Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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^=5^1 fit Inbytot Jamilg jfefftr: jor % |romotOT of % |tiitital, gttfal, fgrinilfnral anb of % gmdj}. ^ VOL. 12. YORKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBRUAEY 7, 1867. 2STO. 41. . [ II. - ^elected foftrg. THE PRETTIEST HAND. Give me the hand that is warm, kind and ready; Give me the clasp that is kind, true and steady; Give me the hand that will never deceive me; Give me the hand that I aye may believe thee. Soft is the palm of the delicate woman! Hard is the hand of the rough sturdy yeoman ; Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not?never! Give me the hand that is friendlv forever! Give me the hand that is true as a brother; Give me the hand that has harmed not another; Give me the hand that has not foresworn it; Give me the grasp, that I may adore it! Lovely the palm of the fair, blue-veined maiden ; Horny the hand of the workman o'er jaden; Lovely or ugly, it matters not?never! Give me the grasp that is friendly forever! Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty; Free as the breeze, and unshackled by party; Let friendship give the grasps that becomes her? Close as the twine of the vines of the summer. Give me the hand that is true as a brother; Give me the hand that has not wronged another; Soft palm or hard hand, it matters not?never! Give me the grasp that is friendly forever! JU Original |jbntvtlttte. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. ELINOR WESTVELT; OR, The Tory's IViece. A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION OF 1776. BY CAROLINE F. PRESTON. CHAPTER IV. A FAIR REBEL. Muttering maledictions upon what he termed the impertinence of the Yankee rebel, Major Amory forcibly repressed his indignation, and made his way to the front door. In answer to his summons a servant came to the door, who received his name, and ushered him into the large drawing-room which, after the fashion of that day, was perfectly square, and very low-studded. Major Amory took a seat, and looked about him with some interest What he saw produced upon him a favorable impression, for it confirmed what he had heard in New York, that Elinor was a wealthy heiress. This the Englishman considered a veiy desirable qualification in a wife, particularly, in his circumstances, since, though of a famn_ -f* ?<)!^ivifinn Vip himself was but a 1ly U1 3U1UV Uiouuvvtvuj younger son, and must be content to see the family estate go to his older brother. He thought, too, with justice, that Elinor's accomplishments, united with her remarkable beauty, would lend grace to any position which she might be called upon to occupy. He had come hither purposely to renew the acquaintance formed in New York, and hoped during the three days absence which had been granted him, so to advance matters as to secure a promise from Elinor to wed him at some future time. He felt tolerably sure of her uncle's consent, as Mr. Westvelt had on all occasions been particularly gracious to him, and in fact had extended to him, in pressing terms, the invitation of which he now availed himself. Taking all things into consideration, Major Amory felt not a little sanguine of success, and considered his prospects exceedingly flattering. In fact, he had no small share of personal vanity. In illustration of this, while waiting for some one to descend, he could not resist the temptation of rising and taking a position before the mirror, where, with no little complacency, he arranged his hair and whiskers. Indeed, he was so intent upon this, that he did not hear a slight footfall in the hall without, and Elinor stood in the room before he was aware. A slight smile, instantly dismissed, rested upon the face of our heroine, as she intimated her presence, by saying: "My uncle is not at home, just at present, Major Ainory. Until he returns, you must accept me as an unworthy substitute." The Englishman colored, when he perceived in what a predicament he had been caught. He could think of nothing to say in explanation, but answered Elinor's words by saying ? "Indeed, Miss Elinor, much as I value your uncle's society, I can hardly regret a loss which is so well supplied." "I see you have brought with you, your city habits," said Elinor, smiling composedly, not at all embarrassed by such a thread-bare compliment. "To what do you refer?" "To the flattery for which you seem to think that we, of the weaker sex, have so great a taste." "Fktfprv is siniDlv truth, when it is so well de served," said Major Arnory, and he was quite sincere in what he said. "I can only reply that the truth is not to be spoken at all times," said Elinor. "But what news from New York?" "Indeed, there was none whatever, when I left. Sir Heniy gave a little party Tuesday evening, but so many faces that we are wont to look for were missing, that it was but dull after all. Have you ever attended a party at the General's ?" "I have not," said Elinor. "Surely he did not fail to invite you. I remember now, never having met you there, and not being able to account for it." "It was not for the lack of an invitation," said Elnior shortly. "What then?" "Briefly then, you may, or may not be aware that my uncle's political sentiments and my own do not at all harmonize. By attending an entertainment given by the commander-in-chief of the British forces, I should feel that I was sanctioning the course which he is pursuing against my country. I, therefore, preferred to absent myself altogether." "Surely," said Major Ainory, with a little disdain visible in his tone, "you cannot sympathize with the horde of undisciplined ragamuffins who have consorted- together, for rebellious purposes, under the command of Mr. George Washington. The slighting mauner in which the Englishman spoke of the army to which her lover belonged, excited Elinor's pique. She answered coldly. "Singular as it may seem to you, Major Amory, I do sympathize most warmly with General Washington, (she emphasized the title which Major Amorj* had purposely omitted,) and the brave men under his command, who have sacrificed so much for love of their countiy. As to their being ragamuffins, that is their misfortune, and only enhances the value of their patriotic services. If I were a man, I hope I should have the spirit and manliness to enlist upon the same side." "I am verj* thankful that you are not then," said AT":? A up?. If nvMild malre the dutv of i.Ui?JUI ^XUJUlJf, iw m ttvcui* ? ? fighting on the opposite side, to me, at least, aveiy disagreeable one." . This was what Major Amory said. What he thought was somewhat different. His reflections were somewhat as follows: "If ever this proud little beauty becomes my wife, I will cure her of her rebellious proclivities. I hope her sympathy for the rebels is not prompted by a warmer sentiment for any one of their number. This last consideration, however, did not materially trouble Major Amory. He could not conceive it possible for any woman in her right senses, to prefer an ill-fed and poorly paid ragamuffin-soldier, or even officer, (there was little difference in the situation of the two, so far as fare went) to a handsome and gentlemanly officer (here he meant himself; in the King's sendee. "No," he mentally decided, "she is not in earn est The little coquette only wants to provoke me by a little opposition? perhaps to lure me on to a declaration. I dare say, she knows how much excitement lends to her attractions. Positively, the flush upon her cheeks makes her look charming." The conversation was here interrupted, by the entrance of Mr. Westvelt "How do you do, Major Amory?" he said, cordially. "I am delighted to see you here, sir, and trust your duties will allow of your stopping a week with us." "Not so long as that, Mr. Westvelt, thank you, but I may tresspass upon your hospitality for two or three days, since you are so kind as to invite me." "We shall enjoy your visit extremely, both my niece and myself. What news from the city, sir? Are there any military preparations on foot?" "None, sir, of any importance, I believe, though Sir Hemy will, by-and-by, make a bold stroke, and probably bring this troublesome war to a close. "So I sincerely hope. It is a disgrace, that a body of undisciplined rebels, should have it in their power to keep the countTy in such a styte of ferment" . "Precisely my thought But their day is about over. I hear that the arch-rebel, Washington, is in great straits ? that his army is, with difficulty, held together, and are much distressed for clothes and necessaries. Six months hence, take my word for it, sir, there will not be a vestige of rebellion left in the colonies." While this conversation was proceeding, Elinor had left the room to make arrangements for dinner, already an hour delayed on account of her uncle's absence, to be served immediately. Perceiving her absence, the Englishman thought he would sound the uncle as to his niece. Continuing his remark he observed: "Your nieoe just told me that her sympathies were with the rebels." Mr. Westvelt shrugged his shoulders impatient!y. "It is a mere whim. My niece, with all her other qualities, is a little capricious, and likes opposition. My belief is that women ought never to have anything to do with politics. Their minds are not suited for it" "So I think, Mr. Westvelt You think then that Miss Elinor's attachment to the rebel cause has no deeper foundation than that you have mentioned." "What deeper foundation could it have ?" asked Mr. Westvelt "I thought, pardon me, I was afraid that she might be led by personal interest in some one connected with the rebel party." 1 'There was a young man in the ranks,'' said Mr. Westvelt" a little reluctantly, "to whom she imagined she was attached. But of course I discountenanced the folly. Evjn if his social position had made him a suitable match, his political affinities would have proved an insuperable obstacle to any connection with my family." "Would you look unfavorably upon my proposals !" asked Major Ainoiy, who thought there was no better opportunity for coming to an understanding on the subject than the present "Do you love my niece?" questioned Mr. Westvelt with a gratified look. 1 'I do most devotedly. And my object in making * *- ' ? - ? 1- -il xl tnis visit was cnieny to ascertain wnemej mere was any chance of my succeeding in my hopes." "So far from my having apy objection, I shall exert all the weight of my influence in your favor." "Thank you sir, thank you," returned Major Amor>'j pressing the hand of Mr. W estvel t "Your sanction is indeed most gratifying to me." At this moment the bell rang, and Mr. Westvelt invited his guest out to dinner. CHAPTER V. the missing letter. As soon as Elinor was alone, she hastily opened and read her lover's letter, which she had received by the hands of the peddler. It was as follows: "American Camp at White Plains. Dear Elinor: Separated from you by the hard fate of war, I gladly embrace an opportunity, which now offers, to send you a few lines. I do so by the hands of Jehoachim Stebbins, whom you have seen, and know as Jock, the peddler. He is a worthy and trusty man, and has more than once been of service to our side. I need hardly ask you to receive him courteously for my sake.? And now what shall I say, dearest Elinor? First, let me tell you that I hope ere long to have an opportunity of seeing you. The General will probably despatch me on a mission to your neighborhood day after to-morrow. It will hardly be prudent for me to come to the house. Will it be asking too much to propose that you meet me on the 28th at ten o'clock in the forenoon? The best place for the purpose will be the old ruined cabin near the old oak tree, in the edge of the woods, about a mile from your house. I'will be there at the time if possible, and I hope that you will be able to meet me. Such occasions are so rare, dearest, that I shall look forward to it with the greatest anticipation. "When, 0, when will this unhappy war be at an end, and the country be restored to tranquility ? I scarcely dare to hope. At this moment everything looks dark, and but for our confidence in the wisdom of our beloved leader, I am afraid the army would disband. There is a spirt of dissatisfaction in the army on account of the backwardness of Congress in paying them and providing for their wants. We are now in midsummer, But cannot help looking forward with apprehension to the winter that is before us. God grant in his mercy that it may not be so deplorably wretched us the last winter, when we were encamped at Valley Forge. "You have heard perhaps of General Lee's defection. He is a proud man, and took umbrage at a deserved rebuke from General Washington for unsoldierly conduct at Monmouth. Lee was in I rapid retreat for no conceivable reason, when 1 ' 1 .... 4. 1 >V asuiugion came up, auu as was iiaiurai, rcjuimandcdnim severely. lie has been suspended from his command for a year, and it is doubtful whether he ever returns to it "However, in spite of these numerous discouragements, we trust in a Higher Power, who is able to give us success. The clouds are dark, but we hope to see the sun shining brightly yet. At least wnile Elinor continues true to me 1 will laugh at danger and privation, and hope for that happy time when nothing shall separate us. If I don't succeed in seeing you on the day proposed I shall endeavor to arrange an early meeting, and will, in that case, try to get word to you before hand by the peddler. Ever your lover, Henry Peterson." Elinor, as has before been said, had waited until she could read this letter secure from observation. With a view, also, to guard against interruption, she had left the house and sought the garden, in the corner of which was an arbor, completely screening the inmate by its abundant leafage. Having read the letter, she laid it down on the seat beside her, and gave herself up to reflection. She felt, with her lover, that the prospects of the country, and upon these hinged their own, were very uncertain, and even calculated to excite despondency. But she was led also to share in the confidence expressed in the latter part of the epistle as to the ultimate success of the American arms. "If only" she murmured, "this can lie brought about, and Henry can be preserved unharmed, I shall feel that I am most fortunate. What a brave and noble fellow he is! So much superior to that conceited jackanapes, Major Amory. Probably Elinor would hardly have given utterance to these thoughts, as almost unconsciously she had done, if she had known that she had a listener. This was the way it came about. After dinner Elinor had, as we have seen, come out into the garden in order to read her letter undisturbed.? Neither her guardian nor Major Ainory, however, knew this," but supposed she was in the kitchen directing the servants, or else had had occasion to go up to her chamber to arrange her toilet or procure sewing in which to employ herself for the afternoon. Whatever might be the cause, it seemed but natural, and attracted no remark. It was the custom of Mr. Westvelt, as with many elderly country gentlemen who are not driven by business, to take a nap after dinner. Accordingly, he excused himself on rising from the table, with the remark that such was his custom, and added, "You must make yourself quite at home, Major Amory. You will find books on the table, and I will tell the servant to bring in the latest papers from .London, ana tne last pernaps you may have seen. In case you wish to take the air, there is the door which leads into the garden. It is not what it should be, but we have a few flowers." "Make yourself quite easy about me, Mr. Westvelt," returned the guest. "I have no doubt I shall pass the time pleasantly." "Perhaps my niece may be in before I come down. She is probably occupied at present." "If she does, the time will assuredly not pass heavily," said Major Amoiy, bowing. "A very agreeable young man, and a perfect gentleman," thought Mr. Westvelt to himself, as he went up stairs. "Far preferable to that fellow Peterson. I wonder Elinor could ever have fancied him." There are a great many points on which the young and the old do not agree, and we have seen that on this point Elinor and her uncle were at variance. Left to himself, Major Amoiy looked carelessly through a book which lay on the table. He tried to interest himself in it, but very soon decided that he was in no mood for reading, and taking his hat from the table in the hall, stepped out into the | garden. The garden was a moderately large enclosure, comprising perhaps an acre of land, devoted to flowers, fruit, shrubbery, and so forth. /Ironininnf tliCk nf Ull'llAr. IVfjllfir i'Ul U1 ^UlUlUg V* VUV ^IVlA/UW VT* MUMV.J J Amory walked slowly down a graveled walk, thinking of the best method of securing her affections, and obtaining her assent to his suit, when his attention was drawn to a voice which he at once recognized as that of our heroine. The words which she uttered were those which have already been repoi-ted, in which the rival suitors were referred to, not at all to the advantage of the Englishman. I '"Ha !" thought the officer, and stopped quietly, to listen, partly that his presence might not be detected. He heard nothing more, however, as Elinor, afj ter some five minutes spent in reflection, arose from her seat, and left the arbor. As she emerged from it, Major Auiory sunk back in the shadow of the hedge, and thus escaped observation. It would have been an awkward moment for both if he had been discovered. But this did not happen. Suspending his breath, even, he was successful in avoiding attracting attention. Not imagining that the one who was most interested had listened to her words, Elinor pursued her way to the house. As soon as he felt it to be safe to do so, Major Amory emerged from his place of concealment, and entered the arbor which Elinor had just left. As he did so, his eyes lighted up with joy, and he hastily suatched a paper from the seat. The reader will at once conjecture that it was the letter of Captain Peterson, which Elinor had inadvertently left. A thorough gentleman would have scorned to read a letter not intended for himself, however much he desired to become acquainted with its contents. Major Amory was not gifted with a nice sense of honor. He only felt that the letter of his rival was in his hands, and it was his object to read it before Elinor should return to reclaim it. It was not a long letter and took him but a short time to read it. "Ha!" thought he, frowning, "this matter has gone farther than I thought. So the girl prefers this beggarly rebel, does she, and he has the audacity to appoint a meeting with her. It is fortunate that Elinor has thrown this letter in my way. I shall now be prepared to act to better advantage. I only hope the fellow will meet her on the 28th, as he proposes here. He may find it a little harder to get away than he supposes. It is fortunate too that the meeting is to take place before my leave of absence expires." He carefully laid back the letter in its place, and swiftly left the arbor. Desirous of escaping all suspicion of having seen the letter, he made his way to the house, and seating himself in the drawingroom, become apparently deeply interested in a London paper. Meanwhile, Elinor, who had discovered her loss, hastened back to the arbor. It was apparently just as she left it. "How lucky!" she ejaculated with relief.? "What if my uncle, or Major Amory had seen it." CHAPTER VI. AN ISHMAELITE's CABIN. Major Amorj' deliberated what course he had best pursue in this new phase of affairs. This rebel lover of Elinor's was likely to interfere with his plans in a serious manner. He must, if possible, gain possession of his person, and, in doing this, the information he had obtained from the letter found in the arbor, would be of essential service. All he would have to do, would be to station a sufficient force near the place of meeting to overpower Captain Peterson, who, he rightly conjecrured, would be alone, and the deed would be done. Of course, his first thought in resolving upon this course was a private one. No man feels very kindly towards his rival, especially if tliat rival be more favored than himself. Major Amor}', therefore, felt a degree of satisfaction in the anticipated triumph over his rival, quite apart from any considerations of policy. Morever, if Captain Peterson were out of the way, he would stand a better chance of success in his suit. A nlc-rt oiinprrnoffl/l ifenlf lftct ^ ^LllUtllUI UUliSlUClUUUll CUOV ouggooivu 1UOVU) ??uv in order indeed, yet not without its degree of weight. It was this. By the capture of an American officer, he would entitle himself to credit for zeal in the service, and might thereby be entitled to promotion. Any one of these reasons would have determined Major Amory to make the attempt, much more, the three combined. A question of some difficulty still remained. It was, where he should procure agents to effect the arrest. It would hardly be practicable to send to New York for soldiers, since he would be obliged to despatch a special messenger who might perhaps be difficult to procure, at least one that he could confide in, and if* procured, might be detained, or in many ways allow him to miss his prey. Or again, the commander-in-chief might not consider it worth while to despatch a file of soldiers on an uncertainty, without definite information, which, considering the way in which he obtained it, he might have found it embarrassing to give. There were so many difficulties, indeed, hedging the course upon which he had decided, that it seemed doubtful whether, after all, lie could make use of the intelligence he had obtained. At length he chanced to remember a family by the name of Gregson, who lived in the neighborhood, and who had already been employed for some trifling sendees by the British army. There were two brothers; by name, Richard and Robert, who lived no one knew how, but it was surmised by not the most respectable practices. Various families in the vicinity had lost articles by nocturnal depredations, in which it was surmised they bore a part At all events they were not likely to be deterred by conscientious scruples from any scheme that promised to put money into their pockets. To these men Major Amory determined to make application for assistance in executing his plans. He found no difficulty in masking his design to Mr. Westvelt by saying the next morning, that it was his custom to ride out every forenoon, and requesting that his horse might be brought to the door for that purpose. "An excellent practice for the health," said Mr. Westvelt, complaisantiy. "my niece also nasa horse appropriated to her especial use, on which she not unfrequently rides out Perhaps she may be disposed to accompany you this morning." "That would dish my purpose completely," thought Major Amory, with dismay, but he had self-command enough -to say in hi? usual gallant manner, "I should indeed be very happy if Miss Elinor will condescend to accept my poor services as her escort" "lam sorry to deny you," said Elinor, "but I have some duties to attend to this morning, which I should hardly feel satisfied in omitting." "Thank fortune!" thought the Englishman. Mr. Westvelt, who felt that he was thereby doing his guest a service, was not inclined to give up the matter so easily. ''Nay, Elinor," since our guest can spare us but a short visit, it would scarcely be more than courteous to defer a part of your duties, which I am sure cannot be very pressing, to accompany him." "My dear, sir," said the Miy'or, hastily, fearing that his persuasion might prove effectual. "I beg you not to urge Miss Elinor. She may be assured that I shall take her refusal in good part, and shall indeed be flattered to feel that she so far considers me a friend as to abstain from ceremony in my case. So, though I should enjoy her presence, I willingly release her from accompanying me this morning, hoping that she may be prevailed upon to do so at another, and a more convenient time." He bowed gracefully, as he said this, and our heroine was disposed to think more favorably of him than she had hitherto done, and admitted to herself that he was quite a gentlemanly man. "How long will you be gone?" inquired Mr. Westvelt. "Not above two or three hours, sir; I think it .? ii .1 j - ?/?*AAf\Vvln T flnrl . fVio W111 uupcuu a 11 luc VII uvn agiccai/jg x uuu uuv country, of which I know comparatively little" Leaving Major Amofy to proceed on his way, we will precede hira to the little hut which waff tenanted by the brothers Gregson. It was rude enough in its construction, being built of logs, filled in with clay. It comprised but two rooms on the lower floor separated by a partition, and a loft above. It's interior accommodations were of the humblest, and indicated poverty, or at any rate improvidence on the part of its owner. Here and there an old hat, or other article of raiment, was stuffed into the place where a pane of glass should have been. The chimney had partly fallen. The fence was in poor repair, and all the surroundings were in keeping with the interior of the cabin. The Gregson family consisted of the two brothers, Richard and Robert, as aforesaid, and the wife of the former. This wife was the only one in the cabin at the time. The poor woman had led but a sorry time of it since her ill-starred marriage with Dick Gregson. At the time, he was considered comparatively respectable, and was the owner of a farm, which he had inherited from his father.? But already, he had formed a taste for drink, which only strengthened with time. So his farm slipped out of his hands, and since then, he had lived a lawless life on the outskirts of the settlement, living ostensibly by hunting and trapping, but, as many of the neighbors could testify, in great part, by more questionable means. Mrs. Gregson had resisted, to some extent, the corrupting influence of her husband and brotherin-law. She was naturally a woman of strong religious feelings, and sighed, many times, for the respectable position which her husband had so long since lost. At the time of her introduction to the reader, she was occupied in repairing a coarse green jacket belonging to her husband. She sighed from time to time, and looked out of the window, as if expecting some one. Neither Richard nor Robert Gregson had been in since the night before. She had good reason to suspect, from what she knew of them, that they had been engaged in some predatory expedition, of not the most creditable character, such as they were wont to indulge in. This was not, by any means, the first time they had been out all night. Usually, however, they returned in time for breakfast. Now it was at least ten o'clock ?she knew it by the sun, for she had no other way of measuring time. "Where can they be," she thought "I don't know when they have made it so late before." " She shuddered as she thought that it was possi blc that they had fallen, not into the hands of the law, for in that unsettled time, the law was little to be feared, but had fallen victims to private vengeance. It was only a wonder that this had not happened before. It might have been supposed that this would scarcely have proved a loss to her, but, singular as it may seem, in spite of the wickedness which her husband had developed, she still loved him with the strong and enduring love of a woman ?a love which not even ill-treatment had been able to quench. Mrs. Gregson had set out a frugal meal, the best, and indeed, all that the house afforded, in anticipation of her husband's arrival. They were in the habit of living from hand to mouth, and seldom had any large store of provisions ahead. While sitting at her employment, she heard the tramp of a horse, and a moment afterwards a step upon the threshold. Suppossing it to be her husband, she exclaimed, "Why, Dick, where have you been so long? I had about given you up." "Are you not a little mistaken in the person?" asked, courteously, a voice, which she did not recognize. Looking up, startled and a little alarmed, she perceived a man of gentlemanly appearance, clad in the dress of a soldier. It was, as the reader will at once surmise, Major Amory. "I thought it was my husband," she said, with confusion. "Then he is not at home?" "No, sir." "When do you expect him?" The woman hesitated. "I wished to see him on a matter of business," said Major Amory. "Then," said the woman, with an air of relief, feeling that no harm was intended her husband, "if you will come in and wait, I think he will be in presently." [to be continued next week.] ? ? A Wall Street Impeachment Trick.?A letter was received in this city to-day from a broker in New York, whose name and address can be furnished, and who is vouched for as reliable, charging that that the sum of $50,000 was subscribed among the brokers in that city to induce the offering of impeachment resolutions in the House. The letter refers to one broker who admits having subscribed $5,000. It does not appear that any money was ever paid.?Baltimore Sun. ; fpsteUaaeflus Reading. "WHO'LL TAKE CARE OF MOTHER." "Biddy, what is mother doing?" "In the cellar cutting woodLikely, ma'm, she's pealin' praties!" Kate would help her, if she could! In the parlor, by the fire. Xath-a-rine is cosy sitting. Mending trousers, you would say, Or engaged in stocking knitting. NeitherOn that old piano, She is kicking up a row. Playing to that ape, Fitz-Noodle, " Who will care for mother now f" Ah 1 fond parent, what a treasure, In your Kath-a-rine you possess ! While you break your back a scouring, Kate is busy with her dress. With her hoops a tilting gaily, Bonnet perched above her brow, Off she gallops with Fitz-Noodle? " Who will care for mother now As for washing, spinning, cooking, Mother to these things must bow, While she sings to her Fitz-Noodle " Who will care for mother now " Kindly mother! spare your Kath-a-rine, Milk for her the brinaled cow, While she chaunts that charming ditty: " Who will care for mother now ?" t . p When your darling Kath-a-nne'a married, To Fitz-Noodle?(best of men),? ' And you're poor, and old, needy, " Will she care for mother then ' When on Kate, your darling pet, you Become a burthensome cow, Kate will snub, and cross, and fret you,? " Who'll take care of mammy now?" If, in after times, you're needy, J And poverty your feelings cow, * And your wardrobe's poor and seedy,? " What's become of mother now f" ^ Better teach your daughter Kath-a-rine, 1 To bake, to boil, to sew and knit, r Send that old piano kiting, And Fitz-Noodle after it. Teach her a daughter's duty clearly, i To keep neat house from floor to shelf, \ Let her know that late and early, Mammy takes care of herself! j MAD ALINE, THE LIT.TLE SINGER. { A little girl sat in the garden in Paris. Her t hands were folded idly in her lap. Her hair shone t like gold in the sunlight Her dress was plain and s neat, while a small diamond pin, which held the fine cambric handkerchief carelessly thrown around a her neck to protect it from the morning air, reveal- a ed that her position in life was one of ease and affluence. ] It was in October. A few flowers yet bloomed f among the borders of boxwood; a few bunches of ' grapes purpled out of reach on the trellises; while ] the falling leaves were twirled here and there by ] the breeze. The little girl watched a whirling leaf for awhile, then patted the head of the house-dog, that sat beside her looking wistfully into her face? 1 a grim, gruff, faithful sentinel, in his shaggy coat. Well, old Carlo," she said, still patting him, "how do you do, anyhow? I want somebody to 1 talk to. There is nobody at the house this morn- 1 ing but old Mother Connaut, and she is as grum as j an ogress and as crabed as a griffin. She won't talk, nor romp, nor nothing. She Is a good old t soul, though, I must say. Don't you tnink so, Carlo? Many a dainty bit she has set aside for t you ? at least a dog would call such bits dainty. But I forget Connaut will not talk, and you cannot ? though I believe that you would if you could. } Carlo rubbed his nose affectionately against the g little girl's knees, and wagged his tail, scattering t the peobles in the walk. The little girl took up f a few of the pebbles, and while she tossed them about in licr hands, she sang a verse of a song.? j Oh, it was delicious! like the thrill of a bird ? i clear, distinct, rapturous. Just then a man jumped over a low place in the garden wall, and came toward the little singer.? i The dog growled threateningly. f "Beouict. Carlo." she said. "Down with you!" The intruder was a little, old man, with gold spectacles, and a massive gold watch chain. His face was full, kind, genial. His broad chin was smoothly shaven, his eyes twinkled merrily, and 1 he had an odd trick of shrugging up his shoulders. ) "Good morning. Miss," said the old gentleman. The little girl aid not know what to say, so she 1 nodded pleasantly. "You will excuse me," said he. "What for?" asked she. "For jumping over the wall.'' \ "0 ! other folks do come in through the gate. < since I think of it. That is what gates are for,' k said the little girl. "My name is Cruvelli?Professor Cruvelli," * said the old man a little pompously. r "And mine is Madafme, ' said she. "I live here." . "So I thought," said the professor, taking a pinch of snuff. "Perhaps you do not know me. T I am a musician?a great violinist ? a composer. I make people laugh and cry, They risk suffocation to hear me; they crowd; they cry 'bravo' and 'encore.' I don't mind them. I draw my bow, I play my arias and grow rich ? very rich. I am ^ trying to talk now so that you can understand m? s I heard you sing. Your voice is sweet and clear; it 1 leaps the octaves; it cuts the air like a lark in the & morning. I have just composed a precious little morceau. You shall learn it. You shall sing it at a the theatre." _ c "No, I shall not," said Madaline, bluntly. ' 'I will give you a hundred francs.'' c "No." ' "Five hundred." ? "No." . . ? "Five hundred francs every time you sing it." "Please excuse me," said Madaline. f> "Why will you not sing it?" "Oh, I might consent to sing it, but not in the a theatre. That is a wicked place. It is wrong to a be there. It is no place for little girls." ? "Wellyou maybe right, Madaline," and the 11 professor took another pinch of snuff and crammed t the box into his pocket in a manner which betrayed J; that he was slightly vexed. '' "You may be right, I say. But come to my 1 house and learn the aria, anyhow. Here is my 8 card." 8 Madaline took the card and the old gentleman I left, again jumping over the wall. She started for r the house, with the dog at her heels. At the gate a she was met by a boy. His clothing, though neat, ? was threadbare. His eyes were clear and honest, 0 and his forehead high and broad. He had a crutch v in one hand, and leaned upon another. 1 "Good morning, Madaline," he said. _ r "How do you ao, Lionel? ' she answered brisk- a ly. * "Not very well. That fall through the hatchway has erippled me for life. What am I to do now?" 1' "Yes, that is it What are you to do now? I J cannot tell." * "If I could go to college?to X' Ecole de Droit.'' | "You would become a great man, eh?" and ? Madaline's eyes shone as she spoke. "And why not go ?" n "Ah! why not? That you should ask I" c "I understand you. You have not the means. 1.' Well, how much will it take?" a "To graduate ?" I "So! you have even thought of that? Well, ' how much will it take?" t "I have never asked. A great sum, Madaline? a more than I can ever raise. Let us not talk about c it. It makes me feel sad." Madaline shaded her eyes with her hands a min- s ute. Something was flashing through her busy 5 little brian. f "Lionel," she said, "I have often thought of vnn ? esneeiallv since the shocking accident. You I tave always been" kind to me. You have done * me some favors." ? "None worth speaking of, Madaline." c "Perhaps I can help you to the money. I will try. Mind, I only said perhaps. Meet me here at this time to-morrow." "I will, Madaline. May God bless you." Madaline hurried into the house. She did not see that the crippled boy threw kisses after her f with his hand. o Up stairs she went. She was in search of her d father. She found him in the library. He was 1 an elderly man, with pleasant faoe, and light hair t like hers, only his face just then wore a sad and 1 worried look. j He looked up and spoke to her, and then became c absorbed in the mass of papers on the table before him. "Pa," she cried. "I want you to give me five hundred francs in the morning." He merely elevated his brows a little; but upon ier repeating the request, he looked up and asked ler what she wanted with so much money. "That is to be a secret," she replied. "I will jut it to a good use." "I have no floubt of that I would like To oblige ny little girl very much," he said, kindly, aJhough his face grew sadder, "but at present I annot My mind and money must be directed ino another channeL Things have not been going ight, and it will require much watchfulness ana nore economy to save me from a serious loss.'' A moment afterwards he was again loet in those nysterious papers, forgetting that his little daugher I<fadaline was in the room. Did she pout, and storm, and insist upon being lumored ? No, she did not; she was too good finhat She felt and knew that her father's reason 'or not obliging her was sufficient to himself and ihe felt it ner duty to believe that it should bp ufficient to herself also. She stole quietly out *of ho roojn, though slightly disappointed. Urvtn TTrnn oVlA OlH T .lATlol rtAUT 9 .QKd flimi nrVif nf JUU1T TTOO oub W oiu amvubl uwn 4 vuu vuvmqmv w* he proposition made to her in the garden. She ooked at the card and saw on it, "PRO. VERNET CRUVELLI, No. 49 Rue de Rivoli." "I will go and see him this afternoon," she said o herself; and then she sang a verse of the little long that had attracted the attention of the comjoser. She went to his house in the afternoon, and met [done! at the garden gate the next morning, as she promised she would. And every day thereafter ora week she went to the professor's to practice. In a little while on flaming placards was read a lotice of a new musical progidy ? "Le Petite Jabrielle, the wonderful;" the Little Queen of long," &c. The theatre in which she sang drew preat crowds. "I believe I will go and hear the little singer ?ho is creating such an excitement," said Madaine's father, pushing back his chair from the sup>er table. This is announced as the third and ast night. Would you like to go, Madaline?" "Excuse me, pa," she said. He was not lookng at her just then, or he would have wondered fhy he face grew so red. On the evening of Madaline's engagement at the heatre a carriage called for her at the house of the irofessor, and left her there again. It did not take ler long to perform her part, and it came early on he programme. Hence, she had not been from lome long enough to have made her absence a ubject of remark. Madaline's father went to the theatre. At the ippointed time a beautiful, fair-haired girl, plainly ma chastely attired, came on the stage and sang. Oh, sucn singing! It was grand, exquisite!? )emonstrations of applause rent the building. The ather clapped his hands, in delight, ana cried 'encore" with the rest Heknewnis little girl, le made his way to the door of the green room.? le got into the carriage with her. ' Madeline, what does this mean?" he asked. "Forgive me. pa! I shall sing no more in public, [bey paid me five hundred francs a night "Five hundred francs!" "Yes. Three nights?fifteen hundred francs. Po-morrow I shall give them to Lionel the cripple, le wants to go to the Academy L Ecole de Droit r "You dear little angel!" cried her father, emiracing and kissing her. "And was it for that you wanted me to .give you hat money ? Yousav you will not sing any more?" "If you do not wish ine to." "Yes. but you shall. I do wish you to. The land of Providence is in this. That my child ihould have such a gift! See here, Madaline; hrough the treachery of a friend I nave become fearfully embarrassed." "Is that why you put me off when I asked you or money ? And I shall sing for you how many lights ?' As many as needs be, you dear, good child." And Maaaline ? Le Petite Gabrielle of the flatting placard ? sang for the 6eason, and saved her ather from bankruptcy. TO THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTH. "The Ladies' Memorial Associatioiffor Confederate Dead of Oakwood," near Richmond, Virginia, vas organized permanently on the 19th of April, 1866, for the purpose of rescuing from oblivion the lames and graves of the gallant Confederate Dead vho sleep at Oakwood Cemetery. This Cemetery, situated one mile east of the city, lontains sixteen thousand Confederate Soldiers jrraves. A larger number than any other in the South, including representative dead from every Southern State. The graves are in a neglected condition, the iames of the occupants marked only by rude pieces >f board carelessly and slightly put in the earth.? rhe grounds are aesolate and unenclosed. The Common Council of the City of Richmond las undertaken the work of enclosing the Cemetey, and has made the requisite appropriation for hat purpose. The work of love, gratitude and duty, which this Association proposes for itself is simply this : < First. To turf each grave and mark it with a leat wooden head-board, upon which is to be incribed the name of the occupant, his State, regiuent and company, and other information in re ;ard to him. Secondly. To lay out and decorate the grounds, md to redeem them from their present condition if utter cheerlessness and desolation. And Thirdly. At some future day, when the finances if the Association shall permit it, to replace the rooden headboards with enduring marble, and to rect a handsome monument for each State of the South, commemorating its dead. To effect these purposes it is necessary to appeal o the people of the South for pecuniary assistance. ?he Association is poor, the people of Richmond re poor, and the work to be clone is for the-honor nd credit of the entire South. It would be an inlelible shame and an ever present disgrace if, havng the power to honor our dead, to perpetuate heir names and memories, and to preserve and proect their graves, our people should suffer them to ie neglected and forgotten until the frail record of heir names, death, and burial places are totally detroyed by decay, and the the task rendered imposible. How many families throughout the South lave representatives sleeping at Oakwood Cemetey ? How many mothers, and sisters, and fathers, nd brothers, and friends, would be soothed and ratified to know that their brave dead were honred, and their graves cared for and tended ? Who rould not be shocked antL-pained to witaaaa tha iresent condition of these graves, and to see how apidly the hand of Time is obliterating all traces nd memorials of the gallant who dead who died or us? Could the people of the South look upon the onely, desolate, and neglected graves, no appeal irould be necessary. The silent rebuke of these orgotten heroes, would reach the hearts and conciences of every Christian man and woman of the South. The Association is not for a day or a year; it is lot the passing fancy of an hour, or the ephemeral reature of a momentary impulse; it is permanenty organized^ with already two hundred and fifty ctive memDers. n wlu &uuw uu iwi umu >urposes are successfully and fully achieved. It Till not fail, it cannot fail, it shall not fail, until he manhood of the South has lost its chivalry, ,nd until its women have ceased to mourn for their hildren because "they are not" In this work of piety and love the Association olemnly pledges its honor to the people of the South to apply, faithfully and economically, the unds whicn may be contributed. Contributions may be sent to the Rev. A. E. )ickinson, Rev. Wm. Norwood, Rev. P. B. Price, lev. J. A. Proctor, Richmond, Va., or to Mrs. E. i. Turpin; Treasurer of Oakwood Memorial Assoiation, Richmond, Va. Mrs. M. H. SMITH, President Mrs. A. Y. STOKES, Vice President Mrs. C. Poythress, Secretary. To Soldiers and Friends op Soldiers?Misortune has fallen heavily upon Mre. Donald Rowe, f Orangeburg, the great friend and nurse of solliers during the late war. The property of her msband is advertised to be sold by tne sneriff on [ he next sale day, and she will be left without louse or home. Many oi the soldiers have exiressed a desire to assist her in this hour of her lis tress. She labored for no pay during the war, and now asks for no remuneration for services, but we feel that it would be a lasting reproach upon the country to allow her to be turned homeless upon the world. We therefore propose to purchase the plantation for her. Two thousand dollars have already been secured for this purpose, and we earnestly solicit contributions from all who are willing to assist in this noble work. Send your money as speedily as possible. Remit to Mr. Leonard Chapin, Charleston, S. C., Rev. W. (J. Connor, Orangeburg, S. C., or Mr. F. G. DeFontaine, Columbia, S. C. All papers friendly to the cause will confer a favor by copying this. ' THE MYSTERIOUS WOMAN. ' 'At a certain town-meeting in PennsylvanuL the question came up whether any persona should be . licensed to Bell rum. The clergy man, the deacon, and physician, strange aa it may now appear, all favored it One man only spoke against it, necause of the mischief it did. The question was about to be put when all at once there arose from one corner of the room a miserable woman. :!She was thinly clad, and her appearance indicated the nt^flitter a mot^i o^afenSTan^afl eyes being fixed upon her, she stretched her attenuated body to its utmost height, and then her long arms to their greatest length, and raising her voice to a shrill pitcn, she called to all to look atxmiier. " 'YesI' she said, 'look upon me, and Men hear me. All that the last speaker has said relatrre to temperate drinking, as being the father of drunkennpas in tmie All nnurfiM all anwniiMua' 'J ? ? W VAUV>1IVUV^? ?v clares its truth. All drinking of ^Wf1# poison, as a beverage in health, is excess. Look upot^me I You all know me, or once did. You all know I was once the mistress of the beatfarm.in.the town. Yon all know, too, I had one of the best, the most devoted of husbands. You all know I had fine, noble-hearted, industrious boys. Where are they now? Doctor where are they now? You all know. Yon all know they lie in a row side by side iti yonder churchyard; all?every one of them filling the drunkard's grave! They were all taught to'believe that temperate drinking was safe; that excess alone ought to be avoided; and that they never acknowledged excess. They quoted you, and yon, and yon, (pointing with her shred of a finger to the minister, deacon, and doctor,) as authority. They thought themselves safe under such teachers. But I saw the gradual change ooming over av family and prospects with dismay and honor. I felt we were all to be overwhelmed in one common ruin. I tried to ward of the blow. I tried to break the spell, the delusive spell, in which the idea of the benefits of temperate drinking had involved my husband and sons. I begged, I prayed, but the odds were against me. The minister shid the poison that was destroying my husband and boys was a good creature of Goa; the deacon, who arts under the pulpit there, and took our farm to pay his rum bills, sold them the poison; the doctor said a little was good, and excess only ought to be avoided. My poor husband and my dear boys fell into the snare, and they could not escape; and one after another were oonveyed to the sorrowful grave of the drunkard. Now look at me again. You probably see me for the last time. My sands have almost rum I have dragged my exhausted frame from my present home?your poor-house?to warn you all! to warn you. deacon 1 to warn you, false teacher of God's word 1' And with her arms flung high, and her tall form stretched to its utmost ana her voice raised to an unearthly pitch, she exclaimed : (I soon shall stand before the judgement-seat of God. I shall meet you there* you suae guides, and be a witness against you all r "The miserable woman vanished. A dead silence pervaded the assembly; the minister, deacon, and physician hung their heads; and when the president of the meeting put the question, 'Shall any licenses be granted for the sale of spirituous liquors ?' the unanimous response was, NoC " Bad Reports op the Prince op Wales.?The Prince of Wales is going in bad company., if the following story, toluby a London letter-writer, is true: "A matter which greatly disturbs the good and loyal subjects of England is the intimacy between the Duke of St Albans and the Prince of Wales. The Duke of St Albans is a young man about the age of the Prince, and he has succeeded in the course of his short but eventful life, in getting up one of the most notorious reputations in Europe. His character is so bad that, with very high rank and great wealth, he is not tolerated in the respectable aristocratic society of Loudon. He began his career by getting into all sorts of scrapes at Oxford, in which city he used to appear with greater regularity in the police court than at the college chapel, and from which University he was finally expelled in disgrace. Since then he has been the hero of innumerable adventures on the Continent, scandalous and otherwise; is well known in every gambling house, and brothel and police court of Paris, and is as accomplished a vilhan, for a young man, as you can find in many a day. "At Oxford, one day, while yet he was in his teens, three different young women appeared in Court against him, with charges of seduction.? Since then he has matured in every species of dissipation, and is as well known to the London police as any long-fingered Jack from Billingsgate.? And this is the most intimate friend, companion and confidant of the heir to the British throne.? They are constantly seen together?often go armin-arm together alone o'nights, (and where they go to is hardly a mystery.) St Albans stays by the week at Marlboro' House, and the Prince of Wales as regularly reciprocates by visiting the Duke at his house?and they are, in every way, 'hand in glove.' Not only this; the Duke of St Albans is the intimate friend of the Princess, as well as the Prince of Wales, and is often seen riding with her alone in the parks. It is, naturally, a matter of uneasiness to the English that so. graceless a reprobate should be so familiar with theirfuture Queen, who is quite too giddy now to suit their staid tastes, and who is vastly imprudent in her association with this noble Duke. Thus we see the Prince of Wales and his fair wife going in the same path that George the Fourth trod, and we may look forward to a not very promising reign, when another tory and dis solute king ascends the British throne." A CURIOUS SCENE. The New York correspondent of the Charleston News relates a singular occurrence which took place a few days since at Greenwood Cemetery. A young widower, whose first wife has been dead but three months, took unto himself a second spouse, and on the day after the knot was tied took wife number two to Greenwood Cemetery, to visit the grave of wife number one. Standing over the grave, the grief-stricken man indulged himself in a burst of Srnw. and remarked to himself thnt nn mm.* ved who oould compare with her who lay beneath the grass-covered sod. The live wife took exception to the spirit of the remark, as well as at the remark itself about the spirit She denied the truth of the statement, and added that she considered herself far superior, in all respects, to the dead woman. The ex-widower assured her that she flattered herself, and that she oould not begin to compare with the defunct lady either in physical, mental or moral excellence; whereupon a quarrel arose ? the live wife beat her bosom's lord about the head with an umbrella; the man showed fight, and there was a veritable contest at the grave. The twain have separated; the lady has gone home to her parents, and the ex-widower is, practically speaking, a widower again. ?c? The Man Without an Enemy.?-Heaven help the man who imagines he can dodge enemies, by trying to please everybody I If such au individual ever succeeded we should be gladofit?not that we believe in a man's going through the world trying to find beams to knock nis head against; disputing every man's opinion, fighting and elbowing ana crowding all who differ with him. That, again, is another extreme. Other people have a right to their opinion, so have you; don't fall into the error of supposing they will respect you less for maintaining it, or respect you more for turning your coat every day to match the color of theirs. Wear your own colors spite of winds and weather, storms or sunshine. It costs the vacillating and irresolute ten times the trouble to wind and shuffle and twist that it does honest, manly independence to stand its ground. Mark op Honor.?The Calhoun literary Society of Wofford College. S. C.. which tome years ago elected W. W. Holden an honorary member, as a compliment, no doubt, to his poem upon John C. Calhoun, recently struck his name from the roll?Raleigh SentmeL