see, correspond or speak with Henry 
Vincent.” 
“ 1 will not! I know it would do no good.” 
“ Were lie even to profess penitence or re¬ 
formation ?” 
“ I could not believe him; he has deceived 
me too often.” 
“ If a long course of virtuous conduct 
should prove his sincerity, I would release 
you, and bless your reunion. But we have 
no reason to hope for such a change. He is 
now in the bondage of gross vice. I hold 
you bound by the promise you have given.” 
There was severity in his eyes as he read 
the face of his child; but he saw that her 
resolution was stern as bis own. 
“ I can leave you, now, with a mind at 
ease,” lie said. “ J trust you, Lavra ; you 
have never deceived me.” 
He passed his handover her head in silent 
gesture of blessing. Then, turning to his 
sister, he began to talk of the journey busi¬ 
ness compelled him to take. He was to he 
m New Orleans some weeks sit least, and In 
the meantime must return to Long Grove. 
He left the piazza and went to his chamber. 
The little girl, Ln.v, had come out to seek 
her mamma. Lavra stooped to take the 
child, and clasped her passionately in her 
arms. The thought swept over her like a 
heavy presentiment, that she might yet have 
to bear the sore trial of separation from her 
child. The fear was an agony to her. A.s 
Mrs. Gray came towards her she uttered a 
half shriek and pressed Lily to her bosom. 
“ Oh, dearest aunt,” she cried. “ If they 
should strive to take my child from me!” 
“ He cannot, Lavra. You have his writ¬ 
ten agreement you know.” 
“ I could not appeal to law ; I would never 
bring him to shame I" 
“ Leave all to your father. Only l*e calm.” 
“ 1 will never be parted from her!” cried 
the young mother, clasping the little one, 
“ never -for a single day! They shall take 
my life first! If they ever make the attempt. 
1 should be capable, of any desperate deed !” 
Mrs. Gray soothed her into composure. 
But she did not forget her words. She re¬ 
called them afterwards with a shudder of 
horror!—[To he continued. 
•-*♦«- 
CURIOSITY SATISFIED; 
OB, WITCHING THE KESIJKKECTIONISTS. 
BY ALGONQUIN. 
Doctor Guram is a successful and withal 
a very jovial practitioner in the city of-. 
A score of years ago, or something more, he 
was just commencing practice with his 
father, n physician of considerable repute, 
m the pleasant little village of Glcnvillf, sit¬ 
uated in one of the most attrac tive sections 
of tin* Empire State. 
He was then a young man of acknowl¬ 
edged talent for practical jokes, and won 
quite a local reputation as the instigator 
of certain funny proceedings which made 
amusement for the many, at the expense of 
the few. His youth had been made up of a 
series of rather strange adventures, by sea 
and land, at home and abroad, which had 
given abundatit opportunities for him to de¬ 
velop his fun-loving genius, all of which lie 
had fully improved. IIo was well skilled in 
reading human nature, for one of his years, 
and seldom failed to find out I he weak side 
of a person, or to operate upon that weak 
side satisfactorily to himself. In short, he 
practiced fun with as much zeal as he prac¬ 
ticed physic, and administered laughter as 
often as lotions. 
Glenville possessed an odd specimen of 
humanity in Hie person of one Samuel 
Brimmer, a long, lank, loose-jointed, con¬ 
ceited young man, who rated ids abilities at 
a high figure, and whose predominant char¬ 
acteristics were curiosity and over-assurance. 
He possessed Yankee inquisitiveness with¬ 
out Yankee shrewdness, and had a way of 
thrusting himself upon the notice of people 
that was not always gratifying. 
Doctor Guram first met Brimmer at the 
house of Deacon Priest. I am not sure 
that the, doctor's call at Deacon Priest’s, 
at that time, was strictly professional; it 
may be that the deacon’s two pretty daugh¬ 
ters had something to do with it Neither 
of them were sick, it is plain, for they enter¬ 
tained hun pleasantly in the parlor for an 
hour, where, when he first went in, he en¬ 
countered the lank young man whose iden¬ 
tity I have alluded to. 
Brimmer had heard of the doctor; among 
other things he had heard that gentleman's 
talent at fortune-telling rather extravagantly 
spoken of. Down ill the South Sea Islands, 
or in some other heathenisb-jilace, the doc¬ 
tor had picked up a rigmarole which he 
made use of, sometimes, to point a bit of 
pleasantry for himself and friends, and the 
gipsy lore he had at his tongue’s end was 
sufiieient to supply almost any person with 
a tolerable fortune. Brimmer’s curiosity 
was so great that, lie longed to look iuto the 
future, with a longing powerful indeed; and 
when the doctor arose to go he too arose, 
and laying his hand familiarly on the doc¬ 
tor’s shoulder, exclaimed : 
“ Now say, doctor, I’ve heard tell a good 
deal about your tellin’ o’ fortunes, and I 
want ye to tell mine, if so be ye can do it. 
I don’t believe ye can, but I want ye to try. 
Now say, will ye?” 
The doctor hesitated a moment before he 
replied, and looked at Biummer as though 
he would read him through and through. 
Then, very gravely, lie said“ You would 
not doubt my ability to tell your fortune, 
sir, should I now tell you all I know about 
you. I have not leisure, at present, to com¬ 
ply with your request; at another time I 
will enlighten you as far as yon may desire.” 
When ihe doctor had gone Brimmer 
sneered considerably at t he pretended knowl¬ 
edge, and assured the girls that nobody could 
fool him. 
Nell and Jennie Priest both appre¬ 
ciated a little amusement, and were especially 
desirous that the doctor’s “gift ” at fortune- 
telling should he fully established in Brim¬ 
mer’s estimation, They had a vague notion 
that something would conic of it. Could 
they aid the doctor’s “gift,” therefore, they 
would gladly do so. As Brimmer worked 
for the deacon, and consequently made one 
of the family, they were informed in regard 
to much of his past life, and chance gave 
them an opportunity to learn several partic¬ 
ulars which the young man deemed un¬ 
known to every one in town, (the witches 
found a letter of Ills and wickedly read it!) 
all of which information was duly given to 
the doctor at an early moment. 
Bv the use ot this knowledge, and Ids nat¬ 
ural shrewdness, Dr. Ceram one day gave 
Bkimmer his fortune. The past was related 
with ho much accuracy as to startle him be¬ 
yond measure, and cause him to accept the 
predictions of the future with undoubting 
faith. These predictions were few in num¬ 
ber, for the vision of the seer unfortunately 
became dimmed too soon, and the stone he 
looked into was no longer sufficiently light. 
At another time the future would be as clear 
as the past. 
After this, Brimmer’s curiosity to know 
the future was greater than ever before, and 
he likewise became possessed of an intense 
desire to learn the art of fortune-telling. He 
plied the doctor with repeated questions 
concerning it, and was willing to make 
almost any sacrifice to acquire the “ gift ” 
Occasionally he received some encourage¬ 
ment, but the doctor carefully withheld a 
direct promise to impart the eagerly sought 
information. Now one excuse was made 
and now another; but all the while Brim¬ 
mer hoped to gain the secret by which he 
might see and knowof all tilings pertaining 
to those around him. 
One November morning Doctor Ceram 
met Brimmer again, and was once more 
besought to instruct him in the art he 
coveted. The doctor was growing weary 
of importunity, and, beside, he thought mat¬ 
ters were ripe for n rare piece ot sport. As 
a consequence, he had a new excuse fur de- 
elining to instruct the young man in divining 
tilings opaque. 
“To be frank, Bam, 1 can’t teach you 
fortune-telling, because you are not sutti- 
cicntly brave. A man must be very coura¬ 
geous indeed to look into the divining stone 
with ft clear vision, iiud the fact is, I think 
you’re something of a coward 
The imputation thus cast upon Brimmer 
was indignantly repelled with the declara¬ 
tion that he was willing to attest his courage 
in any manner the doctor might desire. 
“ Well, then, if you will go alone to the 
graveyard, at twelve o’clock to-night, hold¬ 
ing a silver dollar in your hand—go to the 
grave of Tom Crusoe— pass on through 
the yard and back — without any signs ot 
fear, 1 will teach you liow T to tell fortunes as 
well as I can." 
“ Agreed,” said Saxiuel. 
It was stipulated that he was to make no 
mention of the matter, and was to meet the 
doctor at the office ol a young lawyer, 
Fred. Langdon, at half past eleven o’clock 
in the evening, whence the doctor and 
Langdon would follow him to the grave 
yard, to see that he properly fulfilled the 
contract. 
For several weeks previous to this, there 
had been rumors of body-snatching abroad, 
and the entire community of Glenville was 
aroused to a deep feeling upon the Subject 
It was suspected that the young doctor, 
and a student in the office of Ceram, senior 
had been guilty of robbing graves, and some 
remarks made by the lormev to Jut Jackson 
had lent strength to the suspicion. J im was 
a “gentleman troin Africa,” and man ot all 
work for Guram, senior. His brother Afri¬ 
can, Tom Crusoe, had died about a week 
previous, and was buried in the village 
cemetery. The young doctor’s propensity 
for teasing had frequently led him to declare, 
in Jim's hearing, that lie meant to have Tom 
for a subject, and Jim greatly feared that 
Tom’s sleep was io be indeed rudely broken. 
After the compact with Brimmer, Doctor 
Guram returned to his and his father s office, 
and soon took occasion to pass a word with 
the man of all work. * 
“ Jim,” said he, “ this thing has been de¬ 
layed long enough. We want a subject, and 
you must go with us to-night to dig Tom 
up." Now the doctor very well knew that 
Jtm would be missing at nightfall, and was 
nearly as confident that the darkey’s gar- 
rulousness would serve the desired pur- 
posc, which was not that of a genuine 
resurrectionist. 
About mid-afternoon the doctor mounted 
his horse and rode away, without any appa¬ 
rent call, nor did he return to the village 
until lute in the evening. Then lie proceed¬ 
ed directly to Fred. Lang don's office and 
in an hour Brimmer appeared. Langdon 
was never averse to anything promising 
amusement, and readily agreed to saddle his 
horse and go with them. 
The cemetery was located about a mile 
out of the village, and at twenty minutes to 
twelve the trio set out for it, Brimmer on 
foot, the others riding some distance behind. 
It was a crisp, frosty night, the air as keen 
and cutting us in mid winter. A young 
moon shone rather dimly behind vapory 
clouds that seemed continually striving to 
envelop it, and that cast pale, ghost like 
shadows upon field and woodland. 
Not a word was spoken by either. Brim¬ 
mer had his silver dollar clutched tightly in 
Ins right h ind, and strode onward as though 
afraid of neither man nor devil. They 
crossed the bridge over the creek, ascended 
the little lull beyond, and could then dimly 
see the white slabs which marked the 
mounds, n quarter of a mile further on. 
There is something cold and chilling in a 
midnight view of a graveyard. Go to one 
of a cool Autumn night, if you doubt this, 
and see. Glistening marble columns are 
rather beautiful in the sunlight, but. seen by 
the feeble rays of a half-full moon, they send 
a chill to almost any heart. 
Twenty rods away from the entrance to 
the cemetery, the docior and Langdon 
reined their horses up beside the fence and 
waited to see the result. Brimmer’s face 
may have been a shade paler than usual, 
perhaps, hut he. boldly entered the gate and 
walked along the central path. He looked 
neither to the right nor the left, but went 
straight on towards Tom Grusoe’s grave. 
He reached it—he walked around it — he 
put out Ids hand to touch the head-board 
with the silver piece — and at that moment 
there arose about him such a chorus of yells 
and groans and unearthly screeches as 
human ears never listened to before. It 
seemed as though every tomb-stone had a 
voice, and every shrub and hush had found 
a tongue. Poor Brimmer stood for a mo¬ 
ment as if paralyzed, while the horrible din 
rang out upon the midnight air, and then 
with one tremendous leap he cleared three 
mounds, and due-hed across the graveyard us 
though every white slab had been trans¬ 
formed into a demon, and was pursuing him 
to the death. The fiendish cliorus grew 
louder and more fiendish each instant, while 
Brimmer took longer strides and hounded 
over graves and grave-stones with the fieet- 
ncss of a deer. Reaching the backside wall 
of the enclosure he leaped over It, and went 
ott : icross the fields at a pace that would 
rival Dexter’s, never stopping to look be¬ 
hind, followed still by the demoniacal chorus 
tliat rang in his ears every night thereafter 
for months. 
Well-nigh convulsed with laughter, Doc¬ 
tor Guram and Langdon galloped away 
homeward. The denouement was to them 
neither strange nor unlocked tor. As the 
doctoi anticipated, Jr.\r had informed some 
of the citizens that the resurrectionists would 
visit the cemetery that night, and a self- 
appointed committee of at least fifty men 
and hoys had posted themselves about the 
place, and had waited there in the cold lor 
their coming, Brimmer was naturally mis¬ 
taken for one of the body-snatchers, and the 
effort to frighten him off proved highly 
successful. 
Next morning the doctor appeared at the 
usual village lounging place looking very 
much as though a patient in dangerous con¬ 
dition had kept him up all niglu, A num¬ 
ber of those who had been engaged in 
watching ihe cemetery met him there, and 
rallied him upon his rather worn appearance. 
He pretended not to understand their chaf¬ 
fing, and gave them little answer. After a 
time Brimmer came, lie, too, looked pale 
and nervous, and had evidently made a poor 
night of it. He was passing the doctor 
without notice, when that gentleman said, 
as he reached out his hand: 
“ Good morning, 8am 1 Aren’t you as 
well as usual?” 
There was an expression, half fear and 
half hate, on Brimmer’s countenance as, 
declining the offered hand, he responded: 
“Doctor Guram, I want you never to 
speak tome again! You’re in league with 
the devil, sir!” 
Then the facts in tiie story leaked out, 
and the self-appointed watching committee 
made no further attempts to badger the sup¬ 
posed resurrectionist. But Brimmer never 
forgave the doctor; indeed, he seemed never 
to believe the truth regarding that night, but 
persisted that the doctors “gift” was from 
the Evil One, and that the voices he had 
listened to were none other than those 
of demons. 
lunct jmtsrcllann. 
' X 
DRIFTING. 
BY BERTHA 8. 8CUANTOM. 
O CALM still tide 
Drift on. drift on I 
White sails far out; 
The day Is done. 
Like hushed, still kisses 
On dead iips, 
The silence tails 
O’er day’s eclipse I 
And thro’ the amber 
Hush of night, 
The far ofl stars 
Gleam dear and bright. 
Drift with the tide 
O iife grown pale! 
Drift out to sea, 
Where night’winds wail. 
For death’s night falls 
Like kind, dear balm; 
And that long sleep 
Shall give thee calm. 
O calm, white sea! 
O caihn, white shore I 
Where in the west 
Day shines no more. 
My hopes cry out 
As winds at night; 
My soul would hail 
Her beacon light. 
Till, on that shore, 
I learn from thee 
A deeper calm, 
O, voiceless sea! 
HALF-HOUR FANCIES. 
BY A. DRIFT. 
Of Fancies Generally. 
Fancies are better than realities just so 
far as you are able to make them so. A 
fact, a reality, is oftentimes an ugly, disa¬ 
greeable tiling, with sharp corners that defy 
you. A fancy is pliable—can be moulded 
into any form of beauty—can )>c clothed 
about with whatever attractive habiliments 
one may choose to grace it. 
If fancies arc not always pleasant things 
then, whose is the fault V If, in unhappy 
mood, your fanciful creations are distorted 
and hideous—hobgoblins, and all sorts of 
painful characters—what do they signify ? 
Tliat your mental tension is a little over¬ 
strained, I take it. That you rather like 
unpleasant things. That to he unhappy is 
a chronic difficulty with you, and you 
wouldn’t get rid of it ii you could. 
Now, a pleasant fancy is the best mental 
tonic in the world, it may be very sweet 
withal It’s a mistaken notion that a thing 
to be strengthening and healthful must be 
bitter. Men take their bitters, we know, 
and get strong on them—perhaps, iwrhaps 
not. But it’s mainly because they like hit¬ 
ters, that they cry out so earnestly for them. 
Even if, in ordinary physics, a hitter be 
thought the only sure corrective, in mental 
physics it is tlie veriest banc. He who 
“chews the end of sweet and bitter fancy” 
don’t know what good chewing is, that's all, 
or else his appetite lias become fearfully 
perverted. 
And that’s what’s the matter with most of 
us: our appetites are unnatural—our mental 
appetites, I mean. Three-quarters of our 
miscrahleness is duo to the fact. Rather 
than feed our mind upon happy fancies, we 
let it gormandize on everything sickening to 
soul and sense. We conjure up woes of all 
imaginable shades and degrees for our men¬ 
tal pabulum; and if they do not conic to be 
real, but pass us by in graciousness, we arc 
positively disappointed, and grieve over it. 
If the most of mankind have any especial 
forte , it consists in being very wretched on 
very small capital. 
Say you that a fanciful man is a worthless 
individual? Then I retort by declaring 
that the whole of humanity are of no value. 
For everybody has his fancies. I have in¬ 
timated that much of the world s unhappi¬ 
ness is mere fancy. It is also undeniably 
true that half of what passes tor fact is 
fancy only. Fancies have their legitimate 
place. Not so clearly defined and trans¬ 
ferable, nor so lasting as ideas, they are 
perhaps quite as strong in their influence. 
Indeed, are they not stronger? Has not 
many a man succumbed to a fancy who 
might have been knocked down by an idea 
without yielding? Yen, verily. The more 
I think about it, the more am I convinced— 
the more shall I (?) convince you—that fan¬ 
cies are kings in disguise, and rule us all. 
Kings? Queens, may be. And as the 
latter they are seldom disguised. 11 a fancy 
ever has gender, must it not he surely fem¬ 
inine ? The one you have never been en¬ 
tirely able to forget, my bachelor friend and 
brother, wore skirts and the most beautiful 
curls, and looked out at you through a pair 
of bewitching eyes. Are fancies like these 
transferable, then? you, no, some less well- 
informed person, asks. Yea. verily, again. 
She was some other man’s fancy, too, and 
he made her his wife. And the only conso¬ 
lation you have had ever since, is in hoping 
that she has proved to him, as a fact, less 
agreeable than as a fancy’! 
Fancies are strong with a silken strength, 
They take hold of you so lightly that you J-j 
hardly realize the contact. They are yours, • 
at the first, in fact yours all the while; and ^ 
yet you are theirs, after a little, and they 
possess you more than you possess them. 
This, when they .shape themselves most dis¬ 
tinctly. When they flit before you, dim, 
undefined—arc: come and gone in an in¬ 
stant—they are certainly not yours, and they 
leave no perceptible influence upon you. 
There are no better every-day companions 
than fancies. The pleasant ones, under¬ 
stand mo. To be fanciful is not to be sim¬ 
ply a dreamer. A fancy is a dream in 
wakefulness, and unlike a dream in that the 
latter, though your own mental creation, is 
shaped without volition on your part; while 
a fancy, not of your creation, perchance, in 
its inception, is in its after-growth solely 
your own voluntary work. If it whisper 
to you a beautiful stoiy, the story is just the 
one you most wish to hear, and that does 
you most good. If it people your solitari¬ 
ness with company, they are cheerful bodies, 
who do not bore you with long-winded dis¬ 
sertations on dry topics, but who talk so 
delightfully that you pray they may soon 
come again. If it hear you away, as on the 
wings of the morning, you are transported 
to the fairest countries, where the birds sing 
ever sweetest, where the flowers bloom ever 
brightest and fade not at all. and where — 
ah! would that the fancy might make it 
real!—it is “ always afternoon!” 
--*■-»-*- 
WESTERN MEN. 
The Westem character develops freedom 
and takes in large calculations. This is 
more true of the man of Western cities than 
of the farmer and the frontier man, hut still 
the character applies to all. A Western 
man thinks nothing of going one thousand 
or one thousand live hundred miles, and has 
no traditional feud with any class of Jew or 
Gentile. The elements of various nation¬ 
alities, flowing together Westward, form a 
strong and tolerant community. If a man 
out West has his horse stolon, he mounts 
another and traces the thief; shoots him if 
lie can. The extending prairies, immense 
lakes, grand rivers, seem io enlarge the 
whole conception of things. The big farm 
yields thousands of bushels of grain. The 
Western man may have twenty horses, a 
hundred mules, and a thousand head of cat¬ 
tle grazing in his pastures, and live hundred 
pigs fattening in his fields. He reads the 
prices current; knows all that i* going on , 
forms his own opinions, and is loud and hold 
in the expression of them. Iln is a man of 
patient courage, who will lose thousands of 
dollars by the fall of the market, and make 
less account of it than he would of the 
laming of a favorite horse or the loss of a 
faithful dog. If lie doesn't turn his loss off 
with a laugh, and is pushed to speak of it, 
you may see the gleam of stern grit flashing 
from his eyes, as he. tells you he will do bet¬ 
ter next time. He is full of reckless and 
mercurial daring. As impulsive as the 
Southerner, and yet practical in all things, 
he sees and takes always the short cut to his 
end. Feeling about the sacred character of 
ancestral acres, never disturbs the mind of a 
man whose possessions were reclaimed from 
the wilds but yesterday, and may be left to¬ 
morrow. Whatever he has he will sell; and 
whatever you own he Is willing tobny, pro¬ 
viding he can make some 11 bool” on it. 
With him all things were made to buy and 
sell. A frontier man once described to me, 
without the least idea of the strange char¬ 
acter of the transaction, how lie had “ traded 
off a Bible for a plaguey good fiddle.” If 
any thing you have on you or about you 
strike bis fancy, he will at once offer to buy 
it, and has no notion that certain pieces of 
property mayn’t be far sale.— Exchange. 
-4-*-*- 
WHERE NICHOLAS I. DIED. 
The once famous Nicholas, the late Em¬ 
peror of Russia, is now seldom mentioned. 
The room in which lie died is in the Winter 
Palace, at St, Petersburg. 
It is a small vaulted chamber on theground 
floor, his favorite room. In all that vast 
i palace he chose this little room in the sim- 
i plicity of his habits. Everything remains 
! just us it did when he died, and you know he 
■ died suddenly. In one corner stands his 
desk, with the reports and papers brought to 
him that morning. Near it a couch covered 
: with green leather, alongside of which stands 
- his well-used Bible. At its foot a small iron 
- camp bedstead, on which lies his old grey 
- military cloak. His sword and helmet are 
l in the places where lie put them when he 
1 laid them aside. Nothing is luxurious or 
r elegant. 11 is toilette articles were few and 
i ordinary. There lay his one hair brush, a 
- single bottle of essence, and a small mous- 
. tache brush with its brillantine. On every 
l article of furniture lies a handkerchief, one 
- of his peculiarities—when he wanted one, to 
l have it at hand. 
3 -44-4- 
Comport the distressed; supply the needy., ? 
