Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, February 10, 1859, Image 1
lewis m' oBisT^promietor } - An Independent Joui'nal: For the Promotion of the Political, Social, Agricultural and Commercial Interests of the South. {*2 pee ahhuji, or adtasc*
YOL. 5 ~ ~~ YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY IO, 1859. . 3STO. 6.
_ - .. 1 ' ? -? - _ " *
C|e for Me (fairer
IS
ISSUED EVERY THUR8DAY MORNING,
AT
Two Dollars per year, in Advance.
SIX COPIES, Sio 50, TEX COPIES, $15 00,
INVARIABLY IN ADVAKCE.
ADVERTISEMENTS .
Will be inserted at One Dollar per square-ft>r the first*
and Thirty-seven-and-a-haLF Cents for ouch snbscqnen'
insertion (less than -three months.)- A Square consists of
the spaee occupied by 12 lines of Brevier'type; 100 words,,
or one inch and a half space. No Advertisement connted
less than a square.
Semi-Monthly, Monthly, or Quarterly Advertisements,
will be charged t)NE DOLLAR per square for each insertion.
For AdvertisingBstrays Tolled, 82; to be paid by the Magistrate.
Citations, 82; to bo paid in advance by the person
applying. Notices of Application to the Legislature, 85; to
paid by the person banding In the advertisement. Insolvent
Debtont Notice, 88; payable in advance. Attachment Notiec^
88; to be paid for "by the Attorney in the case. . .
Business tards, of a half-square or less, win be Inserted at
85 per year. For each additional line, 81.
Cy* Oblttiary Notices exceeding one square in length, will
be charged for the overplus at regular advertising rates.
py tributes of Respect rated as advertisements.
("P3 Announcements of Marriages or Deaths; Notices of
i?..Un>tAii4 or Tecmeranoe Meetings published GRATIS and
solicited. * ~ ~
All Advertisements not having the number of insertions
marked on the margin', will be continued until forbid
and charged accordingly. -?
Quarterly, Semi-Annual of Yeurly contracts will be
made on liberal terms?the contracts, however, must in all
cases be confined to the immediate business of the firm or
individual contracting.
%*Peraonal Communications,when admissible;
communications of limited or individual Interest, or recommendations
of Candidates for offices of honor, profit or
trust, will bo charged for at from 3 to 10 cents per line.
Select ^oetrg.
WHYP
BT J. FORREST GOWAN.
Why, with the dawn of rosy mora.
Ere Sol drink9 op the dew from flow'r,
Or smites the cloucT wrapped mountain side
With new born light and fiery pow*r?
Why, ere the lark goes fluttering up
The morning air with song of praise,And
the waked world shakes off its'dew,
And meets the Sun's returning rays?
Why, in that infant hour of day.
Dear one should beauteous thoughts of thee
Come sweetly over all the heart,
Like sun-light in its purity?
The beauty of the early mora,
" The breath of flower divinely sweet,
Lolls me into a dream of heav'n,
And wakes me ever at thy feet.
Why is it, that in the hush? -**
The warm, harsh hush of sultry-noon?
Or when the grateful world looks op
To welcome the returning moon?
Why, looking 'pon a thousand stars
That twinkle in an evening skyr
Should thy blue eyes eclipse their light
And darken heaven??tell me, why?
* f
Why. when dark Bight, with frowning brow,
Folds her black mantle over all,
And over all the scenes of life
Lets her mysterious curtain fall?
Why, tbeo should whisperings of love
Fall sweetly soft upon my. ear ?
Why should thy lame shine thro' the dark,
Aud ruby lips to mine come near?
Why, reaching out into the dark,
My hands should touch no form but thine;
Or, peeping through the bars of sleep,'
I see a creature so divine ??
Why, 'gaiust my cheek the silky touch
Of thy soft curls I ever feel,
And round my neck thy round white arms
So tenderly and softly steal ?
Why, spite the darkness of the night,
See I the rose-tint on the cheek?
Why, spite the howling of the storm, _ !
. I catph the words that thou dost speak ?
Why, though so far away from me,
And I in silent slumbers sound,
Wby should our spirits, in the night,
Rush into one with eager bound ?
Why, spite my struggles to forget
The gilded hours of other days,
Should the fair past iu panoramic view
Pans ever aud anoa before, ray gazoT
"Why should the memory of a voice,
A form, a look, or e'eaa loving kiss,
Illume with heaveu's light the past, ,
And make all midnight in an hour like this ?
|tit Original
WIUTTES FOR THE VORKVILLE ENQ11REK.
.. LOVE; . .
OR,
OLD HEADS AND YOUNG HEARTS.
BY A CIIA'KLESTONIAX.
CHAPTER I.
'Ha !' exclaimed Ebenezer Unaerdonk, as
he perused the list of letters in the 1 Moving
Ncics'?<a letter for my niece! by jiDgo!'
'A letter for me, uncle?' asked Ida Wal*.
ter, who that moment entered the room.
?I thought you were in the garden, Ida,' |
said the surprised guardian, moving about
uneasily in his chair. 'Did you expect a
letter ?'
'Yes, uncle; I have been looting for one
ever since the first of the month ? have
you received it ?'
'I have not received it. "Who do you supnose
has written to you, Ida?' asked the old
man, tapping the toe of his boot with his
cane.
Bless your heart!' exclaimed Ida, as a
blush suffused her beautiful face, 'how do
you expect me to know?'
'Ida,' said the old man, 'a female of your
age end position in life should be very particular
with whom she corresponds.?
'I cannot help people writing to me, uncle,'
replied Ida, carelessly turning over the
leaves of her uncle's ledger.
'You can at least, signify your disinclination
to continue a correspondence, by returning
the letter my child.'
'But, uncle, I must first read before I oan
determine how to act in the premises?must
I not?'
'No, my child; allow me to send for your
letter and read it myself. After I have done
so, you can then act as you choose, provided
the letter be from a lady.'
'But uncle,' said Ida, slightly impatiently,
'supposo my correspondent is not a lady
?what then !'
'Not a lady !?what do you mean ? The
very fact, that she has written to you, is, to
me at least, a sufficient proof that she must
move in a refined circle.'
'I do not mean that,' said Ida, blushing,
k 'Then what do you mean?' asked her
1 uncle.
n ?I meau, th-th-t h-a-t my co-corres-pon;H
d-e-n-t may pos-sibly be a?g-e-n-t-l-e-m-a-p/
replied Ida.
'The deuce you doP exclaimed Underdonk.
'You take a longtime to get it out, j
'pon my word 1'
'Ida,' he continued, 'do you not know ;
something about this letter ? Are you not!
aware that it is from a gentleman?'
[It may not be,' said Ida.
'But have you not been expecting a letter
from a gentleman ?'
'Yes, uncle; I have,' replied Ida.
'Then you must return it forthwith,' said
her uncle passionately.
'But uncle?'
'Not a word!?I must put a stop to this
matter at once.' .
'But?'/'
'No buts?you ought to be ashamed of
yourself!'replied Underdonk.
.'Ashamed of there being a letter in the I
office to my address? Why, uncle, it may
be from one of ray friends?who knows?'
'One of your friends! Bravo ! that's j
really rich! As if you had any right to
contract friendships without my advice and
permission?ha ! ha ! . .
'But, uncle, you surely have not forgotten
that you introduced me. to several of
your friends while at Glenn Springs. If either
of them has been kind enough to write
to me, out of respect to you, there can be
no harm meant.'
'I did not introduce you to gentlemen,
at any rate,' replied Underdonk.- .
'Neither do I know whether a gentleman
has written to me?but, uncle, you forgot
that yon did introduce me to one.'
'A gentleman V
'Yes, uncle?Mr. Evinston.'
'Right!?here Pompey! eome here !' exclaimed
the old man, rushing to the window,
and beckoning to a servant then in the garden.
'These fashionable watering places,' he
oontinued, 'will be the ruin of every young
woman, whose parents and guardians are
fools enough to allow.them to form acquaintances
there.'
'What do you want Pompey for!' asked
Ida.
'He shall get your letter from the postoffice
immediately.'
'What for, uncle ?'
'That I may read it, and judge of the propriety
of allowing you to reply to it,' replied
Underdone.
Suppose that it be from Mr. Evinstou,
uucle?will you return it?'
Most assuredly I will,' replied T'nderdor?V.
.
It seems very strange, uoc e, that you
should have introduced me to Mr. Eyinston,
speak so highly of his talents and character,
invite him to your house, and promise him
entertainment, if he is, after all, so little of
a mah, as to submit tamely to insult.'
I said not that.I would insult him, Ida.'
I suppose you would not esteem it an insult
if Mr. Evinston should send back a
letter of yours !' asked Ida.
The case is altogether different,' said her
uncle. 'Mr. Evinston knows that I am
your guardian, and, therefore, he has no manner
of right to correspond with you without
| my knowledge and consent. Any gentleman,
in respect to all parties, knows better than
to approach a young lady, in any way, save
through her guardian. If Mr. Evinston
wishes to correspond with you he must astertain
whether I approve of it. 'You must
remember, Ida, that your late father made
me promise him to deal with yon as my
own daughter. Would it be fulfilling such
a promise, if I allowed any man, who feels
disposed, to correspond with you ?
Beside all this, my child, you know I have
promised you to Edwin Marlton ; and, under
these circumstances, it would be very improper
toencourage toe advances of another.' .
But, uncle, I do not love Mr. Edwin
Marlton,' said Ida with a quivering lip, and
heaving bosom.
'Pshaw ! you will love him well enough
when you are better acquainted with him.'
'You do not know that; for we may neitht
.1 9 TJ.
er dc satisuea, saiu iuu.
Nonsense, girl!?his father, and your
guardian have laid their heads together in
this matter?its a fine match.'
i 'And I and a certain person have laid our
hearts together and have come to the conclusion,
that old heads can never interfere
with young hearts with impunity?there!'
And so saying, Ida Walter indignantly left
the room.
These girls !'?exclaimed Underdonk,
taking an enormous pinch of snuff?'I verily
believe, that if they were left to themselves
they would fall in love with the first loafer
that passed their windows. Poor things!
what a blessing it is, that we have mercy
enough for thorn, to use our superior and
more matured judgements in chosing proper i
companions for them ! It's very true, that
I am an old bachelor, but?oh ! is that you
Pompey ?'
'Yes, raassa,' replied the negro.
Pompey, go over to the office and get the
letter for Miss Ida Walter?tell the post
master that he will find it among the advertised
letters.'
Yes, I am an old "bachelor,' continued
Underdonk, as soon as Pompey left the room, I
'but I flatter myself that I have seen enough :
of rash marriages in my life to render me !
PTnoAitinfrlv careful how I dispose of my ;
~~r * * I
ncice.
4I rejoice in the name of Underdonk,
I though my poor, foolish brother must needs
j change his for that of Walter. It shows
! how poor a choice he made, whon his own
daughter i3 so anxious to change her name,
ha ! ha ! ha !'
Mr. Underdonk, dear reader, was not one
of those tyrannical old uncles, about which we
read so much; neither was Ida Walter one
of those sentimental youug ladies, who feed
on rosebuds and german flutes to such an
extent us to lose all sense of filial regard
and respect.
Mr. Underdonk was a kind and consider-1
ate old man, who loved his neice as he did :
his own life ; while Ida was a loving and obedient
girl who delighted in the approbation
of her uncle, and endeavored to merit his fath- j
erly love. In selecting Edwin Marlton as i
her future husband, the old man was not i
governed by the wealth and position of that i
gentleman so much as by his moral excel- i
lencies and sterling worth. Efe felt well 1
assured, that Ida could Dot but admire such <
a character, and that admiration would ul- 1
timately end in respectful love.
Mr. UndeFdonk, however, knew very lit- 1
tie of woman's menial or moral organization, .!
and to his ignorance on these important j
points, must be attributed his future conduct 1
in the premises. i
If Ida acted?or seemed to act?in con* i
trariety to her uncle s wishes in this affair, we i
trust that the attentive reader will trace her I
conduct to its legeti mate source, and that
Hie present eiury msy servo rutueriia ? picas
ant pastime than an incentive to that paron- <
tal disobedience and mis-called independence I
of action, whioh is tbe curse of the present 1
age, and the preluce of ignominious ruin. 1
Having guarded these important points, i
we will; after apologizing for this-digression,
proceed with our story. 1
(
'Now for this letter !' said the old man, as ]
Poirfpey placed the important missive upon f
the tablaand withdiew.
' 'Miss Ida Jidia Walter'?that's well
written, by jingo!' said Underdonlc, turning ]
the letter towards the light and adjusting his {
spectacles. I
'I somehow wish that it was nol; my duty
to break this seal?it looks almost unkind,' (
continued the old man. - 1
'However, duty uiusb not yield to our likes j
and dislikes?here goes!'. And the next (
moment, the seal wss broken, the letter taken
carefully from the envelope ; and, after
drawing his chair towards the windows, the '
old man read as foil ows : .
Spartanburg, S. C., May 9th, 1845.
'My dear IdaI will not attempt an
apology for these tei ms of endearment?my
heart feels but two deeply how little of its
love these words ex press.'
'There!?just as 1 feared !' said Under- (
donk. .. (
'Since I saw you at Glenn Springs, your
image has been continually before me, and
' - 4* Aimlooc* lifo fKo
uas giveu tu iuy uikucuu aiuiic?i iiiv v..v
energy and excitement of a new existance.'
'Pshaw! that's all staff,' said Underdonb.
'The little seasoc which I have spent in
your society has been to me like a blue spot
in a cloudy sky?a beacon light amid the
tempest. Upon that spot, I would forever
gaze?towards that ight would I steer my
bark!'
'I'll be switched if you do !' exclaimed
Undcrdonk.
Pear Ida, why should I fear to confess
an attachment of which I am so fully conscious?an
attachment which you cannot
wonder at when you- remember the purity
and beauty of its object. It is not your
beauty of person that I love, so much as
those mental and moral beauties which you
possess.'
'Yes, and the rhino, too,' said Underdonk.
?I had intended to have written you more
at length, but as our acquaintance has been
short, I deem it best, merely to make you
acquainted with my feelings at present, and
to assure you of the honorablencss of my intentions.
I give you full liberty to ascertain my
standing in society, the tone of my character,
and my prospec's in life-before you reply,
to this; trusting, that should you hod
these of a worthy character, you will, at
lnocf nllnw ma" # / ? ni-oCQ rfcv 9Tilt, and offer VOU t
1VOC.II) u?un ^4^ VV r ?j J - - t
my hand and heart.' t
'Bravo! that beats Guy!' said Under- e
donk.
?Mt(y I hope, dear Ida, to win your love ? i
May I#hope for, at least, your sympathy? j
Oh ! remove this painful and unendurable s
suspense from my mind, and give me all \
your heart. Forever and altogether yours, s
Charles Evinston.' c
'Pish !' said Underdonk, 'I could do bet- .
ter than that myself, if I felt under the in- J,
fluence of Morpheus?I mean Cupid.'
So saying, the olc. man laid the letter upon v
the table, put his spectacles in the case, and, T
laying back in his arm chair, spent the next '
hour in thinking how he had best act under I
these present circumstances.
After reflection, he resolved to return the c
letter to Charles Evinston, and write him a r
few words of exph nation in as kind and ?
polite a manner as jossible.
No sooner had Underdonk left the room '
for his writing materials, than Ida noiselessly ?
entered; and, tip-toeing to the table, seized k
the letter, and read its impassioned declar- ^
ations of love with a flushed cheek and 1
wildly pulsating heart.
She had just replaced the letter from c
whence she had removed it, when the sound
of approaching footsteps warned her to make *
a hasty retreat.
'A delicate job, 'pon my word !' said Underdonk,
entering the room. 'It is plain,'he g
continued, 'that Ida. must not see this letter,
or be made aware of its contents. L must j
immediately enclose it in an envelope and
return it. What will Evinston think of me !
Stop !?I will just write a few words oa the
lower margin. There, I think that will answer
very well.'
The letter was enclosed and carefully sealed,
aud delivered to Pompey, with instructions
to post it immediately; after which, j
TJnderdonk fell intc a brown stucy.
<So Mr. Evinston really loves me!' said
Ida, as she sat beside the window of her
chamber, with a flushed cheek. But uncle <
says that he has promised my hand to Mr. t
Marlton. Now, ic/o is this Murlton ? Cer- (
tainly, if he loved iac at all, he would have <
put himself to some trouble to fiad out the j
state of my feelings concerning him. Now, i
here is a man wh y has actually consented j
to become my hu3band, and yet he has <
not so much as written me ;i line, nor i
given me an opportunity of beholding j
bis personal attractions. A nice state of j
things, Imustooafeas! v I suppose Mr. Marl- j
ton thinks that alL hos to do, is to call
upon me, whenever it suits his convenience,
md claim me as his bride. I, of course,
tvili be very much honored by his preference;
7, forsooth, will be but too happy to
wait until ho can afford the time to notice mo I
'On the other hand, Mr. Evinston, during '
my short acquaintance with him at the
Springs, made use of every opportunity to
pay. the most polite attentions to me. He
would take me out .riding with him every
lfternoon ;-sing for and with me, every evening
; gather the chesnut flowers for me, and,
in short, done everything to make me pass
;he time agreeably. 'Now
he has written me a letter, wherein
ire expresses his love in all candor and hon;sty.
That his character is one of the very
aest, I have no doubt; for uncle Would not
aave spoken so highly of him, or introduced
aim to my acquaintance unless his position
in life warranted such a course.
'Mr. Evinston's letter must be returned;
por the simple reason, that my hand has been
iffered to, and accepted by, a man wbom I
iave never seen ! Now, I do protest against '
rnch a coarse of action!?I won't marry
VIr. Marlton ! indeed I will not!'
" So, lovely Ida Walter tossed her pretty 1
aead, and pouted her rosy lips for awhile,
ind them barst into tears, and eased her heart J
ly a real good cry.
And down stairs sits old Ebenezer Unlerdonk,
laying 'the flattering unction to
lis soul,' that he has put an end to 'this
foolish love affair,' as he calls it. Poor,
:asy old man.
[to be continued.]
ripal faper.
Written for the Yorkvillo Eaqnirer. _
EMIGRATION. i
Mr. Editor:?Emigration with the spirit
if emigration, constitutes one of the greatest
calamities?and I say it with a knowledge
if the import of the word?that has befallen
inr State. We complain of tariffs fcnd taxes,
ind they may be bad enough. We complain
>f hard times, the mismanagement of banks
ind banking, and may be they are bad too.
We complain of drouths and floods; and they
ire bad. We complain of poor lands and
Rallied fields, to which our manageaxentiias
:ontribnted; but all combined bare not, in
ny judgment, so much.affected the prosperty
of the State, as that drain upon her
wealth and blight upon her prosperity caused
>y the desolating and mildew principle?
.'migration. It is the pestilence that has
)ften, in one year's time, vacated many of ,
Carolina's beautiful homes, sweeping alike ,
nany of her best citizens and much of her
ivenlth taken from fields, that have been
vorked to be worn. It too, is the torpedo
vhose touch has npmbed and paralyzed the
icrve of improvement and reform.
When we look around and see on every
land that destructive goose-ripping policy,
n cuttiog down with ruthless hand and
jailing and gullying those beautiful table
*- - 1
ands, witn no otner sctuuug w>u
Dressing for the last tithe, we aro forced to
snst about to find, somewhere, a solution to (
iostrange a proceeding; for every intelligent
nind will be in search of a reason for the
ndifference manifested, in not taking oare
or the future, in the preservation of the
oil. It is found in the fact that this is not 1
Icsigned to be the future abode of the occu- '
>ant, and the raven croak of wear out and '
eave is heard to rise from those impoverishing '
ields, and wc may point to emigration with '
he exclamation thou art?not the man, but 1
:vi! spirit and bane to improvement. J
The course of emigration as pursued by- j
is to the State, is unjust, ungrateful, and .
>aricidal. It robs the State of that wealth .
he nee.ds for her future prosperity and de- !
'elopments, and in the production of which J
he has been impoverished; and in the doing 5
if which, we are robbers without the plea (
bey sometimes make in extenuation, if not 1
n consecration of .their acts?the taking 1
rom the rich and giving to the poor; for 1
re take from our native State, not only that (
rhich is her own under the right of produo- !
ion and claim of gratitude; but we also im- (
loverish her to aggrandize the new States.
\.nd the good old State is becoming nothing '
ore than a foster mother, to her own injuy,
of the other States?a mere crysilis whose *
hell is to remain, while the butterfly flits 1
ts gaudy wings to beautify other lands. But (
rhilst I deprecate the policy, I would not (
ensure,, or have a quarrel for the other I
States; it is to their interest?our loss is to 1
heir gain, and although it may be death to k
is, it is sport to them. No State can endure, k
nuch less prosper, under ao rasping a pro- '
ess. 5
Emigration is legibly written on those (
enccless faTms, shackled yards, and tenant- 1
ess houses. "Gone away," is whispered from *
he waiving broomsedge. Going away beomes
vocal in the apathy and lack of the i
pint of reform, discoverable in those places <
nnat ? fnr besides the vacant negro i
"""w , ? ? ? _
louses and deserted farms, we there meet, \
re feel a conviction in our minds that the re- <
nainder are halting between two opinions? <
his country and some other. Their feet I
landing on this?their minds lixcd oo an- I
ither; and when asked why they do not ditch I
md save, or manure and reclaim this or that i
)lat: oh ! they will answer coolly, "going
o move*?only want to get the good of it 1
ind leave." <
Now although gratitude is a noble virtue, I
md her claims, even for a State, touch chords 1
if sympathy in every feeling bosom, and al- 1
ihough dulcc et decorum est pro pat rid mori, I
fit is sweet and glorious to die for one's |
jountry) is the patriot's motto;'yet the State
isks, on the present occasion, neither a sacrifice
of life or interest in the discharge of
;he debt of gratitude owed her ; but holds '
>ut the additional inducement of interest, i
which should meet some favor even after the
failure of more refined sentiments. i
To maintain the claim of interest held out
on the part of the State, I will not again
sum up advantages and disadvantages to
strike a balance by way of contrast. The
new States have some inducements I am free
to admit; and that there are manylneonvcniepces
and grievances, none wijl be so hardy
as to deny. But I am willing to take this
cpuntry on its own taerits, and boldly assert
that most settlers here will find it to their
interests to stay ; because they can do well
enough which might be well to let alone, lest
they should be brought to consider, at least,
the condition of that fellow who was well,
wished to be better, took physic and died ;
because they are in the land, of their nativity
and choice,-surrounded by their aoquain
tances and friends, and manner? and oustoms
to which they are used?just wheTe
they shoald be ; for it is hazardous to contentment
to change them; because they
have plenty, which receives a relish from every
convenience and comfort that necessity
requires, or that may pander to luxury?
houses built and lands cleared. Air, yes,
3ome may, answer! But those lands' you
mention?too many cleared, and some too
long.
Well then about that! I admit the axe
has made wasteful ravages in our forest; blit
there yet remains abundance for health, or-'
nament, and the purposes of the farm.?
Then woodman spare the residue of those
noble wood-lawns ! Farmers keep up and
reclaim this and the other land?, and you
will soon need no fresher fields. Many startle
at the idea of reclaiming land ; but I am of
the opinion that it is easier to bring such
land as ours back to its pristine fertility, than
bring those heavy timbered new laods into
full cultivation. The former may be the
work of women and children, the latter must
be the work of able bodied men. The old
land is easily worked while reclaiming, the
other, rooty, stumpy and difficult to man and
horse. No more such expense for public.,
buildings.
Our country is well adapted to saving, lying
better than most farming lands, and well
suited to reclaiming from an additional advantage
of being based upon -a fine clay, hard
of washing and holding in combination large
quantities of the recuperative principles,
which only need turning up to the action of
the atmosphere awhile to beeome soil, rich
in the elements of plants. Geologists seem
to think our subsoil is possessed of a greater
abundance than many others. This added
to the unbounded resources every fanner has
in composting, and in the additional aid of
peas and other green crops, together with
the still further assistance of hill ditching
and deep cultivation, makes the reclaiming
process sure and comparatively speedy : perhaps
as much so as clearing heavy timbered
land. When reclaimed, it is equally good,
and likely surer for a crop of our great staple,
cotton; being less liable to those disasters
that ravage'the rich virgin soils. I know
some argue that it will do for small farmers
to attempt reclaiming their lands; but not
for the large ones. It will hold equally good with
both. Large areas give large resources,
and the failure only proves that the man has
a force he is incapable of wielding. And
for a general success of tie policy, wc need
anly look to those old countries in which
.v n 1 i _ 1.?- o nnnfn.
Lneir DC1QS IIUVU UCUU uumvaitu AVi i# vvuvury
and more, and now command and are
worth one hundred dollars per aere.
In contributing to such a result to our
State, we should feel a patriotic pride and
satisfaction. I recollect, when a boy, to
have heard in the streets of York, one of our
large planters asked why he did not take his
force West: His reply was, be thought it
nore creditable to stay here and improve our
country; and to show to many his success
n doing it. Perhaps it would not be amiss
;o say, it was the eldest Dr. Bratton, in his '
ife-time. I admired the sentiment and the
mpression has long lingered with me.?
Northern custom seem3 founded on this, or
?ome kindred fabling, and although we might
jbject to some of their doings, we might do
svell to imitate them in this; for although
;hcy may populate other countries with their
mtcrprising young citizens, they keep their
older ones and wealth at home. I cannot
jail to mind, in all my acquaintance, one old
Yankee farmer, who has fleeced his native
State and transported it here to enrich onrs,
tnd I mention it to their praise.
I have closely noticed, for my own satisiactiop,
the difference between this country
ind the West,- in the geperal accumulation
)f the wealth of its citizens, the last fifteen
or twenty years, and taking the increase of
poung negroes, the contrast is favorable to
.his, although drained of much of its wealth.
Some men stay here and make nothing.?
Some go there and do the same. Some get
jroke here. Some go there and do the
same. Some go there and make fortunes,
>thers stay here and do the same. More deT
1 __x
jends on the man than country, 1 nave got
o think.
By staying here and pursuing a course of
mprovement, as other old eountries have
lone, we may present to the world the imposing
spectacle of a landscape of model
"arms, possessing the fertility of which they
)nce could boast, and which, in years to
jome, may surpass many sections for which
:his is now exchanging. Many of which
;hen, shall have been swept to the deltas of
;heir rivers, or its fertility sunk beneath its
rotten, porous clay or sandy foundations.?
Then let this idea of wholesale emigration
be abandoned; and let us go to work in
earnest to beautify our homes and enrich our
Sclds in this salubrious climate, free alike
from pestiferous insects and pestilential fogs;
for heavens dews have watered, or breezes
refreshed few countries under higher obligations
to God for his free bounty.
A FARMER.
B?&*Col. Joseph Rond, of Macon, Ga.,
has made this year twenty-one hundred and
seventy bales of cotton, which would at
present prices bring him over one hundred
thousand dollars
PkeII?us Jtedttng*
THE MYSTERIOUS GAMBLER.
BY AN OLD jTAGEE.
I have made several passages up the MIssissippi-and
Ohio Rivers, and never without
seeing on board the steamers- more or less
professional gamblers, It is a thriving, business
on the boats where time hangs heavily
on the heads of the passengers, and the
blacklegs carry off large sums of money.?
They usually remain on board but a day or
two?lobg enough to have their true character
exposed.
These gtyitry had become-such an intolerable
uuisance that the japtains of the boats
did not knowingly permit oue to come on
board add not unfrequently a brace of blacklegs
were landed in the woods when their
profession was discovered.
During one nf my trips the boat pat in at
th<? month of the Arkansas rirer, and as -usual,
I took a stroll on shore. . I heard the bell
for the departure of the steamer, and hastened
back to the landing. ,As I was on my way,
I was over-taken by a gentleman with a broad
brimmed bat, green goggles, and a white
neek-cloth, tugging with a large valise.
'I am rather late, am I not V said he, as
he joined me.
'True enough, sir,' I replied, respectfully,
for tho gentleman was a clergyman, a Methodist
itinerant, I supposed.
'My valise is rather heavy, and I feared I
should lose the boat.'
'Let me help you carry it^sir.'
He acoepted my civil offer, and I took
.hold of the valise, which was certainly loaded
very heavy for a Methodist parson. Ia a
few moments we reached the steamer, and I
passed on board, but my new acquaintance
had . accomplished bat half the distance,
when the plank canted, and he was thrown
into the rivpr. Fonrtunately for him, I was
prompt in my efforts to rescue him, and he
was immediately drawn on board, with no
other detriment than a thorough ducking.
My friend, whom, as I never learned bis
Dame, I shall have to call the Eev. M. Goggles,
retired tor a vacant state-room. It was
now nearly dark and I did* not see him again
that night.
As usual, in the evening, there Was a table
in the cabin, devoted to the cards; in a word,
there was gambling without stint. No one
objected to_the practice, so lopgasit was not
done by professional blacklegs. I never
played but I ofteo stood by the table to
observe the progress of the game, and study
the looks of the players, as they were agitated
by-the .fickle changes of a momentWhile
I was thus watohing them, I observed
on the opposite side of the table a
well-dressed gentleman, who was regarding
with eager interest the plays of the gamblers.
He manifested a desire to engage in the place
of one who had been 'oleaned out.'
It was soon apparent that the new comer
was a skilful player, and time after time, he
swept the board of all that had been staked.]
In a short time his companions bad enough
of it and withdrew. He had won a large
sum of money,- and Was evidently satisfied
with his evening's work.
He Smoked on the boiler deok until all
the passengers bad retired, and then left.?
Much curiosity had been manifested to know
who and what he was. Nobody had seen
him before, and nobody remembered when
he came on board, and what seemed most
singular of all, he was not seen the next day
though the boat was not stopped during the
night.
The next day was Sunday, and at breakfast
time my Methodist friend made his appearance.
<My good friend, I have to thank you for
the good service yoa did mo last evening. i
am poor; I have none of this world's goods.
I trust that all my treasures are up in heaven.
But 110. Lord will reward you if I can not.'
'Don't mention it, my dear sir. I am
happy to have been the means of saving you.'
We conversed awhile upon the matter, and
my friend then spoke of having a service on
board, if agreeable to the passengers. Of
course it was agreeable, and the parson prayed
and exhorted with a zeal that would have
done honor to the most celebrated of the
revivalists.
The impression produced by the servioe,
I am sorry to say, was not so permanent, for
when evening came, the gaming table was
spread out as usual, and the games commenced.
The mystrious gambler appeared
again, much to the surprise of all, for it was
believed that he landed, or been lost overboard.
He played, and swept the board as
before. Some of the weaker ones began to
think he was the devil in disguise, and their
belief was almost confirmed when the next
day nothing could be found of him.
The passengers made him the subject of
their conversation, and quite and excitement
was kindled. The Captain swore if he appeared
again, he would throw him into the
river. A thorough search was made for
him, but all in vain. My Methodist friend
was especially indignant, and believed it
would be a good plan to hang every gambler.
As soon as the true character was discovered,
I agreed with him entirely.
One young man from Cincinnati was particularly
distressed in the sudden disappearance
of the blackleg, for he had, utfder the
influence of an overdose of brandy, staked
and lost a half eagle, which his mother had
given him just before her death. It was
- - '*'11 V.I J
not the Joss of the money tnat naa aisiresseu
him, for he had plenty of that, but it was the
associations connected with the coin itself.
There was a history belonging to it, he said,
and he would give the gambler double the
value of it, if he would return it, with a little
ring attached to it. '
That evening to the disappointment of all
on board, who were prepared to deal with
bim in a summary manner, the blackleg did
not appear. Man or devil, he had the means
of knowing of the indignation his acts had
caused. There was a strange mystery about
him. Every part of the steamer was again
searched in vain for him. And it seemed
certain that he could not have gone ashore.
The next day I was talking with the Her.
'Mr. Goggles, not about the gambler, bat ou
topics.- Of coarse, his life, as an itinerant,
was fall of interest to me. He told me how
cheaply he lived and travelled from place to
place; that he was often hangry, and never
had over ten dollars at once. *
<1 have ODly five, now,' he said; and to
verify his statement, he took from his pooket
a half eagle.
I glaneed at it. There was a hole in it,
with a ring attached 1 It was oert&inly the
property of the yonng man from Cincinnati. '
?What is-this ring^ftrf* I asked! '
inis piece was given me nya woman in
Arkansas, who was converted under my
preaching.'
The liar, I had already made up my mind
that he was an impostor, in short, that he
was the mysterious gambler. Before dinner
time, I bad on opportunity Jo whisper my
views to the captain, and while we were at
dinner,"his state-room wis searched. A large
sum of money was found there, and many
of the gambler's tools, as well as the dress
the 'unknown' had worn. v
'Parson can you swimP asked .the weptain
as the Reverend Mr. Goggles came up oa
the boiler deck.
'A little,' he replied, with a demure smile.
'You will have a chance to try; I am going
to throw you overboard.' . *
The captain took him by the collar, and
explained the matter to the astonished passengers,
who were quite ready to assist in
emptying his pockets, and then throwing
him overboard. The money taken from him
was paid over to bis victims.
The last we saw of him, be was swimming
vigorously towards the shore, cdrsing thg.
captain with quite ae much zeal as he bad
used in praying and exhorting.
The yonng man from Cincinnati got his
cherished ooin, and I trust learned a useful
lesson.
AWOTTWMOna .TOTTO.TffAT?T?lf.
Newspaper writers io France are required
to affix their signatures to their published attides.
It is the opinion of many that this
regulation, which in France is a compulsory
measure of imperial policy, might well be
extended, not by law, bat by voluntary custom,
to the writings of journalists every
where. .
- There are very few things, if anything, in
which it would cot be equally honorable and
profitable for men to take the responsibility
of all statements made and opinions expressed
by them. Tbe plea in defence of all
concealment is expediency, and surely, expediency
is but a poor substitute for honest
candor. 'There are no mysteries with honest
men/ 'says Sheridan; and we doubt
whether right can ever be so much in subjection
to wrong as to be under the necessity
of fighting it with its own weapon of deception.
,
A signed article appears boldly, with all
the authority, and no more than the authority,
conferred opon it by the naiiie appended
to it. If it be true and meriterious, its author
receives just praise; and if it be falso
or slanderous, or in any way contemptible, v
its author, and no other, receives his just reward
of contempt; or, if need be, of legal
punishment. An anonymous article is like
an anonymous letter?a stab in the dark, instead
of an open challenge, if in disparagement
of its subject; and, if in praise, jneffectoal
and unserviceable, as having no-credit
nor responsibility.
Yery often newspaper and magazine articles
receive a degree of attention which
they may not deserve, because supposed to
be written by some favorite writer; ana, on
the other hand, artioles of great merit fail to
attract attention, simply because attributed
to authors of inferior ability. AH suoh misjudgment
would be at once avoided by the
adoption of a custom of placing the responsibility
of good or bad writing where it belongs,
by publishing in all cases the name of
the writer.
Literary history presents numerous illustrations
of the injury of literary concealment,'not
only to poor authors, but to literary
itself. Many an obsenre writer has wasted
on the desert air, the sweetness of the flowers
of his mind, when, if known as the author
even of a single verse orline of promise,
he might have planted the paradise of unJ-I
on OT7ar_Vv]/\nmi nr* frAA fnf til A
Uy 1 Ug tUUUgU U UU VIW-H1VVU..Q ...
intellectual delight of all succeeding ages.
The merit of Virgil's first poetical effort,
anonymously published, was, for a time, appropriated
by another. "Thus, ye bees,'1
said the poet, in his retort on the bold plagiarist,
"do ye gather honey, but not for
yourselves." Who can tell how much injustice
has been done, and how muoh has
been lost to the world of mind in the misappropriation
of tho great thoughts and words
of others??Washington Globe.
Goodness Eternal.?<The pains we
spend upon our mortal selves will perish
with ourselves: but the care we give out of
a good heart to others, the efforts of disinterested
duty, the deeds and thoughts of
pure affection, are never lost; they are liable
to waste; and are like a force-that propagates
itself forever, changing itself, but not
losing its intensity. In short, there is a
sense in which nothing human dies; nothing,
at least, which proceeds from the higher
and characteristic part of man's nature ;
nothing which he does as a subject of God's
moral law. Material structures are dissolved,
their identity and function are gone, but
mine! partakes of the eternity of the great
parent spirit; and thoughts, truths, emo
i- -1 M _ 1
tions, once given loine won a are never jodi, j
they exist as truly, and perform their duty
as actively, a thousand years after their
origin as on their day of birth.'
S&* A year and a half ago, fonr young
ladies, in Cincinnati, were married at the
same hour. Two have since separated from
their husbands, and the other two are trying
to get separated.
*