the saint paul sunday globe, sunday morning, july 3, …€¦ · old i.evtkr*. there, speak in...
TRANSCRIPT
OLD I.EVTKR*.
There, speak in whispers; fold me to yourheart,
Deaf love, forIhave roamed a weary,wearyway;
Bid my vague terrors with thy kiss depart,Oh, Ihave been among the dead to-day,
And, like a pilgrim to some martyr'6shrine,Awed with the memories that crowd my
brain.Fearing my voice Iwoo the charm of thine;
Tellme thou livest, lovest yet again.Not among graves, but letters, old and dim
Yellow and precious, have Itouched thepast,
Reverent and prayerful as we chant the hymnAmong the aisles where samte their shadows
cast;Reading dear names on faded leaf that here
Was worn with foldings tremulous and fond,These drowned in plashing of a tender tear,
Or withdeath's tremble pointing "the be-yond."
And love, there came a flutterof white wings—
A 6tir of snowy robes from out the deepOf utter silence, as Iread the thingsIsmiled to trace before Ilearned to weep;
And hands, whose clasp was magic long ago,Came soft before me, tillIyearned to press
Wad kisses on their whiteness—
then the woe,The sting of death, the chill of nothingness!
One was afar, where golden sands made dimShining steps of the poor trickster Time:
And one was lo6t. Ah!bitter grief for himWho wrecked his manhood in the depths of
crime;Another, beatuiful as morning's beam
Flushing the orient, laid meekly downAmong the daisies, dreaming love's glad
dieam,And one swoet saint now wears a starry
crown.
And thus there stole delicious odors still,From out the relics ofthe charmed past,
Sighs from the lips omnipotent to willAnd win rich tribute to thn very last;
But death, or change had been among myflowers,
Andall their bloom had faded, so that IYield my sad thoughts to the compelling
powers,Of the bright soul Iworship tillIdie.
Nay, never doubt me, for by lotc's divineAnd toarful past, Iknow my future thine.
STKPHANI*.
BYF. E. M. MOTLEY.
Inthat wildest portionofthe Ardennes•where the woods grow more stately andthe giant ash and elm and pine stretch onand on to the Black forest, there lies inthe very heart ofthe green a village,whichIwillname St. Elmo. Itis wonderfullybeautiful; except Bouillon, the birth-place of the renowned Godfrey, there isHot a hamlet in the forest that can vie\u25a0with its picturesque rocks and its wildscenery.
Many years ago Iwent to St. Elmo fora week's fishing in the brawling, troubledstream, which, pouring over rock andrapid, comes leaping from the forest and
dashes by the village on its way to theMcuse. Myroad lay through glens andwoods filled" withbeauty. Allaround mypath sang the oriole and nightingale.
As the day grew hot,Iplunged deep-er and deeper among the soft shades ofgreen, till about midday, when everybreath was still with heat, Ireached amagnificent forest glade six miles long,straight as the arrow flies, and archedabove by interlacing branches and roofofleaves. Beautiful exceedingly wa3 thearched roof, and so refreshing in the heatto every jaded sense, that the eye bathedinits green sea, and the ear drank in itsstillness, and the hand longed to touch itsdewy verdure.
"Surely the very place," said I, "foran Arcadian feast."
So 1sprang from my horse and fastenedhim toa ttee. Then Itook the baskethung on the saddle, and unfolded itscon-tents and spread them on the sward. Agoodly repast for an anchorite v*as mine,and 1enjoyed it like a hermit —
a won-drous sense of solitude, of praise, of lifefillingall my being.
"Here is thine own health, wayfarer,"Isaid aloud, as 1took the tankard in myhand.
"1 will trinquer with the stranger,"cried an unexpected voice. Ilooked allaround, and up and down the green glade,hut through the whole length of thelonely avenue of trees, the sea of leaf andgrass remained unspotted by aught butflittingbirds and tremendous, flickeringshadows.
"Cuckoo-oo la, la!" sang the voiceagain. This is the refrain of an Arden-sais song sung by the peasants in the oldWalloon tongue, the tune having a fresh-Bess about it redolent of forest life andfreedom. The merry voice echoed meamong the leaves, and looking up 1 saw,swinging on a great bough of beech, mid-way between me and the great roof, awild figure with longhair, sunburnt faceand great dark eyes, somewhat restless,though fullof glee.
Seeing that Iperceived him, he swunghimself to the ground from the swayingbranch, and would have tied away, butthat, starting up, Iseized him by thearm. He was a youngster of about four-teen, wild,shy and free as a wild woodbird.
"Letme go," he cried, "we are playing'cache- cache.' Ifyou don't let me run,Stephanie will findme."
A little,blooming face peeped out fromamong the leaves as he spoke, but disap-peared like a frightened bird on seeing astranger.
"Now fetch me Stephanie," Isaid,"and you and she shall have these cakesand all this fruit you see piled upon thegrass."
On he darted like an arrow, as 1lefthim, and Idoubted whether the hope ofcakes would be strong enough to conquerhis savage shyness and bring him back.But he came; or rather the girlcame lead-ing him. She was smaller than he, butshe had an older, calmer look. As Ilooked into her eyes, 1saw in them an ex-pression never found inany girlish faces,inplaces within the pale of civilization—an expression so unwittingof evil,"so de-Toid ofthat species of conscious bashful-ness which brings the reddening cheekand the averted glance, that itcame near-er to my thought of angels than anything1had ever yet seen on earth.
Then, too, she was beautiful, and herbeauty was of a most rare order. Hercomplexion was of that clear olive that atnight shines with the luster of ivory, heremail figure was the perfection of grace,and her hands and feet tiny. Her hair•was ofa peculiar brown, like the brownofa bird's wing, and utterly unbrighten-ed by any lighter tints.
This is her description, but words failto do justice to the power and wonder ofher beauty. Itis the magic and charm ofloveliness, not the form alone, that con-stitute its true dominion.
Inblundering words Iasked the childher name.
"Stephanie, the Stranger," she an-swered."Itoo, am a foreigner, Stephanie."She gazed at me more earnestly here."Are you from my mother's country?"
she said. "Areyou from England?""Yes,Iam from England.""Then you may kiss me if you will."
And then she presented first one cheekand then the other, inthe French fashion,while1stooped and touched them withmy lips. Perhaps she saw on the boy'sface slight anger at this caress, for shestole her hand into his and drew him»waj.
"Come, Gustave, let up play cache-cache again."
"Take the fruit with you, my chil-dren,
'Icried.
The boy looked back, but he did not
move untilStephanie came toward me;then he waved her back and caught upthe little basket himself.
"Are you, too, a strangor, Gustave?" Iasked.
"No. lam an Ardennais."
"Then you are not Stephanie's broth-er?" Isaid, a littlesurprised.
"Nother brother! You.are mistaken;Ihave no sister but Stephanie."
He ran off, andIwatched them wanderaway down the long, arched avenue, un-til their pretty figures disappeared be-neath a canopy of leaves.
AsIrode, an hour later, into the littlestreet ofSt. Elmo, my friend, the doctor,seized the bridle of myhorse."Iexpected you long ago," he cried,
"but, thank heaven, you have arrived intime!"
"What is the matter? What has hap-pened?"
"The Englishwoman is dying—
ourvillage mystery
—our ten years wonder!"
"My dear friend," Iinterposed, "youforget that this is my first visit to
"St.
Elmo, and Iknow nothing of your vil-lage mysteries."
Indeed, hitherto the doctor and Ihadonly met at Brussels, and itwas there hehad given me an invitation to his cottagein the Ardennes.
"Come withme," he answered, placinghis arm withinmine. "Iwilltell you»themystery on our way."
He drew me at a rapid pace, talking ashe went.
"Twelve years ago," said he, "a lady,dressed in black, descended from the dili-gence on the grand route and asked herway to St. Elmo. She directed her lug-gage to be left at the Barriere, and walk-ing herself by the shorter way throughthe woods, reached our solitary village ©nfoot. She had a child in her arms
—a
littlegirl about a year old"
"Stephanie!" Icried."Yes, that is her name. The lady
found lodgings at the bouse of a smailfarmer, and there she has resided eversince. And during this time she hadnever had a visitor, and with the excep-tion of two packets a year from Paris,evidently from some notary or man ofbusiness, she has never had a letter. Shehas livedlike one buried alive.
"And who is she?" 1asked."No one knows. She calls herself
Mme. Grey. Her means appear to bevery small, yet sufficient in a place likethis for necessaries. But lately she hasneeded a few luxuries, whichIhave donemy best to supply her with. She ha*struggled against consumption these twoyears; to-day she is dying. lam takingyou to her."
"Have youany idea for what reason shewishes to see a countryman of her own?""Ican only guess. She may have
some communication to make, some re-quest to prefer—perhaps respecting thechild.
"Is she a widpw?"Iasked."Icannot tell .you," returned the doc-
tor, with a terrific shrug of his shoulder."Ionly know that for twelve years shehas led here the lifeof a saint, and ex-cept for the companionship of her child,she has been utterly alone. She has em-ployed herself in working for the poorand ineducating her littledaughter; giv-ing her as a fellow pupil, Gustave, thefarmer's son. Like Paul and Virginia,the two children have been inseparable.The people here always seeing them to-gether almost forget they are not brotherand sister."
We had now reached a wild and lonelyglen, walled in withbroken and fantasticcliffs,over which hung woods of dwarfbeech, ash and hazel. Beneath one ofthe tallest of these cliffs stood a thatchedcottage, with a small garden spreadaround it,and just beyond this the river,which ran through the valley, narroweditself between two rocks, and then sprangover a fallof about twen'y feet.
"This is the cottage," said the doctor.We entered; and in a moment more I
found myself in the presence of MadameGrey.
The dying woman looked at me eager-ly, with large, wild eyes, then she heldout her hand to me, saying feebly, inEnglish:
"Iwant to speak to you alone."The doctor and the farmer's wife, whom
we had found sitting by the bedside, in-tuitively understood her wish, and leftbefore 1could speak it.
"1am grieved to trouble a stranger. 1trust you will forgive me," said Mrs.Gray.
Mindful of the doctor's counsel not towaste time in ceremony, Icame to thepoint at once.
"Makeno apologies, Mrs. Grey,but tellme, Ibeg, whatIcan do for you; and be-lieve that, stranger asIam, Iwould domuch to be ofassistance to a countrywo-man."
'•It is a little thing to do, sir, and ifyou willgive me your promise to performitIshall die content." Igave her mypromise, and then she drew from beneathher pillow a small pocketbook; from thisshe took a card, which she placed in myhand.
'^Vhcn Iam dead will you write tothat address, and tellhim to send orcomefor his child?"
My eyes fell on the name and addressof an Austrian noble, reputed to be ofim-mense wealth and known to be one oftheproudest of the exclusive aristocracy ofVienna. \glanced at the dying womanwith deep compassion. On her attenuat-ed face there lingered the remains ofgreatbeauty. And on this wasted page Ifancied Icould read her history.
"Andifthe count willnot acknowledgehis daughter, ifhe willneither come norsend forher
—what are your wishes then?"
Isaid.A faint flush suffused her cheek as she
answered me painfully:"Itwas of me
—his wife—that he was
ashamed; even his pride will not hinderhim from acknowledging his daughter."
"Good heavens! are you the Counte3SYon H ?" Iexclaimed. "And dyinghere, like this!
'Iscarcely knew whether to believe her
words ornot. Itseemed impossible thata man like the count would let his wifeperish slowly insuch obscurity and want.But the dying woman didnot heed thedoubt implied by my exclamation.
"We have both much to forgive," shesaid, faintly. "Tellhim Iimplored hispardon. Mypride was even greater thanhis
—may God forgive me!"
She fellback on her pillow, fainting,but rallied again, as she heard below themerry voices of the children, who, bandin hand, came in together, singing."Ihave hidden from the poor child the
fact that lam dying," she said to me,sorrowfully; "and who will comfort herwhenIam gone?"
"You have done wrong to conceal thetruth from Stephanie," Ianswered;"tell her now. 1willsend her to you atonce."
With a kind farewell Iwithdrew, andon descending found, indeed, that notonly the shildren, but the farmer andhis wife, were in ignorance of the dyingstate of the English lady. As Idis-closed to them the truth they burst in-to passionate weeping, except Stephanie,who, with a look of disbelief on herface, crept softly upstairs to her mother'sroom.
Mrs. Grey never saw the sun rise again,but before she breathed her lastIhad thehappiness to put into her hand a lovingmessage from her husband.
"'1come, Mary, instantly. Live forme and our child*!'"Ihad accomplished this by a ride of
about thirtymiles to the nearest telegraph
station, whence Ihad dipsatched a mes-sage to him, and awaited an answer.
Myheart ached with fear asIgallopedback toSt. Elmo,lest Ishould arrive withthese comforting words too late. ButIreached the village just before the breakof day, and accompanied by the doctor Ihurried to the cottage. My eyes wereblinded as 1put the paper in Mrs. Grey'shand. But she was past reading it. Itwas the littleStephanie who opened andread the message amid sobs and bitter'tears. Then she flung herself down bythe bedside.
"Ican never love but you, mother!"she sobbed, wildly.
"Stephanie, you will love your fatherfor ray sake. But where
—where is Gus-
tave, cried Mrs. Grey, stretching out herhand blindly.
Choked withsobs the boy knelt downby Stephanie's side, and the thin whitehands of the dying woman were placedon the heads of both.
"Never forget each other, children,while you live. Stephanie, do not for-sake Gustave. Bo not let pride "
But the lingering tide of life ebbedfast, and the lips were still. One othermurmur broke from them:
"Stephe! my love? my love!" Thenher head fell back and we led the chil-dren away.
In two days from this time Count YonH
—stood by the c«ffin of his wife and
looked down upou her dead face. Whathis thoughts were Iknow not, but on hishaggard cheek and trembling lipremorseand shame.
Later inthe day a hearse and a grandcoffin, velvet covered, arrived from a dis-tant town, and the poor lady who hadlived so humbly was borne away inprideto be laid in death among those who hadscorned her living.Itwas after the departure of the sad
cortege that the Count came to me andrequested a fewminute's conversation."Icome, sir," he said, "to clear my
dead name of any shadow that may lingerabout it in your mind. It was no faultofhers that weparted, and she lived herein pain and poverty for twelve years."
His lips shook, and his hand, which heextended to me, trembled.
"Allowme to thank you for your kind-ness. Idepart this evening with mydaughter. Igo to Vienna to present herto my family, after which Ishall placeher ina convent to complete her educa-tion. Sir, itis natural Ishould wishherto forget this sad time. Ifyou ever meether again Ishall trust to your honor notto recognize in the Countess Yon Hthe littleStephanie Grey whohas lived solong among these poor villagers.
With this the count and Iparted.In the evening he and little Stephanie
quitted St. Elmo, and Iwondered whatthe proud man thought as, all throughthe length ofthe long avenue, the boyGustave followed the carriage, some-times flinging himself on the sward tosob passionately, then rising with the oldcry:
"Stephenie! sister Stephenie! say good-by to me once more. Promise me againthat you willcome back!"
Then Stephanie waved her hand fromthe window and her childish voice, an-swered:
"Be sure Iwill come back, Gustave,and we willplay here again at cache-cache. Do not weep any more, brother.Wait for me next summer, here in thisroad. Iwillcome, Gustave; Iwillsurelycome."
"Poor children," Isaid to myself,"they willnever play together again be-neath the bright canopy ofleaves."
Going that night to the farmer's, 1found him and his wifeboth enchantedwith the count's generosity.
"Andwhat willhe do for Gustave?" Iasked.
"Gustave is to be a priest; he is to goto the seminary, and the count pays allexpenses."
1had my thoughts respecting this, butIheld mypeace.
My Ardennes life, with its simple re-miniscences, was put away from me andalmost forgotten, when, one night at abrilliantball inParis, Isaw the face ofStephanie Grey. Five years had passedsince Ilast saw her, but Icould not mis-take so rare a face as hers.
"Willyou tell me who is that younglady?" 1said to the friend with me.
"She is the young Countess Yon H ,one of Iherichest heiresses nowin Paris.
';"Her face is strangely beaatiful. What
is her history?""'Ablank, MyLord,'
"said the lady,
quoting Shakspaere. "Literally a blankfor the first twelve years of her life; butwe take her father's word for it that shehas been abroad with her mother. Thatis her father standing beside her, lookingat her so proudly."
"Andthe mother?"'•Oh, she is dead. Hers was a sad
story. Iwilltell itto you some day; theCount littleguesses that Iknow it, butIwas a school-fellow of Mary Grey's andshe trusted me with her secret.".Iwould have asked her eagerly for thestory, but at this moment the orchestracommenced a wild and joyous air, resem-bling so much in its cadence the old Ar-dennais song which the children had car-olledin the forest, that Iremained silentand startled. Breathing faintly all thetime, through the strain —
now lost, nowreturning
—came the echo of the free
woods, and Isaw Stephanie Grey turntoward the musicians a wild look painfulin its intenseness. Then her face grewdeadly white, and leaning heavily on thearm of her father, she murmured a wordinhis ear.
Evidently itwas a request to retire, forinanother instant both passed us on theirway to the hall;Istarted up and followedthem. Astring of carriages was at thedoor, and around them pressed a greatthrong ofpeople, straining eager eyes tocatch a glimpse of the great wealth andbeauty that liittedby.
In a loud voice the Count's carriagewas called for by an attendant, and as itreached the door there was a struggle inthe crowd, and a j'oung man rushod tothe front. A gaunt, haggard creature,clad inrags, misery inhis aspect, faminein his looks, but on his face an expres-sion of such eager, intense longing thatall eyes followed his in wonder. Andtheir gaze fellon a young, shrinking girl,in"the shimmer of satin and sheen ofpearls," whose paleness shone out likedeath, and whose dark eyes passed wist-fullyover the wild face bent toward her.
"She does not know me!" he shriekedaloud. Then Isaw his arms flung up-ward, and he fell down among the crowd.The Count hfted his daughter into thecarriage and it drove away at a rapidpace.
"The young lady has fainted," said avoice. "This madman frightened her,too, at the last ball to which she went."
That despairing cry had been shriekedout in the old Walloon tongue, and Iknew the wretched wanderer, whose hag-gard face had bent so near the CountessStephanie, was her foster brother, thepoor, forgotten Gustave.Irushed in among the crowd, hoping
to find him, but on every side Ifound awallof strange faces, of whom Isoonfound itwas vain to ask questions. Noneknew, or none cared to say, by what roadthat gaunt figure departed.
"Youask me the story of Mary Grey,"said my friend. "Itis soon told. Shewas the daughter ofa ruined merchant—a weak man, as unfit for the business oflife as he was for the business and thewealth his father bequeathed him. Afterthe total loss of his fortune he lived hereina small apartment. And here it wa-that his daughter had the misfortune tomeet with the Count Yon H . You
know the Austrian nobility is the mostexclusive in Europe. Only those ac-quainted withsociety in Vienna caa un-derstand the wall a parvenu finds extend-ed against him. Having heard some-what of this, Mr. Grey justly thought hisdaughter could be nomatch for the count,and he forbade him the house. It wastoo late. Mary and her" lover fled to Eng-land and were married. Whether mar-riage in England, with every Austrianformality unfulfilled, constituted mar-riage in Austria, Iknow not. Ionlyknow that Mary wrote tome fromNaples,telling me that although her marriagewas still a secret from her husband'sfriends, she would be happy if only herfather would write to her and forgiveher. Itseemed all her letters remainedunanswered.
"Ayear passed away,and then Iheardfrom Mary again. She wrote in fearfulanguish. Her husband had gone toVienna to attend the death-bed of hismother, and in his absence she hadopened a letter from his sister. This,like some rude shock, awoke Mary fromher dream."Icannot wonder," said the writer,
"thatyou hesitate to acknowledge yourmad marriage. Ifyou do so you areruined. No one willspeak to the daugh-ter of a bankrupt and a suicide. Youmust lead this woman about in her lone-liness, feeling ashamed of her and of thefolly that has shut you out from thesociety ofyour equals. Ifher father hadnot made away with himself, she mightbear it. As it is, the whole thing is hor-ror. When our poor mother is gone,from whomIhave scrupulously kept thesecret, Icounsel you to make up yourmind to part with this poor drag on yourexistence. Ascertain ifyour marriage isvalid ornot inAustria, andjact according-ly. Ifyou have not firmness to do thisIwarn you that your career in your owncountry
—a noble one, if you would
—is
over, and you are henceforth a wandererand an outcast.'
"When Mary Grey laid down this letterher heart was broken
—the news it told
her was so bitter. Her father, then, haddied by his own hand, and she, scarcely awife, was a drag and a curse to the manshe loved. Inher way she was as proud,nay, prouder than he was, and she nowresolved to leave him forever. Evenifshe was his wifeitwas horrible to feelthat he whom she loved so dearly, wasashamed of her, and felt her a curse anda drag. She hastened to Paris. Thereshe learned that her father
—ever a weak
man—had destroyed himself in a fit of
frenzied grief the day after her desertionof him. This fact her husband had piti-fully kept from her, but Mary knew thathe had brooded over it in disgust andhorror, and itadded terribly to his bur-den ofshame in his marriage. Ifshe hadresolved to quit him before, this diretruth confirmed her resolve. Henceforthher loneliness should be a penance self-imposed. She wrote me this from Paris,adding that her love for her husband wastoo great to let her ruin him. He wasfree; she restored him to his home, hisfriends, career. 'Ifshe had a son, shecould scarce feel justified in doing this,but her child was a daughter, and itwould be happier for her to be broughtup inobscurity and love and marry somepoor man.'"Inever heard fromMaryGrey again
—Inever knew, tillyou told me, how shelived or how she died."
"Andhow did the loss of his wife andchild affect him?"Iasked.
"Verydifferently, Ibelieve, from theexpectations of his sister. He did notreturn to Vienna; he sought out no hon-orable career. Alost and lonely man, hewandered about Europe purposely, untilfive years ago he electrified the fashiona-ble world by burying his wife, with allsorts of ghastly honors, in the familyvault in some old chateau in the Tyrol.At the same time he introduced andacknowledged his daughter, who is verybeautiful, \ery accomplished and veryunhappy."
"How do you know that?" Iasked,eagerly
"Her face tells me. Ihear she hatesthe world, refuses all offers of marriageand only implores leave to enter a con-vent. Her father, who adores her, is indespair. She is very restless, and hewanders about withher from ci'-y tocity.But people say it is all useless: the samestrange event follows them everywhere —but then, ofcourse, that is impossible."
"What event?" 1cried, and Ifelt myheart beat painfully as Ibent forward tolisten.
"Why, people say the poor young coun-tess is haunted by a madman
—a wild,
gaunt creature, who follows her with amost piteous and heart-breaking love.Who he is none know. The count hasoffered a reward many times to find him,butinvain."Iheld my peace. Idid not say this
poor, lost creature was Stephenie's fos-ter-brothar, once the happy child of theArdennes.
With much pity inmy heart Isoughthim anxiously many days in Paris, butwhen 1heard the count and his daughterwere gone Iceased my search, feeling bya sure instinct that this cityno longer heldGustave le Fou
There is no need to relate what busi-ness or what pleasure took me two yearsafter this to St. Elmo. 1 went by thesame road, and itwas with strangely sadfeelings that Inow looked up to the greatroof ofgreen leaves and thought of thetwo joyous children whose happy voiceshad started my solitude.
Indeep silence Irode on over the sun-flecked turf, leaf and shadow twinklingaround me, flashing oriole and resplen-dent butterfly darting and playing amongthe branches, all bearing to me less ofsunshine and of joy than of old. Andalmost at the same spot where Ihadstopped to lunch, beneath the same hugebeech where the boy had swung himselffrom the branches, there stood a wild fig-ure, with long hair and dark eyes, sadand restless.
He looked at me mournfully as Iap-proached him.
"Donot tell them at home that youhave seen me," he said. "lam waitingfor Stephanie She promised to comeagain in the summer and play cache-cachein the woods."
"She cannot play now, Gustave," Ianswered. "Come home withme to St.Elmo, Iwill let you ride if you willcome."
He looked wistfullya moment, and thenturned away.
"No,Iwillnot go to St. Elmo; deathis there
—Ihave seen it. Iwill wait in
ihe woods. She willnot break her prom-ise, and she mast rind tnc here, wher \u25a0 we-played so often."
""Who is dead at St. Elmo?" 1 askeU,thinking to turn his thoughts to anothertheme
His answer startled me."Stephanie is dead. She died in the
spring when the flowers came.""Then ifStephanie is dead, Gustave,
why wait for her here?""The lady is dead— Stephanie, the lady
who came back to St. Elmo with a pale,pale facij,and wept withher head on mybreast -she is dead. But the other Ste-phanie who loved me, who played withme in the woods; she is not dead. Isawher go away with her father, and shesaid 'Onstave, Iwillcome back
—wait for
me!' She'llkeep her word—she willre-turn to me. You may ride off, stranger.1am waiting, yousee, in the woods-amwaiting till Stephanie comes. Lorio!lorio! Ah, the loriots and Iare greatgnends. She loves the loriots, but thecuckoo is gene."
Here he burst into the oldsong, "Cuc^-
-00-oo la la-cuckoo-oo la la!" and wentwandering away down the long avenue,till my eyes lost him among the longshadows and green leaves.
AtSt. Elmo the doctor toldme his sadstory.
"Poor Gustave went to the priests'seminary," he said, "but he had no vo-cation for the church Why the countwishedhim to be a priest 1can only guess.Inthree years, having refused to enterthe priesthood, he returned to St. Elmomuch improved in culture and appear-ance, bnt strangely unsettled in mind.The love he had ever borne to the childStephanie had, withhis increasing years,taken another phase and become a hope-less passion. His sole thought was tosee her again. Patiently he waited an-other year, trusting to hear news of her,but none came. Then there grew nponhim a feverish restlessness and he leftthe village abruptly. By what strangemagnetism he knew that Stephanie lovedhim, and pined amid all the wealth andsplendor around for his companionshipand the free woods again, Icannot tellyou; yet itwas certain that itwas so, andhis heart knew it. But though he wan-dered from city to city in quest of her,they didnot meet. He was so ignorantof the world, so poor, so lonely, that itwas no marvel his search was unsuccessful. He didnot even know Stephanie'sreal name. You willremember thecount made itknown here only to youand myself. But at length they met—hea poor wanderer in the streets, she thedainty queen of some royal fete, steppinginto her carriage. He recognized her in-stantly and sprang forward, crying,'Stephanie! Stephanie!' The gens-d.armes thrust him back and he fell amongthe crowd, beaten down like some poorweed.
"The girlheard his voice, and clingingwith passionate tears to her father, sheimplored him to seek out her brother— herdear brother. She called him by thatname still. The count soothed her andgave her many promises, then placed herwithin the palace, while he sought outthe guard and begged that the quant fig-ure might not be allowed to disturb themagain.
"The frightened count left that city in
a few days; Stephanie, meanwhile, havingvainly striven to find the poor wandererwho tracked her steps. But what can ayoung girldo? Her weak efforts to dis-cover him were futileindeed. The counttraveled from place toplace, but atRome,Paris, Brussels, the same wildfigureburstthrough the intervening crowds andstruck Stephanie senseless with his hag-gard face.
"Day by day the girlseemed perishingof some great, unspoken sorrow. At lastthinking the change might save her life,her father pressed her to marry; then sheflung her arms around him and whisperedthe truth:"
'Ipine for the free forest, father, Ipine to see Guatave again. EverywhereIgo Ihear his voice, everywhere Iseethe deep dells, the rugged hills, the foam-ing rivers of the Ardennes. Take mehome; let me die there!'
"The count's pride gave way."'Try to live, my child;' he said. If
you love this young man he shall be myson.'
"He sought the outcast now as earnest-ly as he had before tried to avoid him,but the search was useless. And in sor-row and gloomy foreboding, he traveledto the Ardennes withhis sick daughter.
"There are strange mysteries in ournature
—Ispeak as a doctor— but strang-
est of allthese are those mystic forewarn-ings of the future which we call fore-bodings—those prophetic voices whichat times speak to the soul in clear andawful tones.
"Whether these brought Gustavehither, whispering that Stephanie wascoming, who shall say? 1 can but tellyou that in the woods where they partedthere she found him. As the carriagedrove beneath the solemn, arched roof ofleaves he stood forth to meet it—a mad-man—a child as she had left him, readyto weep, to laugh, to play, as in the old,old days when they were children to-gether.
"Gustave told you truly. She weptupon his breast, and she died for sor-row.''
"She had come in hope, and it wasquenched; she had come inlove, and itwas drowned in pity. The shock, thegrief killedlier. On the last day of herlife, as we stood around her, she turnedsuddenly toward her father, and thankedhim sweetly for bringing her hither:
"*Idie where Ihad wished to die,"she said, "where my mother closed hereyes, inmy home, with allIlove aroundme. Turn my face to the window that Imay see the forest again. Poor Gustave!take care of him when 1am gone away.And, father, bury me at St. Elmo, and lethim one day lie by myside.'
"The count obeyed her. After hisdaughter's funeral he left us, a brokenman. As for me, Imoralize and wonderwhy the sins of the parents are visited soheavily on the children. Iask, too,whether the count's pride or Mary Grey'sdisobedience caused all this sorrow?"
This was the doctor's story. Thusfrom different lips have Iwoven togetherthe history of Gustave le Fou. He wentby that name for many years, and whenhe died, they laid him by the side of a
grave on which stood a single stone withthe single inscription— "Stephanie. Agednineteen."
Faced by a Grizzly.
[Tuolumme (Cal.) Independeßt.j :
BillMorris, the great hunter from theYellowstone, -who has resided in Sonoraa number of years, was making his way
over the mountains with his trusty rifle
one night last week, on board the Bodie
stage, and encountered a heart-thrilling
adventure near Cow Creek Station, asfollows: The stage had stopped ;at this
station to change horses, getting there
about 1:30 a.m.; The nights are frosty
at this altitude, and Bill, who had been
riding with the driver, had got down
while the team was being hitched up andstarted on ahead "on foot to "warm up,"leaving his rifle behind. Coming to an
elbow in the road a few, hundred yardsbeyond, he cast his eye upward to a tre-mendous rock on the right, from whence
emanated a thundering growl, and in thebright moonlight thereon perched was atremendous grizzly bear. "William was
petrified in his tracks. Down jumped
the bear, and standing erect in the roadwithhis mouth open, confronted him insavage attitude
'and followedhim up ashe retreated backward. Morris shoutedlustily forassistance, and at thi3 juncturethe stage hove in sight and the driverand passengers, five innumber, hearingcries ofdistress, all shouted at the top oftheir voices. The stage swung aroundthe curve at the critical moment whenthe bear was about to strike him down.So unnatural was the surprise that thegrizzly turned about and beat a hasty re-treat down the mountain. A bonanzawith one million "in the door" eouldnothave been a more welcome sight to Mor-ris than was the Bodie stage at that mo-
ment. The tracks of the monster meas-ured in the moonlight :about fourteeninches. He is supposed to be the samethe stock men have been watching forkilling;stock .just •previous to this ad-venture. \u25a0
\u0084
. .-. -
The First Trophy ot the Kevolntion.From a paper written by the late Theo-
dore Parker, and read before the NewEngland Historic Genealogical Society,
we learn the followingparticulars regard-ing the gun presented by htm, inhis will,to the State ofMassachusetts:
Both Hancock and Adams were stay-ing at Lexington, withRev. Jonas Clark,an eminent patriot, on the afternoon ofApril19, 1775, when several British sub-ordinate officers were seen riding up themain road in the town. This excited thesuspicions of men who knew them tobe British soldiers, although they weredisguised.
In the night, intelligence was broughtto Messrs. Hancock and Adams that aBritish expedition was on foot, destinedfor Lexington and Concord, to get pos-session of their persons, itwas supposed,and to destroy the military stores at Con-cord. They gave the alarm to the properpersons, whom Captain Parker
—grand-father of the eminent divine-had selectedlor tkat work, and he sent men throughthe town to give notice for assemblingthe militia. The church-bell was alsorung.
Captain Parker lived about two andone-half or three miles from the meeting-house. He had been there late in theevening, and conferred withHancock andAdams, and made arrangements, in caseitwas necessary, to callout the soldiers.He went to bed late that night, and ill.About two o'clock he was called up bythe men referred to above and went tothe meeting-house (the Council is justbehind it). He formed his company alittleafter daybreak. About one hun-dred and twenty men answered to theirnames, armed and equipped. But as theintelligence was not quite certain, he sentout other scouts to obtain information ofthe advance of the enemy, and dismissedthe soldiers, telling them to be within calland assemble again at the beat of drum.They dispersed. Not long after one ofhis scouts returned and toldhim the Brit-ish were near at hand.
He ordered the drum beat, in front ofthe tavern close by the Common. Seven-tymen appeared, were formed into fourplatoons, and marched on to the Common.His nephew, Jonathan Harrington, thelast survivor of the battle, then a lad ofsixteen, played the fife, which with thedrum, formed the only music.
He formed them ina single line, thenwheeled the firstand fourth platoons atright angles, stepped in front and orderedevery man to loadhis piece with powderand ball. When this was done, he said:
"Don't fke unless fired upon. But ifthey want to have a war, let it beginhere."
He then -wheeled back the two wingsinto a continuous line, and stood a littleinfront of the end of the right wing.Soon the British came close upon them,and some were soon terrified and beganto skulk off. He drew his sword andcalled them byname to come back, andsaid he would order the first man shotwho should run away.
Allbright young scholars know whatfollowed—the fire of the British, the re-turn of the fire by the Americans
—the
killingof eight of his company, his orderto them to disperse and take care of them-selves. After they were gone, the Brit-ish soldiers gave three hurrahs, andstopped half an hour and ate their break-fast, and then resumed their march to-ward Concord.
After they were gone, Captain Parkerand his men came back, took upjt he dead,looked after the wounded, etc. CaptainParker saw a British soldier who hadloitered behind a little drunk, seized himand made him a prisoner. He was com-pletely armed, having the musket stamp-ed with the royal arms, a knapsack,blanket, provisions, cartouch-box, witlisixtyrounds ofball cartridges, etc. Cap-tain"Parker kept them as spoliaopima, asdid also his son, and then the Rev. Theo-dore Parker.
The late Governor Andrew, it will beremembered ,on receiving iton the State'sbehalf, in the presence of the legislature,Jan. 22, 1861, kissed the gun and said:"Iam proud to be the humble instru-
ment of its transmission to the Senate, inwhose chamber itis requested by the willthat it ;i ay be preserved."
The weapon is placed in the Senatechamber on the left of the drum andother relics from the battle of Benning-ton.
>apoieon and Maria Lonis;'.-
The marriage excited the greatest in-terest throughout Europe, and the feasts,the balls, the shows, the poetry, and the
addresses and other pieces in prose towhich itgave rise, were endless. FromVienna toCompiegne, the road by whichthe Princess passed, seemed to be strewnwith flowers. Paris almost leaped forjoy. The civilceremony in Paris tookplace on the first ofApril,and the religi-ous ceremony followed. The robe inwhich tho Empress appeared at the festi-val was so magnificent as to beggar de-scription. Itwas embroidered all overwithdiamonds, and the intervals werefilled withMalincs lace, its value beingestimated at GOO.OOOf. (about .£22,000).On the four interior fronts of the tri-umphial arch of L'Etoile, were twelveemblematic medallions. The first, on thesouth front, represented the Emperor,with this inscription underneath: "Thehappiness of the world is in his bands."The second was the cipher of the Emper-or and Empress, the inscription being:"We love her from our love of kirn; welove her forherself." The third, a cupidholding a helmet, etc.; "She willcharmthe leisure hours of the hero." Thefourth, a tree: "He is the author of ourglory; he will render it eternal." Thefifth, a sun, rainbow, etc.; "She an-nounces to the earth days of serenity."The fiftb, an animal, etc. The seventh,on the north front, the Empress: "Shewillbe to the French a tender mother."The eighth, the cipher of the Emperorand Empress: "We own to him the hap-piness of the august spouse, who hasgiven to him so exalted a place in herthoughts." The ninth, the Seine: "Hislove willrecognize the gift he ha.s madeus." The tenth, the Danube: "He en-riches us with what he most dearlyvalues." The eleventh, the arms of theEmpire. The twelfth, the arms of Aus-tria. The illuminations were upon themost gorgeous and costly scale.
A Qnack's Defense.At the correctional tribunal of the
Seine, a quack is brought in, accused ofhaving been guilty of a nuisance by col-lecting a crowd, and obstructing thePoint Neuf. The magistrate demands:
"Thou scamp? How is it thou drawestsuch a crowd about thee, and selleßt somuch of thy rubbish?"
"Monsieur le Juge, do you know howmany people cross the Point Neuf in anhour?"
"How should I?""Howmany do you think, Monsieur le
Juge?""Itell tuee Idon't know.""Well, then, M. le Juge, letus nay ten
thousand. Now, how many of these doyou think are wise enough to go in whenitrains?"
"Oh, peste! Perhaps a hundred.""Itis tuo many; but Ileave them to
you, and take the nine thousand ninehundred. Those are my customers, M. leJuge. Can Ihelp itif God made themfools?"
Case dismissed for want of evidence.
'The Sentinel
Just after the Franco- Prussian war, theAdjutant-Major ofa certain eorp& d'in-fanterie, in order to test a new sentrywho had been placed upon a responsiblepost, approached, and affecting to haveforgotten the word, at length, by meansof threats prevailed upon the ignorantsoldier to allow him to pass without giv-ing the word. This he immediately re-ported, the result being that the pooryoung fellow was sentenced to be shot,this decision fortunately being commutedto banishment to Algeria by influencebrought to bear from high quarters.
This adjutant-major at length met witha well-merited rebuff, as the followingnarrative, the dialogue of which we givein English, shows:
Finding a newly-joined man placed ona similar duty, he determined to repeathis former "experiment. Fortunately,however, the sentinel had been warned byhis comrades, and was resolved not to beout-witted.
As the mgln wore on, he observed theofficer approaching alone, lantern inhand, and at once challenged:
"Who goes there?""Officer of the guard," at once came the
response."Approach to the word, officer of the
guard," continued the sentry.The officer, approaching, said: "I've
forgotten the word, and you must let mefinish my rounds without it."
But forewarned, the only reply madeby the sentry was: "The word! Standback or 1fire!""Ihave forgotten the word,IteUyou,"
persisted the ollicer."Can't pass without the word," was
the only answer made by the sentry, as hekept him at bayonet's point.
"Youknow me perfectly well,"insistedthe officer, in a tone of chagrin. ''1 amyour officer
—your adjutant."
"Idon't know you. Keep back orIfire," was the only reply vouchsafed him.
"Youdare not fire on your superior;and as itis,Iwillhave you severely pun-ished for thus detaining me from myduty."
So saying, the officer seized held of thebayonet, and endeavored to force his waypast.
The sentry, once again shouting,"Stand back!" drew away his bayonetand made as if to charge the officer.
Stepping back, the officer drew hissword and came on again, but was in-stantly disarmed by the sentinel. Seizinghold of the rifle, he next endeavored towrest itfrom the .sentry's grasp.
The sentinel, being new to the corps,and knowingperfectly who his opponentwas, refrained from firing, not knowingwhat the consequences might be of firingon his superior, even though the pass hadbeen refused. In the struggle, however,the rifle went off, and the bullet whizzedpast the officer's ear, carrying with it apiece of his head-dress.
Half-stunned and utterly confused bythis unexpected turn of affairs, the officerlast his presence of mind and actuallytook to his heels, and without reflectingon the probable ocaisequences of his acthe reported the fact of his being fired »nby the sentry, who was immediatelymarched off to the guard-room as a pris-oner.
Next morning a court-martial was con-vened, and the sentry, after having beencharged with firing on his superior, wasasked what defense he had to make. Ina few simple words he explained that hehad been placed on duty at a certain spotwith strict orders not to allow any one topass without giv'ng the countersign: thatan officer whom he now recognized to bethe adjutant had endeavor to force a passwithout giving the word, and on heingprevented, had seized his rilie,whichhadgone offby accident.
The adjutant-major, on being interro-gated, could not but admit the truth ofhis statement, and the Colonel, a severebut just disciplinarian, amid the cheersof those present, gave judgment as fol-lows:
"The adjutant willremain inhis quar-ters during the next eight days, havingunnecessarily endeavored to cause a pri-vate to perform a breach of du*y. Thename ofprivate D
—,will be entered onthe ordres dv jour, and remain there dur-ing the same period."
This was equivalent to eight days" im-prisonment for the officer and to thehighest raise given to privates, the entryin the ordres dv jour being read to theassembled regiment at each morning par-ade as follows: "Monsieur le Colonelcompliments Private D— on the zealousperformance of his duty under the mosttrying circumstances."
This public rebuke to the officer had asalutary effect. However, to his creditbe itsaid, he never attempted inany waytomolest the sentry for his share in theaffair.
A Dead Horse.InFrance, when a horse has reached
the age of twenty or thirty itis designedfor a chemical factory; it is first relievedof its hair, which serves to stuff cushionsand saddles; then it is skinned; the hoofsserve to make combs. Next the carcassis placed in a cylinder and cooked bysteam, at a pressure of three atmospheres;a cock is opened, which allows the greaseto run off; then the remains are cut. up,the legbones are sold to make knife han-dles, etc., and the coarser of the ribs,the head, etc., are converted into animalblack and glue. The first are calcinedin cylinders, and the vapors when con-densed form the chief source of carbonateof ammonia, which constitutes the baseof nearly all ammonical salts. There isan animal oilyielded which makes a capi-tal insecticideand a vermifuge. To makegluo, the bones are dissolved in muriaticacid, which takes away the phosphate oflime, the soft residue, retaining the shapeof the bone, dissolved in boiling water,cast into squares, and dried onnets. Thephosphate ollime, acted upon by sulphur-ic acid and calcined with carbon, pro-duces phosphorous for Incifer matches.The flesh is distilled to obtain the car-bonate of ammonia; the resulting mass ispounded up with potash, then mixedwith old nails and old ironof every de-scriptiou; the whole is calcined and yioidsmagnificent yellow crystals, prussiate ofpotash, with which tissues are dyed aPrussian blue and iron transformed intosteel; italso forms the basis of cyanide ofpotassium and prussic acid, the two mostterrific poisons known in chemistry.
All the, iJiffm-nceItis an old story in England, the heart-
less obstructions placed in the path ofyoung inventors, authors, and others,seeking for recognition. In Americaanybody, everybody, is considered entit-led to a hearing. "Why do we get alongso well in thisgreat establishment, andhow is it every man and boy ibout theplace looks so earnest and so hopeful"asked the chief of a remarkable NewYorkinstitution, repeating my question."Because every boy and man in theplace knows that he has a clear prospectofadvancement. Ifthe lad who sweepsthe office comes to me to-morrow morn-ing and says, 'Sir,Ithink Ihave discov-ered a plan whereby you can save anhour or a dollar ina particular operation,'Ishould listen to him with respect andattention. In your country, 1am told,he would very likelybe kicked out oftheplace for his impertinence." He hadstruck the true cause of much ofthe hope-lessness of the prevailing toil among theEnglish masses.
THE SAINT PAUL SUNDAY GLOBE, SUNDAY MORNING, JULY 3, 1881.