Beaufort Republican. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1871-1873, August 01, 1872, Image 1
The Beaufort iSpl Republican.
AN INDEPENDENT FAMILY NEWSPAPER, DEVOTED TO POLTFICS, LITERATURE, AND GENERAL INTELLIGENCE. OUR MOTTO IS-TRUTH WITHOUT FEAR. .
- - VOL.
II. NO. 43. BEAUFORT, S. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 1, 1872. !
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Little Children.
Cherubs of this world of changes !
8weetly budding charms of time 1
Love's true alchemists of gladness,
Turning tasks to golden rhvme!
Music, like the brooklet's babble.
k Round the shiniag stepping-stone,
Vour dear footsteps, soothing patter
Mingles with your gleeful tones.
Rays of brighter realms beam ever
In the homes where children dwell,
Lighting up thejgenial hearth-stone
With a joy no heart can tell 1
0, these babes of blessing lead us
By the hand to hallowed scenesEven
as our Savious taught them,
And we're blest by .these mild means.
Heavenly Father I teach our conscience,
Well to weigh thy gifts of grace,
That our feet may falter never,
While we haste to seek thy face.
With these dear and guilelees children,
Walking trustful at our eide,
Lead us. Lord, the way of wisdom
Up tc where thou dost abide I
Edward e. jnowell.
HOW AIVIN CAME HOME.
It was dreary work cutting carpet rags
? Dight after night, with her boy away in
the army, and long lists ot killed and
wounded filling the newspapers. She had
cut up Alvin's little coat. It was the
first coat he ever had, and she remembered
how proud he had been of the buttons
and pockets, and it went to her
heart to shred it into slits.
The room where Patience Fanning sat
was very small and humble. It ,wa< the
first room she had furnished with thing6
eked out and scraped together by the
hardest toil. For more than twenty years
she nad lived in the old dilapidated gray
farm house, in a narrow round of duties,
centering at the cradle of her child, and
later about the bed of her sick husband;
and yet she had tasted keenly most of the
joys and sorrows that belong to woman's
lot. Her sphere had never seemed mean
or inadequate to herself, for holding her
ohild in her arms, she felt th$t she possessed
all the dignity and honor earth has
to bestow.
But the tears would drop sometimes
now, as Panence sat alone at her work,
in the slender ray of the candle. There
were vine shadows where the row of potted
plants had been, for it was Spring, and
tne geraniums ana nenoiropes were out
in the little door yard beds, and she rested
iri the longer twilight, and lived over the
life she had led first as wife, then as mother,
afterward as lonely widow with her
boy away at the war. Patience had always
lived in others. It seemed as
though her heart had no separate action
of its own, and received its pulsations
from the beating hearts of those she
loved.
When Washington was threatened, and
danger menaced the Pensylvania frontier,
Alvin had grown uioody at home because
she opposed his wish to join the volunteers.
It was the dark hourot her country's
peril, and Patience had wrestled and
struggled and prayed until she gained
strength to let her boy go out of her arms.
She had given her ewe lamb; 6he sat ,
alone.
Her farm consisted of a few acres of ,
rather stony land that lay close to the j
house where she lived. Her husband had
been a cooper, workiDg at tubs and bar- ,
rels off and on the busy season of the year |
and Alvin had learned the trade too; but
the little shop was closed now; and the ,
fields were let out on shares, and ever
since he marched away in the coat of ar- |
mv blue, her boy had sent back his pay to
the widow, and her cruse and basket were ,
never empty. Her neighbors were very '
kind. Abiah Williams who lived 011 the ,
next place had banked up her house in
the Fall, and dug and stored her Winter
vegetables, and in the Spring, as soon as ,
the ground grew mellow, he came with
his ox-team to plow her garden. By car (
pet making and odd bits of sewing, Patience
was able to supply all her slender
wants. Not a penny of her boy's earnings |
had ever been touched. That money was
sacred. Patience bad already spoken to
Enoch llolbrook about putting it out at 1
interest. In the long winter evenings. '
when she only heard the slow tick of
the clock in the corner,or the sough of the !
wind in the pine trees, her brain was busy
with plans for her boy's future.
Deacon Spicer brought the paper in
every third day,after he had slqwlv spelled '
it over for an hour or two at tiome. The '
news had traveled two or three hundred !
miles by rail and stage before it came to
her hand; but Patience watched for it
1 j
with a beating heart. The account of a
bloody battle generally drove her to bed
with a bad headache, caused by the bard- !
er aching of her mother heart. Patience's
sympathies were mainly on the mother's
side; she did not think so much of the
stricken wives or desolate young maidens 1
mourning over their dead. She had one
of those intense hut narrow natures which 1
Puritanism developes, with little iinagina- !
tion but strong and fervent feelings. Her j
lite was so deeply religious, that the
whole of life was invested with a sort .
of sacred ardor; even her joy found ex- 1
pression in some grand old covenantees :
hymn, that seemed to fill the pauses of 1
the wind in the forest grove near at 1
hand.
Patience had looked forward many 1
times to the possible harm that might 1
come to Alvin. She had thought of <
her loneliness that perhaps might end '
onlv with the crave; and how in some I
distant Autumn day, when the crickets <
were chirping in the stubble she might 1
feel glad that she had plucked out her I
heart and given it to God, remember- '
ing that he who would save his life j
must lose it. i
But there were other days when a 1
sober gladness colored her mood, and '
the sublime old hymns that told of '
persecution and victory over death, i
came rolling out on her rioh voice.
Then it was easy for her to believe i
that Alvin would be spared, and she
thought of his home coming as of a 1
second birth, when the Lord would I
again put him into her arms as a free i
gift. With her deep heart, that took !
such eager hold of what it loved, kind
ling and warming as it held, she piotured
the life that they would lead together,
and slowly pieced out a story ,
of exquisite kind in that little whitewashed
room, where all his history had
written itself A certain narrowness
of vision as well as the absorption of
her love made patience almost blind to
what nature might bring to pass in Alvin's
heart. The child and the man were
enviously blent in her thoughts. He might
want a wife some time, but he was hardly
grown up yet. There would be time
enough to think of that yeais hence.
Beyond the pine grove stood the Ray
farmhouse, and there lived Dier Ray's i
daughter, Hulda, who had been a plain
child, but had grown into a lovely young
woman, with a soft voice, and brown
eyes, and long lashes, which, when downcast.
rested upon a pearly cheek. Some
rumor about Alvin and Huldah had come
to the ears of Patience, but she blew it .
away like a feather floating in the air.
Dier Ray's wife, she thought, was a talk- j
ing womaD, not malicious or bad hearted,
but foolish about her girl; so she avoided
going to the farmhouse beyond the hill. <
When Mrs. Ray reached over in meeting
to shake hands, with Huldah looking
down from the singer's seat, in her pretty ,
straw bonnet, trimmed with pink ribbons,
Patience met the overture rather coldly ;
still she was obliged to confess that the
sweetest voice which rose above Deacon
Spicer's wheezy bass viol, was Huldah
Ray's. 1
Once when Patience was sick with
rheumatism, and Huldah came to offer
her isprvir.es hrintrincr a loaf of her moth
er's snow white bread, done up in the ,
cleanest of towels,she had turned her face j
to the wall, and spoken but a few words
in a rather repellant tone. Then if any
one had peeped under the brim of the
little brown hat as she went off the stoop ]
they would have seen a dimness about
Huldah's lashes. There were things j
which the neighbors suspected, if they i
did not know for certain, and there were i
things which Deacon Spicer, being postmaster,
thought he knew, for he peered ,
at every letter that came in the lean mail- |
bag from Highlands. ,
Patience was blind, but her blindness (
had both pathos and dignity. Such a tall ]
straight, large eyed woman could not be ,
easily approached by the gossips, so they ,
left her alone with the music of the pine- (
trees sighing around her lonely house, ,
thinking of her boy, getting him closer to ]
her intense strong heart, and skipping all
the intervals, aDd living in the time of ,
his return when they should grow each to ]
the other as the acorn grows to its cup. (
It was a leafy blo9somy day in May ]
when the lilacs were out, and the snow I
balls were beginning to bleach, and birds 1
trilled in tbe boughs, and the sky softened ;
over the young woods. The great parti- j
colored balls of carpet work lay at Pa i
tience's feet, and the Bible, with its worn i
leather covers open at the family record, i
and date of her boy's birth, was placed on i
the stand by her side. With his dry, peculiar
ahem! and the shuffle and stum- i
ble by which he wa9 wont to mount the 1
steps, Deacon Spicer got upon the stoop 1
and pushed at the halt open door. He i
was a shambling eld man, dressed in a j
baggy suit of butternut brown,that seemed ]
tn liavra Via.tn rut finite hv flpp.idpnt..
^ 1 ~J ?
" (rood day, widder, good day." There
was a half tremble in the old man's voice,
that made Patience involuntarily ask,
"What is it?" as the work dropped from
her hands.
"Now don't," said the old man in a
coaxing tone, as he reached out and almost
touched her gray hair, "Good news
never killed anybody as I've heard tell of
and I guess you can stand this." He fumbled
in his capacious pocket in an aimless
sort of way; but every heart-beat seemed
a century to Patience. " You see there
was a scrimmage t'other day, and Alvin
run right into the mess, just like such a
hair brained young feller; he must have
fit with all his might and main. You see
the Cap'n he has, went home and Alvin
has got promoted for gallantry. And the
boy, you see?bless my soul, it beats all
what I've done with that letter?the boy
rot a scratch on his arm, and they've
rive him a discharge, and I should'nt a
nite wonder if he wae home here to-morrow."
Patience turned upon him trembling
tnd pale to the lips.
" You are not deceiving me," she gasp*
id, " my boy has not been?shot?"
" Deceiving of you, widder? Why no,"
responded the old man in extreme astonishment;
"D'ye suppose I'd have the {
face to show myself here? Anything un- 1
fortunate that wav would stick in mv r
throat, and choke me to death. I tell \
rou he's on his way home, and in a fort- i
light will be as hearty as ever he was in r
[lis life."
It was indeed true; and Patience put f
ier hands before her face as if the bliss t
mming so suddenly was almost too much J
to bear. The old man wandered on. u 1 g
nistrust there's somebody else over the c
liill yonder will be glad to get the news." 1
Put Patience scarcely heard him when he g
took his leave. She sat there in the red r
ight of sunset, with tremulous shadows 1
spotting the coarse plaster wall, her bo- f
10m heaving, her eyes dilated, a glad, \
roung look growing in her face. She
was dreaming of the time when Alvin was g
i baby ; how he played around her chair s
ind plucked at her gown. And now he g
vas coming home, a tall young soldier, c
ind would kneel down at her feet, and t
>ut his head in her lap as he had done a t
inndred times. She could almost feel r
ler fingers in his crisp, curly locks, touch- jj
ng his forehead, and caressing his cheek, t
And she sat there in a blissful dream until c
t grew dark, quite forgetting she had g
;one without her supper. 1
That night Patience scarcely slept at s
ill for joy. She was up betimes in the 1
vr*lr* /loirrt Knov kofjolf i r> tl?n )i ATTl O
7UIC UO? II IV fUCJ IH. 1 CV 1 1 111 tliv UUUiv
joining of Alvin. She swept and dusted y
;he old house. She could almost see the \
;rass grow where the motherly bunches 1
>f purple lilacs pushed into Alvin's little 1
room window. Everything had been t
kept sacredly, .just as he left it, the fishing
:ackle on the wall, the few books on their y
wing shelf, the empty squirrel cage on
its nail and even an old tattered straw j
hat hanging beside it. There was cookery f
for busy Patience's hands; she reinem- c
bered all her boy's likings, the seed cook- {
ies and favorite pies. But when these 1
were dispatched a great margin of time
remained and Patience was too unquiet $
with happiness to sit down to any work in i
the house. She went out into the pine <
grove, where the tassels on the old trees i
all wore a fresh new green ; the housatonia
and columbine were b'owing at her i
feet; and she could not help lifting up
her voice in a deep, glad chant, "the i
Lord has been my dwelling place in all
generations.'
The path led a quart* r of a mile beyond
the grove, through leafy copses, where I
the dogwood here and there had pitched
its snowy tent, on a hanging bank, above
the highway. Patience wandered on nntil
she gained a lookout through the
boughs, down the road that wound under
elms and maples. It was a pretty spot,
full of tremulous green light from the
young leaves, and musical with the song
of birds. There Patience sat on the
moss, waiting she could not tell how long,
such sweet fantasies filled her brain and
spun themselves before her eyes. At
length, there came a faint murmur of
voices, and with her heart fluttering, she
parted the branches and peered out. Two
persons were coming slowly along the
path, through spotted shadows, and sungleams
wholly absorbed in each other.
The young man was tall, with a tanned
gaunt face, beaming now with a look that
made it handsome. He was dressed
iu the faded blue of the army, and carried
one arm in a sling. His companion a
young girl as sweet and pure as the rosebud
walked by his side. She had taken
off he. little brown hat, and was letting
it swing by the ribbon striDg. Her great
wondering, innocent eyes were raised to
his; a faint pink Pad fluttered into her
cheeks, naturally pale; the breeze was
untangling the braids of her silky hair in
tiny rings and curls. The young man had
hold of one of her hands, and was pressing
the shy finger tips to his lips. They
paused a little near where Patience sat,
and where the dogwoods seemed to make
a white drift againsc the bank.
"0 Huldah," Patience seemed to hear
her boy say, "ifyou could know how i
used to think of you first and last on the
long marches! The remembrance of wh.
you had promised kept me up in the wet
and cold! Most of the boys had sisters
and lots of relations; you and mother were
all 1 had iD the world."
Tt was her boy's voice. Patience knew
the eager, frank tones. She had carried
him in Tier hnanm OS A. hllhv ! she hftd
worked and saved for him ; she had lain
awake nights to pray for him ; 'through
lonely months, she had lived on the
thought of his coming back ; and now in
the first hour of his return, he thought only
:>f this girl, who never bore a pang for his
?ake. He had gone first to her, and put
bis mother in the second place 1
Patience would have moaned but she
restrained herself; she took hold of a sapling
that grew near, and unconsciously
crushed a clump of ferns under her hand.
Huldali was speaking now : 4< I must turn
back. Alvin," said she timidly, "for I'm
half frightened at the thought of meeting
pour mother. I have tried to make her
love me since you went away; but she is
ilways cold. If I go to see her she never
isks me to come again. I have a presentiment
she will never consent to give me
i daughters place.
"You are trembling like a little
scared bird," said Alvin with a laugh.
l,Do you suppose my mother is such a
bugbear? "Why she is just the dearest
woman in the world; and she is so
fond of me that she will have to love
pou, Hnldah, for my sake. I shall tell
ber all about it to-night. I meant to
bave told before 1 went away; but you,
timid little goose wouldn't let me.
Dome on up to* the old hickory tree
by the orchard, and I will let you go
back."
They moved past, and Patience could
moan now. She sat there among the
crakes on the hillside, with her face
)ent down to her knees. In the long,
onely days she had thought of only one
dnd of loss that could come to her
;hrough her boy; for a moment she felt
hat it would have been easier to bear if
le bad been brought home feet foremost
nto the old red farm-house. He would
lavebeen a blessed memory then, and all
ler own; there are moments when it
leems less heartrending to give our belov;d
up in death than in lifa.
Patience rose to her feet instantly, and
is she did so the baser part of her selfiood
dropped off. She felt her way down
he bank by the tree trunks and bushes,
ind a new world of reflection was opened
,o her mind. For the first time it struck
ier as right and natural that Alvin should
iave this beautiful experience. There had
>een no great blossoming time in her life :
ihe had married late, with respect and
iking, but all the passion and romance of
ier being bad come t.hrougn motnernooq.
>he was old ; she had not thought of the
ntoxicating draught given young souls to
Irink, nor the bliss which narrows the
vorld over again, to a single pair, and
nakes a new Eden of clasped hands and
neeting eyes.
Patience felt humble, almost remorseul,
as she walked under the blossomed
rees, wavering and tottering a little.
>he had grown old in a moment: her
enses, always remarkably acute, seemed
lull. The thought that she should not
ast a great while longer came to her with
i oi relief. Whv should she live
iow that her boy had no longer need of
ler? Is it not written a man shall leave
ather and mother and cleave unto his
vife?
An hour may have passed, for Patience
at down to rest once or twice; as she
lowly approached the house the lovers
itill lingered in the shade of the old hick>ry.
Alvin heard a step behind bim, and.
urning round, saw his mother standing
here. Something like a blush of shame
eddened his cheek for the selfish indulgence
in happiness which had caused him
o loiter so long on the road to a sacred
luty. But Patience only clasped him
ibout the neck, and sob3 would not let
ler speak. Iluldah tnrned in confusion,
ind was walking away; but in a moment
'atience called to her.
"Come here, my child; I know that
rou and Alvin love each other, and I
vant to give you a mother's blessing,
fou shall have as warm a place in my
leart as my boy has. I thank God for
wo good children instead of one."
Tlulrinti bid bpr bashful fttce. but Alvin
vas beaming with delight.
44 There," cried he, 44 what did I tell
roil? Why, mother, she was actually
ifraid that you would never give your
consent. But I told her you would love
inybody I loved; and you could not help
oving her," he added, in a half whisper.
Patience smiled faintly, but a sort ot
giddiness seized her limbs. He never
jvould know what that 6weet consent had
;ost; there lies the paths of many asacriioe.
'4 "Why, mother, what ails you 7" Alvin
isked in alarm.
4 0, nothing." she answered; 44 only I
im petting old."
44 Nonsense," (xclaimed Alvin, 44 you are
worth more then ball the young women
in the country; you have been overdoing
and now you must rest, and be taken care
of." Hp put. his arm around her, and she
drew Huldab's hand through her own, on
the other side; thus they walked over the
grass, sprinkled with white clover. Alvan
was in high spirits, so glad to he back,
with much to tell of himself; Huldah was
so quietly supremely happy she could not
speak a word; but Patience felt if she
could have faded out from between them
they would scarcely have missed her.
The house was just as she left it; but as
she open^J the dgpr and heard the slow
ticking of the clock, it seemed as though
years, not hour*, bad passed since she
went out so elate and glad. She sat down
in her chair not the woman she had been,
her heart beat slower, her hair appeared
to have turned from gray to white in a
single experience. She had passed the
dividing ridge of life and was going down
on the shady side. She stayed her head
with her hand, and whispered to herself,
" Not my will but thine.'1
Matrimony in Basils.
The reader cannot fail to be struck with
the sorrow that seems to be entailed upon
fair damsels in Russia by the prospect of
matrimony. We can easily understand
that in a serai-savage state of society the
marriage bed is anything but a bed of
roses. The wife of the savage is generally
a beast of burden, who toils and
plants, while her red lord is dreamily
dozintr awav the hours that are not devo
ted to war or the chase. Among rode
races, women are held to belong to an
inferior order, and to be a pollution at
e red feasts. Hence, in South Africa
and in the New World the women are
excluded from any participation in sacred
rites. It can easily be understood how
ideas suggested by the degraded social
condition of women in a savage state
should survive the barbarism that gave
rise to them, and should linger on, when
there is nothing apparently to account for
their origin. To this cause we msy
attribute the peculiar ideas of the Jews
as respects women; and when we remember
the amenities of matrimony among
savages, we can comprehend the causes
that made marriage a matter of purchase
or of force, and that gave rise to wifecapture
as a mode of courtship. When
an Australian beauty is mitten, it is by
aid of a boomerang. An impression is
made, not on her heart, but on her head.
To carry off a bride without at first stunning
her, would be a grave reflection on
the successful suitor. In Russia the purchase
of the bride is a formal and serious
affair. Her kosa, or plait of bt\ir worn
only by maidens, pays the penalty, and is
cut off and sold.
" Not for gold do 1 mourn,
Nor mourn I for bright silver;
For one thing only do I mourn?
For the maidenly beauty
Of my ruddy kosa.
The intending purchaser stands at the
??J " ?lw? AAmnnnrr TKon ll n
uuur ana uuwb uu tuc wmjiau;. ? uti. u*.
tries to get at the kosa but the girls keep
him off, while the bride weeps and sobs.
Turning to her brother, or to one of the
girls who represents him, she entreats
him to defend her and not to sell her
kosa; or, at all events not to sell it too
cheaply.
The girls sing?
" Stand to it brother 1
Brother, hold out!
Sell not thy sister
For a rouble, for gold."
The answer is a shocking one in an age
like this, when matrimony is never synonymous
with a matter of money?
" Dear to a brother is a sister,
But dearer still is gold."
Shocking Tragedy.?A terrible tragedy
was enacted in Cincinnati, in which a
boy twelve years old, named Frank
Schikk, the son of a widow, was shot and
killed by Rev. Samuel J. Browne, an aged j
local preacher ot the Methoaist unnrcii. j
It appears that Mr. Browne has been for ,
some time past greatly annoyed by boys,
who in spite of repeated remonstance,
have entered his premises to take his fruit
and commit other depredations. The day
of the tragedy a number of boys were
playing ball outside, when a ball was
thrown into Browne's yard. Young
Schikk entered the premises to recover it,
and the old man fired at him with slugs,
one piece striking him in the breast, inflicting
a wound from which the boy died
in a few moments. Browne was arrested
by the officers and was subsequently released
on $50,000 bail. This terrible affair
created intense excitement in the
neighborhood of Brighton House, near
which it occurred. A large crowd assembled
in the vicinity of Browne's house
which is guarded by a detatchment of police,
and there is danger from the temper
of the people that they will take the law
into their own hands should Browne be
found. It is a most remarkable case, and
appears hard to account for, save upon
the presumption that Browne is not in
his right mind. He is eighty-six years of
ape, one of the oldest citizens, and lias
been considered hitherto above reproach.
He owns property to the amount of several
hundred thousand dollars.
Costly.?Every person arrested, convicted
and sent to a penitentiary in the
United States costs, on an average,
$1,200. Add to the sum of snch expenses
the amount of capital taken from directly
productive employment and consumed
in building prisons and feedi g and
guarding the prisoners, and we begin to
have an idea of the real cost of crime.
Every boy educated at the expense of
the State costs it about $400. The preventive
is not only a thousand times
be ter than the cure, but it ia.in the end,
a thousand times cheaper.?Chicago Tru
bune. t
?
How to Baise Money.
The North China Netcs tells the following:
An extraordinary feat has been performed
by a Buddhist priest, with the
view of raising money to build a temple
at Soochow, whence the man had come
on a begging expedition. He found people
indifferent to his holy object, and very
unwilling to part with their dollars. "With
a devotio : more than worthy of the cause,
he resolved to stir up some interest and
cause money to flow in by an extraordinary
expedient. He announced among the
Chinese that he would allow himself to
be locked up in a wooden box for seven
days, during which period he would remain
in an upright position, and without
food or sleep* On "Wednesday alternoon
he was accordingly placed in a cage about
2} feet wide and 5i feet high, just sufficiently
large to admit him standing upright.
The bottom of the cage was studded
with nails, so that his feet should
have space only between the nails sufficient
for them to rest on, and a couple of
slight bars in front formed a rest for his
arms. The native public were invited to
prove the genuine character of the mortification,
by locking the good man themselves,
if they pleased, and about 30 people
brought locks of different kinds and
secured the door as many times over.
The cage was a close one, with a few
open bars near the bottom for the admission
of air. It wae placed in a jossroom
in Hoopeh road, passing in and ont
of which a crowd of people might be
seen day and night, during the seven
days, religious excercises being engaged in
the while, by the priests. The devotee
endured his painfnl incarnation with remarkable
fortitude, the only relief afforded
him being an occasional glass of water,
and he emerged looking to all appearance
little the worse. On examination, his
pulse was found to beat 64, and was steady,
while his arm was moist thongh hot.
After his release, the cage was broken np
and sold peacemeal to the Chinese, every
nail bringing more than its weight in silver.
The desired result of calling forth
liberal subscriptions was also attained.
Tiie California Mustaxo.?A California
paper, which fears that the native
California horse will soon be numbered
among the things of the past auyi:?
"With all his faults, he has some qualities
and points of real value that should be
preserved. He can thrive and subsist j
where the American or English bloods
wonld starve; is fleet and sure footed as
the mule, while his powers of endurance
in the harness or under the saddle are unequaled.
He is small of statue, but as
symmetrical as the Arabian; wild by nature,
and often vicious, but always spirited,
and, with proper training and kind
treatment, frequently exhibits all the affectinnota
ami ai hi 1 i t ina nf t.ho ViAflf. hrppda
11UU C* tu OVUOI Vl?iV?VM VMV wwwv v.
It is no uncommon feC. for him to carry a
good rider 100 miles in a day, and it is
claimed that many of them can go much
further in that time. We have seen
specimens that, at the age of sixteen
years, were as gay and fiery as the best
five year olds, and that would kill the
most enduring of them on a short or long
journey. As saddle horses they are preferred
by all who know them best, as they
are for all light work. It has always
seemed to us passing strange that no attempt
has ever yet been made in California
to preserve the admirable qualities of
this ancient stock of horses in their purity.
To permit them to ignobly perish, as
now seems likely, would be as singular as
unfortunate."
Mukdehed in a Cofkt-Room. ? The
Sheriff of Labette Conntv, Kansas, with a
posse, pursued a horse-thief and brought
him to bay in a piece of timber. The
thief made a stout resistance, and before
he was captured mortally wounded the
Sheriff, who died next day. The thief
was confined, and brought before a Magistrate
for examination. In the presence
of the Justice, the constables and the
bystanders, a brother of the deceased
Sheriff walked into the Court-room, deliberately
went up to the prisoner, placed
a pistol behind his ear and blew his brains
out. The account adds that Ross, the
murderer, was arrested, but there are
hundreds of men ready to see him through.
Sad Accident.?At Seymour, Ind., a
man named Norris, while lighting a hall
preparatory to a theatrical performance,
let fall a coal oil lamp in the midst of a
f i o i mi.. 1 \ 1. _
group oi cnuaren. me lump urime,
spreading the burning oil in every direction.
and setting the clothing of the children
on fire. The little sufferers ran wildly
through the hall, and before the flames
were extinguished three little girls were
so badly burned that they died in seven
hours. Norris was also badly, but not
fatally burned. It is said he was drunk,
and only his injuries prevented his being
roughly handled by the horrified and indignant
citizens.
How to Correspond.?1. No letter on
business should be addressed to the
member of the firm singly. It is always
presumed to be a private communication;
and if he be absent, it remains unopened
till his return. 2. All letters should be
dated. 3. Unless dated from cities and
prominent towns, all letters should give
the name of the county in which the
place is situated. It ou^ht to be made
a penal offence to duplicate the name
of a town or village. 4. All lettera shoald
be signed, and plainly, too.
i
Five Yean a Sq^aw.
The Kansas City (Mo.) Timet has the
following particulars of a story briefly
narrated by telegraph: The steamer Fontenelle
arrived at this city, after a threemonths'
trip to Fort Benton and the
mountains. Among her miscellaneous
cargo of robes, fnrs, peltries and Nebraska
corn, was a female named Miss Amanda
Barber, who, in a fit of fanatical romance,
offered herself, in 1867, as a voluntary
missionary to the Brule Sioux, then occupying
the territory between the Cheyenne
river, and the Big Horn mountains, Dakota
Territory. Miss Barber created quite a
sensation in the Eastern States by her marriage
with a young Indian named Squatting
Bear, who accompanied a uirty of Sioux to
Washington in 1867. Miss Barber was at
that time a clerk in one of the Departments
at Washington, in a position secured
for her by Gen. Butler, before the impeachment
fiasco. According to her own
statement, she was firmly impressed with
the ideality and perfection of the red men
of the plains. She had read everything
relating to the Indian tribes, from the
reports of the Commissioner of Indian
Affairs down to the latest dime novel. In
a fit of enthusiasm or temporary insanity,
she offered herself to and became the wife
of Squatting Bear, a junior chief in the
Lone Horn band of Brule Sioux, and with
him and his party returned to the Yankton
Agency, where she was duly initiated
into her new life as a white squaw. Her
romantic ideas of Indian life seemed to
have received a terrible shock since her
introduction to her new home and relations,
and though she endeavored to fulfill
her mission as a teacher and missionary
to the best of her ability, her progress
appears to have been as slow as the progress
of civilization on the plains.
She states that her first great surprise
was being required to mount upon a wild?
vicious pony, and travel without saddle or
attention over the country from the Missouri
to the White Earth river, a distance
of several hundred miles. Her inability
to make the journey provoked mirth
among her husband's companions, and
finally exasperated Squatting Bear until
be ^^ind her with a rope to the pony's
back and led the animal himself, on the
westward trail. She was still more surprised
to find her husband possessed of
two other wives, one a vicious, dirty
squaw of forty years of age, the other a
girl of scarcely fourteen years.
Her life in his wigwam, or teepee, was
not so bright and happy as she expected
i ^ ? TT i i _ 11_ .1
it would D6. ner nusDana 0 aosence was
taken advantage of by her rival*to compel
her to perform the vilest drudgery,
such as gathering wood, cooking meat,
and scraping robes for the tanning process,
but during Squatting Bear's presence at j
home Miss Barber appears to have been
better treated. Her husband, in a violent
fit of passion, killed his oldest squaw during
the first year she was with the tribe^
when, without warning or notice, she
was hurried off to the main camp of the
Brules, three days' journey to the mountains,
and from thence she accompanied
the tribe on its annual buffalo hunt,where
she became sick from exposure and fatigue.
She was left at a temporary drying-camp
at Rawhide river, where she attempted to
escape by walking to Fort Fetterman, a
distance of sixty miles. For this attempt
she was beaten until nearly dead, and then
sold by her husband lor three ponies to a
Cheyenne chief, who sported the expressive
soubriquet or Coo-Coose, or Baconsides.
She was taken north in 1870, and
has remained with the Cheyennes ever
since, until her escape this spring, when
she made her appearance at and claimed
the protection of the authorities at Fort
Benton.
Miss Barber conversed with onr reporter
without diffidence, and answered any
question asked of her, She says that, so
far as the romance of Indian life is concerned,
she found none of it. Her efforts
to teach and relorm the young Indian
children were treated with indifference
and contempt. She learned the Sionx
language easily, but the Cheyenne dialect
was harder to acquire. She has a much
higher opinion of the Cheyennes tl.uii of
the Sioax. The latter tribe she ?uys are
to blame for nearly all the thieving and
murdering done in the white settlements.
She found it necessary to paint and color
like the rest of the tribe while she was
with them, and twice witnessed the murder
or execution of white men, once a
soldier belonging to the Thirty-second
United States Infantry, who had been
taken while out minting, wno was oornt
and scalped; the others were two teamsters
brought from Fort McPherson. All
three were burnt at a place called "Saddler's
Hill," in the Nebraska "Bad LandB."
Miss Barber asserts that there will be no
peace while white men intrude into the
Buttalo range or tempt the cupidity of
the Indians by bringing stock and valu- i
ables out into the exposed frontier settlements.
The Indians have the greatest
contempt for the white men's judgment 1
and the efficacy of the soldiers.
Miss Barber left the steamer Fontenel'e
at this port, and after a few hours' rest,
started on her way to the home of bet 1
friends, at Millford, Mass.
I
In consequence of eating the green 1
fruit now exposed for sale in many of our i
streets, our obituary column i will be |
filled with such paragraphs as "We had
a little Charlie once," "I would not live
alway," etc., etc., thereby putting money
in our pockets.?Philadelphia Ttltqrapk.
SOTltM.
A favor done grudgingly had better
not be done.
Gray hair was thirty-five dollars an
ounce at last quotations.
Model surgical operations?To take
the cheek out of a man and the jaw out
of a woman.
Scientists tell us that a single drop of
sea water contains about one-ten-thousand-six-hundredth
part of a grain of
lime.
An exchange says: "Aclock in a
New York factory has been seised by the
workmen, because it has not struck for
eight hoars."
It is & good pian to speak little of persons,
and never ill of any one, unless
by silence you wrong your neighbor.
You can trust no man who unnecessarily
speaks against another.
The insurgent of Cuba have just met
with their greatest success during the
existence of the revolution. A recent
engagement resulted in the killing of
fifty Spaniards who were conveying a
party of sick soldiersA
foreign vegetarian who came to this
country with the intention of introducing
unbolted flour, has given it up as /
impracticable, because, as he asserts, the
people give such little time to their
meals that they bolt everything they eat.
A musician doing business at Huddersford,
England, was recently sentenced
to eighteen months' imprisoment because
when awed by his sick wife to run for
the doctor he merely sat down by her
bedside and played the ''Dead March in.
Saul."
An annoying joke was rerpetrated
upon Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis, of Boston,
by some witless person. A circular
was widely distributed stating that the
public would be generally admitted to
the Jubilee on the Fourth of July, at
the invitation of Mrs. Otis, on applying
at her residence for tickets.
No less than twenty-one persons are
^ a a liotnn/v nori oh&f\ in
UUCttUJ IC^UllCU OO UOTIU^
the accident to the Lapwing which collided
with an unknown vessel, off the
Isle of Wight. In connection with this
disaster the wreck of the ship Omabn,
from Liverpool bound for Calcutta, is
announced. Some of the crew were
drowned.
The Stillwater Woollen Mills, in the
village of Stillwater, near Georgiaville,
R. L, have been totally destroyed bj*
fire, involving a loss which is now estimated
at over a half million of dollars.
Two hundred emplovees are thrown out
of work. The mill, wliich was well stocked,
was owned and operated by Mr.
Edward D. Pearce and other parties.
A Fable.?A certain rabbi had two
sons, whom he and* -his wife tenderly
loved. Duty obliged the rabbi to take. smmmm
journey to a distant country. Daring his
absence his two boys sickened and died.
The grief stricken mother laid them oat
on their bed,drew the cartains,and waited,
anxiously for her husband. He came: it
was night. "How are my boys?" was.
the first question, " Let me see them."
"Stay awhile,"said his wife.- "I am in
great trouble, and want your adviceSome
years ago a friend lent me somei
jewels. I took great care of them, and.
at last began to prize them as my ownSince
your departure my friend has called
for them, but I do not like to part with,
them. Shall I give them up?" "Wife,
what a strange question is this! Give
them up, and that instantly, this very
night. Show me the jewels." She took
the rabbi to their bed, drew aside tnei
curtain,and said, 44 Husband there are thei
jewels." The rabbi bowed his head and
wept*
Dress.?Orientals do not change their
style of dress. Among them each nation
and tribe has its peculiar costume, a*
well as its insignia of religious creed.
These fashions are perpetual, centuries,
seldom bring any marked change. It ia
related of the young King of Siam, that,
having cherished a friendly regard for a
lady who had, during the reign of his.
father, resided in the royal city, he requested
her to send him her likeness. This;
was accordingly done by the hands of a.
mutual friend, and the gift was received,
with marked pleasure by the monarch..
But after a long and careful scrutiny ha
asked, with a puzzled air. 41 Has my friend
changed her nation or her religion? It
must be one or the other. The features,
are the same,but the dress/ This is not tba
costume she wore when I saw her last.''
A Canny Scot.?On one occasion a.
sma' laird was waited on by a neighbor,
to request bis name as an accommodation
to a bit of a bill for ?20 at three months,
which led to the following characteristic
colloquy: 44Na, na, 1 canna do that.'*
" Why for no, laird; ye hae dune the same
thing for ithers?" "Ave, aye, Tannnas,
but there's wheels within, wheels ye ken
naetbing aboot; I canna do't." "It's a.
sma' affair to refuse me, laird." 44 Weel,
ye see, Tammas, if I was to pit my name
till't ye wad get the siller frae the bank,
and when the time cam' round yen wadna.
b? ready, and I wad hae to pay't; sae
then yon and me wad quarrel; sae ye may
inst as weel ouarrel the noo as l&ng as the
siller's in ma poach."
Inoeviofs.?In some parts of Africa,
a curious method of conveying intelligence
lias been practiced from time immemorial.
An immense drain is kept in some of the
towns on the Niger for public service in
conveying news. By loud talking, sonorous
vibrations are carried a great distance;
and wherever there is another
drain to intercept the sound, sentenoeK
may be distinctly beard. This systea.
Is also practiced in other places. A tribe
known as Oamaroons have carried thin
kind of aoonstic telegraph^to great perfaction.