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WiSOEfi—IEET
ALARIC;
' on, .
THE TYRANT’S VAULT
A Sicilian Story of early tinies.
CHAPTER I.
ALARIC.
Not far from the city of Syracuse, when
it was the mettropolis of all Sicily, an
object of longing l0 ambitious conquerors
and one of the finest cities in the world ;
not for from this place, upon the shore of
the sea, stood a man who had just landed
from a vessel that was now sailing away
towards the North. He was quite young
——not over five-aud-twenty-tull and well
proportioned ; with a muscular system
finely developed ; and possessing a face
hOt only striking in its manly beauty but
remarkable, in one so young, for its stern
resolute, and self-eliaut expression. His
dress was light and simple, and evidently
of Greek manufacture ; the lower limbs
being clothed in close-fitting goat-skin,
above which he wore a shirt. of white linen
confined at the waist by a belt of fine
mail. Upon his head was a cap of woven
stuff, the top drooping over the right ear;
and his feet were sheldcd by a pair of
sandals. His only weapon was a short,
heavy sword, which hung, in a leathern
scnbbard, from his belt of mail. He
stood for awhile, gazing about as though
undecided what course he should pursue ;
but finally he cspicd an old fisherman, not
for off, who had just come down upon the
beach, and towards him he madehis way.
“ A bright, pleasant morning good sir,”
said the youth. '
The old man cast his not from his
Shoulders and gazed up. He carefully
scanned the features before him, and then
replied :
‘flAye, fair sir, it is a pleasant morning
We have many such on this coast.”
“And yet it storms sometimes, I sup-
pose,” Suggested the first speaker.
“He is a wise man who little heeds
the storms he cannot quell,” said the fish-
man, with a nod of the head which seem-
ed to give his words more meaning than
the circumstances under which they were
spoken would imply.
" You are right there,” responded the
other. “ But tell Inc—where can'I find
Artabanus, the hermit ?” _
The fisherman took another careful
look into his interlocutor’s face, and then
answered :
_ “ He lives upon yonder mountain,which
18 called Cutalauo. Do you wish to see
him ?” ’
“ Yes.”
“Then follow the path that leads to
yonder 00% until it brings you to a small
stream. Cross that, and then open your
right hand you willsee a beaten track. He
lives in a cave near the top of the mono-
tain,and this track will lead you directly
thither.”
The young man thanked his informant,
and was upon the point of turning away,
could have been indulged in only by one
who knew well the way he ‘was going.—
Up the steep, rocky highthe climbed, and
when he finally stopped, it was before the
entrance to a cave—a cave which N a-
ture had fashioned in the mountain’s side,
and sheltered from the sun’s fervid heat,
and the fury of the storm. At the mouth
of this cave sat on old man. over whose
head- some ,fourscore years had roll-
ed. His hair and heard were white
as the fleecy cloud that sailed above the
mount, and floated in silken, wavy masses
over his shoulders and breast. A mantle
of gray cloth enveloped his frame, and his
foot were shod with heavy sandals. He was
engaged over an old manuscript, but as
he heard the sound of approaching foot-
steps he closed the volume and raised his
head. . ~
“ Good morning, my son,” he said, with
a look of simple Welcome.
“ Kind father, I greet thee,” the youth
returned, at the same time extending his
hand.
I “ How l” cried the aged man, starting
to his feet, as the accents fell upon his
car. He shaded his eyes, with the palm
of the left hand, and gazed eagerly into
his visitor’s face. “Do I see aright ?”
he added; “ Is it Alaric~my old pupil?”
“ Aye, good Artabauus, I am Alaric
—-come once more to see thee.”
For some time the hermit gazed into
the young man’s face in silence, but final-
ly he said : _
“ Sit down—sit down, my son. Thy
presence has started a host of varied emo-
tions to life within me, audvI must recov-
er my thoughts ere I can talk with thee
in reason.”
“ Thank the gods, I find thee alive and
in health,” replied the youth, as he let go
the old man’s hand, and took a seat upon
a wooden bench close by.
“ Aye—I am well in body,” returned
Artabunus. “ But,” then he added,
continuing to gaze earnestly into his com-
paniou’s face as he Spoke, “ the body is
but a small part of man, the ills of the
flesh are very joys when compared with
some of the pains to which the soul may
be subject. But tell me of thyself.—
Where hast thou been ?”
“I have been in Greece,” replied the
youth. “ When I fled from these shores,
eight years ago. I sought refuge there,
and there I have remained ever since.—
Oh l I Wept this morning, as I gazed down
upon the city of my birth. I had thought
I had done weeping over those memories;
but when I again gazed upon Syracuse
they came crowding upon 'me with a
power which I could not resist, I saw
the very temple beneath the Walls of
which my father and brother were slain ;
and I could see the roof beneath which
my mother died. Artabanus, there were
not many of the patricion families escaped
that foul butchery.”
“ No, Alaric. Of all who were loyal
to the true interests of the people, I have
seen only yourself return. There were a
few escaped, but not many. Were there
any went with you to Greece “.7”
“ No, father. I escaped alone. I saw
my noble parent out down—I saw my
brother fall—and when I‘ knew I had no
relative left in the city, I fled. Fortune
favored me. I found a small boat by the
sea shore, and I put out alone upon the
dark waters. I floatcd away to Mclita,
and from thence I gained a passage to
Greece. The tyrant still regins in Syr-
acuse ?”
“ Alas I yes. And his deeds are evil,
and the people suffer. We have had no
peace in Sicily since good Helixus died.
Thou wert but amere child then.” /
“ I was seven years old. I rmcmber
the good king well, for my father, you
know, was one of his chief officers.”
“Aye—you were older than I thought,”
said the hermit, musingly.
“ And I remember that there was some
mystery connected with the good king’s
death,” remarded Alnric. “ Am I not
right I”
“ There was not much mystery,” ans:
wered the old man. “ He was weak and
weary and he left the throne that he
might die in peace ; and death soon came
to him. But why hast thou returned to
Syracuse ?”
“Can you not guess ?” returned the
youth.
“I might guess many things my son.”
“And yet but one of them would be
right. I have said that I left no relative
behind me when I made my escape from
this place ; but I did leave one whom I
loved—one about whom my affections
were entwined with life that could not
die. You know of whom I speak.”
“ Aye—«yon speak of the mason’s
daughter, Ianthe.”
when the latter resumed :
“ I mean no Offense. Your face looks
familiar. It has the cast of a countenance
I fancied I had seen before.”
“You’ll at least remember .of having
seen such on one on this morning,” said
the young man ; and as he thus spoke he
turned away.
“ Aye,” muttered the old Sicilian, half
to himself, but yet loud enough to reach
other cars ; “ and I call on Neptune to
witness that I have seen it before. Such
faces are not multiplied -—-thcy are not
plenty in Syracuse these times. Alas .l
morc’s the pity.”
The youth hesitated for a moment, as
though-he would turn back, but he over-
come the disposition, and kept on. \Vhen.
be had begun to ascend the mountaiu,he
stopped and loooked behind him, and saw
that the fisherman was already upon the
water.
“ Can it be,” he said, to himself, “that
my face is so little changed? I think I
remember that old man, for he has spread
his nets long in these Waters; but how
should he remember me ? I pray the
gods that there be not many in Syracuse
that will yet be so observant.” , . ,
With this the traveler kept on up the
mountain untill he had' reached a broad
table of rock, from whence he could see
the boy, and the city beyond. The great
metrOpolis was spread out before him,
with its massive walls, its temples, and. its
palaces, and a tear started down his check
as he gazed upon the scene. He clasped
his hands upon his bosom, and, with a few
muttered words, he started on again. He
crossed the stream, and took the path to
which he had been directed : but he
did not follow it as one who was a
stranger to its windings. He pursued
his way with on case and assurance, and,
“ Yes, father. Is she alive ?”
” She is.”
“ And well ?”
“ She is well I”
“ And,” pursued the youth, in a more
eager tone, “ is she still free ?”
“ Why? Have you thought that she
would remember you in love through
the years that how: passed?
“ 0! do not tell: me that she has ceased
to love me. ' True, she was a child in
years, but I loved hpr then, and my love
has grown stronger in the separation
which has followed. I know there is
danger to me here, but I came with n
will to meet it.”
“But suppose your very life were in
danger if you sought the maiden?”
“ You may warn me of danger. if you
will but do not seek to place the barrier Of
fear between me and 'my desire, for I
know the emotion. You Artaban us,
taught me when I was a boy, and your
wise lessons have not departed from my
mind. You taught me that there were
many things more to be feared than death
and I have come, prepared rather to die
than live all alone in a distant land; with
the sad memories of my unhappy country
for my only heritage.” , -
“ And you would not turn from death,
should it raise its threatening front be-
tween yourself and Iauthc ?" The old
man’s gaze grew more earnest as he thus
spoke, and a spark, within which seemed
to gleam some ucwly‘ awakened hope,
burned in his eye. ’
“ My father,” answered Alaric, with a
flushing cheek, “ I could almost feel of-
fended did I think you doubted me, but I
do not think so. Show me that Innthc
loves me and not even Pyrrho himself,
with the blood-stained crown of Sicily up-
on his brow, shall have power to startle
at times, with an abstractodness whichJ
[me from my course, while life is mine.”
Artabanus started to his feet and grasp-
ed the youth by the hand.
“ Noble Alaric,” he cried, with a joy-
ful enthusiasm, “ thou art worthy of the
maiden’s hand. Shedoes love thee—she
cherishes thy memory within her heart as
the must precious‘thing of earth, and for
long years she has lived upon the hope
that thou wouldst return to her.”
“ O-—thc gods be praised l” ejaculated
the young man. _ .
“.But,” added the hermit in acbang'ed
voice, “ there must be dangerju thy path
Pyrrho holds his throne only through the
fear and enslavemeut of ‘the people, and
he knows it. Your father was one of his
bitterest enemies, and he was also one of
the first whom the usurper found it neces-
sary to put out of the way. You are
not only the very image of your noble
parent, but you must remember that you
had arrived almost at the full stature of
manhood when you fled from Syracuse.—
You were then seventeen, and from seven-
teen, to five-and-twcnty, especially in one
so early developed as you were, there is
not much change. You were a man then
and you are no more now. So you must
expect that you will be known and recog-
nized. But let us Speak of that hereafter.
First do you see lanthe, and when you
have found all right in that quarter, we
will consider further.”
“ I shall find her with her father ?”
“Yes—and his house is just wh ese it
was eight years ago;”
“ I will go and seek her, then, and——”
" Hold, my son. You had better wait
till night fall ere you enter the city, and
also exchange that Greek shirt for agor-
ment less likely to attract attention for
I assure you that too much care cannot
be taken,”
Alaric was impatient to see quthe, but
he saw the force of the hermit’s reasoning
and he was willing to wait. SO he sat
down by his old teacher’s side again—sat
as he hadvsat years before, when receiv-
ing instructions from the same lips-aud
listened to the story of the wrongs that.
had been done in Sicily during the last
eight years. Hour after hour passed
away, and Artabanus had still more to
tell of the tyrant’s cruelty.
“ Merciful henveus l‘ cried the youth,
fired almost to pbrcnzy by the recital,
“ how have the peOpIe borne all this ?”
“They have borne it under fear of their
lives. Phyrrho’s soldiers are posted at
every place where a murmur can arise.”
“And how long shall it last ?”
“ Till some spirit with a heart big
enough to love Sicily more than life, and
a. soul that fears not the tyrant, shall
arise in Syracuse!” pronounced the old
man solemnly.
Alaric started as he met the glance of
his aged companion, for there was a
meaning upon it of more than mortal im-
port. He dared not trust himsclf to
speak then, for the feelings that had
sprang to life in his own soul were so
wild and strange that they fairly startled
him. He arose and walked out upon the
mountain, and ever and anon, as his eye
rested upon the distant city, the tumult
in his soul came to startle him again—
He did not seek to analyze the emotion
for it was So bold and gigantic, so genie-
like in its misty proportions, that he dared
not handle it with reason.
After a while Artabanuspamc out and
touched him upon the shoulder.
“ Alaric,” spoke the old. man, “ it is
waxing late, and we may be on the move.
Let .us out a crust of bread, and then we
will descend the mountain together. I
must go with you as far as the fishermun’s
cot, for there we must find a more fitting
garb for you. Glycon is my friend, and
may be trusted to the verge of the grave.”
The frugal supper was soon dispatched
and then the two descended the mountain
together, At the fisherman’s cot they
stepped, and found that Glycon had just
returned from his day’s labor. Armban-
us took him apart and having explained to
him as much of Alaric’s story as he deem-
ed advisable, he asked for some garments
that would answer for the youth to wear.
The fisherman led the way to his scan-
ty wardrobe, and the necessary garments
were soon selected. Alaric’s leggins of
goat-skin were replaced by long hose of
blue cloth, and his white linen shirt was
exuhanged for a dark brown frock, be-
neath which he could easily conceal his
short sword. After this the. hermit ac-
companied him to the southern shore of
the bay, and there stopped.
“ We had better not be seen together
beyond this point,” said the Old man.-
“ From here the way is plain, and you
have had caution enough. At the gate
you will not be stopped, unless some of
the guard should take the whim to ques
tion you. Be wise, now, and cautious,
and let.me see you tomorrow.”
“I will not forget.”
“ Then may the gods guide and protect
on.
With this Artabnnus turned back to-
wards the mountain, aud Alaric. kept on.
The shades of night wc:e gatherin over
the city as the youth passed in at the
broad gateway, and the guard had
already lighted their torches. He had
gone a few steps when a rough voice com-
manded him to stop.
“Didn’t you promise me a fish for my
dinner, thou lying knave ?” the voice con-
tinued.
“ You have mistaken your man,” said
Alaric, hiding his face as much as possi-
ble without seeming desirous so to do.
“ Good Bacchus, so I have. Thou’rt
not Mestoy.”
" N0,” returned our hero ; and as he
spoke he kept on.
“ That’s a strange face,” said one of the
soldiers.
“ And, I thought a fair one,” added
another. .
“ How .now ?” asked a third.
stranger passed?”
“ Yes—a fisherman.”
“ Tis said that a Greek vessel was up-
on the coast this morning, nnd we should
know whom she landed ?
Alaric heard no more.
first angle in the street that presented it-
self, and then hurried on. The way was
familiar, and bolted no difficulty in selec-
ting the various avenues he needed to fol-
low, but he was not wholly easy. He
had reason to believe that he was follow-
ed. He took several winding passages
for the purpose of avoiding pursues, but
he could not get rid of the echoing foot-
fall that sounded upon the pavement be-
hind him. It slackened when he slackened
“ Has a
He turned the -
’. :..-.,......~:... l;}£.;-.-- -...-,. .. ..
—it stopped when he stopped—and when
he hurried on the echo hurried after him.
CHAPTER II.
METRE—AN ALARM.
Wiyhin a comfortably furnished'apart-
ment of an humble abode, near the west-
ern Wall of the city, sat two individuals.
The first was a man some fifty years of
age, stout and muscular in frame, and
wearing the garb of an artisan, with the
dust of toll still clinging to him. He pos-
sessed an open, kindly countenance, and
.if it lackcil in comeliness, it certainly
made up in honesty and frankness. Such
was Bellerus, one of the most skillful
masons in Syracuse, and possessing a fair
knowledge Of architecture in in its higher
more elaborate branches. A genial, com-
fortable disposition had led him into so-
ciety of his own choice, and antipathy to
turmoil and strife, and an unwillingness to
assume much responsibility, had kept him
from rising to any eminence in his profes-
SIon. There. may have been another
cause for his retaining his humble position
though every desire of his social life
seemed to be answered where he was.
. The other person— the mason’s compan-
Ion—was a female. She had seen just
twenty summers, and was as beautiful as
the poet’s dream. In form she was light
and graceful, limbs full and round, and
her whole frame full of life and vigor.—
Her features were of true Grecian mould
with large, dark eyes, over which droop-
led long lashes of silken texture, while a
mass of wavy tresses clustered about her
superbly rounded shoulders. Beyond the
few honest friends who sometimes partook
of the artisao’s hospitality, she was not
known. Bellerus had guarded with a
miser’s care, and few there were in
the great metropolis Who knew of the
treasure of beauty that dwelt within his
walls. The humble craftsmen who shared
her father’s confidence loved her devoted-
ly, but they loved with a worshiping love
as the kneeling shepherd loved his god-
dess ; and they were all pledged not to
speak of her in their intercourse with the
outside world.
“ Don‘t call me foolish, father,” said
the maiden, imploringly.
“ I do not call thee so, Ianthe,” the
mason returned. “I only wish to help
you over what may prove a most bitter
disappointment. How can you hope that
Alaric will ever return ?”
” My love tells me so.”
“ All—but love is blind.”
“ Then its feelings are the more to be
relied upon, for they come from the inter-
nal p'omptings of the soul. But I feel
sure that be will come back to me. Only
last night the bright goddess Electra
appeared to me in a dream, and told me
that Alnric should return. At least I
will hope yet a while longer; for it is
sweet to hops.”
Bellerus could not‘ find it in his heart
to do more towards dispelling the bright
promise which the maiden Cherished, and
he turned the conversation upon another
topic. Only a few words had been spo-
ken, howcvcr, when a loud rap was heard
without, and the host lighted atorch and
went to the door. When he returned he
made a motion for Ianthe to leave the
room.
- “ It is a stronger,” he said, “ and it is
not meet that thou shouldst be present.”
But the maiden nether spoke nor mov-
ed. She had heard the tones of the vis-
itor’s voice, and her quick carhad caught
a familiar sound.
Bellerus would have reminded her
again, but the stranger was close behind
him and quickly entered the apartment.
Ianthe sow not the humble fisher’s garb
—she only saw the well remembercred
features which she had carried within the
sacred repository of her affections for so
long a time. .They were changed a little
——they had assumed more of manhood—
but not changed to love.
“ Sweet Electra, my dream is true l”
she cried, as she started forward, and put
forth her hands, “ Aloric has come 1”
“ So Heaven looks down with richest
blessing l” the young man responded, as
he folded the maiden to his bosom.
“ May the gods preserve me! exclaim-
ed the old mason, gazing upon the youth-
ful pair in . wonder. “ I hope this is no
trick of Thaumas to blind me. Alaric
is it thou ?” .
“ In truth, good Bellerus, it is,” re-
turned our hero, extending his hand as he
spoke. “ Surely thou shouldst know me.”
“ Aye, and I do know thee now,”
the host responded, grasping the youth
warmly, and gazing eagerly into the face.
“ By the crown of Pluto, I could not mis-
take that face. Thou art grown wond-
rously like thy noble father.”
The trio were soon seated, and when
they had regained somewhtof their com-
posure, Alaric gave a brief account of his
adventures during his absence from Sicily.
Innthe sat all the while with her head
upon his bosom, and ever and anon lift-
ing her eyes to catch the warm glances of
his love. ’
At length the old craftsman went out,
and the lovers were left alone. They
told over the tales of affection they used
to tell in other years, and for an hour the
world was shut out from their thoughts.
“ O l” murmured Innthc, after Alaric
had imprinted a warm kiss upon her. brow
in token of the renewal of his most solemn
pledges, “ now that thou art near me,
and my fouut of love is full, I begin to
fear the dangers which may beset thee."
“ Let us not think of danger now, my
beloved,” replied the youth. “ This
should be ,a season of joy and happiness
unnlloycd.”
“ Aye—but we should not forget that
there isa' future, and that we must be
watchful of the joys today if we would
have them with us henceforth.”
“ Thou art right, Ionthc. And I will
be watchful. I know there is danger in
the way, but I fear it not.”
To be continued in our next.
W
A PARAGRAPH ron BABIES-‘hM r. James
Wylde, in a letter to the North British
Mail, ofi'ers the following remedy for two
evils, of which the fair sex are now the
subject—viz, entensive crinolino, and ac-
cidental combustion. He says: “ By
adding to the starch used in preparing
these dresses, 9. tablespoonful of common
alum in a powdered state, the starch
makes the dress far stifi‘er, and prevents
its bursting into flame when placed in
contact with any burning substance."
‘.
P O E T R Y .
For the Normal]: Gazelle.
“ An O’er True Tale.”
Thinking, thinking, ever thinking,
0f the days of long ago,
When her hours were ever sunny,
And her heart no sadness knew.
Sat a young and lovely maiden.
With her hand upon her brow,
Thipking yet of one long absent,
Wondering that he comes not now._
In the twilight eat the maiden,
While the shadows longer creep,
Slowly, slowly fades the daylight,
And the birds their vesper’s keep.
Still she sits alone and silent,
While doth fade the last dim ray,
She heeds not the evening shadows,
That are falling cold and gray,
On her heart’s a deeper shadow,
While she's thinking of the pant,
And of all her sunny childhood,
With its hours too bright to last.
of her happy, happy school days,
When he led her by the hand,
Ever telling by the wayside,
‘ What he’d do when he‘s a man.
[low at noon they sought the dim woods,
Searching for the first spring flowers,
And but for the school bells singing,
Heated not the passing hours.
Thinking of the days so many,
When a happy youth and maiden,
They have sought the fields for berries,
And returned with baskets laden.
When the autumn leaves were falling,
Tinged with crimson, green, and gold,
'I hen they gathered the brown chestnuts,
In the mornings clear and cold.
0
0f the long, long winter evenings,
When the ground was white with new,
And the moon was shedding brightly,
Over all its silver glow.
of those merry, merry sleigh-rides,
Wlth the joyous ringing bells,
None but a New England maiden
Could enjoy them half as well.
Still she sits alone and silent,!
Night her form so darkly shronding,
Shuddering at the dim foreboding,
That even now her brain is crowding.
Thinking of their sad, sad partings,
When he sought a distant city,
Vowing that he’d ever love her,
And she believed him—more’s the pity.
Long she looked, and long she waited,
Thinking ever of the past,
Ever hoping, ever saying
That he’d surely come at last.
She saw not that little missive,
Folded up so neat and trim,
With its freight of bitter falsehood,
That the iron-horse bore t) him.
Maiden, you can cease yBur watching,
Dream not that he’ll come at last,
For that missive did its foul work,
And you-re numbered with the past.
ll‘Alil’lEltS & MECHANICS.
Boiling Meats.
The very simple process of boiling meats
is seldom done in perfection—while the
most ignorant cook will tell you she knows
all about it, and will send to the table a
dlSll discolored, tough and unwholesome.
The meat if fresh should be put into
cold water and perfectly covered during
the whole process—filling up with hot wa-
ter as it boils away. The water should
be gradually heated, for a large piece of
meat, not coming to boil under nearly half
an hour—otherwise it will be hardened
and shrink.
The scum must be carefully taken off
as soon as the water boils, and if a little
cold water is thrown in more scum will
rise. If this is neglected the scum will
adhere to the meat and you can never re-
store it to a clear and delicate appear-
once.
This is particularly necessary in regard
to fowls and mutton. If this is attended
to, there will he no necessity of wrapping
it in cloth, which may injure the flavor of
the meat.
When the water boils it must be placed
where it will boil constantly and slowly.
Strong boiling renders the meat hard,
while gentle simmering makes it tender
and savory.
As to the time required, much must be
left to private judgment. Twenty minutes
to a pound is a good general rule—but
all should know that beef and mutton may
be a little under done without injury, but
lamb, veal and port are unfit for the to-
ble if not thoroughly cooked.
Meat should not remain in the water
after it is done.
L. It
An Elegant Extract.
“ Generation after generation,” says a
fine writer, “ hhvc felt as we feel now,
and their lives were active as our own.—
They passed away like a beauty as when
her Creator commanded her to be The
heavens shall be as bright over our
graves as they are now around our paths.
The world will have the same attractions
for our offspring yct unborn that she
once had for our children. Yet a.little
while, andnll this will have happened.—
'l‘he throbbing heart will find its way, and
the prayers will be said, and our friends
will return, and we shall be left behind
in silence and darkness for the worms.—
And it may be for a short time we shall
be spoken of, but things of life will creep
in and our names will soon be forgotten,
Days will continue to move on, and laugh-
ter and song will be heard in the room in
WlllCll we died, and the eyes that mourned
for us will be dried, and glisten again
with joy, and even our children willcease
to think of us, and will not remember to
lisp our names. Then we shall have be-
come in the touching language of the
Psalmist, “ forgotten and gone clear out
of sight.” ' .
C
o»-
SILVER Com ar A Discount—It is
noteworlhy that at the present time, the
bills of country banks in New York are
actually worth more in the market than
specie ; and such notes boarded up while
silver is paid out. A person has $1,000
wages to pay on Saturday. lustead of
paying in countrv bank notes, he buys
$1,000 in silver for $995 bank money,
had saves $5, at the same time paying
Specie to his men. Great dissatisfaction
is expressed at the accumulation of quan-
tities of silver coin, at all retail establish-
ments. The banks will not take it on
deposit ; it cannot be sold in large quan-
tities, except at a discount. The war
with China, which has stOpped the export
hither, and to some extent, the deprecia-
tion of the coin here, have led to this
state of things. Such a state of the mon-
From Harper's Jllagazinc,for November.
OUR QUEER PAPA.
A CASE OF ORGANIC AFFECTION.
III.
Concluded.
The father ofElsie Landon was a queer
old gentleman- One of those men whose
constitutions are so mixed with antago-
nist elements that yOu wonder how they
ever manage to get a unanimous vote of
their faculties on any action of life. He
was rich, very rich, such people often are,
but how they succeed in business is a
problem. His manner was as vacillafiug
as this : He would suddenly snatch up a
chair, pound it down in four or five pla-
ces, look at his watch, whistle, and final-
ly conclude to stand up. Elsie’s impro-
prieties he frequently treated—by saying :
Horrible, really I seem to be in a bad
dream 1 Well, I shall have to confine
you to your room, to reflect. Why,
bless me, here are the horses at the door.
Elsie, wouldn’t you like to ride round the
lake ?
So he was in everything. At that
time I used to think, however, that the
prevailing tendency of the creature was
bad—-savagc——lf anything prevailing
could be asserted of such a character.—
For he made Elsie cry half a dozen
times a day by blurting out upon her in
his fierce way, or thwarting some little
child-woman taste of hers, whose delicacy
he could not appreciate ; and many a
time did I wish that Solomon had left
some maxim apprOpriate to the regula—
tion of parental relations as well as filial,
like “ Spare the rod and spoil the papa ”
In which case I should like to be Elsie’s
proxy - .
I was in love with his daughter. I
loved her as a child—I loved her as a
woman—and that love was all the broad:
er and deeper for attaching itself to all
the multiduous lights and shadows of her
nature in both aspects. But then, the
Old gentleman was worth—nobody knew
how much, and I—nobody know how lit-
tle. Simply a goodlookiug gentleman
with brains who had published.
I tellyou, the question how I should
ever get her was a puzzle. It looked at
me at dinner from the London family,
' across the custor ; it lay like a handful
of toast crumbs'in my bed at night, it ac-
companied me, like a bad prism, in the
rowing parties at night, and sallowed
the moonlight. And still the lips that I
had kissed in ' oats pcas beaus’—thnt in
some clime where the stars blessed lovers
I would kiss for evcrmore—secmed grow-
ing, day by day, further off from my pos-
session ; airier, and yet airicr, possibili-
ties l '
I was beginning to think favorably of
the bottom of Lake Kaw-ua-ong-ga as a
permanent rcsidcncc.
At last something happened It was
shoot a week after the celebration—the
celebration in particular, for the Old Ba-
bylnnders had got up a dozen since that,
that I rowed across the lake, entirely by
myself, to a secluded spot among the ev-
ergreens of the further bunk, known
among our pleasantly grandliloqueut
community as Lion’s Dcn. Had the name
been a true indication of its character, I
should hastened there with more cheerful
nlacrity. I felt as if a large fellow ofthe
tawny species, who had not been at din-
ner for three days would be grateful com-
pany in my present state of mind.
One Of those many light-draught Old
Babylaud boats,which a child could mar.-
ngc alone, was there before me, beached
on the bright sand under the spruccs.——-
And on the stern sent lay—us our vene-
rable and jolly commodore used to say, in
advertising \vaifs at the breakfast table
“A splendid lady’s gipsy hat for which
an owuer was wanted."
I entered Lion’s Den, no lion was there
——hut Elsie Landon, thrown down in
abandon among the ferns and crying bit-
terly.
For a moment I doubted whether to
beat retreat as an intruder or stay as a
comforter. But the young girl heard
my step, and as she looked up her face
of startled hopelessness decided me. I
drew near her, and in a gentle voice said
“ Miss Landon—have you forgotten the
counsellor to whom you wére to come in
trouble?” ’
Her great brgwn eyes looked up ques:
tioniugly through their cloud, and. she
answered, “ I wonder if you could help
me ?”
“To any extent, dear child. Try me
and sec.”
“ Very well, then. You are the trou
bio.” I started.
“ Yes. The children have been talk-
ing all over. the house about our-—‘ cats
pcans beaus’ doings, and they have come
to papn’s cars. Ob, he went on dread-
fully, I can tell you ! He said it was
the most dreadfully improper thing he
had ever heard of. In New York State
he said that no ceremony was necessary
to marry people ; the least confession
that you took each other was enough
and in this disgraceful country—so he
talked—it was whiz! bang! and you
Were married before your own eyes with-
out kuowing it. Then he said, Farewell
forever—depart, uuduliful child—leave
my gray hairs in shame, and be his—the
penuilcss oue’s. You are married to him
already 1 Oh dear it is dreadful l”—
Aud she wept again as if her heart would
break.
“ Is it dreadful, dear Elsie, to be mur-
ried to me ?”
“ Yes indeed, in that way which is so
improper, and to any one who don’t love
you, but was in play. Oh, do you know
law ? Am I your wife ?” .
“No, you are not. But if you never
are, I shall not have any.”
“ What, Mr. Bird ?”
“ Only this. That I kissed you last
Thursday. It was the first time you had
been kissed since—well—since you were
less a child than you are now, in some
respects, At that time I made myself
two promises. One was, that you should
never kiss anybody else ; another was
that I would never kiss any girLbut you.
If I can’t keep the first, then I will the
last. Elsie, you are all I have in the
world, do you love me ? Which promise
shall I keep ?”
“ Keep the first.” So faintly and tim-
idly was it spoken, that the words seemed
to fall on their very threshold, driven
back from a portal closed by my own
ey market never occurred before.
.. AA”.....“ A, .~...H., ,,
. . “new, I.
.~.. ‘M A -.
lips. And the kiss was long—for it was
i'n lgneliness, and how' 9’ .eét those things
are. . -;.‘-:,.:
My inner Daniel was at peacefwith hie
lions! ' 3'. -: 2‘
“ Let us be married thisi‘v'ery-n'iday, let
us run away to do1it, let‘itlbe'aiclandes-
tine match.” . Z l-i . :1
These were the very words-ll spoke, in
spite: of long precedentpin' the-iteeth of
gray. authority, and notwithstin’ding the
saw, .old as the hills, that runaway match-
es are unhappy ones; for Inever law
theman orwoma'n wretched: to such a
marriage that would net have been equal-
ly. so in any ; and I have: beenuigrooms-
man at two afi‘airs of that .-'sort: which
have turned out admirably—{deliciously
You may depend upon itgzil'loslnhn ever
induces a gin-Mo; run away hithhim un-
less they both love onennotheffko much
that they nre,:before" Heaven, salon and
wife olready—h‘arriug-thei: coachiof some
hypocritical lover in 'searchzof vmoney,
when it is the fault of :thefo‘hrfly that he
wasn’t kicked out in the earliest'atage of
the proceeding, before matters became
serious. .51 ' -' f-
But_I did not mean to. preach a ser-
mon. I will only say that, tearfully but
not reluctantly Elsie consented to flee
with me from her domineering father and
the mother wh was hisz' _eerf. Both
loved, but, than Heavenpnotlike me.
. 4:"
‘hl
. . 1v. . x
Our going was .by' ,ni‘g’hti,‘ Twelve
o’clock saw ns'behind the bis’y'sigthat for
nearly an hourhad been .Weiting" us on
the hill beyond the Mansioh"H_ouse. A
word to the driver and we . worsen our
way to the railroad, a wdy'twe'nty-five
mileslong. ' ‘ '. ” -
Nestling against the heart; for which
she had given all things, Elsierode snug-
ly wrapped in my great travelling Zcloak,
undistinguishable frommc', as an; emblem
of our oneness which was shortly to be.
And I called to mind how many times I
had stood on station platforms 'tosee the]
night trains come in, and obeholding
strong man forms, each with his best
loved so delicately ensconced in his bos-
om of protection, had said in bitterness,
" When will this be for me? ’ Ah, Heav-
en l Shall I alwa'ys journey by'night
and alone ?” And now, thing most un-
looked for l ' 1‘ ’
Do you ask if, through the ‘clatter‘of
hurrying hoofs,‘ the forest signings, and
the beating of our close-pressed hearts,
something like a cold, sharp voice was
not audible, asking that bad question,
“ How will you live, sweet fools?” Per-
haps so, but it was answered revetently
and thus : “ He who made 'love will
care for the loving.” We did not per-
mit the first consciousness of mutual pos«
session to be a thing of pangs. *
The sky was on the hither’edg‘e bf its
morning gray when we cameto‘ the rail-
road. There were still two hours- Before
the next train, we dcvdted them to two
of the necessary vital functions, breakfast
and getting married. But, for fear of
surprise, we did the last first,‘an‘d‘ aston-
ishing a very worthy country clergyman
from his pillow, persuaded him towel-form
the ceremony in a state'bordering on
somnamhulism. At six o’clock, a. to.
while the Old Babylanders were ‘still as
unconscious, if not as inuOcent, of, m'arry-
ing and giving in marriage, as the‘angels,
my wife, by the sanctities of bats peas
and our own love, became so bythe'. per‘
mission of the Rev. Mr. Plumb." j .
You would laugh to see the little llouse
we began life in New York. "Just" this
side of Central Park, (I write from Clin-
-ton Plncc,) there is a vast territory, you
know, which haul ten doth not inhabit.—
Fifth avenue comes up to it,'clOse by the
the Reservoir, splendid with freestone
and wonderful cornices almost to the
very brink, then stops abruptly, scents it
with Ito rose-aud-heliope—educated _ pose,
and goes no further. Or, it maybe said
to go further, it is from that instant a ru-
ined spendthrift and loafer, out at its el-
bows, malachausse, its last vest of green
turf at pawn to the goats, and altogether
nasty and melancholy. It ll a tract
of country to which Civilization hae‘nev-
er pushed with her voice of “ Get out of
that l” to the pigs and shantiel. Don’t
turn up your nose again, Fifth, Avenue,
we did not live there. I was going on
to say that three blocks this side of that
and out of its miasma, on the west side of
town, there lies a middle land whose
beauties as a place of residence,uI ven-
ture to say, not a dozen of those peeple
know who are waiting in some big house
down town, sueered at as not. at' all
“ chic,” till they can afford to live in a
tall one on the Avenue, which is.‘ Wil~
lows and elmS/of age unregistered hang
over it ; it has a cabinet-picture glimpse
of the North River on one side ; there is
cool grass there that would throw Lan—
dor into ecstacies ; and though it be not
mid-city it shares meekly tbc benfits- of
Croton and gas. '
It was a little bit of astone-faced‘ brick
house, left ready furnished by a family
whose parent had been elevated by a Sud-
den rise in his professional butter and
cheese, and who thereupon moved to-
wards the centre of things to live in style.
It was cheap, retired, wore honeysuckles,
Wistaria and Madeira vines from the
eaves dowu to the last post of the step-
railing.
lu her blue morning dress, at thehead
of our first breakLnst-table, Elsie was a
sight to admire. The nervous, bird-like
way in which her little white hand flitted
from tea-urn to milk-pitcher—the execu-
tive gravity witlrwhich she measured
lump after lamp with the tongs “ to make
it just right”-——the matronly air with
which she counseled “ our girl” to put less
soda in the next batch of mnflinswére al-
together such exhilarating experiences,
that I jumped up and kissed her twice
when she handed me my tea-cup. I
couldn’t make up my mind what it' We:
like that I had seen somewhere until to'
ward the close of breakfast,when she said,
“ Charlie l” ' '
“ Well, dear ?”
“ Doesn’t this remind you of an old
Bubylaud celebrating; ?”
, All men in New York have to endure,
as well as their wives, that marital hiatus
called going down town. I especially!“
I was a hard-working sub-edifdr‘tluZS‘ISOO
a year. While I was gone Elsie amused
herself by studying Mrs. Child’s “iWife’s
Kitheu Collaborator,” playing on the pi«
ano (fortunately there was one,) crotch—
eting and embroidering rainbow-hum: sul‘
-. w
Norwalk Chronicler