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The Bohemian Conf Pam #729
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*'A rare BOBE^IIAN, fall of jests and fancies "
Old Plat.
THE BOHEMIAN.
No.
1.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
We gathered at the close of day,
Around her dying bed, With tears that could not be restrained, ** And hearts that ached and bled.
Her eyes lit with a holy smile. She paid we must not grieve ;
Sho heard the anpels calling her That mournful Christmas eve.
She passed away with mori\inR light,
In awe we ceased to weei) ; — It seemed as if she only fell * Into a gentle sleep.
Dear I^amb of God, by whom our sins
Are freely all forgiven. Thou calledst her home with Thee to hail
Her Christmas morn in Ueaven.
SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. Sf^PCHOPPY,
AND OF HER SINGULAR DREAM
ON CHRISTMAS EVE.
Everybody has,tloubtless,a vivid remeinbrance of having heard a long time ago of strange dreams. Ever3'bod3'^caii remember of having listened with greedy interest, when a child, to the recital of extraordi- nary vit<itations that came, in the dead of the night, to affright the nursery-maid, or to worry the cook; but I doubt whether anyone has ever partaken of the terror that arose from the account of a more wonderful dream than that which came, on a dark night in December, to Mrs. Sopcho))))}', landlady of the Friojidly Greeting Inn.
Bofore commencing to relate the evontB connected with this, dream
— events that Mrs. Sopchoppy con tinuos to be, to this day, garrulous upon — a few words concerning the landlady, and the inn itself, will not be out of place. From these few words, then, the reader may- gather the following information.
The Friendly Greeting— as it is called the country around — is situ- ated a few miles out from Dover, on the Canterbury road, and stands upon the verge of a bleak and lonely moor. From its position it has, n.-iturally, quite a large share of custom. This custom is chiefly duo to the class of rough Dover residents (or people from foreign parts) who stop there on their way to London. "VVhen the Inn was first established (atrifle over eighty years ago, by the grandfather of the late Thomas Sopchoppy, where- of the present Mrs. S. is the relict) travel was not as safe as it is in these days. In those times gentlemen were frequently known to have left Dover, with the view of reaching Canterbury, and never to have got further than the moor in question. Sometimes even the boldest of tbom would return to Dover when the setting sun found them staring disconsolately over the desolate tract of ground which lay before them, and which it was necessary to cross before they could proceed upon their journey. Sometimes others, not so bold, perhap.-*, but more rash, would venture to cross the moor, in ^to of the remonstrances of
\
THB BOHESIIAN.
their compiinions, even llioiii;li the iii;^lil-slia(l()\vs were gallieriiii; heavily, in conjiinutioii wilh tin- misit<, about it; and siic-li •.vould In- foiiiul, not uncommonly, when tra vol was resumed wilh the rfsnii: 8un, slain by the roadside and pil la^cd.
The fact of the matter is that the moor was inlisted by innunicrable fo(»t-pa(ls and Uniu;hls of ihe ro.id wlio lir.st ))liin{loi'eil unloi'liinati' Avayfarcr.s, and then, for fear that those who had been so pUindi-red mii;ht cause them to be a])i)re- liended, slew them.
It was, therefore, a notable idea tlwit came to old Joe Sop- choppy, the retired Dover fisher- man— after iiearing a narrative, one day, of a crime of this kind that had been committed on the moor, on the i^ight previous — to build an Inn on the confines of this dcbateabie ;4,rouiid wherein timid travellers might find shelter during those hours when the bold high waymen gallopped hither and llii- thi-r over the 'moor, wailing foi' their prey. But. notable as this idea was, that was a more. notable act when he commenced to have the house built in earnest.
When the house was built finally, quite a discussion arose as to iho name that should be given to it. One of old Joe's gossips (a deaf weaver who had had no use for his legs for a matter of ten year-) sug- gesti'd, in a friendly way, "Nep- tune's Head," which title, he in- sisted, would pleasantly recall Joe's old avocation of fisherman ; but, contrary to a"l exj)ectaLions, old Joo (who was an ol^iinatc man at times) refused to listen to any siicli suggestion, declarmg iliai, as li<- wasn't a Sea-faring man then, he didn't want to l-o reminded of the times when he was, ami more to the same effeet; which, very natu- rally, ))rtjduccd quite a c(ddness b«twccu bim and his gossip.
ILiw the matter would havo ended — and wluliierthe Inn would ever have been inhabited at all, .Joe refusin-^ to open the hou.>o un- til it had been named, and insist- ing tliat a Inn wasn't a Inn inless, don't you see, it had a inune — it would have been hard to say, had it not been that Mrs. Sopehoppy, (.loe's wife,) becoming impatient, look upon lierself lo nameliio Inn. Which she diil, and calle<l it tho Friendly Greeting Inn, and ])ut a stop to the discussion.
Having thus ha])pily settled tins difficult matter, Mrs. So|K-lioppy'8 ne.xt act was to reniove, bag and baggage, Joe includeil, to the house, from Dover; anti in a few da^'s Joe was driving a great business in the landlords way.
It is not necessaiy lo say, in so man}' wurds, that old Joe pros- pered.
When ho deserted tho little bench, iiy the side ot the front door, that had been his seat for so many years, in the summer with his pot of ale by his side, and in the win- ter warming his old limbs in the pleasant glow of the sun, and took to his bed saying that he would ne- ver leave it again, he left the caro of his Inn to Ids only son Simon, and went, for the l;ist time, down the dusty roa;l,»to Dover, there to be laid with his tatliers.
Nor is it necessaiy to say — al- thousrh the fact might be mention- ed— that Simon himself became, in tho course of time, old and rheu- matic, and that he, too, like old Joe, gave up the Inn and his breath .at tho same time, leaving his son Thomas in charge of the estal>lish- ment, and ^vent down the da>ty road to Dover as his lather bad gone before him.
When this family change took pl.»CO Thomas ste))ped in Id Ids fath- er's business, and, although the highwaymen had become'tldngs of the past aud no iuuger alarmed
THE BOHEMTATT.
travellers across the lonely moor b}' sudden sjillies from ambush and fierce orders lo " stand and ilelivcr," the liitle parlor of the Friendly Greetini^ waxi'd moi-e and more uproarious as the years passed on, whitening the hairs upon Tiiomas' head.
About the time that Thomas stepped — l>y riglit of inheritance — into the jiroprietorship of the Inn that his <rr;in<lfatlu'r ha<i built, and which his faiher had left to him he, at the same time, stepped into eomelhiiig else; which was the afleelioiis of the liuxomest and livelii'si of the Dover lassies, whom he ntaile Mrs. Sopchopjiy, she being the l^ii-tl of that name who had jiresiaed over the Iar<ler and gen- eral arrangements of the Fjicndl}' Greeting Inn, and the subject of the singiihir coincidence to be here- inafter narraletl.
In the course of time Thomas bc<-amc ohl Tom, (as his grand- father had been old Joe) and, in the course ot time, he, too, wci\t down the dusty road, an(i Avas placed with those who had pre- ceded him.
After Thoirjas' departure from the cheerful tire side, Mrs. Sop- choppy became lonely, and refused to be comforted, iler loneliness, and her refusal lo receive comfort, ("ther llian that contained in the little black b(Jllle in the cM])boaitl,) took first one shape and then an- other. Sometimes — and more es- pecially after a longer, and more attentive, examination than usual of ihe l)Ottle i-eferre<! to — it pre- sented Mrs. Sopchoppy in the light of an irascible old woman who would sit out in the rain, if she was to «iie for it, and who would like lo see an^-body what co'dd make her git out of it — so she would. Some- tiines — and on these occasions, too, the bottle had been cons^ilted — it took the shape of j)lunging Mrs. Bupvhoppy ill gi'uul griot' aud Iri
bulation, and led her to beat her aged bosom wofully and to remark, aildressing the chairs and the tire- place in an oratorical way, " that she was a wretched « Id creeter, so "she was, and he knowcd it, so ho did. which if ho never didn't say ^nothing about it when the gin what was took was laid on iho house-maid, which never tlid drink nothing 'cepiin when she could git it, whieb wasn't frequent seein' as she kept the kej'S herself, and tho I many, many time-*, oh, Lord! oh, 'Lord! when he used to grumble if his slippers wasn't ready, and his pipe couldn't be found, ami he'd liaunt her yet, she knew he would." I Tbi'se ex ravagancies of manner and language gave \vay, alter awhile, lo the most remarkable phase that Mrs, Sopclmjipy's lone- i liness had yet assumed. This ])hase was a |)crpetual custom of seeing visions and dreaming dreams on i her i)art — a marvelous f.tcility of seeing t-hat which had no existence intact, and of being on familiar and conversational terms with all sorts of wou<lerful people who used to come, about twelve o'clock at night, and sit on her bed and talk with j her on the most friendly terms iin- ! agiii.ibie, and ask questions in re- gard to ihe state of her health, and I then bow giavely to her, and dis- appear, with a sad smile upon their I wan faces, saying that they must } be gone before the cock cTowed, or {else it would be the death of them, j Owing to this singular gift, Mrs. ISopchopp}' became renowned, a- mong the simple countryfolks a- ! round, as the happy possessor of j vague powers of communiiation I with people of the other world, and was much looked up to, and respected, accordingly. Inflamed by this celebrity, Mrs. SoiK-ho])py gave herself up eniireU' to dream- ing, and succeeded so well in tha(i peculiar branch as to forget, in a uiuuKiu'^ tb« cioimB pc»8v«e9d bf
TBB B0UBMIA2I.
the Inn upon her attention. By means of licr invaluable an of dreaming, and seeing sights, she was enabled to foretell, to her own eatisfaction, the most ordinar}-, as well as the most extraordiiiaiy, events of life. Thus, as in the for- mer Cise, ihe predicted — the pre- diction being based upon a dream — that a certain young and pretty girl would soon get married, wiiich came to pass as she had loretold ; and, as in the latter case, she was equally haj>py in another drearal'ul prophecy . which gave out that a vinegarish old maid of her acquiiint- ance, of forty or thereabouts, would not get married, which, strange to say, prove i to be the truth. In the matter of dreaming about births and deaths she was unnapproach- able ; and woe to the wretched consumptive of whom it was said that Mrs. Sopchoppy had dreamed, for then might he, or she, know that his, or her, days were numbered
As has been before remarked, Mrs. Sopchoppy had somewhat neg- lected the interests of the Inn in her new-found accomplishment. — It became a more pleasurable en- joyment for her to sit in her chair all day and dream, than to be about and doing, and attending to her guests. The natural result whereof was, that the guests not having that high appreciation of the land- Jad.y'8 talents that they should, per- haps, have had, became less fre- quent in their visits, and sometimes whole days elapsed without the sound of a horse's hoof, stamping upon the hard road before the dour, coming to her ear. But this gave the excellent old lady no uneasi- ness. In the course of a long life the late Thomas Sopchoppy had not failed in laying something aside for the future, and on this some- thing his relict lived right merrily. As she had no dissipations — apart from the bottle and her di'cams — to NVftBte her substanee in the pur-
suit of, she became fatter, and inure prophetic, the oliler she grew.
In this condition, then, was Mrs. Sopchoppy when the wonderful event occurred that st;imped her as the most remarkable dreamer on j record. In this fit condition, then, I to receive into her mind iho most methodical and logical vision that had ever entered there, was she when the crowning dream of her life came to her. The circumstan- ces attentiant upon tl.is dream, and which preceded it, are these, \ At the close of ti»o 2-4th day of December the frontdoor of the Friendly Greeting. Inn opened to , receive three guests, afoot, on their I way to Catitcrbury. ^ he]^^ were ] wrapped up in great cloa^ and j their teeth chattered in their head& as they came through the passage, land into the jiarlor, and sat betbre the cheerliil fire. Two of the guests were large men, and the ihird was la fo"eigner, and a small man. The , large men were Englishmen, and were sober j the little man was a Frenchman, and was drunk. Not so drunk, though, as to cause him to Ntagger or in any way to com- mit himself; but drunk enough to lea'^. him to sing merry staves of drinking songs, and to throw broad golden pieces about the floor with the request to the other men to pick them uj) af>d j)ut them in their pockets, aiul keep th' m.
bitting by the table, and knit- ting, Mrs. Sopchoj)py, :ipj)arontly immersed in her work, listened to them. From the random re- marks that she caught, hero and there, she understood these things : that the little French- man was not long from Paris, and that hisdestiiiation, as well as that of his com])anions, was London; that ho had much money and was a good fellow, pardien! and that his comrades should have wine, di- ablel; that he wuuid consi ler it a personal insult to him, morbleu! if
THE BOHEMIAN.
his friends refused to (friiik al his expense; tliut he made his money easily, mille tonnerres! and tliat it was his to spend ; and finall}-, and agnin, that lie was a good fellow, and that his conii-ades should Join him in wine, and that he would sing a song for tiiem afterwards.
When the litll(! foreigner had got this far in iiis remarks, lie siajiped his hands viol'Mitly upon his kneo, and called for wine. Mrs. Sopchop- py bu.stled about for a few mo- ments in answer to this call ; and, in a little while, the little French- man was tossing off his Chateau- Margaux, whilst his companions, ■who had called for ale, were busy in their attention to their national beverage.
Mrs. Sopchoppy was not asleep at this time, and, therefore, .what transpired, between ihe call for the ■wine, and her ascending the stairs on her way to her roou), could not have been a dream. What trans pired 'n thatgiven tinie might bi-ief ly be stated as being to this ef- fect: Mrs. Sopehopp}' having re- sumed her knitting at the table could not help observing — whether she desired to do so, or not — some- thing mysterious about the con- duet of the two Englishmen, who were sober, sitting with the for- eijriier over the wine and ale. — This mysterious something in ilieir conduct took the shape of nods and wiuks given to eaeii other when the Frenchman's liead was thrown back, and when the Frenchman's eyes were shut, as he drank off his wine; and it was also apparent to the landlad^'^who was not igno rant of the prop-r intoxicating guage of ale — that the two Eni;- lishmen had no intention, by ovei- drinking themselves, of changing their condition of cobriety into thatdoubtful state enjoyed by their companion.
Mrs. Sopchoppy having remark- ed these peeu'liariiieh, witli a miee-
i-alilt; feeling of uncertainly as to what it all meant, contented her- self with the thought, that if she had dreamed of these things she could unmistakably have explain- ed their purjiort; but as it was, and as she had merely witnessed them with her physical eye, she felt that she possessed no clue to t-lieir meaning. She, therefore, felt quite cast down in consequence.
Now it should be known that, in addition to her marvellous faculty of dreaming of things, Mrs. Shop- choppy also enjoyed a singular pow- er of so settling her mind upon any one. or given, subject, that she could indulge in a nap, and straight- way go to dreaming upon that sub- j(>ct. and thereby explain away all doubts.
Wondering, then, within herself as to the true solution of the pro- blem tiiat had thus befen presented to her in the manner of the two Englishmen, and feeling her com- plete inabilitj' to offer anj^ correct explanation thereof, and her wide- Mwako sleepiness — so to speak — in the matter, Mrs. Sopchoppy, not to be foiled in her intentions to find out all about it, came to the best resolution that, under the circum- iitances, she could have determined upon. Wliich was, in effect, to go up stairs to her room, and com- mence dreaming.
Having reached this conclusion, then, behold Mrs. Sopchoppy rising from her chair, and preparing her- self to set about her work.
The guests having been ques- tioned Mrs. Sopchoppy di3(!0vered — the foreigner being spokesman — th.it they cTid not require any beds, and that all that they needed, par- fj'i'u! was more wino, as it was his — the foreigner's — intention to make a night of it with 'his com- rades; that he was a Frenchman and his comrades were English- men, but that on occasions of this kind his oomrades became French-
TBI BOHIMIAJI.
men ;in i forgot that they wcro Englishmen; that, again, he and his coinrajes wcro going to Lon- don, and tiiat he had nuieh nionc^* wherewith to \)ny for their cnter- taiiiineiit; tiiat, also again, he was a good fellow; that his eoinrades were alsii good fellows; that every body was a good fellow; that ho — the foreigner — wa><. ''speeiall}', a good fellow, and, S'lpristie!, a gen- tlonian ; that there livril, pardiea!, no man who eonid gainsay that; and that, final!}-, as he and his com raeles intended to have the Inn at daybreak the next morning, ho would i)ay, now, for the wine tliat they had drunk, and would drink, and for the shelter that had been afforded to them under Mrs. Sop- cho|>py's hospitable roof. Saying which he pulled out a heavy wallet that contained an imm-nso number of the san^e kind of golden pieces that he had thrown about the floor, when ho had requested that his comrades would pick them u[), and place them in their pockets.
When the wine and ale that had been called ibr were placed before them, Mrs Sopchoppy received some of the broad coins in Iwr chubby hand as payment for the night's entertainment, and tliei>, with a curtse}' to her guests, moved towards the door S!ie did not leave the room, however, without a testimonial of regard from the little Frenchman which assumed the shape of an alfoctionato em- brace, and a declai-ation that, as the old one reminded him of his m(;thcr, ho would kiss the old one, and that, as ho adored his mother, he adored the old ouo who resem bled her.
And then Mrs. Sopchoppy went up stairs to enter upon ilio great dream of her life, leaving the for- eigner and .'lis comrades drinking together whilst th" foreigner roar- ed out some vovi>cci oi hi;* ba^obu-
DOliiUl BOUg.
Mra. Sopchoppy's first act, on
gaining her room, wa8 to array
herself in her nightcap; her socon.l
j act was to draw up her rocking-
1 chair betore the tiro; and her I bird
' act was to sit down and, folding
her ar-.ns comfortably across licr
bosom, to l«an back in the chair
and close her eyes.
And then tho dream came to her.
[Allliougb Mrs. Sopchoppy is the
' autborit^-for whatever .^hall be hei-e-
inafler related in iho matter ot" her
singular dream, I do not propose
I to present that dream couched in
■ the language of that excellent Iad5'
herself. Possibly, by so doing, a
i mysterious atfair in itself might
I be made more mysterious than be-
Jbro; possibly that mysterious af-
ifair might become positivel}' in-
j comprehensible. And, therefore,
the reader will understand, that
■whilst }th'!*. S. dreamed tho dream,
I she docs not, iti these pages, do-
scribo its remarkable even is in her
own language, but htis loft it to tho
present histoi-ia". so to do. Which
ho ))roposes to do as follows].
! Mrs. Sopchopp)' — sitting, as be-
; fore-mentioned, iri her chair before
j the tire with her hcatl thrown back
land her eyes closed — heard, for a
i matter of a quarter of an hour, or
i moro, tho murmur of voices in the
! little j)arlor below stairs, varied l>y
'an octmsional burst of meUnly froni
I tho little foreigner. Mrs. Sopchop-
I py, leaning back in her chair with
! Iior feet o.xt ended towards tho firo-
j place, felt, foi- a quarter of an hour,
j or more, the tire dill'using a gontio
heat over her j)erson, commencing
at her feet ; and then tho murmur
of voices, and tiio bacchanal sti'ains,
and the memory of .all earthly
things, ])assed from Iter, and Mra.
Sojjchoppy slept.
And in that slumber that came to her thon, tho lanillady bccumo aware of tho following dream :
Sho dreamed that tho voices that UuU iKHifi droning id & vague sort of
THE BOHEMIAN.
monotone thronujli her brain siid dcnlj" coased. fjho drciunod Unit the silence that followed that ces- sation was broken by a dull, heavy Bound below stairs, as of the falling of a weigiity bodj-. And then, aS if an inward voice had called upon her to go forth from her room and to solve the mystery' of that souii'l, she dreamed that sho rose from her chair and wont quietly to the doer and listened, A mui-niui- of voices, and the sound of shuillini; loet, came to her car, t om the jiarlor, as she stood upon the landing, and brought wirh them the sense of, something mysterious tj'anspiringj among her guests of Cliristmas Eve. Creej)ing sofily down the stairway that led to the lower fl )or, behold Mrs. So|)choppy, now, as her dream impelled her to solve her doubts. Standing cautiously in the shadow of the open parlor door, behold Airs. Sopchoppy peering into the room through tlio crack of the door, and staring, in her dream, with sudden liorror at what she be- bolds. The murmur of voices still proceeds from the parloi', but the bacchanal song is hushed. The two Englishmen, who are sober, are th«i-e, but where is the Frenchman who is drunk? And what is that upon t'.e floor between the two En- glishmen— that above which they arc bending and which they are examining — that which fi.xes unre- al eyes upon Mrs. Sopchoppy stand- ing by the door, and holding her bri-ath in dreadful amazement;' Whatever it is, it is motioulcss; whatever it is, it is lifeless.
Is it the little foreigner, and if it is, what means that dark belt "of blue aruund the neck, and where- fore that contorted, blackened iace'j:'
Hush ! the two Englishmen, who who are sober, are speaking; and, in a dreamful way, their words come to Mrs. Sopchoppy.
One sjiys :
" VVbero did you say, Ben, we
could take him to ?"
The other answers :
" We can lake him to that ravine about a quarter of a mile bac;{ on the Dover road. You remember the ])lace ;"
One says :
"Yes, that's a good place -but what aboiit ihe old woman '{ Is she asleep, do you think ?"
The otiier answers ;
"Asleep! yes. She's the great- est dreamer in the whole 'and, and if she a'int asleej), we can tix her quick enough."
One says :
"Never mind the old woman. If she's asleep, good ; but let us get out of this. One such piece of work as this is bad enough for to- night. This is a hol^- night Ben, Lot the old woman rest for us!"
The other answers:
" Pshaw ! never mind the night, whether it's holy or not! It's a dark night, and a good night to bury this carrion in, — so come along ! "
One sa^'s :
" Have you got all the gold ? "
The other answers :
"All — down to his finger-ring, — so come along, I tell j'ou ! "
And then the}' stooped and lifted the burden i'rom the lioor, and the stronger man of the two slung it across his shoulder, as thougli it had been a bag of potatoes, and together they moved towards the door.
Shrinking behind the door, Mrs. Sopchop])y sees them cross the thieshold and stand, for a moment, in the dark passage. They aro looking up the sta'rs, and are, ap- parenti}', listening. Will they liear anything fi'om the utiper part of the hous(! to urge them to visit the landlad>-, as one of them had threaten. (I to do? No; for the house is silent.
Then, in her dream, Mrs. Sop- choppy sees them walk to the door
8
THE BOHEMIAN.
leading to the lawn in Ironl of iho ]nii, and hears them turn the key gently in tbo lock. Which done, slie sees ihe door open, and per- 1 ceives their dark I'ornis drawn in shadowy outline aj^iiintst the snow j that COVIN'S the ground, and hoars their i'eet crunching the same a>< they recede from the house.
Here Mrs. Sojichopp^-'s dream takes the slmjie of following tlie men into the (larkness, and of shi- vering with the terrible cold ihal strikes her thinly clad frame, and creeping cautiously behind the men as tlie}^ walk through the snow in the direction of the yard.
Arrived in the yard the men stop and look about them Tin-}', and the burden that one of them boars, begin to gleam with ghastlj- white ness as the snow falls upoi: 'Jiein, and to. lose their identity in the pi'evailing hue thatsuri-onnds them. The}' approach the door of the stables and seem to bo in search of something. In a little while one of then\ — the one that does not carr}' the burden-^stoopsand picks u]) something, from the ground, which he places upon his shoulder. To Mrs. Sopchoppy this something takes, in the uncertain light, the shape of a spade.
Swiftl}'^ as move the men to- wards tlie Dover road, as swiftly, in her dream, does the landlady follow theni. Silently' as speed the men towards the ravine whereof one of them had spoken, as silent- ly does the landlady' follow them. There is no caution displa3-ed by the men as they hasten on, but there is much exhibited, in her dream, by the landlady' who has- tens after them. There is only an earnest desire, on the part of the men, to dispossess themselves of their hideous loud, and. to do this, it is necessary tor them to move ra- pidly; there is only a desire, on the part of the landlad}-, that the lucu in fiont of bor should not de
lect her, ami, to do this, she must follow as rapidly, jjcrhaps, but with projier caution.
And so (in her dream) the so- lemn ])roccssion proceeds, until tlio men iiave gained the I'avine, and descended into it, and are no lon- ger seen by her.
What happened in the ravine, after the men disappeared from Mrs. Sojjchoppy's sight, is not a pai't of Mrs. Supclu)i)[>y'8 dream. Because, being . frightened, M^s. Sopchoppy hesitated to follow them lui-thur than the edge, and renvain- ed standing, uncertain what to do, where she had checked her steps, when she had first become aware that the men were no longer visi- ble. It is a i)art of the latullady's dream, tliough, that, standing thus, she became nearly frozen, and was On the point of returning to the Inn, when she heard the sound of voices apj)roaching her, and saw the forms of the two men advancing in hei" direction. Mrs. Sopchoppy 'a first invpulse was to fly at this ap- proach ; her second was to crouch in the darkness until the men had passed her. Bending down until, what with her ghostly garments and her ghostly night-cap, she seemed more likj an irruption of snow than a human being, the landlady saw the two men move, as swiltly as the}' had come, to- wards the road and in the direc- tion that led towards Canterbury. As they passed her, one said:
" The snow will cover the traces of the spade. B3' the time that snow melts wo will be in London."
And iha other answeicd :
"Yes; and when the great storm comes that will tear up that old oak perhaps that carrion's bones will be discovered."
And then one and the other laughed harshly, as their forms re- ceded from the landlady's vision, and Mrs. Sopchoppy rose to follow them.
THE BOHEMIAN.
And so, in her dream, the solemn procession proceeds once more un- til the men have gained llie road that winds around the Inn; and, thence, goes on to Canterbiuy. Not so solemn, though, as before, for the reason that the heavy bur- den is wanting on the shoulder of the stronger of the two men, and the spade is absent from the hand of the other.
In a little while they stand, oncO| more, in front of the Inn. Through j the open door, which tho men hud , left open and which the landlady I liad forgotten to close, the fitful light from the parlor falls out into the night, and hctraj's the presence of the two nsen standing together and looking up at the windows of the house'. In a littlo while the light fall upon a space of snovv that is vacant, and Mrs. Sopchoppy be- comes aware that the two whereof her dream is rife are hastening away on the highroad, and leaving the Inn behind thoni.
Then, in a ghostly vis'on of terror and doubt, Mrs. Sopchoppy staggers to the open door, and en- ters the passage, .and closes and locks the door behiml her.
And beyond that, all is a horrid mingling of mysterious events; and so ^Irs. Sopchoppy's dream closes.
When the dawn of Christmas day broke upon ihe Friendly Gree- ting Inn, Mrs. Sopchoppy awoke to find herself sitting before the fire, as she had sat all nijiht. She ■awoke to find the fire smouldering, and to feel a strange stiffness and chilliness about the leg.s and arms, and also, what was more wonder- ful still, a m^'sterious sense of be- ing wet in ihc region of thq heail, and moist in the neighbourhood of the back, and damp, in and around the feet. Removing first the niglit- -cap, and then the .^^bocs and stock- ings, Mrs. iSopchoppy proceeded to divest herself, in order, of the ■other various concomitants of the
night's dreaming, and then, plac- ing them upon a chair before the fire, gazed absently at them as the steam arose from them in a dense volume of vapor. iSbc was think- ing over the events of the night's dream, and was seeking in a vague way, to connect the snowy condition of the Earth outside with the moisture of her ciloth- ing. Mrs. .Sopchoppy had had ma- ny strange dreams in her time; but she had no rocDlIection of ever having had a dream that carried with it so many singular coinciden- ces as this dream.
What with thinking over if, and pondering about it, the landlady once more fell asleep — this time in bed, however,— and dreamed it all over again.
She was aroused by the noise of the awaking household, and avvoko to flunk, and ponder, once more over the mystery. When she wont down staiis, and entered the par- lor, she found the, empty bottles, and the glasses, and the pitcher that had contained tlie ale standing upon the table Just as she had seen them in her dream; and then shj Avent to the front door, and opened it, and looked out.
The snow was still falling, and its surface was unbroken by the print of footstep. There was no evidence before her eye that any foot had crossed the threshold of the Friendly Grreeting Inn that night. And yet that such had 'oeea thecase could not begainsayed — for had not Mrs. Sopchopp}' seen it in her dream, and were not the guests wanting in the little parlor?
The landlady moved about the house in an irresolute and uncer- tain way until breakfest; but when that meal was despatched her irre- solution had vanished. For she had come to the determination to proceed to Dover immediately, and inform the authorities of her dreani, and of her Huspiciotja that all was
10
THE BOHEMIAN.
not right. Therefore, when she had satisfied her appetite she set out in the wagon Cor the town.
The authorities were soon made aware ol' the purpose of her visit and, although they were at first disposed to treat her views as chi- merical in the extreme, the)' final- ]y consented to send out a consta- buhuy force to the Friendly Greet- in"- to see what they could ni;vke out of Mrs. So]K-hopi)y'8 dream. Researches, instituted in the spot, pointed out by the landlady as that to which the men had borne their burden of the night before, — as witnessed in her dream — disclosed a startling con-oboration of the skill that the landlady possessed. The body of the Frenchman wa-^ found buried near the foot of the old oak that grew in the ravhie, and the appearances all went to prove that he hud been strangled.
And then, with great hue and cry, his companions of the night before were pursued, and were overtaken just as the}' were enter- ing the city of Canterbury.
In ending this recital of Mrs. iSopchoppy's Christmas Eve dream, what more is necessary to be adtl- ed in order to satisfy the reader i* Is it not enough to know that Mrs. Shopchoppy's accomplishment was 80 singularly vindicated, or should I add, that, when the trial came on, what with the gold that was found in the pockets of the two Englishmen, the trinkets maiked with the Frenchman's name uj^on them, and the landlady's dream (which was taken in evidence) tlie murderers of Mrs. 8opcho])py's dream suffered for their crime i*
But whilst the historian docs not confess to the necessity that exists that these particulars should be mentioned, he cannot refrain from remarking that, even now, around the Dover firesides, Mrs. Sopchop- py and her wonderful vision are discussed, and that there are not I
wanting those among these gossips who stoutly aver and maintain that Mrs. Sopchoppy did not dream what has been liorein desci^ibed, (as she insists that she did) but that she saw it all, my dear, fron\ firjit to last, with her own eyes.
THE SWORD OF HARRY LEE.
An nupil man, n\\ bowi-d with y(>ars,
Sits by his hoarlhstoiK- old, Ki'slcie hhn sits, in rovorpnt a.\re,
A youth all proud and bold. Ht> listens with rapt eaKPrnesa
To thp old ntan's every word, — One aged hand enclasps the hoy's,
The other grasps a sword.
" My son," the gray-hairpd ptUriot said,
" A precious legacy I give into your keeping now —
The sword of Harrj' Lee. . I wofo it through the fearful storm
That dftrkened o'er our sky, When lirave men dared for liberty
To stand, or nobly die.
" We prixed our holy liberty.
We hated tyranny. We vowed we'd die as brave men die.
If we could not be free ; AVe swore eternal venganoe on
Our foes from o'er the sea. And night and day we stoutly rode
With ' Light Horse Uarry Lee.'
"All! how we loTed our noble chief,
A hero grand was he ; No craven thought e'er Tilled the heart
Of nobli; Harry Lee. And where the light was thickest, boy.
We'd see his bright sword Hash, And witli liis shout tlie skies would ring.
As on the foe he'd liash.
" One day — it all conies back n^ain,
Though I am old and gray — The battle had raged long and fierce.
For we would not give way ; Our noble leader gave the word.
Anil on the loo wc Hew, Resolved to cliase ihein from the field,
That base-born, liireling crew.
" Our chieftain, at the ♦ Legion's' head,
Rode on exultingly, When a red coal vile his musket raised
To murder Harry Lee— I dashed before the hero bold,
Right in the deadly strife, And clove the base dog to the earthy
And saved brave Hai'iy'.'? lite.
THE BOHEMIAN.
11
' And when the fearful figrht was o'er,
The Major for nie sent, And I was led by Captain Canios,
That nisht, into his tent. H« t;ra.<i)<'d raj- hand ri(?lit heartily.
The tliish was on his cheek, And tears stood in his manly eyes.
His voice was hoarse and weak.
' He said he owed his life to me —
Again I hear each word — And tht'U he took, from 'round my waist.
My tried and trusty sword ; He said that 1 must giyc^ it him,
For he would honored feel, To carry with him in the fight
A brave man's trusty steel.
' He gave me his own trusty blade,
That oft had led the free. And told me 1 must wear it for
The sake of Harry I-ee. Ah boy '. that was a happy night,
For proud ho well mi^lit be "Wlioever heard such worils of praise,
From gallant Harry Lee.
' I wore this bla<le all through the war.
And when the storm was o'er I kept it bright and free from rust.
As in the days of yor/> ; And when the clouds came down again
Upon our sky so bright, I buckled on the dear old sword.
And wore it through the fight.
' And when the soft sweet southern breeze
From tropic regions far. Came lailen with the clang of arms.
And thrilling notes of war, J. took the old sword from its place,
With tears of honest pride, And buckled it right firmly by
Your gallant father's side.
" He bore it manfully and well
In ri-gions far away ; It fia.-hed o'er Palo' Alto's plains,
And sunny Monterey. It never wits laid down in shame,
(jod grant I ne'er may see Otii? base foul stain upon the sword
Of dear old Harry Lee.
' Now, boy, I.draw this sword again,
Al:ts that it must be Tliai 1 must Count as foes the sons
Of tliose who fought with me. My limljs are old and feeble now,
Anri silvk-ry is my hair, I cannot wield this sword, and so
I give it to yodfr care.
' To-day I saw yonr noble Chief, * And ah ! I seemed to see
Erect again, before me stand The form of Harry Lee.
That same bright eye— that noble form- That ))earing proud and free —
Ah yes ! he's like his noble sire, This sou of Harry Lee.
' I'm thankful, boy, he'll 1-ead yon on.
To the wild battle field. For hi? father's heart within him beats,
And never will he yield. Stand by your General to the last,
0))ey his every word. And yield your life before you dare
To yield his father's sword.
' Now go, and do yonr duty, boy.
You hear no craven's name, And as y«u dread your grandsire's curse.
Ne'er sully it with shame. And I, as long as life shall last
Within this bosom free, Will ask God's blessing on yon, and
The son of Harry Lee.
♦ General R. E. Lee.
THE BATTLE EVENING.
It was the afternoon of the ever meriiDrable 8th of June, 1862. On the previous evening our arm}', footsore and weary from its long march from the Potomac, up tlio Vallo}^, had reached Port Republic. In our front lay the arm}' of (lene- ral Sheilds, ready to fall upon us, as soon as we should cross the She- nandoah Eiver, while Fremont was pre^Bsing heavily upon our reai'.
On the morning of the 8th, Gen- eral Evvcll was sent to meet Fre- mont and drive him back, while General Jackson, with the rest of thfc! army, remained at the river to hold Siiields in check.
I remained in this part of tho army.
During the day 'the enemy kept up a steady fire across the river, to which we responded with a will.
All day long the sound of mus- ketry and cannon in our rear, told us that tho brave old Ewell had met Fremont, and was hotly on- gaged with him Wc were certain
12
TUE BuilEMIAir.
success, for we lelt sure that it wiis very tall and tbiuj his features jniposjiblo to whip "OI«J Jack," were gaunt and tetron^ly marked ; bill we waited anxiously lor news bi8 eyes were set deeply in his fioin Ewell. Ti»e day wore away, head, and seemed to me to shine uiM just aLK)ut sunset, we heard wiih an unnatural brilliancy; bis that Fremont was being driven ' hair, as white as the driven snow, baek, and oii ! how the heavens j fell upon his shoulders and w-as
rang with cheers that w«!nt up for Ewell and bis gallant band.
The sun was almost down, when it was told along the lines that a strange preacher had arrived in f.amp, and would jjreach that eve iiing. General Jackson desired all who could be s])ared, to come to hear him. A suliicient foi'ce was lei I to man the batic''ies, and the rest of us assembled, a «liort dis- tance in the re«r of thein.
The place selected for the ser- vices, was a few huntlred yaids from the river, and c(»mnuuided a fine view of the surrounding coun- try. Between two tall trees a cais- son had been placed, and near it, with bis arms folded, and bis eyes bent upon the ground, General Jackson stood leaning against a tree — the niembers of his slaflt' were near him. C^uite a lai'gc crowd of soldiers had assembled, ami main- tained the most respectful silenco. The sun was now fairly down, and the twilight was coming on, and gave to tlie scene a strange and solemn as])cct. Far in the dis- tance Could be heard the deep thun- der of the battle at Ci'oss Keys, while from the opposite side of the river the enemy kept up a stea- dy cannonade., 1 thought it was a fitting act, that while our com- rades were, on this lovelj' Sabbath evening, bravely breasting the bat- tle's storm, almost in our very sight, we should meet to ask God's blessing upon our cause.
As I reached the grou]), the prea- cher stepped forward and mounted a caisson. He was a strange look- ing! man, and in the deepening twi-, light, seemed to be inv^'sted with a kind of rude grandeur. He was
tossed carelessly to and fro by I be evening breeze, as it played around bis uncovered liead. For a mo- ment he stood u|toiv -the caisson and irianced around him. Involun- tarily I bowed my bead, i bad ne- ver seen such an awe inspiring man. For the first time in my life, I could appreciate the feelings" of those dw-ellers in the dark ages, when they stood under the folds of the crosslit banner, and listened to llie fiery eloquence of Peter the Hermit. This man had not yet spo- ken a word, but I felt that he vVould preach a powerl'ul sermon.
He raised his hands, after a si- lenco of a moment, and said, '•Let us pray I"
His jjrayor was short but very impressive, and accorded well with his appearance, and the scene a- rouiid biiu. His voice was as full and as rich as the tones of a bell. Its softest accents could bo heard with perfect case by all who were gathered nround him, and at times he would thrill them with tones that resembled the blasts of 'a cla- ri(ni.
When the prayer was finished, a psalm was sung. It was the one hundredth i)salin— that glorious "old hundred," which seems to gatherfresh beauty witb its increas- ing years. Man alter man caught up the strain, until in one rich, lull chorus, it swelled along the valley like a song of victory.
The enemy must have heard us, for they slackened their fire, and crowded along the bank of the ri- ver, gazing eagerly at us, as if en- deavoring to ascertain the meaning of the strange sound.
That psalm thrilled my ver}- soul,.
THE BOHEJ-IIAN.
18
and I felt that God alone was King of kings, and Lord of "battles, and that He was with ua. . I
During the singing of the psalm, ; the strange preacher had been sit- ting on the box of the caisson, with his face buried in his hands, anH ■when it was over, he rose and be- gan his sermon. I remember it yet. It made such an impression upon me, that I do not think it will ever be effaced from my mo- mor}-. If I liad heard it under ditferent circumstances, I might and doubtless would, have for- gotten it, but as it was, it became indelibly impressed upon me.
This was the sermon, but oh! how it lacks the voice and looks of the speaker.
"/ will remote far off from you the Northern army, and will drive him into a land barren and desolate. * * * * Fear not, be glad and rejoice, for the Lord icill do great things." — Joel ii: 20, 21.
Soldiers and countrymen ! Upon the eve of battle, while your com- rades are struggling against the might of the 0])pressor, with the sound of 'battle ringing in my ears, I have come here to si)eak to you in the name of the Lord Jehovah. As His Embassador, I bid you in His name, " fetir not, be glad and rejoice, for the Lord will do great things." lie " will remove far off from you the Northern army, and will drive him into a land barren and desolate." This is His pro- mise to you, and " (rod is not man that lie should repent, nor the son of man that H'e should change." In llim then, let your trust be ])laced, and on the morrow go forth witli strong arms and stout hearts, for He will give you the victory. . You have taken up arms in a good and holy cause. You have ga- thered yourselves together in de- fence ot 3'our homes, your wives and your little ones — in defence of all that Hea.ven blesses, or man
holds dear. For them j'ou have endured hardships the mos; tr3Mng, and dangers the most appalling. You have borne the toils of the camp, the fatigues of the march, the- ])erils of the fight, and 3-et ano- ther tierce and desperate strugglo awaits you. Meet it you must, and I feel sure that you virill do so, with the same unshaken firmness that has marked your past career. As God's messenger, I promise you in His name, that, if you will go forth relying upon Him, and be- lieving' that Ho is with you to nerve your ai-ms, He will hurl back the pi'oud focmen, and civ3wn your eftorts with success.
Oh my countrymen ! what a so- lemn scene is this before us. But a few short months ago, our land slept in peace. We listened in idle wonder to the tales of war and bloodshed that came to us from the far off old world. As brothers, we loved and trusted all those who called themselves members of the great political family of which we were so proud. This peaceful val- ley smiled and blossomed as an Eden. On all sides teeming fields and. happy homes met our view. Love, happine-ss, and innocence prevailed among us, and we fondly hoped that such blessings might be eternal.
Now ! God of Heaven ! how the scene is changed. The dark cloud of war overspreads our sky — the foot of the invader pollutes our soil — our homes lie. desolate — our harvest fields are wildernesses — and our own beautiful valley is a frightful desert. The cry of the orphan, and the w\ail of the widow", llie groans of martyrs for con- science sake, the praj-ers, the sobs of helpless innocence and feeble age, assailed b}' brutal lust, and ruthless hate, daily and hourly go up to heaven demanding vongance, from the spots where once only prayers of thanksgiving and hymns
14
THE BOiliiMIAN.
of J03- tisccndfil. Evcrywhero rod battle has stumped l»is iron l)ccl, and even now, as you listen to me, the deep moulliod thunder of friendly and liustile j^uns, tells you that your own brethren have met the foe in fierce and deadly con- flict. Oh God ! in thy mercy, let them not be driven back.
My friends I have journeyed a long distance to be with you. 1 have come to you from the banks of the distant Ohio. I have lell my home in ruins, and have laid a Avife and two boys in martyr's graves. They died by the hands of the foe, and 1 have come here to avenge them. All along my ^va3' I have seen that which might ■wring the stoutest licart among you. I could tull you of blackened homesteads — of fair and gentle wo men outraged by the demons of the North — of the prayers, struggles, and entreaties, -which, alas, were all in vain — of old men butchered in cold blood— of children slangh- tcred before their mothers' e3'es — of all that makes life baleful and eaith a hell. I have seen the lone- ly cot upon the mountain blaze at the still, midnight hour. I* have seen the defenceless cottagers flv amid the snows of winter, with scarcely a rag to shield them fi'om the cold. 1 have seen the little children sink down, and die upon the bleak mountain side, and 1 have seen the mute agony of their mothers as the^' have bent over the little lifeless forms, and raised their burning eyes to Heaven in silent appeals for vengance. Were it necessary, I could freeze your blood, and change you from men into demons, by the recital of what 1 have seen and suUered.
God, in Ilis wisdom, alone can tell how long these things shall contmue. lie alone can tell how long the cause of right and inno- cence shall sufier, and might and wrong prevail. None of us who
are here tkis evening, maj- live to si-e the day of retribution, but it will come — it will come. Aye, it is coming now. Fnr ofl' in the dis- tant future, 1 hear the distant mut- tering of the coming storm, and alreacl}' I see Hs forked lightnings dashing angrily- around the North- ern sky. The Lord Jehovah is not a God who permits Jlis laws to bo violated with impunity. Onv ene- mies liave outraged all of His laws; the}' have defied and insulted Him openl}', and I shudder when I think what a dooni will be theirs.
God has promised to " remove far off from j'ou the Northern ar- my, and to drive him into a land barren and desolate." They loft their homes in prosperity'' and peace, and have made our land a desert. When the}' return, they will find their lulen changed into a hell. "V\'an famine shall stalk through their land — crime shall flourish — each woman shall cheat her husband and her mother, and confidence and trust be gone for- ever. Blood shall flow like water in their homes — the streets of their cities shall grow green with the grass of Spi'ing — Commerce shall forsake them — beggary reign where once wealth shone — brother shall rise jvgainst brother, father against son, and son against father, hus- band against wife, mother against daughter, and daughter against mother, and the hand of each shall be red with the blood of the other. Love shall change into hate — sin take the place of virtue — happines« give place to misery — the land shall waste awa}' in utter ruin, for the cui'se of the Al might}' God of Heaven, whom it has insulted and dofied, shall bo upon it — " Alas ! who shall live when (iod doeth this!"
. iM}' countrymen, you have a part to phuy in this great i-ctribution. God has been Avitli you throughout this struggle, and He "will never
THE BOHEMIAN.
15
leavo_^you, nov forsake you." "Bo strong in the Lord," then, and fear no power that our enemies ean bring against you. "No weapon that is formed against theo sliall prosper." Kemember that God is with you, and in the dark hour of battle, when the iron hail is sweep- ing around 3'ou, and comrades are falling on every side, when the hot breath of the cannon burns your cheek, and the bright sun of llea- >ven is d?irkened by sulphurous pall that enshrouds your hosts, remem- ber God is fighting for you, and when He is with you, you cannot be conquered.
The solemn night has fallen over »11 — the far off i*oar of battle is huslied, and the wearied arm}' of the South rests upon its arms, rea
finished preaching, he raised his hands, and began to pray. The pra^-er was in keeping with the sermon, and had a kind of rudo grandeur about it, hut it did not impress mo as powerfully as tho sermon had done. After tho pray- er, a hymn was sung to a quick martial air, and as the men caught it up and joined in it one bj' one, it rose high and clear above tho darkness of the night — then camo the blessing.
When tho services were over, the strange preacher stepped down from the caisson, and joined Gene- ral Jackson. The men gradually dispersed in silence. All of us felt that God was with us, and that wo would conquer on tho morrow.
In a short time news came that
dy to renew the conflict with tho General Ewell had defeated Fre
morning 8 sun. Beyond the Shen- andoah the dark lines of the hos- tile hosts are no longer visible, and silence reigns over the scene. To- morrow yonder field shall bo red with blood, and strewn with the mangled Ibrms of the ■\^K)unded, the dead and tho djnng. I shall go forth with you, and oh ! may that God who watclies over all the world, and in whoso sight the blood of his people is precious, grant that, if it be His will, we may all meet ngain when the victory has been won, and the Northern army driven back in confusion and dis- aster.
"Let us pray."
It was quite dark when the ser- mon was ended, and a deep silenca reigned over the scone. It was a wild, rude, disconnected discourse, and the time, ]ilace and surround- ings made it more impressive than
mont. During the night his troops were withdrawn from Cross Keys, and reunited with our own column. The next morning we crossed tho river, and after a stubborn and des- perate fight, drove the army of General Shields from the field in a complete rout. It was one of the hardest fights of the war, for tho enemy behaved with unusual gal- lantry.
After the battle was ended, I walked over the field. In one por- tion of it, where the fight had raged hottest and the dead lay thickest, I saw the form of an old man. I sprang to his side, and to my surprise and horror, beheld the lifeless features of the old man who had preached on tho previous evening. Ho was lying with his face to the enemy, a rifle still clenched in his hands, and with nn ugly Avound in his forehead. He
it would have been elsewhere. iV^had died upon the field of victory,
the words lie hero upon tho paper they seem cold and lifeless, but then, as they fell in fiery accents from tho lips of that strange old man, they thrilled mo "with the most intense emotion. When he
and tho sorrows of his life were over.
His death affected nic deeply, and I called up some of the men who were near, and wo made him a grave, and buried him where ho
16
THE BOHEMIAN.
ha<l fallen.
While we were thus engiiijcd, GtMiL'i-al Jackson rode up, and when be behold the lifeless form of the old man lying on the ground, an expression uf pain overshadowed bis noble features. His heart, ihongli as bold as a lion's, was as tender as a girl's. He remained by us, until we had tinishod the grave, and when we had laid the old man in it, he jrotdown oil" his horse, and kneeling by the grave, jjrayed a short pra^'cr. He said he could not benr to see the old man buried without some sort of religious ce- remony
From -whispftrers here and there, From po-slps -who coirio and go,
That 1 look with a lover's eyes On nianche's auburn hair.
Well, perhaps 'tis not over-wiso To light with h^r mother's will;
But if Hlamhe he tender and true, I will love my own Hlanche still,
1 houfili her mother he stern and cold, An<l laup:h at iho suitors who coino to' woo
And scatter their presents and (joUl.
#
LITTLE ANGEL'S CHRISTMAS.
The plaoe was Richmond, and the time was Christmas Eve.
Tho lights flared dismally in the almost desertt^d streets, and
When we bad filled up tlve grave, ^fe'l "pon the forms of those who he thanked us warmly fJr our ^^^^''^ out hastening rapidly to thoir
homes. There wei"e no crowds,
aised his cap and rode away. We f ^^ «'[l' blocking the thorough- ave him three cheers as ho went. ^^''«' ''^"^^ examining with curious Vo were amply repaid for our, C3:<-^'^ ^reasiires that tho shops con-
tained. There wore ito lovinir fa-
thing to have earned such thanks' t'j^er^ anti mothers out, followed, as
4w...fi,;„, Oi old, bv the servant bearing
iiom nim. a i "i ^ c ^ j
I never learned the name of the Sf^at baskets of toys and sugar old man, but I have not forgotten pl"ms-toys and sugar plums that him. I can see him now, just as »^V° .^ g^d^^^ the hearts and eyes plainly as I saw him on that mem- 1 ^^ t'^« little ones who, in their orable evenins ; dreams, saw the vision of Christ-
i have tried to preserve his '"'-r'^ ^^'?o '^^^^V'"'.^' *'Vf f ^^'''^; words by writing them, but I fear "^'^^ P^''^ ^}'^^ '^''^"''1 be tound I have not done justice to the sub- }van ing in the accustomed stock- • ^ •' ling by the tire-place, when, with
■^ ' rapturous eyes and cautious feet,
thoy should leave their warm l)ods in the early morning and stand sadly before the mantel-piece, and wonder why the {food little man, with his round rosy face, had not come down the cliimney, and left his tokens ot remembrance for the good little boys and girls, as he had done on man}' a happy Christ- mas before. Not that the will was wanting with these loving vicars of Christinglo, — not that they did not look wistful!}' into the fire on this s»d Christin:is Eve, and speak in low tones of thodisap- pointiiicnt that the morrow would bring with it to Johnny cuddled up
BLANCHE.
Oh I she is tender and true,
Young Blanche whom I adore ! And lovers who come to woo
She numbers by the score ! Oh, she is tender and true ;
But her mother is stern and cold, Aijd she greets with courtly smile.
The .suitors who come with ;rold! But she passes me h:nj;^'l\t.ily bv.
With a bend of her queenly head. With a careless nod and a look askanco-
Or at best but a patronizinfj glance. As though she wished me dead.*
For she knows that 1 can bring No presents to lay at the feet
Of my own d^ar Blaiiehe, my swoft! And shf half believes, 1 know,
THE BOIIBMIAN.
r
Willi Cliuvlej in tho wide oldfasli- ioned bed, aiui Lizzie, staring with if rent black oyes from tlio crib in tho corner, wuiLiii<i; and winking, and watching for I lie .■jiipriMno ino- tnunt wlion the rattle in the chim- ney, and the sndden full of snow u];uij the cheerful firo, would ;vn- noniico to her the arrival of the Christ n\a!^ Guest, laden with dolls and all nuin'ner of pretty toys which had been gathered from the four quarter.-N of the globe; but the good Angel was not to visit the tiresides on this Ch.ristnias Eve, and there were no great ships deavitig the ocean from tho shores of the old world, freighted with tho plaj-- thiiigs for the little ])Coplo (what few ships there wore being forced to extreme caution in entering port by means of the watchful cruisers that hovered about and whereof tho shotted guns were trained up- ,on every 8US])icious sail); and tliere- fore, was it, that fathers and mo- thei-s gazed dejectedly into tho fire, and that the faces of tho little sleep- ers were not to lighten with the dawn of the Hallowed Day.
On this evening my duty, as chro- nicler, carries me and my reader to an liumble fireside. Throngh the quiet streets, and with tho cold wind blowing in our faces as we turn the corners, we hasten on and do not stop to pear into the win- dovvs of tho comfortable homes whereof the lights from the par- lors flare out cheeryly into the street, but check our nteps at tho door of a modest little house that is tro\vned at by a great house over the way, and is crushed between two other great bouses on either side of it.
And then we look into the parlor window and mark the picture. Kow, if my reader (standing by 'my side) bo a small person, he, or she, must, stand upon tip-toes to look in ; but if my reader be a tall person, he, or she, may lean
comfortably upon the ledge of the uiudow, and may thus become a ware of the persons who are, at this moment, sitting before the tiie in the parlor of the little room.
These persons are three in uuui- ber — that is to say, that at tho iij'st glance these poFsons are three in numiier. ]5ut if my reader (still standing on tip- toes, if sh<»rt, or leaning with arms folded on tho window, if tall,) will indulge in a socoml, and closer lo'dc, he, or she, may' perhaps discover tliat tho number of persons in the parlor of the unpretending little hotiso is greater, bj' one, than throe: that, indeed, in point' of fact, there are four persons there. For, in this second glance, might ho discover- ed that which has, possibly, hither- to escaped observation — the figure of a little girl with a bright curly head who is playing on the rug' at tho feet of one of the other three, flaving thus described the smallest (but not least important) of the party of four, let us examine more closely the others.
One is an old man, upon whoso head Time has settled with no light weight. But tlie honest face is ro- sy with all that, and — but for a certain shade that is upon it now — seems contented enough. Ho is looking into the tire wiiich flickers upon him, and lights his face with a pleasant glow. By bis side sits one who might be his wife. Her hands are folded upon her lap, and she, too, is looking with wistful eyes into tho fire. Iler ago is un- certain— she might be fifty, she might bo sixt}', years old; but she is old enough, as ages go, to be the mother of the fourth figure, who has not yet boon described, and the grandmother of the little girl who plays upon the rug. This fourth figure is, also, the figure of a wo- man. But no wliite hair covers her iair, young forehead, as in the case of the older woman ; for her
18
THK BOHEMIAN.
liair is somclhing of the -color of that of the little girl — a little dark- er it may be — and it glows, arid burns, under the influence of the bj'iglit flame that falls upon it. Tier hi ad is leaning upon lior hand, and she is looking down at the little girl. There is a pensive, motherly look in her eyes, and her check ks pale and sad, as though 8ome great soriow rested upon iier heart.
There conies no Bouud to u.s (m}' reader and 1^ standing at the win- dow, and looking in. There comes no sound of cheertul talk, and plea- safit laughter, if we except the prattle of the little girl.
Veriiy does this^Uliristmas Eve hang heavily upon the hearts and toygues of those who sit before the fire in the parlor! Verily is tliei-e with them, to-night, a Presence whereof is there no token to give us warning of its nature !
Shall wo (m}- reader and I) go down the street, and leave the mys- tery unsolved, or shall we enter the house boldly «nd join (on the plea of the good fellowshiu of the hallowed time) the little party gath- ered in the parlor?
Hush ! Another form has ap- peared upon the scene! Not in the rOijm where sit the others, but by our side. The form of a man who has walked rapidly towards the house, and is now standing in front O.' it, and is looking with curious eyes (we may judge, for we cannot see them) at the house. He can- not see us as he stands thus, for a moment; but wo are aware of his presence. He cannot see us for the reason that we are there in the spirit only. And so, without the ^ tear of detection, we cnay observe his motions.
It is impossible to say whether this new comer be an old man or a young man; for the collar of his groat-coat is so ]iullcd up, and the brim of bis slouch hat is so pulled down, that little or nothing of hi?
faee is* visible But there is another reason that prevents our having a lair view of his face; and this is,
j that he wears heavy whiskers that curl all over his face, and which join his overhanging moustache, so that we cannoL help thinking that,
jjjossibly, his eyes and his nose may bo visible, whilst the rest of his
i countenance is hiildcn in the hairy covering of his face. Under his arm the stranger carries a paek-
After having looked at the house I for a little while, the hundled-up j stranger moves towards the door. I He is not going to ring the bell, laurel}- ? Yes; he hae ruiig the bell, 'and is standing, leaning against the doorway, and waiting for an ! answer to his summons. Looking through the window of the parlor, jhastil}', we can see that tlio old I man has risen from his chair to po j to the door; and then we (luy read- ier and I) creep u]> to where the stranger is standing, and observe I what is to follow.
When the door opens (which it does in a moment, and discovers the old man holding on to .the handle and peering out into the night) the stranger touches his hat with a rough sahiiation, and says with a labored attempt at polite- ness:
"Good evening, my friend." "Good evening," rcsjx)nds the old man, looking wonderingly at the visitor.
" You don't know what brings me here, 1 reckon, do you ?" con- tinues the stranger.
" No, sir," the old man answers. There is a sad tone in his voice which, taken into consideration with the shade upon his face recalls the memory of that nameless Pre- sence that sits with those in the parlor. The istranger stands away fro(n the door a little when he speaks again.
" If I were to tell you," bo goes
THB BOHEMIAN,
19
on in his abi'upt way, " that I am in a low voice, he answers
a soldier, what would j'ou say?" " I'd sa3' ' heaven protect you !' "
the old man murmurs.
" If I were to say that I know
"His name was Colin Merry- weather. He was your son, 1 be- lieve, Mr. Merry weather r"'
"Yes; my poor boy who was
no one in Richmond, and that I am , lost to us at Fredericksburg." lonely on this night, of all nights With hands clasped the old man in the year, what would you say, and the stranger loolc at each oth
to that ?"
" 1 would say that thi.s is a wrong time to be lonely in, and that you are to be pitied."
"If I were to tell you that I start- ed out to night to find some good, pleasant, place to spend the eve- ning in- -some quiet fireside that wouhl remind me of my own homo in Texas — what answer would you give to thati'"
The old man held out his hand as the stranger spoke these woi'ds, aud seized the stranger's in his.
'* If you are a soldier and are a-
er. The gusty wind blows the grey hair about the e\-es of the old man, and to.'sses the long beard of the stranger to the right and to the left: and tiiero seems to bo something sad in this meeting be- tween the two.
" You knew my son then ?" the old man asks after a little while.
" We were always together," the stranger replies.
"Then you know why this Christ- mas fulls h-avily upon us?"
"Yes; if what you believe bo true, I can understand why your fire-
way from home," he answered, side is cicerless to-night."
*'and if you come to my house to! "Come in, and let us talk about
fiit at my fire-side on this night, I| Colin."
will not refuse you that poor natis-i And then the stranger stands in
faction. It is a sad fire side, though, the hall, anil the old man closes the
my friend, and perhaps you might; door after him. We (my reader
go elsewhere and be better suited." Again was there perceptible that Badness in the old man's voice.
and I) t'ollow them into the house, and a';company them to the parlor. And then we stand aside, and
Again was thevoice tremulous with 1 mark what follows, some suppressed feeling. Mr. Merry weather holds the
The stranger lifted his hand to j stranger by t lie hand, and speaks his brow as the old man sj)oke and , to the older woman, arid says,
pushed his hat a little backward This motion decides the question of his age, fjr it reveals a youthful
" Sarah here is one who conies to us on this Christmas Eve, w^ho knew our son." And then he turns
open foi-eiieud. Then he saj-s in a to the younger, and adds: "Speak voice that is somewhat broken injLo him, .Mary, of 3"our husband." its tone: The old man sits down when he
I was not mistaken, then, in has aaid this, and buries his face in
you, Jolin Me rrj' weather. I have heard of you before. A corarade- in arms has spoken to me of you."
"A comrade? murmured the old man.
" Yes; a comrade."
" That comrade — what was his name ?" the old man asked eagorlj'.
The stranger pauses for a mo men't, aod looks down. And then,
his hands; but the two women rise suddenly, and stand beside their chairs and look wistfully at the stranger. This seems to discom- pose the stranger, for he places his hat ujjon the floor at his feet, and then picks it up again, and changes the bundle that he holds from one hand to the other. The look that; ilio women fix upon him cauaes
2t*
TUE HuUKMUK.
him to look around him vacantly lor dij instant, and tlien to stam- mer:
"Allo-.v me to introduce myself. Joiirj Downey of the — ih Texas.
" You knew (.'olin ?" says the old- er woman eairerl}' as he says this.
" You knew Colin V repeats the youn<;er.
*'Wait!" answers .lohn Downy of the — th. Jle walks to the win dow of the ]>:irlor, and looks into the street. There cannot be much outside to interest him; but he stands there full five minutes before ho turns and walks back towards the middle of the room.
"Now!" he says, sitting down before the fire, and placing his packajxe on another chair near him, and folding his ami's aero.ss his broad chest.
"i'lietwo women are still standing b}- their chairs as he turns towards tiiem, but when he sits down they I'ollow his example.
And tiien they stare at him fix edly.
John Downey of the — th seems to have become bolder since his re- turn from thA window j for he looks ;iround him briskl}', first at one and then at the other, and his eyes seem to twinkle in the uncertain light of the fire.
The brief silence tliat elapses is Vtroken by the younger of the wo- men, wIjo says : '
*' Were you with Colin — when — when; and then slie holds her Ijandkerehief to her eyes.
"No — not with him. Our regi- ment was in another part of the the field. Wife!" he sa^'s inqui- ringl}', fixing his e.yes upon the wo- man who has just spoken.
"His wile once; but wife no longer," she answers through her tears.
'*Ah?"
Turning to the older M'oman, he says to her :
"Mother?"
"Once hi« mother, sir," she re- plies. 'I'hen his gaze wanders to the i}|)turne«l face of the little girl upon tiie rug who is-lookingat him won«. deringl3-, ami she seems frightened by his great l>rown beard. " Cliild /" ho says to the younger woman.
" Yes."
lie bends down and lifts the lit- tle girl to his lap. and kisses her. The little girl is shy of his presence, and seems dis|ioseii to cry at first; but he puts his hatxl in the p(;cket of his great-coat, and draws th<Mjce a stick of candy wjiicli ho gives to her. This pacifies lier, find she sits comfortably- in John Downey's lap.
Brushing the yellow curls from the little girl's eyes, he looks at hei* fixedly. Something of the twinkle leaves his ex'cs as ho looks at her, and a filmy moisture corned into them.
" I have one about her size," he explains. "IIow do you call this child of 3'ou'rs?" he asks the mo- ther.
"Her name is Angela; but we call her little Angel tor short," murmurs the young^^r woman. •
John Dowjiey of the — th stoops and kis.*es the child again, and, as he docs so, ho too, murmurs " Lit- tle>ngel !"
In the silence that falls, then, up- on tho.so who are seated around the cheerlul fire, comes the sudilen sound of wcei)ingfrom those two- mother and wife — who recal, in the stranger's presence', the son and husband who is lost to them. In the lack of words that has made it- self I'elt among thos'e thus met on this Christmas P]ve, the old man — the father — sits with hidden iiice, and thinks of him who shall never- more support his gre^' age, and fail- ing stei)s. In tho lapse of time that is voiceless, save with the echoes of grief, John Downey of the — th mingles the brown l)eard of his face with the curly h:lir of the child whom he holds in his lap, and is
THE BOHEMIAN.
21
silent.
John Downej' is the first to speiilc \vhen the converBiition is again m- nowecl.
" Mr. Merry weather," ho ?ays abruptly, " are you not, perhaps, wron^' in giving way, in tliis man- ner, to your giiot? Are you posi- t've that your s(jn is lost to you?"
"Of ni}' own knowlcdgp, no," the old.rnan^ei^lies. lifting his head the better to answer. "But iil' 1 ateepi the opinion of otliers who were there when ho fell \\ounde(l to death, and was captured, I can not but believe that he has perish- ed in gaptivity."'
" Pshaw !" says John Downey of the — th, as abruptly as before, and then adds hastily, "I beg pardon. Ml'. Merry weather, but, was think- ing of a circumstance that occur- red to a friend uf mine—of a sinn lar nature to this — and concerning which every body said that the particulars most certainly proved that ho had fallen a victim to a wound that he had received in bat- tle. And, therefore, Mr. Merry wea- ther, and ladies, I said 'pshaw !' "
The old man does not answei, but he leans his head upon his hand. The women, too, look sadl3 into the fire, and wipe the traces of tears from their swollen eyes.
John Downey's eyes wander from tne old man to the two wo- men, and then back to the old man, in an uncertain way, and his I hand plays with little Angel's curls. |
"This friend of mine," he goes! on to say in an explanatory voice,; "was captured in the fight to which I reier, and it wns supposod that he had died whilst a prisoner: in the enemy's hands. But did he die'/' JS^o! not a bit of it!"
"How was that known?" the old man asks in an undei- tone. |
" How was it known ? why sim- ply enough ! It 'was known bo- cause he came back again, and j proved, by his return, that those
who had been weeping for him, and grieving at his supjjosed death, liad been shedding, their tears, and uttering their sighs, in vain !"
John Lowney of the — th looks around him again with twinkling eyes, and seen)s to defy denial of the truth of this storj'. But as the old man does not seem disposed to speak, and as the women are still gazing into the fire, he continues speaking :
" kShot through the arm, and fainting from- loss of blood, he was Kill upon the field by his comrades for dead, or mortally wounded."
" So was it with our poor Colin 1" the old man murmurs.
" Ah ?" answers Joiin Downey. And then goes on :
"When the enemy had carried that position — and precious little use it was to them — they commen- ced to I'omovo the prisoners to the lear. My friend went with them. In a little while after, the}' came rnnning back themselves, pell-mell, and oui' brave boys after them. But they did not forgot to hurry I heir ])i'is()ner8 on with them. Oh, no ! And so you see Mr. Merry- weather, they took my friend along with them."
" Yes," says the old man abstract- edly.
" JS'ow, ladies," says John Downey of the — th turning to the two wo- men, and fixing their attention up- on him by elevating bis forefinger slightly, "mai'k what followed. My friend was fortunate enough to meet, in the enemy's liosj)ital, a surgeon whom he had known be- fore the war. This surgeon atten- ded to him faithfully, and in two week's time ho was about aiid do- ing. Which proves, ladies, that ho did not die — don't you see?"
" Ho was more fortunate than our Colin," the older woman re- plies dejectedly.
" Certainly — to be sure ! oh, yes I undoubtedly !" responds John Dow-
Ti
THE BOHEMIAN.
ney brinkl}'. The old man looks at I him inquiringly, and Juiin Downey { of the — th discovering this be- 1 comes suddenly interested in little Angel bitting upon his lap. But he is not silent long, for, perceiving that the old man is not disposed to question him, he continues on the subject of his friend.
" This friend of mine, then, hav- ing recovered, began to bestir him- self in an effort to escape. On account of his wound he was not closely watched ; and one dark night he managed to evade the sen- tinels and went forth from the hospital, a free man."
"What became of him?" asks the old man with sudden interest.
" Listen, and 1 will tell you," answers John Downey. " This friend of mine, after many devices, and much hardship, succeeded in crossing the enemy's lines into our own. Ho did not stop on the way to parley, but turned his steps to- wards the home of his childhood. AVhcn he reached there, he hesi- tated, at first, about entering the liouse in which his father and his mother were mourning for him as dead." When Jolin Downey of the — th gets this far in his recital, he pauses to stoop and kiss the little face that is looking up into his. And then fie goes on s])eaking; but his voice is a trifle lower in its tone:
"He went to his father's house, Mr. Merryweather, much as I have come to yours to-night, and re- mained undecided, for a little while, at the door. He had hoard from friends that they believed, at home, that he had died in his captivity, and he feared to announce himself abruptly to them. Joy you know kills, sometimes, as well as grief."
" Better die from joy such as that than live to believe liim doiid/' the old man answers.
John Downey looks into the fire for a momont and passes his band
across his brow. Then ho resumes his narrative of what befell liis friend :
" You can guess, Mr. Merr}'^- weather, what course my friend puriiued when thisfar, of the effects of a sudden surprise on those at home, came to him ? "
" No — what did your friend do ?"
" Ho went away from the house, and procured a- disguise, And pre- seYited himself before his fiiraily; and so well were his features con- cealed that none recognized him. He wished to break the intelligenco of his safety to them as gently as possible. Was that not proper, Mr. Merryweather?"
"Cor(ainl3'. H" your friend be- lieved that it was better to do so, it was proper for him to have done so. Would that my poor boy could come back to mo as your friend went back to those who loved him I"
" When my friend commenced to speak to those who believed liim, at that moment, dead in a foreign land, lie was on the point of de- claring himself; but ho thought better of it, and maintained his disguise until the proper moment for removing that disguise had come. When this moment came ho rose from his chair and removed
firtit" John Downoy pauses, and
says abrupti}", " Don't you find it rather warm in this room, Mr. Merryweather 'i' 1 do."
" It is a little warm," the old man makes answer; "take off your groat-coat."
" Thank you," says John Down- ey of the — th, removing his coat as the old man has desired, and then proceeds with his stoiy.
" When my friend had taken off his coat — as I do mine now — his father, who was sitting before him looking at him, rose suddenly from his chair."
The old man has risen from his chair, and is looking with eager eyoB as John Downey speaks these
THE BOHEMIAN.
25
words. There is somethini; in the manly chest, chid in the honest Confederate gray, that meets his eight, that brings to mind the stal- wart frame ol'him whom he mourns; and ho holds his white hair from liis eyes the bettor to look at him. But as he does so, no toUen of re- semblance rests in the long flowing beard and hair, and the overhang- ing moustache of the stranger at his fireaide. And so he listens mutel}', whilst John Downe}- com- mences to speak again :
"His father rose from his chair, and, for a moment, my friend thought that he had recognized him; but as no token of recogni- tion came from him in words, my friend saw that it was necessary to pursue some other course. He was disguised, you know, Mr. Mer- ryweather and it was for this'rea- son that his father failed to recog- nize him"
" What did he do next ?" the old man asks with trembling eager- ness.-
" His next action, Mr. Merry- weather, was to walk up to where his father was standing — as I walk to you now — and to place bis hand upon his father's shoulder, and to look into his eyes and say to him 'is it possible father, that j'ou do not know me; have I succeeded eo well in changing my voice, and appearance, that you do not recog- nize your son ?"
As John Downey of the — th speaks these woi'ds, his hand is resting upon Mr. Merry weather's shoulder, and his eyes, with a mer- ry twinkle in them, are looking into those of the old man. As he speaks the women have risen, too, and are standing behind him listen- ing anxiousl}'.
" Wait," says the old man look ing up into the merrj* eyes.
" There was something of Colin's voice there," murmurs the older ■woman.
•'Is it papa come home again ?" lisps little Angel. And tliej'ounger woman is silent.
But at that moment comes a sudden change over the faces of all those present. A sudden change that brings with it smiles and blinding tears combined as John Downey of the — th falls back, suddenly, a step or two, from the old man, and bursts into a loud ringing peal of -laughter.
" 1 knew it !'' he says, throwing first his wig into one corner of tho room and then his false beard into another. "1 knew that they wouldn't know me I Why do you stand there, father, like a rock? Mother, Mary, don't you know me? Don't you. know Colin that was dead, and has come to lifo again ?"
In the great joy that follows this announcement, words are wanting to give expression to the feelings of this happy family. In the sud- den revulsion from doubt and mor- bid grief to the clearing up of tho Myster}' that had haunted tho house of John Merryweather for long, sad days, there is no lan- guage, save thankful tears and h3'steric laughter, to stand as wit- ness to the banishment of that dread Presence that had sat at tho old man's fireside. But, as the hours pass on, and as the town clock rings out tho hours in tho cold, still night, the fire in the par- lor leaps more cheerfully to wel- come the wanderer homo.
And now shall we (my reader and I) leave them ? or shall we wait a little longer to see the restored son Colin Merryweather — John Down- c}', now, no more — the centre of those who sit around him on that happy Christmas Eve, and telling the story over and over again, how (like the friend of his history) his life was spared in the day at Fred- ericksburg, and how (ijgain liketh© ! friend in his hiatory) (lod had given.
24
THH BOHBMIAIf.
hira Strength and skill to leave the} captivity in which he was hchl? | How, in that cvasioi\ of the toils of the spoiler, he had not fbri^ottcn little An^'chwho eat upon his knee, but that ho had broucrht IVoin the land of the sj)oiIer (in the pack- age on the chair) those toys and sugar plums that would cause her blue eyes to spnrklc wlicn the next da3''s (lawn should hroak upon them? And shall wo ^lill linger to sec how, wlicn thiis story was completed, in the shadowy hour • that preceded the Holy Day, the old man — the father — knelt, and utter- ed prayerful thanks that the sha- dow had been lifted from their sor- rowing hearts, and that the prop of his failing age was still left to his couutry, and to him ?
LANGLEY FlALL.
The skies are bright o'er Langley Hall,
Whore sweet Autumnal breezes blow ; The p:is=ion-<Iower chisps the w^ll,
And basksi in Autumn's fervid glow ; Through evi>ry space the yellow grain
Up-springs to meet the am'rous sun. And girded is the broad domain
By forest-borders arched and dun — Save where the restless sea-bird calls
Unto its mate from morn to dark ; A no whore the golden glory falls
On sails of some outgoing bark. Lo! whpre the tempest hurls its spray
The grim fieflant fortress stands, A jovial warder, gaunt and grey.
Who greets his guests with mailed hands. And she who walks these peaceful waj's.
Sweet almoner of springing flowers, Thai mutoly syllable her praise,
In fragrance through the rosy hours — Young heiress of this fair estate- She liitl« thinks how dear to me — To her sweet presence consecrate,
Is this wliite palace by the sea.
BURNT AT THE STAKE.
A TALE OF 1692.
Tt was a dark' day for the town of Salem, in the. Colony of Was^sa- chusetts Bay^ when Eichard San- ford become Judge of the special
court for the trial of the witches. He was a stern. c<)ld, cruel man, with hardly a spark of human feel- ing in his breist, ami with a flrni, h«rd eountenan<e which made the litile childrei» shrink from him in terror, and the old women of ihe town, tremble with friglit, whene- ver he came near them.
Judge San ford was a nian of thii"ly-one or two j-ears oj age, and of his life but little was "known. He had pass-d the earlier portion of it in England, and liad fled to the Colony to e«ca)je the jiersecu- tion which awaited liiin in his own country.. After his arrival in the Colony he had settled in the town of Pl\ mouth, and had taken quite a prominent part in the afi'airs of the settlement. He rose rapidl}' from place to ]}lace, distinguished for l?^s al)ilily, but chiefly fur that mad fanaticism, which the Puri- tans dignified by the name of ^^re- ligious zeal." When the excitement about the Salem witches arose, a special court was appointed for the trial of suspected ]>arlies, and the Governor of the Colony ap])ointed liichard Sanford, Judge.
He came to Salem with the avoweil determination of ridding the place of the evil, and ho per- formed his duty faitht'ully. All that cruelty, superstition and in- tollerance could do to exterminate the witches, was done by him. His coming was the beginning of sor- rows such as the town had never know.n' before. Cruelty, the chief characteristic of the Puritan, reign- ed supreme. The most shameful and ridiculous stories were accept- eil as ti-ue, and the most innocent circumstances, and most playful remarks were tortured into proofs of guilt. To be anything but the most violent fanatic, was to be a witch.
The limits of this sketch forbid our entering into a full description of the state of affairs in Salem,
THE BOHEMIAN.
25
and 90 we must pass on.
One bri_u;lit morning in Jane, in tho 3^ear IOOlJ, Eichard Sanford, might have been seen passing, thoughttiillj' and slowl}^ through the streets of Salem, as if bentup- on tlie execution of some plan, up- on wliich he was then delibei*ating. His step was firm, and his keen ghmco surveyed every thing a- round him, as if seeking new vic- tims for his court. Ho passed through the public streets into a long and picturesque laue, and j paused before the door of a nentl and tasteful cottage, and knocked;] the door was opened b}' an old man i with a calm, severe face, in which' eviMy Puritanic characteristic was] intensilied to the greatest possible j degree. " 1 salutt,- thee, Richard San- 1 lord, thou chosen vessel of the Lord," said the old man in astern, cold voice, " and am rejoiced to bid thee welcome to my poor house."
" Crive the glory to God, my bro- ther," said the Judge, in the broad, nasal tone, then 30 |)Oi)ular with the Puritans, "I am but an humble in- strument in his hands. Is the maiden, Maudo Howard, within r'
" Nay," said the old man, '* she has gone out to walk. Hor father was a profane, ungodly Cavalier, but I trust that the maiden may 3-et be one of the el«ct. But come in."
" Naj^, not so," said the Judge ; "I will continue my 'walk, and mayhap I may meet the maiden, and return with her."
He left the house, and passed to- wards the woods that bordered the edge of the town.
Earlier in the morning a merry young girl, whose proud aristocra- tic features at once betokened that she came from a different race — that grand old Cavalier stock so huteful to the Puritan — hurried down the street, and out into ihe woods that surrounded the town. It was Maud© Howard on her way
to meet her lover. Maude Howard was twenty j'ears old : she Avas tall and queenly, and by far the most beautiful girl in Salem. She was the daughter of an English gentleman, who, having lost his wife and property, left his child, at his death, to the care of a distant relative, named John Gough, who resided in Salem, in the Colony of Massachusetts Bay.
Maude was sent over to America bj the first ship that sailed, after her father's death. She was re- ceived by her guardian, and treat- ed krndiy, but with that quiet sternness which so strikinglj' cha- racterized . the domestic relations of the Puritans. She had been in Salem only two years, and she pined for the genial and hearty life of merry England.
Before leaving her native coun- try, Maude had given her heart to a young officer of the royal army, the galhint Captain Henry Har- court. He was absent in Ireland with King William, when siie left England. When he returned and found that Maude had gone to Ameiica, he sold out his commis- sion, and sailed from England. When ho reached Salem it had been more than two years since he had parted from Maude. John Gough refused to allow him to visit her, und the lovers were forced to re- sort to stolen interviews iu the woods.
Maude had yielded to her lover's importunities, and had consented to fly with him from the Colony. This morning she was going to meet him to make arrMngements for their flight. They lingered in the^ woods, loth to separate, and al- most dreading to part, lest this in- terview should be their last.
"And so you will go with mo, Maude," said the young man ten- derly caressing her head, which rested upon his shoulder. *
'' My heart bids me go with yoa,
:]ll>
THE BOHEMIAN.
Henry," she said iu a low tone, " but something tells me that pucli bapjiiness as you ort'er, ia not iu store for either of us."
'•Cheer up, darling — you niiist not j-ield to your lears. They are
groundless, and "
At this moment a distant footfall was heard, crushing the leaves, and the young man hastily telling Maude to meet him at the same spot, the next morning, prepared for flight, hastened away.
Assuming an air of carelessness, Maude strolled on through the woods, and in a few moments met with Judge Sanford, who was ad- vancing to meet her. She started in alarm, and would have turned aside, but it was too late. She folL nothing but aversion and contempt for him, and she feared him as much as she detested him. For some time past, he had visited Gough's lumsQ quite I'egularly, and had paid her the most marked at- tention. She had tried to avoid him, but he would not be avoided. She could not avoid him now, so she walked on calml}'^, and with dignity.
" Good morning. Miss Howard," Baid the Judge, as he came up with her," you must bo an ardent lover of .nature, to venture alon'o into the woods in these unsettled times. Evil spirits love to haunt these groves, and you know not what barm may beiall you here."
"I fear not them, sir," said the young woman calmly. "UeaVen will protect me from all evil."
" That is a proper feeling, young lady," said her grim companion ; " but it is well not lo be too rash. Enough of this. I have been to your guardian's house, and not finding j'ou there, have sought you here. 1 have something to say to
said the Judge, not heeding her, ••! am but a man. and I have a heart, — a heart which, till sorrow fell like a bligU| ujion it, was all fresh- ness and poetry. Tliat heart is yours, Maude Howard. From the moment that 1 saw you, I loved yon, It seemed as if tlio joy of my 3'outh was coming i)ack to mo". I cannot be silent longer — I must tell 3-ou that I love you.
'' ft is unlbrtunate that you should love me. ^Ve are unsuited to eacli other. Wo could not be hajipy together. I do not lure
you ," said Maude.
" Hear me, Maude," cried the Judge, interrupting her. " lam no humble lover. I am known and ho- nored by all. This Colony liolds no man whose power is greater than mine. I olier you riches, honor,. station."
" It is vain to plead," said Maude, with dignity. '".I do not love j'Ou. We had better be strangers "
" Your he.irt is not your own to give," said Sanfird bitterly. "Be- ware, Maude Howard — I have you in my power. Once for all, 1 ask you to be my wife. Refuse mo at your peril."
'* Do your worst, sir," 6aid Maudo haughtily, the spirit of the old Cavalier line tinging her cheeks and Hashing from her eyes. '* Since you threaten me, I dety you;"
She swept by him, proudly, and hurrying on was soon out of sight- Saiiford watched her with a bitter, quiet smile, and passing on to the • spot where the lovers had stood, examined the foot prints in the soft earth. After inspecting them lor a moment, he rose, muttering sternly:
" it is as I suspocted. It was the English stranger. ]S"ow, Maude Howard, we shall see whose power is greater — yours or mine."
He walked slowly back to the town.
you, which concerns both of us."
" Indeed, sir," ^aid Maude, coldly.
" Cold, and pitiless, as I may seem in the discharge of my duty," [ A few hours later a die of sol-
THE BOHEMIAN.
27
diers halted in front of the vesi- The sentence of the court is that flence of John Gough. The officer j you be taken from here, and in command entered the house, I burned at the stake until you are and summoning Mau^ Howard, dead." •
informed her that he was ordered "I am a soldier," said Harcourt to arrest her upon the charge of calmly, "and 1 know how to die; witchcraft, and that she must go " ~ ■with him. At the same time a si- milar party proceeded to the inn, and arres^ted, upon a similar charge, the young stranger, nan\ed Henry Hai'conrt, who was stopping there
but I deny yourrigiit to inflict this punishment upon a loyal subject of their JVJajesties King William and Queen Mary."
" We, also, are their subjects," said Sanford, coldly, "and we are
The court room at Salem w^as a only doing our duty, to them, when large, wide apartment, hung with we endeavor to rid this province a, heavy, dark arras, and with aiof witchcraft. Your best plan will raised jilatform at the back of the be to confess your guilt, and throw room, with a table and chair for the yourself upon the mercy of the Judgt'. .In front of this lable was [court."
a huge and unwieldy frame work, "I have told you that 1 am in- the very sight of which made thejnocent of the absurd charge that gazer tremble. It was that tern- you have brought against me,"
said the young man, proudly. " To
confess that 1 am guilty, would bo
This I will
blc instrument of torture, the rack.
.Near it was another table, covered
•with instruments of torture, and j simply to utter a lie
articles used fur the purpose of de- never do."
tecting witches. -. - .
liichard Sanford was seated in the Judffe's chair. There was a
"Bind him to the rack," ex- claimed the Judge.
The four attendants seized the
firm, determined expression upon ! young man, and placing him upon
bis face, and a maliununt li^-hC in Ilia eyes.
the bed of the rack, bound the cords to his wrists and ;mkles, and
A man stood by the table we i then, taking their places at the le- have described, heating in the j vers, stood ready to turn them, (lame of a lamp, a long steel blade, j The Witch Doctor approached the This instrument was a probe, used j rack, and stood watching the pri- there for the purpose of detecting soner.
witches, and the man who held it, j " Your doom is certain," said the ■was Faint Not Ilopeful, the Witch' Judge, sternly, " but you can save Doctor of Salem. j yourself much suffering. You shall
Four attendants stood by the acknowledge your guilt. Confess rack, and between these men and! it, and you shall be released. Per- the Judge, Henry Harcourt stood 'sist in your obstinacy, and you
with folded arms, gazing iudi<^ uantly at him.
"Prison.r," said the Judge, stern- ly, "the evidence against j'ou is positive. ■ You were seen in the woods conversing with one Maude Howard, who is known to be a witch, a most malicious- witch. When I approached, you fled. This proves, beyond a doubt, that you -are the accomplice of the woman.
must suffer torture."
" You have my answer," said the young man, firmly — " I am inno- cent."
At a sign from. Sanford the levers were turned,
" Cowards," shrieked the young man in agony.
" Confess," said the Judge.
" Never." Auother turn of th« levers, and
28
THE BOHEMIAN.
another shriek from the sufferer. The torture was gro'wing more in- tense.
" Confess."
This time thoro was no Aswer.
One of the utlendants bent over the pufFerer.
" He has fainted," he said, rising and turning to Iho Judge.
" His limbs are nearly torn asun- der."
Sanford ordered the men to re- lease hini and revive him. While this v^as being done, an odScer en- tered, leading Maude Howard. — Sanford rented his head upon his hand, and seemed to be collecting all of his firmness for some power- ful effort. Soon he raised his lioad, and gazed at her coldly. As he did 60, Henry Hurcourt regained his consciousness, and seeing Maude, uttered her name feehlj-. With a sharp cr}', she sprang to his side.
" Great Heaven!"' she cried, 'has this "ii. human monster seized you, too, dear Henry V
"I had hoped that I was alone in my misfortune — oh God ! that 3-0U should be here," exclaimed the 3'oung man, faintly.
"Your voice is faint, and your face as hueless as death," said Maude, drawing closer to him. — " \Viiat have they done to you ?"
"The rack — tiiey have torn mo nearly asunder," he gasped.
"This is infamous," cried the your)ggirl indignantly. ''Are you humany" she arlded, addressing .Sanford, " are you a man or a de- mon ?"
"Maude Howard," he ^ cried, hoarsely, " you jCre in my power. Your lover lias been condcmni'd to die. He has already suffered the most terrimo turture, and tomor- row he^rill be pul)hcly executed."
"]S'o! no! Richard Sanford, spare him. He is innocent. I call on Heaven to witness his innocence."
"He has been condemned and must suffer," said Satiford coldly-
" But j'ou can save your life. I have offered you my hand — it is not too late to accept it. I can, and will save 30U upon this condition."
" I can die," replied the young girl calml}'.
"Woman," cried the Judge, al- most franticall}-, sti;;^lching out to lior his hands, which trembled vio- lently, " Woman, I love you. l\\ the name of Heaven do not subject yourself to the terrible torture that awaits you. Every pang ihal you will suffer will be felt b^' me. Maude, I entreat 3'ou, let me save you,"
" You love me !" she cried scorn- fully. " ileaven foi-give you for the lie j'ou utter. You know that I am innocent of the crime with which 3-ou charge m.e, and yet you will not save me except upon con- ditions to which 1 preier death."
Great drops of sweat bf^atled the palid brow of ihe Judge. He threw liimself upon his knees, and rJ'ising his clasped hands, cried frantically,
" Mauile do jiot drive me mad. I cannot boar toconsi;.^n you to the terrible doom that awaits you. On my knees I implore you to ac- cept ray hand. You must not, you
" Peace woman," said Sanford, shall not die ! " Bternly. "Tlien save me — save both of
Turning from her, he command- us" — said Maude quickly. ed that all should retire from the " I have named my conditions " room, and wait without until he 1 said the judge, rising and calming summoned them to return. He. himself by a powerful effort, — ^' Do wishfid to examine the witch alone. ^ you accept them t
When the chamber was cleared,] " No," was the firm reply. — and Maude remained standing a- 1 "Death with the man I love is lone by the table, he rose hastily more welcome than life with one and approached her. ' that I abhor."
THE BOHEMIAN.
19
" You are lost," said the Judge coldly. He l-esumed his seat and rang a sniall bell on his table. An offieer entered, and hom-dered him to ()i)en the doors an(I admit the othor prisoner and the attendants. In a few monient.s all had resumed their places. The Judge was silent ibr a moment. Then tie began slowly :
"I have examined the maiden. Her guilt is plain." . •
Turning to the iVitch Doctor, he orclered him to examine the young girl's person, and if any "marks were found upon it to plunge his probe into them. In spite of her resolution to be firm, Maude shud- dered, llaieourt, who had been resting heavily in the arms of his supjiorters, rose with difficulty as he heard this cruel 6rder, and ex- claimed feebly,
'* Stay ! She is innocent. Do with me as }ou will, but spare her."
" I shall not feel it, dear Henry, said the young girl," going to him and taking his hand, " I will bear it bravely, — not a groan or a sigh shall escape my lips."
Tlie Witch Doctor ap])r()ached, and taking her by the arm said to hor rudely, .
"J must search for the devil's mark, young woman."
He led lier away, and in a few moments had stripped her to her waist. She did not shrink, as ehe stood there among those cru- el men, with her fair and beautiful form exposed to their rude gaze. IJarcourt hid his face in his hands and wept like a child, and the Judge east his eyes upon the floor, and his stern face grew as pale as mar- ble, in the ellbrt to control him- self.
The Witch Doctor held his probe in the flame of the lamp, and as he did so, ran his 6ycs searctwngl}- over the )'Oung girl's form. She bore the scrutiny without flinching.
The spirit of. the whole Cavalier race was in her blood then, and nerving lier with firmness. Sud- denly th(^ Witch Doctor uttered an* exclamation of delight, as his keen. ■^, eye detected a sniall red spot upon her breast. Instantly the heated probe glittered before her eyes, and then it was |»lunged into her bosom.
It was more than her woman's nature, heroic as it was, could en- dure. With a piercing shriek she staggered and was falling to the ground,'when Harcourt sprang for- ward and received her in his arms, and kneeling, by her, endeavored to staunch the blood that was flow- ing from the wound. The Judge had risen to his feet. He treml)led violent!)', and his eyes were blood- shot, as he gazed wildly upon the scene.
" Look up Maude," saftl her lover ■tenderly. •' They shall not harm you again. They shall kill me, but shall not harm .you."
" 1 did not mean to be so weak, dearest," she whispered fointly; " but the pain was so terrible. I tried to spare .you this sutfering, but Iconld uot repress the cry."
" Oh Maude ! could I die to save you," he murmured tearfully.
" We shall die together, Henry," she said gently, all the while striving to keejj back the groans that her a- gony sought to wring from her. " We shall not be parted. There is a land where sorrow never comes. Tliere we shall be happy and at rest."
All this while the Judge had been standing, watching them, like one in adream. ]N'ow,.hespokeslow- ly, and in a hollow voiee pronounc- ed the doom of each. Maude was to suffer death, by fire, at sun-sot, that evening, and her lover was to meet the same fate at sunrise, the next morning.
They were separated and led a- way, and long after all the attend- ants bad left the court room, the
m
THE BOHEMIAN.
Judge Still eat therq. It was late [ when he returned to his Iod<;ings, ; and during the long allcrnoon and night, he paced his chamber, lost in the deepest gloom. A stern, guilty expression alwax'S rested ujion his countenance afterwards, and when he died, long years after the execu- tion of Maude Howard, he suffer- ed the most fearful pangs of re- morse.
At sunset a crowd collected in ' the 'public square of Salem. In ' the centre of the place was a large j etakc surrounded, by a pile of fag- 1 gots, and to this stake Maude : Howard was chained. j
Just as the sun began to sink into the west, lighting up the strange scene with a soft and sub- dued radiance, circling the head of the innocent victim of cruelty and superstition with a halo of light, the executioner fired the pile — the flamos fljired up wildly, and had almost liidden the form of the j'oung girl from view, when a violent commotion was seen ii) the crowd. A man burst through the throng, and rushing towards the stake, sprang upon the pile, and falling upon his knees, clasped the young girl around the waist, and resting his head upon her breast, cried,
" Maude, Maude, wo will die to- gether."
It was Henry Harcourt.
The sun went down and the darkness came on — the flames hiss- ed and loajied up around the devo- ted pair. JS'ot a cry nor a groan escaped them. Locked in each other's arms they yielded to the rage of the devouring element. — When the moon arose, only a heap of smouklering embers, and a mass of blackened bones remained where the stake and the victims had been.
Oh, God! in whose sight the blood of the martj^rs is precious, it is Thy just retribution that Ib
scourging the land, whoso enormi- ties have so Ions: cried to Thee for
von^^ance.
IN THE SNOW.
How it ever happened that they should have married each other, would have astonished any one not accustomed to the marriages of con- venience of lOnglish society. Thank Heaven, i?i tKis country, as a gen- eral thing, people marry as they choose, because the}' like each oth- er. But this last, though, doubt- less, by far the best plan, is scarce- ly jjracticable in a country which possesses a titled nobility. Like the marriages of kings and queens, it is of too much importance to too manj' persons to be the result of chance, whim, or even affection.
Marriages usually take people by surprise. Elderly single ladies, waspish young ladies, and gossip- ing married ladies almost iuvaria- blj' concur in the opinion tliat it is the strangest, most unprecedented procedure. "So unsuited to each other, you know." But though it may bo laid down as a rule, that the opinion which a woman express- es about a marriage, is wrong and not really her opinion, still in this i case — as there are exceptions to all ; rules — ever}' body said, and every ' body thought that when Madeleine, I youngest daughter of Lord Blan- ton, became Lady Madeleine OJuil- I ford, it was the strangest match, and that they were-totally unsuit- ' ed to each other; and, for a wonder, I every body was right. i Three months before the bridal Iday, Lord Guilford had left his cas- tle in a wild and inaccessible glen in Scotland, where he had volunta- ; rily shut himself up with his books , and his tenants, since he was twenty-three years old; and now ; his hair was turning grey, and ; there were deep wrinkles on his broad forehead. lie had come on a
THE BOHEMIAN.
81
short visit to Lord Blanton, not for frictidahip's sake, but to examine an old illuminated misaal in Lord B.'s library, which could not bo procured elsewhere.
Madeleine was a school girl, yet under the charge of a governess, (iossipping old ladies did not even think of her, and for once they luid to open their eyes in real as- tonishment, when, the day before Lord Guilford's return to his home, it was announced that Mad- eleine would be married to his lord- ship on that day two months.
In vain the neighbors tried to make soniothing romantic of it j the facts were obstinate, and would not be romantic. Lord Guilford had some good points, but he was undeniably old and eccentric. Mad- eleine gave some promise, but she was now merely a shy schoolgirl of seventeen. " A matter of con- venience," they said, and some a- bused the lover, and some the father.
However, in two months, Lord Guilford rciurnod, and the marri- age of convenience Avas consum- uted with great splendoux', and the poor little sobbing bride accom- panied her strange and silent hus- hand to his castle in the wild, bleak glen of Scotland. The honeymoon was what might have been expected; indeed it Avas no honeymoon at all. He soon grew accustomed to his wife, and she soon learned to stand in awe of him. With him every feeling seemed to be worn out, and nothing human seemed capable of awaken- iiTg more than a passing notice. "With her no feeling had ever been awakened, and as time passed he experienced a dreaiy sort of relief that there was no probability that they should ever have any children; while poor Madeleine shivered out- side the pale of human love as she sat b}- her husband's tireside, gaz- ing at him while he ben4s over his
black letter volumes, with every thought and intei*est a thousand miles and a thousand years away from her.
Gradually Madeleine knew there was a secret, and one day wlien she had been sick, her nurse, an old woman who had been born and lived ;U1 her life in the castle, told her that more than twenty years ago. Lord Guilfoi'd had been gay and worldl}^ (in fact some people said a very dissipated) man. How- ever, he. was very handsome and very wealthy, and people foi'gavo all that. One hunting season ho had staid at homo all the summ.er, and hunted a great deal, but it seemotl with poor success. One day an old man, who seemed bow- ed with grief, came to the castle and had a long talk in private with the father of the present Lord Guilford, and the next day tho old man, who was a tenant of the estate, disappeared together with his only child, a daughter. Then came black looks in the castle, and high words between father and son — sullen, angry, dangerous looks and words. Then the young man went awa}'-, and in a few months his father died, and Lord Parke Guilford returned to the castle and shut himself up and received no company. A year afterwards, on a stormy December night, a woman entered his libraiy. No one knew how^ she got there. She was poorly clad and her clothes were dripping with rain, and her eyes were bright with fever. The man-servant who was in the room, said that when Lord Guilford saw this woman he dropped like one dead, When he came to he took her in his arms and carried her to his own chamber, and, ordering all the servants away, he sent for this old nurse who, with his assistance, undressed the girl and laid her in his own bed. She was very ill, and seemed " flighty." He had
\'
82
THE BOHEMIAN.
told tho nnrso to prepare a delicate supper and bring it up. also some wine, and, when she liad executed his commands, he ord<*red her a- "K'a}', and no one entered tho room ai'ain tor two davs. • -All nigiit Ijord Guilford re- mained with the dying woman, and tiiey heard low whispering in the room. A little after midnight all was still, and for two <iays no sound was heard in that ciiamber. At length the servants gathered a- round the door and knocked and called, timidl}^ at tir.st, then loudly — in vain, all was still. Then they broke open the door and ibund him sitting by the bed holding tho hand of the dead woman. He woko fl'om a sort of dream to a terrible anger at their intrusion, and drove them all from tho room. After- ward ho called the old nurse and told iier to prepare tho bod}- for burial, and send for the old sexton and have a vault opened in tho castle chapel, and to send word to tho Clergyman to come and per- form the burial service. " I laid her out," said the nurse, " in tho night dress which she wore wl\en she died. She was young and beautiful, more beautiful than " — she glanced at Madeleine, then re- collecting herself, said — " than al- most any woman I ever saw.* She was buried that evening, and I have never s.eon Lcft-d Guilford smile since."
That was the story that mad- dened the 5'Oung wife, and she went to tho chapel, and saw the splendid tomb, ornamoMted with all the skill of sculpture and bla- zonry of heraldry. " fo the mem- ory of Jean, wife of Parke, Lord Guilford." This maddened her still i more, for in l)er heart she believed ' the inscription was a lie.
She went straight to the librar}-. As her eyes fell on her husband, his noble figure was bent over a book — he seemed bowed by a name- !
less what, ? Guilt, she thought.
Then she told him in bitter, sting- ing words, all she had heard, what she believed, her anger, her indig- nation. Her young child's voice was sharp, and every word seemed to sting him. Thou she demantlcd a' separ.ition, instant and forever.
•'Do not let us make ourselves ridiculous, child," he said coJdl}', Then he added, almost fiercely, "And not for your sake, nor for mine, shall the name of that angel woman. ever come before a court of law. But you can return to 3'our father's house, and I will provide for j'-ou amply. <to — stai-t to-mor- row. Every thing shall bo arrang- ed for you." Until this moment, he had been unnaturally calm; but now, his voice became hoarse and raised, and his eyes blazed with a white fury. Go — and never lot mc see your cursed face again. For that woman's sake 1 hate you."
She left, him when sho heard those words, vowing that she never would see him again. The next day she returned \.o her lather's. Seven months afterwards, her first child was born, A formal letter from Ijord Blanton, acquainted Lord Guilford with the fact. It was answered by a call from his Lordship's lawyer, who, in the name of the child's father, settled a property upon it. Tho poor child only lived six n'oeks, and before its mother loft her chamber, tho heir of tho Guilfords was laid at rest in the, tomb of the Blantons. A let- ter, still more formal than the oth- er, from Lord Blanton, announced tho child'* death, and this was an- swered b}' a visit from the clergy- man of the church near Lord Guil- ford, bringing word from his Lord- ship, that the body of tho child must be removed to tho vaults of Guilford Castle, which was accord- ingly done.
To be a wife and a mother, de. velopes a- woman's character, and
THE BOIIEMIAy.
33
Madeleine was a woman now. For tjie shoi-t tiiiie that her chiUl had been left to her, she had loved it,! as a woman loves who has nothing! else on earth to care tor or Lu care ! for. her, but after some months, she j oonimenccd to go out into the gay; society of London, and gradually became engulfed in the whirlpool! of fashion. She was quite i'»vetty, j but no one would have called' her; beautiful. She wns raUior small and delicate looking, with soft, gray eyes and br^)wn hair. 8he became quite a belle in Rociet}', and scorned to enjoy very much those pleanurcs ; which she had never tasted bo-; fore. But in her gayest monxenis there was an underti>ne touchingly mournful. At last she met some one to love her, and she was not 80 sad. He was a young man, that is, young in years, but old in the ways '.'f the ^yorld, and handsome, with a sliglit roue look in his haughty face. He lovL-d her as such ihen love, and she loved him with-! out knowing it — purely, lor she' was pure. !
Did the time pass heavily in Guil- ford Castle, after its mistress was gone? No! It was as if the cat upon the hearth had sought another home, as if one of the pictures in the never-used grand parlor had disappeared from its frame — it^was gone. The}' all knew it but no one cared.
At length Lord Guilford's studies came to a halt. There was n. vol- ume which he must have, and there was but one in the world, and that c^e was in the Librarj- at Gottin- gen. So he made up Ins mind, had his valise packed, and started for Gottingen. When he got there, he examined the volume — it was all he expected. It was more, but the information could not be complete until he had exJimined another vo- lume, aiid this Was to be found only in Paris. So he started for Paris. In this route, one must go
through Switzerland, and one must cross the i\lps. This was a great undertaking for Najioleon with iiis army. But for a single individual, in good weather, it was neither ve- ry hazardous, nor a very long jour- nej'. Having travelled for some time he reached an inn, high on the side of the mountain. Its ownei: was its only inhabitant. As it was late in the evening, he concluded to stay there through the night. The next Hay, when he awoke, he could not help noticing the unusu- al brightness of the morning. It was a lovely spring day, and the air was as balmy as June. A splendid day for travelling, ho thought, but the innkeeper and the postillion shook their heads. After break- fast, he ordered the cabriolet, and taid he would proceed immediately on the journey, but when the dri- ver went to hitch the horses, he found that one of them had gotten loose and strayed off; so with the innkeeper for a guide, he started ■off in search of him. They were Igone some tin\e — the sun was high in the heavens — it was midday, and the air was like summer. Lord Guiltbrd sat alone in the kitchen of the old inn, which roo!n served for parlor, dining room, and chamber — for the house had but one room. He had been waiting impatiently for the return of the postillion, but I now some abstruse calculation fill- ed his mind, and he looked abstrac- i tedjy into the ashes of the fire, i which, on account of the heat, had been suflered to go out. Gradually, in the midst of his thoughts, he be- came aware of a sound, a Low dis- tant rumbling, ever growing near- ' er, but he heard it without think- ing of it. It came very near — pre- sently a crunching sound as of a heavj' vehicle striking a rock, and [ then a crash, as if the vehicle had i broken to pieces. It roused him — I he looked" up and listened. Every- 1 thing was perfectly still, and the
;li
THE BOHEMIAN.
eun shono brightly on the snow of the calm distant pcalca. Ue looked ■from the window. There were no signs of the return of tlie postillion. "With a muttered curse ho settled himself to his thoughts again, lie had scamcly been seated a second, when some one entered the room hastily.
" For the lovo of God, help rao," cried a woman's voice. There was a faint imdcitone in it, which was fan^iliar to him. lln looked up. llcr lace and form were still more familiar to him, but he could not quite remember mIjo it was. Two years .had wrought changes in her, but two years have no such ))0wer when f)ne is over fort}', and she knew bin) in a moment.
" Lord Guilford," she exclaimed. Surprise lent to her voice some- thing of ehildish sharpness, and the old undertone of fear. He knew her now. "Madeleine," ho exclaimed, fierce-
She turned quickly to leave him, but be caught her arm, and held her tightly, almost roughly.
" Stay ! 3-0U are in distress. One must help even his enemies, and there is no one but me near to help you. What is the matter?"
Ue had scarcely uttered the words, when high above them there was a mighty crash, as if a mountain peak had fallen. It seem- ed hundreds of miles away, and yet horribly near. Both started and listened, iind Madeleine, un- consf-ioiisly drew nearer to Lord Guilford; for in any danger a wo- man involuntarily seeks ])rotection from a man, no matter how much, under ordinary circumstances, she may fear or dislike him. It is the natui-al confidence of the weak in the strong, of the feaiful in the fearless. It is a woman's animal instinct to shrink from danger; it is a man's animal instinct to shield her from it.
Thoy liPtenod intently. Cra.'^h after crash sncceeded each other, as of some immense falling body leaping from erag to crag, and. ac- eompanyinr; it. was a soft, confused sound, as of dripping spray, nud a distant murmur like echoed thun- der. The sound did not approach slowly. Terrified as they were, it seemed only a few seconds, when a ruMi of air, terribly cold, seemed to shake the house, strong as it was, to its very foundation ; and a se- cond after, one corner of the house W.1S half crushed in, and they were. envelo])ed in total darkness; and then they heard the sound sttll de- scending, but so muffled, so distant, that the}- felt the jar rather than heaj-d the sound.
Madeleine clung to him in the darkness. "
"What is it?" she whi.spered, hoarsely.
" The avalanche," ho replied in a tone as low as hers. Then they stood still, as if waiting for some- thing. One moment of such wait- ing seems an age, and when Lord Guilford groped to the mantel- piece and lighted a candle, and they looked at each other, it seem- ed hours — years — since they had seen each other's faces. Curiously and eagerly they looked at each other, glad, in spite of themselves, that at least one human presence was spared* to them in the awful solitude. And for the first time, since their marriage, that sense that they were one, that neither ''height nor depth, nor any other creature," could annul that fact, and far more distinctly than when they really hoard it from the robed Prie*;t, came to both the remem- brance of those words, " whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder." After all, a man's wife, or woman's husband, though neither loved, respected, nor es- teemed, is nearer than any other human being can be.
THE BOHEMIAN.
36
Madeleine started, and exclaim- ed.
''My mother."
"Where is she?"
"In the carriage." .
"And where is that?"
" When it turned over it was a long way from here — as far as from the gale to the house at Guil- ford Castle."
" She is lost then. A hundred men could not dig the snow from here in time to save her. She is probably dead now."
Madeleine threw herself in a chair, covered her face with her hands, and was silent. Lord Guil- ford looked around the room care- fully. It was a small room; the walls, roof aiui floor were of brick and stone, built ver}- thick and strong. It was furnished with a few chairs, two beds, a table, and a mat before the fireplace — all com- mon Jlnd rough. There was a cup- board, which contained a little crockery ware and a few. wooden platters. There was a ])ile of wood in one corner, by which lay an axe and a hatchet, and in ano- ther corner rested a ladder and some ropes. On one side was a sort of closet. He ojiened the door and found that it contained stores of eatables, and that it, in its turn, opened into a small stable built on to the house, which held two goats.
The shed had been crushed, but lay in such a niimncr as still to pro- tect the goats. Having completed his survey, he returned to the kitchen, and taking out his pocket book, wrote in it, " Parke, Lord Guilford, and Lady ^Madeleine Guil- ford, buried under an avalanche, May 4th, 18 — , 25 minutes past 12 o'clock, midday." .He read this aloud, but Madeleine made no re- mark.
•' There is no time to lose," he said, " I must try to dig up to the Air. If we remain here we shall suffocate."
Still Madeleine was silent. She seemed to have resigned herself to her doom.
Failing to^iid a spade, Lord Guil- ford took the shovel from the fire- place, and then looking around, seemed to be trying to decide from what point to attempt the ascent. There were but two possible points, the chimney and the broken^ corner of the building. Ho decided upon the latter, and removing some rubbish and bricks, soon made a hole in the wall, larger than himself. He suc- ceeded for a few moments in clear- ing a space upwards, of about two feet, throwing the snow down into the room, as he cut it, for there was no other place to throw it. Presently he worked more slowly. The snow was hard, and the shovel would .not break it, and he was numb with cold, and dared not make a fire lest it should exhaust the little oxygen remaining in the air, and on which their lives de- pended. He descended into the hut, and stood by the fireplace.
" We must die Madeleine. The enow is too hard to cut, and all the air will soon be gone."
She looked at him for a moment, as if struggling to comprehend him. She shivered and glanced around.
" It is cold," she said.
His heart was human. He had
loved a woman, and he felt pity for
this woman, who, after all, was his
wife. He went to her and took her
hand. It was very cold.
j " My God ! she is freezing to
death," he cried in tones of impo-
|tent agony. "Madeleine, Made-
i leine, you must walk," he said, sha-
. king her violently, and striving to
jmako her walk.
j " Don't ! 1 am tired. Let mo a-
lone," she said, sullenly.
I Cold as it was, he took his coat
off, and wrapt it around her and
then walked up and down the floor
' dragging her with him. Presently
vt
TnB BOHEMIAN.
the movement eeefned to give ber. from the cloBCt, and divided it with new lifp, and she walked without j her. Tiiey both devoured their his assistance. Lord Guilford .stum- ' shares eai^orly. He then exphiin- bled over something. It was a ' ed to lier that he must cut another hatchet. He seized ft eager! 3'. [channel up t'rcin the chimney be- "Can you walk now?" he in- j fore they could make any fire, quired of Madeleine. She seemed When tlii.«! clLinnol had been cut, somewliat aroused to her danger, ; they built a fire, and be looked at and said she could, lla.stily Hnateh- , his watch. They had been buried ing a blanket from one of the l)eds, beneath th*> avalanche for sixteen he took his coat, put it on, and then hours. jMadeleine found bread and
the blanket around her.
Again lie commenced the wcarv
moat in ih*» closet, and sei it on the table, with knives und plates. Then
task of cutting his way to light and they sat down and ate tiicir meal life. The snow yielded to the | in silence. They gave no thanks, hatchet, and fell into the room,! They were di-awn into a forced where Madeleine threw it aside, j contact b}' circumstances. They and as he advanced he used the lad- 1 were, to. a certain degree, depend- der. On, he went, making a .space ' ant on each other, but neither of just large enough for himself, for ' them could forget, or quite forgive he feared to fill up the hut with : the past. Therefore they sat in si- trnow. Every now and then ho i lenoe, looking down into their would call down. I jdaLes. When it was over, the}' sat
"Madeleine, are yon walking?" Idovvn b}- the fire. After a while and she would answer "yes." Then ; Lord Guilford looked at his watch, went on the sharp chop, chop — ;It was si.x o'clock in the morning, scratch, scratch, of the hatchet a- ■ Day was breaking, but they were gainst the hard snow. He worlced tired, and must sleep. on, cold, half suffocated. What j " Madeleine, are you sleepy ?" he
■will not a man do to save his life? At length the snow above him seemed lighter — he looked down — below him. was the narrow pass some twenty feet deep, lie had been hours in cutting it. Tiie air was so dense he could scarcely breathe. He worked more feebl}'. He heard Madeleine cry. gaspingly; "My God! Parke- — I am d'y-
asked.
" No," she replied, coldly.
"Are vou tired?"
"No.""
"I am both sleepy and tired. I will lie down to sleep, if you will pr.'miso me to keep the fire burn- ing, and to wake me, il' you wish to sleep, . We are surrounded by so much dangei*, that one of us must watch all the time. Will j'ou promise ?"
" Yes," she replied, and without another word ho laid down, and
ing — 1 cannot breathe — save me — air — air — "
He made no repl}-, he clenched his teeth, and with a violent efl'oi't, worked more quickly. At length ! was soon asleep, the light came in throup^h a tiny " Madeleine gazed at him while fissure, not so largo as his hand, j he slept. It was this, same, stern, Siill it was air, it was life. It took I ti.Ked, prematurely old face, that but a few moments to make tho'l had startled the sleep from her pil- fj.ssure as large as the rest of the j low so many, manj- nights. It was channel. He instantly descended i not a hard face, or a bad face, but into the hut. Aladeleino was re- 1 sorrow and suffering seemed to have vived by the air, and was still [ stamped themselves over and over •walking. He took a loaf of bread | again on every feature. That face
THE BOHEMIAN.
37
hiid frozen her young feelings in their spring. She could not forgive it, but at length she did it justice. She had thought that there was guilt in it. Her judgment had been the crude judgment of a cliild. She was older now, and knew that tiiere was no cfuilt, no remorse, in ail tljat settled sorrow. To igno- ble minds, it hardens, and shuts out inei'cy to be compelled to do jus- tice; but it sofLL'Hs noble minds, and they are inclined to go even farther tluin is necessary in their change of opinion. Madeleine's mind was noble, and as slie watcii- cd her sleeping husband, her feel- ings softened inexpressibly towards him. She, too, bad suffered. She could pity him now. Then she r^^ membered her child, and that this was- the first time, since its birth, that she had seen his father's face. Oh !. mysterious tie of wifehood, and of motherhood! tie which no time, no changes, no.wroiig can efface. " He is my child's father."
Madeleine crept closer to the sleeping man; she knelt by him for a long time.
" For my baby's sake," she said, in a tone of inexpressible "tender- ness, and bent over and kissed him. She went back to the fire, put on n'oro wood, and sat down and watched. She thought of her lover. She had loved him, but she was pure, and when he told her of his love, her scorn, her purity, had driveji him from her presence. — Then herthouglus went back to the old days at Uuilford, sad and tire- some days, and she thought of the blaz(jned tomb, and the beautiful dead woman who was lying there, still and cold, with clasped Avhite hands. Indeed, she .seemed to think of almost every thing as she watched, for he slept many hours. It was near sundown when he ■woke. He turned to where she eat by the fire, and thought he had never seen any thing more beauti-
ful than her gentle face, with its soft brown hair,
" Madeleine."
She arose and went to him.
"My Lord. '
She had always called him "My Lord," but there was something different in its cadence. She seem- ed changed. Her manner had the expression of a woman who feels that she is in the presence of the father of her child.
"You must bo tired now, lie doan, 1 will watch." Ho rose and walked unsteadily to the fii-e. She was indeed almost e.xliaustQd, and she lay dovvn, without speaking, ant! was soon in her turn fast asleep.
It was his turn now to gaze at this child's face, which had be- come a woman's face; to reflect, to rej)ent, to do justice, and he too thoutrht remorsefully of the little bab}' that he had never seen, whose life and whose death had not avva- kened a single feeling. He felt now that he had wronged his child and its mother.
Two da3-8 passed. Their man- ner tovvards each other grew kind- er, and sometimes some trifling at- tention would brinj; a strange thrill to their hearts. Out of doors it was a warm spell. The snow was melting there, too. The third day Lord Guilford woke with a high fever. He was too weak to rise. Oh! the days that followed. Lord Guilford ill, no one to care for him, but this frail creature, utterly cut off from all human assistance. — How unceasingly, how tenderly, she nursed him. But a time came when nursing would do no good, and she sat by him, and leaned over him in agony.
" Oh Parke ! Parke ! do not die," she cried, gathering his head in her frail arms, and pressing it to her bosom.
"Why not?'^ he asked, faintly Bmilinff.
^b
TnX BOUEMUN.
" Beauise — bceaase, I love you."
" Wife:"
" IIu>l.and !"
And in those two words lovo and fctrgivc-ncss were complete.
** Let us pra3- for God's lielp," t»hc said, and with chi8|)cd hands they pra>"cd.
Tiiere are times when God seems to answer prayer directly. It was so in this case; ev.en wlnlo the}' prayed they heard tho sound of human voices. A company ot the mountain peasants, accompanieii by two old monies, who lived in a monastery on this wild peaU, knowing there were persons in thi? inn had set out to try to save them, if they should be vet alive. The snow, which had melted away a great deal, was soon cleared from the house, and the strangers enter- ed the room. The monks hnd, as all monks in these regions have, Bomo knowledge of medicine, and they prescribed for and assisted LordGuillbrd. They removed him, together with his wife, to the mon- ivstery, and in a few weeks he re- covered. The llrst day that ho could sit up his liOrdship wrote iu his pocket-book — " Parke, Lord <xuilford, and his wife, Lady iMad- eleine Guilford, r-jscucd from death May 15th, 18 — , three o'clock in the evening."
The bodies of Lad}' Blanton ai.d her servants, and of the innkeeper and postillion, were found after a long while.
(Juilloi'd Castle is brighter now, for Lady Madeleine is a wife in- deed. At last, at last, " they two are one." God led them " by a path they knew not," ''into his perfect day."
BOIIEML\NA.
Richmond is a world within itself It is no longer the Eich- mond of old, it is the Confederacy — the world. Here we have all
kinds and classes of people — rcpre- jsentatives of nearly overy race I under Heaven. The Bohemian goes about town a great deal, and j keeps his e^'cs and ears ojten. Ho sees much that he had lioped never to witness in the South, and much to make him ashamed of his na- tivity. Ho does not ])rofes3,to be ' wiser than the rest of the world, but he does claim to bo more ob- servant than most men. i The Bohemian knows many per- sons, who are not all tiiat thoy sh'uld be, and who, in his cstima- ] tion, are very far from being either good citizens, or patriots. } One of these is Mr. Grindem. I Mr. Gideon Grindem, of the great house ol Grindem and Squeeze, is, or was before the war, a merchant. When our troubles came on he was a wealthy man, and had al- most made up his mind to retire from business. But when he saw the Southern jjoi'ts blockaded and found such a scanty supply of goods in the market, he determined to remain in business, and add ''a little more," as he said, to his for- tune. He immediately bought up nil the goods ho could tindunonoy to pay for, and filled his large warehouse with them, and then closed the doors. When asked ' why ho did not continue business, Mr. Gidc(m Grindem would re])ly that he was afraid to risk anything I until be could see his way more I clearly. The tloors of the great house remtiined closed for tiuiuj'' : months, and at la.'it, when the goods ^commanded prices, which then j seemed almost fabulous, they were opened. When the year closed the great house of Grindem and Squeeze had cleared a quarter of a million ot dollars.
After the blockade business be- came fashionable the great house of Grindem and Squeeze entered the auction business. Then Mr. Gideon Grindeni was in his glory.
THE BOHEMIAN.
39
The Bohemian often Ti>it<? tlio'se bnok<5 .1 few dny<» a.'jr>. nnd finnd Auctions, nnd tliere he pees \hr> thnt he wns worth a million of dol- lar<re and domineerinrr ficrnre of , hxrs. A<5 h<^ jrrows wealthier, the Mr. Gideon Grindem strnttinrr np ' ehararteristies that have heen m^n- and down the room listonincr with ; tinned here crvow more strikinir. ill-eoncenled emrornos'* to thf' hid- j TTo thinks he is a most oxeell'^nt dinir. Yow often whon the Bohe |eiti7>en, a model patriot, and a con- mian thinks the ffoods aro rroinjr ' sistent momher of the Chnreh. enormonslv h'frh. and while ho is. Tt is the opinion of the Bohomian rnofnlly thinkinnr that it will he a j that Mr. Gideon Gi-indem of the loner time hefore he enn indnhre in j ffvent house of Grindem and Sqnoezo the Inxnrvof new clothes, he honrs j is a fine specimen of that flass of pa- the lond sharptone^ of Mr. Grind- ' tr>of!i(?) known to the world as ex- em to the salesman — "take them ' torlioners. and he reads in the ijood down, sir ; we ean't atford to sell at book that an extortioner is no bet- this rate — it is rninoiis— ruinous." \ ter than a murdcner or a thief. Tmmpdiatelv the cfoods cro up. A Sometimes, when the niirht is sly peep into the books of tho orreat; fiiir, the Bohemian walks abroad house of Grindem and Squeeze, j and sees what he may see. In would reveal the fact that the j those walks come pleasant mem- ffoods sold at these " r?/?'?7o?/.<?" rates j cries — sad in the recollcetiona of brine: the house nearly a hundred ' days gone by, and of jzala nights thonsand dollars profit. when the familiar form aocom-
The next Sunday the Bohemian, (panied him. and the familiar voice who goes to church quite regular- 1 sounded in his ear : but as he walks ly, sees Mr. Gideon Crindem march I the streets on' these nights his np the aisle, enter his pew and ex- 1 mind goes out to hill .and to valley, hihit to the congrcfiation the most and to desolate plain, where are beautiful piety. When the coUec- ' the old companions of his happier, tioTi is taken up, l^e puts in a dollar , pleasanter walks ; some wrapped note, always taking care that it , in the coarse blanket, and with shall be one that he thinks he will the great glare of camp fires fall-
find difficult to get rid of in his bu- siness. When he is asked for a do-
ing upon them ; some watchful and waking, staring ceaselessly nation to any charitable oJiject, he through the night, and marking gives a five dollar note, of the old i the gleam of the hostile bayonet; issue. Sometimes Mr. Grindem is 'some .sleeping the soldier's sleep, called on to lead in prayer, and he \ in their country's earth, or beneath always prays the most eloquent the clods of the foeman's soil, and appropriate prayers — for it is \ The lights flare out as cheerfully very proper that the crreat house as of yore ; the great streets are of Grindem and Squeeze should as busy with people moving to sometimes condescend to pray. 'and fro as before that time vahpu Mr. Grindem is very patriotic — the desolation fell upon us; the he thinks it a shame that the cur- 1 houses are there and the public rency should depreciate so much — places are there; but the forma of but he never forsre's to advance his I those Avhose absence we deplore prices, as gold increases in value. . ar<? absent in the picture. He has great sympathy for the sol- 1 And so it is that, on these nights dier, so much that he does not he- 1 that attend the departure of the sitate to charge him a month's pay j Old Year, the Bohemian looks for a single pair of woollen gloves. ! around him with a sad remem- Mr. Grindem looked over hjs'brance of other times, and feels
40
THE BOHEMIAN.
like talkincj faniilinrly with those i who reivd his words, but know him not.
And thus, oh reader, would he ; speak bi'icily to you : I
In the ;;reat travail through j which our country is ]>assinsr toi day-*— in the agony that aUcnds this birth of a new nation — in the thou^dit of the labor and sacrifi'oes that we are called upon to make, ] we must not stand with listless hands, and give no heed to tho fateful struggles that arc irointt on around us. There are those — and| the knowledge of them is not con- j fined to the Bohemian alone— who are worshippinjr, as of old wor- sliip])ed the apostate Isrelites, the golden imasro that they have raised up to h'? the object of their adora- tion. In this worship comes some- thing more thai) the ordinary lust for gold. In its train follows a multitutie of evils whereof the blind devotees of Mammon have no thought or knowledge. With ii como all doubt aiid uncertainty, | and weak-minded feiirs for the fu- ture. Gathering about, cluster the evil spirits of decay and disintegra-i lion ; and the man who to-day a- masses gold in the hour of his country's peril, doubts the success, of the cause upon which wo have: staked our earthly hopes; and he who doubts (not honestly, but cun-| ringly,and with an 03'e to ultimate! gain) is a traitor to the cause. |
When the story of a bloody, des- perate struggle is brought to us, allied with the pitiful recital of how our men were i)orno backward . in the savage fight by the divisions, against battallions, of the enemy, | the Bohemian marks how, for each ' drop of Confederate blood, useless-' ly shed in the attempt to storm a position, the percentage rises I'n the Drice of the gold dollar. He sees, then, arise the bird of ill-omen darkening, with its gloomy wings,; the weak hopes of the workers iu '
gold, and he sees, too, how, beneath the shadi)w that rests upon Lhe land, quivL-ring with the mournlul record of an unsaccessful conflict, the bus\' priest's of the accursed Plutus walk amiMig the people and gather from them the metallio currency, whereof can no revolu- tion, or turn of war, change the value.
And, when the Bohemian soea these things, he turns his gazo to ilie homestead — oftimes humble and poverty-stricken — of the sol- dier. There ho sees Want, it may b<>, but not Doubt. Around the lonel}^ fireside sit those who have sent their all to the hopeful ►strug- gle. In the quiet of the night, and when tlie wild vvinds are boisterous about the gables, tiie fa.t.her, and mother, and wife — it may be — of him who has gone to the wars sit, and talk of him who is absent. Has a battle been tought? If so, and if the object of their ])rayer- ful converse liave borne part in it, the voices are silent around the fireside. But, has a battle been fought, and have they heard from the absent one?' Then does the proud look of the father's face grow ]n"onder, and tlieu is the happy smile upon the faces of mother and wife deepened as they road of the charge, and the rout, and how the day was won.
There is no repining here at what time may bring with it. No fear, save that nameless fear that owes its birth to the peril that sur- rounds him of whom they speak. His country is their country, the cause for which he perils life and limb is their cause; and so, in and out of season, amid the exultation of victory, or the clamors tbat arise from the workers in gold when the suppression of disaster falls upon the land, they speak cheerfully of the glorious ending tbat will coran to the efforts that our people are making to-dav
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THE TIIEATHK IS OPK.N
Ur EVERY EVENING. .MZ
The Mnnacenient hes leave to call attention to the Elite audiences that nightly ciowd the Theatre, as evidence of the correctness of the performances, &c.
R. D. OGDEN, Acting and Stage Manager.
IN" I'RESS,
FOR IMMEDIATE PUBLICATION!
ISSTROCTIOiS FOR FIELD ARTILLERY,
• Compiled from standard military authorities, for the use of the Confederate States Army,
BY MAJOR A, M. STARKE,
This work is recommended by Major-General Elzey, and Adjutant and Inspector-General Cooper, and authorized to be published by the Secretary of War.
jgit^ The trade will address orders (which will be furnished in the order they are received) to
• A. MORRIS, PUBLISHEll AND BOOKSELLER,
RICHMOND, V A.
Just Publtsued,
JE
THE LIFE OF
T-GENERAL THOIAS J. JACKSOI.
By an Ex-Cadet of the Virginia Military Institute.
TJiis book comprises an account of the life of Gen. Jackson, and embraces very
much coiicerniiiQ his conduct in Mexico, and his life at the Institute, tiiat
has never been made public by any other wiilcr.
Price TWO Dollars. a libellal discount to the trade.
Also, Just Publisued,
WARROCK'S Yirginia and Nortli (jarolina ALMANAC for 1864,
Calculaled by DAVID RICHARDSON, of Louisa County, Va.
FOR SALK IN ANY QUANTITY.
Orders addressed to the undersicrned will receive promjjt attention.
JAMES E. GOODE
MAIN STREET, opposite Farmer's Bank, Richmond, Ya.
ISI TJ S I C .
Just iniMLslicJ a ClimSTMAS and NE\y YEARS
For 1SG3 and '64,
ESPECIALLY ADAPTED FOR PRESENTATION.
Consistinn; of three orifjinal and beantitul SONGS, with PIANO FORTE accoinpaiiyraonts.
No. 1. — Entitled "Faiiiiks Have Broken Theik Waxds," by Thos, Hoiul. Ko. 2. " "The LovEKS VVisn/' - - ■ - by F. W. Rosier.
No. 3. " " I Kxow A MAn>KN faib to sek,''- - bj H. W. Loiiufcllow.
Handsomely illustrated with colored title in four iM-iiTifp-j.s, and <>n first class jiapor. Price $:; OO—lialt otr to the trade. AxME OF THE Vale — Music^bv J. R. Thomas,' Author of " In my Cottage hy
the Sea." "-ll
WuES THIS Ckcki. War is Ovku — Mu.sic by Henry Tnckor. >yE Have Pauti:!) — Poetry and Mjixic by Jliss Ella AV'ron. Kathlkk.v Mavoi-rni-kn — F. N. Crouch.
Hart ok the SouTii I Awakf. — 0. I^.. Petjcolas. .. ^^ '^.
My Wife and Chilk — Poetry by Oen. Jackson, of Ga, OTpsic by F. W. Rosier ^^EE AT YopR ]''i:i;t A ScPPiiANT Owe — Balfc. Rock Me to Slkef, ^Iother — Music by J. H. Hewitt.
^loTHEit, IS THE Batti.k Over ? •
V^iRoixiA M A RSEii-LAJSE— Original Flench Music. Keet ME Awake, Mo%iirR — Denck. TiiH SoiTH — J. H. Hewitt. , '
.\ll Qdikt Aio.i(} THE Potomac Tonight — J. H. Hewitt. SofTiiERS Cro-ss — Words by St. Genroe Tucker, Music by 0. L. Peticolas. SouTiiEiiN SoLDiKii BoV — Woids by Cai)t. G: W, Alexander. Who Will Care fob Mother Now — By 0. C. Sawyer. GooDnTE, Svvkktheakt, Goodiite — Farorite Ballad. Ui' With the Flag — wocd.s by Dr. HTrrcil.
C. S. A. CLASSICAL SERIES OF SONGS AND BALLADS,
No. 1. FAREWELL ENCH.VNTING HOPE— Music by l"ei;.\ Lessintf.
: o:
HUNTEN'S INSTRUCTIONS FOR TiHE PIANO FORTE,
in two parts. Hy Post So IKJ each i)art. Toaclnis and &i-hools takiiiff 10 copies
§2 50 edcli part.
,— :o:
BLANK MUSIC PAPER (OD BEST CAP PAPER,) $1 00 per sheet
of four pages. Forty per ct. off to the trade.
Now readv,
By Prof. C11R1STI30N of Uiuidce Oolleoe, 1st C. S. A. edition from the fifteenth Edinburgh, carefully revised by F. W. Rosier.
GEO. DUNN & CO.,
Engravers, Litliogi-apliers and Piiblisliers
RIOHMONU, VIRtJINlA.
Lf ■ Agents for SCHRRINER & Co., Savannah, Goorgia. and
JULIAN A. SELBY, Columbia South Carolina.
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