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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Jan. 6, 1895)
14 $HE STTBTDAY OKG02IA3T. POETiLAlSTtf JA3STTARX 6, 1895. THE FROXTTEIt. At the hushed brink of twilight when, as though Seine solemn journeying phantom paused to lay An ominous finger on the awestruck day. Earth holds her breath till that great presence go A. moment comes of visionary glow. Pendulous twixt the gold hour and the gray. Lo eller than these, more eloquent than they Of memory, foresight, and Hfe's ebb and flow. So I have known, in some fair woman's face. While viewless yet was Time's more gross im print. The first faint, hesitant, elusive hint Of that Invasion of the vandal years Seem deeper beauty than youth's cloudless grace. Wake subtler dreams and touch me nigh to tears. WILLIAM WATSON. Clarence. Br .Bret Harte, Antuor of The Luck of Itoarint? Camp," Etc. (Copyright. 1S04. by Bret Harte.) PART II-CHAPTER VII. Not a word was exchanged till they had reached the lower landing- and Brant's pri vate room. Dismissing his subaltern and orderly with a sign. Brant turned toward his prisoners. The Jaunty ease, but not the self-possession, had gone from La grange's face; the eyes of Captain Faulk ner were fixed on his older companion with a half-humorous look of perplexity. "I am afraid I can only repeat, general, that our foolhardy freak has put us In collision with your sentries," said La grange with a slight hauteur that re placed his former jauntiness; "and we were very properly made prisoners. If you will accept nay parole I have no doubt our commander will proceed to exchange a couple of gallant fellpws of yours, whom I have had the honor of meeting within our own lines, whom you must miss prob ably more than I fear our superiors miss us." "Whatever brought you here, gentle men," said Brant, dryly, "I am glad for your sakes that you are in uniform, al though it does not unfortunately relieve me of an unpleasant duty." "I don't think I understand you," re turned Lagrange, coldly. "If you had not been in uniform you would probably have been shot down as spies, without the trouble of capture," said Brant, quietly. Lagrange's cheek flushed. But he re covered himself quickly, and with a for mal bow. said: "You will then perhaps let me know your pleasure?" "My duty, colonel, is to keep you both clcse prisoners here until I have an op portunity to forward you to the division commander with a report of the circum stances of your arrest. That I propose to do. How soon I may have that oppor tunityor if I am ever to have it" con tinued Brant, fixing his clear eyes sig nificantly on Lagrange, "depends upon the chances of war. which you probably un derstand as well as I do." "We should never think of making any calculation on the action of an officer of such Infinite resources as General Brant,'" said Lagrange, politely. "You will no doubt have an opportunity of stating your own case to the division commander," continued Brant, with an unmoved face. "And," he continued, turning for the first time to Captain Faulkner, "when you tell the commander what I believe to be the fact from your name and resemblance that you are a relation of the young lady who for the last three weeks has been an inmate of this house under a pass from Washing ton you will, I have no doubt, favorably explain your own propinquity to my lines." "My sister Tillie!" said the young of ficer. Impulsively. "But she is no longer liore. She passed through the lines back to Washington yesterday. No," he added with a light laugh, "I'm afraid that ex cuse won't count for today." "I regret," concluded Brant, as he sum moned the officer of the guard, "that I shall have to deprive you of each other's company during the time that you are here, but I shall see that you. separately. want for nothing in your confinement." "If this is with a view to separate in terrogatory, general, I can retire now." sold Lagrange, rising with ironical polite ness. "I believe I have all the information I require," returned Brant, with undisturbed composure. Giving the necessary orders to his subaltern, he acknowledged with equal calm the formal salutes of the two prisoners a3 they -were led away, and re turned quickly to his bedroom above. He paused instinctively for a moment before the closed door and listened. There was no sound from within. He unlocked the door and opened it. So quiet was the Interior that for an instant, without glancing at the bed, he cast a quick look at the window, which till then he had forgotten, and which he remembered opened upon the veranda roof. But it was still closed, and as he approached the bed he saw his wife still lying there in the position in which he had left her. But her eyes were ringed and slightly filmed, as if w 1th recent tears. It was perhaps this circumstance that softened his voice, still harsh with com mand, as he said: "I suppose you know those two men?" "Yos." "And that I have put it out of their power to help you?" "I do." There was something so strangely sub missive in her voice that he again looked suspiciously at her. But he was shocked to see that she was quite pale now, and that the fire had gone out of her dark eyes. "Then I rany tell you my own and the only plan to Fave you. But first we must find this mulatto woman who has acted as your double." "She is here." "Here?" "Yos." "How do you know it?" he asked, in quick suspicion. "She was no: to leave this place until she knew I was safe within our lines. I havo some friends who are faithful to me." After a pause she added: "She has bean here already." He looked at her. startled. "Impossible I-" "You locked the door. Yes, but she has a second key. And even if she had not. thoroiis another entrance from that closet. You do not know this house; you have been hre two weeks; I spent two years of my life as a girl in this room." "Perhaps1." he said, grimly, "you have already arrancd your plans." Stoe looked at him with a singular re proachfulncss even in her submission. "I have only told her to be ready to change clothes with me and help me color my face and hands at the time appointed. I have left the rest to you." "Then thie Is my plan. I have changed only a detail. You and she must both leave this house at the same time, by different exits, and one of them must be private aud unknown to my men. Do you know of such a one?" "Yea," she said, "beside the negro quar ter." "Good." he replied. "That will be your way out. She will leave here publicly, through the quarters, armed with a pass from me. She will be overhauled and challenged by the first sentry near the guardhouse, below the wall. She will be subjected to &ome delay and scrutiny, which se will, however, be able to pass better than you would. This will create the momentary diversion that we require. In the meantime, you will have left the house by the wing and you will then kep R the shadow of the hedge until you oaa drop down along the run. where It empties into the swamp. That," he continues, fixing1 his keen eyes upon her, "is the weak point in the position of this place, that Is neither overlooked nor de fended. But perhaps," he added again, grimly, "you already know it." "It is the marsh where the flowers grow, near the path where you met Miss Faulkner. I had crossed the marsh to give her a letter," she said slowly. A bitter smile came over Brant's face, but passed as quickly. "Enough." he said quietly, "I will meet you beside the run and cross the marsh with you until you are within hailing dis tance of your lines. I will be in plain clothes, Alice," he went on slowly, "for it will not be the commander of this force who accompanies you, but your husband, and, without disgracing his uniform, he will at least be your equal, for the Instant he passes his own lines, in disguise, he will become like you, a spy, and amenable to its penalties." Her eyes seemed suddenly to -leap up to his with that strange look of awaken ing and enthusiasm which he had noted before. And in Its complete preposses sion of all her instincts she rose from the bed unheeding her bared arms and shoulders and loosened hair, and stood upright before him. For an Instant, hus band and wife stood beside each other as unreservedly as in the nuptial chamber of Robles. "When shall I go?" He glanced through the window, al ready growing lighter with the coming dawn. The relief would pass in a few moments; the time seemer propitious. "At once," he said, "I will send Rose to you." But she had already passed into the closet, and was tapping upon some inner doer. He heard the sound of hinges 7& V., Tg, r ' -r " HE DROPPED LIKE A LOG BESIDE EIS SUBALTERN. turning and the rustling of garments. She reappeared, holding the curtains of the closet together, with her hand and said: "Go! When she comes to your of fice for the pass, you will know that I have gone." He quickly descended the stairs as the sound of trampling feet on the road and the hurried word of command announced the return of the scouting party. The officer had little report to make, beyond the fact that a morning mist, creeping along the valley, prevented any further observation, and bade fair to interrupt their own communications with the camp. Everything was quiet in the west, al though the enemy's lines along the ridge seemed to have receded. Brant had listened impatiently, for a new Idea had seized him. Hooker was of the party, and was the one man in the party in whom he could partly confide and obtain a disguise. He at once made his way to the commissary wagons, one of which he knew Hooker used as a tent. Hastily telling him that he wished to visit the pickets without recognition, he induced him to lend him his slouched hat and frock coat, leaving with him his own distinguishing tunic, hat and sword. He resisted the belt and pistols which Hooker would have forced upon him. As he left the wagon he was half amusedly conscious that his old companion was characteristically examining the gar ments he had left behind with mingled admiration and envy. But he did not know, as he slipped out of the camp, that Mr. Hooker was quietly trying them on. before a broken mirror in the wagon head. The gray light of that summer morning was already so strong that to avoid de tection he quickly dropped into the shadow of the gully that sloped towards the run. The next moment he saw the figure he was waiting for stealing to wards him from the shadow of the gully beneath the negro quarters. The light was growing stronger; he could hear voices in the nearest picket A'&miBEmtos). A FEW COMRADES COMMISERATINGLY TAKING J.EAVE OF CLARENCE. line, and the sound of a cough in the in vading mist. He made a hurried sign to the oncoming figure to follow him, ran ahead and halted at last in the cover of a hackma-tack bush. Still gazing for ward over the marsh, he stealthily held out his hand behind him, as the rustling skirt came nearer. At last his hand was touched but even at that touch he start ed, aud turned quickly. It was not his wife, but Rose! her mulatto double! Her face was rigid with fright, her beady eyes staring in their china sockets: her white teeth chattering. Yet she would have spoken. "Hush!" he said, clutching her hand in a fierce whisper. "Not a word!" She was holding something white in her fin gers; he snatched it quickly. It was a note from his wife not in the disguised hand of her first warning, but in one that he remembered as if it were a voice from their past, "Forgive my disobeying you to save you from capture, disgrace or death, which would have come to you where you were going. I have taken Rose's pass. You need not fear that your honor will suffer by it, for if I am stopped I shall confess that I took It from her. Think no more of me. Clarence, but only for yourself. You are in danger." He crushed the letter in his hand. "Tell me." he said, in a fierce whisper, seizing her arm,"and speak low. When did you leave her?" "Sho'ly just now!" gasped the fright ened woman. He flung her aside. There might be still time to overtake and save her before she reached the picket lines. He ran up the gully and out on to the slope toward the first guardpost. But a familiar challenge reached his ear and his heart stopped beat ing. "Who goes there?" There was a apuse, a rattle of arms, voices, another pause and Brant stood rooted on the spot. Then the voice rose again, slowly and clearly: "Pass the mulatto woman!" Thank God! she was saved! But the thought had scarcely crossed hi3 mind before it seemed to him that a blinding crackle of sparks burst out along the whole slope below the wall, a charac teristic yell, which he knew too well, rang in his ears, and an undulating line of dusty soldiers came leaping like gray wolves out of the mist upon the pickets. He heard the shouts of his men falling back as they fired; the harsh, commands of a few officers hurrying to their posts, and he knew that he was hopelessly surprised and surrounded. ' He ran forward among his disorganized men. To his consternation no one seemed to heed him! Then the remembrance of his disguise flashed upon him. But he had only time to throw away his hat and snatch a sword from a falling lieutenant before a scorching flash seemed to pass before his eyes and burn through his hair, and he dropped like a log beside his sub altern. An aching under the bandage around his head, where the spent bullet had grazed his scalp, and the sound of im possible voices in his ears were all he knew as he struggled slowly back to consciousness again. Even then it still seemed a delusion, for he was lying in the hospital of the headquarters, with officers of the division staff around him. and the division commander, himself, standing by his cot, and regarding him with an air of grave, but not unklndly concern. But the wounded man felt in stinctively that it was not the effect of his physical condition, and a sense of shame came suddenly over him, which was not dissipated by his superior's words. For, motioning the others as'lde, the major-general leaned over his cot, and said: "Until a few moments ago, the report was that you had been captured in the first rush of the rear guard, which we were roiling up for your attack, and when you were picked up, just now, in plain clothes on the slope, you were not recognized. The one thing seemed to be as improbable as the other," he added, significantly. The miserable truth flashed across Brant's mind. Hooker must have been captured In his clothes perhaps in some extravagant sally and had nbt been rec ognized in the confusion, byt his own offi cers. Nevertheless, he raised his eyes to his superior. "You got my note?" The general's brow darkened. "Yes," he said, slowly, "but finding you thus unprepared I had been thinking just now that you had been deceived by that woman or by others and that it was a clumsy forgery. He stopped, and seeing the hopeless bewilderment in the face of the wounded man. added more kindly: "But we will not talk of that in your present condition. The doctor says a few hours will put you straight again. Get strong for I want you to lose no time for your own sake to report yourself at Washington." "Report myself at Washington!" re peated Brant, slowly. "That was last night's order," said the commander with military curtness. Then he burst out: "I don't understand it. Brant! I believe you have been misun derstood, misrepresented, perhaps ma lignedand, I shall make it my business to see the thing through but these are the department orders. And for the pres ent I am sorry to say you are relieved of your command." There was something of a strange and fateful resignation in his face, a few hours later, when he was able to be helped again into his saddle. But he could see in the eyes of the few comrades who com mlseratlngly took leave of him a vague half-repressed awe of some indefinite weakness in the man that mingled with their heart-felt devotion to a gallant sol dier. Yet even this touched him no longer. He cast a glance at the house and at the room where he had parted from her, at the slope from which she had passed, and rode away. And then, as his figure disappeared down the road, the restrained commen tary of wonder, surmise and criticism broke out. But as Lieutenant Martin was turning away a lingering corporal touched his cap. "You were speaking of those prowling mulattoes, sir. You know the general passed one out this morning." "So I have heard." "I reckon she didn't get very far. It was just at the time that we were driven in by their first fire, and I think she got her share of it, too. Do you mind walk ing this way, sir." The lieutenant did not mind, although he rather languidly followed. When they had reached the top of the gully the cor poral pointed to what seemed to be a bit of striped calico hanging on a thorn bush in the ravine. "That's her." said the corporal. "I know the dress. I was on guard when she was passed. The searchers, who were picking up our men haven't got to her yet she ain't moved or stirred these two hours. Would you like to go down and see her?" The lieutenant hesitated. He was young and slightly fastidious as to unnecessary unpleasantness. He believed he would wait until the searchers brought her up when the corporal might call him. The mist came up gloriously from the swamp like a golden halo. And as Clar ence Brant, already forgotten, rode mood ily through it toward Washington, hug ging to his heart the solitary comfort of his great sacrifice, his wife, Alice Brant, for whom he had made it, was lying in the ravine, dead and uncared for. Perhaps it was part of the Inconsistency of her sex that she was pierced with the bullets of those that she loved, and was wearing the garments of the race that she had wronged. (To be continued.) BUSINESS ITEMS. If Baby la Cutting: Teeth, Be sure to use that old and well-tried remedy Mrs. WlnsloWs Soothing Syrup, for children teething. It soothes the child, softens the puns. ullar ail pain, ceres wind colic aad diarrhoea. THE BLOOD. O'F THE WANDERERS. To wander and wander while life remains. And never to find me a. place of rest For the blood of the race flows through ray veins That wandered away to the unknown West. They wandered and wandered, and so will I. Reaching and touching the world's far ends. With the hill and the plain, the wind and the rain. The sua and the stars, as their earthly friends. , And when years are gone and strength is out worn. And never a crast the good chance sends, I shall curl me to sleep where the grasses grow deep. And say good-bye to the old-time frtneds. AUBERON HERBERT. Not practical, By Anthony Hope. (Copyright, 1S95, by Anthony Hope.) I have never been nearer doing it in my life. In fact, I was just about to do it when young Stevenage hove in sight. "I rather like Lord Stevenage, don't you?" said Lady Amy. "He's not a bad chap," said I. "Only," observed Lady Amy, "he's so poor, poor boy." "So what?" I cried. "I don't suppose," said she, impressive ly, "that, with the fall of rents and so on, he can have more than five thousand a year." I looked at .Lady Amy. Then I re marked, with a touch of satire: "Unhappy devili" The satire did not reach Lady Amy. "Yes," said she, "it's horrid for him; ''IT WAS RATHER DEAR OF YOU TO FOR GET, DICK." but he may get a little bit more when his aunt dies." There was a thoughtful, speculative look in Lady Amy's eye. That look is fa miliar to me. "My aunt is dead," said I, proudly, "and she left me " "But it won't be more than two or three thousand," pursued, Lady .Amy, sadly. "Not a bit more," saldfl. (It was two or three hundred,, really). "Still, it would just help," said Lady Amy, and she bowed most graciously to Stevenage. Matters standing thus, I thought I would do it after aU It would relieve my feelings, for she ,was looking atrociously pretty; It might also he healthy for Lady Amy. "One mustn't tlfink of money," said I. "Of course, one oughn't to think too much of it," agreed Lady Amy. "If I loved a girl;.", said I, "the fact of her only having' a ihousaridor two a year would not stop me." "Wouldn't It, indeed, Mr. Vanslttart?" "Not it," said I. "We must think of the heart. Amy." "Mr. Vanslttart!" "I said, we must think of the heart." "But you you you " "Oh, I meant it," said I, quickly. "But you called me " "By the sweetest name in the world. I cried. "My name is Dick." "I don't care a bit what your name is," said Lady Amy. "Nor I what yours is," said I. "Name3, forsooth! I once knew a perfectly charm ing girl named " "What has- that got to do with it, Mr. Vanslttart?" It had nothing to do with it. I resumed my declaration. "I've loved you for years. Amy," said I. "But I have toiled in silence till I have amassed thanks to the death of my aunt a suitable sum " "I think you're very curious tonight, Mr. Vanslttart." "Of upwards of three hundred a year. It shall all be yours every farthing." "Three hundred a year?" and Lady Amy began to laugh. "And," I added, "a love such as " "Please, Mr. Vanslttart! Surely you must see that Oh, It's absurd, it really is! Oh, what are you doing?" "I was taking your hand," said I. "Well, but you mustn't; because it's quite impossible, and absurd and there you've held It quite long enough nowf I am very sorry, really I am, Mr. "Vfaflslt-2 tart, but" fy "Sorry? What are you sorry for. Amy?" "Now, you mustn't call me" "I do believe," I cried "that you're go ing to refuse me!" "Certainly I am." said Lady Amy. "I never heard of such a thing in my life," said I, indignantly. Lady Amy looked at me. I had never quite known how much (or how little) I loved Lady Amy. The question, you see, was really not a practical one; but I think I looked as if I loved her a good deal, for she said, with a perplexed little laugh: "How silly you are! Because we were such good friends, Mr. Vanslttart." "Your heart is softening," I observed. "You like me very much, really." "I should just really like to hear what mamma would say!" said Lady Amy. "You shall enjoy the pleasure in 10 min utes," I promiseed her, preparing to rise. "Oh, Mr. Vansittar, please! Oh, no. please! Oh. please, sit still I I didn't mean anything of the kind. It is abso lutely out of the question. Besides, I don't don't care for you, you know." "That's a mere afterthought," said I, severely. "And even if I did" "And even though you do?" "Oh, dear me, what's the use of talking about it? If I liked you ever so much, it would be" "Only half as much as I like you," said I. I was quite Interested in the thing by now. "Oh. Mr. Vanslttart, this is most painful-" "Painful?" I cried. "Why, of course. When I like you so much as a !" "Well, I suppose it is painful in a way," I conceded reluctantly. "But I shall always like to remember that you paid me the " "You oughtn't like to remember it, you know." "I suppose I oughtn't but . Some times I think it's a horrid world, don't you, Mr. Vanslttart? Oh, be careful! There's Lord I mean, there's somebody coming." "It's nothing to me who's coming," said I. "I am only being refused and if I don't mind, why should your Then Lady Amy said in a curious tone quite low, yt)u know, and not quite steady, and, oh, hang It, I can't describe it- "You mustn't be unkind to me, Mr. Vanstlttart." ,. , I looked at Lady Amy., My cousin Flo " ' 1I1V4' never allows that she was pretty. "Well, I don't know. "It Is rather a beast of a world," said I. "I just shouldn't dare," said Lady Amy. "I was an Infernal brute ever to "Oh, no, you weren't II didn't mind It much, you know. But you must have known it was absurd, mustn't ycu?" "I knew it," said I, gloomily, "till half way through." "Then you forgot it." she asked, lift ing her lashes for an instant. "Yes; clean," said I. A pause followed. Then Lady Amy gave another little laugh, and said: "Heigho! I I nearly forgot it, too. Shall we go back to the rcom?" (We had been upon the stairs.) "I suppose we'd better," said I, rising. "In a minute," said Lady Amy; and she took a little lace spider's web, and delicately "Am I all right, now?" she asked. "No one would ever suspect it," said I, giving her my arm. She took it, and we set out. Just as we reached the door of the room, I felt a sudden little pressure on my arm, and a sudden grip of slim fingers; and a voice said in my ear: "It was rather dear of you to forget, Dick." And before I could answer for just at first I couldn't answer Lady Amy was gone, and I drifted alone across the room till J found myself opposite the mar chioness. "Oh, Mr. Vanslttart, have you seen my daughter? I've been looking for her every where, and Lord Stevenage has been helping me, but we can't find her." "I lost sight of her only a minute ago," said I. "What can she have been doing?" asked the marchioness. "Oh, she's been all right," said I, re assuringly. "I want to introduce Mr. Br . Oh, why, there she is now with Mr. Bramp ton. Thank, you, Mr. Vanslttart." And the marchioness, having no more need of me, moved on. I looked and beheld her with Mr. Bramp ton. She sat down with Mr. Brampton. Brampton is a decent enough fellow, and he is supposed to have 500 a day. After I had looked (from round a corner) as long as I wanted. I went and got my coat. It chanced that Stevenage was getting his coat, and we walked off together, smok ing our. cigars. Suddenly Stevenage ob served: "Thought Lady Amy looking well to night, didn't you?" "Deuced," said I, licking the stump of my cigar. "I say, who's that chap Brampton?" "Oh, he's got a pile," said I. Stevenage stopped short in the middle of the pavement. "Hang the fellow!" said he and walked on again. "He's just as good a fellow as most," said I. "Oh, it's all very well for you," he broke out. "Look here, Vanslttart, you're a 'good sort. I don't mind telling you. I wish I wasn't so confoundedly poor." I took Lord Stevenage's arm. I felt very friendly toward him. "That's what's the matter, is it?" I asked. "Of course, the old lady well, you know the old lady! I was well enough till Brampton came along, don't you know?" I pressed his arm sympathetically. "And I tell you what, Van, I believe that if it wasn't for the beastly money, Lady Amy would have " "Upon my word," I cried suddenly. "I believe she would!" "You noticed something in her manner?" he said, eagerly. "Rather a lot," said I. "Isn't it infernal?" he asked. "It's as infernal as they make it," I agreed. It happened that at this point we came opposite my club. I took Stevenage In and we had some brandy and soda-water. Stevenage drank his at a gulp, and ob served: "The poor girl daren't do as she likes, y6u see."' "No, If she did " said I, gazing at the smoke rings. "If she did " said Stevenage, leaning forward. "Upon my honor, I believe she would have " But I stopped abruptly. Yet something caught Stevenage's eye, for he said: 7 M, J iV-f A-53 ' W , THERE WAS A THOUGHTFUL, SPECULA TIVE LOOK IN LADY AMY'S EYESl "By the way, you had a good long sit ting with her on those stairs." "Oh, that was nothing," said I, mod estly. "You seemed to find a lot to say, though," he remarked. I leant forward in my turn, and laid my my hand on Stevenage's knee. "I was only," said I, "asking her to marry me." "What!" he cried. "I was only," I repeated, "offering my hand to her." "You were offering your hand to Lady Amy?" "Well, my dear fellow, haven't I told "AM I ALL RIGHT .VOIFf" you so twice already? Oh, don't be un easy. You can fight it out with Brampton. She refused me." But Stevenage finished his brandy and soda-water, threw away his cigar, rose, put on his hat, buttoned up his coat, and thus equipped, stood staring at me for a minute. "Well, that is a good 'un," said he. I believe he still tells the story as an example of impudence but he doesn't tell it all; and he still thinks himself very ill used by Lady Amy Brampton. Ah, well, she was a charming girl. Hard Times and Honeymoons. Washington Post. "For years past Washington has been the Mecca, of happy brides and bride grooms from all over the country," said the chief clerk of an uptown hotel, "but during the last 18 months there has been a marked falling off in the number of newly wedded pairs visiting the capital. My explanation of it is the hard times. Perhaps there are not so many young folks getting joined in wedlock's sacred bonds in these times of financial and busi ness depression. I think that matrimony must have suffered along with other great institutions: at any rate the happy young couples don't come along as they used to." LITTLE EVA. Mary Baaton, of Kentucky, Figured ia ''Uncle Tom's Cabin.'' She was born in Lancaster, Ky., Octo ber 17, 1S11, and was the daughter of John Banton and Eliabeth Campbell, who were both children of heroes of the war of the revolution. Her grandfather. Captain Samuel Campbell, was a Scotch man, and lived near Silver creek. In Madison county, Ky., to which place he moved from Virginia. He was a large landholder and a wealthy man for Jiis day, and possessed many slaves, among whom was a handsome quadroon named LetiOa. She was one of the most val ued slaves Captain Campbell owned, and while she was much liked by all, she was an especial favorite with Mrs. Camp bell. When the war of 1S12 commenced he went to the front and left his wife and children at home with an easier mind, knowing Letitia's faithfulness and capacity as a house servant. Letitia was brought into even closer relation with her mistress, because she was an unusually expert seamstress as well as an adept in spinning. Nowadays when we neither spin, nor card, nor weave, nor even knit, it is difficult to comprehend the Immense responsibility of every mistress, in those days, who had to grow, spin, weave, cut and make each garment worn by every man and woman slave employed about the house, the gar den, the dairy and the fields. In those days it was found most ex pedient to engage the services of a pro fessional weaver who went from place to place in the neighborhood in turn. Wheth er it was because of the well-known su periority of the Scotch in this direction, or whether it was because Captain Camp bell, being a wealthy man, attracted to himself his humbler countrymen, the weaver employed by this family was a Scotchman named Clark. But I dare say the captain was canny and simply em ployed the man for his skill. When the master went to the war, his wife man aged these large interests with the assist ance of Letitia, the trusted house servant, who was, of course, frequently thrown with the weaver. In a year the captain came home for a visit, and it was sad news he heard from the anxious wife. Well, the upshot of the matter was that the master ordered Clark off the place, and lectured Letitia, and took an oath that he would do awful things to them if they dared bring scan dal on his name. In a little while he re turned again from the war for a visit, and found the weaver still on his estate. Then there was another scene, and he threatened to cowhide Clark, who bade him do as he pleased, for he loved Letitia. "Hoot, toot, man!" exclaimed Campbell. "You're a grand fool. Do you suppose I want a lot of white negro children on my place? And don't you know your children will be my slaves that I will put them in my pocket that I will sell them?" But nothing daunted Clark, and he mar ried Letitia, vowing her master would never sell her children for he would make them the most humble and valued slaves on the plantation. And it is but truth to say this pledge was kept. Letitia and Clark had a son named Lew is, who was an unusually bright child and who was given to the captain's daughter brilliant and accomplished Betsy Camp bellwhen she married John Banton, the son of a Revolutionary officer, who left a leg on the field, but brought his head home in such good condition that his chief diver sion was learning to memorize the whole of the New Testament. And they had a daughter, Mary Ann, with whom Lewis Clark was raised in the house, neither of them then little dreaming that she was to be immortalized as "Little Eva" and he as "George Harris" in "Uncle Tom's Cab in." He was an invaluable servant In the dining-room and about the house, and was trusted with the marketing of all the va ried products of the farm and carried large sums of money. One unjucky day his master was com pelled to mortgage his to a neighbor, who would not consider any other slave than Lewis, but who agreed to allow Mr. Ban ton to redeem him at his convenience. In his new life Lewis was put with the com mon field hands and harshly treated, and, instead of eating the same that was put on the master's table, he was half starved. The man had cheated Mr. Banton out of the servant as well as the money to take up the mortgage who was thus unable to buy Lewis back when he was offered for sale and no one else would bid on him because he was considered "a spoilt dar ky." This was a bad state of affairs for Lewis. He now belonged to a hard master and no one would buy him, and he was powerless to run away until Caldwell Campbell, the son of the captain, came to him as he stood on the auction block and slipped Into his hand a gold piece, saying: "If this will help you, use it;" and Lewis fled to Canada. About 13 years ago Lewis Clark went to Stanford, Ky., to see Mary Banton, his playmate, and the daughter of his mis tress, now the widow of William G. Lo gan. And then it was he told her that "little Eva" was the same Mary Banton he loved so dearly as a child. She was surprised, amazed, but thanked Lewis for the lovely character he had given her, but she expressed her regret that he had said such harsh things of those near and dear to her. Mary Banton was not the typical goody good child, but she was a warm-hearted, affectionate little girl, who, while full of life and fun, was noted as a peacemaker and was truly pictured by Mrs. Stowe, who says: "The gentle Eva is an impersonation in childish form of the love of Christ." It seemed to be her special care to shield the servants, to comfort them in their troubles which she did in a blithe, happy way that knew no touch of sanctimonious asceticism. Physically she was exactly as Mrs. Stowe describes her except that her love ly, rose complexion was of the healthy, enduring kind that outlived more than three score years and ten. Those who have cherished her as a beautiful ideal will be glad to know she was always a gracious and a handsome woman, as her photograph at 74 3hows. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" created such in tense excitement in the South, and more especially in Kentucky, where many of the scenes were laid, that Mrs. Stowe. in self defense, published the "Key." Her scathing pen was merciless; indeed, friends of the persons at whom her satire was directed burned the "Key" in a snirit of kindness that sought to snare I the families of. these people. And so It LITTLE EVA (MARY BANTON). came about that the veritable "Eva" never read it, but as the years passed she heard that it contained a most unflat tering picture of some of her family. As she never saw the "Key," she never knew that Mrs. Stowe or any one enter tained for a moment the false idea that Lewis Clark's mother was the daughter of Captain Campbell. In her interview with Clark he reiterated that he owed all he was his success and reputation to "Miss Betsy," whom he said was a strict but always a good mistress. In his lectures in Stanford and the surround ing country he made the same statement and said a mistake had been made for which he was not responsible. Mrs. Lo gan and her family have always held Mrs. Stowe blameless. It was not until six or seven years after the Interview with Lewis Clark, when the newspapers had wearied of the story of the man's life and she had ceased to re gret those things that had wounded her, that she could be persuaded to see the play of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." In the scene where Eva crowns Uncle Tom with flowers her eyes filled, while she smiled at the recollection of herself a mischiev ous, - lovable little hoyden, bedecking old Uncle Yammer, a slave of her fath er's. She declared afterwards she was glad she went to see it, but it would take her many a day to forget how odd she felt at the death scene. It was with this in mind that her eldest daughter, being in Hartford, hoped' to see Mrs. Stowe and tell her of it, but. learning the bril liant writer's mind, had somewhat yield ed to the strain of emotion that fired her her pen. she postponed the visit prefer ring to demember her as a gifted woman at her best. She, whose personality inspired the character of little Eva, died in Elizabeth town. Ky.. August 6. 1SSS. and lies at rest in Louisville's beautiful Cave Hill, on a gentle slope that catches the first glint of the morning sun before it spies out the lake that flows peacefully below at the foot of the soldiers' graves. The heroine of the book that was more in strumental than any other thing in bring ing about the slave war lies facing the North and the federal dead who fell while fighting for the abolition of slav ery. She sleeps and they sleep, like the issues that were burled with them, and when this story, like good wine, can show a respectable age. their children will seek out her children, and they will speak together reverently of her. MARY ANN TIQUITY. THE FKLKTI7CL HIM BUILDIN DIRECTORY OF OCCUPANTS Rooms, AMOS, DR. W. F., Physician and Surgeon. - - 604-605 ARISTOS SOCIAL CLUB 211, 212. 213. 214 ASSOCIATED PRESS. E. L. Powell. Man ager -..-.-... . . . . S03 BARBER. DR. S. J.. Dentist 60S-603I BECKWITH. H.. Route Agent Pacific Ex press Company .204 BISHOP. DR. J. S., Surgeon 713 BELL. DR. J. F., Physician and Surgeon. - - .- ..711-713 BINSWANGER, DR. O. S.. Physician and Surgeon . 111-413 BROWN BROS. CO., "Continental Nurser ies" G12-G13-GH BLANDFORD, S. M.. U. S. Weather Bu reau .... .90fl BUILDERS' EXCHANGE , 80Q CATLIN, W. W., Receiver Oregon National Bank .....-..-...... 30300" CAUKIN, G. E., District Agent Travelers' Insurance Co-.. 703 CARDWELL, DR. 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