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YOL. XYIII.
ATLANTA. GA.. TUESDAY MORNING JANUARY 25 1887
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Dur Story Corner
THE CHAINGANG GU4RD.
Ity Wallace P. Reed.
For The Constitution.
The noon-tldo suit of a hot summer day beat
fiercely down upon the convicts at work in the
apparently boundless cotton Sold that belonged
to Colonel Jefferson Clay.
It was a largo plantation, and wits almost on
tlrely worked by a force of chaingnng convicts,
leased to Colonel Clay by the state author!'
ties.
As tho snn reached the meridian its rays
mine down so pitilessly, and with such scorch,
ing fervor, that the four guards, who kept
watch over the miserable convicts were com-
polled to seek shelter under the few scattered
pines which dotted llttlo knolls lu different
parts of the field.
Lastly reclining on the trass, the guards
played with their battered old muskets, and
ssept a keen lookout for tho slightcat indica
tion of lagging work or insiftordinatioii on the
part of the eighty prisoners who were engaged
in hoeing cotton.
There was llttlo dautcr.of the
“ Wiping.' AhroVy hull andohalu ware al
to each man and it waa difilc lit to make much
headway. Tho gnarda wero always vigilant,
stud when it waa necessary they had a pack of
trained blood bounds in reserve for the pursuit
trad capture of fugitives.
Suddenly one of the guards looked at-bis
watch.
“Sinner time!" ho exclaimed, ..
whistle to hia lips ho blew a keen blast which
waa heard all over the field.
- The effect was magical. Every hoe felt to
the ground, and four squads of convicts were
soon sitting in the shade devouring their
scanty rations of corn broad, bacon and greens.
Forgetting their miseries for the time, these
unfortunates revelled in the enjoyment of their
rude repast The clinking of their chains was
interspersed with bunts of hearse laughter
over an occasional joke, inch Jokes as are never
heard outsldo of a chain gauges
Soring tho progress of the i
guards was attracted by the peculiar conduct
*>f a prisoner in one of tho aqnads. Approach-
ing him the guard mid in a surly tone:
"See here, Joe, no shamming now; it won’t
do, you know. No sickness allowed in this
-eampi”
The convict looked up with a start, looked
Into the cruet eyes of a cruel face, and saw no
mercy there.
“Curse you!’’ he snarled; “1 wonder if you
have a heart
‘Think I have,” replied the other noncha
lantly, “but that baa nothing to do with yonr
■case, my friend. Our worthy host, Colonol
Clay, is of the opinion that a convict luver
S eta sick—he only ahama—and as hia inttruc-
ons are to punish every case of shamming
with thirty.nlne lashes, well laid on, I have
mothlug to do but to obey orders. You under
stand?”
The convict looked up into the (her of hia
$uard.
The guard looked down into tlie face of the
convict.
Tall and erect, youthful and handsome,
making allowance for tho cruel eyes ami face,
the guard, despite hia rough Jeans suit, looked
like a man who had seen betterdays. And his
history did not run counter to bis appearance.
Fire years before Dick Macon bad been one of
the spoiled darlings of society. The gaming
table and tho wine cup had sent him down at
headlong speed to his present level; had re
duced him to the necessity of accepting the po
rtion of chaingang guard on Jefferson Clay’s
ponvict plantation.
Tbo prisoner, whose keen Week eyes were
.vanning the relentless face above him. was a
middle aged man whose alight frame allowed
that be was ill-fitted to bear the hardships of
his situation. His restless eyes, haggard fiice,
trembling hands and husky voice would have
at wakened pity ae well as contempt in the
breast of a I molt an j observer.
There waa nothing novel in the spectacle to
Dick Macon, however, and bringing bis mus-
fiect down with » vicious thump, tie said:
“Ton’d better take care, Joe—you’ll gel a
licking before night, ,if you don’t get about
Jronr work quicker.”
Joe bowed his head and muttered:
‘Twenty thousand dollars, and I was fool
-enough to think of giving bint half, i’ll bide
hat's that?" asked Diek Macon qnirkiy.
“Nothing,” answered Joe. with hia bead still
lent down.
"Joe!” laid the guard.
“Weil,'’ waa the snappish response.
“I want tq know, yon rascal, what you
meant bv yonr allusion to tweuty thousand
slollais.’ *
-Ob, it was nothing,” replied the other, “it
was mere madness on my part. I meant tint
I wenld give half of the twenty thousand dol
lars that I have securely hidden away if I
t onld once get oot of this Ma.tcd nla.-e.”
“Yon lying scoundrel,” laughed the guard,
'‘do yon think yea can make me tumble to
thataortof racket? You never had twenty
thousand dollars in yonr life.”
“Liar, yoanelf!” shoo ted Joe, with a sudden
flash of fire in his wolfish eyes. “What ami
here tor, Dick Maeon?”
“Humph !” mid Dick, “murder. I believe.”
‘■Correct,’’ returned the convict, “Murder it
U. I was convicted cu chxunatantiai crkltac*,
always stirring dp the other men to mnilny—
it's the best thing that could havo happened.”
The troety returned to the field bearing from
Colonel Clay the laconic message, “It's all
right,"and the work of tho day went on as
usnal.
When the prisoners knocked off work at
sundown they were marched tq the atookode,
in which they were always penned up at
night, and two men were sent out with a guard
to bury tho detd niau.
Mo coroner's inquest wm held. It was not
likely that anybody would raise a stir over so
trifling su event as the shooting of nchainganir
malefactor. A grave was hastily dug near the
S ites where the body lay, and the carcass Was
tunned into the hole and covered over with
dirt.
In n week tho affair was forgotten. Matters
at tho eamp moved on m usual, with tho ox*
ception of the Ulucss of Dick Macon. Thin
young man foil ill without any warning,
and after a few days resigned his posi
tion, saying that he would lmvo to
seek some lighter employment. The groat con
vict lessee swore at Dick, but finally parted
with him in a tolerably good humor. Tho
thought never crossed his mind that the shoot*
ing of .Toe had anything to do with the illness
of the guard and his desire for a change of
scene and occupation.
f?o Dick Macon drew what wages were duo
him. and flitted away one morning, whither no
one knew or cared tokuow.
height. Visitors who had not
for tweuty years declared with contagious en
thusiasm that Bagatelle had never appeared to
better advantage. The hotel was filled with
and the cottages were well patronized,
women and braver men were never as
sembled together to triflo away the days and
engage in midnight revelry.
The gayest of all the gay and high-spirited
gallants *who were the acknowledged lady-
killers of Bagatelle was unquestionably 31r.
Richard Mucon.
This young man was a riddle to the few
students of human nature who occasionally
made him a special study. Young, haud*
tome, possessed of abundant means, and re
garded with undisguised favor by more tlmn
one of the reigning belles, there appearod to
be eve ry reason why young Macon should Ik*
a thoroughly happy man. That he was not
happy, in spite of his bright sallies. ws« plain
to all who cared to see. The days passed
and Macon was engaged in a continuous
round of pleasure. Athletic and proficient in
every manly sport and pastime, from a row*
ing match to a game of croquet, it was not
surprising that his time should be fully occti-
Nobody knew anything against Mr. Richard
Macon, and yet there was a feeling of uupleas
ant surprise in the gay circle at Bagatelle
when it was known that the young man had
won the heart and a promise of the hand of
Irene Murray, the prettiest little blonde beauty
tt the spriugs. Still it was difficult to give a
reason for this. Miss Murray was an heiress,
the only child of a widowed mother who had
come to Bagatelle in reality for her health, and
not to set her cap for a second husland. But
Macon was a handsome, generous fellow, a little
moody and queer at times, but in the main
genial and clever, sml. better than all, the
owner of cei tain mining stocks which paid him
fabulous di\ idends. llis antecedents were not
known, but he claimed kinship with highly
respectable faid!lies well known to the social
world, and no one questioned hfs story.
It was the last night of Irene Murray's stay
at Bagatelle. On the morrow she and her
mother were to return home. The two lovers
had much to say to each other, and they pre
ferred to say it away from the glare of the ball
room. and away from the sounds of flying feet
and the watering place band.
As they promenaded on the spacious piazza
of the hotel, Irene mid as her loving eyes rest
ed upon the handsome face of her escort:
“Now, Bichard, dear, you wilh follow os
BOOB?*’
*Tn ten days st farthest, my darling,” an
swered Richard. “I am waiting for a business
letter which m*j call me to New York, but
and owing to that fort I saved my ueck, And
was Bcntnp for life. But with that murder
was connected a robbery. When old Header-
ron was killed he had on his person money
and valuable jewels amounting to a small for
tune.”
Tho guard looked at the other convicts.
They were a little distance ofl’, quarrelling
over their rations.
‘Go on,” said he.
“Did you ever hear that the plunder was
found?” asked Joe, with a cunning leer.
“Don’t know that I ever did,” said Dick,
but still it may havo been found.”
“Mot by a sight!” answered Joe with
great energy. “Tho booty is safe enough, and
I could lav my hand ou it iu forty-eight hours
if I could just get out of this cursed
comp.”
“What will you give for freedom?” asked
Dick with a provoking grin.
“Half!" cried the prisouer. “Ten thousand
dollars to the man who releases me from this
infernal place, and puts me beyond pursuit!
and he looked eagerly into tho guard's iuscru
table fare.
Dick Macon whistled a lively tune, turned
ns if to walk off, and then wheeled abruptly
about.
‘Take a couple of buckets, you lszy slouch
he shouted to the convict. “ 1 must have some
frcsli water here, and wo must go to tho spring
to get it. I say, Bill,” he called to one of tho
other guards, “just tnlng your gang over
here, and watch my pets while I go for some
water.”
Bill did as directed, and Joe, laden with two
empty buckets, limped along in the direction
of the spring, closely followed by Dick Macon,
with his musket thrown carelessly over his
arm.
The spring was about three hand red yard
from the other convicts, and their guards, aud
wns concealed from their view by intervening
trees.
Tho gusrd and tho convict remained at tbo
spring sometime, so long, in fact, that their
tnirsty comrades left behiud began to cast
wistful glances in their direction.
The loud report of a musket in the neigh
borhood of the spring, plunged the chaingang
and the guards into the greatest excitement
What waa the matter? Had Dick Macon
fired upon Joe in tho act of escaping? Had
Joe wrested the musket from l)jck and shot
him? These were tbo questions asked among
the convicts. Tho allair was cxplaiued in a
moment.
Diek Macon made his appearance, running
at full speed. He was almost breathless when
he came into the gang of prisoners.
“I had to kill him!” lie gasped. “I was
sorry enough to have to do it, but ho turned
on mo all of a sudden with a big stone in his
hand, aud if I had been a second later ho
would have killed rae!”
Some of the prisoners, murmured at this
statement, but the ominous “click” of the
muskets quieted them, and after a brief corn
sultation a trusty was dispatched to tho house
to inform Colonel Clay of the occurrence.
The wealthy convict lessee fwere roundly at
first, bnt*aftcr a little reflection lie said:
“By jovc! I’m glad tho fellow’s gone. He j know that it has always J>ecn in our foully ?
i III! nrei * it— r , T “I have handled this necklace too often
to bo mistaken. Why, here is the private
mark, placed there by my fother ono day in
my presence. I well recollect that he said at
the time that the mark might some day aid in
identiiying the. necklace if it should ever be
lost. It is tho same, and now, Richard Macon,
bow came you by this precious heirloom?”
Your question is an insult,” was the hot
answer. “Give me the nccklnce.”
“Never! This matter must be explained,
must know i f yonr hands are staiued with my
father's blood.”
“Confound It!” said Richard, “I never even
heard that Mr. Murray w as murdered. Your
talk is tho maddest mystery in tho world to
mo.”
“My father’s name wns Henderson,” said the
girl sternly. “Ho was murdered aud robbed
even in that case my stay will be short, ami
you will sec me before you have begun to miss
“Richard,” said the fair girl with a tiugo of
melancholy iu her tone, “there Is only one
thing reeded to mnko me perfectly happy.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Richard, “yon would
have tho old lady viow me with more favorable
eyes.”
‘That is just it,” was the earnest answer.
‘Mamma is all I havo left,and I do so desire to
plcutc her: and yet her prejudices are so un
reasonable.”
“Of course, I think so, as they are leveled at
me,” raid Richard; “but never mind, dear, her
prejudices will vanish when she sees how de
voted I am to yon, aud how we Ibvo each
other.”
“I hope so,” Irene replied, seriously and
with a tremor of her rofc*bud mouth.
“Of course they will,” answered the lover,
cheerily; “no prejudice will !>c proof against
such love as mine!”
The two continued their promonade, but
finally paused where the light from tho ball
room windows fell upon them.
“I have a little present for you,”said Richard
Macon with a strange, intense ring in his voice.
“It is an heirloom in our family, and has been
for a couple of centuries, I suppose; I havo
always kept it concealed from profane eves,
with the intention of giving it to ray promised
wife.”
The girl's face grew radiant as sho raised her
eyes with an expectant look.
Clumsily and with singular awkwardness
for one so graceful and self-poascascd, Richard
drew from his breast pocket a jowol case. Si
lently opening it he exposed to tho astonished
vision of the beautiful girl a quaint and rare
necklace of glittering diamonds In just such an
antique setting os would have delighted a Flor
entine jeweler in the middle ages.
“Ricbaid!” the cry escaped Irene's lips in on
agonized tone, as she grasped the nocklace and
held it to tho light.
“Isn't it pretty?” said Richard with an in
jured look.
“Oh, mcrciftil heavens!” exclaimed Irene,
“can't be mistaken? No, it is too evident—how
did you come by this necklace, Richard? Did
you say it was an heirloom in yonr family?”
“What a racket!” said Richard, turning pale
and sneaking very rapidly. “Yes, it is an an
cient heirloom In our family—mv great-great-
grandmother used to wear it; it has never liecn
out of tho family siurc it was purchased by an
ancestor of mine, in Baris, I think.” 4
Irene gave another searching glance at tho
necklace, and then clutched it tightly iu her
band.
“Richard Moron,” she said in calm, clear
tones, “this was never an heirloom in* yonr
family.”
“What can you mean—you arc beside your*
self!” gasped Richard.
“I mean,” returned Irene, with a piercing
glance, “that this necklace is one of the arti
cles my poor mu nlcrcd father had with him
when ne was killed and robbed in Georgia four
years ago.”
‘TshavfF.rricd Richard, “It may resomblo
it, but of courso it cannot be tho same. Don’t
in a lonely place among the mountains of Geor
gia. He had with him a largo turn of money
and this jewelry. A poor devil was tried for
tbo murder, found guilty and sent to the chain-
! ang for life. The money and jewels were not
ound on hint, and he always protested his in
nocence—perhaps he told the truth.'’
“You said yonr father’s name was Hender
son?”
Yci. After his death a wealthy bachelor
brother of my mother died and left her a large
fortune ou condition that she should resume
the family name of Murray, and tho condition
waa exacted of myself. Wo accepted tho
terms, but when a foul murder is to be avenged,
Ircue Murray remembers that she is Irene
Hendcjson.”
Richard Macon looked dumb-founded.
“1 swear ,” he began.
“1 will not hear you!” exclaimed Irene, her
eyes flashing fire. “You began with a llo—
you called the necklace nu heirloom—yon will
lie on to the cud of the chapter if I permit it!
If you have any statement to make explaining
how the necklace came into your possession,
>u may proceed.”
For a moment Richard Macon looked like
some w ild animal at bay. Then, recollecting
himself, he made a profound bow, uudjiairi:
“J shall leave you now, Irene,—you are in
no mood to listen to reason. 111 tho morning
you will laugh at your conduct of tonight, and
will beg my pardon. 1 shall leave you here.
Au revoir!” and with a mocking smile he
kissed bit haud and walked rapidly away,
leaving Irene standing like a statue, with the
necklace clutched tightly in her hand. ^
When morning came, just a* the gray light
was chasing the darkness away, a pistol- shot
rang through the hotel. There was a rushing
to and fro, and finally a crowd of servants and
boaidert stood iu Richard Macon's room, gaz
ing upon the dead laxly of the sufcble as It lay
stretched upon the bed, with a pistol firmly
gras|»ed in the right hand.
Richard Mtcon had taken bis own life. It
was not the fear of the law that impelled him
to tbia rash step—be felt able to hold hit own
against the world. But lie knew'that no de
ceit, however artful, would dear him in tbe
eyes of Irene Murray, aud death was a thou
sand times preferable to life with tbe ever
present sense of her loathing and confident
suspicion of his guilt.
The miserable man left a sealed letter for
Irene Murray. Iu it was a trae recital of the
fads of the case. The proposition of the con
vict Joe was stated, and the writer
told how he yielded to temp
tation—how he induced the prisoner,
by promising him freedom, to disdos-tho
hiding place of Henderson's money and jewel 1,
and bow. when he had ascertained what he
wanted, he had treacherously and coolly shot
the convict down like a dog. ami afterwards
made use of the scoundrel's hidden plunder.
The letter was written with devilish coolness,
but at the close the writer expressed his un
dying affection for Irene, and l<egged her to
forgive his madness, folly and guilt.
The butterflies of the social world at Btga-
telle could not fathom the mystery of Macon’s
suicide. They did not know the contents of
bis letter to Irene, and it was not until Irene
was happily mart led. a couple of years later,
that anyone knew it. Rhe told her husband
all about it one day, and he, for an answer,
m- rely folded her In his arm? and klped her,
A NEW YEAR'S STORY
By James Franklin Fitts.
. When the irrepressiblo American bored down
a thousand foot into the heart of Pennsylvania
aud extracted fabulous quautitics of oil, and
when the ladles became content with atcel
stripes for corsets Instead of whalebone, then
oncof the greatest and most adventurous of the
industries of New Kngland received Its death
blow.
Onr story relates to the tlmo when there was
bustle and business in au ancient and historic
seaport, whore now may be seen rottlug wharves
aud tumble-down warehouses; when adozon
sea-going vessels were in tho harbor where one
Is now seen: when the staunch whaleshlps went
out on their long voyages, and caino back laden
with the wealth that made tho prospority of
the pott; when sailors aud sailors’ families made
up a large share of the population and tho old
town really seemed to belong loss to tho land
than to the sea,
All this has clumgcd; and tho iucldonts wo
relate could hardly occur there now. But hu
man lives and human hopes and fear, happi
nePs and misery, are much the same' every
where.
Well back from the harbor, tho wharves and
the busy part of the town, in that ontskirt of It
that was built on the rising ground that over
looked the town, bay and ocean, Captain Ben-
son-Jitd his cottage. He was at home very little
of t$e time; but when he was he loved a placo
like this, commanding a wide view of the
ocean-rin., where he could sit at the window by
the hour and with his good glass discover tho
first indication of sails approaching tho coast.
H6 was a veteran whaler, and had for fullyjfifty
vend pursued the business on all seas. For the
last two years ho bad commanded the whale-
•hip Chevalier. On his last voyuge out ho had
sain ip his wife, “It’ll be the last,Nancy. Let me
go ones more to the South Pacific and fill the old
ship with oil, and then I’ll stay here and pass
the ast of my days with you and Tbankfol.
Jack Sturdy, my mate, will then bo master-
lie’s a fine follow, Thaukfol; I must bring him
here to see you.”
Thin the old captain looked from his wife to
his daughter and added tho droll remark, “For
my piut, I’m beginning to think it’s time I was
bettif acquainted with you two.”
He went to sea again, but never returned. ■ A
?ar later tho eyea of the wife and daughter
laddened by tbo sight of the Chevalier
Into tho bay. Bat instead of him they
watched for, the mate came up, slowly
rowfully, to tell them that tho captain
had tlkd of foyer in Callao, and was buried
there.
John Sturdy was now captain, and was busy
enough ovethauling tho ship, picking his crow
“ ' " Jus first voyage In
their inief had utjiucwn.it sub
sided, Captain Sturdy still climbed the hilt to
the cottage at least three times a week.
Presently the gossips of tbo neighborhood
began to hint that Thaukfol Benson could toll
why he camo so often; and not mors (hair three
mouths hsd passed since ho first came when
Mis. Benson silenced tham all with the plain*
statement:
“There needn’t be any mystery about it:*
Thank fill and Captain Hturdjr are engaged, and
will be married as soon sk a proper respect for
tbo momory of her fother will allow. It’ll
probably be at the end of the Chevalier's next
voyage.”
John Sturdy ws* an experienced seaman of
.15—fifteen years older than tbankfol—to whom
his ship bad been his world, and to whom ideas
of love and marriage had amieared idle myths.
HcmrtThankftil Benson foifthe first time when
she fainted in his arms upon his distressing er
rand to tho cottage. She had grown upon his
fancy with OTiiy visit, andbis heart was quick
ly offered. With her it was a case of first love.
He wasnll that her girlish imagination required.
And when he took the girl by ths hand and
asked the widow for her consent she smiled
and sighed all at once.
' 0, it’s well enough, Thankful,” she said,
‘if you must marry a sailor, but 1 was in hopes
you wouldn’t let yonr affections go seaforlng.”
“It’s flic way of our family, you kuow,
mother,” and toe daughter smiled and lookod
up to her sailor trnstfolly.
“Indeed it Is, and a sorry and heart-breaking
way it has been for tbe women. Notonly In our
family, hut in ail the seamen's families is it
true. For thirty years I’ve known this port,
and of all its sailors that have died in that
time not one ont of four has died in Ms bed.
But the Lord wills it, and may you be happy. 1
“When I knew'I was to be master of the
Chevalier,” said John Study, “I did not think
I should quit her for ten years at least. I'm a
sailor, and love tbe sea, with all its perils; but
now, if Tbankfol asks me to qnitit for her, l‘m
ready.”
“Indeed, then, 1 do ask you.”
“But only at the end of this voyage. My
word has been given to the owners, aud I cannot
break it. The time will be short; let us live In
hope of it.”
“Ab,this one last voyage!” sighed Mr*. Ben
son ruefully. “Pray God it uisy fore better
than that other last voyage.”
The Chevolier sailed* in March. The parting
was a hard one: quite as hard to the man as to
the maid. It need not be told why it was hard
for her to give her young love’s dream to the
cruel chances of theses; of him it most be said
that, aa love came late, it came strong as well.
“Don’t go, Jack.” she pleaded amid her sobs.
“I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. Don’t
leave me. 1 shall never see yon again if you
do.”
Her distress, her unbounded love appealed to
him powerfully. His resolution was severely
shaken. Nothing but tbe sailor's ingrained
honor and habitual self-discipline held him
back as be said:
“For heaven's sake, Tbankfol, don’t tempt
me awav from duty! I leave you only because
1 must, but tbe time will be short. All our
arrangements are for a short voyage; expect me
back by tbe next New Year. I shall hasten
everything for your sake.”
She went to a sleepless bed that night. In
the morning her fother'* gins* showed her the
( hevsiier for out at sea. For many days sho
went about heavy hearted. Her mother watched
and pitied her and her own heart bled afresh.
But youth is the Mason of hope and love is its
twin, and, as the months of that spring and
summer went by, tbe girl felt more and more as
though she were only endnrlng a brief proba
tion to lifelong happiness. News had reached
her of the Chevalier and her beloved. First
came a letter from Ulo.fulluf love aud promise;
then an Incoming whaler reported speaking
tbe Chevalier in the for South Atlantic, and
that all on board were well, and then a letter
from lima. All was well, time was flying,
the promised time for the reunion was ap-
I reaching.
There is rarely, yet sometimes, a New Eng
land autumn when tbe mellow Indian summer
is prolonged from November for into December,
and the year fodea away In days of veiled sun
shine; when nature seems in a dream and win-
Ur U hfeld back by some strange spell. U was
so this year. Down to the first day of January
there was ueither snow nor frost; a silvery mist
sat upon the sea; the days were like May daya,
but with a softened, tempered sun; tho nights
were balmy and glorious. As Tlmukful aud
her mother sat outside the cottage they could
s<M the lights from the town and tho bay. The
sounds of laughter and talking came up to
them: everything seemod under a spoil.
So It waa on that New Year’s Eve. They sit
bore late talking of the dead—of the nbicnt —
hardly daring to talk of tho future. The night
was bright and starlight; everything was visi
ble, yet indistinct. At that placo and timo no
body had been abroad for an hour. All wore at
homo keeping Now Year’s Eve. Just thou
Thankful directed her mother's attention to a
figure advancing slowly up tlio slope toward the
cottage.
“Where?" asked Mrs. Benson. “I dou’t soo
it.”
“Why, there.'” said Thankful, with out
stretched finger. “It's a man. He's coming
this way. He—he looks like Jack.”
Sho started up and advanced tonioet him.
31 rs. Benson strained her eyes, but could pm
nothing like a human figure. Sho saw Thank
ful advance a few paces, stretch out her arms
as If to embrace some one, and then full House
less to the ground.
When Mis. Benson carried her In and revived
her, she started up and cried for Jack.
“My dear child, be calm!” said the mother.
“IIo is not here. He has not boon here.”
“Yes. yes! he was! I saw him; I almost
touched him. Ho came clono up to me, aud thon
ho disappeared, and I could not esc him.”
The mother looked at her with griof and
awe.
“Dear Thankful,” she said with deep solem
nly
an<
ty. “U* strong: cast your burdeu on tho Lord,
11I bear your erief as I havo borne mine. You
have not seeu John Sturdy; you have seen his
double. You will uevor seo him again.”
For the next year their lives went ou with
that sense of chastened sorrow that possesses
thoso whose only hope la this world is reft
away. 3Iotlior and daughter drew closo togeth
er In their companionship of hereavemont. Lifo
for them was all In the past; their presontcom
fort was merely that or ministering angels to
the sick aqd afflicted, aud thus to
“ —- learn the luxury ol doing good.”
Tho only nows that had been received from
the Chevalier was darkly confirmatory of the
vision that Thankful bad seen. One of the boats
had Itecn found floating in tho*South Pacific
empty and earless. A ship wrapped in fire from
stem to stern had been sighted afar off in thoso
watero, where help could not bo extendod or
inquiry made.
They lived ou during that year, and sorrow
grew old ami.was still ns dark os ever. Their
neighbors condoled with them, and hopod that
the timo would come when grief would ho
calmed, aud that life might yet havo somo
pleasure for there afflicted ones. Would that
timo overcome to Thankful.' Not, surely, at
such a time ns tills, when the New Year waa
again at hand. It could bring no hopo nor
promise to hor; but the time, as long as she
should live, must bo in'her mind associated
wltn bis last word * to her, “Expect mo back by
i next N<\v \V c; I >hull luudru everything
for ybur
SLaflf a \i*y nr.?ctcrtt New rognTEvo from
thomr. The harbor was locked in ice; a snow
covered the ground; tiio air was stinging with
frcst. A dear sound of bells from tho town, as
tho Ne w Year was gleefully ruug lu. canm up
to them as they sat by their fire. No speech
had pawed between them for an hour. As the
l.ir-.t i*oal of tho tails died away, 31 rs. Benson
Mid: < j
“it Is all hard to bear, Thunk ful. Wo must
tear to bear.”
The girl started up with clasped hands, and
passionately exclaimed:
“But never mo him again, though I may live
I for fifty years! I can’t endure tho thought.
He came to mo onto after death, why not
ugaln?”
Tho door noiselessly nucloscd and admitted
a moving figure. It advanced toward them;
■ they looked at tho face, spell bound, it was
rpale, wau, wasted, Imt jL boro tho likeness of
John Sturdy.
No womanly fright, 110 terror of the supor-
natural possessed Thankful at that moment.
1Bad to liavo seen his face again in answer to
her appeal, her loving, yearning heart hun
gered for something more than his shadow.
Bhe started toward him; she opened wido hor
arms to him.
“O, John,” she said, “don’t do as you did
before! You said you would come back at
this time.”
Her loving arms enfolded him. Thank God,
it was not a shadow, It was John Sturdy, weak,
sick, feeble, but it was he. *
They hod tbe happiest kind of a New Year,
after all. When the first greetings were over,
and 3frs. Benson had refreshed him with tea
and he and Tbankfol sat side by side, hand In
band, Inexpressibly glad, for want of words,
then he told the story of his adventures and
escapes, by sea and land, out of all of which bo
had been saved to them. Home day he will tell
it in print. It Is too long to toll here. ■
When he had finished, 3frx. Benson asked:
“Where were you a year ago tonight, John?
Tbankfol thought she saw you.”
He looked inquiringly at his betrothed. .She
told him all.
“That was tbe night,” he sa‘d, “when the
officers and crew of the poor burning Chevalier
took to tbe boats in a heavy sea. One bout was
swamped before my eves and nil In it were
drowned, ours rolled and pitched so heavily
in the chopping waves that 1 expected we, too,
should peifsli. It was Just there, while f
hopelessly directing the men at the oars, that a
vision came before my eyes of the harbor here
—of the town and this cottage. I saw you
both, and Thankful held out her arm* to me.
From that instant I knew wo should be re
united. Yes, I knew It, and I cheriihed the
belief and bugged It to my heart in a>l the
dutigerH and labors that havo beast me since.
A MAD VILLAIN.
6t. Lons, January 21.—William Dill, me
chanic, 45 years old, living at l!LM Angclrodt
street, walked into the house where his wife,
Frcdericka, was at work and snatching a
butcher knife from her hand plunged it into
her breast, killing her almost instantly. He
then stripped the body and dragged it into an
adjoiaiag room, placed it on a bed and return
ing to the kitchen he burned the woman’s
clothes and scrap d the blood from the floor as
well as he could with a knife. Shortly
afterwards his children returning
from school, found him su
iting by the bed on which tbe Ixxly of hi* wife
lay. with the batcher knife with which be bid
killed her in his hand. He ordered them to
leave, and they, seeing their mother dead and
blood on tbe floor, were terribly frightened and
gave an alarm.
I Neighbors rushed In, and as they did so Dill
drew the knife across his throat and save red
his windpipe. This not killing him, he at
tempted to hang himself, hut the police arriv
ing, he was prevented from accomplishing that
snd was taken to a dispensary, mod tbeuco to
Ithe city hospital, where he now lies iu a pre
carious condition, hot be may not die. He
icould not talk on account of his windpf no be
ing severed, snd, although bo could write, he
refused to as^gn any causo for bis act. It Is
thought bo was Insane, and that he intended
to cut bis wife’a body into pieces and bum
them, bnt before ho eoald do that he was dis
covered, and the u ho tried to kill Missel^
A GREAT TRAGEDY,
Murd«r or th. moih TtLT.Ur TweJtj.oo. Tcara
Ato-Th« VMompoMd Bnialn. of km In-
ple round XJniUr Their Dwtlllrf-0«» or
tk, r. rp.tn.ion or Uw DMd Hunx.
Marion, Ind., January 23.—Tho moat oon»
tlonal crimo in tho history of this port of tbo
state, and, indeed, ono of the moot cold blooded
and revolting affair, in tho history of crime, is
recoiled by the death of Mrs. 8umh Hubbard
at the female reformatory at Indianapolis last
week.
Tbo dato of tho crimo referred to was iu tho
autumn of 1655, and the scene a one story log
house four miles west of Wabash, on tho Wa-
bash river, In Wabash county. In this house,
on a farm owned by James Lewis, lived is
family by tho name of French, consisting of
French, his wife and their live children.
One day there came along a middle aged man
and woman, who gave their names as Thomas
anil 8arah Hubbard. They were Scotch poo-
pie by extraction, he having been born in this
country and hie wife in Canids. As to thelx
occupation and destination accounts at thin
day are conflicting, but tbo best recollection
holds that they were peddlers. In the sparsely
settled condition of the country at that time,
there were few hotel tkcllltles, but every
bouse was opened to ths benighted tmvolor.
Such was the welcome extended the Hub
bards by the French family tliat they re
mained sevoral weeks. In making a tour of
biscststeone day. James Lewis found Hub
bard snd bln wife In full possession of the
home formerly occupied by Froneh snd his
family. The bitter bad dimppetred. Tbe oc
cupants tol.l Lewis that his former tenants had
concluded to go west, and had left the night
before, having previously sold to thorn (the
Hubbards) their Interest in the crops on the
form.
This seemed somewhat strange, but as the
horses and wagon of French were not In sight
the story was not tt the timo discredited. At
a later visit soon after tbo attention and suspi
cion of Lewis wen aroused by tho smell of de
caying animal mattes that pervaded the bond
ing. On tbe unoccupied floor also be detected
marks of blood and tho floor bad tho appear
ance of having recently been raruoved and re
placed. C’ 1
Thoroughly convinced, but without giving-
expression toils conviction., Lowis wont to
WalMfli and laid tbo case before Moses Scott,
.bcrilV of tViibaili county. A Bliertff’s posse
pin. d Hubburd and hfs wife under arrest,
snd tho floor Was taken up. Tho first thing
that met tbe bon-iflril gnze, of the sheriff and
ids assistants wns an infant’s hand protruding
thimtph the looso caitb, and upon digging
down tho putrid remains of Frond, and Ills
family— seven -ashed and mutilated bodlos —
Wtre hrongbt’to light. TV marks on tl.n
hod’..: indiiate.l that t!. Moody work hint
lain ..dinJsllfcjnjtlCHultuc luatrui..mt of
csrcntlon was r.svcr to he found.
Further search being made, tho bulMnirlod
carraiscs or French’s hones wore found in thu
woods adjacent, and Ids wagon wa, found In
tbe Wabash river, it having been tnkon to
pieces and sunk in the deepest part of tlio
i.trcsm. The caso against tho Hubbards,
though purely circumstantial, appeared con
clusive, and they were placed in Jail to await
trial.
The story of the wholesale olanghtor of tho
French family spread fiir and wide, and cre
ated tho most Intanso excitement, latt no at
tempt to visit mob vongoanco on tlio guilty
pair was over made. Tbo Hubbards stoutly
proleslsd their Innucenco, and nuvorLy wunl
or sign manifested any cvtdonco of guilt, ex
cept once, as stated by Brett. Ho assorted
that once, listening on tho outsldo of tlio prison,
he heard Hubhenl berating his u lfo for being
the came of their unhappy condition, lly this
conversation, tlco, it appeared that Hubbard's
beart failed him when It came tn killing tho
baby In tbe French family. Tbe i lillrl crowed
as hu lifted bis hand, snd ho turned away sick
at heart. His wife then dashed tho Infant's
brtlna out against tbe wall,
Tho law’s delay of today was not known in
that period of pioneer justice, snd Hubbard was
tried,convicted and hanged during tho winter
following the autumn In which tlio French
Ikmlly were mnrdercd. Ho went to the scaf
fold and died protesting to tho last bis lnno-
ccnic of tbe crime forwblcb ho perished.
The attorneys of Mrs. llnbbsrd moved Cars —
change of Venn* and tbe ease wu sent to this,
county for trial. Alexander lluchanin wan
then sheriff of (front county, and It was Dons
bis ntollectlons largely that this narrative was
gathered.
Sarah Hnlibard’e case was called for trial at
the January term of court. 1850. Judge John
M. WarJlsce presided, and Mas Blake was
state’s attorney. Thu caso was hotly contested
and tbo court room was crowded from open
to flnisli. Tho verdict was “guilty of mur
der in tho lint degree," and the penalty
a cosed was Imprisonment for life in the Jef
fersonville penitentiary. .Sheriff Buchanan
c<remitted lire. Hubbard to the JeffersonvUlo
prison on tbe 10th of April, 1651).
Sho was tbsn forty-nine years old. Sho
spent llfteen years in tbe Prison Sooth snd
was then removed to the female reformatory
at Indianapolis at Its completion. She wa, in
her eightieth year at tho time of hor death,
and was tbe oldest prisoaar In the state as to
age and time of service.
Never throughout her entire prison life did
■he despair of bor ultimate reiirlovsl, snd up
to a few weeks before her death eha talked ex
pectantly of her hoped-for freedom. She never
complained of her prison Ufa and always relied
on Clod’s mercy for berjustidcstlon.
Sho protested ap to tbe time of her death
her Innocence of the crime for which the suf
fered, |
Lik MEN WITH Hit LATH OF FIBE. I7PJ
Not Imps from the Foul Hide of the Styx,
bnt Beal Unman Delngs.
From the Philadelphia Record.
We bad occasion in a recent number to refer
to a remarkable cue In which the breath of au
Individual,; or rather the eractaUoni from Me
stomach, took fire when brought In contact with
a lighted match. Thu ease, which wu reportoi
iu the Medical Record, hu called forth communi
cations Rom physician, by which It would appear,
that Uic phenomenon Is not inch a rare one u >u
at lint supposed. In one esse of dlmrdcrat.
digestion the patient emitted lnDammabhi
ga* from the month, which, npou
nualyslt wu found to be hugely comi-raxl
of mirth gu. In another case thegas waai iTh i
rcted hydrogen. Arose la reported In tho
Medical Journal, in which, while blowing out a
■natch, the patlent'a breath caught Are with a md-e
like the report of a pistol, which wa. loud enough
to awaken his with. Ona evening while u conlirm,
id dyspeptic wu lighting hia pipe, aacrw iatTm
of gas ftum his stomach occurred, and the l*’.::cd
gas burned his mustache and ltpr.
In Iwaid's book on Indigestion, the iniysh. or
the r«tl In one of these - — ‘ “
hydrogen. 3157; CL
Oxygen, S.7« nitrogen, 4tAS;»
a me*. The origin of the* ■>■-.■■ tan
the undigested fool, which in these cr
goes dCCOgtpdiUfofli.
