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I * lbwis^m.^gbist,!. ^ ^ An |niif()fniifnt J^iuly Icfo^jjcr Jfor tljt fromtik of % |olifitaI, Social Igricnltoal mttr (tmmntrtial Interests rf % goat};. ^ ^TESl^i?cdL^uAHl^m, VOL. 12. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JANUARY 3, 1867. ! NO. 36. . ?? Selected ftortro. COME HOME, FATHER. The following songisa gem which should be pre served in even' household of the land. The word are so simple, so national and so touching, thatthej may be regarded as the best lecture ontemperano that has ever been published. The music, too, ii charming, and even-parent oughttohave the son; sung often, by the boys of the family, at least: Father, dear father, come home with me now, The clock in the steeple strikes one; You said you were coming right home from thi shop As soon as your day's work was done ; Our fire has gone out, our house is so cold, And mother's been watching since tea, With poor brother Bennie, so sick in her arms And no one to help her but me. Chorus.?Come home, come home, come home, Please tatlier, come homo, Hear the sweet voice of the child Which the night winds repeat as thej roam, Oh! who could resist this most plainti v< of pravers? Please father, dear father, come home Father, dear father, come home with me now, The clock in the steeple strikes two, The night has grown colder and Bennie is worse But he has been watching for you; Indeed he is worse, Ma savs he will die Perhaps before morning shall dawn; And this is the message she sent me to bring, Come quickly or he will be gone, Come home, come home, come home, Please lather, dear father, come noiue. Chorus, Ac. Father, dear father, come home with me now, The clock in the steeple strikes three, The house is so loneiv, the hours are so long To poor weeping mother and me; Yes we are alone, poor Bennie is dead And gone with the Angels of Light; And these were the very last words that he saic I want to kiss papa "good night," Come home, come home, come home, ' Please father, dear father, come home. Chorus, Ac. JUi ?fitjinal pouvdctte. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. SPECTRE OF THE FIRESIDE. BY JOHN WITHERSPOON ERVIN. CHAPTER I. For the truth of the story now placed before th< reader, the author cannot fully vouch. The chie) incidents were related to him by a maiden aunt, who well knew some of the personages herein men '* ?J /variant that- snnernatural a< iioneu; uiiu iv \><xs g?m\>uv) vmw? were some of the facts narrated, she at least, had no doubt or misgiving as to their entire truth. 'I cnnnot nay bow tbe truth may be, I tell the tale as 'twas told to me." It is proper to observe that it has its moral. a< all stories should have; and if it should tend t< make any one a wiser or a better man, more prompt to forgive the faults or the short-comings, the error or frailties of those with whom&is destiny or hii choice has cast his lot, my purpose will have beer fully accomplished. The awful figure of the Spec tre of the Fireside should make those of the same family or household draw closer together ir love and affection, for it sets by every fireside, stalks in even' home, and its dark shadow falls upon every hearth. The nursery tales of ghosts anc goblins, told with impressive earnestness arounc the winter s fire in our days of childhood, thai made the family brood huddle more closely togeth er around the hearth, as if to seek protection fron common dangers by closer companionship and sym pathy, were but things of fancy; but the Spectri of the Fireside is a stern reality that bears awai from our very midst, the loved, the beautiful, am the vainly regretted. But to our story. Robert Guiscard, a worthy scion of the nobli Huguenot stock?a race that has no superior 01 earth for sterling qualities of head or heart ?dwel near the banks of the broad Santee, on one of th< most enchanting and romantic spots to be found ii the neighborhood of that noble river. From gen eration to generation, that patrimonial estate ha< descended from father to son, and it was a rich anc valuable property which the skill and enterprize o its successive possessors had reudered one of th< most desirable possessions in the Palmetto State There was nothing in the appearance of the place that spoke of a recent and newly made settle ment, such as one would expect to find in a nev eountrv like this, where our civilization dates bad but little more than a century. The venerable ant ample mansion, the huge oaks that sheltered it the groves of evergreens and rare exotic trees, witl all the appointments of the mansion and grounds seemed to point back to a long line of ancestor who united taste to capital and industry; and on felt while riding along the avenue of wide spread ing live-oaks, venerable with age and gray witl long pendent moss, as if he were approaching th< portals of some old baronial castle, rich with th< histories and associations of centuries. Noble plantations of rare and choice fruit tree were in full sight, and away to the rear of the man sion occupying the bold sweep of the terraced hill, a it sank behind the dwelling, the eye rested upoi the gold and purple, the green and russet of tin vine with its delicious clusters, ready for the vint age. Iu the ample pleasure garden were vases am ' rare statuary; here a water nymph pouring fron her never idle urn the sparkling water that fel foaming at her feet, like clusters of snow flakes, iut a marble basin; and there an Apollo, with his brov upraised as if watching the flight of his rustling ar row. Here, at a sudden turn, the Graces met the ey of the bewildered but delighted lounger, while f'rou the entraneeof a rustic grotto, which by itscoolnes invited the wanderer to take sanctnary from th noontide heat, his steps started back in surprise, a his abashed and startled glance fell upon a nearl, nude Diana, with her left arm lightly thrown a round the neek of a milk-white hound, that seenici ready to spring forward upon the intruder. Ove all were thrown the gnarled arms and dense foliag of ancient live oaks, whose huge trunks stood ou like fantastic columns that supported the greei gothic roof of Nature's gorgeous temple, bar away on even-side, stretched the wide fields of the owue of so much wealth. Robert Guiscard was the last of his race. Kitl and kin, he know not. There were none who bor his name, none iu whose veins coursed blood kin dred to his own. A fatality seemed to pursue al of his race. A century and a quarter previously, i Guiscard? a solitary wanderer?had made thi spot his home, and at the lapse of this long period there were none to call his descendant kinsman o brother. He would have parted with more than hal his wealth to have grasped the hand ofone in whos veins coursed kindred blood, but it might not be.The history of each one of his race may be suiumci up in a few words. They lived, they loved, the; married, and after a short period of wedded life long enough to know how sacred and sweet domes tic affections are?they stood alone in life, lik dreamers awakened from visions ot Paradise ? air yet not all alone ? a memory followed and blessed or haunted them, and a little child, the sweet nu luorial of happy days bygone, claimed a portion <. the love that the shadows of the tomb ehastene and hallowed. A glance at the family potraits hanging in th ample hall, seemed to epitomise the historj* of the: race. There upon the canvass reposed the gay an cheerful features of the founder of their familj who. two centuries before, had with the sword opened for himself the road to wealth and honor, - and won his monarch's favor. There were sad tales told about old Count Robert, which Agatha, . the old house-keeper, knew by heart He had livB ed in evil times, when men give soft and glozing y epithets to deeds which in orderly and peaceful B periods they shudder at as crimes. Old Agatha s was a descendant of those who had been the faith5 ful and confidential servants of the Count, and the family, generation after generation, through all mutations, had kept their places in the household, firmly and faithfully attached to the descendants 8 of their ancient lords. The traditions and history "^ J Vi An/1 nrl onrl no UI lilt? IclUXUJf LlclVi lUU^ UUUU uanucu uvnii) uim uc faithfully preserved as if chronicled by the pen of the historian. During the long winter evenings, old Agatha was delighted when a willing listener was seated by the snug fire in the house-keeper's room, in recounting the history and achievements of the Guiscards, whose family she and her father's had served with fidelity for so many generations. 3 Some of the neighboring families, themselves descendants of the Huguenots, were occasional visitors at Guiscad's hospitable bachelor-establishment, and when the sudden inclemency of the weather or other causes detained such visitors as guests during ' the night, those of her own sex, who condescended to spend an hour or two in the house-keeper's own snug apartments, before retiring for the night, were sure to find their condescension amply repaid by the entertaining narratives of dame Agatha.? She could not indeed be regarded as holding the position of a servant in the family, for, notwithstanding her actual occupation, Guiscard himself ever treated her as a privileged person, under the affectionate but familiar soubriquet of Aunt Agatha; while the ladies of the neighboring planters frej quently called upon her and received her visits in return. Old Agatha often shook her head sadly and mutr terred indistinctly to herself, as when busied in . sweeDincr the dust from the picture frames, she was employed about the picture of old Count Robbert, the founder of the family. What had she to . do with him ? him whose body had returned to | dust generations before she herself saw the light ? "The curse came with him!" muttered she, as she beat the frame with her duster. "The curse came with him and poisoned every cup of happiness raised to the lips of his descendants. When will it pass away? Poor Robert! last of his race, and best of them, where all but one was good, and all those good unhappy and stricken by fate, while t the guilty one alone w;is happy and had his pathway among roses! But for his guilt and wrong, their lips might all have been as smiling as his ' own!" Speaking thus, old Agatha dismounted t from the stool on which she had stood while dustI ing the pictures, and through her spectacles gazed sadly, ere she retired to her room, at the portraits on each side of the gallery. She had thus gazed at them a hundred times before, and in good truth, . there was muchin this gallery of portraits to arrest . the attention and claim more than a passing glance. I The portrait of Count Robert was evidently from j the hand of a master. His clear, full liquid eyes, 5 had in them scarce a trace of that sadness which j seemed to deepen in the faces of his successive de. scendants, whose portraits flanked and fronted his ; own. A nobly arched and full brow, around which l lightly floated his raven locks in soft silky masses, a nose slightly aquHine, and full rosy lips, around . which played a smile of benignity and contentment, | seemed to point him out as one who, at least, up I to the time when his features had been transferred t to canvass, had trod a path of unclouded happiness. . But as the spectator turned to the portraits of his ! succesive descendants, all of which bore a striking . resemblance in outline of feature to his own as to j their original, the sunshine of joy seemed, by suc eessive gradations to die away, and the face of one, 1 generation after another to wear a sadder and more melancholy expression, until in the last of all, a gaze j of deep and unutterable sadness seemed to rest upi on the sj>ectator. It was as if each generation had t accumulated a burden of sorrow and sadness which, ? with the patrimonial estate, descended to the next ! heir, to be by him increased and handed down to . his successor. There was a manly grace in all the 1 male portraits, and even the saddest-eyed of them 1 all, was a model of masculine beauty, f Female beauty, too, looked sweetly down upon ? the idle passer-by, whose footsteps echoed loudly . alone: the empty gallery. There were no spectacled ? dames, no respectable, age-stricken grandmothers, . to meet the gazer with their benignant and matronj ly regards. All were transcendently and surpassi ingly beautiful; all were blooming, all were in the I dewy freshness of those starry days when thcorange( flower seems the fitting and appropriate wreath for i the fresh brow of maiden-hood about to lift the veil j and enter the sanctuary of wedded affections. As mong the half-score portraits of females that hung e in the gallery, there was not one that would not have - taken a high rank merely as a model of beauty.? i But the beauty and repose of old age was wanting & to the completeness of the gallery. Was it not j strange^was there not even sadness in the reflection, that the present owner of this proud mansion s found only beauty and youth in the faces of his fe male ancestry, and that he no where encountered s among them the sober and matronly brow of expci rienced womanhood ? Thcv, too, suggested thehise tory ? was it a happy one??of the female line of - his family. They seemed to speak of youthful ] beauty never ripening into the raaturer charms that i gain from experience and pleasantassociation, what II they lose iu youthful freshuess and grace; of strong a sweet ties broken too soon, of graves iminaturely v filled, and of bleeding and broken hearts. . Whatever may have been the cause, liobert Guise card, the present owner of the estate, had reuiainli ed an unmarried, and an almost secluded man.? s He was virtuous, noble, rich and respected. His e morals were pure, and he presented to all, the noble s and rare example of a young man, born to almost y boundless wealth, with no monitor, save his coni science, to curb or restrain him, regulating his eonJ duct according to the most rigid dictates of moralir ty and sobriety. Yet, Guiscard had never sought c the love of woman. t A few miles below his residence lived a widow, n beautiful and attractive, with a daughter, beautiful , and lovely as an houri, in the first dawn of womanr hood. The family was far from wealthy; the - * iii i i ?ii A.._ fattier tiail oeen a uau manager, rauicr man an (i improvident or reekless man, and, at the time of 0 his death, which occurred some years before the date - of our story, his family had been deprived of the II greater portion of their property. A small tract a of land and some ten or twelve house servants was $ all that was left them. Though not wealthy, the I, spirit, the intellect and refined tastes of bothmothr or and daughter, placed them in the lirst class.? if Wealth may buy a rank and station of its own, but e there are classes which it cannot enter alone; the - key is in his hands alone, to whom (rod has given 1 the rich gifts which gold cannot buy. y Guiscard was a frequent guest at the residence - of the widow, and gossip said that Hcllcn Kothsay, the widow's daughter, was the attraction that so e often led him thither. Possibly, Guiscard might rl have confessed to himself that Helen was fair and I. attractive beyond most of the daughters of earth, but he was not conscious that he had ever sought >f to win her affections or to claim them for himself, d We do not always pluck for ourselves the rose whose perfume and perfect beauty most delights ie us; nor claim as our own, the star that shines most ir sweetly and brightly upon us from the spangled d sky. If Guiscard had ever dreamed of making her his wile, the fatality ever attending his family in their matrimonial connections would have caused him to shudder at the idea of involving one so beautiful, in the dark destiny that pursued the race of the Guiscards, like an avenging Demon. If he had never heard the history of his family, he at least, knew the unvarying fatality that had attended them, and shrank from the thought of leading a bride to the altar, almost as he would from the idea of immolating her as a victim. An opposing rock or a tussock of grass may change the current of a river, and, so, alter the face of an entire proving The destinies ox great empires have been thwarted or changed by apparently trivial causes, so insignificant as utterly to escape the observation of those who look upon a generation or a people from a distance. All experience teaches "There Is a Providence above that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." Guiscard was impelled by causes which he had not foreseen, into forgetting his scruples and declaring himself a lover; though when the words had passed his lips, he shuddered, and a gloom settled upon his sad face, as he thought of the fatality attending his race?a fatality which, for ten generations had rested upon his house. It was in the month of August, usually a sultry one in this latitude, that Guiscard mounted his horse, and riding leisurely down the avenue of liveoaks that led from his mansion, cool, shadowy, and as sheltered from the sunlight as the aisle of a gotliic temple, and took his way towards the dwelling of the widow Rothsay, that lay but four or five miles from his own residence. The abundant rains that had fallen during the previous week, had saturated the parched earth, and tempered* the heat of the season. Nevertheless, summer lingered in the air, and he willingly dismounted from his horse at the end of the long avenue where it gently curved down from the elevated ground, on which the mansion stood, into the lowlands that skirted the river.? Just at the foot of the hill, to the right, a bright sparkling fountain burst from the hillside, in a broad stream, wliich one of the former owners of the place hud had the good taste to enclose in a marble basin, and the waters, rising near the brim, leaped over through an orifice left for their escape, and falling below, formed in their fall a mimic cascade, which diffused a refreshing coolness around, lulling, at the same time, the senses with its gentle murmur. A tasteful paviliou, fitted with rustic seats, sheltered the bright waters in the basin, and here Guiscard lingered for nearly an hour, watching the sparkling waters its they leaped down from the lip of the basin into a stone trough, tliat conducted them over the paved floor of the pavillion, from which they again leaped, and gliding for a few rods over the yellow sands, disappeared in a thicket of alder bushes and willows that skirted a streamlet. Rousing himself at last from his reverie, the young man remounted his horse, and curving around the hill, emerged, by a sudden turn, into the highway, along which he rode at a full gallop, to his destination. Mrs. Rothsay and her daughter were absent; and learning from the servant, who answered his summons, that they were gone to spend the day in a social pic-nic at a well known bluff on the river, about a mile distant, Guiscard rode rapidly thither. The heart of a lone and solitary man, how it longs with an unutterable instinct for the companioaship of the few who have touched its sympathies! The ordinary seeker of pleasure might have gone on his way with scarcely a passing emotion of disappointment, at the absence of friends whom he hoped to meet. But Guiscard could not have returned to his home without encountering the kindly glance which was so dear to him. The prisoner immured for life in a gloomy dungeon, into whose cell the sunlight struggles but for a few stated moments of the day, what a gloom rests upon his heart, if during the brief space when that small patch of sunlight was wont to steal into his cell, like an angel from Heaven, bringing sweet bright thoughts of the world without, an envious clould should cover the sun! The happy world without, accustomed to the glare of day, might not even notice the passing shadow of the cloud, but it makes the whole day one of darkness and gloom for him, to whom light and cheer come so seldom, and linger so briefly! Guiscard rode rapidly forward, giving both rein and spur to his willing steed. On! Guiscard, on! Fate lies before thee, and destiny?thine own and another's?be it for good or for evil?lies in thy speed! CHAPTER II. The day had passed merrily among the pleasant party assembled at the bluff. There were cool shady walks under the venerable and majestig oaks that skirted the river, and covered with their "contiguity of shade," the two or three acres of land, smooth and clean as a well kept lawn, that lay next the bluff Under and among these strayed groups, sometimes breaking upon into confidential couples, and what secrets the old oaks may have heard as these detached couples seated themselves upon their gnarled roots, and spoke in utterances so low and soft, is more than we can divine. Here some fair one sits with head uncovered, and nervously twirling her bonnet by the strings, her head slightly averted and her glances turned toward the ground, while, with impassioned manner, but in subdued accents, her male companion gives utterance to thoughts at which we can only guess. Even at a distance, we can faintly see the red blush mantle on her cheek. If you ask on what part of the field the most earnest work is going on, we would point you here. Be sure, my gentle reader, there is no light talk or idle jesting there. It is all earnest, downright serious sober work, that these young persons are doing. Yonder stands a beau, with feet crossed, leaning negligently against that huge oak, already decaying, from which so many bunches of mistletoe have taken root. See! he points up with his finger to the tawny-green parasites, and his smile and the slight motion of his head, suggests a kiss. Although it is August, he is thinking, and perhaps telling, of an English Christmas and the yule log, and the penalty exacted from the fair one surprised under the mistletoe branch, that swings in the Hall. She laughs merrily, with a tone like the chimes of a silver bell, and looks him modestly, but fairly and squarely in the face. Think you, gentle reader there is any earnest or serions work here. There will be no crushing of egg shells for them, this bout. It is only a flirtation, hollow, insipid and stale?even to themselves. On every side we see cheerful or joyous groups, for it is the wild-woods where they have met, and Nature, not Ceremony, rules the festival. But. see! Yonder at the foot of the bluff, gleams the dim river, swollen by the August rains. It is no longer a stream of one or two hundred yards, across which a hold swimmer might safely dash in sport, but its waters cover a breadth of five miles from hill to hill. Beyond the ordinary bed of the river, strctchcsa dense swamp for miles, and where but a few days ago. the doe led her wild fawns to feed, a seventy-four ship might now float. With what resistless impetuosity the fierce current of the stream sweeps on. tossing on its breast, as though it were but a feather, the huge monarch of the forest that the freshet has uprooted. Near the margin of the water stands four or five young beings more sedate than the other fair ones to whom we have already adverted. A canoe floats at their feet, its prow resting upon the hank. Weary with standing, one of them steps lightly into the canoe and seats herself quietly and comfortably in the stern. It is so pleasant to her to feel the conoe rising and falling on the yielding element. What a glorious young creature she is, with her soft, tender, melting blue'eyes; her fair face, on which no ahadow has ever flitted, and at which one 1 needs but a glance to assure himself of the retiring i modesty of her nature and the immaculate purity i of her thoughts. Gentle and yielding as is her na- i ture, glance into her clear, sparkling blue eyes and i learn with what a depth of womanly intellect, she i is endowed. Gently, and in pearly tints, must the i painter, who would copy her features, lay in the i shadows around her smiling lips, and her full but i delijjate chin. Her brow and nose, with its high 1 swelling nostrils, are such as we but seldom meet i with, save in the master-pieces of Grecian genius; i and her full bust and Juno-like arms?what a rav- i ishingpicture of perfect beaunty they present! i "Helen," said a matronly lady, who was seated 1 but a few feet distant upon a pic-nic stool, conve- 1 niently placed against a cotton-wood tree, against i which she was reclining, "I fear the canoe will i leave the bank with you. It seems to me to be quite i 9f U t insecure. "I have no fears, mother," 3aid the young lady in the boat. "It seems lodged quite securely against i the bank; but to relieve your apprehensions, I will ] take a seat by you on the bank.'' 1 As the young lady spoke, she rose to her feet, but j the movement caused the light canoe, which was 1 only retained in its place by the weight of the prow < upon the bank, to lose its hold upon the land, aud < in a moment it was fairly afloat! Helen Roth say, I for she it was, with a suppressed exclamation of a- 1 larm, made one or two steps forward, but this only < communicated an additional impulse to the canoe, < and sent it still farther from the shore. She stopped, and bit her lip with mortification < at her unpleasant situation, and while a flush pass- 1 ed over her fair face, spoke in low and hurried uc- > cents to her fair companions, entreating them as 1 promptly as possible, to procure a long pole to draw < her to the shore. Two of them sprank quickly a- i way to fulfil her request, and speedily returned with < a fisherman's long cane, but the canoe had by this time floated beyond its reach. There was a little i laughter and some apprehension, and no little bustle { and confusion among the bevy of fair maidens on | the bank, but they anticipated, with the sanguine ( feelings of youth, that after a little fright, all would ( soon be well again. They were too inexperienced j to estimate the danger. The current ran scarcely thirty feet distant from the bank, and when once the ] light canoe had floated within reach of its influence, , it was obvious that it would be borne onward with , arrowy speed. ] The eye of the alarmed and terror-stricken moth- j er, who had already sprang to her feet at the first j alarm, estimated the danger at a glance. Uttering , a wild cry of agony she sprang forward, and would ] have rushed into the swollen stream, but for the in- i terposition of those who stood by, spectators like j herself, of the dreadful calamity they had no power to avert or control. Her agonized ciy was heard < for many rods around, and the scattered groups hur ried forward to the spot, under a painful apprehen- j sion that some overwhelming misfortune had taken , place. j The canoe had already been drawn into the cur- ] rent, and when Helen Rothsay turned her pale and ! terror-stricken face towards the shore, she saw a < throng whose faces were not less expressive of hor- i ror than her own, aiid then, for the first time, she I felt the full extent of her danger, and realized the < helplessness and almost hopelessness ofher situation. She had to this time continued standing, but she , now gathered her garments more closely around her, and kneeling down in the canoe, bowed her ] head in prayer. Wild trees, uprooted from the , swamp, eddied and danced around her, tossed on , the resistless current, their huge anus revolving i and lashing the water like the wheels of an immense . fiutter-wheel. She heeded not the danger, for her head was bowed and her eyes closed in prayer. She i was just disappearing around a bend of the river ] some three hundred yards below, when the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard clattering along the < road, and in a moment Robert Guiscard reined in i his horse on the very verge of the bank. i A glance of the eye told him that some great ea- ' laiuity had occurred. The hands of many, upraised 1 in excitement; the horror written upon the pale 1 faces of all, and the looks of agitation and alarm i that were turned towards him as he reined up his i horse on the bank, spoke to him in startling lan- < guage. His quick eye, in its rapid glance. re>ted i upon the form of Mrs. Rothsay, who had fallen i fainting into the arms of her friends, and Helen 1 Rothsay?where was she? Was it a presentiment, < or was it an intuition that told him some dreadful i evil had befallen her? "Oh! Mr. Guiscard," skrieked a young lady, < springing forward to his horse's bridle, almost at 1 the moment when he reached the spot, "Helen 1 Rothsay! save poor Helen?" "What is the matter?" exclaimed Guiscard, springing to the ground, "what has happened to Helen?to Miss Rothsay?" Abashed at the consequences of her impulsiveness. the fair speaker shrank from the eager and fearful glance of enquiry which was fixed upon her. i but a dozen arms were extended, pointing down the ' river where the canoe had disappercd, and a half : score voices told him of the misfortune and peril of ' the maiden. < There was little time for reflection, nonefor delay. i Moments were precious. There was no boat at i hand, and it would have been follvfor Guiscard, al- 1 though he was an expert and enduring swimmer, to ] endeavor to overtake the canoe in its swift flight, by 1 striking out into the current in pursuit. Below, a ' tangled swamp, miry and impassable, and now cov- 1 ered by the waters of the freshet, cutoff all access to the river for the distance of nearly five miles; at ' this i>oint again, a tongue of the highlands, like a i promontory, penetrated the swamp and came bluff I up to the river. This was the only point, for a dis- * tancc of fifteen or twenty miles, at which the river I was accessible, and here alone was there a prospect i of intercepting the canoe with its precious freight, as it was swept on by the swollen current, a frail and < unsteady thing, each moment in imminent peril of i being overwhelmed by floating trees, or engulphcd 1 by the violence of the swollen stream. : There was not an instant of delay. Guiscard i sprang into his saddle, and in quiet and subdued ! tones, gave orders that a carriage should immediate- 1 ly follow him to the lower bluff, to carry Helen Roth- i say home, if he should be so fortunate as to rescue i her from her peril. This brief and necessary order given, he was off like a bolt from the cross-bow.? 1 The distance by the route he must take, was neces- ; sarily greater than than over which the canoe must i pass, on the swift current which bore it along, and s unless he succeeded in intercepting it at this point, i irlmro Vin Kr\tio/l tn mrwif if fill* fttiv* mvl iifAnl/1 lw> 1 W IJIV-UL afc'| ***** 6*** >IUU1U LTC 1 expo.sod for many additional hours, to the fears, the ! dangersand the tumultuous anxieties that surround- 1 ed her on the wild and lonely river, shut out by 1 gloomy and impenetrable swamps, from every hope 1 and prospect of relief. < To shorten his route, Guiscard turned aside from ; the beaten road which skilled, on three sides, afield i that lay to the rear of the bluff. It was enclosed i by a fence and a double ditch, over which he must i leap if he would avoid the long windings of the road. ' He turned his horso's head resolutely towards the i fence, and the party at the bluff, who eagerly watch- 1 ed him as he started off on his noble and chivalrous mission, expected to see him halt, deterred by the I formidable obstacle that lay before him. But Guiscard was a fearless and experienced horseman. He ' and his noble steed knew each other. There was ' that mutual confidence between horse and rider, which, in such an emergency, counts almost as much as agility and nerve. The party at the bluff, now breaking up and leaving the river, full of sad fore- < bodings as to the fate of their lovely companion, *aw Guiscard lift the cap from his head with his iisengaged hand and hold it slightly aside from his face as he neared the barrier. This was that he might shield his eyes from the declining sun, and that the vizor of his cap might not impede his view is he came down from his leap on the farther side 3f the fence. They saw him slightly tighten his rein as he approached to the leap, and while their hearts still palpitated with a tremor of uneasiness lttheseeming peril of the horseman, the good steed, ivarned by a barely perceptible touch of the spur, it the moment for putting forth all his powers, vithout breaking his long, even and regular stride, vent over the barrier like a bird, and those who vere looking on with senses quickened by painful ipprehension, scarce knew that the leap had been made, until they saw the fence intervene between them and the daring horseman, and the good steed jrossing the field with his rapid and powerful stride. Even in that moment of sadness, and tearful anxiety, exclamations of joy broke forth from lips so lately pale, and smiles gleamed out like sun-beams from parting clouds. On! on brave heart! gallant, generous, and fearless! The smiles and cheers that Follow thee, if not guerdons of success, are harbingers )f hope. A heart like thine?hopeful, strong, enjrgetic, and self denying?is to all around, in all the trying emergencies of life, like a consecrated banner on the battle-field. The timid and dispirited gather around him, and confidence and courage iame upon them like an inspiration from above.? Fhose who have been stricken down in the battle )f life, taking confidence from his serene brow, buckle on their armour and renew the strife, more itrong, more hopeful from the contagious fearessncss, that heeds not disaster, but after every lefeat arouses with ten-fold energy. Where is the nan, whose soul is not all of the earth, whether ihristian or pagan, who is not a hero-worshipper? An active bustle succeeded to the chilling apathy which had fallen upon the party at the bluff. Horses were harnessed up, and in their solicitude for die safety of their fair friend, all of the party, save me or two, took their way to the lower bluff, whith;r Guiscard was hastening to intercept the involuntary voyager. It was a rough and pathless way that he took.? [n his eagerness to arrive in full time for the relief )f Helen Rothsay, he had turned out of the road, svhich was longer by miles than the short cut he made across the country. Now and then, a cart path, for a few hundred yards lay in his route, and then he suffered black Bayard to course along at will; and when this again deviated from his route, he picked his way through the more open parts of the country at an easy gallop. Many a day had he followed the chase across the same track with the pleasurable excitement of a devoted sportsman, and well he knew every portion of the wood. He was pursuing the shortest practical route, which even leisure of reflection and calculation could not have mabled him to shorten. Like all who spring from families of the south of France, that derive their blood mostly from the Moor, he was ardent, enthusiastic and excitable, but in the midst of the great2st excitement his intellect was calm, unclouded, and if not calculating, at least possessed of that intuitive correctness of perception, which differs from calculation, only in the rapidity of its processes. He forbore to urge his good steed to any wearisome exertion of speed. He must reach the spot whither he was hastening, not only in season, but his horse must also be in proper plight to breast the current gallantly and successfully, if necessity required. This consideration caused hiui often to tighten the rein and check the speed of his eager animal. The danger of the maiden, opened his eyes fully to his own feelings in regard to her. Until now, he had never been fully aware of the hold which she possessed upon his affections. He had felt that she was amiable, attractive, beautiful, and even fascinating, but is not the rose that blossoms on the bough sweet to the eyes, and does not every lover of nature delight to linger over the flowers that God has made? What was she to him, more than the beautiful creation that bloomed around?more than the gorgeous sunsets, and the cloudy robe of sil ver and gold and purple, that floats around the god of flay, when he walks down southern summer 6kies, and leaves the world to soothing slumbers and soft repose? Beautifulwas she indeed, and that liis heart had often confessed ; but he had scarcely dreamed that, if she were blotted from existence, it would leave a void in his heart which all the beauties of creation or the companship of others could not fill. While these thoughts were passing through his mind, unconsciously there rose to his lips the beautiful lines of Milton:? "But neither breath of morn when she ascends With chnrm of earliest birds j nor rising sun On this delightful laud ; nor herb, fruit, flower Glistering with dew; nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent Night With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon Or glittering stnrlight, witlioutMee is sweet." While loving her with all the intensity of his ardent nature, he felt that if he wooed her as a bride, it would be but to involve her in the destiny that had followed all whom his ill-fated raco had dared to wed; that by the bridal altar to which the Guiscard's led the young and the beautiful whom it was their evil fate to love, there stood an invisible spectre, the claimant of the bride whom her mortal lover held by a tenure as weak as a brittle thread of glass. Oh, vain and delusive happiness, founded unnn fVir> Iava nnrl nflFp^finnc nf* rnnrfVmur if withers and perishes away, like a feeble flower in an untimely frost! The unveiling of the recesses of his own heart was not unmixed with pain. It often brings a sense nf insecurity and apprehension, to know that our happiness and well-beingare involved in that of another, when fate or circumstances have raised up between us burners which we may not or dare not surmount. "She can never be bride of mine;" was the concluding reflection of Guiscard, as he emerged from the wood and halted on the bluff, from which he hoped soon to espy the canoe floating down the <tream, with its precious burden unharmed. "Let some man of happier destiny woo and win her.? r>hc will never be the victim of my love. I shall tread my path alone?the last of ray blood?and isk no more from Heaven than power to save her, tor whom I would gladly die. As he thus soliloquized, he dismounted from his horse and stood sur/eying the angry stream. For rbout the length of two hundred yards the highland ibutted upon the river, while, above and below this ..xnr.r> .1 fnnirlnrl ctunmn Pvtpndod hnnlr firr nonrltr n mile. This was now completely inundated by the freshet, which reached within three or four feet of the rounded summit of the level of the bluff, on which he stood. Along the margin, at his feet, the (vaters lay still, with a scarcely perceptible current; but some fifty feet from the bank, the fierce broad current began and extended nearly two hundred rards to the further bank, now only defined by the tops of tall trees rising ab6ve the flood, and quivering in the current that broke and gurgled among them. All thespace between this line and the bluff where Guiscard stood, except the dead water near the shore, was a swift and tumultuous current, flecked by foam, and bearing along on its angry waves huge trunks of trees, which went leaping along from surge to surge, like down upon the wind. It was a fit symbol of wild and resistless power which nothing could withstand, Should Guiscard enter the river at the point where lie then stood, it was obvious that he would be swept down, by the force of the current, several hundred yards, before he could gain the further side. To remedy this difficulty, he asceuded along the bank until his fur-' ther progress was prevented by the swamp, ofwhicl we have previously spoken. Here he divested him self of his coat, vest and boots, laid his watch earefully by, stripped black Bayard to the bare bridle and was ready for the struggle. The river flowec around a bend about two hundred paces above this spot, and the current shooting onward with the momentum which the waters had acquired, lay mostly on the further side of the river. In all probability, the canoe would be projected along the same track, and thus, however difficult or dangerous to attempt to swim the whole breadth of the boisterous river, it must be made. ? It would require, too, no common skill and ready judgment, so to order all hit movements that the canoe might not be swept by before he could intercept it, or that he might not leave the shore too soon, and be driven too far below by the current, or waste strength and vigor in the endeavor to maintain his position until the canoe came within his reach. Fortunately, he found on the bank, the fragment of a board, sufficiently lsu-ge to be manufactured into a paddle, and hie reaJ? 1 /LA! J !i !?i. -1 uy Kiiiic soon iasmuueu it mtu siiupe. [to be continijed next week.] Ipscfllauwttis fUadtng. LIST OF ACTS. The Legislature of South Carolina, adjourned on Friday, the 21st of December. Ninety-nine Acts were ratified during the session, the larger portion of which are of a local character. We append a list of such as are of interest to the majority of our readers, and publish in this issue, the "Tax Act." in full: An Act making appropriations for the year commencing 1st October, 1866. An Act to raise supplies for the year commencing 1st October, 1866. _ * An Act to amend the Criminal Lffcr. ^ An Act to amend an Act entitled "An Act to amend the District Court Act" An Act to regulate the fees of Sheriffs for dieting persons confined in jail, and to provide for the more expeditious payment An Act to authorize and regulate the creation of private corporations within this State. An Act to charter the Columbia and Sumter Railroad Company. An Act respecting sureties on bonds of public officers. An Act for the encouragement and protection oi European Immigration, and for the appointment oi a commissioner and agents, and for other purposes therein expressed. An Act to alter the law on the subject of fences. An Act to extend the duration of an Act entitled "An Act to extend the duration of an Act authorizing the formation of limited partnerships." An Act supplementary to the Act to provide for the funding the interest and principal of certain stocks and bonds of the State past aue, passed on thfl 21 st dav of Sentemher. 1865. An Act to provide artificial legs for all citizeas ol the State who have lost their legs during the recent war. An Act to authorize the transfer to the Columbia and Augusta Railroad Company, of certair stocks held lay the State, and to authorize th( guarantee by the State or the bonds of said Company. An Act to regulate elections for Representative! in Congress. An Act toprovide for docketing Constitutional cases in the Court of Errors. An Act to incorporate the South Carolina Loar and Trust Company. An Act to repeal the Usury Law of this State. An Act to provide for the admission in evidence of wills made in the execution of a power. An Act to authorize the issue 01 bonds or stocl to pay amount due the contractors for marble worl of new State House. An Act to extend the time in which to record lost instruments in writing. An Act-aopepting the benefit of an Act of Congress, entitled "An Act donating public lands U the several States and Territories wnich may provide colleges for the benefit of agriculture and the mechanic arts," approved the 2d of July, A. D, 1862. An Act to alter the law in relation to the publics tion of legal notices. An Act to change the name and renew and a mend the charter of the Yorkville Fire Engine Company. An Act to alter and amend an Act entitled "Ar Act to alter and amend the law in relation to the method of counting votes in all elections by the people." An Act to amend the charter of the town of Yorkville. An Act to provide an expeditious mode of ejecting trespassers. An Act to make certified copies of evidence. An Act to carry into effect the donation made bj an Act of Congress to the several States and Territories which may provide colleges for the benefit o: agriculture and the mechanic arts. An Act to shorten and regulate the publication o: notices of absent defendants in equity. An Act to regulate the sittings of the Court o Appeals. An Act to amend the law in relation to tenancies An Act to authorize the Mayor and Aldermen o: the citv of Columbia to issue and put in circulatioi notes receivable in taxes or dues to the city. An Act to provide for the registration of trus deeds of personal property. An Act to withdraw certain undrrm appropria tions heretofore made. An Act to establish an additional class of flour, t( be called family flour. THE TAX ACT. Upon the following articles, there shall be an ac valorem tax paid, as property, according to its assessed value, viz: On all real estate, 30 cents on eve ry $100j except such lands as may be in possessior of the Freedmen's Bureau in January next; on th< capital stock of all gas-light companies, 50 cents or every $100; on articles manufactured for sale, bar ter or exchange, between the 1st day or January. 1866, and January, 1867, $1 on every $100, to b( paid by the manufacturers; on the gross amount o: all spirituous liquors (except on liquors manufac; rutea in this State from fruits in their season), sold from January* 1 to December 31,1867, lOper cent, to be paid quarterly to the tax collectors of the several Districts; on buggies, carriages, gold and silvei plate, watches, jewelry and pianos, on hand January 1, 1867, except those held by dealers for sale. $1 on every $100. Upon all gross incomes derived from the following sources, there shall be paid a tax of the pei 1 cent herein specified, on the aggregate amount received, between the first day of January, 1866, and the 1st day of January, 1867: From employments, faculties and professions, including the professioc of dentistry (whether in the profession of the law, the profits be derived from the costs of suit, fees, or otner sources of professional income), excepting clergymen, $2 on every $100; on commissions received by brokers, vendue masters, factors, commission merchants, dealers in exchange (foreign or domestic), or in mortgages, bonds and other negotiable papers, $5 on every $100; on the gross amniint nf nreminms received bv insurance com pan ies incorporated within this State, $2 on every $100; on the gross amount of premiums received on agencies of insurance companies and underwriters incorporated without the limits of this State, $3 on every $100; on the gross amount of the receipts of express companies, $10 on every $100, to be paid to the Treasurer of the State; the gross amount of the receipts of telegraph companies, $5 on every $ 100; on the gross amount of receipts from the sale of pictorial newspapers or magazines, $25 on every $100; on the gross receipts of newspapers published in this State, $2 on every $100; on the amount of sales of goods, wares and merchandize, embracing all the articles of trade for sale, barter or exchange, (spirituous liquors and the products of this" State, and the unmanufactured products of any oT the United States or Territories thereof, excepted), which any person shall have made from the 1st day of January, of the present year, to the 1st day of January, A. D. 1807, 60 cents on every $100; for same articles, a tax of 50 cents for the ensuing year; on the gross profits of National Banks, $1C on every $100; on the incomes derived from the arts of photographing and daguerreotyping, $1 or every $100; on all incomes amounting to more ?hai $500 per annum, derived from salaries, rents, divi i clends and money at interest, in excess of $500, $1 . on every $100; on the incomes derived, from saw. flour and grist mills, and also from cotton ginned on toll, $2 on every $100; on the gross incomes of ! all railroads (not exempted by law), $1 on every ' $100; but that when a part of a railroad only is i within the limits of this State, the return or its . income shall bear the same ratio to its whole in, come that the length of the road in this State bears to its whole length. The following persons are to pay a tax on every $100 of gross income : hotel-keepers, $2; restaut rants or eating houses, $2; livery stables. $2j buteh, era and hucksters, $2; billiard tables, $5; bowling . alleys, $5; bar rooms, whether connected with a ; hotel or otherwise,' $10; ferries, $10; toll-gates, $1. Upon taking out a charter, except for religions, charitable and educational purposes, $20 *, each renewal of charter under this Act, $10. The keepers of public race-courses shall pay a i tax of $100; each public hack, stage, coach, dray, . and baggage-wagon shall be taxed $10, ana each i omnibus, $25. Ail persona representing puDuciy lor gain or reward, any plays, comedy, tragedy, or other emplov -mentof the at*go, ur ojOiilnluig wnx-workB or other shows of any kind whatever, to be paid into the hands of the Clerks of Courts respectively, (who , shall be bound to collect and pay the same into the public Treasure, excepting in cases where the same is now required by law to be paid to corporations or otherwise,) $10 per day; circus exhibitions, $50 per day; dogs shall be taxed $1, but for each plantation and inhabited lot in a town or village, there shall be one dog exempted from taxation. A capitation tax of $1 per head on every male 1 between the ages of twenty-one and fifty, resident i in the State on the first day of February, 1867, ex, cept they be incapable of earning a support Ev. ery employer shall make returns of the names of all persons that are employed by him, and pay the tax of such person or persons, m which case the tax receipt snail be a good and valid set-off in any action for wages by such employee again such employer. All taxes levied on property, as prescribed in this ' Act, shall be paid to the tax collector for the District or Parish in which said property is located, except that the tax levied on railroad, express ana telegraph companies, be paid into the Treasury of the State. The taxes herein levied shall be paid only in gold or silver coin, United States Treasury note& or notes > of national banks, or the bills receivable of this State, ' and also pay-eertificates of jurors and constables for attendance on the courts. The tax collectors of the several collection districts shall be allowed on all sums of money paid into their hands for taxation a ! commission as follows: For St Philip's and St Michael's, per cent; for Anderson, Abbeville, f Chester, Kershaw; Richland, Clarendon, Darlings' ton, Laurens, Marion, Newberry, Orange, Spartani burg, Sumter, Edgefield, Union, York ana Barnwell, four per cent.; for Chesterfield, Greenville, Lancaster, Lexington, Marlboro, Pickens, Fairfield, 1 St Matthew'8, Prince George Winyah, Sti^rthol omew's and Williamsburg, six per eent; for Horry. St Helena. St Stephens, Christ Church, Prince William's, All Saints , St George's. Dorchester, i St James' Santee and Goose Creek. St John's i Berkeley and Colleton, and St. Peter s, eight per cent i for St Andrew s, and St Thomas and St f Dennis ten per cent: Provided, That in all dis tricts where the taxes amount to more than $30,000, the commissions shall be two per cent, on the ex cess. Tax collectors to make returns to the Treai suit in Columbia, on or before July, 1867. # * s No tax collector or assessor shall receive his com missions till their returns have been receivecbat the Treasurer's office, and been approved by him. J The assessors of the several districts are required to return to the tax collector, lists of all persons in I their districts, subject to the capitatjon tax, with such particulars of residence, etc., as may serve to i identify the persons. The tax collector is required to pay to the State Treasurer the Quarterly re turns within thirty days. Each tax collector shall ? attend at the court house, or some other public glace, daily, for one week previous to making his nal return. All taxes on incomes shall refer to : those received between January 1,1866, and 1867, except special designations. 1 Before the collection of the taxes herein levied, an assessment shall be made of the actual value of the property taxed; and for that purpose, the tax ? collectors of the several Districts and Parishes, ex cept St Phillip and St Michael, are hereby consti? tuted assessors. Each tax collector, before enter, ing upon his duties as assessor, snail take and subscribe, before the Clerk of the Court of the Dis trict, the following oath, which shall be endorsed on his commission, viz: I, A. B., do promise and . swear that I will, to the best of my ability, execute i the duties of assessor for my collection district, and will, without favor or partiality, ascertain and asi sess the actual value of the property, real andper? sonal. upon which an ad valorem tax is laid before, i and for the purpose of laying such tax." * COTTON FACTORIES. The Natchez Democrat, of a late issue, has some very sensible remarks on the importance of the South building cotton factories. It says: r It is certain that the cost to put up a cotton fac. tory and stock it with the best machinery would not f be very considerably greater than before the war, and that when placed on a gold basis it would be f less. It matters very little what a thing will cost when we know that tne profits will far exeeed it; f ,and there can be no question but that the manufacture of cotton and woollen goods is, in thjs country, , the most money-making business men can engage f in. No land of Ophir, discovered in modern times, i has paid so well or so certainly. The whole power of the government has been employed to make it t pay, and one hundred per cent upon the capital emnloved is bv no means uncommon in the North. And yet the North has expenses to incur in manufacturing cotton goods which would be wholly ) avoided here. They have to repay the cotton tax of three cents per pound, which, if the cotton of Adams county were used here, would not have to be paid, and would be clear prontto the manufacturers. I They have to pay the cost of shipment from here to New Orleans, and from there to their factories, together with the insurance, and the commission paid I to every intermediate agent Finally they?or , rather the consumer?have to pay the cost of hand[ ling, insurance, upon freight, and the goods back here to a market It is true that all of these additional costs come out of the consumer; but if the [ goods were manufactured here, they could be sold p at the same prices as Northern goods, and consequently all these expenses saved would be so much I clear gain to the manufacturer. If the Northern manufacturer, who pays all these expenses, makes [ seventy-five or one hundred per cent net profit on . his capital engaged, what would not the profit be if no such expenses were incurred ? Before the war, we gave as an excuse for not 1 manufacturing our goods that labor was scarce; and was rpore profitable in the cotton fields. The ' real truth, however, is that the relationship be* tween labor and capital was different from wnat it [ now is. Labor was then capital, and could not be hired, except at great profit. Labor is now free, 1 and can be hired at just what it is worth, in facto1 ries. There is enough of it now lounging, begging, and stealing around Natchez, to work a half dozen of the largest factories in the country; and if ' the factories were established it could be employed at the most reasonable wages. Such a life of noise, excitement and crowd just suits the negro. They soon become adepts at the work, and are healthy and contented in pursuing it The experience of the Wcodville factory, which was worked entirety by negroes owned by Judge McGehee, proves this, if proof were necessary. Even if the labor had to'be imported, with such Seat inducements, it should be brought here; but ere is plenty of it here now. No better occasion for the investment of capital was ever offered. The . climate productions, position witn relation to tne markets of the world, and the abundance of the kind of laborers required, all offer superior advan; tages over any other spot that can be named. B&* There are an unusually large number of pubhe men in Washington from the South, busily engaged in obtaining the views of Congressmen on the question of reconstruction. It is probable that several of them will unite in an address to the South, setting forth the situation here. ? James Parton thinks Henry Ward Beech er's church the most characteristic thingof Amerir ca, it beingthe United States, the New Testament, | Plymouth JRock and the Fourth of duly. i 46T It is stated that President Johnson has grani ted permission to Hon. Jacob Thompson, to return to Mississippi