The Albany register. (Albany, Or.) 1868-18??, March 05, 1875, Image 6

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Monte Camino. ;..r
Beautiful valley, tliroufc'h whose verdant mead
Unheard the Oarigliano glides along, .
The Lirin, mime of rushes and of reeds, 1 . .
The river taciturn of classic song I -,
The land of Ibor, and the Iant of Rest,
Where mediaeval towns are white on all
The hillsides, and where every mountain creet
Xa an trurian or a fionua wall I :
There la Alagna, where Foye Boniface .
Was dragged with contumely from his throne,
Sciarra Coionna, waa that day disgrace
The PonUfl's only, or m part thine own t
There in Ceprano, where a renegade
Was each Apulian, aa great Dante saifth, '
When Manfred, by his men-a-arma betrayed,
Spurred on to Benevento and to death.
Jhere is Aquinum, the old Tolaoian town
Where Juvenal waa bom, whose lurid light ,
Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown .
Of splendor over cities seen at night.
. t
Doubled the splendor is, that in its streets
The Angelic Doctor as a school-boy plaved.
And dreamed, perhaps, the dream Oat ha repeats
In pondrous folios for scholastics made.
An , there, uplifted like a passing stood
That pauses on a mountain summit high,
Monte Cassino's convent reara its proud
And venerable walla against the sky.
Well I remember how on foot I combed
The stony pathway leading to its gate ;
Above, the convent bells for vespers chimed ;
Below, the darkening town grew desolate.
Well I remember the low arch and dark,
The court-yard with its well, the terrace wide.
From which, far down, diminished to a park.
The valley veiled in mist waa dim descried.
The dsy was dying, and, with feeble hands,
Caressed the mountain-tops ; tne vales between
Barkened ; the river in the meadow-lands
Sheathed itself aa a sword and was not seen.
The silenoe of the place was like a sleep.
So full of rest it seemed ; each passing tread
Was a reverberation from the deep
Beceeses of the agea that are deed.
For more than thirteen centuries ago
Benedict, fleeing from the gatea of Borne,
A youth disgusted with its vice and woe
Bought in these mountain solitudes a home.
Ee founded here bis Convent and his rule
Of prayer and work, and counted work aa prayer.
file pen became a danon, and his school
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air.
What though Bowscin, ta his reckless way
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores
The illuminated manuscript that lay
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors T
Boccaccio was a novelist, a child
Of fancy and of notion at the best ;
This the urbane librarian said, and smiled
Incredulous, as at some idle jest.
Upon such themes as these with one young friar
I sat conversing late into the night.
Till in its cavernous chimney the wood fire
Had burnt its heart out like an anohorite.
And then translated, in my convent cell,
Myself yet not myself, in dreams I lay ;
And as a monk who hears the matin bell.
Started from Bleep ; already it was day.
From the high window I beheld the scene
On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed ;
The mountains and the valley in tne sheen
Of the bright sun, and stood as one amaaed.
Grav mists were KdUmi. rising, vanishing :
The woodlands glistened with their jeweled crowns ;
ar os the mellow Dells Degan to ring
For matins in the half-awakened towns.
The conflict of the Present and the Past,
The ideal and the actual in our life.
As on a field of battle held me fast.
Where this world and the next world were at strife.
For, aa a valley from its sleep awoke,
I saw the iron horses of the stasia
Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke,
And woke as one awaketh from a dream.
Atlantic Monthly for February.
le small dapper ngure or fckiniro
Butterfield was seated in his office one
cold winter moraine;, and the Squire was
vainly trying to comprehend a pile of
law books. These books had been left by
opposing attorneys in some case tried be
fore him, and from the cases therein
cited he was expected to make up his de
cision. Had it been any oilier question
geography, astronomy, mechanics, or
wnat not tne quxre would nave settled
it at once. He had the most thorough
confidence in the ability of Squire But-
A. 1 "1 . .11 II ' ' , . 1
lemtaa w aerue nnjuimg, uul now ue
was perplexed. Tne more tie studied.
the more he became convinced that the
plain tiff had all the law on his side ; and
so had the defendant ; and that both
sides had amply proved .their case. In
this bewildering state of mind he con
cluded to take a sort of middle coarse, at
once satisfactory to himself if to no one
else, and he had just written upon his
docket, "Case dismissed for want of
jurisdiction," when the tall, thin, sombre
figure of Mr. Grimp appeared in the
Now Mr. Grimp was an awfully solemn
man. Arrayed in the blackest of ' broad
cloths, th3 stiffeet of neckties, the whitest
of shirt fronts and standing collars, with
features cold, austere, and severely
serious, Mr. Unmp somenow ever sug
gested unpleasant thoughts of fun orals.
grave clothes and coffins. He was a very
religious man, too very; In prayer
meeting, class meeting, and on other occa
sions, his monotonous, sepulchral, metal
lic voice was frequently heard speaking
of the "shortness of life," the " certainty
of death," and about " becoming food
for the worms, and such other cheerful
subjects. Cold and passionless himself.
he had no mercy for the weakness or
frailty of his fellow, exacting the most
formal religious observance in others, and
the last penny due nun by his debtors.
And he was rich.
" I have called. Brother Butterfield."
began Mr. Grimp ' in slow measured
tones " I have called to see yon about a
little matter that has been on my mind
for some time ; a matter I hesitated
bringing before the -' courts, as I. think
the Scriptural rule should be generally
followed about ' going to law before the
unjust, and
"Humph!" And the Squire straight
ened himserf on nis chair and ran his
hand through his thin' looks until each
individual hair stood out a bristling pro
test. " I reckon I ain't a bit more unjust
than any on 'em. If yon're bin tin' that
way, why in Sam HQl didn't ye take your
case afore some spiritooal court, and done
with it t" - .- V
Mr. Grimp colored slightly. " I think
you misunderstand me. Brother Butter-
field ; I only used the- expression in a
general sense, wnnoot allusion to you,
whom I know to be a man with clear
ideas of justice, or else the community
had not placed yon in so responsible a
position. " -'-:' ' '
The Squire's teatiness - at once dis
appeared, the. smile came back; and
be bowed m complacent acquiescence.
" But to return to my business, con
tinued Mr.- Grimp. ; "Ton doubtless
know Mrs. -Baraeyt--5 ;
"What. Widow-BaessTf a and the
complacent look immediately gave place
to an unusual flash on the questioner's
face. ... .
' Tea ; I believe she is a widow. Her
husband poor man became, somewhat
involved before he died : but may we
nope in a better world lie pas discovered
the things of earth to, be. but . vanity and
vexation of spirit Like ,ns all. Brother
Butterfield, he brought nothing into the
world, and it is certain he carried nothing
our. "
" I s'pose not, as you got the hull on't,
answered the Squire altogether misin
terpreting Mr. Grimp's moralizing.
" Ahem ! Ah,' yes I I presume you
allude to the foreclosing bt a mortgage I
held on his place. : It was truly unpleas
ant for me to do it, but duty to my chil
dren, so lately deprived of a mother,
Impelled me. As the Scripture says, If
any provide not for his own, especially
for those of his xxwn house, he hath de
nied the faith and is worse than an infidel,"
" Better had some keer for other folks'
ophans as well," muttered the Squire ;
but Mr. Grimp did not hear, and pro
ceeded "Well, at the sale of Mr ' JWtmvp'h
place I bought it in, and since then I
have let Mrs. Barney have it at a nomi
nal rent at a mere nominal rent, I as
sure you Brother Butterfield. And it is
about that I have called."
" The long and short on't is she hain't
paid the rent and you want her put
"Wellyes and no. I wish stem
taken in that direction, but not to ex
tremes. I would like process issued,
but have final measures kept in abeyance,
as I think the matter may be amicably
" That is. yon want some scarecrow to
hold over her to bring her to terms f "
suggested the Squire, looking keenly at
his visitor.
Mr. Grimp noddei "You will at
tend to it, Brother Butterfield ? " he said.
" I'll 'tend to it," said the Squire.
Then Mr. Grimp bowed solemnly, said
'Farewell. Brother Butterfield' and
passed out into the' sunshine his figure
almost too thin and dried up to cast a
shadow in the bright sunlight, yet suffi
cient to cast moral shadow and unhap
piaess over homes and lives around and
about him. ,
For a moment following Mr. Grimp's
departure the Squire's face was full of
conflicting emotions. He arose from his
chair, and his small boot-heels clattered
on the office floor as he paced hurriedly
to and fro.
"The old skinflint!" he muttered,
"Jest as if I didn't see through him like
a book ! He wants to convert the widow
into Mrs. Grimp number two, an' if she
ain't willin' maybe she's refused him
already he wants me to make her think
she'd better be. That's what he wants.
Ha, ha! I reckon there's a widower
that Widow Barney er any other woman
would jest be proud to git ; he's net a
thousand miles off neither" and the
Squire paused smilingly before a small
mirror, adjusted bis collar, and smoothed
the few hairs carefully over the bald spot
on his head. " Not so old after all ; and
a sight better looking than old Grimp !
Guess he didn't know who he was comin'
to, did he f An he wants me to sarve a
writ on Widow Barney. George I 111
sarve it myself an' git in ahead of him !
Big joke it'll be on Grimp ! Ha, ha !"
In the main the Squire was correct in
his cogitations. To secure the lively,
pretty, sensible young widow as a help
meet in the place of the " late lamented "
was precisely what Mr. Grimp desired.
He had at different times made advances
in that direction, but receiving only neg
ative replies he concluded to try a mild
ooercion, and "bring her to her senses,"
as he inwardly called it. Now, singu
larly enough, the Squire also was a wid
ower, and he, too, was nmtrimonially in
clined toward the Widow Barney. He
had . never made any proposition to
that lady, thinking, in his conceit, he
had only to offer himself to be accepted
at once, and she be glad of the oppor
tunity. But there was incentive to immediate
action. There was a chance it might
happen that the widow, being ignorant
of the Squire's intentions, might possi
bly throw herself away on Mr. Grimp f
The Squire did not like the thought, and,
as above intimated, ho resolved to serve
the writ and " pop the question " at the
same time. He would not delay about
the matter either. He would do it that
very evening that he would ; and 'then
see the longitude Mr. Grimp's face would
assume. The idea pleased him greatly.
He chuckled over it all through the day ;
chuckled over it on his way home in the
evening, and at tea-time chuckles inter
spersed themselves throughout the meal,
much to the wonderment of the old
housekeeper. Indeed her looks be
tokened so much curiosity that the
Squire noticed it at last, and after he had
swallowed the last morsel, and laid down
bis knife and fork, he said :
" Mrs. Crandal, I'm goin to git mar
ried." "Well, now, railly !" exclaimed the
old woman, almost dropping the tea-cups
in surprise. " May I be so proud as to
ask who she may be i"
" Widow Barney."
What ! Widder Barney ? Sakes, now !
When ye goin to be married ?" "
" I don't know yet ; haven't asked her.
Goin to do it, though, to-night."
" Mebbe she won't have ye," observed
Mrs. Crandal rather doubtfully.
" Won't have me ? Me ! Squire But
terfield I" exclaimed the Squire, sur
prised out of all measure at so extraor
dinary a suggestion. " I'd like to see
the woman that wouldn't jest jump at the
chance jest jump at the chance."
" I dunno," said the old woman, shak
ing her head with mournful credulity ;
"these 'ere widders are very onsartain
'specially the young ones an' there's no
tellin what they'll do. 'Sides, there's
that young lawyer, Tom Hardwood,
seein her about a good deaL"
"Oh, that amounts to notion,' said
the Squire complacently. "He boards
at her house, an takes her to meetin' an'
sin gin' school just out of politeness."
Mrs. Crandal made no further remark,
but proceeded to gather up the dishes,
and the Squire went to his room to gather
himself into his Sunday clothes.
He decided not to call too early upon
the widow, lest she might not be ready
for visitors, and therefore he delayed un
til the clock struck the hour of nine ;
then a tall hat, drab towners, a blue,
brass-buttoned "swallow-tail," an over
coat and .Squire Butterfield contained
somewhere within passed ' out to the
road. It was a clear, cold, moonlight
night ; no one was out on the street, and
the bright home-lights from various win
dows shone npos a face assured and pos
sessed as he moved along.' No " taint
heart" to "win fair lady' did he carry I
Not at alL But with firm, oonfident step
he passed over the crisp, well-trodden
snow tnat creaked loudly under his feet,
It was not a very long walk and he soon
reached, his destination, - The widow's
house was a small two-story frame, quite
back from the road, and surrounded by a
forest of shrubbery and fruit trees.
From the gate a path wound up to the
house under these 'trees, and the Souire
had to move cautiously, aa the moon gave
out l&int iignt tnrougb tne louage.
r He reached the house safely, however,
and glanced up at the second story, . the
corner room of which was used by the
widow as a sitting-room, He saw it was
well lighted, the window-curtains not yet
down, and he was about turning toward
the door, when some one a man oame
to the window and looked out. For the
first time the Squire paused irresolutely.
Who was that man? Was it Grime and
had he got the start of him after all! He
dictn t wish to see Mr. unmp at least not
then and there. He stepped back a little to
get a better view, and waited for the face to
appear again. - .But it did not. Then he
moved round to the end of the house and
looked up at the window on that side, ;
but with no better result, If he only
knew who the man wae; knew oertainly
it was not Mr. Grimp, he would be satis
fied. His eye rested on the low back
kitchen, directly below the end window.
If he was only on- that he could look into
the room unobserved by any one. It
could do no harm, either; and he did so
wish to know who that man was !
The more the Squire thought about it
the more convinced was he i that it was
Mr. Grimp but then may be it wasn't
lie would find out ! He became more
resolute then, and looked about for some
aid to his purpose. This, after some
search, he found in a small ladder, which
he placed against the kitchen and began
to ascend. He got up the ladder without
trouble, but found the roof so coated
with ice that he had to move with ex
treme caution. However, the window was
reached at last, and, looking in, he saw
only the widow and Tom Harwood sitting
by the fire.
" There !' muttered the Squire in dis
gust after making this discovery ; " I
never thought of him! Why in Sam
TTill didn't I remember he was here, and
saved all this trouble ? Nearly spiled my
best clothes, too I"
He turned about and was preparing to
go back, when a movement down in the
shrubbery arrested his attention and
downward progress at the same time.
For a minute or two he remained per
fectly still; then he peered carefully over
the roof's edge. He saw a man standing
below among the trees, but who he was
the Squire oouldn't make out. Howbeit,
whoever he might be, he seemed to be
scanning the upper front window very
closely. Indeed, this view did not seem
to satisfy him, and like his " illustrious
predecessor" he, too, passed round back
of the little kitchen. The Squire became
alarmed. He would be discovered now
certainly ! What should he do? He
glanced about hopelessly until he caught
sight of the cnimvey a large, old
fashioned one, running up from the
kitcken close against and on the outside
of the main building. With a quick
movement he scrambled to his feet into
the shadow of its deep corner and stood
close against the wall.
" Maybe," he thought, " the man will
go 'way pretty soon, confound him !"
But the stranger seemed in no hurry
to leave; on the contrary he moved about
a few minutes, and then, to the conster
nation of our friend on the roof, he be
gan to ascend the ladder. If ever Squire
Butterfield perspired in his life, he did
then. Although it was a cold night, he
was in a profuse sweat from head to foot.
He gritted his teeth, clenched his hands,
bit his lips until the blood came, but
nevertheless the intruder made his way
slowly but surely up the slippery incline.
" Goodness gracious ! What in Sam
Hill shall I do i" murmured the Squire
in his desperate fear. "I'd give any
thing, yes, anything, if I was safe at
home. I wish all the widows were in
Guinea. I wish "
But the sentence never was completed.
The ice alas the treacherous ice on the
roof! Unexpectedly, suddenly, without
premeditation or malice aforethought,
the Squire's feet shot forward from
under him, and with accuracy of aim
and swiftness of motion seldom surpass
ed, he bore down upon the stranger.
' That individual's hold wa3 very weak and
uncertain at best, and he was illy pre
pared for such an onslaught. Therefore
when the Squire struck him, he, too,
assumed an unexpected momentum, and
both passed over the roof together, the
stranger descending feet foremost into
the rain barrel and the Squire making
sad havoc with the widow's grapevines
and arbor. ,
For a moment the stranger remained
within the barrel and the Squire among
the vines where he had fallen, both too
amazed and confounded to know what to
do. But only for a moment; then they
extricated themselves and stepped out
into the moonlight, the Squire with coat
torn clear to the back, and the stranger
very wet and dripping. And thus and
there, face to face, they met.:
v "Brother Butterfield!" i
"Mr. Grimp!"
There was a momentary silence after
these exclamations of astonished recog
nition. Mr. Grimp was the first to
break it.
" Will you allow me to - inquire,
Brother Butterfield, what you were do
ing on the roof of my house at this late
hour?" t
"Sartainly you may, Mr. Grimp. I
came because that is I came to sarve
that writ of yourn," answered uie Squire,
relieved to find some excuse. ;
"Ah!" i
" Yes ; an I'd like to know what busi
ness you had up there, Mr. Grimp i"
" 1 came to see you serve it," said Mr.
Grimp, with a perceptible tightening of
his thin lips. f
" Well," said the Squire,1 rapidly re
covering his composure, " if your writ
don't stick better'n you did on that
'ere roof, it won't amount i to nothin',
that's alL"
What reply Mr. Grimp would have
made to this request is not known, for
just then the door opened, and Tom
Harwood and the widow, alarmed by the
noise, came out. Both I the Squire
and Mr. Grimp would gladly have
avoided an interview ; indeed they
turned to hasten away, but were too
late. The widow recognized them at
once. j
"Why, Mr. Grimp! and Squire But
terfield, too!" she exclaimed with the
most charming of smiles. " Why, I
thought it was burglars, or horse-thieves,
or something, and I was sot frightened.
And, why, Mr. Grimp ! you are real wet,
aren't you? Is it raining or snowing ?"
And she held out her little hand to catch
the falling drops. - ) I
" No, marm, 'taint snowin, or rainin'
either. Ye see, Mr. Grimp was jest
showin' me the water privilege about
the place, an' tryin to see how much a
rain bar'l would hold," responded the
Squire sarcastically, pointing toward the
aforesaid barrel. -
"Brother Butterfield, will you be so
kind as to, attend to the 1 business on
which " we came?" said Mr. Grimp
. " Sartainly I will. Here, Widow Bar
ney, is a writ from Mr. Grimp, notifyin'
you to give up these 'ere premises."
. "I will take charge of j that," said
young Harwood, rather haughtily. "I
will call upon you to-morrow, Squire,
and settle the matter. I would say, also,
Mr. Grimp, that the time for redemption
not having expired, the mortgage and
costs on this lady's place have been paid
in to the County Clerk, and yon will not
be troubled in caring for it further."
: After that well, Mr. Grimp made
some indistinct reply, and i the Squire
very profuse and incoherent apologies;
then they took their leave as best they
could, feeling very awkward, mortified
and humiliated. They did not go home
together either, nor ever after speak of
the evening's experience to each other.
However, a month later, when Tern Har
wood married the widow, the Squire was
observed to shake his head i mournfully
and murmur: .;J : -!V
"If it hadn't been if or Old Grimp
comin' jest as he did that night, things
would have been different. Widow Bar
ney never would have married that con
ceited young Harwood never!" -
As for Mr. Grimp, his face and his
prayers grew longer day by day, and the
Sunday f flowing the marriage he spoke
feelingly of "this vale of -tears," the
" vanity of human expectations," and the
"uncertainty of earthly things," and
when the collection waa raised for the
twi, vo aiuiw rrave a torn piece of
currency his grocer had refused the day
Deiore. Jicartn ana xiwn-.
Scenes and Incidents of the Great Trial.
Bad for Beeoher.
From the Now York Star.
jix. xseecner iaoor ujjuci u uiu
dous influenza, and his lip is covered with
1 , , , 1 3
wen developed ooiu-boito.
I sit almost next to Mrs. Tilton every
day, writes another - oorreepondent,
with plenty of time to watch her wan
and faded face. She is very weary and
very miserable. The strain of exposure
is more than she can bear. Most of her
time she bites her fingers or gnaws list
lessly at her fan, stealing now and then
a glimpse of the stern and frozen face,
which is all she can see, of her husband.
No Respoet for Gray Halra.
Cor. Cincinnati Commercial.
One old man, over three-score-and ten,
was very much depressed in spirit be
cause unable to obtain admisson. Taking
by the hand a reporter who was about to
enter the court-room, the old man said,
with tears in his eyes, that he had come
all the way from Elizabeth, N. J., to see
the trial, " and," he added, " if I don't get
in thar and get one look at H. W.
Beecher, my wife Sairy will fret and scold
Sublimely Truthful.
Cor. Chicago Times.
The witness then went on to tell how
he used to answer inquiring members of
the Produce Exchange : " If the story is
true, it is infamous ; if false, it is dia
bolical ; and if Beecher's life isn't a
sufficient answer, I don't choose to give
any other."
A new bit of testimony, which created
much merriment, came out here. Moul
ton said : " Beecher came to my house
on Saturday evening. He said he was
without hope. He said to me more than
once that he was hopeless, and that he
came to me for strength ; that he wanted
to get up courage to face the people."
Beecher here appeared overcome at the
testimony, as too absurd, and he gave a
silent laugh.
Witness I told him what I said when
Earties asked me about the scandal, and
e thanked me, and said the only way to
do is to be sublimely truthful. Shouts
of laughter.
Mrs. Beecher and Sirs. Tilton.
Jennie June.
Mrs. Beecher's fine face and dignified
bearing sometimes takes on a disdainful
expression at the adroit attacks of Mr.
Morris. Mrs. Tilton wears an anxious
look, but her brown eyes are clear, and
she directed them steadily at her hus
band for full fifteen minutes the other
day, when his counsel was lauding him
and pitifully describing his desolate
home. He looked down, however, or
around the desolate room, every way but
at her ; not once, it was observed, did
he return her gaze. Mrs. Beecher's con
duct through the whole affair has been
admirable. On the first day of the meet
ing she met Mrs. Tilton 's glance with a
kind smile, and after the proceedings
went up and shook hands with her. Since
then they have several times left in com
pany. She sits beside her husband with
a look of perfect trust and confidence,
her eyes sometimes meeting his with a
smile which speaks volumes, when some
wicked act or motive is imputed to him.
Cor. Chicago Tribune.
Tilton has eternally lost, I fear, the
promise with the happiness of his youth.
He seems to me nothing more than the
incarnation of one enormous and perfect
purpose vengeance. The fires which
have burnt in him have vitrified him.
He is as clear as crystal. All common
emotions, all human senses, seem to have
been purged out of him as if by a flame.
After the primeval age of his ruin has
come a glacial period. He is a thawless
mass of ice, and, frozen in the heart of
it, is his terrible and unspeakable hate.
The man's face looks like a stage dressed
for a tragedy bare and almost empty,
but with a hundred frightful intentions
waiting lor the bell to clang and the
sword-play to igin. You catch yourself
wondering whether he eats, whether he
drinks, whether he sleeps as other men
do. Something, written in no language,
marks him in the forehead as one whose
life has for some time been arrested, and
who, when the necromantic spell that
keeps his blood moving shall have been
withdrawn, will dissolve into a handful
of cold and harmless ashes. He seems
but a specter a phantom, doomed when
the end of 'this trial shall have been
reached, to be as if indeed he never had
been ; a shadowy monster born of, and
to be burned in, the womb of mystery ;
the colorless, passionless, lifeless high
priest of revenge.
A Breese of KxcKement. '
From the Sun.
A protracted dispute took place be
tween counsel as to the introduction of
Miss Proctor's name. Mr. Evarts said
that it was in evidence, and -Mr. Tracy
said that he assumed the responsibility
of mentioning it Judge Neuson, with
considerable warmth and marked imper
ativeness, told Mr. Tracy there was a
higher responsibility than his, informed
Mr. Evarts that the matfor was not in
evidence and never would be with his
consent, and directed the stenographer
to' strike out Miss Proctor's name wher
ever it occurred. Mr. Evarts exoepted
to the direction of the court, and the
brush between counsel created some ex
citement in the room. Monlton was then
examined as to expressions of hostility
made to other persons by him against
Beecher. He was asked whether, in his
house, he had told Mr. Wallace Caldwell,
the Plymouth usher, that Beeoher was a
liar and a libertine, and that he would
cut him down if necessary. . Moulton in
dignantly denied this,, and in a tone of
voioe which recalled his visit to the meet
ing in Plymouth Church, said, " I knew
he was a snook when he came to my
house." A scene .followed, Mr.' Evarts
protesting .vehemently, and demanding
that the answer must be stricken out, and
Judge FnJlertcn regretting that Moulton
had not struck Caldwell out of his house.
Order was restored by Judge Neilson's
vigorous use of the gaveL A series of
similar questions followed, : when the
court was adjourned. , ?
:. ! ; y Beecher's Creed. '
A paper printed in Bichmond, Ind.,
publishes a letter from Henry Ward
Beecher, lately received by the Rev. L
Hughes, of that 'eity, in which the pastor
of Plymouth Church gives his views on
certain doctrinal points at considerable
length. Among other things he Bays : v
" I believe that all men are bom into imper
fection, and that as soon aw intelligent action
begine they fail into sin. and that no man ever
kept the law of God with all his heart and mind,
nor even with any single faculty. I believe that
all men need a moral revolution, a change of
heart, and that such change, while it involves
man's own will, is also, and effectually, the
result of God's Spirit. I believe that the Holy
Spirit blesses parental example and teaching.
msomecasea, so that the children are broueh
by the Divine Spirit into the Christ life at a verv
early period, and even without any conscious
change but, early or late, the human soul docs
not rute into a , spiritual character without the
qmckening and nonrialiing iniluencee of God's
bpint. liut I believe and teach inceHsantly that
conversion is only change, and not character,
and that Christian graces, experience, habits,
knowledge, are the results of education in the
Irvine life ; that, upon entering upon a Chris
ban course, every one becomes a scholar of
Christ, and, like scholars of human knowledge,
learn by the normal use of their faculties ; that
daily household duties, business cares and
duties, special relations, and the whole flow of
secular life, is the school in which God drills
men as really as in the closet or in the church ;
that the whole of life is, in the hands of the
ittvine Spirit, a means of grace. I differ with
my brethren of the evangelical churches in
some details, but more yet in the philosophy by
which the facta of religion are to be explained ;
but I am at hearty agreement with them in the
Lhvuuty mt Chriirt, the Trinity, the Sinfulness
of Man, the Universal Meed of a Change of
Heart, of the Holy Spirit as the Efficient Agen
in Conversion."
A Tough Cuss.
Fom the New Tork Times.
Moulton's testimony was given by him
in his usual style. His coolness never
deserted him. When Gen. Tracy asked
him when he heard the "true story"
read, Moulton said that he did not exactly
remember, but that Gen. Tracy was in
his house at the time and fell asleep
while it waa being read. This roused Mr.
Everts, who protested against the answer.
Moulton, with the utmost coolness,
craved pardon for his inadvertence, and
said he only wished to fix the date.
Counsel laughed heartily, and Mr.
Evarts looked very glum. . Moulton kept
on worrying the croBa-exam i n i n g counsel
in this way through the entire day. He
was asked about taking down a portrait
of Beecher hanging on the wall of his
parlor. Moulton first managed to state to
the jury that the picture had been given
him by Tilton, and that his own and
Til ton's portraits were also hung in his
parlor. When the examination verged
on a letter Moulton said he wrote while
in bed, Gen. Tracy assumed an air of
incredulity which Moulton noticed, and
3 at once added "my wife brought me
the paper." Gen. Tracy, angry at being
again baffled, said "We don't care about
your wife, sir, "and Moulton smiled that
Eleasant and deceptive smile for which
e is noted. Gen. Tracy then asked
Moulton if it was not a fact' that, by
reason of his late hour of rising on
Sunday, his wife had been prevented
from attending Plymouth church service.
Moulton did not get angry, but smiled as
usual and said, "Well, really, General, I
do not know. 'l Again; when Mr. Evarts
got in a passion, and said, "We don't
want to know what your wife did,"
Moulton, remembering Mr. Evarts pre
vious injunction as to telling the whole
truth and nothing but the truth, said,
"Mr. Evarts, your instructions as to tell
ing the truth are so peculiar, I find
difficulty in observing them."
A Forthcoming Stream of Filth A Tragic
Conclusion Feared.
From Dr. Syntax's Letter in Chicago Tribune.
I feel, sopaetimea, that a tragic conclu
sion will abruptly and .terribly end this
matter. As it progresses, the theatric
mantle of heroism drops off, fold by fold,
from its shoulders, and presently all will
be wholly un draped, a lewd and hideous
transfiguration of Priapus. To be the
laureate of such reeking annals might
gratify the hot ambition of Swiaburne ;
but, to impartial nostrils, the whiffs and
stenches of a wide-spread licentiousness
are nothing else than sickening. Its
tableaux are as vile as the encaustics of
Pompeii ; its episodes fit only for the
prurient contemplation of a Messalina ;
and its actors seem t have lost their apt
est opportunity in the suppression of
Aphra Behn. The argument of the de
fense, on the moral question at issue, not
between Beecher and Tilton, but between
Beecher and the world, is-no loftier than
a grinning " tu quoque." II Beecher
be a libertine, Tilton is a free-lover; and,
if Beecher seduced Elizabeth Tilton,
Theodore Tilton permitted and extenu
ated that seduction by his adulterous al
liance with the WoodhulL So far, it
looks like a match at mud-throwing, with
fouler ammunition, however, than the
cheap ordure of the streets.
All manner of beastly confidences are
to be torn from their graves, and shown
up in the witness-chair. A true Corinth
ian orgie is promised, in which every
brutal appetite shall be nakedly repre
sented. We are only on the threshold
of the scandal. If it be necessary to
save Mr. Beecher, an exhibition so mon
strous may be made that the anger of his
countrymen will rescue him by a promp
and wrathful extinction of the whole pro
ceedings. Other adulteries, other seduc
tions, other bestial incidents in the un
written history of Plymouth, are to be
paraded before the ! puzzled jurors and
the stupefied world. At least two dead
women are to anticipate the Last Judg
ment by confessing, through the
mouths of their own kindred, that
they were false to their marriage
vows ; and one of them, that her filthi
ness was beyond even the awful picturing
of JuvenaL At least one incest will be
dragged from under the protective
shadow of Mr. Beecher's church, and
stripped bare and putrid for the consid
eration of these Christian States. If
Henry C. Bo-wen ever reaches the witness
stand, there will be squeezed from his
lean person such a stream of poisonous,
excrementatious knowledge, that the
whole country will stop its nostrils and
its ears, and cry Enough ! " Testimony
will be produced upon this trial, and
may, perhaps, be spread upon its records,
to which the feculence of all extant litera
ture will be as Sabeean odors. I know of
one tomb which has already been ran
sacked to prove prior guilt on Beecher's
part ; and I know of , another grave into
which Beecher's lawyers will presently
descend to grope for the shameful affec
tions of Tilton. Hainan dust and ashes
cited to demonstrate' the wickedness it
committed in the flesh is one of the cer
tainties of this, our tedious Dies Irae.
But, though the horrors which I have
faintly outlined and which are as well
known to a score of persons as to myself
form an irrefragable chapter in the lewd
record of this case, yet do I firmly believe,
without being able to give a reason for
my belief, that a sudden and mortal stop
page of this trial will be made by one or
both of its principals. I dare not predict
that Beecher will take flight from this
terrible arena ; I dare not predict that
sudden death or dramatic confession will
startle his worshipers, and silenoe the
process of his accusation. But though
it would be something worse than audac
ity to conjecture the form in which the
end will come, yet do I verily and earn
estly believe that some other climax than
the verdict of a jury will conclude this
appalling religious tragedy.
. 1 , '
jLknt. Lent will begin this year on
the 10th of February, much earlier than
it has done since 1869. - This will bring
the high festival of Easter this year on
the 28th of March, which is within six
days of the earliest period upon which it
can ever possibly occur. In some years
Easter falls as late as the 25th of .April.
Some years there are as many as nine
Sundays - between Epiphany and Ash
Wednesday, but this year there will be
only five Sundays intervening between
the jubilee of Epiphany and the solmne
feast of Lent. -
Snooksey's Berenge.
Mr. J. Melancthon Snooksey, scissors
editor of the Polhemus JSvening Clarion,
never suffered a wrong that he did not
some day avenge. One day Snooksey
went to the bank to get a check for ten
dollars cashed. Mr. Goldcopper, of the
First National Bank of Polhemus, was a
cautious , man, and he imagined, that
Snooksey's voice trembled a little, be
traying guilt of some (sort. "Is this
your name on this check? " asked Gold
copper. " Yes," said Snooksey. "Well,"
said Goldcopper, youH have to bring
some one here who knows you ; I can't
pay anything on this until you identify
yourself." Snooksey walked out, and in
about half an hour had drammed up
three or four of his friends, who accom
panied him to the bank, and assured
Goldcopper that Snooksey was no other
than Snooksey. But alas 1 Goldcopper
didn't know either of Snooksey's friends
from Adam, and he shook his little head.
"Can't pay this till I know who I'm
paying it to," he said, gruffly. "All
right, returned Snooksey, disgusted.
" I'll make you a present of the check ;
keep it, by all means ; " and he and his
friends passed out. Seventeen weeks
after this occurrence, as Snooksey was
hard at work on his exchanges in the
office of the Clarion, who should step in
upon him but Mr. Goldcopper, of the
" First National." He had forgotten
Snooksey, but Snooksey had not forgot
ten him. "Ah," said ffioldcopper,
blandly, " I am anxious to get hold of a
copy of the San Francisco Morning Bed
ouin ; yoa exchange with it, of
course ? " " Ctertainly," said the smil
ing Snooksey, yanking the Bedouin from
a pile of papers and holding it up tempt
ingly ; " but whom have I the honor of
addressing ? " " W. H. Goldcopper,
sir ; Goldcopper, of the First National
Bank, sir." "Oh, yes, Mr. Goldcop
per ; yes, I've heard the 'name. But,
see here, Mr. Goldcopper, how do I
know that you are Goldcopper? Your
name might be Bodifer, or Jinks, or
Jean Valjean, for what I know. Bring
somebody here who knows you, sir ;
who can identify you, sir ; then, sir,
if the proof is satisfactory, sir, you shall
have a copy of the Bedouin, sir. We
have to be very careful here, sir, you can
see for yourself." The astonished Gold
copper, without a word in reply, passed
rapidly out. When he reached his bank
he sat down and hastily wrote : " Pro
prietors Morning Bedouin, San Francis
co, CaL. : Inclosed find ten cents. Send
me one copy of the Bedouin at once.
Yours truly, W. H. Goldcopper, Pol
hemus, Ind,"
"Me Married Her for Hsr Money."
Married her for her money, did he ? Why
did he not kill her outright, and take it I
Indeed, that is what a man who makes a
match with such motives would really
like to do. He wants the hard dollars,
not the soft woman who owns them; and
he hates her because he has had to take
her also.
Poor little heiresses, ! with such de
lightful fortunes poor little widows,
with a snug sum settled on you by the
husband who had your comfort at heart,
how much better that you should be pen
niless women sewing for your living at
ten cents a shirt ! Then, some strong,
loving hand might gather you -up to a
tender heart, and you might be sure it
was all for yourself all, every bit of it.
Now, with so many fortune-hunters afloat,
what are you going to do ?
Married for money, was she ? And
that is why her face is so hard and her
eyes so cold. She knows it, one can
She remembers the kisses that were so
much oold " courting," and did not come
from the heart at alL The vow that was
a lie, when, instead of saying I take this
woman for better or for worse, he should
have said, "I take this woman for her
She understood that long ago, no
doubt. God help her 1 ;
Married for money and yet she was as
sweet and pretty then as many a girl who
is married for pure love a rosebud that
might have been plucked to wear over a
true heart. What did the fortune-hunter
care for that? A man who woos a
woman for mercenary motives is rather
apt to hate her the more for being
worthy of a better fate. And in any
case, a man hates a woman who reverses
the proper state of things, and " endows "
him with her "worldly goods." It is
contrary to the prayer-book, and contrary
to nature. M. K. D., in New York
The Egyptian Baler's Royal iilft to Gen.
Sherman's Daughter.
The wedding gift from the Khedive of
Egypt to the daughter of Gen. Sherman
reached New York by steamer on Tues
day, and was on private exhibition in the
Collector's parlor of the Custom-JIouse
yesterday afternoon.
The present is a parure of diamonds,
necklace and eardrops, said to be the
most magnificent and valuable in this
country. The necklace ; is composed of
four straus of diamonds, each of which
is a brilliant. Not one ef them is worth
less than $1,000. The chain is studded
with the gems, and they are set so closely
together as to hide the gold. There are
so many of them that Deputy Collector
Lydecker tired in the count. He count
ed 850, which is only about half of the
whole number. The strands are joined
by ten immense stones, each of which
is encircled by smaller gems. The one
in front is the size of a hickory nut, and
is worth $20,000. Pendant from the
front is a festoon of brilliants with five
big pear-shaped stones of finest water
luster hanging from it, : The ornaments
for the ear are single stones equally as
large as the rest. The entire set is ap
praised at from $200,000 to $300,000.
The case for the jewels is plain moroc
co, without - inscription. As soon
as the Secretary of the Treasury
orders a free permit for them under the
b pedal act of Congress they, are to be de
livered to the Turkish Xmister, and by
him presented to the fair bride on behalf
of the Egyptian potentate. New York
Sun, '
Xew York in 182a.
The population of New York fifty years
ago was about 130,000 hardly more
than quarter of the present population of
Chicago, which then had . no existence
except as an TnKan outpost. Brooklyn
was a straggling village of 7,000 inhab
itants, and there was but One steam ferry
boat on the East river. People who
wanted to cross the river then after 8
o'clock in the evening had to pay twenty
five cents to a boat man to row them over.
The largest ship then sailing from
the port did not exceed 500 tons burden.
Postage on a single letter-sheet by mail
to Boston was eighteen add three-quarter
cents, and for a double sheet double that
sum. There were ne envelopes in those
good old days, for those aids "to cor
respondence had , not been invented.
Mucilage was unknown, and it was con
sidered disrespectful not to seal a letter
with a great lump of red wax. There
were then no omnibuses nor street rail
ways nor any other public conveyance,
except two-horse hackney coaches, which
cost a small fortune to ride in.
Do they miss me at home ? do they miss me ?
Twould be an assurance most dear
To know that my name wss forgotten,
As though I had never been there.
To know that the tailor and landlord.
And the banks where my paper is due.
And hoete whom I now cannot mention,
Had banished me quits from their view.
Do they miss me at boms T do they miss me?
When the market for money is tight, .
And collectors in haste ars pursuing
Their debtors by day and by night T ''
Do the friends who once loaned me a " fifty,"
And the others who loaned me a "ten,"
Heave a sigh of regret ss they miss me.
And wish they could see ma again t
Do they miss me at home ? do they miss me f
Where no longer I'm seen upon 'Change T
And do those who were wont to saslet me
bay, " His conduct's Infernally strange t"
Does the Shyloek who loaned me bis money,
To bear me to regions unknown,
Ixok in vain for occasion to dun me,
And wish I again were at hornet
Do they miss me at home T do they miss met ,
Twonld be an assurance most dear
To know that my name was forgotten.
As though I had never been there.
But I know that my memory lingers
Around the dear place as I roam ;
Ana wxme I've my wits ana my creepers
They'll miss me they'll miss ms at home t
Wit and Hamor.
When is a literary work like smoke;
When it rises in volumes.
Troubles are like dogs ; the smaller
they are the more they annoy you.
An Ohio man has been oonverted to
temperance ninety-eight times, and says
he'll go up to a hundred or die.
A CiiABKSvrxiiJi man has written a life
of the devil. The last three chapters
comprise a ten year's biography of his
An exchange remarks that it is re
markable with what exactness the lines
between adjacent lots can be marked out
with a anow-shoveL
"Do you like novels?" asked Miss
Fitzgerald of her backwoods lover. "I.
can't say," he replied ; "I never eat any.
But I tell you, I'm death on possum I"
A wtdow was weeping bitterly for the
loss of her husband, and a friend tried
to console her. " No, no," said she," let
me have my cry out, and then I sha'n't
care anything more about it."
A coffin-makek was asked whom he
was making a coffin for, and mentioned
the intended. "Why, he is not dead,
man!" said the querist "Don't you
trouble yourself," replied the other -"
Dr. Coe told us to make his coffin, and
I guess he knows what he gave him."
A country youth came to town to see
his intended wife, and for a long time
could think of nothing to say. At last, a
great snow falling, he took ococasion to
tell her that his father's sheep would be
undone. " Well," said she, taking him
by the hand," "111 keep one of them."
The Tobacco Trade Interesting Sta-
From the advance sheets of the yearly
official report of the tobacco trade, the
following interesting statistics have been
gathered. The report is for the fiscal
year ending June SO, 1874, and will be
completed about March 1. There was
exported from the United States, of na
tive leaf tobacco, 318,097,804 pounds,
amounting in value to 830,389,181. Dur
ing the same time there was imported
into the United States and entered for
consumption 9,213,860 pounds of leaf
tobacco, for use in the manufacture of
cigars, and 85,690 pounds of stemmed or
prepared tobaoeo, amounting together in
value to 85,332,548.41.
During the same time there was im
ported into the United States and en
tered for consumption 845,774 pounds
of cigars, or, at an average of eleven
pounds to the thousand, 76,888,000 ci
gars, amounting in value to $3,030,628.
79. In the same period there were
manufactured in the United States, of
foreign and domestic tobacco, and tax
paid, 1,780,961,000 cigars.
Allowing thirty pounds of tobaoeo for
every 1,000 cigars manufactured, there
was used 25,728,330 pounds foreign and
domestic leaf tobacco in the manufacture
of cigars in the United States. The
comparison shows there were twenty
three domestic cigars manufactured in
the United States, and the tax thereon' '
paid, for every cigar that was imported
and paid duty during the same time.
A close scrutiny reveals the astounding
fact that the average number of cigars
smoked in the United States during each
twenty-four hours is 5,168,000. The
following are the amounts of duty and
taxes on tobacco and cigars for the fiscal
year ending as above : Import duty on
leaf tobacco for cigars, gold, $3,524,787.
82 ; import duty on all other kinds of to-
bacco and snuff, gold, $53,181.12 ; im
port duty on cigars, cigarettes, etc, gold,
$2,872,091.27 ; tax on cigars, cheroots,
etc, currency, $9,333,591.24 ; tax on
manufactured tobacco, currency, $2,900,
509.57 ; tax on snuff, currency, $2,038,
445.92 ; tax received from all other
sources from tobacco, currency, $1,970,-
327.79 ; total amount of import duties
paid in gold, $6,150,060.41 ; total amount
of taxes paid in currency, $33,242,875.
62 ; grand total, $39,292,935.03. . .
How to Spell Shakspe are's Kame.
For one hundred and fifty years critics
have disputed over the correct way to
spell the name of Shakspeare. The Troy
Times thinks that the reason that the
Bard of Avon induoed Juliet to inquire
" What's in .a name i" was for the pur
pose of discovering the correct orthog
raphy of his own name, and says that in
some of the earlier editions of Shaks
peare it reads " What's in hi name ?
or in plain language, "How many let
ters are in his (Shakspeare's) name ?
The spelling ' of Shakspeare's name bag
been an orthographical puzzle that crit
ics for a century and a half have labored
over. 'Stevens, Drake, Dr. Johnson,
Heed, Hazlett, Chateaubriand, Lamar
tine, Ulrieh, and Bodenstedt, spell the
name with ten letters, thus: Shaks
peare ; Chidwerth, - Mason, Heath, Lord
Campbell, White, Gtrixot and Horn in
sist on eleven letters, thus: Shakespeare;
while still others, though less in number
and ability, declare for only nine letters,
thus; Shakspere. William : ought - to
have known how to spell his own name,
and as he wrote it Shakspeare, we are in
clined to give him the benefit of the ten
letters as he placed them. .Louisville
Courier-Journal. ; . ..., ,
Dead : Letter Ikf9biatiok. There
is some sense in the proposition made in
Congress to authorize the use of infor
mation received in the Dead-Letter Of
fice in the prosecution of criminals. : At
present there is much diversity of
opinion among lawyers about the right
of the government to make any use what
ever of this information, and under ex
isting laws no use is made of it. It often
happens that dead letters contain counter
feit money, and information which would
lead to the immediate arrest of guilty
parties. : As the law now stands, if a
clerk in the Dead-Letter Office should
discover a plot to assassinate his personal
friend, he would have no power to give
warning of the danger.