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v .A y?i. .. . "? ? . y -?y ? ' i-- ?_> . . _. r- * ^ r* v? i 4r f " * * ' - ? a *' . ?., *" v - w ,y 4 "? w n x . t . i *. 'CTV.. . A_ .' -2. *V.; v ., . ? & f^U-. ?-> ? >; ... jfcv . - " Mr *, ... ' " " . , * " ~~ 1 " samxV* melton 1 proprietors. Aii Independent Journal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. jlewism.gbist,pnmuher. VOL. 2. YOBKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25,1856. IEnO.^9- - <%icc ijoftrg. LINES. ."What highest prize hath woiuau won In science, or iu art ? What mightiest work, by woman done, Boasts city, field, or mart t "She hath no RaphaelPainting saith: "No Newtou!" Learning cries; "Show us her Steam-ship! her Macbeth! Her thought-won victories !'' Wait, boastful Man ! Though worthy are Thy deeds, wheu thou art true. Things worthier still, and holier far, Our sister yet will do; For this the worth of woman shows, On every peopled shore. That still as inau in wisdom grows, He houors her the more. Ob, not for wealth, or fame, or power, Hath man's meek angel striven, Bat, silent as the growing flower, To make of earth a keav'u ! And in her garden of the sun Heaven's brightest rose shall bloom: For woman's best is unbegun ! Her advent yet to come!" % C| rilling J?f0Vi). MARY CARROLL. OR THE LOST CLASP-KNIFE. i CHAPTER I. 1 THE MURDER?AN ARREST. 1 It was a wild, rugged scene, near the west- i em shore of Lough Neagh, iu the county of i Tyrone, and in the northern part of Ireland. < To the left, stretching away from the banks ] of the lake, was a dark bog, over which, iu ] close-tangled masses, grow the rank morass ' wild-wood. It was just at night that a way- j worn pedlar entered on the dubious toot- .< track that led through the bog; aud from I the confidence with which he walked it, one might have supposed that he had traveled it \ often. His way was towards Londonderry, and as he found himself in the midst of the ] gloomy wildwood, he began to whistle a slow i tunc by way of enlivening the scene. At some spots, where the flanking of the little I shrubbery was quite scarce, the ground trembled and shook beneath the pedlar's tread, t but he felt sure, or knew that he was in the 1 right track, and he kept steadily on. 1 Not long after he had disappeared from sight, in the intricate windings of the path, j any one standing upon the edge of the bog 1 r might have heard a sudden rustling of the i distant wildwood, as though some one had 1 rushed hastily through it. Then came a ^ scuffle, a cry of pain, a few deep groans, and r then, for a few moments all was still. In five minutes more there was another rustling 1 in the bushes, a heavy fall, and ere long, a ( J e 1 iU A _ mail euier^eu iruui iuc uug pum auu oiuuu a j few seconds upon the hard ground. He was a not the pedlar, yet he bore in his hand the pedlar's pack. He gazed cautiously around lc him, and being satisfied all was safe, he step- g ped a little out of the way, seated himself s upon the grass, opened the pack, and begau to overhaul the contents. "Curse his empty pack!" muttered the I man, as he seemed to have examined all the b contents. "I've done that job for nothing. I've sold my soul for a miserable podge of old a women's trumpery." The speaker started nervously up, for he heard a noise in the bog, and with a hasty step hurried off toward a small village that lay upon the borders of the lake to the southward. Not long after the man had left the emptied pack, there came up from the bog path another man, and he bore a body in his arms. When he reached a suitable place, he laid his burdeu upon the grass. It was the bloody corpse of the pedlar. 'Poor Magduhl!' muttered the young man, for young he was?'who could have had the heart to take your life ? There could have been but a few more years for you on earth, and surely they might have left you those. And what's this ? Thy pack, as I live.? Holy saints, they've taken your last breath ! for the paltry store you carried; aud it can't have been long, either, for your blood is warm from your heart!' The young man knelt down and pulled apart the bits of lace and ribbons, the pinpapers, and the little Cushions, and while he yet gazed vacautly upon them, at the same time murmured sadly to himself, he was started by a heavy tread of feet behind him. He looked up and saw three stout men standing over him. 'Coney Drake !' said one of them, in tones t of rank astonishment. 'Good God, is this you V 1 'Yes, it is me,' returned the young man, rising to his feet, 'and this ' s He stopped and turned pale with fear.? The idea came thunderiug upon him that he c might be thought the murderer. He read the couviction in the face of the inen who had found him in his present situation. 'Ah, Coney, no wonder you hesitate. "NVe never could have thought this of you.' s 'Believe what !' wildly exclaimed the ] young man. I < 'Look at this 1' slowly returned the other, pointing to the body of the pedlar. t 'I see it. It is poor old Magduhl; but I did not murder him. I call on God to wit- < ness that I had no hand in it. < 'Don't call on God with a lie in your mouth, y Coney Drake. Look at your hands. Look 1 at your hands. They're all bloody. And feel of the corpse?it's warm.' ' 'I found it in the bog. I was coming 1 home from the other side, and stumbled against it, and brought it up here. No hand 1 of mine harmed him.' ( 'But the pack, Coney, what were you do- < ing with that ?' ?It was here?just where I laid the body.' 1 'And the things? You were making ( mighty free with 'em when we were coming up, Coney.' i 'I only was looking to see what?' y 'Don't hesitate.' i 'Well, it was natural ouriosity that made rue look at them. You would have done it, Phil Knnaugh.' Perhaps I might: but I could't have found it in my heart to have done that.' '0! God, I did not do it. You know I could not have doue it. I found him murdered iu the oog, and I brought him up here, and here I found his packet torn open and the things all scattered about. 'Tis true what I tell you?as true as holy writ.' 'I hope it is, Couey, but the deed looks dark against you. You'll go to the village with us.' 'Yes, that's where I intend to go.' Phil Kauaugh,' said one of the others, 'what shall we do with the body ?' 'Let it be there, and one of you must stay ' aud watch it. The Corouer must see it just where we found it, Come, Coney.' Coney Drake turned one more look upon the murdered pedlar, and he gazed upon his blood-stained bands, aud with a heavy heart he followed his. companions. He saw the lull torce ot the circumstances under which lie hud been found, aud he knew summary was the methud iu which such cases were j disposed of iu the courts. CHAPTER II. MARY CARROLL AND HER VISITOR. Mary Carroll was an orphan, just lifting her head into beautiful womanhood. Itwas at the cool of the evening that she sat upon the door stone of her neat cottage, and over her fair features was spread a cloud of despondent agouy. She heard footsteps approaching, aud lifting her eyes, she saw the dark form of Casper Bagroon. With a ?hudder she hurried into the house, but Casper followed her. lie was a stout young fellow, but he looked ugly andT-epulsive.? There was in every lineament of his features i dark scowl, and his face bore numerous scars that had been left by the wounds he had Dcieved in brawls and drunken rows. <A good evening to you, Miss Mary,' said Casper, as he unconsciously entered. Your presence makes it a bad one,' re- i plied the fair girl, in a firm voice. 'Go your mv fhisnpr Kacrrnnn ' ! " J ' w?I"*" ?ft--? 'This is my way, darling, and here I choose :o stay for the present.' 'If you stay here, then I shall go. I've ; old you time and again, Casper, that I would 1 lave nothing to do with ye. Now, leave ] nc in peace, for I'm miserable.' i 'No, Mary, I shan't leave you, for I love i rou, and you know it, and you shall be mine. I L'oung Coney Drake won't be my rival any nore. I might have had your pretty hand I ong ago if it hadu't been for his winning s vays and smooth tongue ; but he's done for 1 low.' i 'Casper Bagroon, you never could have lad my hand. I hate you, and I always did. \ ?oney Drake isn't guilty of that murder, < nd they can't convict him. Go your way nd leave me in peace.' ? <Ha! ha! ba! Mary Carroll, you don't mow what you're saying. Coney Drake is ' :uilty of the murder, and he's been proved ( o.' i 'I'ts a lie !' s 'ITold your tougue, Mary. It's no lie. t le has been convicted, and he is going to j ie hung !' Mary Carro'l grasped Bagroon by the arm ( nd looked wildly into his face. ( 'Don't you lie to me, Casper Bagroon ?' \ It isn't a lie. Coney Drake has been sen- , enced this very afternoon, and next week ] ie will hang.' , 'No ! no ! they shan't hang him !' cried he half-frautic girl. 'Coney never did that j, nurder. It wasu't in his heart.' j ] 'Peace, Mary. Young Drake can be 1 ] lothiug to you now.' I 'Yes he can. J Ie eau be everything.' 'But he shan't, though,' uttered the dark ] nan, at the same time grasping hold of the ( :xcited girl with a rough grip. Now listen o me, Mary Carroll; you've got to be mine, md mine you shall be, in spite of all the )owers of heaven and earth. I've set my ' ;oul on possessing you, and don't care if I ose that soul in the getting of you !' Bagroon looked pale and haggard?his eeth were grating together, aud his breath :aiue hot aud quick. Poor Mary was fright- . :ned. She was a stout hearted aud truelearted girl, but she knew that he would do ( inything to gaiu his ends. 'Let go of me!' she shrieked. 'Let go >f me, Casper Bagroon. I can never be fours, I swear ' 'Hush, Mary Carroll,' interrupted Bajroon, in a whisper. 'I am not a man to >e thwarted. 1 could tell you some things hat would open your eyes to your own fate.' 1 'Ah, you could tell of dark deeds enough ^ ! ween. 'Ha, what's that V 1 'Where V uttered Bagroon, with a quick tart. 'There !' said Mary, laying her finger upiu a dark spot on his shirt sleeve. 'It's nothing.' It's blood, Casper Bagroon) its blood.' 'You lie ! It isn't blood.' The villian hurled Mary from him as he ipoke, and his face turned to a livid hue.? 1 Lie trembled at every joint, and his eyes glared wildly upon the dark strain. ' 'It isn't blood! You lie, Mary Carroll! ;here's no blood on me.' It seemed as though, at that moment, >ome mighty power descended upon Mary Carroll, for she grew suddenly calm, and 1 with a steady gaze she looked upon the man jefore her. 'It is blood,' she slowly, firmly uttered, i and you know it. There is blood upon your i lands, too !' 'Where ?' gasped Bagroon, gazing quick- 1 y at both hands. 'There is no blood there. Dut upon your trickery. My hands are i dean.' 'They are not clean,' said Mary, sustained ; jy a strange power, 'nor can all the waters >f Lough Neagh make them so.' Casper Bagroon foamed at the mouth, and n the phrenzy of mad wrath he sprang for- i fvard and grasped the girl once more by the i irm. 'Now, hold that tongue of thine/ he yelled. I ?1 wan't no more of it. You arc mine, Mary Carroll. Mine?mine ! I have loved you as I never loved a human being before, but by the holy saints, you can turn that love to madness. You may ' At this moment, Mary broke from his grasp, and leaped towards the door. She spraug into the garden, and was just opening the gate when Bngroon caught her by the shoulder and dragged her back into the cottage. 'Dou't you scream,' he hissed, <for if you do, you'll never- ' The remainder of the sentence was spoken in a silcut language by the drawing of a large knife. At auothcr time Mary might have been frightened into implied obedience, but iiuw her soul was fired, her every nerve and muscle struug to its utmost, and the heart of the dauntless heroine struggled in her bosom ; yet for an instant she was cool. ?0h, spare mc !' she cried, and sank upon her knees. The villinii let go his hold upon her shoulder, and looked down upon her in mocking trinninh. Ouick as thought the dauntless 1 V ? c maiden leaped forward, wound her arms about his ankles, and with a sudden jerk, brought his legs from under him. He fell upon the floor like a leaden weight, his knife flew from his grasp, and, on the instant, Mary once more spraug through the doorway ? She did not stop this time to open the gate, but, with a single bound, leaped over the low pailing and gained the street. CHAPTER III. THE PRISON INTERVIEW. Mary Carroll reached the garden gute of a neighbor's house, and then she turned and looked towards her own cot. She saw Casper Ihigroon just stepping into the street, and she could see through the dim twilight that his hands were clenched together, and she thought she heard bitter cuises fall from his lips. He came not after her, however, but walked ofTin the opposite direction, and was soon lost to sight in the gathering gloom. The resolute girl stepped again into the street, and hastily wended her way towards the jail. .She asked to see Coney Drake, but the jailor refused her. He said the young man was condemned to die, end none but the priest could be admitted to his cell. She begged and prayed, but the jailor was inexorable. He told her, however, that she might apply to the Sheriff, and that a pass from him would admit her. Why the fleetness of the wind, Mary dar:ed off for the house of the Sheriff, whom >he had the good fortune to find at borne.? 5hc made known her request, and he at first refused. ?Oh, I must see him,' she cried. 'lie vas all the world to me. If he must die, 3, let me see him.' 'Not to-night/ said the Sheriff, but it was spoken in a wavering tone. 'Yes, yes?for the love of Clod, sir, do ! to-morrow may be too late. Coney never jommittcd that murder; 1 know that. I ,vas his?his?I should have been his wife, iir, had he lived ; and < ), who knows but hat he may live yet. Do, do?Oh, do, sir!' Mary Carroll sank upon her knees and ilaspcd her hands. Dig tears rolled down her ihecks, and as the stern officer gazed upon ner thus, he could not fiud it in his heart to refuse her further, lie wrote an order for iicr immediate admittance to the jail, and when lie hauded it to her, said: There, go and see him ; but you must make up your mind that this will be your last visit. I shall feel miserable when I bang the poor youth, for I have always thought him noble " 'So he is, so he is. You shall not hang him?by heavens?you shall not! He never did it.' The Sheriff pitied the poor girl, for he thought the thing had turned her brain.? j lie knew not that the brain was ten times j more strong than ever before. Mary sought the jail once more, and she fouud no difficulty in gaining admittance. Cornelius Drake sat in his cell. He was not more than one and twenty?a noble looking youth, with auburn hair and large blue jyes, and a countenance full of gooduess and truth. His very appearance gave the lie direct to the idea that he could commit a delib jrate muruer, and yet all knew that no ouc ;ould have killed the pcdler except in cold blood, for old Magduhl could have no enemies. Mary Carroll entered the cell. She stood in instant upon the threshold, and sprang \ forward and threw her arms about the young prisoner's neck. Mary, Mary,' he cried, 'the holy saints bless you for this. I can't embrace you, darling, for see my hands are chained.' 'Hush, Coney, dear. T can embrace you, ind for even that we may be thankful.? rhey told me you were to be hung, but I swore that you should'nt.' 'Ah, Mary, my fate is sealed, and no earthly power can help me now." 'But you did not do that wicked murder, Coney ?' 'You know I did not, darling.' 'Indeed, I know it.' 'Then there's some satisfaction in that.' 'But there would be more satisfaction in Ending out who did it,' said Mary. 'That is past hope,' returned Coney. 'But do you not suspect any ? Have you not the least idea who did it ?' she eagerly isked. 'Not in the least. But why do you ask that?' jPiraf nif? nil thf> pireiimstnnons nfi.pnd ing the finding of the body.' Coney went on and told the circumstances just as they had transpired. How that he was returning from the Londonderry side of the great bog just at night-fall, and when he had nearly reached the Tyrone side, he saw a dark object against the bushes near the solid path. He went up to it, and found it was the pedlar. Life was extinct, but the body was warm and the blood still flowing. I Under these circumstances, he took the body up and carried it to the upland, where, as : the reader already knows he came across the J pack. The rest he tcld in a few words.? j Everything was against him?the evidence, though circumstantial, was yet almost positive, and it had taken but a few minutes for the jury to bring in their verdict. 'Tell me,' said Mary, as Coney closed his story, 'is there no one whom you think might have dune this ? Do you know of any one's having been in the vicinity on that evening V 'No,?only the three men who followed me.' 'Casper Bag " 'But tell me, Mary, what do you mean ? My God ! I believe Casper dogged me there. He lias sworn to Kill me. lie may nave laid in wait for me, and the appearance of the pedler, the apparently well-filled pack, the loueliness of the hour and the place may have excited his cupidity. He had the heart capable of it?I know he did. Hut we cannot prove anything.' Mary sat dowu upon the edge of the low cot, and for some time she remained in silent thought. Iler foot played ^nervously upon the tiled floor, her little fingers passed to and fro around each other, and when she at length raised her head all traces of fear were gone, and her manner spoke of a resolute woman's will. 'Coney,' she said, 'I believe God sometimes puts the truth into the heads of us poor mortals, when no earthly understanding could. To-night Casper Hagroon was in my cottage, and basely?' <Ha ! did he dare?' 'Hush, Conev. he did not harm me. I paw blood upon his shirt sleeve, and when T showed it 10 him he trembled and stammered, and broke from me. Then he seized me, but I leaped away and be followed me. lie caught and dragged nic back, and be drew his knife. The thought came upon me like a shaft of lightning that Bagroon had murdered the pedlar. God must have given me thought, for it came like a perfect conviction. T got away from him again, aud fled, and then T came here.' Mary Carroll arose from her seat and elapsed her hands together. Coney/ she continued, ;,if there is proof of the real murder on the face of the earth, I'll find it out. I will, or I will die with you/ Coney Drake longed to clasp the fair girl to his swelling bosom, but he remembered his bond, and he could only thank her iu words. CI J APT Kit I\r. THE KN1FK, AND A NEW ACCUSAL. "When Mary entered her cottage it was quite late. She feared not the return of Casper Bagroon, for her heart had been made strong by the strange conviction that she should succeed in her efforts. She opened her tinder box, and having lighted a candle, she bolted her doors and windows, and was turning towards her bedroom, when her eye caught an object that lay upon the floor at the farther extremity of the apartment. She went to it and picked it up. It was Bagroon's clasp knife! In all probability the villiau's fall had so thumped his head,-that lie entirely forgot the knife he had dropped. Mary knew it, for she saw it when he pulled it out that same evening, and she had often seen it be*1? ..11 ?1.? 1 t,?lf lUIUjilJJU LiiUIC Hid u tWJ, SHU 1YUUW tUlit Udi L the people in the village could swear to its identity, for there was none other like it, Casper having made the handle himself from curiously carved bog oak. For full five minutes, Mary stood and gazed upon that knife. The blade was open and she thoughtfully ran her thumb along its edge. Then she closed it, and placing it carefully in her bosom, she sought her chamber. She laid down upon her bed, but it was not to sleep, for her mind was too busy, too active, too much excited, for that. It could not be lulled into forgetfulness, nor yet into dreams. It dwelt in the land of facts and cool calculations. The next morning Mary was up before the sun, and throwing on her bonnet and ' O shawl, she hastened off to the house of the Sheriff. (This Sheriff acted both in the capacity of executor jind a Coroner.) She had to wait some for him to make his appearance, but he came at length. 'You here again !' he muttered with a sleepy yawn. 'Yes, sir,?and T have important business too. Were you not the Coroner who examined the body of old Magduhl ?' 'Yes.' The Sheriff opened his eyes and began to wake up. 'Was the body opened V ?No?of course not. The pedlar was dead ?stabbed twice or three times?we know who did it.' 'You did not know who did it, Mr. Sheriff; you did not know, I say, or you never 1 J X tn rt r* Cm C..C1 nn J l>n<l W0U1U pUl UU luiiuccut uiau iu jun, uuu uau him convicted of murder. Is the body buried ?' 'Yes?over a week ago,'returned the officer, looking upon the girl in a state of utter astonishment. 'Then it must be dug up. Dig it up, sir, and I'll prove to you that Coney Drake did not do the bloody deed ! Will you do it, sir ? Say, will you do it ?' The Sheriff began to be deeply interested in the matter, for there was something more in the manner of the girl than idle roving. 'Most assuredly,' he replied, 'if you can give me a good reason. Whom do you suspect ?' 'If I tell you, he may escape.' 'No, he shali be arrested.' 'Then, 'twas Casper Bagroon.' The Sheriff's eyes snapped. 'Can you prove it ?' 'Dig up the body and see. God will not suffer the guilty to escape. Dig up the body and let the doctor examine it.' 'Casper Bagroon is a dangerous fellow,' [ uttered the officer, 'and I think liitn just the J man to have done such a deed. If I had; I reasons, I'd arrest hi in this very morning.' 'You have reasons. I believe he did the ' murder. 1 a ecu sr. him of it! Is not that; enough!' I'll arrest him, by the Saints, I will.? | lie needed it long ago.' 'And you will have the body dug up too?' i 'Yes.' CHAPTER V. ;Vt TIIE NEW TRIAL. People were surprised when Casper Bagroon was arrested for the murder of the pedlar, but none were sorry. Public opinion turned like a weather-cock ere the evidence had been produced. The body of the pedlar was brought into i thfi court. and the doctor was there to ct amine the wounds. Casper Bagroon was ! there, and though his bosom heaved, and j features were distorted by the fiercest passion, yet ho spoke not a word. He turned his flashing eyes upon Mary Carroll, and grated his teeth together like the stone of a mill. He seemed to forget that this was working against him. The doctor began to probe the wounds.? The first went to the heart, but there found nothing. The second was further towards the centre of the breast, and seemed to have been a severe one. The skin was cut away, and in a few moments more the operator uttered a slight exclamation. 'What is it? What is it V quickly asked Mary, springing forward. 'Wait a moment,' returned the doctor; and as he spoke, he produced a pair of forceps. He applied them to the incisiou he had made, and after two unsuccessful efforts, he drew forth a piece of metal which had been driven through the cartilage betweeu the left ribs and the sternum, and which, upon examination, proved to be the point of a knife ! 'Here! here!' cried Mary, at the same time drawing a clasp knife from her bosom, j "You'll know to whom this belongs. Try it! try it!' The people crowded eagerly forward.? The Sheriff took the knife and opened it The poiut of the blade was broken off. He took the piece from the hands of the duclor and applied it to the broken blade. It fitted?it was the missing piece. 'Ha, ha, ha!' half wildly, half hystericullaughed Mary Carroll. 'That's Casper Bagroon's knife !' 'Aye,' cried Mary, 'and he drew it upon me, too. 'Listen, hearts of Tyrone. That bad man came to my house and insulted me. He taunted me because Coney Drake had been convicted of murder, I tried to flee from him, but he caught me and drew that knife, and swore he'd kill me if T screamed. I sank upon my knees, and grasping him by the ankles, I tripped him up j and then ficd. He dropped his knife and forgot to pick it up, and when I returned I I found it. I knew that lie had done the murder, for I saw blood upon his shirt sleeve; but when I saw that brolcen blade, I believed that God had provided a way to prove it. I have proved it. You all sec it- Bagroon is the real murderer, and Coney is I ifree!' f The Sheriff may have tried to quell the c noise, but he certainly failed, for the enthusiasm of an Irish crowd is not to be hushed. 1 The new trial went summarily on. The i identity of the knife was proved at the star- e ting. Phil Kanaugh swore that he met 1 Bagroon coming from the bog a short time ? before he came across Coney, but he thought t nothing of it at the time, Dor had it occur- e 1 x. L T~. 1 xl L..1f ^ rcu 10 mm siuce. xu jess man juiii uu ijuui c the word 'guilty' sounded upon the ears c of the villaiu. 'It is a lie ! Curse ye all!' he yelled, and p in a moment, when he caught the chance, I he sprang towards Mary. t lie did not reach her, however, for Phil p Kauuugh pushed forward his foot and trip- t ped him up. Bagroon was at full speed, c and when he was thrown from his feet, fell n with a fearful impetus, and his neck struck fc the sharp edge of an oaken bench. An in- n stant he remained with his head looping i over upon the seat, and then his body rolled <] upon the floor. There were two or three a long struggles?a crimson stream started o forth from his mouth, and he was no more ! c The fall had broken his neck ! His fair victim escaped him. e 'God did that!' cried Mary. ( 'God did it!' cried they all. t Mary Carroll held the order for Coney p Drake's release in her hand. She rushed t wildly to the jail, and an hundred young j men and old followed her. 'Free ! free !' she cried, as she fell upon t her lover's bosom. 'Corney, dear Corney, s you are free!' p The jailor came and knocked off the v ? ? shackles from the young man a ieet uuu a hands, but before he could gain time to E speak his cell was filled with men. They e caught him in their arms and bore him to t the street, where tbey placed him in a car- I riage they had dragged from the Sheriff s s stable, and seating the heroic Mary by his ] side, they proceeded to the fair girl's cottage, a Ere many weeks had passed away, there t was a wedding, and Corney and Mary were a the happy couple. 2 - ? I A FAST CITY. Careful estimates have been made by the master builders of Chicago of the number of I buildings erected and contracted for there, c between January 1st and September, 1856. s They make the entire number three thousand seven hundred and fifty. Placed side c by side, supposing they average twenty-five t feet front, these houses?the work of nine e months?would extend over seventeen and s three-quarter miles. Their average cost is i estimated at two thousand dollars; the ag- s gregate'reaches the enormous sum of seven 1 millions five hundred thousand dollars. It e may be estimated that there are at least six i occupants to each house, so that the actual i increase of the population within nine < * months, is twenty-two thousand five hundred. In most cases we receive the marllous accounts of the growth of Western cities with suspicion, but Chicago has grown beyond the age of doubt, and the reported progress of the present year is not more rapid than the actual progress of the past. She has often increased her population at the rate of twenty-five per cent, per annum, and that is rather above the rate now reported. It is not uulikely that at the present time Chicago is the seventh city, in point of population, in the American Union, being surpassed only by New York, Philadelphia, Bostou, Baltimore, Cincinnati, and New Orleans. Before the census of 1860 is taken, she will probably rank above New Drlonns And -pot. wr.riftj.fivn vnilN n<rn " ' "* " ? V J -0"> Chicago was little more than a military post, with a few hundred inhabitants scattered around on the prairie.?Evening Bulletin. Ikied leading. From the New Orleans Delta. THE UNION AND THE PRESIDENCY. - < We confess that we look forward with 1 ?reat solicitude to the next two months of the political history of this country. With jivil vyar raging in the West, anarchy in i the Government, and the North a great nest ' if faction, it seems almost impossible that ' the Union should preserve its integrity.? < rhat it has existed so long is the great won- < ler. It is difficult to reconcile with prece- ' ling history and with the nature of man, 1 hat thirty-one sovereign States should live inder the same Federal Government, when j iivided into two sections at deadly hostili:y. It is hard to understand that au honorable, sensitive and brave people should ramely suffer itself to be plundered of its Droperty; its slaves to be excited to insur ection; its citizens to be murdered when eclaiming their fugitive slaves; its share in he public domain to be wrested from it by Vaiid, violence and unconstitutional legisla,ion; its most cherished institutions, and its vealth, too, threatened with destruction ; its jharacter to the vilified, and, by the basest danders, to be held up to the reproach of he world. And what renders it almost inixplicable is, that the States comprising the :ection which submits to all this arc the nost powerful in all the elements of greaticss, are united by the closest ties of blood, iffection and interest, and have a plain, hon>ruble, well known and peaceful remedy heore them. The historian of two hundred years hence vill find it difficult to explain this strange 7nion, at best, and will find it impossible mless he have the clue. Heretofore our political contests have been between parties c jxisting equally in both sections, and upon t jucstio'.s interesting to the whole people.? a Jut this Presidential canvass divides the (j :ountry upon purely sectional issues. When p vc reflect upon this, and upon the civil war, t ind the movements in Congress, we can see t >ut one chance for the Union to exist even t our years longer?and that is the eleetiou t if Mr. Buchanan. J nr. l ,1 :<. ... a M u mum icgmu il ua uuiuuuuau uu> dr. Fillmore was nominated. His election t s impossible. Whatever may be the sage c ipinions of a few half-awake partisans, pot- s louse politicians, antiquated sectarians and p Jamites, he ayd "Sain" are fungi, foreign 'J todies, not in the canvass, out of the game o ntirely. It is now the North against the ii >ouch, and his nomination merely serves to omplicate matters between them. It is the policy of the South to have her " leace and safety at once secured?in the ^ Jnion or out of it; and in order to do this, a hat the North should decide directly, and c lositively, whether or not it will adhere to he Constitution as it is. But Mr. Fillmore * otues in as a disturbing cause, and if Freaont be elected, many Southerners will c lind their eyes, and say it was because Fill- 0 Qorc took away good constitutional support c n the North from Buchanan ; they will be v lisposed to hang on to a broken Constitution 1 nd a disastrous Union and to try the North ^ nee more, arid will talk of peace while the ^ bains are being Kysted firmly upon them, f If, on the other hand, Mr. Buchanan be 1 lected, the factionists at the North will say e and we firmly believe they will be right) A hat Mr. Fillmore took from Fremont sup- a iort he would otherwise have received, and f hey will encourage themselves to persevere 1 n their factious designs. ^ We argue as men who sincerely love the 1( he Constitution and value the Union only v o far as it is a Constitutional Union. The 1 irospect for a return to such a Union seems ' rery remote. If Mr. Buchanan be elected, n ,1 though some semblanCfe of a Constitution ? nay be preserved four years longer by his ^ Tornisft nf the veto nower. we can by no neans affirm that it will be so preserved.? n low soon or how far the civil war in Kan- ^ as may extend, "must give us pause."? a 3ut the only chance of preserving the Union ^ nd restoring it to its constitutional characer, is in the election of Mr. Buchanan; I nd if there be a conservative clement in the a forth it must mauifest itself now, or it will 1 >e forever too late. ^ } Extraordinary Fascination.?An i English paper relates the following unac- a ountable occurrence, which took place a ] hort time since : { "One of the most singular instances in ? lonncction with material things, exists in i he case of a young man who, not very long < igo, visited a large iron manufactory. He I tood opposite a large hammer, and watched 1 vith great interest its perfectly regular > itrokes. At first it was beating immense 1 umps of crimson metal into thin, black < iheets; but the supply becoming exhausted, 1 it last it only descended ?n the polished i invil. Still the young man gazed intently mjts motion; then he followed its strokes < , *.~J* ' tT . ro. with a corresponding motion of his head; then his left arm moved to the same tune; and, fiunlly, he deliberately placed his hand upon the anvil, and in a second it was smitten to a jelly. The only explanation he could afford was that he felt an impulse to do it; that he knew he should be disabled; that he saw all the consequences in a misty kind of manner; but that he still felt the power within, above sense and reason?a morbid impulse, in fact, to which he succumbed, and by which he lost a right hand." PROLIFIC CORN. It will be remembered by our readers, that we last season gave an account of a wonderfully prod active corn sent us by Mr. Meigs, the Secretary of the American Institute, New York. We received fifty-six grains and we have now fifty acres of the same corn ripe and ripening. It holds out all its productive qualities the second year; grows much like Wyandotte corn, each seed producing from two to six tillers (not suokers); tillers producing twenty good ears of corn on our thin land. But it is a superior corn .to the Wyandotte; it is heavier than our beet Southern corn, weighing near seventy pounds i- it.. i t.-i -i..11 .J Ti. lu me uusuei, siieueu. j.t 19 ui u pc?iijr whiteness, and what may be called a flint corn. The amount of fodder that it produces is truly astonishing. It matures rapidly; the portion of it that we planted the 1st of April, being now the 1st of August, is ripe enough for the mill, and another field that we planted on the 7th of June, being now in full roasting ear. Its production certainly surpassed anything in the Way of i corn that we ever saw. Pioe land that usuilly produces from ten to twelve bushels to the acre, of our common corn, produces of this from twenty to thirty, and with the expense of ten dollars per acre for manure* will produce one hundred bushels. There ire lands on our Southern prairies that, we cave no kind of doubt, will produce two inndred bushels of this corn to the acre.? Many of our friends thought it would loose ts productive qualities the second year, planted at the South. It not only holds out, but las gained in weight. Id good land, the italks will ayerage twelve and fourteen feet iigh; these surrounded by tillers nearly as ligh, all in bloom, and heavily eared, like ;he main stalk, make a field of this corn, when in silk and tassel, one of the most leautiful sights that the agriculturist or florist can look upon ; and when the blossomThas spent itself, the silk has withered, and corn laDgs its ripened head, what visions of white lorniny, fat pork and poultry, mast flit Hrough the cultivator's brain. We shall lave one thousand bushels of this corn to pare. For terms, see advertisement in the October number of this Journal. The meal nade from this corn is nearly as white as lour. We believe it a great acquisition to he country. On the morning of the 15th if July, a party of intelligent planters weril hrough our fields, and saw it growing with ,nd without manure, and considering the juality of the land on which it grew, they ironounce it the most astonishing growth hey have ever known in the South. But hrcc acres of this corn was manured, and hat only at the rate of 150 pounds of guano o the acre. The piece planted the 7th of lunc was manured with coarse unrottedtable manure, mostly pine straw. A deep rench was opened witto the plough, -the oarse manure put into the trench, and the eed planted on the manure. The corn was danted five feet by six, one seed in a hill. ?he field now looks like a canebrake, and is ne dense mass of corn; tiller and stalk beag covered with ears.?Soil of the South. Napoleon's Opinion of Jesus Christ. -There has been recently published in hiris a tract entitled Najiolcon, from which re taken the following meditation upon the haracter of Jesus Christ, which it is said ell from the lips of the great captain during he weary hours of his exile at St- Helena: "The founders of other religions never onceived of this love, which is the essence f Christianity, and is beautifully called harity. Hence it is that they have struck ipon a rock. In every attempt-to effect this hing, namely, to make himself beloved, man leeply ffcels his own impatience. So that Christ's greatest miracle undoubtedly is the * eifrn of charitv. All who sincerely believe ~-o? ? y , v him taste this wonderful, supernatural, xalted love. The more I think of this/-! dmire it the more. And it convinces .me bsolutely of the divinity of Christ. "I have inspired multitudes with suchafection for me that they would die for me. }od forbid that I should compare the solder's enthusiasm with Christian charity, rhich are as unlike as their cause. But, afer all, my presence was necessary, the ightening of my eye, my voice, a word from 26, then the sacred fire was kindled in their iearts. I do, indeed, possess the secret "of his o.~gical power which lifts the soul, bat could never impart it to any one; none of jy generals ever learned it from me; nor ave I the secret of perpetuating my name nd love for me in the hearts of men, and o effect these things without physical means. "Now that I am at St. Helena, now that am alone, chained to this rock, who fights nd wins empires for me ? Where are any o share my misfortune, any to think of me ? rVho bestirs himself for me in Europe P*Yho remain^ faithful to me ? Where are ny friends t Yes, two or three of you, who ire immortalized by this fidelity, ye share, je alleviate my exile. Such is the fate of jreat men. So it was with Ceesar and Alexander, and I too am forgotten; and the eame of a conqueror and an emperor is a college theme; oar exploits are tasks given to pupils by their tutor, who sits in judgment upon us, awarding us censure or praise. Such is soon to be the fate of the great Napoleon. What a wide abyss between my deep misery and the eternal kingdom of Christ, which is proclaimed, loved, adored, and whioh is extended over all the earth! Is this death ? Is it not life rather ? The death of Christ is the death of a God." . )