The Portland daily press., 1872-04-23
ASOuthern Character.

But John Shaudy did not dine at Malvoisee
that day. He went to his humble apart
ments, and, after writing some letters, he
sat and thought. That day lady had been
grossly insuted in his presence and through
him, and he had suffered the insult to pass
unrebuked. He wished now he had spoken
in reply; the matter might have ended in
words, but it was too late for that 1t was
hard that this should come upon him. He
had never felt his physical defects so keenly.
His, life, as he reviewed it, had been one of
trial, but nothing like this. His new cousin
was so kind to him, and her cool, fresh voice
like water-brooks in dry and thirsty land.
Others Of her sex had been kind; they were
adj kind in their way; but the way was out of
pity for his lameness, and because he was
something different and less than other men,
He took pistol from his trunk, cleaned
and oiled it, and then reloaded it carefully,
after trying the lock. He then sent out and
got bottle ofliquOr, of which he drank once,
as feyerish man drinks water. He then
dressed himself with great care, and sat down
70 thlnk. His thoughts were very, very pain
1ui, for he soon lay on the bed crying like a
child but he arose afterwards, resolved.
He was about to leave the room, when his
violin-case caught his eye. He turned back.
and taking the instrument tenderly, as if he
loved 1t, he began to play. An inspiration,
such as musicians will recognize as coming
STRANGELY at times, was upon him, and the
stringe yielded soft bugle-like melody, so
low and sweet, to his wish. Dear old fare
well AIRS, suggested less, he thought, by him
sell than the violin, came marvellously to
MIN, though he had not played them before
Tor years. The music walled and sobbed, and
chung like child to the bow and strings, as
If loath to part. He tried again and again to
put it down, but again and again the plead
ing old love conquered, in increasing melody.
But 1t must be done. This violin was to
him pure, angelic spirit. 1t was the voice of
innocence out of the heavens, enclosed in the
dry wood and tender strings. He might do
what he was resolved to do, what he knew
ne mad to do; but he could not return and
lay his stained hand upon his violin again.
1t was with great effort he ceased, and,
beginning at the treble, turned and stretched
each string till it snapped with ringing jar;
ana, laying the violin in its case, like a poor
babe In its little coffin, he burst into a pas
sion OF tears. All was over. ALI ties to the
past were broken with the sweet strings, and
the future purpose was fixed. He gave lin
gerlng look at the room and its furniture
He felt that, though he should see it thous.
and times hereafter, it would never again look
to him as now, never as it had looked to him
IN the past. His life there had not been hap
Ply, but 1t made him inexpressibly sad to know
that he was parting with that life forever
Strange to say, in all these meditations over
what he was resolved to do, and its conse-
quences, no thought of danger to himself had
occurred to him. Weak, deformed, and un-
used to events requiring prompt and decisive
action, and with an impossibly chivalrous
conduct for his guidance, planned beforehand,
the thought of any fatal result to himself new
er crossed his mind. Under these influences,
therefore, he paused once more, pistol in
hand, at the door, and looked back. 1t was
John Shandy's farewell to his old life
He crossed the street, walking straight to
McCandless's door. The bully stood on the
stoop, but turned hastily and went in, as he
saw the lame man, and passed round the
barrelled gun, heavily-loaded. His hand was
on it, but Shandy spoke: ''You scoundrel, do
you insult lady?" And the pistol cracked,
McCandless dropped, and crowd rushed
around. John Shandy surrendered, and was
held in custody, waiting the result of the
wound, reported critical, and very dangerous.
VIII Wallace Harvey, in May atlantic.