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A , ly , Vt , v. .- 1 . v r - . - ; . ' - - , V 1 ,. : " . - - - , ' t i - - '' - 1 - " 4 mil By. P. M. HALS; ADVERTISING RATES. - office: -T - -, Second Flow Fiher Building. Advertisements will be Inserted for One Dollar tcville St. per square (one inch) for the first and Fifty Cents for each subsequent publication. RATES OF SUBSCRIPTION : One wpy one "car maUed Post-P14 One copy six months, mailed pojit-paid Contracts for advertising for any space or time may be made at the .office of the .$3 00 . 1 00 RALEIGH REGISTER, 'T No name entered without payment, and D0",.l;,er sent atte expiration of time paid for. VOL. I. KALEIGH, N. C, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 1884. NO. 40. Second Floor of Fisher Building, Fayettevflle Street, next to Market House. A THEOSOPHIC MAHRIAGE. The Start. ;!:. was a thcosophic miss t Who sighed for sweet Nirvaua ; 1 sin' talked of esoteric this p And that; iu mystic manner. She wore a wide and psychic smile, I'sed diction transcendental, Two suitors her besieged meanwhile Both coftly sentimental. The one, he was a drummer bland, w Who wore a lofty collar ; lie knew not things were hollow, and He chased the nimble dollar. Tbe olher was a soulfal youth, Who talked of things" symbolic ; T.naiuored quite of inner troth Ami predisposed to eolie. 1 Tin- one, he talked of common love, 1 n toucs that made her shudder ; "tIk- other soared with her above To misty realms of Buddha. j She M-nt the first npoa Ibis way With RimV unmitigated I'pou the other smiled, and they Bv Hymen were translated. A DEAD MAN'S FACE. 1 1:n pei '.x Mag'.i.ine, for December. Ima-iinativc Iteings who invent marvel lous tuks may tnke what license they pleiise. bist a simple im.rr.ttof is nothing if not iici unite ; so, iK'fore beginning this, I Jtniketl l old correspondences and various iiicnuirrtiula niiwic at the time when the fiillowinji things occurred. The first pa icr upon which I put my hand was a let ter. I may as well open with a copy of I)ic.i; old Hoy: I have met her at i-vt m v fate the one woman in the world or me. Nothing is settled as yet; !iut 1 would not write thrs, unless hope were a certainty. You must wish me joy, ;iIthougii she is a widow and an American I wo i:a!irkations which I know you v.iil iiml fault with. No matter; whep you see her you will recant and be envious. S ours ever. "Claud Morton." The writer was my brother I was (.'(.inn to say my only brother, but I had another once, although the less said about him the better. Nearly every family has its Mack sheep. Ours had been a pecu lhirlv ahle one. When he diedssome years az. I passed the sponge over his long list of delinninMicies. and tried to think of him as kindly as possible. He died a dis raced man. far away from home. I cail tins black sheep, Stephen, my brother, not Claud, the fact being that Claud can scarcely be said to have known him. I stood in age midway between the two. Claud was sixteen years younger than Stephen, so that when the hitter was ship ped off as irreclaimable, the! former was a little golden-haired fellow of seven. The above letter made me feel both glad and sorry. I was glad that the boy he was still the boy to me, although his age was seven and twenty was going to be married; but h was sorry that his choice had not fallen on one of his own country women, and one who could have given iim her first love. Still, all this was his jvn peculiar business. No doubt-he had made a suitable choice, and the only thing? ft for me to do was to write him a cheer ful letter of congratulation, and hope that his love affairs would soon be happily set tled. . A week went by; then came a long letter from him. He had proposed in or thodox form, and had been duly accepted. His letter lies before me at this moment. md I feel sad as I read again the two p:ures covered with the lover's usual raptures. I am not a mercenary man, but I own I felt somewhat disappointed on learning that she was noor. Somehow one asso- nates wealth with an American widow who is sojourning in England. But, so far as I could gather from Claud's letter, Mrs. Despard. or Judith, as he called her, was not well off. He srtoke of her as . . . win,' all alone in London, which fact, tie added, would necessarily hasten his mar-. riai.'f-. It would take place, he hoped, in a week or two. In conclusion he pressed tue to run up to; t?wn in order to make the aeiiuaiutanee of niv future Ristcr-in-lawL l,vas very busy at the time I may say, in jpassing, that my business is to cure jKopl.-'s ailments, not to tell stories nev ertheless I managed to pay a flying visit hi.ti'wn, and was duly presented to Claud's Ix'froThed. " $ . "h was handsome strikingly liajnKojne. Hcg; whole appearance was ineli out of the common. She was tall, xujx rlilv luilt-n a lartre scale. ierhars. panther in every move- ive evidence of much d determination, and "f passion also, I decided. Her rich dark fty was at that time in full bloom, and alton, I sjiw at a glance that she was sine years older than my brother, I was ''t at all inclined to blame Claud for his rapturous expressions. So far as personal charms went, I could find no;. fault with Judnlr Despard. For the rest, it was easy to v e that she was passionately in love ith Claud, and for the sake of this I -'tadiy overlooked all mv fauciful obiec- to his choice, and congratulated him !'y on having orm,so beautiful a Ul'e. . : - -trarure to sav. in the midst of his found happiness, my brother seemed IV l"it his usual cheerful self. He. lu' i nest and most talkative of men, leiturn. moodv. and nreoccuoied. 'rt . " w 7 i x 1 iirious thing was that his changed inann, i- ,truc :k me particularly whilst we ,u" in Mrs.. Despard's company. He ' and behaved in the most affection ate ;;nd luvei-like way," but there was. in hi- general bearing something which puz d in- altogether. It seemed to me that :'; no-ht perhaps be nervous as to what 1:ilp:ev.i,i'n his fair friend might make UP"U the elder brother whom lip in wvpr. j or, uiiiii-M)n a v'jt f raceful as i pat "V f. Her face ga cliajracter, power ant til. Vi new .UlVti the M-erii" I ami respected. Is tlliorv' (if mirid tt pfr iriKi, nnrl act that when, at night, we found done, and I was able to freelv mv admiration of Mrs. Despard's i , . " ' - ' 11 IXV llll 1,'lllOHll. 1 It ' . .- . ". t III I eiiei'i Tl hy the f "lir-ives '"il !.,ks. we tillke fiuur at until a very late hour, and over the past, the present, and the '' "Alien do you mean to be married?" I asked. " In a fortnight or three weeks. There " nothmg to wait for. Judith is living ""'i'.e in lodgings. She has no friends to "-m!t ; so we shall just walk to church ,n morning and get it over." .. 1 ' " ell, let me walk with you. I should 7 l" "ft- the last of vou." " "AH right, old fellow. But vou'll be only one unless Mary likes to honor v Mary was my wife; but as her time :u in-, .i r . - . iiien iuuv occuiuea lv a verv djy, I did not think it at allJikelv won hi nl.h. i' to town. J'Ulll! "hi- jour "I shall fix the earliest day I can," add ed Claud. "The.fact is, I have been feel ing rather queer lately. I want a change." . Thereupon I questioned him as to, what ailed him. Bo far as I could ascertain, all that was the matter was his having work ed too hard, and being a little below par, I prescribed a tonic, and quite agreed with him as to the benefit which he would derive from a change of air. When I reached home my wife scolded me for my stupidity. It seems that it was my duty to have found out all about Mrs. Despard's antecedents, relations, connec tions, circumstances, habits, and disposi tion, whereas, all I could say was that she was a beautiful widow with a small in come, and that she and Claud were devo ted to one another. "Yes," said Mrs. Morton, scornfully. "like all other men, the moment you sec a pretty face you inquire no further. I quite tremble for Claud." When I reflected how little I really knw about Mrs. Despard, I felt abashed and uilty. However, Claud was afullgrown man and no fraternal counsel was likely to turn nun aside from his desire. In the course of a few days be wrote me thafrhe was to.be married on the 5th of the next month. I made arrangements which would enable me to go to the wed ding; but three days before the date named I heard again from him. The wed ding was postponed for a fortnight. He gave no reason for the delay ; but he said he was anxious to see me, and to-morrow he should run down to my home. He came as promised. I was aghast when I saw him. He looked worn, hag gard, wretched. My first thought was that business matters had gone wrong with him. His looks might well be, those of a man on the brink of ruin. AftjjT the first greeting I at once took him m my study in order to be put out of suspelnsc. Just as I was about to begin my anxious ques tions he turned to me, "Frank, old fellow,?! he said imploring ly, and with a faint attempt at a smile, "don't laugh at me." t- Laugh! That was the last thing I was likely to do. I pressed his band in si lence, s "You won't believe me, I know,' he continued. "I can't believe it myself. Frank, I am haunted." "Haunted !" I was bound to smile, not from any disposition toward merriment, but in order to show Ihe poor boy the ab surdity of his idea. "Yes, haunted. The word sounds ridic ulous, but I can use no other. Haunted." "What haunts you?" He came close to me and grasped my arm. His voice sank to a hoarse whisjier. "A horrible, ghastly, grewsome thing. It is' killing me. It comes between me and my happiness. I have fought and struggled against this phantom terror. I have reasoned calmly with myself. I have huighed my own folly to scorn. In vain in vain. It goes, but it comes again." - "Overwork, "I said, insomnia, too many cigars, late hours; and had. you been a drinking man I should add, too much stimulant, too little food, anxiety, per haps. Have you anything on your mind arty special worry?" "Of course I have," he' said pettishly. "Did I not tell vou it is killing me?" "What is killing you?" He rose and paced the room excitedly; then suddenly he stopped short, and once more clutched my arm. A lace," he .said wildly "a man's face ; a fearful white face that comes to me; a horrible mask, with features drawn as in agony ghastly, pale, hideous! Death or approaching death, violent death, written in every line. Every feature dis torted. Eyes starting from the head. Every cord in the throat standing out, strained - as by mortal struggle. Long dark hair lying flat and wet. Thin lips moving and working lips that are curs ing,? although I can hear no sound. Why should this come to me why to me? Who is this dead man whose face wrecks my life? Frank, my brother, if this is dis ease or madness, cure me; if not, let me die." His words, his gestures, sent a cold thrill through me. He was worse, far worse, than I had feared. "Claud," I said, "you are talking non sense. Cure you ! of course I mean to cure you. Now sit down, collect yourself, and tell me how this hallucination comes." "Comes! How does it come? It gath ers in corners of the room ; it forms and takes' " shape ; it glares at me outrof the wall; it looks up at me from the floor. Ever the same fearful white dying face, threatening, cursing, sometimes mocking. Why does it come?" I had" already-told the poor fellow why it came, but it was no use repeating my words. "Tell me when you see it," Task ed; "at night in darkness?" He hesitated, and seemed troubled. "No, never at night. In broad daylight only. That to nie is the crowning terror, the ghastliness of it. At night I could call iL a dream. Frank, believe me. I am no weak fool. For weeks I have borne with this. At last it has conquered me. Send it away or I shall go mad." "I'll send it away, old boy, never fear. Tell me, can you see it now?" "No; thank God, not now." "Have you seen it to-day?" "No; to-day I have been free from it." "Well, you'll be free from it to-morrow, and the next day, and the next. It will be eone forever before you leave me. Now come ana see Alary and the babies. haven't eved asked you how Mrs. Despard is." A curious look crossed his face, think she , grows more beautiful every day," he said. Then he seized my hand "6h, Frank,' he exclaimed, "rid me of this horror, r and I shall be the happiest man in the world. ' "All right," I answered, perhaps with more confidence than I felt. Although I made light of it to my pa tient, his state greatly alarmed me. I has tened to put him under the strictest and most approved treatment. I enforced the nost rigid sumptuary laws, made him live on plain food, and docked his consump tion of tobacco' unmercifully. In a few days I was delighted to find thatxmy diag nsis of the case was correct. Claud was rapidly recovering tone. In a week's time he seemed quite restored to health. The days went by. As yet Claud had said nothing about leaving me; yet, unless the date was once more adjourned, he was to be married on the 19th. I did not counsel him to postpone the happy day He was by now so well that I thought he could not do better than adhere to his ar rangement. A month's holiday, spent in the society ot the woman he loved, would, I felt certain, complete his cure, and ban ish forever that grisly intruder begotten of disorganized nerves. From the monotonous regularity and voluminous nature of their correspondence it was evident, delay and separation not withstanding, that matters were' going on quite smoothly between Claud, and Judith Despard; Every day he rticeived and wrote a long letter. Nevertheless, it was not until the 16th of the month that I Itnew exactly what he meant to do about his marriage. "Frank," he said, "you have been won derfully kind to me. I believe you have saved my life, or. at least my reason. Will you do something more for me?" "Even unto half my kingdom," I an swered. "Look here: I am ashamed of the feel ing, but I absolutely dread returning to town. At any rate, I wish to stay there no longer than is needful. Thursday morn ing I must, of course, be there, to be mar ried. You think me cured, Frank?" he added abruptly. "Honestly, yes. If you take care of yourself you will be troubled no more." "Yet why do I dread London so? Well, never mind. I will go up by the night mail on Wednesday then I need only be there for a few hours. Will you do this for me go up on Wednesday morning, see Judith, and explain how it is that I shall not ee her until we meet in the church?" "Certainly, if you wish it. But you had better write as well." "Yes, I shall do that. There are sever al other little things you must see to for me. The license I have, but you must let the clergyman know. You had better go and sec my partners. They may think it strange if I marry and -go away without a word." $h Thinking it better that he should have his own way, I promised to do as he wished. Upon my arrival in town on Wednesday afternoon I went straight to Mrs. Despard's. I was not sorry to have this opportunity of seeing her alone. I wished to urge upon her the necessity of being careful that Claud did not again get into that highly wrought nervous state, from which my treatment had so happily extricated him. She was not looking as well as when last I saw her. At times her manner was rest less, and. she seemed striving to suppress agitation. She made no adverse com ments on her lover's strange whim of reaching town to-morrow only in time for the ceremony. Her inquiries as to his health were most solicitous, and when I told her that I no longer feared anything on his account, her heart-felt sigh of re lief told me how deeply she loved him. Presently she looked me full in the face. Her eyes were half closed, but I could see an anxious, eager look in them. "He saw a face,'" she said. "Has it left him?" "He told you of his queer hallucination, then?" "No; but once or twice when sitting with me he sprang to his feet and mut tered : 'Oh, that face! that ghastly, hor rible face! I can bear it no longer !' 'Then he rushed wildly from the room. What face did he sec, Dr. lortou?" To set her mind at rest, I gave her a lit tle scientific discourse, which explained to her how such mental phenomena were brought about. She listened attentively, and seemed satisfied. Then I bade her adieu until to-morrow. The marriage was to be of the quiet kind. I found that Mrs. Despard had made no arrangement for any friend to ac company her; so, setting all rules of eti quette at defiance, I suggested that, al though the bride-groom's brother, I should call for her in the morning and conduct her to the church. To this she readily consented. Somehow that evening I did not carry away such a pleasing impression of my brother's bride as I aid when first I met her. I can give no reason for this, except that I was not forgetful of my wife's ac cusation, that when first I met Judith Despard I had been carried away by the glamour of her beauty, and thought of nothing else. - As 1 walked to Claud's rooms, which I occupied for the night, almost regretted that he had been so hasty certainly I wished that we knew more of his bride. But it was now too late for regrets or wishes. I called for Mrs. Despard at the appoint ed hour, and found her quite ready to start. Her dress was plain and simple I cannot describe it; but I saw that in spite of her excessive pallor she looked very beautiful. In the carnage on pur way to the church she was very silent, answering my remarks with monosyllables. I left her in peace, supposing that at such a moment every woman must be more or less agitated. When the carriage drew up at the church or, the bride laid her hand upon my arm. 1 could feel that she was trembling, "Claud will be here?" she asked. "Noth- ng will stop him?" "Nothing. But I may as well step out and see that lie is waiting." les, Claud was in the church waiting for us. We exchanged greetings. The old sexton summoned the curate; and Ju dith Despard, my brother, and myself walked up to the altar rails. Claud looked very well that morning; a little fagged, perhaps, but the long night journey would account for that. He cer tainly looked proud and happy as he stood on the altar step side by side with the wo man who ih a few minutes would be his wife. But before the curate had finished read ing the opening address a great change came over him. From where i was stand ing I could see only his side face, but that was enough to show me that he was suf fering from some agitation something far above the nervousness so often displayed by a bridegroom. A deadly pallor came over bis face, small beads of perspiration sprang to his brow, and I noticed tha those tell-tales of mental disturbance, the hands, were so tightly clinched that the knuckles grew white. It was evident that he was suffering anguish of some kind and for a "moment I thought of stopping the service. But the rite is but a short one, and from whatever cause Claud's ag itation might proceed, it was perhaps bet ter to trust to him to curb it for a few mo ments than to make a scene. Neverthe less I watched him intently and anxiously. Then came the charge to declare any im pediment. As the curate made the con ventional pause, Claud, to my surprise, glanced round in a startled way, as if fearing that his marriage would at the last moment be forbidden. The look on his face was now one of actual terror. Both bride and bridegroom said -their "I wills" in such low tones that I could scarcely hear their voices. ' Then, in pur suance of my duty, I gave the woman to the priest. He joined the hands of Claud and Judith. After having played my little part I had not moved back to my former station. I was now close to the bride, and as Claud turned to her, could sec his face to advan tage. It was positively distorted with suppressed emotion of some kind. His .mouth was set, and I could see that his teeth were closed on his under lip. He did not look at his fair bride. His passed over her shoulder: In fact, he seemed almost oblivious to her presence. I was dreadfully frightened. The clergyman's voice rang out: "I, Claud, take thee, Judith, to my wedded wife." Then, hearing no echo of his words, he paused. "Repeat after me," he prompted. Again he began, "I, Claud" But his voice was drowned, in a louder one, which rang through the empty church. With a fierce cry, as of inexpressible rage, Claud had thrown the bride's hand from him, and was pointing and gesticulating toward the wall, upon which his eyes had been riveted. "Here It even here I"' he almost shriek ed. "That eursed, white, wicked, dying face! Whose, is it? Why does it come between me and my love? Mad! Mad! I am going mad !" I heeded not the clegyman's look of dis may, or the bride's cry of distress. I thought of nothing but my unfortunate brother. Here, at the moment which should be the happiest he had yet known, the ; grewsome hallucination had come back to him. I threw my arm round him and tried to calm him. "It is fancy, dear boy," I said. "In a moment it will be gone." "Gone! Why does it come? What have I to do with this dying man? Look, Frank, look! Something tells me if you look you will see it. There ! there ! Look there!" His eyes were ever fixed on the same point. He grasped mv arm convulsively. I am ashamed to say that I yielded, and looked in the direction of his gaze. "There is nothing there," I said sooth ingly. "Look !" he exclaimed. "It will come to you as to me." It may have been thehope of convinc ing Claud of the illusionary nature of the sight which tormented him, it may have been some strange fascination wrought by his words and manner, which made ine for some moments' gaze with him. God of heaven I I saw gradually forming out of nothing, gathering on the blank wall in front of me, a face, or the semblance of a face, white, ghastly, horrible! Long, dank, wet-locking dark hair, eyes starting from their sockets, lips working the whole appearance that of the face of a man who is struggling with death: in every detail as Claud had described it. And yet to me that face was more terrible than ever it could have been to Claud. I gazed in horror. I felt my eyes grow ing riveted to the sight as his own. I felt my whole frame trembling. I knew that in another moment I should be raving as wildly as he raved. Only his hoarse whis pJf recalled me to my senses. "You see?" he asked, or rather asserted. Horror forced the truth from me. "I see, or lancy 1 see,' 1 answered. With a wild laugh Claud broke from me. lie rushed down the church and dis- ippeared. As he left me, the face, thank Heaven! faded from the wall,-or from my imagination. 1 turned to my companions. Judith Despard was lying in a dead swoon on the altar steps; the curate with trembling handstwas loosening the 'throat of her dress. I called for water. The sexton brought it. I bathed the poor woman's temples, and in a few minutes she sighed, opeued' her eyes, and then shuddered. I took her in my arms and staggered to the church door. The curate removed his surplice and followed me. I placed my almost senseless burden in. the carriage. "For Heaven's sake, see her home," I said to the curate. "I must go and look after my brother. As soon as I have seen him I will come round to Mrs. Despard's. Get her home quickly, ihc coachman knows where to go." The brougham drove oil. I threw my self into a cab, and drove towards Claud's rooms. I hoped he might have gone straight there. To my great relief, when I reached his house he was on the door-step. We en tered his room together; he sank wearily into a chair, and buried his face in bis hands. I was scarcely less agitated than himself, and my face, as I caught its re flection in the mirror, was white as his own. I waited for him to speak. Presently he raised his head. "Go to her," he said. "Ask her why that face comes between us. You saw it even you. It can be no fancy of mine. Tell her we can meet no more." "I will wait until you are calmer before I Sfo." "Calm! I am myself now. The thing has left me as it always docs. Frank, I have hidden from vou one peculiarity of my state. - That awful face never shows itself to me unless I am in her company. Even at the altar it came between us. Go to her; ask her why it comes." I left him, but did not quit the. house for some time. I went into an adjoining room and tried to collect my thoughts; for, as I said, my mind was more troubled than even Claud's could be. I am ashamed to re-assert it; I am will ing to" own that excitement, my brother's impressive manner, superstition which 1 did not know I possessed anything that may bear a natural explanation may have raised that vision. But why should that phantom, gathering and growing from nothing until it attained to form, or at least semblance, have been the face of one I had known? Why should the features distorted in deadly agony have been those of my brother Stephen? For his was the dreadful face which Claud's prompting or my own imagination had raised. Almost like one in a dream I went to do Claud's bidding. I was thankful, upon reaching Mrs. Despard's, to find that she had gone to her room, and left word that she could see no one to-day. this me time to consider the position. Acting on a sudden impulse, I went to the telegraph office, and sent instructions to my wife to forward to me, by passen ger train, a small box in which I kept old letters and papers. I hen 1 went back: to Claud, and after some persuasion induced him to leave town at once. I told him would arrange everything on the morrow. He was better away. box arrived. Iu In the morning mv I found what I wanted. After the calm ing effects of a night's rest I felt ashamed of my weakness as I drew from old letters a photograph of my brother Stephen one taken about t wo years before the report of his death reached us. Nevertheless I put the portrait in my pocket, and about noon went to Mrs. Despard s. I was at once admitted, and iu a few minutes she came to me. She looked worn and haggard, as if sleep had not vis ited her for nights. Dark circles had formed round her fine eyes ; lines seemed to have deepened round her firm, passion ate mouth. She advanced eagerly toward me and held out her hand. 1 took it in silence. Indeed, I scarcely knew what to sav or how to act. "Where is Claud?" she asked, in a quick voice, out scarcely above a whisper. "He has left town for a few days." She pressed her hand to her heart. "Does that mean I shall see him no more?" "I am afraid I must sav it docs. He thinks it better you should part." . She gave a sharp cry, and walked up and down the room wringing her hands. Her lips moved rapidly, and I knew she was muttering many words, but in so low a key that I could not catch their mean ing. Suddenly she stopped, and turned upon me fiercely. "Is this by your counsel and advice?" she demanded. "No. It is his own unbiassed decision." "Why? tell me why? He loved me I love him. Why does he leave me?" The passionate entreaty of her voice is indescribable. What could I say to her? Words stuck in my throat. It seemed the height of absurdity for a sane man to give a sane woman the true reason for Claud's broken faith. I stammered out something about his bad state of health. "If he is ill, I will nurse him," she cried. "I will wait for years if he will give me hope. Dr. Morton, I love Claud as I nev er before loved a man." She clasped her hands and looked im ploringly into my face. In a mechanical way I drew the portrait of my dead bro ther from my breast. She saw the action. "His likeness !'" she cried, joyfully. "He sends it to me! Ah, he loves me !" I handed her the photograph. "Mrs. Despard," I asked, "do you know " I did not finish the question, yet it was fully answered. Never, I believe, save then, did a human face undergo such a sudden, frightful change. The woman's very lips grew ashen, her eyes glared into mine, and I saw them full of dread. She staggered-all but fell. "Why is it here who is it?" she gasped out. I was a prey to the wildest excitement. To what revelation was this tending? what awful thing had I to learn? "Listen," I said, sternly. "Woman, it is for you to answer the question. It is the face of this man, his dying face, that comes between you and your lover." 'Tell me his name." I read rather than heard the words her dry lips formed. " "The name he was once known by was Stanley." A quick, sharp shudder ran through her. For a moment I thought she was going to faint. "He is dead," she said. "Why docs he come between my love and ' me? Others have loved or .said they loved me since then. They saw no dead faces, nad I loved them I might have married, and been happy. Claud I love. Why does the dead man trouble him?" "That man," I replied, "was my bro ther Claud's brother." She threw out her arms with a gesture of utter despair. "Your brother Claud's brother!' she repeated. Then she fixed her C3res on mine as if she would read the secrets of my soul. "You are lying," she said. "I am not. He was our eldest brother. He left England years ago. He passed under a false name. He died. When and how did he die?" She sank, a dead weight, into a chair; but still she looked at me like one under a spell. I seized her wrist. "leu me, woman,'' l cried "tell me what this man was to you ; why his dying face comes to us? The truth speak the truth." She seemed to cower beneath my words, but her eyes were still on my face. "Speak !" I cried, fiercely, and tighten ing my grasp upon her wrist. At last she found words. He was my husband; I killed him sne saia, in a sirange voice, low vet per lectiy distinct. I recoiled in horror. This woman," the widow and self-confessed murderess of one brother, within an ace of being the wife of the other ! iou murdered him?" I said, turning to the woman. I murdered him. He made my life hell upon earth. He beat me, cursed me. ruined me. He was the foulest hearted fiend that ever lived. I killed him." No remorse, no regret, in her words, Quite overcome, I leaned against the chim uey-piece. Bad as I knew Stephen Mor tou to have been, I could at that moment only think f him as a -gay, light-hearted school-boy, my elder brother, and in those days a- perfect hero in my eyes. No won der my heart was full of vengeance. Yet even in th first flush of my rage I knew that I could do nothing. No human ius ice could be meted out to this woman There was nothing to prove the truth of her self-accusation. She would escape scot-irec. 'Would that I could avenge his death !' I said, sullenly. rne sprang to ner leet. Her darK eyes blazed. "Avenged!" she cried. "Is it not doubly, trebly avenged? Has he not taken all 1 care for in life from me? Has he not taken my love from my side? Cow ard in life, coward in death! When Kiwea nim i Knew he would try to come back to me. He has tried for years. Ah was too strong for him. I could banish the face with which he strove to haunt me could forget. I could love. I could have been happy. Yet he has conquered at last. JNot me he could not conquer me but the one I love. Oh, the coward is avenged ! In spite of mv feeling of abhorrence. gazed on the speaker in amazement. Her words were not those of one who had com mitted a black crime, but of one who had suffered wrong. The strange, fanciful idea that the dead man had been trying to haunt her, but had been kept at bay by her strong will, was in my experience un precedented. As I saw the agony of mind under which she was laboring, the thought came to me thatperhaps her words were true, that my brother's death was this day ;nged. I resolved to leave her. I could gaiu no good by prolonging the painful scene. She was still pacing the room in fierce passion, -suddenly she stopped short, ana . 1 ;i,5 i 1 1 i t i in innuing accents opgan 10 speaK. it seemed as if ghe had forgotten my presence. "See," she cried, "the river-bank the dark rushing stream. Ah, we are all alone, side by Bide, far away from every one. Fool ! if you could read my heart, would you walk so near to the giddy brink? Do you think the memory of the old love will stay my hand when the chance comes? Old love is dead : you beat it, cursed it to death. How fast does the Sweep him away ! Sec ! he swims ; 'but he dare not swim with you. You are hurry ing down to the rapids. He must face you, and wrestle with you for his life. Bear him down; keep him from me. If he masters you, he will land and kill me. Hold him fast, brave stream! Ha! his strength fails. He is swept liway ; he is under. No, I see him again.1 He turns his face to me. He knows I did it. With his last breath he is cursing me. His last breath : lie is gone, gone forever ! I am free!" The changes in her voice, ranging from dread to tearful joy, her passionate words, her eloquent gestures, all these combined to bring the very scene before my eyes. stood spell-bound, and even, as she de scribed it, seemed to see the unfortunate man battling for dear life in the rasfeng stream, growing every moment weaker and weaker. As the woman's last wild exclamation "Gone forever! I am free!". rang through the room, I seemed to hear the cry of despair drowned as the waves closed over the wretched man's head. I knew every detail of my brother's fate. 1 turned to leave the room. I longed to get away, and if possible to banish the events of the day from my mind. It was not given to me to be Stephen Morton's avenger. My hand was on the door when the wo man sprang to my side. She grasped my arm and dre w me back into the room. "Look !" she whispered. "Do you see it ? There! The face that awful face! It has come at last to me. The dead man nas conquered, mere! iook; liis eyes glaring, his mouth mocking. Now it lias once come, I shall see it always always! .Look!" iso, i was not doomed again to see or to fancy I saw that face. Its mission, so far as I was concerned, was at an end. But the look of concentrated horror which Ju dith Despard cast at the wall of the room beggars description. Then with a piteous cry she fell at my feet, and seemed to strive to make me shield her from some thing she dreaded. I raised her. She broke from my grasp, and again fell upon the floor, this time in paroxysms of mad ness. my taie is ended, inat night she was removed to a private lunatic asylum. where for three vears she was kept at my expense, she died raving mad, and from inquiries I made I know that from the mo ment when it first appeared to her to the hour or her death the face of the man she had killed was ever with Judith Despard it BLAINE. HIS RESPONSE TO A SERENADE BY His n KlIiHBOBSi TOusic Without Charms to Soothe Savage Breast. His MEN'S DRESS REFORM. Knee Breeches and Padded Calves. New York Post's Paris Letter. It is announced that the fashionable sea-' sou will begin somewhat later than usual, and possibly will not be well inaugurated before f ebruary, by which time, we are credibly informed, the gay and festive gentlemen who devote their leisure and en ergies to setting the fashions in the mas culine world propose to bring about a startling revolution in costumes, a com plete revolution, in fact, as they purpose taking us back to the picturesque and state ly costumes of the eighteenth century. A movement of this kind has been noticea ble for two years. The dandies of Paris and many of those of London have been observed at watering-places in the sum mer season and in town in the late autumn, resplendent in gorgeously colored coats and "waistcoats, such as would have been laughed at five years ago as ridiculous re lics of the fopperies of the past generation. But there is a class of fashionable men in Paris and London who pass their whole time in endeavoring to invent something which will distinguish them -from the mass. Just as some years ago they made it the fashion to abolish the crush hats and to carry the awkward and clumsy chimney-pot into the drawing-rooms, simply because they said that every cad had learned to carry an opera-hat, and only a gentleman could steer his way through a crowd with the more cumbrous tile unruf fled, so now they wished to array their persons iu knee breeches and ruffled lace and gorgeously flowered waist-coats. The papers seriously announce this reform, as it is called, and say that it will be in full blossom by midsummer. The tailors are naturally delighted at the success of a rev olution which they have always aided and abetted, since the democratic black had made it possible for men of all classes to dress inexpensively, and at the same time "with a certain degree of elegance. With the new costumes will come the epoch of extravagant and of personal fancy in at tire. It seems certain that the great ma jority of young men about town in Paris will have to wear false calves, for nature has not been prodigal to them of brawn and muscle, nor have they by their late hours and their rapid progress through life contributed to the establishment of that health which, in itself, gives a cer tain grace and comeliness to the plainest. t Reform Garments for Ladle. Friends and Neighbors : The national contest is over, and, by the narrowest of margins, we have lost. I thank you for your call, which, if not one of joyous con gratulations, is one, I am sure, of confi dence and sanguine hope for the future. I thank you for the public opportunity you give me to express my sense of obligation, not oniy to you, dui to all the republicans of Maine. They responded to my nomi nation with genuine enthusiasm and rati fied it by a superb vote. I count it as one or the honors and gratifications of mv pub lic career that tjie party in Maine, after struggling nard lor the last six years, and twice within that period losin&r the State. has come back in this campaign to an old fashioned 20,000 plurality. No other ex pression of popular confidence and esteem couiu equal mat oi the people among whom I have lived for thirty years and to whom I am attached by all the ties that ennoble human nature and give joy and dignity to life. After Maine indeed along with Maine my first thought is al ways of Pennsylvania. How can I fitting ly express my thanks for that unparalleled majority of more -than 80,000 votes, a pop ular indorsement which has deeply touched my heart, and which has, if possible, -increased my affection for the grand old Commonwealth ; an affection which I in heritea from my ancestry and which I shall transmit to my children. But I do not limit my thanks to the State of my residence and the State of my birth. I owe much to the true and zealous friends in New England who worked so nobly for me nepuDiican party and its candidates, and to the eminent scholars and divines. who, stepping aside from their ordinary vocations, made my cause their cause, and to loyalty and principle added the special compliment of standing as my personal representatives in the national struggle. But the achievements for the Republican cause in the East are even surpassed by the splendid victories in the West. In that magnificent cordon of States that stretches from the foot hills of the Alleghanies to the Golden Gate of the Pacific, beginning with Ohio and ending with California, the Re publican banner was borne so loftily that but a single State failed to join in the wide acclaim of triumph. Nor should I do jus tice to my own feelings if I failed to thank the Republicans of the Empire State, who encountered so many discouragements and obstacles, who fought foes from within and foes from without, and who waged so strong a battle that a change of one vote in every 2,000 would have given us the victory in the nation. Indeed, a change of little more than 5,000 votes would have transferred New York, Indiana, New Jersey and Con necticut to the Republican standard, and would have made the North as solid as the South. My thanks would still be incomplete if I should fail to recognize with special gratitude that great body of workingmen, Dotn native and ioreign born, who gave me their earnest support, breaking from old personal and party ties, and finding in the principles which I represented in the canvass the safeguard and protection of their own fireside interests. The result of the election, my friends, will be regarded in the future, I think, as extraordinary. The Northern States, leav stream run? Can a strong man swim against it? Oh, if 1 could be sure sure that one push would end it all and give me freedom! Once I longed for love- your love. Now I long for death your death. Oh, brave swift tide, are you strong enough to free me forever? Hark! I can hear the roar of the rapids in the distance. There is a deep fall from the river cliff; there are rocks. Fool! you stand at the very edge, and look down The moment is come. Ah !" With her last exclamation she used i violent gesture, as if pushing something fiercely- from her. She was, I knew, in her excitement, re-acting the tragedy. "Free! freel free!" she cried, with a de Iirious, almost rapturous laugh, and clasp ing her hands. "Hold him, brave stream 1 Clara Belle iu Cincinnati Enquirer. I am in receipt of numerous inquiries relating to reform garments. Collectively responding to several, I may describe a new sprt of sanitary clothing as consisting of tight fitting stockingette undergarments, made of pure undyed wool, fastened over the shoulders, and of double thickness over the breast. The jacket is double breasted, buttoned well up to the throat, contains no lining or padding unless of wool, and is either undyed or treated with uninjurious fast dyes. The same rule ap plies to the drawers, inside of which is a contrivance which, fastening tight around the leg. prevents up-draughts; for cold, rheumatism and lumbago are caught by the sudden rush of cold air to one partic ular part of the body, and not by the gradual cooling of the entire system. The feet are clad in pure woollen socks, with divisions for each toe, while the upper part of the boot is made of felt, the lower part also of felt, or of some porous leather, and the inner soles consist of perforated leather and layers of felt, Thus the boot is thoroughly porous, and the feet are consequently kept as clean and as pure as the hands. Part of the theory is that, by doubly protecting the front of the body, where the blood-vessels con verge, these are stimulated, and as an even temperature throughout is maintained, the necessity for heavy outer garments is obviated, rain or damp having little or no effect, for in every case gradual and even evaporation is insured. Experience that Is Cheap. New York Sun. J "Experience maybe a dear teacher, "re marked a clergyman, as the contribution box was returned to him empty, "but the members of this particular flock who have experienced religionhave accomplished it at a very trifling cost. The choir will sing the seventy ninth hymn, omitting the first, third, and fourth verses, in order to save unnecessary wear on the organ." ng out the cities of New York and Brook lyn from the count, sustained the Repub lican cause by a majority of more than 400,000 almost half a million, indeed, of the popular vote. The cities of New York and Brooklyn threw their great strength and influence with the solid South, and were the decisive element which gave to that section the control of the National Government. Speaking now, not at all as a defeated candidate, but simply as a loyal and devoted American, I think the transfer of the political power of the Gov ernment to the South is a great national misfortune. It is a misfortune because it introduces an element which canriot insure harmony and prosperity to the people ; be cause it introduces into a republic the rule of a minority. The first instinct of an American is equality equality of right, equality ot privilege, equality of political power ; that equality which says to every citizen, " r our vote is quite as good, just as potential as the vote of any other citi zen." That cannot be said to-day in the United States. The course of affairs in the South has ciushed out the political power of more than six million American citizens, and has transferred it by violence to others. Forty-two Presidential Elec tors are assigned to the South on account of the colored population, and yet the colored population, with mora than 1,100, 000 legal votes, have been unable to choose single Elector. Even m those States where they have a majority of more than a hundred thousand they are deprived of free suffrage and their rights as citizens are scornfully trodden under foot. The 1 1 States that comprised the rebel Confed eracy had by the census of 1880 7,500,000 white population and 5,300,000 colored population. The colored population al most to a man desire to support the Re publican party, but by a system of cruel intimidation and by violence and murder, whenever violence and murder are thought necessary, they are absolutely deprived of all political power. If the outrage stopped there it would be bad enough, but it does not stop there, for not only is the negro population disfranchised, but the power which rightfully and constitutionally be longs to them is transferred to the white population, enabling the white population of the South to exert an electoral influ ence far beyond that exerted by the same number of white people in the Jsorth. To illustrate just how it works to the destruc tion of all fair elections, let me present to you five States in the late Confederacy and five loyal States of the North, possessing in each section the same number of Elec toral votes. In the South, the States of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina have in the aggregate 48 Electoral votes. They have 2,800,000 white people and over 3,000,000 colored people. In the North, the States of Wis consin, Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, and California have Kkcwisc in the aggregate 48 Electoral votes, and they have a white population of 5,600,000, or just double the five Southern States which I have named. These Northern States have practically no colored population. It is therefore evident that tbe white men in those Southern States, by usurping and absorb ing the rights of the colored men, are . ex erting just double the political power of the white men in the Northern States. I submit, my friends, that such a condition of affairs is extraordinary, unjust, and derogatory to the manhood of the North. Even those who are vindictively opposed to negro suffrage, will not deny that if Presidential Electors are assigned to the South by reason of the negro population. that population ought to be permitted free suffrage in the election. To deny that clear proposition is to affirm that a South ern white man in the Gulf States is entitled ' to double the political power of a North ern white man in the Lake States it is to affirm that a Confederate soldier shall -wield twice the influence in the ' nation that a Union soldier can, and that a per petual and constantly increasing superi ority shall be conceded to the Southern white man in the government of the Union. If that be quietly conceded in this genera tion, it will harden into custom until the badge of , inferiority will attach to the Northern white man as odiously as ever Norman noble stamped it upon Saxon churls. This subject is of deep interest to the laboring men of the North. With the Southern Democracy triumphant in their States and in the nation, the negro will be compelled to workf or just such wages as the whites may decree ; wages which will amount as did the supplies of the slaves, to a bare subsistence, equal In cash, per haps, to 35 cents per day, if averaged over the entire South. The white laborer in the North will soon feel the distinctive effect of this upon his own wages. The Repub licans have clearly seen from the earliest days of reconstruction that wages in the South must be raised to a justrecompense of the laborer, or wages in the North ruin ously lowered, and the party have steadi ly worked for the former result. The re verse influence will now be set in motion and that condition of affairs produced which, years ago, Mr. Lincoln warned the free laboring men of the North will prove hostile to their independence and will inevitably lead to a ruinous reduction of wages. A mere difference ia the color of the skin will not suffice to maintain an entirely, different standard of wages in contiguous and adjacent States, and the voluntary will be compelled to yield to the involuntary. So completely have the colored men of the South been already de prived by the Democratic party of their ititutional and legal rights as citizens of the United States that they regard the advent of that party to national power as -the signal of their re-enslavement, and are affrighted because they think all legal pro tection for them is gone. Few persons in the North realize how completely the chiefs of the rebellion wield the political power which has triumphed in the late election. Tt is a portentous fact that the Democratic Senators who come from the States of the late Confederacy, all and I mean all with out a single exception personally partici pated in the rebellion against the National Government. It is a still more significant fact that in those States no man who was loyal to the Union, no matter how strong a Democrat he may be to-day, has the slight est chance of political promotion. The ' one great avenue to honor in that section is the record of zealous service in the war against the Government. It is certainly an astounding fact that the section in which friendship for the Union in the day of its trial and agony is still . a political disqualification should be called now to rule over the Union, All this takes place during the lifetime of the generation that fought the war, and elevates into prac tical command of the American Govern- . ment the identical men who organized for its destruction and plunged us into the bloodiest contest of modern times. I have spoken of the South as placed by the late election in possession of the Gov ernment, and I mean all that my words imply. The South furnished nearly three fourths of the Electoral votes that defeat ed the Republican party, and they will step to the command of the Democrats as unchallenged and as unrestrained as they held the same position for 30 years before the civil war. Gentlemen, there cannot be political inequality among the citizens of a free republic ; there cannot be a minority of white men in the South ruling a major ity of white men in the North. Patriot ism, seif-respect, pride, protection for per son and safety for country all cry out against it. The very thought of it stirs the blood of men who inherit equality from the Pilgrims who first stood on Ply mouth Rock, and froin liberty-loving pa triots who came to the Delaware with Wil liam Penn. It becomes the primal ques tman ofAmerican manhood. It demands a hearing and a settlement, and that set tlement will vindicate the equality of American citizens in all personal and civil rights. It will, at least, establish the equality of white men under the National Government, and will give to the North--ern man, who fought to preserve the Un ion, as large a voice in its government as may be exercised by the bouthern man, who fought to destroy the Union. The contest just closed utterly dwarfs the for tunes and fate of candidates, whether suc cessful or unsuccessful. Purposely I may say instinctively I have discussed the is sues and consequences of that contest without reference to my own defeat, with out the remotest reference to the gentle man who is elevated to the Presidency. Toward him personally I have no cause for the slightest ill-will, and it is with cordial ity I express the wish that his official ca reer may prove gratifying to himself and beneficial to the country, and that' his Ad ministration may overcome th embarrass ments which the peculiar source of its power imposes upon it from the hour of its birth. A Story About the Old Debt. Chicago Times. J Recently an old man" from a New Eng- , land State went into the Treasury Depart ment in Washington and said that about 20 years ago he had found some old bonds among the papers of an uncle, a man of national reputation for ability and wealth from 1 1 820 to 1836, whose name he bore, and whose estate he inherited many years ' ago. They seemed to be United States bonds, he said, but he could not find a banker who knew anything of them or their value, and as he was coming here he thought he would bring them along and see if they really had any value. They were indeed curiosities, old and yellow as they were from age, for they were part of "the old debt," and ceased to bear inter est in 1836. The amount of the principal was $50,000, and there was ten years' in terest due on them. He said he would gladly have taken $5,000 for them, and that he had once offered them to a Massa chusetts bank for that, but his offer was contemptuously declined. The old man walked out of the Treasury with a check in his pocket on the New York Sub-Treasury for $70,000. , Quick Work. Ashevllle Citizen, j A correspondent from Yancey writes us of the .most expeditious election- work done during the past very active campaign. Mr. L. WhittiDgton was put out as the Democratic candidate for the House on Monday the 3rd, at 4 o'clock. There being no time or facility to print tickets, they were written and rapidly distributed throughout the county, and on Tuesday, , at 1 o'clock, p. m., he waselected. i m I' V,. 1 ' - i - . '
The Weekly Raleigh Register (Raleigh, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
Nov. 26, 1884, edition 1
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