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«M : C Hitts. ■ rs j fFliTm J
VOL. 3 VII.—KO. 39. _
SWALLOWED BY NIGHT.
—.——' —a—■■! ■ ihiiwh —■— a
CHAPTER I.
An (iuMi»wrrMl Hull.
"But aou must not go. Y*u must not go,
Fra*!.” < ricd the Kiri, th Ing h* r arms
aroun-1 the young man. " Art r tlmt tin ad
fulmrene between vni and Jw in *he High
street y.-Merdav. *” <>>•• > him on tin- ; i
at 11 o’.l-k •« th ' ;•! Im grant my
first r* !•■<>! :.t I h- the :<* i uitment!
Jf anything should happen to jou it would
kill me.”
“Happen to me!” si*d young Carrington.
"What van ha pt n '.’ 1 am not afraid of any
man i. i ’ x " : "* ~7
wr. i« in h away I could not refuse 1
promised. -ni d 1 ’!■•* “"I hed fca > 1
was atra.d.”
J kill you. my Fre i. Oh. my love,
h. Will kdl you. He is d. iterate. ami when
I t. Id him ye.-t • *>' I could not marry him.
_ |(! ... to you, and that
DIJ fall* r knew of it, I thought at first he
w'l.-. P‘ I:« •trike me. and then I thought
b« was going t » die.”
Yoitt .. t’.mn'* t<<ok his sweetheart
in h. astir nd kb.'. i and ttied to reos
s-jr. her. hut si wouM not comfort'd,
y .I* » 'er ata! at 11 o’clock? And
this m. ht without a moon, and no one ever
there tt su.h a timer’ she asked, with a
• I t...i Ki w, Nannie. dear, but I am
able to take .'are < f myself; I am us good a
man as I. . ;<i i I shall be on my guard,
darling, f*r y» "F sake. '
Sh> ’■■ in- hands, and w.pt and sob
be<l. Ait.r many vain attempts to soothe
her. he tor away and left her weep-
ing’in the drawng room.
He set off I* it August night at a quick
pace to •!> ! . nt nent v. ith Joe Bel-
Nani ;« U -tt< th* art he had just left,
tip- richest and » charming girl within
mb* of .'is . -i. »n Fuss. x.
With, tit t ’ • soul Carrington reach-
ci tl . ..i end the per. i! re he found
waiiin- :• -Im ->ts ' *usin I ig»r, the man
he had c ■».■ t«» - i spite of his sweet
heart's v»tr ati
Jud ... tl • »ir-nt a third man. Pun
ford. «.itmi* 1 ssi the town to t-.o shore
• end of the r. •■ . s.Umg on the parapet
a quarter < f a ntlh- irom Cirr.gton and
ger. cuts in to t ms. If and cousin also to
ffcdg r. lit his i «pe.
Til*’ iii-iii 11’- p •sioolst-dl Ihs first
half ot hi- in anything hut p. me. He
was übtur. . put—l by I‘Ud Vol. **s.
one he r. roti u. • Fred Carrington's
s.ii of Jam. • trit* ton. of th. siwaiil -.
and a>-<* »u.l:*nt of the bilixlield braw.ry,
in which 1 unf»»rd teiuu-df was a brewer.
Hie cousin-- v« a- f an age. about twenty
nve. Dunford tea years older
At length, to Hunt rd's relief, the voi-es
fell, and after a. quarter ol an hour foot
steps grab 1 on the gravel. and h • could
dimly r.'. k. out t!" u- < >f a m.in. it was
tt quarrel.ag- V ith J’- Sg«*r ay-a’.r.
Carrington, v.!.. lad not n.o -, : Inmfotd,
start- ». turn. .. ; 1 A- ■- *» «ront of the
Kiting man. 'I l.rtler . . •itiuu.-d it. a
tone of expo-’u.eti«.n: Vou» rows i
B.dger wil have a U-d end; either of you
two Will say »-’■ do something taere wdl be
hat iH’ * that of jours. sal«i
.. T J r -!*■ u. ' ' ud Dunford. "It's bad
• fan ( ,jt. l a you
en« uvti un*‘ i •* 1 •- ‘•y’ •
ami J«»e --r an- «- >.»sh»s. ‘
•i- 1* *» Vti&l <l*l hilt * .llllt*
° HO i rJ “u ar- t. ni. ht at I'
o-.lo\ m tn. peh dark, on th. >. a end
of tie ; -r. I y ing ani ro. rng at ot..
a, .’’p ! ■ 1 O I ra ring.” rep- ate.l Car-
■ •< ' ■
th. per :e. . --‘d ;
• e l e,e ...urseil with rai;.-
a^«Lt’Bo
i ‘ 1 ? t.u'niz. » • our hut
.J? .. . ... ( >< a « •» Del me ’ell
-‘‘u that t -*•'■ i -d •
* MI o tis H I -•e f r family di.T-r
--... , I for tne di. eu: SI >n
. .
• ’ »' .. m. ' ’i. He
ch-i - - . . S manner ’
•
X/ i ; 1 There was the •th
• ' ' ..
“. . 1.......
. _4 y ..I Illdn’t :• if wn-.t
, - . 1 be no more rows be-
j as
. , ... s id mini-rd. i'A'-
• n th" k: it such a pity
. J..W ■ shot. <1 tall out over
. ... . i family ' ffair.”
arted i'ly and looked at
i • . xpTes'i.m of neitmr
11. *I!QW del >ll
?*”* , ‘ ~. . j iv.. -n B<>lger and me
I *
<
• t!
uk. and he «i*.-es je.it conode in me. No »•>ne
I rarer much übe.t l;oi;er. but all r»gre
that you. Carrs.4 ton. an- making a I°°* ol
yourtelf.”
I "Well, it was and it wa n’t a family nf
ifair betweeu Jo .ad me.”
“By ti e wav. v t - Keeping him? He’s
a long time. ”.
•■Y.s. at 1 in'll '■
••W h t do ..a i.... ’ asked Dunford,
un< -ily.
"da. i. in;y »«i n’t I->.■ ve Joe is in any
goat hurrj lais way just now. Good
ni-;-i.” and h walk i off.
"Wei*, but wh< r. . ’ What can he l»e
doit>- ol this t >. . ’ called Duaford after
the other.
"Don’t know. Vm sure. Gone for a swim,
perhaps. He was in his tlatu Is. u 1 the
I night is warn l . ’ cail< : out I'arringuin, as
he strode oft t<»'‘ the town, and disap
peared in th«* darkn ss.
made Dunfo i m- • .-n: .rl.ildc. “TH smoke
another pipe b f> ‘rd sa-, soot night io
• B.'.|g«*r a- he |si>-»s l-.i.'k.” thougni the
bm*»*r. “T!ie;r quarrel .-.j- out th<.<», Car
rington's strange -woi< and th. on,, r
fellow not turning up would k«ep me toss
ing and tumbling till uivrmng if 1 went to
Im.j now.'
Tne two young men were powerfully
made, and when bad I>l<‘ ~I broke out » *-
•V • .1 -'l’ '
leii. e, for ; :-r u•> ov.;. # »rii.? , ti.s* i
lent, ruthbss. a-:4 < arriagtou quick and
. unaecust.! «•• h jnri.-
At last rm. iri’.' , .••• was ••>!*.-. and he
got up f< ding downr xht alirmcd, for no
• ui.v had passed, and it was alter mid
night. ...
"1 suppose, thought he. ’ itolgrr will call
me a prymg busybody, but 1 must see him
before I go home.”
With quick steps he strode through the
U
Not a soul here! Nothing but the pall of
night overhead, the hard, firm stones under ;
foot and the uhniy phosphorescent, pulsing I
i;h.
No boat was ever about at this time of i
night and tide. Even If by some miracle | .
i| a lx it had chanced to pass, Holger could i
not get al* ird; from the pier to the water i
was more than twenty 'feet, with no lad- •
der or stairs.
Any man in the water here during thy i
p st hour would be carried away by the ; <
current, like a < ork in a mill race. Carried '
■ on. io sea! Out to death!
There was for such a man but a ctngle i
■ hope.
< >ne who knew the place, and had not | i
b n maimed or stunned, and who was, , i
moreover, a goo i swimmer, might, if he j 1
’ strii'k out vigorously, reach the Black i 5
' Bank.
A quart -r of a mile fram the mouth of '
the riv r Fibre, with the skeleton of a ■
wracked sehoom r on it, lay a sand bank. J ’
At th< present state of the tide jhat bank , >
w.iuld be just above water. There was no ;
i other resting place fur man between ,
where Dunford stood and the coast oZ ;
| France! ■ 1
If Bolger had fallen in the water he might 1
be on the Black Bank. If he was not ‘ 1
■ on the Black Bank he must be dead. Bui- <
1 ger was a j>owerful swimmer, and there ' ;
| lay his one chance for life.
I Dunford made a trumpet of his hands,
and, bending his bedy over the water,
shouted:
. "Black Bank, ahoy!”
11. took down hi- hands and turened his
■ In-ad. listening with ail his faculties. He .
■ heard only the wash ot the swift current ,
i in the Fi’ilce and the break of the wave- ■
’ lets on the shore.
Again he hailed. Again no response. |
“Bolger is dead." he muttered. "Ani’ I
■ Carrington? -what is Fred Carrington now'.' i
i —a murd !" H. did not finish the word.
Could it be that, under intolerable provo- .
' cation. Carrington had stunned Bolger and j
i flung him into the sea?
Carrington's strange manner, his anger ■
; at the suggestion that evil might tome be- >
twe«n him and his cousin, his anxiety to *
know it Duuf<>rd had overheard what had
pa-sel. his saying that Bolger would not '
• be ba« k > «iti. ids sinister suggestion tn.H ■
h>.< cousin bad -• ie for a swim, .ill point, d
to hideous fears.
"Good heavens!” eri«-d Dunford, as he '
turned away, "it has ended worse th n ;
I dreaded; Carrington his murdered his ,
I cousin!”
CHAI’TER 11.
On the Block. Hank •
? D inford set off for the t ten at a quick
w ilk. Aft- r a 1- \ paces he broke into a
* r>. !. He had fought if- a ill t his terrible
. ■ oh er -1 ’ a-- -t tv mi nt. b»»t iou'ot 1
seemed um*us>iuie lunge; - i*e cuu.d now i
; b« II- ve that hi** unanswered hail had ;
pass, d over a corpse!
In hi w.li hast- away front that guilty i
pivrhe,! I. lii ntor.!' lir intentl n was t->
' |-, >;| -e the town. But after running lot ■>
■ yards tumultuous questions arose, and he '
: slackened his sp—d.
\s :ie dr >pt<e-I into a w ik he thought, i
"Supjius ' H >frea> h< d the Black bank, j
is now on it, and c >ui i nut or would not ;
j answ.-r my hall!”
Instead of striking Into the town he '
■' I'.astenei al ng by the riv. r to where his ;
own part lay moored. With the strug- •
gling and spia-hittg he palled her to the
I. and getti.ig aboard opejied the pad- I
j )< K • t th-- chain, freed the oars, let go, i
’ i ■ :i<c.<- i out iiliJ tin- .'U- .lill.
Turning the punt's head to the open sea, I
1:> | illvi with might and maiti down the ■
. The t >!■■ was with Lon. The boat .
. fl-w. He snut down along the pier, an I
'ina !■ iinnutvs was iti tt.e open water j
1 ol the channel.
It was s.ill pitch dark, but the phosphor- !
• cue of the • showed up the bluff ol
.t i pier. Keeping the pier dead aft he
. jew- i ..I r.i ■ pace for a lew minute-,
• ad, atul ; >ef.- i ov. r hi- shoulder. Kight,
j ahead, just above the phosphorescent
j water, a ragged patch blotted the sky.
I That Was the ski letutl of the wreck.
J He pul»< 1 ~ few strokes more and ran
I astound. Jumping into the shallow water,
-h" .it. a tl: • punt up and stood upon the
81. u.; Batik, th- -niy land between Filix
i Held and t’rance.
‘ "Bolger!" he c »d in a strong voice.
I"A ■ you l:.-t>. Bjiger?”
i" -■••"•I n-;. nitu-, with the water wa-h-
I itlg hi.S feet.
i-'ihe < all>d louder. “H's I, Dun
s t. ‘ nave th- punt to take you <u'f.
* a , s v<-ty sorry. Answer like a
j good fellow.”
?. i a -ouud but the sounds of the sea.
I Ankl> -.:< • in w. ter tie began to walk
. i .f the Black bank. A
.num t t > ht taint in the shallow water 1
• •> r . toil ;.gi >und. The night was too ,
I •’ ■ ■ ‘ ■ > tioati:. , or partly subtnergv.t i
I 1 ■ •’ '■ •• ' I" I st to wade up and down I
• th.- whole length of the bank.
v. iio vouid t. ' the mo: tent his foot might
t .. a something! He shuddered and kept
<> He was cat. lul not to raise his feet
high, I.st tn putting them down he might i
•up on something. For all the world he
< .Id not 1. .1 anything bn «and und. r his
tout! i p .m<’ down th;; strip of lonely
- lid he w «• • tup Weiru Uarkness lull
i. -j er to hi- 1. t emn stay or jar.
'I lea. , i -nt, at half-tide measured 100 1
. Ia .< in tlse <>utei edge lay the wre.de,
! a :dvii Un. shunider hi h above the sand
with stripped rife tan tiv.; higher against
tin .-’nootti, blind darkness of the sky.
"if he .■•.;!;•• a: hiir.- here exm.usted, faint
ing.” th< light P r,.i<ird, "h- would struggle
p. the wto k. He may b.* lying unconsch us
close to it.
it
j. T'l. t.- war nothing fur it but to go
down on his Riat's ami icel about the old
s< bool' r v ith his hands.
!• took : long tini" to crawl round the
i wt -k. \\ It. n t!i .t -e lit w."s made Dunford
, ha : t t:..i. . tor .u- toil but L. ills, s. cut
I hands and th eeriainfy tli.it the body of
|:.t|g- r, ms unpopular colleagu at th ■ brew’-
I .-ry, ! d i> • u:ie,i out ’"to the chan Wi,
an t that Cr.rringio . his trf nd. was respon
rd toi't d"t.,‘< punt; scrambled in,
; t began puning ba<k over the slacking
thio.
Ie h"1 n td.» certain of Bolger's fate, his
d :th. his ,i> .'th by violence, his death by
v . H-. at th- hand <>f Carrington, and
Carrincton was his friend?
V .t in the n niv of h.aven must ho do?
1 He must not Re p to himself what he
' I .< .v; .si id he deliver up his friend to the
I b. un-man?
I. tii'd to deaden thought by grinding
i.. e’tif. d d. sh of his hands on the sculls.
The i ain of his h'»n is was only an extis-
I i t >n. He thru, t lis U.onin ; hands into
Hu w rt. 1 tli- in II" SroCiped up the
:• in., i 1( . : it nt. r his f ice. his head.
I, (:■ > V.'iin tier.', r .solut.-nc-s Iv*
I'.rove b’s m •< i <m t'.e points of the dilem
ma. W'.-f" ther oily these two points,
I- . . two emu At last 11.-* thought of a
third. It was desperate, hut it was best.
.'t w’ it nicy • ■ c.e of it vi.xie, I !1 do it” ;
he niutterad. “\Vhat may come of it there .
• • telling; another murder—or a sui- ,
Cid-."
■; > -ti-iiek into the town. Not a soul was ■
: r ii. n.t gotind o.rrcd the air sav.-
t •. ' tint wa-’.i of the wavelets on I
th" sands. It was dark as a grave. No
1. 'e.i.o.d ill any window of the streets.
"1 thick enough to hide the crime,” he
thought, w a shudder.
”1 wondei -.vhiit Cirrington is doing? I
wonder h«,w his night's work suits him?
ATLANTA, GA, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1894.
I wonder Is be in bed or thinking of sleep.’
I wonder has he got ba -k to his sane mind,
ani does he feel the blast of his deed.’
When I get around the corner I shall be in
sicht of nis place his bedroom. Great heav
ens! Can a man go to bed anil sleep with
the tingling ot' such work still in his
hands?”
As Dunford turned into the High street
ana looked toward the house where Carring
ton lived his eye caugnt one bright spot
in the long line of black. A light burning
in Carrington's chamber!
"1 knew no man could sleep after such
work,” whispered Dunford.
The lighted window was on the first floor.
Dunford drew near, stooped down, picked
up a pebble and flung it against the glass.
”1 am the only one who knows lie was
quarreling with Bolger on the pier tonight.
When h«- sees me will he blow out my
brains or his own?”
A man's shadow fell on the blind,, the
light in the room was put out. the blind
was pulled up. tlie window raised, and
Carrington thrust Ids body, dim and broad
and black, b :w i i u Dunford And the night
sky.
"What’s that? Who’s there?” asked Car
rington iti a sharp tager whisper.
"1.” whispered back Dunford.
"Who are you. 1 can't see you?”
“Dunford. Hedger m.ver came ashore. I
w< iit to the pierhead. He wasn't there. 1
pulhe out to the Black bark, lie isn't
livre. Where is he?"
"I can't tell you. What do you mean by
coming heti, and to me. at such an hour?
Wlmt do you mean b.v asking me about
him ?”
"If 1 didn’t come to you 1 should have
gone to tlie poliei- ”
"Thi' police! oh, for God’s sake, not to
the pol.ei tonight,” whispered Carrington
in i lone of entreaty.
“I have n<> choice.”
"Way? 'A hat do you know? Why should
yeti g • to the police?”
"I told you i was on the pier and heard
you two quarreling.”
"ll< aid us two! But you said you <li<l not
e.i\ esdrop!”
“Eavesdrop! You and he were shouting.
Eavesdrop! You two were roaring like mad
men.”
• And you did not catch our words?"
"No. i told you so before.”
“And you tiid not steal upon us and listen
to what was said when we loweied our
voices.’ When the quarreling ceased?”
"How flare you ask? But you were on tin
ph r with him. quarreling with him, and
lie wasn't on the pier witen I got to the
end and he isn't on the Black Bank, anu
and he is dead!"
"Gnat heavens! It cannot be! 'low do
you know he is dead? How are you sure?"
"liow els. can It be? I come first to you.
V. h"ii I am linished with you 1 am going
straight to the police, if you and 1 cannot
find Bolger."
“To tne police, not now; not yet. You
•vimti 't go the police,” cried Carrington,
h 'trs. lv. "Besides you don’t know any
thing.” '
•| suspect more than enough, and I will
1( h tli< j* II- ' my suspicions."
"Not tonight. Wait a few hours "
"! || ■;<> to them from where I stand."
"At an hour."
■ V q till m titin’’.” whispered t’arring--
ton.
I'hen stay where you are ;> moment. i'll
; vn to you.” He withdraw from the’
window.
Dm ford did not went to be alone wntn
<’ >'rii::;' ion it. the o]wii air. in h" >lat'k
, ... .. b»lp was not a' hand, f ' rrt'. ■
• .1; tl. I>• .< i i'l Dun fol! ten y•ai s .dde-,
;,i> I i»i'"i'.>>r i hyslcully. if <’n>-rii.".ton turn •
.■>] o'i l-.im tin struggle would l» a short
.me; th is ue :• foret.'one coneht'-i'in. Car
i r>; i m could break Dunford’s back across
hi- knee. , „ .
IT., ' r oi t door open, d and Carrington
so pped out. t losing the do. r behind him
sofil;-. loA'fim.; till- latch with his key t >
prevent the click. , ,
”L"t os walk down to the beach. I don t
V. ■ :.t t.» he O’, erheard.”
••X>>," said Dunford, "I am not going to
th.- bench with you now. This place wdl
suit in. Iwtter.''
"What ;' it won't suit me?”
"Then the i.iliee will suit me, Carring
ton. that D all.”
"Tli ■ poli 't ! The police! The police! Why
arc you harping on the police? You say you
<!o not know anything."
■ i know something, ami I suspect more."
They w. :<* w.liking slowly along file dark,
sib nt streeL
i'an ington trie ! to take I ninford’s arm.
Dm,for i uiook himself lie. He was on the
i n : ington sw<.r< under his breath.
”1 am not g"im f irth, r than the end of
thi' str -t with you. t'arringlon. If between
. Io n.;t sati; fy me about
Bolger. I’ll inform."
"If yon swear not to tell a soul, I’ll tell
you.”
"That would be a monstrous thing to
promi-o in file fa... of what J fear.”
"Wlmt d.> you fear?”
"Th'.i B r is de : 1, and that you harm
ed him. Nothing but the sight of him will
satisfy me that Bolger is alive. If you
can't "r won't I am goin;.' to the police
wh n w rc.i”h the ‘lll of the street, Thai
I 'WJ ar. I won't swear th. blind oath
you ask for.”
Ther. x >s a long pause, in which Carring
ton i t' at'ied hard.
“And if I >lo satisfy you that he is
alive, you oil! not tell a soul? No matter
alMiut .tu.'thii'g cl., no matt'i’ what you
’tear from ni” so Ion;; as you ar.- convinee.l
Bolger is not dead, you will keep -ilent us
the t
imiioid f .pp il a while. “If you satisfy
me he is 'ilivi. and that no injury has been
don.- to i.im—i nwan that he hasn’t been
I.;: ii and d or 'nu t. I promise you upon
my honor to keep to myself what you may
tl 11 me."
‘ Very good. Joe made love to Nanny Wil
ton. c msin io both of us, atid over that
Jo alls !i out. He was in money difli
cultie . •:> has a large fortune, and he
was I'tef her fortune. If he could give out
that io was > ' :■ “,ed to her he might bor
row mm . y ai I hold on. You are the
brewer of the Fillxtleid brewery. He Is the
cashier."
"Yes, I’m listening.”
“Well, i t- iTiy Nanny Wilton dismissed
hili:, and til him she was engaged to me.
Aiier the row in the High street yesterdav
he V.; . I.ce ~ng m.- to meet him at the
end of the ;>i-r tonight. J went. We had
some ie.:ry words. Thon he broke down.
He told m his accounts were in a mess at
the bi. v.i-ry. It is hard for me. his ■ ousin.
to t 11 y. u. George Dunford, that this tm
fortmi i'" emo in of mine has made free use
with the mon.-y of the place in which you
and h ire employed I was afraid you
ov rli. u’ .1 our talk about that business.’ If
you ,ii-i overhear you woubi !>>• bound to
tell in brewery people, and I did not want
any inquiry about Joe tonight. You ate
now b>.mid by your oa‘h not to inf irm."
“This is a lie to >■ ver something worse,”
t ; r;ht Diim'ord. "It is a lie to cover Bol
ger ; !i -i: •'.irnnee- a lie o gain time for
<' irringtm'. ,;i . , pearanet b. fort* morning’.
After a !• is” "" tn* sai l aloud, “T am not
sure that 1 am l.ound by that oath, but L
will kt ;> it on th” conditionotipulated."
“What is that? 1 have forgotten the
condition.”
■' i’i. 't ymi convince mo Bolger is a’ivo
and is not badly injured: that you explain
the manner of his disappearance, in tact.”
y.s! lb* bad tow>d out his boa: in
the wii !y dark, and mad,* her f ist or, the
seiward face of the wreck. He left his
c 1 tl > . in h< r and pulled tho ulher boat
back in h's flannels. As soon ah” am. I
had finished our talk h” dived off to swim
to th. Black B ink, unmoor ais oat. pull
out t<> -ea and escape as best he could.
V. I - n you said he was dead I in<>u,'',ht ■ <>u
ka av h had been drowned. 1 did not want
him to ;> • pursued tonighT, and if you ac
eused me of murdering him. there w.*ul«l :o
a • iteli or pursuit, it’s an a.vfnl . ff-ir.
Jl will l>r ti - father’s heart. 1 tried to
p‘i-m i !<• li’m from bolting, hut h<> w.‘old
not listen Pi ni”. Are you satisfied now?”
"W dl." s lid Dunford, "on whttt you say
I’ll wait till morning.”
"Am! how will you confirm my Recount
then?"
“If the boat is missing and his accounts ate
wrong I shall hold my tongue. Good
n>ght.’’
Next dav Bolger and his boat wer<- m’s-'-
Ing and hi ’ accounts were found •<> be
wrong. Months after an undated lelter
cam from him to the Tru'dlo postmark.
It was addressed to Miss Wilton, a ratne
which at that time had become < bsolete,
the person who once bore it being tiicn
known as Mrs. Carrington.—Kinnard bow
ling, in The Detroit Sunday Trtbine.
CORE AN WOMEN.
ALL AIiOVT TH E XOltlK I.ADI TH AK l>
THE DEIiKAHED STAVE HlitTS.
FEW RIGHTS RESPECTED BY MAN.
A Coroan Woman’s Itreu-Thn Original Di
vided Skirt anti How the C'orvan
Dame Wears I?—Other Notes.
(Ccpyrighted, ISM, by Frank G. Carpenter.)
The present war. in Corea is bound io
better tin- condition of her women. It
could not be worse than it is. The 5,1)00,(MM
women of the country are practically
’ slaves. They are bound to their husbands
■ with fetters of iron, which only the num
: can loosen. They dare not go upon the
! streets. Their quarters are kept for them
: in tlie backs of the houses, and the best
of the Corean wives would commit suicide
| If a stranger of the other sex rudely put
| his hands upon her. .Many of these women
: are a, lually slaves. They have been bought
1 and they can be whipped if they do not
; obey. Little is known about the condition
of t'orean womanhood. The lines are so
I strict as to their being seen upon the street,
or as to their coming into contact with
any but their own sex, that such travel
letters and books as have been written
> coi cerning Corea contain but little about
them. Only the women of the lower classes
go out of the house, except in closed chairs,
and those whom you see with their facts
uncovered are generally slaves. Now and
then a common woman goes about the
1 streets of Seoul with a green cloak over
her head. She holds this close to her face,
h aving a crack out of which one eye peeps,
! and if she meets a man on a country road
sh” runs. There are, indeed, three different
classes of women in Corea, the upper, the
j middle and the lower class.
The tipper class are usually the daughters
i of nobles. They marry nobles, and If their
busbands can afford it. which is not often,
! they have slaves to do all the work for
them, and they lead lives of comparative
1 idleness. The dress of all classes is prac
tically the same, but that of the upper
classes is made of much mor>' expensive
material. It is a very unbecoming dress.
Tiie t'orean worm n are not. as a rule, beau
tiful, and this dress dues not. add to their
l.>eks. My interpreter, "General” Pal;, who
b is a wife, a concubine or so, and two or
three female slaves, has given me the de
tails. The Corean lady starts in with a
divided skirt. This consists of a pair of
very full drawers, which f ill in tol I about
h> r feet, and which if stretched upwards
Id have room to spare when being
gathered about the neck. The top of th'se
u.iwer.- has a band fully eight incites wide,
►_e . , t;, | * t> -ie.l tightly over th' brea«t
f |,.v a white ribbon drawstring, which is
tbd in front. Tills garment is always
white, and it is fastened so tight that the
band cuts into the flesh at the back, and
among Hie lower classes often runs below
the breast, leaving It exposed. Above th:
> hand, and just meeting it, tier, is a little
jack't with long sleeves. This jacket is not
mure than si.x inches long, I judge. It is
, sometimes of yellow, green or blue, and at
other times of white.
It is tied together with ribbons of the
) same color as the jacket, and it is so scanty
that ti great sunburnt 1 streak an inch
wi ie shines out below the shoulder blades
of such women as get into the sun. ’I he
drawers are not ti'd at the ankle. They
narrow down as they fall to tho feet, and
below them the woman wears stockings of
wadded white cotton. These make her feet
look about five sizes larger than they are,
and the winter stocking is half an inch
thick. It is more like a boot than a sho",
and it extends only about two inches above
the ankle. Th. Corean lady wears no shoes
while at home. She trots about in lor
sticking feet, and the poorer classes go
barefooted When site goes out she puts on
slippers of rabbit skin, faced with silk.
Some of these are very pretty, but th-y
look uncomfortable, and aru quite heavy.
They have soles of oxhide, which are nailed
on to the slipper with iron pegs, the heads
of which are as large around as that of a
ten-penny nail, and they are clumsy in the
extreme. In addition to these divided
skirts, or drawers, she has overpants of
; white, which are very full, and reach from
the armpits to the knees, und over the
whole She Wears a cloak-like gown, which
tails to her feet, and which is tied on with,
ribbon. This practi ally makes up the cos
tume of a t’orean lady. It usually consists
ot )..ood mat rial, ami often of silk. The
, y junger women are fond of red. The mid
dle-aged affect bine, and the widows always
' wear white, which is tlie color of mourning.
I like the way the Corean women comb
: their hair. They part it in the middle, and
put it up in ;t coil on the nape of the neck.
They wear the biggest hairpins of their
sex the world over. The average one is as
thick as your little linger, and is about live
inches long, it is of gold, silver or amlier.
and it is a poor woman, indeed, who does
i not own one or two ot’ these pins. She is
■ fond of jewelry, and site likes linger rings.
I i though sht' has her own way of wearing
i them. The custom is to have two rings on
1 the third linger of the rlglit. hand. With
' such rings, and a hairpin or so, and the
> ' above dn s, she considers herself decked
■ o,ui, provided her lace and eyebrows are
1 properly touched up. Ail Corean women
punt. They cover the face with white and
dash their lips with red. They use India
' ink to mark the line of the eyebrows, and
, they are very particular that this line
should be very delicate, and arched in eon
' I fotmity with the line of Asiatic beauty.
' This is supposed to be a curve like that of
a line of swans flying in the sky, and with
; a pair of tweezers she pulls out the hairs of
! her eyebrows until they approach her ideal.
I Sne is also by no means averse to hair oil,
j and her locks usually shine like greased
ebony.
The daily life of one of the Corean ladies
is interesting. She rises with the sun and
spends ati hour at her toilet. She Is waited
upon by her own slaves, and her rooms,
in the winter time, have fires built under
them, so that her bare feet fall upon a
warm floor. In nine cases out of ten she
sleeps on this floor, and while she is mak
ing her toilet she squats upon it before a
little, looking glass. Her breakfast is
brought into the room to her. It is served
’ on a t’orean table about as big around and
as high as a half-bushel measure. She sits
on her heels while she eats it, and her
table furniture consists of a spoon and a
pair of chop-sticks. Tlie food is served in
, brass bowls. She has no tablecloth, and
s.ie uses no napkins. She is very particu
lar to wash after her meals, and, contrary
to the general belief, the better class of
the Coreans are cleanly. In washing the
teeth a great deal of salt is used. The
' mouth is tilled with salt, and with the fin
ger or brush the teeth are rubbed until
they are perfectly pure and clean. She
washes her neck and lace every morning,
{ and in summer she takes a bath every
afternoon or evening. Her bathtub is a big
jar, made of burnt clay, and in the sum
mer her hath is cold. A. Corean lady sel-
' doni tak”S a nap in the daytime. These
Corean nobles do nothing. They are the
greatest professional loafers on the globe,
but they think it would be a lazy man who
take a nap when the sun is up.
The winter clothes of a Corean lady are
often made of fur and of quilted silk. A
j fur gown may cost as high as JIOO, and a
I quilted silk gown is sometimes worth 525.
' If she wears cotton she can be dressed for
( J 5, and a lady can get a good summer out-
■ tit for S2O. The clothes are made so that
i they have to be ripped apart before they
are washed, and this is so with many of
the garments of the men. t'orean washing
is, in fact, about the biggest industry that
is carried on in the country. and I shall
speak further of it in another place. The
' Corean lady seldom does any washing her-
I self. This is given over to the slaves. If
, she is blue-blooded, poor and proud, she
may do some ironing behind the doors of
her apartments, but she cannot be a lady
' and go out to wash. The business of a
I Corean woman of high rank is to keep the
■ accounts, to boss the servants and to now
' and then pay a social call upon her friends.
Some of the women are educated. That is,
i they are taught to read and write Corean.
j As a rule, however, they are very ignorant.
There is a great difference in conditions
I as regards Ute classes of women. A mid
, die class woman when she meets the wife
! of a noble has to address her in reverential
j tones, and the lower ••lasses bow down to
I the middle classes. The middle class wo
! men never go out of their houses except in
chairs and among them may be classed the
wives of scholars or interpreters and those
of doctors and of the traders which go to
Peking. It is the lower classes that you'
see upon the street with these green shawls
upon their heads. They do all kinds of
work in the house, and. if they are rich,
they live perhaps as well as the wives of
the nobles. The nobles seldom marry them,
though they sometimes take them as con
! cubines. .Most of the rich no n have con
i cubines, anil some sport harems which
might be compared with those of Turkey.
The extra wives are not kept in the wo
man’s quart- rs, but they have an establish
ment of their own in another part ol’ the
grounds. The only duty of the concubine
is to keep clean an i good looking and to
' please her master. Her daughters usually
- inarry the sons ot concubines, ami h»T sons
; gel a portion of the father's property,
i though they have not as many rights as
' his legitimate children. The women ia
! Cor< a are not much respected in the laws
: of tlie country ax tegatds inheritance. The
j son g"-:-. all the prop Tty. and t ie datigh
, t< s inherit nothing. Daugnters are by
> no means so wel xiine as sons, inti a wo
i man who bears many girls is considered a
! disgrae ■ to the clan.
; j t'o-ea.i girls get. in q of their iur. in
’ : their childhood. They trot around with
I tlie boys :n, i p ay as they will until they
1 are seven years oi l. T ley wear clothes
I hke their moth-rs. or. if they are poor,
practically no cloth' s at ail. and they can
t do about as they pleas.-. After the age of
' seven the.', are not allowed to play uilt.-ide
' j of the walls which surround the house.
| They are never seen on th” street-, and as
, they grow old -r their life becomes mure
■ 1 and more a -* elude I one. At eight or nine
; the.v are taught the ('or an character.: and
‘ how to sew, to embroider and to keep house.
They are often engaged at ten, and are
married at thirteen and fourteen. It is a
curious thing that they practically lose
their n imes after they are eleven. The
' custom is just the reverse ot ours. Me of
ten call a girl ■ baby” when she is little.
i Th" Cote ins call their girls by fixed names
1 until they get to be el ven. after which they
are called "Aga." or “baby.” In fact, all
' tlie girls of Corea over eleven are niek-
: I named "b.iby,” und this name sticks to
• , them until they are married. Thus, an old
, i maid of sixty will still be knocked about
i with the title of “baby.” After a woman
i is married she takes her husband’s name
■ ami loses her own. She is known as her
husband’s wife, and she is universally ad
dressed and spoken of as such, exc pt by
her own father and family, wno may still
call her "baby.” After she has children
she is known as the mother of the boys.
I For instance, Mary Jones, upon marrying
John Smith, would be called "John Smith s
wife,” and if she happened to have a boy
named Jim. (Very one in the village or
town would speak of her as little Jimmie
Smith’s mother.
A woman never sees Iter husband before
she marri' ■ him, nor i.as she anv part n
making the engagement. The matter is
carried on, as in ehimi. through match
makers, and it is customary for the groom
to furnish the money for tlie bride's ward
robe. The swan is the emblem of mar,tai
fidelity, and after the engagement has iieen
made, the bridegroom goes in state to the
house ot’ the father of the bride, carrying
a white swan in ins arms. There is us
ually n tent with a spread table in it wait
ing for him, and about this stand the
matelmakers and the bride's father. As
lie cones in, he places this swan on the
tabh, and bows to it foyr times and a
half.’ He then goes to the other side of
the yard, where the bride sits in a hall.
She rises as he comes up, and she usually
has a slave on each side of her, holding
her hand, so that ner long sleeves, as the
hands meet in front of h<*r face, completely
Glide the face from tiie groom. Then t'ho
two go through numerous bows, the wo
man still keeping her face hidden, and
tlie bridegroom finally going down on nis
knees and bumping tjis head agiunst the
floor in front of the bride. Alter this is
over, the bride and groom are offer 'd cokes
and wine. They drink out ot the same
glass, and it is this drinking that consti
tutes the ceremony of marr:a:. •. There is
also a marriage certificate about as big
as a small tablecloth, which is sent to the
bride’s father in a ceremonial box. This
paper contains about seven lines. The first
is taken up with the date. The second ex
presses his wish for the bride's father’s
health. The third and fourth read some
what as follows: “My son and heir is oid,
but as yet unmarried, and you have agreed
that your daughter should marry him. I
am much obliged to you for the compliment,
and I herewith express it in this let'er.”
This letter is signed by the bridegroom’s
father, and the lines which follow give th *
name of the grand ancestor and the dis
trict from which the bridegroom comes.
It closes with the words: ”1 salute you
twice." This paper is folded up and put
into a long envelope, which is soiled with
a piece of ribbon. On its outside is th”
bride’s father’s address, with ail the hon
orific titles that can be added to it.
After the ceremony of marriage at tin*
bride's house is over th” bi idegroom
changes Gils wedding clothes and sits down
with the men of the family to a feast.
The bride, meanwhile, goes back to her
apartments, and the groom later on goes
home. Following this the bride go's to
‘ the groom’s house and she is treated to a
dinner by the ladies of tiie family. The
PRICE FIVE CEN PS
first nit;ht that tho couple hesrin their life
together it is the groom’s duty to undress
the bride, and it is etiquette that she re
sist in every way possible. After marriage
the bride goes to the house of her hus
band’s father to live. She no longer has
any place in her own home, and she jg
bossed by her mother-in-law. She is car
ried to her new home in a closed chair,
and she changes from tho prison of her
girlhood to the prison of her married life.
Hereafter she is practically the slave of
her husband, who can treat her as he will
ai-d who can divorce her with little trouble.
Divorces among the higher classes are not
common, and the women are, among these
classes, fairly well treated, as far as the
use of the whip is concerned, ft is only
the slaves and the wives of the lower
< lasses who are much punished, but it a
woman is unfaithful, no matter what her
class, she can be taken by her husband to
the magistrate and be punished with a
paddle.
This punishment with the paddle or the
whip is, 1 am told, sometimes meted out to
woman servants or slaves by their mas
ters. It is against the law to punish wo
men as men; that is, in a nude c n lition.
They are required, however, to take < ff
their clothes and put oa a single cotton
garment which entirely covers their lx*dy.
This is th'-n wet so that it clings to the
skin, and the woman is laid face down
ward on the ground and whipped upon the
•back of the things. I do not mean to say
that such punishment is general, but I
was told it is according to law, and where
a master or a magistrate is cruelly incline 1
you can see what a terrible weapon this
might be in his hands. The slavery cf
Corea is by no means as bad as certain
kinds of slavery in other parts of the
globe, and the sons of slaves are free.
i The daughters of slaves are still the prop
erty of their master, but the law provides
I that they can pay the amount Which was
paid for them, and thus secure their free
dom. Slaves here bring different prices,
, according to age. muscle and beauty,
j Young girls of from fourteen to eighteen
are worth, according to their good looks,
from $39 to s»'>•» apiece, and you can get a
good hardy woman of thirty or forty for
one-third of this sum. The number of
slaves diminishes from year to year, but
fathers < an sell their children, and persons
tan sell themselves. The slavery which ex
ists is a sort of serfdom, and many of the
slaves belong to the old families ot tlie
past. The worst form of slavery is tha:
which is meted out to the families of rebels,
i by which the females are taken into the
; employ of the officials and condemned to
i work for their husbands', sons' or fathers'
| crimes. Such slaves are treated little bet
i ter than beasts, anil they become the con
cubines or drudges of the ollicials, accord
ing to the whim of the latter.
Speaking of the seclusion of Corean la
dies, 1 saw a lady go forth to make a call
one afternoon during my stay in Seoul: at
■ least, I sopp"".. •■»■(» going t > rnak • t
; call. 1 also suppose 1 saw her go forth,
j As far as getting an actual glimpse of
: her, I did nothing of the kind. The house
I in which she lived was surrounded by a
■’ wall of small houses devoted to servants'
j quarters. These were ranged on each side
i of the gate. «>r stable-like door, which
formed the entrance to the yard, and there
> was another gate inside of thi-. so that
, there was no chance to see into the yard.
I She went forth in a chair of about the
size and shape of a small dry goods box,
swung between two long pules. The men
i who bore these poles upon their shoulders
I took the chair and poked it into the gate,
I which it entirely filled. The front of the
: chair was then inside the yard. The men
: st ayed outside. The w orn nt .crawled in and
1 pulled down the curtain. The men then
j dragged out the chair and carried her away,
j I have looked into one or two of these
i chairs when they were not in use. They
' are just big enough for a woman weighing
< about it‘o pounds to sit cross-legged within,
i and there is no support for tlie back, n r
I wi ll for the feet, li is in stte.i boxes th it
i all ('orean 1 idles go out calling, and all
I that they ever see of the big t’orean
> capital is through the cracks in the chair
: < r the little glass peep holes, as big around
as a i I cent, which they are now iutroduc
i ing into the closed paper windows of their
; houses. It is onh n this wav that they see
I men other than their huslan.ls. and the
man who would dan- to ent-.-r another Co
rean house without an invitation could be
severely punished, and a man of the lower
classes who dares to look over the wall of
a gentleman’s house t. take i p• >p at his
wife can be caught and whippet by th”
man or sent to prison. If he breaks n
and takes hold of the women he <an . ■
banished. Ano if he commits a *.v- .
crime than this ot a similar nature be a
be killed.
FRANK G. CARPENTER.
The Old-Time Cirens Clown.
I wonder where’s the circus clown, with
all his fun an’ noise—
The feller w ho jest ruled the ring when you
an’ me was boys?
There’s lots o' funny fellers now that travel
with the show;
But where s the old-time circus clown we
all kuowed long ago?
I remember, like 'twas yesterday, hfs ev
ery smile an' frown—
The capers that he cut up when the circus
come to towns
How tin* old ringmaster nagged him; all
his frolic an’ his fuss;
Jest the best thing in the circus—was the
old-time clown to us!
M hen he smiled, we fell to laughin’; when
he laughed, we give a shout!
Me was always watehin' for him and a-fol
lerin’ him about;
He use to come so reg'lar that we knowed
him, up and down;
He was sociable an' friendly—was the old
time circus clown.
We would jump behind his wagon, when he
wasn't tollin' jokes.
An’ he’d give a grin o' welcome; maybe
ask us how's the folks?
He knowed the little boys an’ gyrls irom
Billville clean to Brown,
An’ they loved him —evey one o’ them —the
old-time circus clown.
I wonder where he's gone to now? The cir
cus comes along.
An' the steam planner's playin' of a
screechy sort o' song;
There’s half a dozen painted chaps in erary
street parade;
But their fun is mig?tty solemn to t»e tun
the old clown made!
I wonder what's become o’ him? I guess
they’ve laid him by; r
Warn’t use to three-ringed circuses an
women kickin’ hlgn;
He kinder saw his time was un; the circus
lights growed dim.
Au' he couldn't see the faces of the old
boys cheerin' him.
He's gone, an’ gone forever, but on every
circus day.
When I sit with all the children where the
new clowns prance an’ play.
My old eyes grow > *ght misty, an’ a tear
comes tumblin' down
From a old-time circus feller, for the old
time circus clown!
-FRANK L. STANTON.
/ - -