MOORE’S BUBAL NEW-YORKER. 
UOV. 30 
THE SOULS’ SONGS. 
A SOUL whs singing Of freedom.— 
Of breadth, and depth, and bight, 
Of infinite lengths, aspirations’ 
Full scope, unlimited might; 
Singing of Law's overthrowal, 
While serene Law listened and smiled, 
A soul was singing Of freedom,— 
And the songs t hat she sang were wild. 
A soul was singing or glory,— 
And the melody rose in waves, 
Swaying among the laurels 
That sprung from a thousand graves. 
Graves of the soul's dead weaknesses 
Slain by Ambition's hand ;— 
A soul was singing of glory, 
And the songs that she sung were grand. 
A soul was singing of beauty,— 
Of Creation's tints and lines, 
Of thought's impassioned coloring. 
Of spirit’s perfect designs; 
Singing of Inner sunolitics, 
Trod only by priestly feet;— 
A soul was singing of beauty 
And the songs that she sang were sweet. 
A soul was singing of duty,— 
And the music was strong and bold, 
But the high,clour ring of triumph 
Was not all that the strained chords told. 
They told of a dcsulateness 
No sense of uprightness could glad ;— 
A soul was singing of duty, 
And the songs that she sang were sad. 
A soul was singing of love,— 
And Infinity filled with the splendor 
And Ftornity s silences trembled 
To melodies deathless and tender; 
Singing of love's great, wonder, 
Its beginnings, developments, frail;— 
A soul was singing of love, 
And all other songs were mute- 
[Maud Manning. 
©itv 
DE. SPENCER’S GREAT CRIME, 
A STORY TOLD BY A PHYSICIAN. 
I was sitting in my office, half dozing over an 
in terminable article on defective nutrition, in 
the best medical review. 
The lire in the prate was low, the night was 
stormy and the clock was oil the stroke ol 
eleven. I was just about to turn off the gas and 
retire, for, being u bachelor, I slept in t ho room 
connected with my office, when there was a pull 
at the bell. 
I started up suddenly, for ibis was something 
new. Mlddlebury was a decorous soi l of plane, 
mid people usually managed to be taken siek at 
seasonable huurs. 
Old Mrs. Jerome had been threatening to die 
tor l lie past live years, and at every visit l paid 
her she solemnly informed me that when the 
decisive moment did come she desired me pres¬ 
ent. But, as nothing ailed (lie old lady beyond 
now and then an indigestion from too much 
high living. I had never yet been called upon to 
be present at her death. 
Now, I thought, it must be old Mrs. Jerome is 
going. 
I took up iny night-lamp and went to the 
floor. A strong gust of damp, sleety wind near¬ 
ly extinguished the light, but shading It with 
my hand, I dimly discerned the form of a 
woman. 
“Conic in,” said 1, holding open the door, but 
she declined, with a gesture of impatience. 
“You must come out," she said, in a sharp, 
decisive voice, “and be fpiiek about it.” 
I put on my overcoat without demur, locked 
the surgery door, and stepped into the storm. 
As I did so the woman laid a firm hand on my 
arm, and, putting her face close to mine, said: 
“Dr. Lockwood, can jou keep a secret?” 
“ I think so, madam.” 
“ Swear it.” 
“Is this secret of a professional character? 
—that is, is it anything you wish to confide in 
me as a medical man ? " 
“ It is.” 
“ Tory well, then, I swear it.” 
“ That, is right.” 
A man respects an oath, t hough why he should 
is a mystery, since men’s mouths are running 
over with them. 
“ Whither are you taking me, and for what 
purpose?" 
“ To the Clifton House, to see the mistress.” 
I started. 
Clifton House was the old mansion recently 
taken by Dr. Spencer, a stranger to every one 
in Middlebury. Spencer was a tall, dark, rather 
distinguished-looking man, who bad hung out 
his sign in the village, only a few doors above 
mine, but as yet lie had got no practice. 
He was unsocial in the extreme, avoiding his 
neighbors persistently, and when he did speak 
it was in such a curt, halt-savage way, that one 
was not likely to attempt prolonging the con¬ 
versation. 
The doctor had a wire, it was said, but no one 
ever saw her. She was an invalid, and Miss 
Melrose, a friend of the family, presided over 
the establishment and sat at the head of the 
table. 
Miss Melrose was yet beautiful, and won the 
admiration of all who visited Clifton House, 
by her graceof manner and fascinating conver¬ 
sation. 
“As wo walk along," said my companion, “let 
me explain to you just what it is necessary you 
should know. My mistress is very ill.” 
“ I beg your pardon—is it Mrs. Spencer or Miss 
Melrose ? ” 
She laughed bitterly. 
“ Miss Melrose! I would stab her to the heart 
sooner Ilian own her us a mistress. My mistress 
is a lady—noble, royal and of gentle birth. It is 
an honor to serve my mistress.” 
“And is she ill? How longsinee?" 
“ Ever since she married him—curse him!” she 
muttered, in a fierce tone; “ but 1 must not get 
excited. I must toll my story, or rather licrs. 
Two years ago, through the desire of her dying 
father, Alice Herndon became James Spencer's 
wife. Before that she was a healthy, blooming 
girl; immediately after this marriage she began 
to fall. Do you see anything strange in that?” 
“ Not necessarily." 
“ Let me enlighten you further. Dr. Spencer 
was at one time engaged to Miss Lucille Mel¬ 
rose, but. lie broke the engagement and married 
my mistress Instead. Miss Melrose was as poor 
as Job’s turkey; Miss Herndon was an heiress, 
and Dr. tipencer was deeply in debt and hard 
pressed by his creditors. Do you see anything 
strange in that ? ” 
“Perhaps. Good.” 
“ When my mistress married Spencer she was 
only seventeen, and had been taught to obey 
her father in everything. She was a gentle, af¬ 
fect ionate child, and it would have been easy 
for Spencer to have won her love. But he did 
not care for I hut. 11 was her money he wanted. 
It paid his debts and bought him fast horses; it 
set bis table with nice, costly dishes, and put it 
in Ids power to keep Miss Melrose robed like a 
queen. And all this time my mistress has been 
slowly but surely sinking; and, look you, Dr. 
Lockwood, I believe she is not dying of disease, 
but of—” she lowered her voice to a whisper as 
she spoke the word “ poison !" 
“Impossible! This is a grave charge." 
“Of poison given her by her husband, who, at 
her death, will have sole control of her property 
and bo tree to marry Miss Melrose. There is no 
time to explain to you in detail tlm thousand 
and one circumstances which have led me to 
the belief, for we are almost at the door. It Is 
never the case that Miss Melrose and Spencer 
are out at the same tune, or I should have called 
another physician before; but to-nighl. they are 
called away by the death of Miss Melrose’s 
sister, and will not be back until to-morrow. 
With the consent of my mist ress, i came for 
you, and oh! Dr. Lockwood, 1 pray you save 
my dear mistress. I nursed her when her 
mother died and left hern helpless infant; all 
through her innocent youth she was like an 
own child to me; and now to see her fading 
hour by hour before my eyes! Good heavens! 
if I knew beyond doubt that he was guilty, his 
life should pay the forfeit." , 
I was already beginning to feel a deep Inter¬ 
est In Mrs. Spencer, although I had never seen 
her, and, like her old nurse, I was inclined to 
feel a great animosity for Dr. Spencer. 
Mrs. Spencer received me in her bed-cham¬ 
ber. It was on tho second floor and was furn¬ 
ished with exquisite elegance. 
Every! hing in the room bespoke t lie taste and 
delicacy of the occupant. The warm air was 
fragrant with the faint odor of the heliotrope; 
and, glancing around, I saw the purple lilossoms 
and green leaves in an alabaster case on the 
ledge ol the south window. 
She was a woman who, when once seen, could 
never be forgotten. 1 have met in my life 
many beautiful women, bin never oue so lovely. 
She was tall and straight, with a purely oval 
face, liquid brown eyes, and a dash of hecMe in 
her cheeks, which isnever seen in perfect healt h. 
She received me, as I know she received every¬ 
body. gracefully, and though there was a slight 
embarrassment in her manner when T spoke Of 
her illness, she answered tny professional in¬ 
quiries without hesitation. 
As to myself. I laid aside all false delicacy 
and questioned her plainly as to her symptoms. 
Mrs. Hurd, her nurse, remained in the room 
and added many little important items of In¬ 
formation. 
When she spoke of her husband it was with 
a sort of hopeless sadness, which distressed mo 
greatly. 
Not a breath of suspicion against him in her 
answer to my questions, and 1 fell sure that at 
present she knew nothing of what Mrs. Hurd 
had such serious apprehensions. 1 was glad 
that it was so, for, with her finely strung or¬ 
ganization, it might have produced serious re¬ 
sults. I made my examination of the patient 
as closely as I could, and drew my own conclu¬ 
sions. 1 could have sworn that Mrs. Spencer 
daily swallowed arsenic iu small quantities, and 
the deadly drug was telling fearfully on a con¬ 
stitution never robust. 
She said, answering my' questions, that, she 
had no physician except her husband. He had 
thought himself better acquainted with her 
ease, and, therefore, better qualified to treat it. 
Ho never left medicine With her to take; he 
always brought if fresh from his office, and ad¬ 
ministered it promptly, 
There was little enough I could do in such a 
case. Anxious to do everything, the very cir¬ 
cumstances of the affair left me nearly power¬ 
less. 
A charge of such a nature, of course, I could 
not make out. against Dr. Spencer without the 
amplest proof. If I hinted a suspicion, every 
ono won Id at once set it down to my professiona, 
prejudice, and if 1 could not substantiate my 
statement, the doctor could make me puy dear¬ 
ly for such a slander uttered against him. 
The only dependence seemed to be in Mrs. 
Hurd. To her T unbound myself freely. I told 
her, without reserve, that 1 believed Dr. Spencer 
was killing his wife by slow poison, and be¬ 
sought her to be constantly on the watch to 
save the victim, and to discover some proof by 
which we could fasten the guilt upon him. 
She smiled grimly, and promised obedience. 
I gave her a powerful antidote for the poison I 
suspected, and went home perturbed and anx¬ 
ious In mind. I did not.sleep that night, and ail 
the nex t day i was in a high fever of excite¬ 
ment. A ring at the bell made me tremble a 
step on the gravel outside my office stopped my 
breath, and.I hardly knew what I expected to 
hear, yet, 1 felt sure that before I slept I should 
hear something. 
And now I must tell the story as it was told 
to me: 
Dr. Spencer returned home in the morning 
after my visit to Clil'tori House. He looked 
wretchedly, the nurse said; appeared gloomy 
and depressed. Miss Melrose came with him. 
and was decorously sad over the death of her 
sister. Women of her stamp always do mourn 
to perfection. They neither overdo nor underdo 
the thing, as women of feeling are likely to do. 
Dr. Spencer came at once to his wife's cham¬ 
ber. He thought she looked ill, and prescribed 
a cordial at once, saying he would go and 
fetch it. 
“You are always ordering cordials for her," 
said Mrs. Hurd, musingly. “ Why not take 
something yourself ? You look like a ghost." 
He eyed her keenly, but replied, composedly: 
“I think I will take some of the cordial my¬ 
self, for I do not feel quite well. Altcia, dear, 
shall 1 bring It here and drink your health? ” 
Mrs. Spencer smiled sadly in assent—she never 
disputed her husband and he went out. Pres¬ 
ently ho returned with two glasses. Both con¬ 
tained liquid, colorless and odorless. Mrs. Hurd 
was watching him with her heart in her throat, 
for, as she told me, she fell that the decisive 
moment had come. There was something in 
the gray pallor in the doctor’s rigid face that 
told her of a desperate purpose In the man's 
soul. 
He lifted the glass on the right of the tray and 
gave it to his wife. 
“Drink it dear,” he said, “it is a panacea for 
all evils. 1 also am going to take a glass of it! ” 
and ho pointed to a glass still on the tray. 
Mrs. Spencer accepted it, and was putting it 
to her lips, when Mrs. Hurd interrupted. 
“If you will bring her a tumbler of water, 
doctor; Mrs. Spenee room piaiua that the cordial 
leaves a bad taste In her mouth, and my old 
bones are so full of rheumatism that it nearly 
kills mo to go down stairs." 
The doctor turned and bent on her a look us 
if he would read her through. But she kept her 
faco passive. If he hud any suspicions, her 
manner quieted them, and, putting down the 
glass, he left lie room. Then Mrs. Hurd changed 
the position of the glasses. 
When lie came back and lie was gone but a 
moment Ihc nurse stood Just exactly where be 
hail left her, and Mrs. Spencer was lying back 
in her chair with her eyes closed. 
Again he Jilted the glass—this time it was the 
one intended for himself and placed it at the 
lips of his wife. She drank the contents, swal¬ 
lowed a little of the water he hud brought her 
and thanked him in her sad, sweet way. 
“Now for my own cordial," said he, with af¬ 
fected gayety. “ 1 indulge in something a little 
stronger," and as he spoke he tossed off the 
mixture, 
“ It made me stone cold to my fingers' ends to 
sec him do it,” said Mrs. Hurd, relating the cir¬ 
cumstance to me; “ but. Heaven is my witness, 
I felt not a twinge of conscience. I argued like 
tl»ls: — If it was a simple cordial, na ho said, ft 
would do him no harm. II it. was poison, his 
blood would be upon his own sinful head.” 
He went to bed ball an hour afterw ard, com¬ 
plaining of fatigue. In the morning they found 
him dead! 
1 was called to the post mortem examination, 
and we discovered in the stomach of the de¬ 
ceased a sufficient quantity of the deadliest 
poison known to modern science to kill half a 
dozen men. 
My brother physicians agreed that the man 
was insane, and had probably taken the dose in 
one of his unsettled fils of mind. I did not dis¬ 
pute them, but even before Mrs. Hurd told her 
story I had my own theory in regard to his 
death. 
There was no public exposure, however. Mrs. 
Hurd and I agreed that it would profit no one to 
make the wretched aff air public, and so we kept 
our own counsel. 
Miss Melrose, In spite of my conviction that 
she hud been an active party in tlie conspiracy 
against Mrs. Spencer’s life, I could not help 
pitying. Such a miserable, worn and haggard 
face ns hers I have never seen ; and when they 
buried Dr. Spencer she was conttned to her 
chamber with brain fever. 
I attended her in her illness, but although she 
recovered her health, she never was herself 
again. She was a harmless maniac whose de¬ 
light was in gathering llowers and decorating 
the doctor’s grave with them. 
She is living still, and still gathers flowers and 
lays them on that grave, singing to herself 
meanwhile a sort of low incantation, which no 
one ever pretends to understand. 
Not until Mrs. Spencer had been many days 
my wife, and the faithful Mrs. Hurd slept un¬ 
der the violets, did Alicia ever know the perfidy 
Of her former husband. 
And when I told her, after the first shock was 
over, she crept into my arms and whispered : 
“ But if it had not been for James’ crime, I 
should not have found you, Herbert. So good 
sometimes does come out of evil," 
THE SABBATH BELL. 
How sweetly through the lengthened dell, 
When Wintry airs are mild and clear. 
Floats chiming up thn Sabbath boll. 
In softened echoes to the ear! 
“Come, gentle neighbors, come away,” 
So does the welcome summons say; 
” Come, friends and kindred, 'tis the time,” 
So seems to peal the Sabbath chime. 
Done are the week’s debasing cares. 
And worldly ways and worldly will. 
And earth itself an aspect wears 
bike heaven, so bright, so pure, so still! 
Hark, how by turns each mellow note, 
Now low, now louder, seems to float, 
And falling with the wind’s decay, 
Like softest music dies away ! 
“ And now," It says, " where heaven resorts, 
Come with a meek and quiet mind ; 
Oh. worship In these earthly courts. 
But leave your earth-born thoughts behind.” 
Come, neighbors, while the Sabbath bell 
I’eals slowly up the winding dell. 
Come, friends and kindred, let us share 
The sweet and holy rapture there. 
- +++ - 
NOTHING BUT LEAVES. 
It is not necessary that I recall the incident. 
The wearied traveler, the barren fig tree, the 
curse and its speedy fulfillment, are all famil¬ 
iar to us; and the lesson which our Lord would 
teach by it, of Christian frn it fulness, is also per¬ 
fectly understood. The stone over which wo, 
as Christians, stumble, is, I think, not a lack of 
understanding tlie lesson taught, but a failure 
to apply the teaching to our Individual selves; 
and a too great readiness to “III” it to the case of 
others whose Christian life wo consider very 
unfruitful. But which of us can point to our 
life, either past or present, and say—“ There is 
au example of earnest, faithful Christian liv¬ 
ing: follow it and you will bo safe I" I venture 
to say—not one. And when we part the bright 
leaveSof appearances do wo find budding hope's, 
blossoming promises, rich ripe iruit of Chris¬ 
tian endeavor? Or do wo find nothing—“No¬ 
thing hut leaves?” And let none of us so de¬ 
ceive ourselves as to say there Is nothing we can 
do, or that wo have no opportunities; for there 
Is not ono of us, no matter how humldo or ob¬ 
scure our lot may be, but has a work given of 
God lo do. It may be patient endurance of 
potty trials; It may be the monotonous round 
of every day duties; or it may bo the opposite 
path in life from the ono wo had chosen for 
ourselves; but if we are doing it for (JimiST, 
doing it patiently, cheerfully, trusting in Him, 
l hen we may go on rejoicing, for our lives shall 
bear precious fruit for the Master. But alas for 
us, if after a life of blessings and privileges and 
God given opportunities, wc have to bear up to 
the Great White Throne nothing but leaves. 
THE SABBATH BREAKER. 
LiGIitfoot says“ Ob! then I celebrate tiro 
Sabbath (saith the Sabbath-breaker), for I do 
no work, but play and recreate, and drink and 
sit still, and do no work at all.” Friend, dost 
thou think God ever established idleness and 
folly by a law? that he hallowed the Sabbath 
day to be a playing, fooling, sporting day? But, 
Christian, how readout thou, ns a Christian ? 
“ The sevenlh day is the Sabbath of the Lord 
thy God!” not a Sabbath for thy Just and lazi¬ 
ness. And “in It thou isha.lt do no manner of 
work” of tliiuc own, hut the work of the Lord 
thy God. And the rest that he hath command¬ 
ed is not for idleness, but for piety towards 
God; for which end lie gave all the laws of the 
first table—viz., to leave communion with the 
world and worldly things that day, and to have 
it with God; as in Isaiah 98:13, It, “If thou 
turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from 
doing thy will on my holy day, and call the Sab¬ 
bath a delightas Moses, to betake ourselves 
to the mount of God, and there to have com¬ 
munion with him; to got into the mount above 
the world, and there to meet God and converse 
with him; “to be in the spirit on the Lord’s 
day;” and not to recreate the body, but the 
soul. To gather spiritual strength for that 
which, it may be, hath been scattered in our 
worldly employment. 
.-♦♦♦- 
Beecher says:—“To be a Christian is to 
obey Christ, no matter bow you feel; but many 
persons think that after this obedionee is ren¬ 
dered, there will be plunged into their souls 
what is called a Christian experience; and that 
this experience, coming afterwards, is piety. 
They therefore attempt to conform to the love 
Of Christ., and then wait for projected or inter¬ 
jected experience which is supposed to be a re¬ 
ligious state. It Is no doubt better to have the 
feeling that follows, than to bo without it; but 
the feeling itself is not to be taken for that 
of which it is simply the fruit, and if there is 
no fc-eling, it is not to be taken as evidence that 
there is no real religious life," 
- +■■*-* - 
Perhaps tho eye of the Omniscient sees a 
more flagrant exhibition of selfishness and un¬ 
belief and downright irreligion in many luxu¬ 
rious homes of refinement than he sees in some 
densof sensual vice, where ignorance is sinning 
against but small light, under powerful temp¬ 
tation. Pleasing self, without earing whether 
God is pleased or not, is “ sinf ul pleasure." 
St 
