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lewis >1. gbist, proprietor.J |itk]pbtnt Jfamilg fUtospaptr: |or % promotion of f{jt political, Social, ^gritatoral anb Commercial |nlmsts of % $oat|. |TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL 24. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 9, 1878. NO. 19. Selected ffltttg. | From the New Orleans Picayune. THE HEROES WHO DIED. "God knows who was right." Ah ! yes it is true, And the God of the Gray Is the God of the Blue; He bore their proud spirits j To mansions above, And He crowned them at last With his garlands of love. The grass grows green On the graves where they lay, The flowers bloom alike O'er the Blue and the Gray ; And loved ones' tears Are mingling with dew, While with it God blesses The Gray and the Blue. In heaven above us God opens His gate? No strife or contention, No discord, no hate ; The portals are open, And there, side by side, Stand the heroes of battles? The heroes who died. God welcomes them all ; mi ?I o'o urrav 1 DOUgU 111 iMuvio u One bore the bright Bi:>e And the other the Gray, Though one fought for Union. The other for State, One angel of mercy Guides all to God's gate. And there, at the right hand Of Him who is just, MBf Away from the mortal And up from the dust? There, there by God's throne, Faraway from earth's grave, In raiment unspotted Bfty Stand the true and the brave. Shall we, the frail worldlings Who yet live and wait? V Shall we sit in judgment, Y Or cry out in hate, r Whilo a Father above us? While a Father all-wise? Calls back His loved children From earth to the skies ? Forgive us, forgive us, Dear Father above! Bring back to our conscience The heart-beat of love; And while we are weeping For our loved ones to-day, Let us tenderly cherish The Blue and the Gray. JU (Ngiual jltorg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. _ MARY EUSTACE; OR, TRUST BETRAYED. CHAPTER XVI. Mary was sitting, in a very melancholy and perplexed frame of mind, wondering what she had better do next, when there was a gentle knock at the door, and she went to open it. A lady, dressed in deep mourning, with a very sweet expression of countenance, was standing there, and accosting Mary in gentle tones, said? "You will pardon the intrusion of a stranger, Miss Eustace, but I have heard something of your situation from the chambermaid, and as sbe informs me that you are quite alone, I have come to inquire if I can, in any ookwIaa tr% roil yy wajr, uo vi t iw i.v j w. "You are very kind," said Mary, gratefully. "Won't you come in?" "Shall I not disturb you by coming in, now ?" "Oh, no, I am doing nothing at present. I have nothing to do," sadly answered Mary. "My expectations have been so entirely crushed that I am quite at a loss to kuow how to proceed next." ( "You came in quest of a friend whom you expected to find in one of the hospitals, did you not?" asked the lady, as she accepted an ( offered seat. "But before I ask you any , questions," she continued, "it is only right that you should know my name. I am Mrs. ; Charles Stanley, the widow of a former member of Congress, who died just at the begin- , ning of the war. My maiden name was Randolph, and I am a Virginian by birth. My dear and only son, Gerald Stanley, was killed at Bull Run, and I am living, at ; present, quite aloue ; my chief occupation j being my labors araoug the soldiers, in which 1 take the greatest interest. I visit the hospitals, and employ all my leisure i hours in making clothing, or any other neces- < sary articles. So you see you may safely confide in me, as a friend who will help you to the utmost of her ability." Thus encouraged, Mary did not hesitate, frankly, to tell her story, which was listened to with much sympathy and interest by her new acquaintance. She ended by saying, mnnrnfilllv ? ? J ( "I fear, now, that I have heen cherishing hope in vain. If Colonel Dacre were alive,j some news of him could surely be obtained ; j but I am afraid that he must have been killed, I or rather died from the effects of his wouuds, in 3ome obscure place, where be was not known." Mrs. Stauley was silent for a moment; theu she said, gently? "I do not wish to add to your discouragement, my dear, and I would gladly inspire you with hope, if I could ; but it is no kind-' ness to strengthen false hopes in auy one. And I must tell you, candidly, that I have reason to believe that your fears are only too well founded. I know something of the cir- j cumstances of that engagement, and the terrible confusion which ensued upon the defeat of our troops; for I have seen officers and men [ who were engaged in it, and from their accounts, and those given in the papers imme- ! diately after it, it seems irampossible to ar- j rive clearly at what actually became of many of the poor fellows, supposed to be wounded or killed. Our men, you know, were completely ! routed, being overpowered by an immensely superior force, who attacked them unexpectedly, and that, no doubt, accounts for the uncertainty and perplexity which seems to be in every body's mind concerning its results. It is not known how many prisoners were taken bv the Yankees ; but a great many of our wounded are believed to have fallen iuto their hands." "And might he not have been among those ?" asked Mary, eagerly. Mrs. Stanley hesitated again. "I believe," j she replied, reluctautly, "that it would be better to hope that he did not. For it was reported, that finding themselves, afterwards, on the point of encountering a portion of Lee's Army, the Yankees, finding the care of the prisoners embarrassing, made away with a number of them, nobody knows where or how. At least, they mysteriously disappeared." "You don't mean that they killed them!" cried Mary, in horror. "It is believed that they did," said Mrs. Stanley. Mary, with a low moan, dropped her face iuto ber bands. "Sooner than that, I pray Heaven he may have died on the field," she murmured. "But, Mrs. Stanley, she continued, looking up again, with an expression of renewed hope, "the papers said, you know, that he was taken to the hospital. There must have been some foundation for that statement. "It seems as if there must, indeed. Yet I could tell you of one or two similar instances, where papers have published such reports, and have been proved incorrect. I myself went to one of the hospitals, in quest of a man in whom I was interested, from having seen in a daily paper here that he, among others, had been admitted into it, and found that he had never been taken there at all. I found him afterwards, in quite a different place. So you Bee these mistakes do sometimes occur." "I don't know what to think?what to believe," said poor Mary. "It seems as if I could not vive un hoDe. vet. As it is, I must keep o" - - t? r ~r ... on trying to find out about him, in some way or other. I suppose I ought to go back home, but I hate to do it. lu fact, unless he returns there, I shall have no object in staying there any longer. I have no protector but him, and I would rather make some other arrangement for myself; board in some quiet place, for instance, with people who would be good to me." Tears filled her eyes, as this picture of her desolation rose up before her. "My dear," said Mrs. Stanley, taking her hand, "I have something to propose to you, which you may think a little suddeu, but an irresistible impulse prompts me to do it. I am very solitary, and would dearly love to have a sweet young girl for a companion. Ab long as you decide upon no other plan, or learn no news of your guardian, will you not stay with me ? We can take care of each other, and I will try and be a mother to you, in every way that I can." This unlooked-for proposal took Mary so entirely by surprise, that at first she scarcely knew what answer to make; but the favorable impression made upon her, by her new friend, prompted her to accept the offer, at least, for the present. "You are extremely kind," she gratefully replied, "and though I cannot yet decide what my future life must be, since so much uncertainty still haugs around my guardian's fate, I shall be thankful to put myself under your care while I remain here, if you are willing to have ray company on such terms." "More than willing?I am delighted," rejoined Mrs. Stanley. "We will consider it settled that way, then, for the present. And though I am not so selfish as to hope it may be permanent?since that is implying a disappointment to your hopes?yet I may be ' * ? ic i : permitted 10 congratulate hijscm uu having secured your companionship, at least, for a time. I am expecting to move to morrow or the day after, into a furnished house, kindly placed at my disposal, by a friend, who has left Richmond with his family, to be absent for quite a long while ; and I will tell you of a plan which I have made, which, I daresay, you will assist me in carryiug out. I think of fitting up one story of the house, which I shall not need for ray own use, as a sort of sickward, for the accommodation of a limited number of ill or wounded Confederates, who may require more tender nursing than they cau obtain in the hospitals. I could have, say four beds in each room, or three, at any rate ; and as there are four rooms on a floor, that would give accommodation to at least a dozen men, at ouce. More than that, of course, I could not well attend to; for though, in cases of necessity, I should employ hired nurses, yet I would expect to take the general care of all upon myself. What do you think of my plan ?" Mary replied that she thought it a very benevolent one, and likely to do a great deal of good. "I hope it may, I am sure," said Mrs. Stanley. "I am so glad you approve of it. It is ray great delight to attend to the soldiers, poor fellows, and do what I cau to alleviate their Bufferings. And as I have had a great deal of experience in nursing, I am competent to undertake a charge of this kind. Now, this morning, if you do not expect to employ yourself in auy other way, we might go out together, look over the house and decide what articles are needed for our purpose, and then j purchase them and have them seut there at j once." Mary, glad of some occupation which would afford a relief to her melancholy thoughts, i consented at once to this arrangement. And soot) afterwards a carriage, which Mrs. Stanley had ordered, came to the door, and the two entering it, set out ou their expedition. The house of which Mrs. Stanley bad spoken was j a handsome and spacious residence on the I outskirts of the city, situated in the centre of a large flower garden, surrounded by a high wall. The quiet of its neighborhood, and the convenience of its arrangements, made it in j every way suitable for the use to which its j future occupant designed to put it. She car- j ried Mary over every part of it, and gave her j a choiVe of the apartments she would like to i occupy, she herself having selected rooms on ! the lower story as being easiest of access, and j most convenient in regard to the kitchen and J laundry arrangements. Mary, who did not | desire more than a sleeping room for her own i use, chose one on the same floor. And there j being still an unappropriated apartmeut, for- j merly used as a sort of store-room, it was de- i cided that this should be converted into a parlor, so that the second floor might be left-i free for the sick-ward arrangements. All furuiture and other articles, which had to be got out of the way, could thus be removed to the third story, which would remain vacant. And Mrs. Stauley immediately seta man to work at this removal, while they went off to buy the beds and other things necessary for the fitting up of the ward. The selection of1 these occupied a considerable time, and Mrs. Stanley having gone back to the house to re-1 ceive them, and see them safely stowed away, theu proposed returning to the hotel, as it I would be necessary to defer the proper arrangemeut of them to another day. This scheme of hers completely engrosssd her thoughts. I She was very enthusiastic over it, and it did not take Mary very long to find out that her zeal in the cause in which she was engaged, was so strong as to overpower almost every other consideration. She seemed resolved to awaken her young companion's interest, and arouse her from her melancholy, as far as possible, by enlisting her aid in the good work ; and as it was her idea that there was nothing so efficacious as employment to cure sadness, she begged her assistance that very evening in the completion of some clotbiug 1 she wns making up for a company just put under marching orderB. Mary was very ' willing to work aud did her best; but she was tired and confused by the novelty and variety of her day's occupations, and her new position seemed so strange and unreal that she was almost inclined to believe that she must be some one else, or that she was acting in a dream. It seemed, however, as if Providence had raised up a friend to her in her lonely ! situation, and she could not but be grnteful I for the protection thus afforded her during | her sojourn in a strange place. Indeed,should ' it be proved that Colonel Dacre was indeed l no longer living?and this idea now began I to intrude itself persistently upon her?she i did not think that she could do better for her self than to accept Mrs. Stanley's proposition I and remain with her altogether. " * i i r. t e :_i Her guardian nan lert ner nuauumi nunno i so arranged, that she had but to apply to a banker at home whenever she needed money. And she now wrote at once to ask for a checque for a considerable sum, as she wished to place at once, in Mrs. Stanley's handu, an amount sufficient to assist in defraying; the expenses of housekeeping, and also to coritrib; ute to the enterprise in which she had embarked. They moved, the next day, into their new residence, and found plenty of employment for their time and thoughts, in putting everything in proper order. The portion of the establishment reserved for their own use, seemed to be of much less importance, in Mrs. Stanley's estimation, than that appropriated to ! her future patients. She rushed with ardor into the arrangement of this floor, and soon had it converted into a model hospital. Very inviting did the four large, wellventilated rooms look, - each with its four snowy beds, (she could not resist the temptation of having sixteen instead of twelve, declaring that the additional four would make no difference) witn strips of matting between ; its four chairs, two stuffed and two plain ; its table, with a neat white cover for general use, and a smaller one by the side of every bed, within convienient reach of its occupant. The windows were draped with white muslin, and on every mantel was a pair of vases, destined to hold such flowers as would be pleasing to the eyes, without injuriously affecting the atmosphere. Last, but not least, on every little table was placed a plainly bound Bible and hymn-book, for the good matron considered it of great importance to minister to aniritnftl aq well as the bodilv needs of her patients. "Now, my dear," said Mrs. Stanley, looking round with benevolent satisfaction on the result of her labors, "we have everything so beautifully prepared, that I feel quite impatient to set to work at once. Not that I want any more soldiers to be wounded or sick, poor fellows, but if they are to suffer, I would rather see them in a comfortable place than not." In a few days, Mary's checque arrived, and she hastened to place it iu Mrs. Stanley's hands. The latter was equally surprised and pleased at the contribution to her hospital fund, but objected to the other, raying that Mary was to be her guest and not her boarder. The latter, however, refused to keep it, so it was agreed that the whole should be spent for the soldiers' benefit. CHAPTER XVII. Having seen Mary established in her new home, and waiting to render such assistance to her friend?Mrs. Stanley?as she might require in the performance of her private ho3 pital duties, we will leive her, for the present, and return to Mosslands, to see how matters have progressed there since her departure. Shortly after she had left, Maurice had contracted the illness of which Mrs. Blending wrote to inform her, and was, for a short time, an extreme sufferer; all the old pain in his side returning with its original violence, and confiuing him entirely to his bed. Poor Mrs. Blanding found him a most refractory subject to manage. He rebelled against all her dictates, sneereil at tier auvice, ana was so frightfully cross and ill-terapered that he drove her, as she pathetically expressed it, well nigh distracted. She conscientiously persevered, however, in the path of duty, and continued to bestow her patient attention up<>u him, notwithstanding his rebuffs; and being quite unable to help himself, he was forced, though much against his will, to accept her ministrations, which it must be owned he did with the very worst possible grace. It may be imagined that Adelia did not find this state of affairs particularly entertaining. She vowed that Mosslauds was the dullest and most depressing spot on earth, and 6nally, after a protracted etruggle with herself, she decided to return to her mother, from whom she had been absent, except at occasional brief intervals, for more than six years. Having formed this lau*dable resolution, she packed her trunks, with many inward sighs and complaints, and took leave of Mosslands and its inmates, none of whom felt any very keen regret at seeing her depart. It chanced that on the very day that old John drove her down to the railroad station, a certain letter was lying iu the post office, directed to Mary Eustace, of which that sable functionary took possession, and carried it home to "Mass Maurice," its rightful recipient not being within reach. Maurice at once recognized Colonel Dacre's handwriting, and the sight of it excited considerable curiosity within his breast. More than curiosity ; a buruing desire seized him to possess himself of its contents. Mary was away, and ripupr would know. He could forward it to her afterwards iu a fresh envelope, copying the address in hiB cousiu's hand, It was not a very honorable impulse, certainly ; but I regret to say that he obeyed it, aud, without much deliberation, (juietly broke the seal. It contained startling uetfs. The writer was a prisoner in port Delaware, and still in a very weak condition from his wounds. His letter, having been subject to inspection, was necessarily brief, and guarded iu its expression. It rau thus: "My dkah Mary; You will see by the date of this that I am a prisoner, having fallen into the hands of the U. S. troops after the fatal little skirmish of September 12th. I was badly hurt on lhat occasion, receiving a bullet in my shoulder aud another iu my right leg ; but though I have suffered much, I am now, 1 think, slowly recovering. I am attended by the surgeon in charge here, who is skillful and attentive. Of course I have i no idea how long I shall be here, but suppose I must cultivate patience as well as I can. I I am still very weak, so you must pardoq this brief scrawl. I hope you are all getting on comfortably at home. God bless you, and grant us a happy meeting one of these days. "Ever yours, J. Brentwood Dacre." Maurice folded up the letter and replaced it in its envelope. Then he put it in his pocket?he was sitting up, now?and began to think over what he should do. Should he enclose the letter to Mary ? He thought not. Where was the use of her knowing that the Colonel was a prisoner ? Let her stay a little longer in suspense. He felt a sort of savage satisfaction at the idea of having her thus much in his power. She bad made him miserable, and it would be only just to let her suffer a little in consequence. It might be many mouths, perhaps years? depending on the length of the war?before the Colonel would be released. If he could manage to keep her ignorant of his fate, or lead her to the conviction that he was dead, who could tell but what his own supreme wish, the chief aim and hoDe of his life, might, in that interval, be accomplished f He did not think it at all improbable that this might happen, provided she once felt herself released from her promise to her guardian. And if the latter should write again, still addressing his lettern to Mosslands, it would be easy enough to suppress these letters, destroy them, and afterwards deny that they had ever been received. Nobody went to the post-office but the servants, and they, being ignorant, could not distinguish their master's handwriting from auybody's else. Therefore, there would be no one to betray the fact of their having fallen into his hands. The first step in the wrong track he.ving been taken, it is well known that farther progress in the same direction becomes only too easy and natural. Maurice had yielded, from the beginning, to the selfish and unworthy impulse which prompted him to seek only the accomplishment of his own wishes, and put aside the claims of honor and gratitude. | And the self-reproach, which, at times, ho had felt, had grown gradually fainter and less frequent, until now it had well nigh ceased to annoy him. "I shall never marry any woman in the world but Mary Eustace," he had often asserted to himself; "and I shall never give up trying to win her for ray wife until she in the wife of some one else, which, if I can prevent it by any means whatsoever, she never shall be. It's seldom I have failed in any undertaking upon which my mind is set, and if a hard fight can ensure success, I shall not fail in this one, either." So now, by way of taking one important step toward the advancement of his purpose, be tore up Colonel Dacre's epistle, and threw the fragments into the 6re. "That is out of harm's way, at any rate," he remarked, complacently. "And if any more come; why I'll give them all an equally warm reception. Then he lit a cigar, and while Bmoking it, composed, mentally, a long letter to Mary, which he had been contemplating writing ever eiuce he had been well enough to sit up, only he had never been able quite to determine what style it would be the wisest for him to adopt. Whether it should be the lofty and injured, or the pathetic and reproachful, or the passionate and entreating, or a judicious combination of them all. He rather prided himself upon his skill in letter writing. And since bodily weakness prevented his following the object of his adoration?which he would not have hesitated otherwise to do? he resolved to send her, from time to lime, such communications as would be best culcu lated to touch her heart, win her forgiveness for past offences, and bring her gradually round to a suitable frame of miud for a fa.vorable hearing of his renewed addresses. If only some miserable chaucc, some freak of illluck, did not reveal to her her guard an's situation, he believed he would yet succeed. The next day, Mrs. filauding came into his room with an important air, begging that he would allow her a few minutes' conversation. Mentally voting her a bore, he requested her to take a seat, which she did, and after a little preliminary hesitation, opened the interview by stating that, as she did not suppose her services were any longer needed at Mosslauds, there would be no objection to her leaving, as she had just received news from home, which made it desirable that she should return. "You see, Mr. Cleveland, this arrangement was only made with the poor Colonel," (she had, for some time past, adopted this style of speaking of him, taking it for granted that he had come to an evil end,) "in consideration of Mary being here; and she a young thing without any protector, being, in fact, as one may say, alone in the world. I'm sure I tried to do my duty by her, to the very best of my ability, and what she took this notion to go off for, nobody can tell ; at least I can't. It wasn't for want of my trying to make her happy, as you yourself, sir, ought to do me the justice to acknowledge." Maurice admitted that he was quite ready to acknowledge the fact. "But seeing that in spite of all that, she has left, and apparently without any intention of returning, why I don't think that I am bound to remain here any longer. Tell me, candidly, Mr. Cleveland, do you think that I am ?" "By no means," promptly responded Maurice, who was secretly delighted at the prospect of her departure, "I agree with you, in thinking it most unlikely that Miss Eustace | will return, and therefore, of course, you are ' ksMinsJ frv nnf QHV roafrflinf All VAIir inclinations on her account," "Oh ! as to that, I'm sure it has given me i I great pleasure to stay here, and I've been as | I comfortable as possible all aloug. And be! sides, I would gladly have done anything to | j oblige the poor Colonel, who has done me ! ! many a kind turn. But now, Mary Ann? ! ! that's my daughter-in-law?has fallen Into i j poor health, and ray sop is in the array, and j i the childreu, I'm afraid, are being sadly peg- j I lected, and I really think my duty is to be with tbero. Their mother and I never agreed very well ; but she is Robert's wife, and the j children, poor things, are ray own flesh and j j blood. And she has written me a pitiful sort J of letter, saying how lonesome she feels, and ; how hard it is to get on, and all that, and I 1 know I could be a help to her if I was there." "Yes, of course," assented Maurice. "I i see that you really can't do otherwise than go to her. Pray, don't let any thought of me \ interfere with your arrangements, the leant in the world." "Ah ! but that's just what I was coming to, Mr. Cleveland. You see ^ou are still delicate, and it does trouble me to think of abandoning you to the care of none but servants." "Oh ! As to that, you need not have the slightest fear, I assure you," said Maurice. | "I shall get on capitally, and if I need any j more nursing, there's old Dinah and a lot of! others, who are excellent hands at it. Be- j sides, I am getting quite strong now. I have no intention of being ill again. As far as I I am concerned, there is nothing to prevent your setting off at once." "Well, if those are really your views, I j suppose there can be no reason why I shouldn't | go," rejoined Mrs. Blanding, in a relieved ! tone. "So I think that I will write to Mary Ann at once, and tell her to expect me at home." Off she bustled to write the said letter and pack her trunks; and two days later, she bade adieu to Mosslands and departed, leaving Maurice master of the held. Very quiet, very solitary, was the old place I now. The loneliness oppressed him, yet it brought no salutary reflections to his mind. Wandering idly through the rooms where many happy hours of his boyhood and youth had been spent; seeing around them the familiar objects so closely associated with thoughts and memories of one who had ever extended a warm welcome to him; whose tones had never breathed aught but kindness in his ear; be still felt no compunction in the thought that he was plotting to undermine the whole fabric of this friend's happiness?that he had violated his trust, and cast every claim of honor to the winds. He improved the first day of his solitude by writing the long meditated letter to Mary. He told her how lonely, how unhappy, he felt. How severe was the punishment which he had entailed upon himself, by his ill-judged betrayal of feelings which he had been unable to control, and how be longed for some token of her forgiveness; some proof, however slight, that she did not quite hate him. He reproached her gently for having stolen away without warning, saying that had he but dreamed of her intention, be would have instantly withdrawn himself from her presence, since his society was unendurable to her. "Far better would it have been," he wrote, "for me to find shelter in the humblest dwelling near my cousin's place, where I might still have given an eye to his affairs, than for you to quit the abode of which you are the rightful mistress. But, Oh! Miss Eustace, how deeply am I wounded by this want of confidence ; this evidence of your utter contempt for nae! One word from you would have sufficed to effect this separation, without inflicting upon me the mortification of finding myself placed in the position I am now forced to occupy. What will your guardian, what will the world, think? And I must be forever the wretched victim of selfreproach, which, added to other pangs equally /.Anflnnullo tnrmanta mn in 1 V%nco tinnra I Ckecuj wuubiuuanj iui iiivuio iu\> 111 iiuv>ou iivuio of my solitude. May I entreat you to write me but one single line of comfort ? But I fear the request is vain. You have hitherto given me too scanty proof of kindness for me to venture to hope for this. That you are doing good, that your presence must ever shed a blessing around it upon all on whom it shines, too well I know. And, therefore, you must, in a measure, be happy, under all circumstances of life, since the good, the lovely, the beueflcent, always reap their own reward." Much more be added, which it is not necessary here to transcribe. Suffice it to say, that his effusion took up four large pages, and when he read it over, after signing himself, "Yours faithfully, M. C.," he felt a glow of satisfaction in the conviction that it was a masterly composition, and must surely hud favor in its recipient's regard. He would have been disappointed, had he known that Mary, after reading it, exclaimed only, with a weary sigh, "Oh 1 why can he not leave me alone?" [to be continued.] ?????m Omens.?Even now there exist people who believe in omens. To enumerate the number in which our forefathers believed would be impossible; but we give one or two which may be amusing to the young people. Stum bling in going down stairs or going out in the morning is very unlucky. It is a sign of illluck to lay one's knife and fork crosswise; for sweethearts to interchange knives, as it will cut away their love; to present auybody with a knife, scissors, razor, or any sharp instrument. To avoid ill consequence, a pin, a farthing, or some trifling recompense must be given in return. To hod a knife or razor is unlucky. That it is ill luck to find money and worse to keep it, may seem paradoxical to many. It in lucky to hnd four-leaved -i : r : lj l ?i i ClOTer, & piece ui IIUU, an uiu nunc guuc. Moles are indicative of good or bad fortune, according to their'position on the body. A mole against the heart denotes wickedness ; on the knee, a wealthy wife ; on the nose, a traveler ; on the throat, riches ; on the lower jaw of a woman, sorrow and pain ; in the middle of the forehead, a discourteous and cruel mind ; on the right side of the forehead, command, esteem and honor; on the left, near hair, misery; on the left, near middle of forehead, persecutions from superior; on the lip, a great eater; on the chin, riohes; on the ear, riches and respect; on the right breast, poverty; near the bottom of! nostrils, good luek; on the left foot, rash-1 uess; right foot, wisdom; ou the wrist or I hand, an ingenious mind ; near side of chin, ! an amiable disposition ; many moles between wrist and elbow, many crosses, which will end in prosperity. Remarkable Agricultural Gains.? The United States are far in advance of any other country in point of agriculture, the development of this department of industry hav- i ing beep truly marvelous in late years. 1 Thus, the corn crop Increased from 788,320,- . 000 bushels in 1867, to 1,340,000,000 in 1877, or nearly 100 per cent, iu a single decade. The hog crop, which may be said to be a part of the corn crop, reached the enormous total, i for the year ending with last month, of 9,0;8,- 1 508 head ; an increase of raising 100 per cent. 1 during the last ten years. The yield of wheat: for the past year was 36Q.QOQ.OQQ bpshels, or j( 50,000,000 more than was ever before pro-'1 duced. Deducting the amount necessary for 1 home consum ption and seed, upwards of 110,- 1 000,000 bushels is left for export. In almost j' all other farm products there has been nearly j a corresponding increase. Boys, Note This !?Don't forget to take < off your hat when you enter the house. Gen- i tlemen never keep their hats on in the pres-,1 ence of ladies; and if you always take yours off < when mamma and the girls are by, you will ! < not forget yourself or be mortified when a ' i f;uest or a stranger happens to be in the par- < or. Habit is stronger than any thing else, i and you will always fipd that the easiest way ' I to make sure of doing right on all occasions, i is to get in the habit of doing right. Good i manners can not be put on at a moment's i warning. 1 IJlisccUiwcous fjUadiag., TWENTY YEARS AGO AT WASHINGTON, i I weil remember the day, twenty years ' ago, when Buchanan was in the White 1 House, and Mr. Douglas, in what was then re- ( garded as his fine mansion, and received hosts of friends. Jeff Davis, Bob Toombs, Dallas, ? of Pennsylvania, Speaker Orr and many oth- 1 ers, now nearly forgotten, were the idols of so- 1 ciety then. Mayor Wallack dispeused pro- 1 fuse hospitalities from his residence near the J city hall. The District then was completely J under the domination of southern men and ideas. It was essentially a southern city. Black people were bought and sold as freely 1 as horses now. The streets were quagmires. A hack frequently was so mired on one of \ our principal streets, that it remained two or three days stuck in the mud. A dead horse i sometimes lay a week on a by-street. Dead 1 dogs and cats were considered ornamental, ; rather than otherwise, in our streets. Things 1 jogged along after the old style of slavery. ' No colored person, slave or free, dared enter one of our parks, except in charge of a white j child. There were no colored schools, except ' a little private one kept by Miss Minor, aud it was in constant danger of being suppressed. ! Dr. Baily published his National Era then, and it was in the height of its circulation. I think it nearly reached 30,000, which in . those days was a great success. The good doctor did so well that he lived in generous ' style, and he used his means in a noble manner, for his house was at all times the refuge ? of anti-slavery people. Mrs. Stowe had just -> finished "Uncle Tom's Cabin" in the Era; j Gail Hamilton was governess in the doctor's ? family ; autograph poems by Whittier were then to be had for the asking in the Era of- j fice. I picked up one day among the loose "copy," the whole of "The Witch's Daugh- ^ ter," in Whittier's handwriting. Soon after other journals of the North began to advo- ^ cate the anti-slavery cause. The Tribune and j other papers began to crowd the Era, and the j sudden death of Dr. Bailey finished its bril- j liant career. This was all only about 20 years ^ ago. The great conflict over slavery was rapidly coming to a head. Two years after, the y John Brown raid brought terror into the city. v The anti-slavery men in Congress were al- t most afraid to remain, so intense was the ( feeling against them. When Mr. Seward, returning late from a summer trip in Europe, j took his seat in the Senate in February?18 years ago, I believe?he was shunned by ^ most southern men. j And now we have negro schools, negro suffrage, universal freedom, and au ex-slave is marshal of the District 1 The change is sim- 1 ply marvelous. That it has its drawbacks is v true. The age is dishonest. It "jobs" a great j deal, and "rings" flourish. The blacks do t not behave as well as they might, aud thous anas or tnem suner. More go Hungry, i tninK, t under freedom than under slavery. In this j District, certainly, there is a great deal of i crime, vice and suffering among the colored t people. Probably there is a larger number e of them who suffer for good food and decent a clothes than at any previous time; but on the e other hand, there is a large and constantly- 1 increasing class which lives respectably and f Is intelligent. Large numbers of colored chil- c dren are in excellent schools, and many young ( men are in Howard university. The experi- s ment of freedom among colored people is pre- c cisely God's experiment to the human race, c How many abuse their freedom, and yet we 1: hope there is a gradual improvement. v One of the most striking sights to be seen c here is in some of the old southern men who t linger about the scenes of their former great- t ness?Cliugman,of North Carolina; Boyce, of South Carolina; Foote, of Mississippi; j Stephens, of Georgia, and others. Twentyfive years ago, and they were in their glory. Foote was threatening to hang John P. Hale, or drawing a pistol on old Tom Benton, in ^ the Senate lobby. And now this formerly ^ passionate politician and fire-eater is as gentle q as a sucking dove, and looks like a saint. He e is a good Republican, and au advocate of gen- v erous treatment tor tne negro, ne is orten ^ to be seen in the Senate and society here. Mr. Stephens everybody is familiar with. He is still a power in Congress, but 20 years ago he seemed, as now, to have one foot in the grave. Boyce, of South Carolina, was the ^ one member of the delegation from 1859 to 1860 who was believed to dislike the secession- a ists; but be was compelled to go out with his delegation in the Winter of 1860-61. He had the sympathies of many Republicans, | and, during the war, they watched for news of jy him. He did not take an active part in the rebellion, and at the first opportunity came * out as a Union man, and the moment peace was declared he came to Washington, where I he soon found employment. Es Senator a Clingmau was a furious secessionist in I860, v and is now a mild Democrat. He spends his n winters here, having apparently nothing to si do. He is constantly in the House or Senate, and is one of the connecting links between ei this and the last generation.? Correspondence of Springfield Republican. d Remarks on Spring.?Spring is generally ci one of the four seasons, and usually occurs during the forepart of the year. It is a great improvement on winter, and lover?, poets, and in people hail it with delight. u In the spring a young man's fancy lightly n turns to thoughts of going to work?very lightly. Spring unfolds her glorious and f< abundant stores and presents us with every- n thing but the money to buy them with, and tl the consequence is that a young fellow has to p go to work or continue to board with the old man. The contagious and virulent spring fever carries off more people, (to bed, or lays c them gently to sleep in the shade of the 0 mournful willow, or any other handy tree,) ^ than all the other diseases of the season. A P decoction of peach sprout has beep known to allay it a little in boys?to be shaken while ^ taken. ^ The busines3-like bumblebee now goes along P singiug at his work, and he occasionally 8 bumbles small barefooted boys who chase him for a butterfly. b Now is the time when the precocious boy * leaves a vacancy at his desk at school and c goes off down the creek to study the beauties P of Nature and play seven up. c Now is the time when the enchanting rural t( landscape stretches away so lovely and grand w that the poorest of us almost wishes he owned whole acres of it. . Now is the time when the good wife is out j. in the yard with sun-bonnet and old gloves ^ ou, and broom in hand, directing her husband how to rake up all his boots and shoes, and t( old hats and paper collars, and old boot jacks and tin cans, while he wonders, (without pausing,) why in the world it is that she manages ^ to do such a large amount of talking to such ? little work as she does. ? Things Not to Do.?Never believe, much less propagate, an ill-report of a neighbor without good evidence of its truth; never listen to an infamous story handed to you by a man v< who is inimical to the person defamed, or o< who is himself apt to defame his neighbors, d or who is wont to sow discord among breth- ei ren and excite disturbance in society. Nev- Si or utter the evil which you know or suspect of w another, till you have an opportunity to expos- ai tulate with him. Never speak evil of another tl while you are under the influence of envy 91 and malevolence, but wait till your spirits di are cooled down, that you may better judge ol whether to utter or suppress the matter, ef What a Standing-Collar Did.?AH ihings are fair, so it is generally thought, in war, in a horse-trade, and in a law-case. It s probably on that bad rule, that the late President Lincoln acted when he defeated an mtagonist before a jury. The anecdote is thus told by Dr. Bateman : He was often pitted against eminent lawyers fJurint* f.fifl trials in t.Kifi San flrnmnn r?nnn 1 d o ? ;y circuit court. On one occasion he was opposed to a very able advocate, who made a powerful, eloquent and convincing speech to the jury, and Mr. Lincoln saw that it had been very effective on the minds of the jury, rhe gentleman, moreover, was a man who was very precise in his dress, as well as manner and oratory. But Mr. Lincoln had been observing him, md saw a flaw in his usually faultless attire. 'Gentlemen of the jury," said "Old Abe," when he arose to speak, "the gentleman who baa just spoken has made a strong argument. He has quoted the law and evidence, and it is not for me to say that he is wrong. He may be correct in all he has said. But I want you to take a good look him. Look especially at the upper half, and then, gentlemen, tell me if any man who comes before you with his standing-collar buttoned 'wrong and to/ with the points sticking away out behind his ears, may not be altogether mistaken in all his arguments." The plan was successful. Mr. Lincoln had broken the spell which the eloquence of his opponent had thrown over the jury." Origin of Genius.?Columbus was the ion of a weaver and a weaver himself. Claude Lorraine was brought up as pastry cook. Moiere, the great French comic, writer was the ion of a tapestry maker. Cervantes served as i common soldier. Homer was a beggar. J .1 - u e n iicsiuu was tue ouu ui a, amau iarmer ; uzm* jsthenes, of a cutler. Terence, the Latin comic writer, waa a slave. Oliver Cromwell was the ion of a brewer. Howard, the philanthropist, was an apprentice to a grocer; Benjamin Franklin, the son of a tallow chandler ; Dr. Bishop, of Worcester, son of a linen draper. De Foe, the great English political writer, vas the son of a butcher. VVhitfield was the ion of an innkeeper at Gloucester; Cardinal Wolsey, the son of a butcher. Ferguson vas a shepherd. Virgil was the son of a porer; Shakespeare, of a wool dealer ; Horace >f a shopkeeper; Lucian, of a stationer. Ho;arth was an apprentice to an engraver; [)ean Tucker was the son of a small farmer, md came to Oxford on foot. Bishop Prideaux vorked in the kitchen at Exeter College. Edmund Halley was the son of a soap boiler. ? What Daniel Webster Thought op Public Life and Politics.?In Peter Harrey's "Reminiscences" of the great statesman, ust published, is the following confession to he author: "I am not unaware?and it would be af'ectation in me to deny it?that I have a )ublic reputation to leave to posterity; but it las been earned with difficulty. If I were o live my life over again, with my present ixperience, I would, under no circumstance md from no considerations, allow myself to inter public life. The public are ungrateful, rhe man who serves the public most faithully receives no adequate reward. In my >wn history, the acts which have been, before }od, the most disinterested and the least tained by selfish considerations, have been nost freely abused. No, no! have nothing to lo with politics. Sell your iron; eat the >read of independence; support your family vith the rewards of honest toil; do your luty as a private citizen to your country? >ut let politics alone. It is a hard life; a hankless life." The Family of Jefferson Davis.?Mrs. iefferson Davis is described as being at preset a very stout, very intelligent and very .miablelooking woman. Her face is round, be has a large and expressive mouth, and ilack hair, streaked with gray. She is kindlearted, and is said by a correspondent of the Chicago Times, to be much liked in Memphis, specially by young people. Mr. Davis is ery thin, and looks very old and broken own. Their eldest daughter?a gentle and raceful young woman?is married and lives 3 Memphis. They have two other children, ne a girl of 16, now at school in Germany, rhither Mrs Davis took her last summer, and be other, a young man, now in Memphis, Jefjrson Davis, Jr. He is about 22 years of ge. He has his mother's large, not handjme face, and is an awkward, loquacious, ood-natured sort of an overgrown boy. The lavis family is comparatively poor now, and Irs. Davis frequently alludes to "our poverf" in a jocular way. Outdone by a Boy;?A young lad in Soston, rather small for his years, works in n office as errand boy for four gentlemen 'ho do business there. One day the gentlelen were chaffing him a little about being so mall, and said to him : "You never will amount to much; you nevr can do much business ; you are too small." The little fellow looked at them. "Well," said he, "as small as I am, I can o something, which none of you large men an do," "Ahl what is that?" said they. "I don't know as I ought to tell you," he eplied. But they were anxions to know, and rged him to tell them what he could do that one of them were able to do. "I can keep from swearing!" said the little illow. There were some blushes on four lanly faces, and there seemed to be very litte anxiety for further information on the oint. Curing Cuts.?Accidental cuts from knives, utting teols, scythes, etc., are more likely to ccur on the face and limbs than on the body. IlII that is requisite in general is to bring the arts together as accurately as possible, and D bind them up?this is usually done by adesive plaster, when the cut ceases to bleed, nothing is so good for this purpose as paper reviously washed over on one side with thick urn water, and then dried; when used it is only 3 be wetted with the tongue. When the cut leeds but little it is well to soak the part in rarm water for a few minutes, or keep a wet loth on it. This removes inflammation aud ain and also a tendency to fainting, which a ut gives some persons. If the bleeding be }o copious, dab the part with a rag wetted dth creosote, At Sandusky, Ohio, in a recent case, a iryman who couldn't read or write, got a iend to prepare him a lot of "yes" and "no" allots; putting one set in one vest pocket nd the other in another, so that he could ill which way he was voting. But he got ) absorbed in the testimony that when he irae to vote "yes," he forgot which pocket eld the richt ballots and keDt on votinc 0 J-- o qo" against the solid affirmative of his asso ates, until one of them found out how the latter stood, and the vote was made unan ous. The Dead of the Late War.?The Proost Marshal General has completed a careful jmpilation, from the muster rolls, of all the satbs in battle, from wounds and disease, in rery regiment and company of every loyal tate, from the beginning to the close of the ar. From it, it appears that 276,739 officers ad men lost their lives in the service. Of lis number 5,521 commissioned officers and 3,886 enlisted men were killed in action or ied of wounds, while 2,531 commmissioned See re and 182,326 enlisted men died of dietee or, in few cases, from accident.