525 
Ay©, is 
Jittrarg Blisccllamj, 
TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS OF MY FIRST 
POEM. 
Ah. here it is! I*m famous now 
An author and a poet! 
It really is iD print! ye prods! 
How proud I’ll be to hLiow it! 
And gentle Annie ! What a thrill 
Will animate her breast, 
To read those ardent lines nud know 
To whom they are addressed. 
Why, bless my soul!—here’s something strange. 
What cun the paper mean 
By talking of the “ graceful brooks 
That gander o'er the greou.” 
And hero's a t instead of it. 
Which makes it “ tippling rill 
“ We’ll seek the shad," instead of “ shade 
And " hell,” instead of “ hill." 
“ They look so” -what! I recollect, 
'Twas " sweet” and then 'twits " kind 
And now to think the stupid fool 
For " bland” has printed “ blind.” 
Was ever such provoking work - 
'Tis curious, by the by. 
How anything is rendered blind 
By giving' it an eye. 
“ Hast thou no tears,” the t's left out, 
“ Hast thou no ears,” instead. 
“ I hope that thou art dear" is put 
“ I hope that thou art dead.’ 
Who ever saw in such a space 
So many blunders crammed? 
“ Those gentle eyes bedimmed," is spelt 
" Those gentle eye,a hedammed.” 
“ The color of the rose" is “ nose.” 
“ Affection" is"affliction 
I wonder if the likeness bolds 
In fact as well as fietion. 
Thou art a friend," the n is gone; 
Who ever would have deemed 
That such a trifling thing could change 
A “ friend” iuto a “ fiend !" 
“ Thou art the same" is rendered “ lame!” 
It really is too had ; 
And here, because an i is out, 
My “ lovely maid" is " mad." 
They drove her blind by poking in 
An eye—a process new; 
And now they've gouged it nut again 
And made it crazy, too, 
“ Where have the muses fled, that thou 
Shouldst live so long unsung;" 
Thus read my version—here it Is— 
" Hhrmldst live so long unhung.” 
“ The late of woman’s love is thine,” 
And h commeuees " I'ate;” 
How small a circumstance will turn 
A woman’s love to hate. 
I’ll read no more ! What shall I do ! 
I'll never dare to send it !— 
The paper's scattered far and wide— 
'Tis now too late to nteudit. 
Ob Fame ’ thou cheat id human bliss! 
Why did I ever - write! 
I wish my poem had been burnt 
Before it saw the light. 
Let’s stop and recapitulate; 
I’VC darn'd her eyes, that's plain; 
I’ve told her she’s a lunatic, 
And blind, and deaf, and lame. 
Was ever eucli a horrid hash 
In poetry or iu prose? 
I’ve said she was a fiend, and praised 
The color ol her nose. 
I wish I had that editor 
About a half a minute, 
I’d bang him to his heart’s content 
And with an it begin it. 
I’d jam his body, eyes and bones 
And spell it. with a n. 
And send him to that hill of his— 
He spelt it with an e. 
THE SCANDALOUS LETTER. 
[Complete in Ten Chapters.] 
CHAPTER v.— (Continued.) 
As she spoke Miss Carew turned her back on the 
astonished woman and swept across the room, 
leaving her visitor to make, as dlgutiled an exit as 
circumstances would permit, A vigorous slam of 
the street-door was Elizabeth Yorke’s parting salu¬ 
tation to the actress, who had stood white and 
rigid as marble till the sound aroused her. Then 
the girl broke down, and, sinking on to the hard, 
little lodging-house*sufn, she burled her face In her 
hands aud burst Into an agony of tears. 
“ oh, I oarmot bear It!” she sobbed. •• The cruel 
woman! Why did she come here to-day of all 
days in the year? Was not my fate hard enough 
already? oh, Jack, Jack, 11 you could see your 
poor child now!” and Miss t’arew’s slender shape 
was convulsed by the force of her bUler weeping. 
“Will he be at the theatre to-night?" she 
thought suddenly, as she started up and with 
trembling hands pushed the damp hair back from 
her face. “ Did he recognize me yesterday, and 
will he be cruel enough to come aud look at me 
across the great gull that divides us, knowing that 
I may not stretch out my arms to him and ask him 
to take me away—away from this narrow misera¬ 
ble stilling existence and these dreadful people— 
from the mean hopeless future 1 have sold myself 
to? oh, it l only dared cry to him to come and 
take cure of me' But I must not. oh, Jack, my 
darling, I pray that you may go away, and never 
know how near you stood last night to your poor 
Olive that 1 may never see your dear face again— 
never, never!’’ 
And again the bitter sobs swelled In the girl’s 
throat as she tried vainly to cont rol herself. 
“ Ah, 1 shall have all my life to cry m ’” she 
thought at. last, rising and beginning to tidy the 
room wllh a row rapid touches, and to remove the 
traces of agitation from her face. " Let me try 
to do my duty with as little complaining or fuss as 
possible. It Is for Nelson’s sake. I must remem¬ 
ber that I” 
And Nelson, coming in at that moment to call 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER. 
his sister to her long-delayed dinner, was caught 
in her arms and held to her breast with an an¬ 
guish of devotion that the boy almost divined. 
“ Has anyone vexed you, dear?” he asked, look¬ 
ing up Into her face with his eager unnaturally- 
brlght eyes. “ I wish T could bear all your 
troubles for you, Olive." 
Then Olive had to laugh, and to declare that her 
trouble was nothing more serious than a headache, 
brought on by her long rehearsal and the stage- 
manager’s bad temper, and t,o eat her dinner and 
“make talk ” as though there were no such tilings 
as love and pain and parting In the world. Then 
thore was still her meeting with the Doctor to be 
gone through before she set off for her work. 
Robert, would bo sure to look in, she remembered, 
as he had not seen her all day; and the poor child 
prepared to receive her middle-aged lover with 
even a prettier welcome than usual, smoothing 
her hair, aud listening a knot Of violets hi her belt, 
and stirring the lire Into a pleasant blaze. 
"It will be dusk," she thought,as she peered 
anxiously Into the dim oblong mirror that adorned 
the mantleplece. "lie will not see that 1 have 
been crying. Men do not like crying girls, I think. 
And how could I tell hina the cause of my tears? 
It is not his fault that Miss Yorke has been so 
cruel and so coarse. I will never let hint know 
what has occurred to-day.” And with thts bravo 
resolve Olive sat down to awa.lt her lover’s knock. 
There w as silence In the Utile parlor, for Nelson, 
who had not been deceived by his sister’s light 
words and laughter, had seen that she was suffer¬ 
ing, and had left her to rest quietly by herself— 
silence, but no repose tor the girl whose heart was 
thrilling with vague longing and doubt and dread, 
as she recalled the events of the last twenty-tom- 
hours. In vain she pressed her hands upon her 
eyes, trying to shut out the face that had been 
looking through her dreams all night; In vain 
with such thoughts as were making her veins 
throb and her checks burn, as she sat all alone In 
the dusk, she told herself that It. was wicked to 
think of any man but the one she had promised to 
many. She was so young. The life she accepted, 
stretched before her so cold, dreary, endless; the 
life that might have been glowed in such happy 
colors before her yearning eyes. Many changing 
pictures she saw In the red heart of the tiro; many 
a remembrance they awoke, many a regret; swift¬ 
ly and surely they carried her back to the days 
before she had known \Voolche3ter, Dr. Yorke, and 
trouble and care—carried her back to the uncloud¬ 
ed summer of three years since, when she bad ful¬ 
filled her first engagement at the pretty sen-side 
town of rarborough. 
Once more She saw herself walking on the level 
sunshiny sands, a budding girl, conscious down to 
her very finger-tips of her beauty and charm and 
power of pleasing, w alking In the sunshine that 
had faded for ever. Once more the fresh sea-wind 
was w-hi3tUng keenly in her ears; once more kind 
glances were meeting hers, and filling the world 
with happiness and light—glances that seemed to 
follow the young actress everywhere—glances oL 
respectful mute admiration, of grave uud tender 
Interest, and of something warmer still. The 
handsome bearded man who met her so often in 
her walks came to the little bandbox of a theatre 
every evening, and Miss Oarew's gorgeous bou¬ 
quets wore an object of much comment and much 
good-natured envy on the part or the other girls 
to the company. Yet Ohve did not even know her 
admirer’s name, and scarcely cared to know it. 
She was happy, filled full of life and hope and 
health; her soul was La her work; her heart—ah, 
her heart, was not awake just yet! 
Then came a day—oh, how well remembered !— 
when Miss Carew put on her crisp white muslin 
gown, and fastened a creamy rase in her bright, 
hair, and went—very proud of the honor—to dine 
with her manager. And somehow It was not a 
surprise to her to Uud that even here she met the 
tall handsome man with the gray eyes and heavy 
moustache, who was Introduced t.o her as Colonel 
Dacre, aud who had brought another bouquet—all 
creamy roses and cool-tinted heliotropes, which 
completed the actress’s simple toilette to perfec¬ 
tion, and which he begged her In a very low voice 
to accept. 
After some time they were engaged. The sea¬ 
son was drawing to u close. Olive had a winter 
engagement to fulfil, but Colonel Dacre declared 
that he would not part with her—that he was 
jealous of every hour she devoted to the stage, 
lie had money enough; his mother would love 
olive, ho assured her; there was nothing at all 
to hinder their marriage. But, as they were 
walking one eveutng towards the tlieal re—where 
Colonol Dacre would leave Miss Carew at. the 
stage-door before he went to bury himself for the 
evening In Ids box— as they were walking along 
like two children, band in hand, and Jack was 
tolling Olivo for the hundredth time what she 
wore and how she looked and what, he felt on 
the day he first saw her on the sands, they were 
met by two ladles In a carriage—a handsome 
dignified woman wllh Jack’s clear-cut profile, and 
a saucy little blonde dressid in bright blue from 
bead to foot, who beamed all sorts of pretty mis¬ 
chief at Colonel Dacre. as they drove by, and 
who looked with undisguised Interest at the beau¬ 
tiful pale girl by his side. Then Olivo felt some¬ 
how that she was beginning to wake out or a 
dream, and that the golden September evening 
was turning bleak and cold. And before long 
the story hud to come out. 
The blomle young lady was colonel Dacre’s 
coustu. They had been betrothed since childhood 
by their parents' wishes; neither cared one bit 
for the other, but to break their eugagemont was 
to forfeit a large property. "That Is all!" Jock 
pleaded in his loving kind old voice, and with 
his adoring longing eyes; and again he swore that 
Olive should be his wife—he would never give her 
up he would die w U.hout her! But Miss carew was 
proud, and, though her heart was breaking, she 
would not listen to any more words of love from 
another woman’s promised husband. She could 
give no answer but tears and sobs to all his desper¬ 
ate prayers and entreaties; she would never see 
him again till he was free—released by his cousin— 
from his promise. And so, having taken the friend¬ 
ly old manager into her counsel, without a last 
word, without a last look at Jack Dacre’s beloved 
wretched face, the actress stole away one day from 
Yarborough, and left her heart behind. For three 
long years she heard nothing ot the man she could 
not help loving still, she believed he had forgot¬ 
ten her, but she prayed for his happiness, after her 
prayer for Nelson, every day. Then some one 
spoke of him as winning honors In Africa, and she 
read his name in the newspapers, and knew that 
he had been i n danger. After that she could think 
of nothing but his safe return, even though he 
might have come back to marry his pretty blonde 
cousin, and could never be anything to Olive 
Carew again. But now! 
"Oh, why does not Robert, come?” thought the 
girl, getting up restlessly and going to the window. 
"Why does he leave me hero to think such 
thoughts, and to remember what It must be the 
work of my life to forget? LVhen lie comes,” she 
added, as she stood with her Hushed cheek pressed 
to the pane, “ I will tell him everything, and I 
shall ask him to let. our marriage be soon, twill 
give up the rest of my engagement if he wishes it,, 
for when I am really his wife 1 shall he stronger. 
Oh, I do want to do what is right, but it is very 
hard!” 
The evening was wearing away, and still Dr. 
Yorke did not come, it would soon be time for 
Miss Carew to go to the theater; she looked anx¬ 
iously at the little clock. 
“ I can watt half an hour longer,” she thought, 
nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers. 
** What can be delaying lilin?” 
There was no answer but the ticking of the 
clock and the light fall of the ashes on the hearth. 
Olive went back to the fire and satdowu. But the 
stillness of the room oppressed her—a kind ot ter¬ 
ror seized upon her. 
" I cannot stay here !" she cried, beginning to 
tie on her bonnet In feverish haste. " Robert is 
not coining; l must go alone. Oh, Jack, I wonder 
if you are thinking of me now: What would you 
say It you knew that your ‘ little child ’ was walk¬ 
ing through the streets all by herself at night— 
you who would not let the wind blow too roughly 
on me, my darling, In thu dear old days 7 How 
happy I was then! How strong and klud he was ! 
How close and warm he used to wrap my shawl 
round me when the nights were chilly 1 All, I 
must not remember any more! Only Robert, may 
take care of mo now. And he is very good; he 
will come to-morrow, no doubt—very' likely he is 
busy to-day. All!" A knock at the street door 
shook the little house at that moment, and Olive 
started, in mingled relief and dread. " There lie 
is!” she cried. " I knew he would not forget me." 
She was tearing off her bon not and shawl and 
running to the fire, which was getting low, as 
footsteps were heard on the stalls. Obedient to 
her touch, a brtllla nt light went dancing through 
the room. The door opened. 
" Ah, you arc late, sir!” she said gaily. “ l shall 
scold you, I-” She turned round. “ Jack 1” 
The tall figure at the door opened his arms, and, 
with a low sobbing cry, Olive carew ran to him 
and fell upon his breast. 
CHAPTER VI. 
Dr. Yorke brought the same gloomy face to din¬ 
ner that he had worn, after his sleepless night, at 
breakfast, lie had had a very hard day’s work, 
and had been prevented by many engagements 
from paying his usual afternoon visit at his ./mine’s 
lodgings. But, In spite of his failure that morning, 
he had called again on Miss carew as he came 
home, and he had been told again that Miss carew 
was not ai. home. The doubt ot the day before 
was now becoming a certainty. Ferhaps a look 
into Olive’s face and a few words In her sincere 
voice would have sa ved him from the thought; 
but., as it was, lie told himself that she had gone 
to meet that man—her lover—and that she was 
trying to deceive him, whose promised wire she 
was. Jealous rage burned in the Doctor’s heart, as 
he dispensed the soup and carved the fowls. Ills 
food tasted bitter. The good wine almost choked 
him. 
Poor Gertrude, after one or two timid attempts 
at, conversation, shrank back frightened at his 
melancholy face, aud was not reassured by the 
unusual liveliness of Aunt Elizabeth's manner, or 
the nods and becks in which that lady Indulged 
from lime to time. The meal was like a nightmare 
to two of those who sat at the table, and it was a 
relief to all when Miss Yorke, having Unished her 
glass or claret, rose and went away with her hand 
on Gertrude’s plump waist, leaving tin- Doctor to 
his own gloomy reflections. But no sooner was 
Gertrude seated at Che piano than Miss Elizabeth, 
announcing that she had left her key-basket in 
the dining-room, returned to the scene or torture. 
The Doctor was silting with Ms elbow on the 
table aud his hands thrust into his hair. The wine 
stood uutasted at his side; he looked up with such 
a haggard face, when the door opened, that Miss 
Yorke almost lost courage. 
*• Robert,” she said, with unwonted gentleness, 
and laying her baud on his shoulder, "what ails 
you to-dny? is there anything wrong? What 
have Gertrude and 1 done t hat you shun us and 
have not a word to say?" 
The kind lone went to the Doctor's heart, which 
was very sore just then, lie touched her hand 
gratefully lu reply. 
" You look tired,” she continued. " You are 
working too hard, Robert. What is the use of 
tolling and slaving and making yourself old before 
your time, as you are doing?” 
The Doctor's dark face Hushed. 
“ Why, aunt, what am l but an old sober fel¬ 
low?” he said, sadly. “ Hard work is what I am 
fit for. But I believe I am a lit tie over-tired to¬ 
day.” 
“ Do you think I can't read you better than that, 
Robert Yorke, after living in this house for twelve 
years? 1 know very well what Is in your mind, 
although you try to hide It from me— your own 
mother’s sister,” 
“ What do you mean, my dear aunt ?” 
“I mean that you are unhappy about that— 
about Mijs carew-and you have good reason, my 
poor boy t” 
“ Who dares to say a word against Olive ?” the 
Doctor exclaimed, springing up, and facing his 
tormentor. " I will listen to— 
" You are accusing her yourself, you poor fel- 
tow,” Miss Elizabeth returned, with a touch ot pity 
in her voice “ What did I say against her ?” 
“ You said she had given me cause for unhappi¬ 
ness. What did you mean ?” 
“ ni tell you. No—I won’t! She shall tell you 
herself—perhaps you’ll believe it then!” 
Pale aud fierce the Doctor stood, while Miss 
Yorke produced the letter she had stolen and held 
It out. 
“Read that, Robert,” she said, with ill-sup¬ 
pressed eagerness, "and you will find—written in 
her own hand-that the reason she could not see 
you to-day was that she had an appointment with 
—another man, who Is her lover!” 
Smot hering an execrat ion, Robert Yorke snatched 
the paper and turned away. 
" Leave me alone,” he muttered hoarsely. “ For 
Heaven's sake leave me to myself 
And so Miss Elizabeth shut the door softly upon 
his misery, and went up-stairs For a long while 
the Doctor sat and looked at tile letter which was 
to wreck his happiness, struggling manfully with 
the temptation which hade Mm prove for himself 
the faithfulness and deceit of the fair woman who 
had seemed to him so high above other women in 
her fearless candor. 
“ I have a right to read It,” he repeated desper¬ 
ately. over and over again, as his heavy eyes 
turned towards the crumpled paper that lay far 
off on the carpet., where he had flung It from him 
in his first, burst of self-contempt. " I have a right 
to read It." Rut still he sat on In the deserted 
dining-room, staring blankly at the letter, and did 
not touch it. 
Doubtless, he assured himself, the contents 
would prove ulive’s Innocence of anything beyond 
a mere Imprudence—to him, at least, it not to Miss 
Elizabeth, who was prejudiced against her—so 
that, for Ms darling's sake. It was even his duty to 
read what must clear her from any further sus¬ 
picion. But still he did not pick up the letter. A 
thousand wild thoughts were chasing each other 
through bis brain meanwhile. He woMd waLt for 
her at the little Iron gate, and fiing her perfidy in 
her teeth. He would burn the hateful scrawl, and 
take Olive away from Woolohester on the morrow, 
and let who dare say one word against her when 
she came home—his beloved, honored wife I He 
would give back the letter unread, and her promise 
with it, and never see her again. But that man— 
the man who htd foUowed them last night—the 
mao at the sight of whom her face had blanched 
and her voice faltered T Was It to seek out Olive 
that he had. come to Woolchester? And should 
he, Robert Yorke, abandon the girl who would in 
so few weeks have borne bis name, to the tender 
mercies of a villain who had won her heart and 
cast it from Mm. since Olive bad herself admitted 
that.she loved a man whom she could never many? 
Great drops started to the Doctor's brow as he re* 
membered this. 
“Tt is to that man the letter is addressed,” he 
muttered fiercely. “I must know what sho has 
written to him.” And he strode across the room 
and picked up the letter. “ It Is too late In the 
day for scruples or hesitation.” 
Smoothing out the little crumpled ball, the un¬ 
happy mau tore the letter open, and read tt hur¬ 
riedly through—he did not spare himself one word; 
then tire pretty familiar handwriting swam before 
his eyes, and the paper dropped from his hands, 
as he flung himself down on the table with a cry 
of despair. It was all true then—there was no 
longer any doubt—and that girl's ealm, sweet face 
was nothing but a mask. 
Robert Yorke writhed under the blow. The 
passionate words addressed to another, the ridicule 
ot the writer's elderly sMtor, the assignation at an 
hour when his ungainly presence eoMd cast no 
shadow on the delight or the lovers’ reunton-how 
it all seemed burnt Into Ms jealous heart I And 
Olive Carew was false—false—false! 
• I will not sleep to-night until 1 have given her 
back her word,” he thought at last, lifting his 
haggard face, and wiping his forehead with fever¬ 
ish shaking hands. "The few short weeks of our 
engagement that were so happy to me—such a 
torture to her, poor child—T cannot give these 
back, nor the kiss 1 took from her cold sweet lips 
lust night, but she shall be free henceforth. I will 
trouble her with my ridiculous importunities no 
more.” 
A few moments later the Doctor was on Ms way 
through the deserted streets to Olive’s lodgings, 
the April stars shining ia the dark and tranquil 
sky, and the night air feeling like a cool hand laid 
on his aching head. He. could not trust himself to 
call tor her as usual at the stage door, to face the 
friendly words and jests of the company, the false 
pretty smiles of the girl who had so wronged him. 
But he would wait for her at the same spot where 
they said good-bye every night—only now It would 
he good-bye forever. The tune he had so often 
dreamt of, when, by patient striving, he should 
win his wire's love, and should feel her strange, 
bewitching coldness melt before his man's ardor 
and devotion, would never come to him now. 
Hope and joy were dead since olive Carew was 
false. Nothing but memories was left. Mm. 
Hi inking thus, amt puffing drearily at his cigar, 
Hr. Yorke found himself approaching the little 
iron gate, against one ot the pillars of wlilch he 
saw, with some Irritation, that there was a man’s 
figure lounging, motionless and dark, Ms arms 
folded, ids hat drawn down over Ms brows. 
'-'unround the fellow!” thought the Doctor, 
throwing away his cigar. “Why does not he go 
into the house if he belongs to It? What business 
has he to be prowling about just when Miss Carew 
is expected back ? She must not walk home alone 
any more. I—” 
Here the man who was waiting at the gate 
turned and looked wistfully up and down the 
