face, smooth anil
delicate, like the petals of May blossoms,
was relieved by the severe lines of the tall
head-dress, sloping back half a yard high,
of dark gray silk.
To see these two lovers together, to
watch the serious intensify of their glan
| ces nteach other, was a thing qfiite apart
| from the hard, material existence of cvery-
I day life—was the realization of an idyllic
| poem—was a bit of the golden age itself.
I What innocence ! what purity ! w lint triist
; fill simplicity 1 Happy lovers ! who can
| both be so sure that neither of you will
S ever find an object so delightful us the
| other 1
I Was ever a young lady so innocent as
, Miss Sandon looked, or is the world, per
j Imps, not grown a little old for us to ex
pect ally reflection of the sgo of gold HI
; the nineteenth century ? .Alas ! we have
j most of onr Nemesis somewhere not far
off, ready to overtake as for our great or
i our little sins, utid Miss Sandon's Neme-
I sis was at this very momentcomiug nearer
and nearer.
CHAPTER II
MISS SVXDON'h HEMKSIS.
It w as nightfall, aud tlie dancing bad be
| gun. Fortunately the evening was calm
\ and dry. and on tile warm air arose the
i d“lieionn fragrance which a wood of beech
QUITMAN, GA., SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1874.
trees gives forth at night-time. Sir Philip
Sandon had found a mediaeval precedent
for stretching a bn aul canvas roof, by
means of colds and pulleys, high over the
dancers’ heads to keep off the evening
dews; but this service was already aocotn
plibhed by the high-poised strata of gray
clouds, through the openings of which the
full moon only showed from time to time.
A hundred saucer-shaped iron soonees,
tilled with some flaming resinous com
pound and held aloft on tall poles, sur
rounded the sylvan ball-room, and east a
strong red light, which made the leafy re
cesses of ttie w ood all around soem doubly
obscure.
Hir Philip Sandon had quite failed in
inducing the band to learn the old Pro
vencal music, and Lady Sandon herself
had opposed his suggestion that her guests
should make themselves acquainted with
tho dances of the time and country of the
Troubadom—with the farandole, where u
wide circle was formed by the dancers
with joined bauds, or the torch (lauee, a
wild cotillion where each dancer hold in
his hand a lighted brand. Ho the hall was
after all but a common-place one, only that
as the ball-room never got too hot or too
dusty, seeing that its walls were the fresh,
odorous branches of trees, the ball was an
exceptionally delightful one. Between
the dances the guests walked to and fro on
the mossy turf beyond the flooring, just
within the circle of light given by the
torches; and beyond this outer precinct,
half hidden by the trees, some dozens of
Sir Philip Sandon’s servants and tenants
had gathered to watch the dancing.
Lord Vereker lmd hardly loft the side
of Miss Sandon during tho evening, and
they were now pacing slowly backward
and forward on the grass, talking eagerly
to each other in low tones. It was easy
to guess from his looks and from her an
swering ones how prosperous were their
loves.
As they passed by one group of country
spectators Miss Sandon hoard her name
spoken. She stopped.
“Please, Miss Sandon, may I speak to
you ?”
It. was a child’s voice that spoke.
“Wbnt is it, John?” She knew (lie
voice to bo that of the keeper’s child, and
the boy, encouraged by the friendly tone,
came out of the darkness, holding some
thing in his outstretched hand a letter.
Miss Sandon took it, opened it, and read
it; —
“Eugenia, I am waiting for you at tho
tree where we used to meet. Yon must
come, and come alone. 1 shall not wait
long. 1 shall be watching you from the
darkness while yon read this. Take care
that you do not provoke a desperate man
to a desperate course.”
She read the letter, and when she looked
up into her lover’s face the world was
changed for her. Hhe was like a person
awakened from n pleasant dream; like ono
summoned from the tumult of a feast to
the silence of a torture chamber. The
sweet vision of the present was dissipated,
i and the horrors of the post, which she had
! thought dead, were revived.
Hhe was taken with a mortal dread; her
j body shook, and her gloved light, hand
: that had held the letter trembled, lying on
i her lover's arm. She clasped the other
I hand on it to help hersolf tostand.so faint
j did the snook make her feel. Hhe looked
| up into his face for comfort,
j “What is it, Eugenia ?" he asked,
i She could not answer for a time.
“Arthur,” she said presently, “do you
quite believe in me ?”
He looked round to see that no one was
near.
! “Quite," he said, smiling 1 , and he laid
| his hand on her clasped ones.
“Do you remember what 1 once told
j yon about — ?”
j “About Stephen Goodlake?”
“I am glad I told you that I”
“Why ?”
“He is here now.”
I “Where ?”
“Within a few yards of ns at, this mo
ment- perhaps watching us,” she said, in
! a low voice, and she held herself closer to
j him.
Lord VeveVcr looked grave. “What
■ does lie want ?”
j “To see me.” With fingers that would
I scarcely obey her she opened out the let
| ter, which she had crumpled in her hand;
| she flattened it out on his wrist.
“Read it.” she, said, looking with anxi
ous eyes into his face.
‘No,” he said, placing his own hand to
cover the open letter; “I do not wish to,
A curious feeling came to her. Lord
Vereker whs everything in the world to
her. She would die gladly rather than lose
the least particle of the great love she
knew he had for her; and yet in this ex
tremity of hers she could not refrain from
comparing the Stephen Goodlake of the
past, the man who had once sworn lie
loved her better than any woman in tlie
world,-and to whom—long as his image
had faded from her thoughts—she believed
she had for n short moment give'll some
little share of her girlish heart; sho com
pared him with Lord Vereker, and, look
ing at him, she wished he had been a man
that she could better have confided in.
She knew that Stephen Goodlake was
treating her badly; she knew that his
Utter was a threatening letter; she knew
that lie trusted to the strength and ve
hemence of his character to force her in
some way to his will. There was some
thing that was terrible to her in his mere
size and physical strength, and she w ished
she could have looked to Lord Vereker as
to one in whose protection she could feel
quite secure, whose superior moral
strength would encompass and support
and make amends for her own feebleness,
to whom she could have intrusted her
fears and freely admitted her past weak
ness, and her present strength iu her love
and iu her truth to him. She won id have
liked to say to her lover, “This man has
been this much to me—little enough in
comparison to what you are but still some
thing- this is what he now says, this is
wliat I fear he will try to force me to do;
but now til at I am yours, do not let him
hurt me—stand between him and tue —
save me from lorn;” and this it was that
she felt she could not say to Lord Vere
ker.
She had often desired to toll him the whole
story with every particular and circum
; stance, of Stephen Goodlake, and she hud
told him something, but not, all that she
1 had wished him to know. Hhe was certain
| he had never rightly understood how this
man's vehemence had hurried her, little
I move than a child at the time, into fancy
ing that she cared for one w hose charm;
ter she afterward had reason to despise,
arid whose memory she now loathed. She
felt that she herself would be weak in the
i presence of this mu, but ct least she was
n woman, and therein perhaps safer than i
any man who should stand before Stephen j
Goodlake in one of his angry, savage j
mooda—of any man, that is, who was
physically his inferior; and there was,
though she baldly defined tho feeling,
some bitterness in this reflection that
Lord Veroker, much us she loved him,
was neither in bodily nor even in moral
strength tho equal of Stephen Goodlake.
“What, will you do V" said Lord Ve
rekev.
“1 must speak to him—alone.”
“Is that, your real wish ?’’ said her lover.
“I must do it,” she said, disengaging
her arm.
Hhe went, onward a few steps, and she
turned to look back at her lover. She
could not understand him quite. He had
made no objection to her going to meet a |
man who he knew had loved her, and per
haps would tell her he still loved her.
Would she he like that if ttie cases were
reversed ? Could - he core for her ns she
did for him ? In truth she was right m
thinking that she did not quite under
stand Lord Vereker. Even she had not
got to know the full loyalty of his love for
her, nor the large trust he hod iu the
woman whom he lmd enshrined in his heart
as the truost and noblest in the world.
“Arthur,” she snid, returning the few
steps slie lmd gone, and touching liis arm,
“tell me I go with your leave.”
“Go, my darling,” he said, and ho
pressed her hand. “I shall not be out of
hearing. If you want me, call.”
So encouraged sho went forward into
the darkness of the wood; reaching more
and more into the stillness; urged to com
pliance with the vague threats of the man
sho feared, but moving with unwilling
steps, now pausing, not quite to lnso tho
fainter-grown sound of the ninsio mid
voices, now again going forward into the
deepening shade of hanging boughs. A
quaint sight, in this English greenwood,
this slight-figured, lovely young girl
stealing forth alone; timid, trembling so
(lint at. times she would hold her hand on
a branch that crossed the path to steady
herself, with pale face, looking, in her
strangely-fashioned, trailing garments of
rich silken stuff of dim, delicate coloring,
like some fair painted maiden in a picture.
Stephen Goodlake was leaning against
tho tree. Hhe raised her eyes to him, and
she did not know him for n moment. His
beard now hid much of his face, but. his
eyes sho knew him by almost immediately
the great, intense, dark eyes which she
had once liked to look into.
There was not tho angry, monaehing
expression in them which she had ex
pected they would wear at sight of her,
which slid had seen once or twice before,
and which was vvlmt chiefly she remem
bered Stephen Goodlake by, and what in
truth had got to clothe him iu lier mem
ory with a vague horror. Not, indeed,
that the girl was physically a coward; she
could raise her oyos boldly enough to the
level of any mere bodily peril, but sho
dreaded, ns women will always dread, the
unknown. She 1a 1 formed some quite
ignorant supposition of the extent of evil
t hat the man who stood before her could
work her if he choose; in plain truth she
feared that lie could cross the great love
between Lord Vereker and hers If.
This episode in her pas' life, of Stephen
Goodlake and his love for lier, had at one
time gone nearly out of her memory. Jt.
was more than four years ago that he had
oome to Beeehwood, the college friend and
companion of her brother. She, half child
and half woman, had been for an instant
captivated by his handsome face, and be
lieved in and half responded to the love
ho had told her of with such strong sem
blance of passion. Then be had gone.
Then there had come to Beeehwood stories
of his misconduct; of some great disgrace
that he had incurred, some stain on his
honor that no time would remove; so deep
a stain that even her brother, bis own fam
iliar friend, bad spoken of him with con
tempt. Then it was known that lie lmd been
compelled to leave England, and after
that bis name bad never been heard at
Beeehwood; and neither then, nor at any
time, had it been suspected that between
Stephen Goodlake and Eugenia Hundon
anything had passed.
After this had come for her the passing
into the busy life of society, which our
English girls enter at a step from out of
the narrow round of their childish cx
istunce. Then had grown up the love be
tween her and Lord Vereker, and that love
lmd quite filled her life; then her only bro
ther’s death; and now a year or more had
passed, and the time of her marriage was
drawing near.
It liad been lately and for the first time
that the old memory of Stephen Goodlake
had overtaken her. At moments when
the vision before her seemed at its most
golden, when her enjoyment of her youth
and her great love made existence a bright,
| delightful dream for, when her life-pulses
i were beating their fullest and quickest,
then suddenly a vague dread would seize
I and benumb her senses; for some instinct
| told her to surmise that the man’s nature
j that had made him false to others would
j made him play false with her too. Needy
j and unscrupulous as he was, ho might, it
I had one day occurred to her, sec his nd
i vantage in torturing into a promise on her
i part that which had passed between them,
i and the redemption of any such promise,
I now that she was a great heiress, might be
worth such a man’s while to hesitate at
1 nothing to bring about.
She hod told Lord Vereker everything
' lie would listen to about this event in her
j life; it was indeed but a half confession,
j for be would hear of no full details; aud
j what if now this man, driven to despera
tion, should, either iu revenge or to gain
! bis ends, partly reveal, and partly exag
( gerate, and partly invent some hucli story
as should be a slur upon her that eveu her
I lover could not overlook?
“Eugenia,” said Stephen Goodlake.
! She looked full ut him, uml he could not
i see in her face how full of terror was lier
| heart. “I am come here, at no little
; danger to myself, to see you onae more ”
It was the old voice which she remem
-1 bered so well, and which once she thought
so eloquent, but now there was a ring in
it which grated unpleasantly on lier ear,
; an unreal kind of over-emphasis, such as
I actors in the theatres employ It seemed
I to herself odd that she should notice this
! now for the first time.
Hhe made him no answer
“I was compelled to write to you as I
‘ did.’ he said, “that I might he sure you
| would come Eugenia, tell me you have
j sometimes Jet my image cross your mem
ory!”
j Sho drew back, iur lie had stepped for
ward from the tree against which he hud
been leaning, and would have taken her
band.
“Mr. Ootjdlako, have you anything to
say to me?” She spoke in a voice that
was hardly more than a whisper.
“Yes,” lie said, in earnest tones that
seemed to tremble, or that he made to
seem to tremble, “Yes, I have tliie to toll
you, that, never once in the four long
years that have passed since we pnrted at
this tree, n iver once since the day you
swore to me yon would be mine—”
Eugenia shuddered.
“Never for a day,” he went on, “novor
for an hour, have I ceased to think of,
to hope for you, to wish for you, to long
for tho time to come, as it lias now oome,
when tlio cloud that has hung over my
name should be removed, wliou I could
come to you, Eugenia, and remind you of
the promise you gave mo!”
The false note in the man’s voioo struck
her more and more as ho went on, aud
stronger and stronger was the fooling of
repulsion it roused iu her.
“You are stating what, you must know
is not trite. When we met here, four
years ago, nothing of what you say took
place.” .
“You did not plight your troth to me?”
She looked straight into his eyes.
“You know I did not!” she said indig
nantly.
“Do you think to trifle with me?” and
he raised his voice. “Do you think that
I, who have suffered patioutly all these
years with the one hope that you would
keep your faith to me—do you think that.
I am going to submit to let fate take you
from me as well? Do you not know 1
love you, Eugenia?” lie said, with rapid
speech, “and can you think I shall ever
abandon you—to what, and to whom, my
God!—to the miserable boy 1 taw you with
just now?”
“Mr. Goodlake,” she said, “you shall
not speak thus to me of ”
“Listen!” lie said, interrupting lier,
and speaking with his teeth set, and a
look of fury on his face; “listen to wliut 1
say! Unless you ratify the promise you
made to me here—unless you swear, be
fore you leavo the spot von stand on, that
you will be mine, I will do this—before
Heaven I swear that I will not shrink
from it. I will walk straight to the peo
ple yonder—l will proclaim your shame
openly before them, beforo them all—l
will say that of you which shall make
every honest woman shun you, and every
man you know dispise you.”
“Ob, Mr. Goodlake, spare mo!” said
the girl, in extremity of distress. “You
could not say of mo what you know is
false."
Ho saw the impression he had made,
and went on—
“Do not provoke mo too far. I have
told you alone that I was a desperat e man.
Ono thing alone will save me—will save
the man you pretend to prefer to me,
whom you promised to lovo forever. One
tiling only will save yourself. Choose—
now, this moment 1 or the time will have
gone by 1” Ho sprang forward, and seized
her wrist.
“Eugenia 1 your fate is in your own
hands-—my love or my bate 1” And he
grasped both- her wrists with such force
that, partly from the pain, partly from
her sudden terror and loathing of the
mail’s touch, she involuntarily gave a half
cry. He held her more and moro tightly
us she struggled to free herself.
A rustle among the underwood was
j heard, and, in a moment, Lord Vereker
: was standing between them. His hand
was ou Goodlake’u throat; and before a
word had been spoken Lord Vereker had
forced him backward against the tree, and
held him there iu his tightening grasp.
The bigger man struggled, but be strug
gled ineffectually. A' better man than
Stephen Goodlako, caught in the doing r
a moan action, aud called on to defend
himself, is apt to make but a poor tight of
it; and, notwithstanding his powerful
frame and good pluck, there was some
thing that paralyzed him in the very face
of his adversary; and that adversary was
not one that even such an athlete ns he
was could make light of. Lork Vereker
was not so big a man as Goodlake; though
nearly as tall, be was more slightly made;
there was not the same muscular develop
ment -Vint muscle is an affair of quality
rather than quantity, ns connoisseurs in
the matter well know. In such a hand-to
hand struggle as this, when two men are
so fairly matched, endurance goes for
much; and a man does not get into the
low, drinking habits that Gooklake had
acquired, with impunity; nor, again, does
another hunt four days it week, and spar,
fence, and shoot the other two, with no re
sult to wind and limb.
Goodlako made a hugo effort to shake
off liis assailant, but Lord Vereker’s grip
on Ihh throat remained. Goodlako struck
out wildly with bis closed fist; lint a man
whoso windpipe is compressed os in a steel
vice delivers no very formidable blow,
i His face got Mack; lie opened his lips to
1 curse, but the sound that came from them
was more like a horrible gurgle. For ono
moment lie seemed exhausted, and leaned
his back against the tree; and Lord Vere
ker used the opportunity to take a stron
ger hold with the left hand that had never
left Ihh throat.
Then Goodlako summoned all liis re
maining force for that supreme effort,
which is made by every man and every
animal in a struggle between life and death
.—an effort which is partly a convulsion.
The two men swayed together as one
body, straining limb against limb—tlieir
teeth tlieir brows furrowed and
lowering with the fury of figlit. Then
Goodlake’s strength and breath began to
fail; he yielded inch by inch, as bis antago
nist pushed him, by sheer excess of endu
rance anil spirit, back to the tree. There
i he held him still fighting aud resisting,
I though all but overcome. There Lord
Vereker held him a minute or two; then
he put in practice the old wrestling back
| fall, and his opponent fell suddenly and
I heavily among the twisted roots of the
i great beech-tree under which the struggle
; had takeu place.
He made no effort to move, lying there,
| breathing sterloriously, with the blood
' slowly oozing from mouth and nose, and
j lils urrns outstretched helplessly. Lord
Vereker looked down at him curiously for
a moment or two; then he turned to see if
I any one had witnessed the encounter.
1 ’The head keeper wus there, who touched
’ his hat and smiled.
; “You’ve pretty well settled him, my
1 Lord !”
“1 hope not,” said Lord Vereker;
“though the scoundrel almost deserved it.
! Loosen his lie. NViUiam.and raise his head.”
Tho keeper knelt down by the fallen
man and performed the offices which his
prof melon had taught him how to render.
“T sent him through the wood with my
’ tittle boy,’ said Newttll; “and when the
| boy did not uTfic back Ifeared something
v,-jts wrong, and cams after li'*u.’‘
Lord Vereker waited until his late an
tagonist hud recovered consciousness; then
he addressed him:
“Stephen Goodlako, I am going to give
you into tho charge of Sir Phillip Sun
don’s keeper. I know why yon came here
to-night. I guess what you came to say.
And now, listen well to what 1 toll you.
It rests with me, and me alone, to prose
cute you criminally for tho forgery you
committed at the University three years
ago. I let. vou off then for your friends’
sake, and hoping you might reform. I
sec I did wrong. Your behavior to-night
shows me you are a greater blackguard
than ever. Now, murk me 1 The evi
dence of the crime you committed can be
got together in a week; the indictment is
already drawn out; the bill, with my ac
ceptance forged by you, is in my posses
sion. One word from mo and you are iu
jail, and iu t.wo months from now will be
working out a convict’s sentence. ” Good
lake groaned. “As I have stood here
watching you 1 have debated with myself
whether or not, I have a right to prevent
the law from taking itseourso. I give you
one more chnneo. ’’
Stephen Goodlake breathed a deep sigh
of relief.
"But, listen to this. If, either to-night
or ut any future time, you give me the
smallest, reason to regret my leniency, I
give you fair warning, you shall answer
for the crime you have committed in a
court of law. ”
He had spoken in a grave, deliberate
maimer that lmd clearly terrified the baf
fled scoundrel nt bis feet. Even Wm
Newell was impressed. Putting his band
into the capacious pocket of his shooting
jacket, lie produced a pair of steel hand
cuffs, and, without a word, slipped them
over Goodlake’s wrists with the skill of a
London police sergeant.
“Get up, my man,” said tho keeper
roughly, and with a judicious thrusting of
bis knuckles into tbo villain's nbs.
Goodlake rose, cowed and crest-fallen.
"You have my authority, William,”
said Lord Vereker, as the keeper led away
his prisoner, “you have my full authority,
if 1m misbehaves, to take him to the near
est. police station.”
This scene had passed very quickly.
Semi-strangulation is u rapid process. A
few seconds had been enough for the
struggle aud the overthrow of Goodlake.
Miss Sandon had, of necessity, witnessed
it, all. Terrified as she had been by tlie
man’s threats, she would not, even in her
extremity, have brought her lover into tlie
peril of contact with one sho thought so
terrible; she would have endured it, all
alone. She was a brave, ti ue-hrarted girl,
ami it is not sncli women as she who fly
with screams and pretty squeuuiisbuess
when a deed of righteous manhood is per
formed in their presence. She had
watched the figlit as a liigh-born maiden
of the old time might have looked down
upon the prowess of her chosen knight.
There, watching out the struggle be
tween the two men, she laid first learned
the full worth of the man whom she had
already set on the altar of her heart, the
generosity that would not pry unworthily
into the oue weakness of her past, the
manhood that had rescued her from even
the shadow of annoyance.
Then end there, in the silence of the
wood, she f old him what was in her heart,
and thanked him again and again—told
it him as lie held her to him, enlacing her
urrns around him, and looking up into his
face with anew and stronger love.
Then these two lovers walked slowly
back together through the shadowy alleys
of the wood; and, just before they came
into tlie gleam of the lights, slie stopped
him to say:
“Arthur, they say wo are like Aueassin
and Nicolette; but 1 don’t think you will
ever let your sword drop from your bund
in the battle 1”
“Not even for love of you?” said Lord
Vereker; and ho laughed n little.
“No,” said Miss Sandon, smiling too;
"not even for love of me.”— The New
Quarterly Magazine.
LOVE PUT *TO FLIGHT.
A few days ago a young couple in this
city were "sighing for the knot tlier’s no
untying.” They had known each other
long, and thought they knew each other
well. Ono evening the gallant called upon
his future bride Ho lmd passed the pre
vious niglit with a party of bachelor
friends, and didn’t “go home till morn
ing.” Asa consequence, not oven the
bright eyes of liis dulcena could drive sleep
from his eye-lids. lie reclined upon the
sofa, and suddenly dropped into the land
of dreams. Heavy breathing was followed
by a slight snore, which developed into
a snort which caused the home to tremble.
There was as little variation in the nasal
music as iri the puffing of a high-pressure
steamer. 'The young lady began to think
of tlie future—then wept. She shook her
sleeping lover, but be snored with renewed
vigor. At last she was furious, and seiz
ing liis huir, gave it a jerk thatbrougbthim
to his feet. He stammered, “Whitt's the
matter, my ” “Matter enough,” slie
replied, “I shall die an old maid before
I marry a man that snores. Good niglit!”
She left the parlor---he the house. The
young lady could not keep the secret, uml
the reason why the match was broken off
is now generally known among tlieir circle
of friends.- Wheeling Intelligencer.
DrsTTtoTrNO CxTEnrmLAiis. —They claim
to have brought the process of killing the
cotton caterpillars in Texas to such per
fection that it requires very little time or
expense. We find in the Galveston News
an advertisement by tlie inventor of a
“cotton worm destroyer,” iu which he
claims that he mukos a compound which
is not, only ‘dead sure’ to kill the worms,
but acts as a fertilizer to tlie plant, and lie
sells a machine for distributing it over cot
ton plants in tho form of a spray reaching
every part. Ho says that one of liis pack
ages costing a dollar will be enough for
five hundred gallons of water, that this
quantity will sprinkle twenty to twcuty
nvu acres, and that the machine will
sprinkle fity acres a day.— Col. Enquirer.
A Nevada man, who was walking with
his brother to attend liis wedding, was as
tonished by o proposition to take the
bride elect off bis lmuds and marry her in
his stead. With true good nature he
consented, and the prospective bride
groom and groomsman changed places, to
the satisfaction of all parties concerned.
A woman cannot bo too cautious, too
watchful, too exacting in her choice of a
lover, who, from the slave of a few weeks
or months -rarely years —is to become the
master of lier future destiny, and tho
guide, net only thto'igh all t.mc. but per
haps eternity.
TUM HOOK CANVASSER.
Aliouf 8 years ago, while at dinner with
ray family, a wuz informed that tliare waz
a gentleman iu the parlor who mast sen
•mo imegiatoly on very important bizzness.
Hastening from the table, i found my
self iu the presence ova, plainly dressed
hut very nervous man, who iu formed mo
that lie was canvassing mi district for tho
sale of Doctor Erastus Spignot's new
work, entitled tho “Normal Girculashuu
ov tho Blood.”
lat once informed the mini that i did
not want the work.
He then begun a long aekouut ov its
value and importance to every human i e
ing, when i broke in upon his eloquence
by repeating “that i did nut want the
book.
He continued by telling me that no li
brary would lie complete without it.
Again i deklnvcd in the most) oentiff terms
“that I did not want tlie work!”' 1
At this point the stranger seated him
self in a oimir, and deliberately drew tho
liook in question out ov biz satchel, and
informed me that no gentleman to whom
he had offered failed ut once to subscribe.
Growing desperate, i deklurod iu tho
most emphatik tones “that i Would not
bav tbo nook at any price.”
Rising from hiz chair, lie took oph hiz
overout, and, throwing it carelessly on tho
sofa, struck an attitude, and for ten min
utes gave the most glowing uokotint ov
the circtiloshun ov the bind and tho anat
omy ov man that I ever listened to.
I onoe more assured him, in a beseech
ing manual 1 , “that i did not want tho
book.” u
Seating himself again in the otiiitr, and
wiping the drops of perspirsshon from hiz
brow, lie wont back to tho days of* Adam
and Eve, aud for huff’ an hour talked uz no
human ever talked before ou the various
diseases the human sistim was subject to,
closing up with a vivid recital ov the cir
kulushen of the bind.
NO. 10.
Again i insisted upon it that the book
would be ov no use to me, aud that i
would not lmv it.
Springing from hiz seat, with tho book
in hi/, hand and hiz eyes flashing fire, and
hiz whole manner intense, he began to sho
me its kontouts, commencing at tho title
pago.
I saw at last that it wns wnss than mad
ness to resist enny longer, so i subscribed
for the book, consoling miself with the re
flocslran that if i ever had a book to sell
miself i would have it sold bisubsknpsliun.
The more i think ov it, i am so deli ted
with the pious energy and long suffering
ov the book canvasser, that i wouldn’t
think ov selling a book enny other way.
He iz a man whom yn can’t escape enny
more than yn can your own shadow: lm
follows hiz victim like a ghost uml hang*
around him grinning like nil undertaker..
The only way to get rid ov him iz tin
subscribe at once, and let him go for the
next phellow.
The shaving soup man the life, insurance
agent are very good in their way, but they
don’t kompnre with the book canvasser
for lively work any move than the pensive
cockroach dnz to the red hot muskeeto.
They steal on yn like u hat. on a mouse,,
when vu aint looking for them, and, like
the fly in the spider’s web, the iqore yu tri
to git out the further yu git in.
I lav the book canvasser now: hiz word*
arc like liunny in the comb, and hiz logic
is like sweet, ile; and though lie may self
me a book i don’t want, and won’t hav,
tharo iz real pliun in the way he does it.
I subskvibe now, nt lehkt once a year, for
sum kind ova book that i never look into,
with a title nz long itz the tail ova kite,
just, bekause the book .canvasser iz so po
lite and so utterly impossible to raff rid ov.
—Josh Hillings.
CHANGES OF A CENT UK V.
The nineteenth century lius witnessed
many and great discoveries.
In 1809 Pulton took out the first patent
for the invention of the steamboat.
The first, steamboats which made regu
lar trips across the Atlantic Ocean were
the Hirus and the Great Western, in
1830.
Tlw first, public application to practice
the use of gas for illumination was wader
in 1802.
In 1813 ihe streets of London were for
the flint time lighted with gas.
In 1813 there was built at Waltham,
Mass., a mill, believed to have been tho
first in the world, which combined all tha
requirements for making finished cloth
from raw cotton.
In 171)0 there were only twenty-live
postoftieea ill tho whole country, ami up
to 1837 the rates of postage were twenty -
five cents for a letter sent over one hun
dred miles.
In 1807 wooden clocks commenced to
be made by machinery. This ushered ill
the era, of cheap clocks.
About the year 1833 the first railroad of
considerable length in the United Htatea
was constructed.
In 1810 the first express business was es
tablished.
Tho anthracite cos I business may bo
said to have begun in 1820.
In 1836 the first patent for tho inven
tion of matches was granted.
•Steel pens were introduced for uso in
1830.
Tho first successful reaper was con
structed in 1833.
(l IIICHIS TUeTIaP PIESTPERIOD
Ever since the world began this has
been a disputed question, and ever sinco
the worlabegan the majority of (lie peo
ple have misjudged. Thoroughly dissat
isfied with any present ' me, wo cast
about for a golden age. We can not find
it in the future, as the cloud of uncertainty
bangs on the horizon in that direction.
, We are compelled therefore to explore tho
past.
Tho immediate past, with its faets and
disuppoitmeuts, is too fresh in our mem
ory to allow us to throw tho required halo
about it, and we continue onr juorney un
: til we get to the point where memory
! grows dim and the imagination works ac-
Ii ively, and wo ealt that the halo halcyon
i period of life. This distant future and
distunt past are both creations of tho
fancy.
To say that childhood is the happiest
period of life is to offer insult to provi
dence. The child is at best but a bundle
of possibilities. He is a creature of un
trained impulses, of undeveloped affec
tions. His mind is like a grate in a well
ordered house. The coal is there, the
kindling wood is there, and the whole
thing will break into ablaze when touched
with a match. Now, before the match
has touched it, it is pleasanter and more
profitable sight tlmn naif a dozen lumps of
eannel coal enveloped in a royal blaze and
filling the room so full of light and heat
that one forgets the wintry sleet without,
childhood, with its sugar plums and its
toys, will bo inferior to manhood, with its
burning enthusiasm and its lofty ambi
tion.
A little hoy from Chicago, on going to
the seaside, saw u turtle in the 1 a k yard
of a hotel, when his astonishment knew
no bounds. “Oh, mother ! mother !” said
the child, “come light away quick! for
here’s the queerest thing—a grout blade
frog, with a l*nt ett liis back, rtwpiyg o:
his knees.' 1