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r ^WI?r,^i;,?RIS,I,> __ ^n Intif'Tiihnt /:imi!!) jU')"sprrr: jfkjt Jgraroogro of tin |clifcal, Social. Agricultural anS (Tmunifrrial j*iifcrcsis of % ?tmtj}. __ _ VOL. 13. YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 1867. '-v- 2SXL S&:' 'Jfrfertei foctrg. THE CONFEDEBATE DEAD. BY COL. THEODORE O'HA&A. [The following lines are unsurpassed by anything of their kind in the English language. They are touching, beautiful, eloquent and grand. One of the stacxas now adorns a monument in Boston cemetery?yes, even in cultivated, conceited Boston, where they boast of their Longfellows, and Holmeses, and look with contempt upon all American literature that does not have its birth in Massachusetts. The author, a gallant soldier poet of the C. S. A., is now dead. He was on General Breckinridge's staff.] The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet The brave and daring few ; On Fame's eternal camping ground N Their silent tents are spread. And glory guards with solemn round, The bivouao of the dead. No answer to the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarmsNo braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plnfned heads are bowed, Their haughty banner, trailed in dnst, Is now their martial shroud; And plenteous funeral tears have washed Their red stains from each brow, And their proud forms in battle gushed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing steed, the flashing blade, The trumpet's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Not war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall fill with fierce delight, Those breasts that never more shall feel The rapture of the fight"* . *, ; " " ' ; V "Is ; Like the dread Northern hurricane That sweeps his brood plateau, Flushed with the trinmpn yet to gain, Came down the serried foe; Our heroes felt the shock and leapt To meet them on the plain; And long the pitying sky hath wept Above our gallant slain. Sons of the consecrated ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the endless air ; Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave; She claims from war his richest spoil, The ashes of her brave. So 'neath their parent's turf they rest, Far from the gory field; Borne to a Spartan* mother's breast, On many a bloody shield; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred hearts and eyes watch by The heroe's sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the bloody bravo; No impious footsteps here shall tread The heritage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While fttme her reoord keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless tone In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanquished age hath flown, The story how you fell; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight Nor time's remorseless doom,. Shall dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. poumekttc. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. TIG WEALTH OF 101. A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE. BY MRS. M. A. EWART, AUTHORESS OF "ELLEN CAMPBELL, OR KINO'S MOUNTAIN," AND OTHER STORIES. chapter yl ' 'Margaret, my dear daughter, you have worked faithfully, nobly," said Mr. Carter, kissing her fondly. "This is the proudest day of my life. I can scarcely believe that your own self-sustained efforts, have accomplished so much. John will now be able to take the place he so longed to obtain, and which his want of capital seemed to deny, perhaps, for years to come. My brave boy! he well deserves it, too," said his father proudly. "He vowed he would never ask security from any man?that business lottery, which "Webster calls the curse of America. He has not done it; and now, unaided, save by the loving hand of sisters and parent, he can take the position which will enable him to claim his sweet Mary for a wife. You have made two hearts happy then, Mag." "It is not all mine, dear father," said Margaret, her eyes soft in tears. "Janie worked with me, and has struggled as unselfishly and far more nobly than I have done." "Why, daughter, I thought the most came from you," said Mr. Carter. "Yes, in one sense. My accomplishments paid me liberally?more than Janie's naturally brighter and better mind paid her ; but she has given more energy, more resolution, more stoical self-sacrifioe than I have. It is natural for me to be cold and proud and stern, consequently to be self-reliant, to be enduring, to be resolute, but with Janie it is so different Her nature calls for dependence, for trust Her impetuous, impatient disposition chafes and beats against the dull routine of labor. Imbued as she is with imagination and (poetry, the realities of every day working life are gall and wormwood to her. Her gay, joyous disposition rebels at restraint and yet she must not only rebuke it in herself, but punish it in othera Janie has suffered, and is suffering, but it is the old Spartan story with her?she will die before you will know it Not that she has not perfect confidence, perfect trust in our love, but she imagines it selfish and obtrusive to thrust her grief on othera And not only that, but to her a sorrow of whatever character, is too sacred to show its deepest passion, even to the nearest and dearest; so she shuts it away in some inner cell, hides it with a veil far more impenetrable than my pride and coldness ever did." Mr. Carter mused uneasily, i "What you say is true, Margaret; and Janie, I cannot tell how, is changed of late. Wife have you noticed it ?" Mrs. Carter sighed. "Yes, Janie is not well; she is overworked. I think we should absolutely insist upon her giving up teaching. It is now no longer necessary; your new position will amply support us in our modest onrl T fMnlr vuo cYtnnlil inoiof. ntwn itr" 6"~"~ ""*~" "Why do you think Janie not well?" said Mr. Carter suddenly. "I can scarcely say," replied the mother. "I notice it more in a nervous irratability, a feverish impatience, a hardness, a hopelessness about her that is not natural to her. I have, too, seen lately, an excessive languor; at times giving place to an almost fierceness, that makes her totally unlike herself." "This must be attended to," said Mr. Carter, startled for his favorite child. "I have not noticed it?but I have been seldom at home lately, except at meals, and then she was always gay." "Yes; that is so," replied Mrs. Carter, "but strained and unnatural, and latterly, invariably fol lowed by an unreasonable and irritable impatience or a passion of tears, which is even more alarming.' "Is not that Janie, now?" said Mr. Carter, a her clear bird-like voice floated into the room. "Yes," replied Mrs. Carter; and the next mo ment Janie entered. "You here papa?" said she, bounding to him "This is pleasant I do not often meet you whei I come from school." He kissed her, and pushing back the hair fron her face said, "Janie, you don't look well, you an growing thin and pale; what's the matter, dar ling?" "Who told you I was not well?" replied Janie almost fiercely, shaking the hair around her face "I'm well enough." She drew away from him. "Stop, Janie, I want to talk with you. Do yoi know that Mag and you have made us so rich that I do not intend you shall work any more' My brave little woman I how John will blesi you. She put her head on his shoulder, but did no I answer. been astonished about it" "Did you not say at the time you thought it was Hunter; and did not John say the letter looked like his writing?" asked Janie. "Yes, I did; but what of that? I only guessed it," said Mr. Carter. ? "Nothing," said Janie, and put down her head | and smiled. "I wonder why Mag could not like that young ! man ? He is certainly a noble fellow, and so suiI ted to her. I never saw a fellow so cast down aj that last rejection made him. He told John he felt almost sure she was not indifferent to him; but she rejected him promptly, decidedly, with not the faintest shadow of a hope that she will ever be more than she is to him. I think Newton was in the way?what do you think Janie?" said Mr. Carter. "What! if Newton loves Mag? I know it," said she smiling. Mrs. Carter sighed. "Margaret will make him a good wife, but 1 doubt if she will ever be popular as a minister'? wife. She is sympathising and earnest, but not feeling nor demonstrative enough." "Mother is thinking of some one who will make a better one," laughed Janie. "Who, Janie; you?" said Mr. Carter. "Do you think the man daft?" said Janie. "Her face is fair, her heart is true, As spotless as she's bonnie, O; The opening daisy wet wl' dew, Nae purer is than Nannie, O." "Well, mamma, don't fret. Newton loves Mag, but he loves somebody else better." "How do you know, Janie?" said Mrs. Carter. "I don't know at all?just feel so?something tells me," she replied. "You are a strange child," said Mrs. Carter. "I know it, mamma," said Janie, the smile leaving her lip ; "but you know I always was." "I suppose John will be married now," continued Janie, languidly. "Yes, early in the fall," he says. "What a sweet wife he is getting in Mary; the veiy girl for * t i ?i i.: him?trailtc, xeariess, aomesuc aiiu miauuuua-. She would make a happy fireside for any man, and loving John as she has from childhood, she will make the happiness perfect." "I am glad John is going to be married," said Janie. "Why, Janie 1 then we will lose him," said her father. "I know it; but I think any one is happier married," she replied. "You do ? Why don't you marry then, you witch?" said Mr. Carter. "Oh! I never intend to marry," said Janie, putting her head on her father's knee. "Why, daughter?" said he, stroking her curls fondly, "not when you think they are happier?" "Oh! because there are no good men in the world now?they are all married or dead; You and John are the only ones I know of." "You little flatterer? Are not Hunter and Newton good men ? Could you not love them?" "I did not think about them. Yes, they are good, but Newton is too good. I should be an incubus to him; and he a sinless model, that would cause me to wear my life away in seeking to imitate. No, that would not do. I could not draw him down to my level, nor has he the power to elevate me to his. Hunter l yes. Hike Hunter, but he would not let me manage him, and then n l 4.^ ?? We WOUId oe sure wj 4u?iw. The father laughed. "Manage him, Janie; you surely don't want to manage your husband." "Yes I do, though," said Janie quietly. "Why your mother does not manage me." "No; better for her if she had 1" laughed Janie. "And you would make your husband do just as you please, Janie?" "Make is not the word," said Janie, musingly; "but he uxruld do it, and I know it But pshaw 1 did I not tell you I was not going to marry." "And be an old maid ?" Janie. "What do you say, Janie; ^ill your indepen deoce suffer your father to support you as he die when you were his little pet on the knee?" "You do not know what you ask, sir; better lei me work. I am happier to have my mind pre-oc cupied." "WhatI do you love labor, Janie?" She laughed convulsively. "Love our curse? No," said she vehemently. "I hate it. Its Jauggernaut car is constantly cry inggive, give, and childhood gives smiles, and glee, and joy to it; and youth gives strength and buoyancy, and hope to it; and old age gives rest, anc peace, and life, to it; and we all feel it, for oui mother sinned, and we are cursed." "Janie, Janie, don't speak so wildly," said "Mrs. Carter. "Has not the curse been our blessing' How are we repaid in peace of conscience, in grateful hearts, in tears of thankfulness, in the love oi our near and dear ones, in the happiness of oui children, till we bless God in thus enabling us 'tc take joyfully the spoiling of our goods.'" "That does not alter the curse, mother. The end it accomplishes proves the blessing, but in finding it, woman proves there is 'multiplied sorrow,' " said she moodily. "Come, Janie, you are tired now," said Mr. Carter cheerily, "and not prepared to argue. Ha* not poverty made our poets, our artists, our statesmen ? Who builds our churches, our monuments, our temples, but poverty ? Who pioneers the waj for civilization, and improvement, but "poverty < Who brings up the treasures of the deep, and ol the mine, but poverty? The furnace, the fuller'? soap, the dark waters of God's word, are all poverty, refining, cleansing, purifying for 'that house nol made with hands.'" She did not answer save by burying her head or her father's shoulder "You will consent to rest, will you not, Janie ?" "I'm weary," said she. "I expect its rest that I need, bat I must work this summer; in the fall you may do with me as you please." "That's right, Janie; we'll nurse you back tc health again. Oh! wife, by the way, it was Stephen Hunter who sent that money for John's benefit; you know I thought it was he." "Margaret arose and left the room. "When Newton found we would not accept it, he told me it was Hunter offered it. I was a little surprised at Margaret's persistency in refusing it, thoueh had she known it was he, I would not have I- "I don't mind that," said J&nie, raising hei i, head ; "old maid is often bat another name for pa' tience, for sacrifice, and at last for reward. The s name is a small part of it, if I could only find the 'satisfying good' for my heart," she said musing ly. "Will fame, or fortune or friends, fill it ? 1 don't know; one blessed with the gracious gifts ol . genius says: 3 "Oh ray God! Thou hast knowledge, only Thou; How dreary His Tor woman to sit still, On winter nights by solitary fires?and hear the nations ^ praising thein afar off." e "I am not ambitious. This 'far off praise' Ttrrmlri nnf anfiofu mf> Infinitely dearer is the sweet and quiet joy of home. Wife and mother love , will never be mine, but sister and daughter love I , can claim, and a happy knowledge that I am not only loved, but needed." Her father's eyes filled with tears ; there was 1 such inexpressible sadness in the tone. "And you , are to be my little Ruth, Janie?" ? She kissed his hand. i "Yes, papa; call me that?I would be your Ruth." t "Asyou will, darling; may God bless you." He kissed her and went out. "Come here, Janie," said Mrs. Carter. 1 Janie crossed the room languidly. "I do not think you ought to continue work this t summer, daughter; indeed, you do not look - well." "Yes, I am, mother," said Janie, fretfully. "But you don't like it, and why do you persist?" said Mrs. Carter, soothingly. * "Sick folks don't like medicine, either, mother; but they must take it sometimes," said Janie, , laughing. "And are you taking it as a medicine ?" asked 1 Mrs. Carter. "Yes, mam," said she. "For what, Janie "' ^ JJ TmaUAJ An^ A^1 Win/liMTT UUUIU lUlllCU) a LIU 1UU&CU UUt \jl buc tt iiiu'j ?t Suddenly her whole frame seemed quivering vrith life, her face flushed warm and beautiful, her eyes P flashed and melted. The bell rang. She stood a moment listening?every sense strained to catch > the voice?then suddenly shrinking, the. light seemed to go out of her heart as she hurriedly ! whispered, "mamma, I have a headache; I can i see no one," she ran up stairs to her own chamber. "Mr. Wilcox," said the servant, ushering him in. Janie's excuse and regrets were given, and look> ing annoyed and disappointed, the young man left. Mrs. Carter sat with her head bent on her hand , for a long while; then rising, she went up to Ja' nie's chamber. Janie had partly undressed and ' thrown herself upon the bed. She was in a light f slumber, her face indicated passionate weeping, s and even yet, tears hung on her heavy lashes, and , she sobbed like a tired child. After awhile she ; moved restlessly, started, opened wide her ej'es, "mamma, you there I Is he gone?" Thus as i she met her mother's calm, steady gaze, with a crimson face, she buried her head on the pillow. "Is who gone, Janie ?" said Mrs. Carter. < Janie did not speak, but burst into bitter teal's. 1 "Mychild, this will not do; have you a sorrow you would hide from your mother?" said Mrs. > Carter, caressingly. "Tell me, Janie," said she after waiting some time. "Do you love litis man?" Janie did not answer, but wept on. "And he does not love you, my poor child?" "Yes, he does, mamma," said Janie, hurriedly raising her tear-stained face. "Do you think I would love hint if he did not ?" > "Well, what is it, then?'' said hermother, wholly at a loss to account for Janie's grief. 1 "Why I dare not marry him ; he is not good, ^ nor honest, nor true, in any sense of the words," said Janie. 1 "And he has told you he loves you ?" asked the mother. ' "Yes," she whispered; "more than once or twice?every time we meet." \ "Does he know you love him?" said Mrs. Car ter. > "I don't know, mamma," said Janie, blushing; > "I never told him so, but I expect he sees." > "And loving him as you do, and knowing that ! he loves you, you have rejected him from the mere > force of principle, all these weary months ?" asked i Mrs. Carter. "Yes," said Janie, simply. "My noble girl!" said Mrs. Carter, folding her to her heart "To gain a conquest over temptation, is at any time noble; but to gain a conquest over affection and the desire of the heart, Janie, I do not know what to call it. Nothing but the i grace of God could have so assisted you." ' "I know it, mother. 1 never could have done it of myself; and sometimes when almost over1 come, I would whisper, 'I can do all things through Christ strengthening me.' Then I was able to reply calmly, coldly, even when my heart was almost breaking to be heard." v "Tell me all about it, Janie." "Well, mamma," said Janie, sobbing stDl from her excitement, "You know, long ago, before we left our own house, Edward was much with us. He was so handsome, and so?you know mamma what he is?that I loved to be with him; indeed it was perfect delight just to watch him. He used to say a great many things to me which might mean nothing or a great deal, as I choose to render them; but his manner, his tone meant what my heart never mistook. It was a delight, too, to be loved by him ; though I constantly felt, not a superiority, but a certainty that he could not supply the exigencies of my nature?a constant torture that he was a glittering casket, perfectly soulless and gemless. So, I ever warded off anything like tenderness, till the night when our failure was known. He came to me and I yielded, weakly yielded against this judgment ; which, susceptible as I am, rules me with a rod of iron, menacing me at every step, mocking me at every fall. It was only for a little while. I told him of the expectation of the world. I told him I was poor, and I saw him falter; I told liim he was free, and he barely expostulated. For a, little moment, how I hated him, how I hated myself. I shudder now, when I think how faith in God and man utterly failed me. Well, we parted; he did not seek another interview, and I was left i alone with nothing but that memory. God help me," said she burying her face in her hands, i 'beautiful even in death it was tome.' Yon do not know all the weary sorrow of that year, rising in the morning and saying, 'Would God it were evening,' and lying down at night crying, 'Would God it were morning.' And then my work of daily i duty, with an unceasing cry of rest, rest, Oh! it was agony." I I "Well, one day on*coming out of school, I saw him?he saw me too; and I felt that he followed ' me with his eyes, though I did not dare a second i look. I was glad he did not come to speak to me. I think if he had, I should have just sprang into t his arms. When I saw him again I was prepared for it I dou't know how I met him, but he asked me to walk with him. We walked away out to the i grove and sat there till the shadows had deepened almost to night All that time he never spoke to me of love. He told me of his travels, of historic England, of sunny France, of legendary Germa ny, of memory haunted Italy, of classic Greece, of i Oriental Turkey, of every place where his feet had trod, and yet I knew that I alone had filled his heart in those storied lands?that I alone had power now to move the pulses of his being. Well, we met again; he had less control over himself, for I exerted my power. If I had chosen, he would have poured out his heart; buthe had not the nat ural nobleness, the generosity to ask a poor girl, though loving her as he did me, to be his wife, and t I played with the heart that Iknew was mine, that I loved so dearty, that I would have rather died ! than accepted. . \ f "We met again and again?sweet "seductive pleasure?often "he would sit for hours with his hand on mine, scarcely speaking, and yet the very air around us seemed vibrating with the unspoken tenderness. He called hie Janie; I called him Edward?but the moment he would approach the one subject that was filling each of our hearts, i some taunting gibe on poverty, some sarcasm on love, would hush him to silenoe. But it came at last, and I refused him, oontemptuosly, cruelly. But what did he care for the lip denial, when he i knew the heart was his alone 1 We have met often since, and arc still meeting, and I feel that I am growing weaker, so that I will see him no more." She sat with a cold stony look. tiv iuu are ugui* iii/} vuuu} wuu xuio. vww?, "see him no more. He is not worthy of my true hearted girl; oold, selfish and vain, he would not make you happy." "Hush ! mother," said Janie, huskily. "I love him yet; touch the wound gently. I know his faults?spare me." "Are you seeking strength for this, Janie?" said Mrs. Carter. "Blindly, yes;" replied Janie. Then suddenly starting up she paced the floor, "and I am grasping madly, blindly after earthly love, with the yearning He himself has given me, and ho on whom I poured it all forever gone; and now this ocean of tenderness returns, to me unfathomed, and my 'sorrows, crOwn of sorrow, is remembering happier things.' " "Janie, darling, don't speak so wildly, so despairingly. This thick cloud will pass away, and you will yet bless Hod that he has saved you from sorrow, saved you from yourself." "I will see the silver shining after the rain, shall I?" said Janie, smiling sadly. "Well, let me work it out myself, mamma; do not pity, do not notice me. I have tried 'creature duty,' I have tried struggling, I have tried to shut out the affeotion that is my bane, hardening myself against all love, and all earthly rule has failed. I will no longer endeavor to extinguish or destroy these affections ; but I must ennoble them by a new and lofty spirit. I must have an aim, but it must be a sublime one; I must have affection, but it shall be a pure one ; and as your household Ruth, you will acknowledge that Janie cannot only suffer but overcome." "My brave girl, I do not fear you," said Mrs. Carter. "You have borne so silently, so patiently, all these sad months of sorrow, that I feel you will yet triumph." "Silently, you may say, mother; but not always patiently. I have just been like the silly moth fluttering round the candle, perfectly aware that I am lured to my own self-destruction; and yet, like the poor suicide, fluttering in my gayest humor around the flame in which I know I must perish. Yes, like the moth, I am very gay ; and like the moth, lam in pain." The attempt at her old gayety made Mrs. Carter almost weep. "I feel better for having told you all, mamma; yon will now bear with me if I seem disposed, at times, to be alone. There are times when any society is irksome, and I feel as if I must be alone. Perhaps, too, the knowledge that you are blaming him who is making me suffer, makes me more sensitive. Though I feel it just, it wounds and frets - If me. There was so much hopeless grief in Janie's voice ; there was such a sad patience in her loving face, and yet such dignity in the depth and pathos of her grief, that Mrs. Carter could not answer. Jonie kissed her. "Do not sorrow forme, mamma; resignation will come after awhile. I am just now beating about on this great ocean very haplessly I know, but there's a haven somewhere, and I'll find it" "My darling, I do not know what to say to you; you are so strbng in your suffering, that you do not seem to need sustaining power from others.? But Oh 1 my child, you must feel that I sorrow with you." Mrs. Carter put her head down on Janie's shoulder and burst into tears. "I know it, mamma," said Janie, perfectly tearless and calm. "But my young love is dying out now, and no one can enter into the death chamber. Just let me alone; sometimes the death struggles are keen?that is when some memory of tenderness floods my soul?then the throes are Bharp and bitter," said she, clenching her hand, and compressing her lips, "and I come but of it weak and wailing, 'but God gives patience; Love learns strength; and Faith remembers promise.' " "Janie, you make me ashamed; you are comforting me, instead of I you," said Mrs. Carter. "Is not that right, dear mamma?" said Janie, cheerfully. "1 brought you tho trouble ; I ought fA oVvlo in irioo vnn tnmo nnmfnrt lUlftfir 11H ! W MV UK/tV l>V gtlW J vv? WVUtU WU?V. ' ?r J there will be a resurrection yet, when I shall say, 'I am shamed through all my nature, to have loved so slight a thing.' Go down stairs now, dear mothei^-don't think of this any more. I will be singing before you get on the last step." Mrs. Carter kissed her, wondering at the inward power which had now subdued the storm of passion, and was making Janie smile in seeming happy content She had scarcely left the room when Janie broke forth? "Ah! turn from me those radiant eyes, With love'* daik lightning beaming? Or veil the power that In them Ilea To act the young heart dreaming!" She stopped and listened; how could she sing in such careless abandon ? ?"Not In vain, Thy wild with to aobdue me. To woo once more thy glance I'm fain * < Even should that glance undo me." ' She waited until the last lingering sound ceased. 1 There was perfect silence in the room for one moment, then a hurried step, a smothered sound of 1 bitter weeping, and Mrs. Carter understood the 1 cheerfulness was assumed for her sake. But she did not go back. She felt Janie would not like it, ' and she left her alone witih her sorrow, understand- ( ing better than she had ever done, the woman's ' heart that had hid with a mask of such childish ' carelessness, all the depths and tenderness of its 1 nature. [to be continued next week.] [Back numbers of the Enquirer containing so much of the foregoing stoiy as has been published, can be furnished, if applied for early.] "Why Bees "Work in the Dark.?A life-time ; might be spent in investigating the mysteries hid- 1 den in a bee-hive, and still half the secrets would < k/? TV,a formation of tho nell has ' Km UIIUlOWYClCUl JL liv ?v>? ? long been a celebrated problem for the mathema- i tician. Every one knows what honey fresh from the comb, is like. It is a pure syrup without the i trace of solid sugar in it Upon straining, how- i ever, it gradually assumes a chiystaline appearance j it candies, as the saying is, and ultimately becomes i a solid lump of sugar. It has not been suspected that this change was due to a photographic action; i that the same agent which alters the molecular ar- I rangements of the iodine of silver on the excited collodian plate, and determines the formation of i camphor and iodine chiystals in a bottle, causes i the syrup honey to assume a chiystaling form. I This, however, is the case. M. Sohiebler has en- < closed honey in stoppered flasks, some of which j he has kept in perfect darkness whilst others have been exposed tq the light The invariable results ] have been that the sunned portion rapidly crystali- t zee, while that kept in the dark has remained per- i fectly liquid. We now see why bees are so careful 1 to obscure the glass windows which are sometimes placed in their hives. The existence of their \ young depends on the liquidity of saccharine food 1 presented to them, and if light was allowed access v to this, the syrup would acquire a more or less solid o consistency; it would seal up cells, and in all probability prove fatal to the inmates of the hive. ii ??mm???mm-? v EL PASO DEL INFIERNO. i m usu a. uuaurxiw djjllxji. On the road from Monterey to Pesqueira Grande, and about four leagues from the former place, is the noted Pcuo del Infierno, or Pass of the Evil i' One. It is the northern termination of a valley, t enclosed by ridges of the Sierra Madre, which at this point, appear to have been split asunder by a some natural convulsion, expressly for the passage ii of this road. t From the cobaltic veins of the mountain, crop- b ping out into the valley, flows a little transparent, poisonous stream, which, after leaping playfully e from rock to rock, reaches the path, which it Cross- t es, and re-crosses, mocking the thirst of the traveler, and tempting him to drink of its deadly waters. e To deter him, however, and as a caution not to a permit his road-heated animals to imbibe from the u poisonous fountain, there is ruddy pictured upon si either side of the cliffs, a gigantic representation of p a death's head and cross bones; such as the careful cl apothecary pastes upon the bottles and packages containing nis deadliest drugs. n At the time I passed the spot, the loose rocks o: were thickly planted with wooden crosses, those a Spanish emblems of murder, telling the traveler U that the pass was the frequent scene of assassina- tj tion and robbery; that crime and violence here lay h in wait for their victim. d Near the poisonous streamlet, and almost in the ri path, was one of these crosses, already embrowned by exposure, upon one of the arms of which, was g; nailed by the wrist, a man's right hand. This si loathsome object, the skin and tendons of which ei still clung to the bones, was so contrived as to grasp ai a naked dagger, with its blade rusted with the S blood ot some napless victim or assassination.? ? Concerning this fearful spectacle, Jose Maria, the t< faithful and intelligent guide, who usually accom- C panied me in my wanderings, told the following tale: ii "Don Vecinte Ziminez, who lives in the hacien- h da we passed just before we entered the valley, is a rich man, or rather was; but the greatest trea- '] sure he possessed, was his beautiful daughter, la ai Senorita Ana. She was the pride of his heart, a and many were the youths?sons of the better cl class of haciendados, who had knelt to her loveli- d ness, and aspired to her hand. Among these was Pedro Canales, a nephew of General Canales; he tl who six months ago was the leader of the guerille- h ros of New Leon. And Don Vecinte, you remem- o! ber was formerly governor of Monterey. But the d favored suitor of the fair Ana, was Jacinto San- ii chez, whose father was the nearest neighbor of Don Vecinte, and whose hacienda commences half a a league from where we now are, and occupies the a valley we are about to enter. Jacinto and Ana had grown up from childhood together, being in e almost daily intercourse, and instructed by the same tutors; so that they had come to regard each g, other with the affection of brother and sister. But e, when, after an absence of four years in Madrid, C1 whither he had been to complete his studies?the g, young man returned to his native valley, and dis- f, covered the developed beauties of his former play- a mate, his boyish attachment suddenly assumed the character of a stronger and more passionate t| love. Ana, also, was struck with the favorable ][ change, which a residence among the polished jr Madrianos had wrought in the handsome youth. "Don Vecinte welcomed the return of the young ^ man warmly and it was soon rumored that he was 0 the accepted lover of the fair Ana Ziminez. a) "All the Senorita's former admirers congratula- w ted them upon their approaching marriage, save & Pedro Canales, who regarding the happy Jacinto y( as a rival in the affections of one, he was vain e- ^ nough to suppose looked upon him with preference?declared that tho wedding should never jj be consummated; and with a dogged manner, ft ' ? '? V?'n A?'nnJ snunneu a lueuuug mtu uisivuuu mvim. "At leDgth the time arrived, when Father Eu- ci sebio, the former instructor of Ana, and the vene- ol rable chaplain of the hacienda, was notified to be ci in readiness to celebrate the nuptials of the young a.1 people. "Great preparations were made to signalize the event with hilarity. A fiesta was decided upon, to which all the friends of the parties were invited, fe as well as all those with whom they were acquaint- hi ed, together with the peons and dependents of the te two estates.of Ziminez and Sanchez. d< "Among the friends, the discarded Pedro Ca- tl nales was not forgotten, and, as if regretting his h< long continued discourtesy, the guerrilla captain ai intimated his acceptance of the invitation; and all ai promised a happy celebration of the wedding fes- fo tivities. " si "Even before the sun had sunk behind the Si- oi erra, the rancho Ziminez began to fill with the as- tl sembling guests, and by the time the moon flooded pj the valley with her early beams, the little plaza ti' had become crowded with dancers, springing gaily af to the lively notes of guitars and castanets. fo "The happy Ana never appeared so lovely as that evening, when arrayed in white, and her dark pi tresses adorned with flowers, she impatiently a- ec waited the arrival of her lover. Surrounded by ce her attendants, she watched for his coming through gt the pass. S< "He was to make his appearance after the as- m semblage of the guests, accompanied by his rela- hi tives and the peons of his father's estate. h( "The dancers were in the height of enjoyment, wl when a ringing of the chapel bells announced the in coming of the expected cavalcade of the husband- wi elect All hastened to join the escort, at the out- an 3kirts of the village. But scarcely had they left wi the plaza when a few scattered horsemen dashed la1 up the road, instead of the party for which the pe welcome peal was echoing along the valley, who were the heralds of a terrible catastrophe I Jacinto hi Sanchez had been murdered in the Pass I hi "Horseman after horseman now rode into the ke plaza, confirming the fearful intelligence. The fa poung man, on his way to the marriage altar* had sti been suddenly struck down in the Pass of the Evil of One, by the knife of an assassin, and instead of the mi warm embrace of his waiting bride, the grave was fo: now open for his lifeless body 1 a i "When the terrible intelligence was communica- dc ted to the waiting bride, a wild, piercing ciy broke he From her, and was heard above all the sounds of an grief that rose upon the air from that agitated pi crowd, and exclaiming? an " 1I know his murderer /' the broken-hearted girl hi 3ank insensible into the arms of the attending wo- hi men. ye "For days and weeks she remained balancing be- hi tweenlife and death. During this long period not ci< a word was heard to pass her bloodless lips. She cn lay in a state of apathy, without indicationsof eith- pe er pain or remembrance of the terrible event of that wi night he "But one day, after awaking from a gentle and so nolouged dumber, she opened her eyes which rere bright with the light of returned consciousiess, and signed to one of her watchers to approach ler bed, and in a feeble voice asked for her father. "The woman, oveijoyed to hear once more the roice of her,mistress, informed her that her hither tad not for an hour left her side till that morning, rhen his presence had been required at the rancho if his neighbor, whither he had gone. " 'Ah, yes! I remember it all 1' exclaimed the i nvalid, with a bitter sigh. Hat, Juana, tell me rhere is that fatal weapon that drank the life-blood f my Jacinto? I dreamed that it was found upon lis body 1' " 'It was, senora,' answered the woman, 'and is u the possession of padre Eusebio.' "'Bring it to me. I wotdd seeit.' "The woman hesitated. 1 " 'Nay, nay, Juaoa?trust me. I shall re ton t to the good father unstained with other blood han that of my Jacinto. Bring it to me.' "The girl spoke with a determined tone, which atisfied the woman of her sound mind; and feavQg the room, soon returned with the dagger, the 1 right blade of which had been dimmed by the j lood of the murdered youth still adhering to it j "The girl received it with a shudder; and.after < xaminingits silver handle for a moment, cast it < 3 the floor, exclaiming: ] "'Yesi I knew iti?'tis his.' j "From that time Ana Ziminez rapidly reoover- i d her physical health. Bat the memory of that j wful night of the wedding fiesta, preyed oontin- , ally upon her mind. Yet, withal, she seemed i tayed by some inward strength, some steady pur- i ose, which, once resolved npon, imparted to her j baracter an almost masculine quality. ] "Scarcely had three mouths passed after the < mrder <$f her lover, than, laying aside the garb i f mourning she had assumed, she once more re- j ;ived the attentions of her former admirers. But i > none did she extend so much apparent cordiali- f 7 as to her old suitor, Pedro Canales. He was < er Almost constant attendant; and scarcely did a ay pass, that the enamored guerilla was not either ( ding or walking by her side. < "One evening, Ana proposed a ride to the < loomy Pass. She had been daring that day una- < lally cheerful and her sallies of mirth and wit had 1 mboldened the young officer to declare his love 1 ad lay his heart at the feet of the beautiful girl ] he had received the avowal with apparent en- < juragement; and as he pressed his suit, promisecl i > give him an answer at the 'Pass of the Evil ] >ne.' i " 'But that is a strange, wild spot to make love 1 i,' said Canales, while a ghastly pallor spread over 1 is face. . i " 'I know it!' replied the girl, laughing loudly, t [t has heretofore witnessed only scenes of blood i i * . _ t>?i. t i i :u i.: l i na crime. x>ui x uave ueuuuie a wuu, nmuuiuu > eature, you know, Pedro, and so for once let us bange the character of the place, and make the ark cliff bear witness to your lover vows !' "So saying, she dashed down the valley toward le fatal pass, singing merrily as she rode, while er lover followed after her with mingled feelings f admiration and terror, for ever since the murer of Jacinto Sanchez, he had not ventured withi the shadows of the ghost-haunted place. "Darkness had closed down upon the fair valley nd yet the young people had not returned; and s hour after hour passed away without their reurn, the people of the rancho, fearful that some vil had befallen them, went out in search of them. "Within the narrow gorge were found the hor;s they had ridden, tethered to the rocks. Lighti torches were with the party; and there by the ross that had been erected upon the spot, staini by the blood of the murdered Jacinto, a fearil sight met their gaze! It was the body of his ffianced bride, his now forever, in death I "With a smile of triumph now upon her lips, re beautiful Ana Ziminez had let out her own fe, as was evident by the small stiletto grasped 1 her hand. "But she had not died alone?for at a little dis- , tnce lay the corpse of Pedro Canales, in a puddle ( f clotted blood. He had evidently met his death i t the hands of the girl; and a deep-punctured i ound upon the neck had let out his heart's blood. < . knife lay upon the ground near the body of the < sung man, the right hand of which had been dis- ?. ivered; and with the identical dagger found in 1 le breast of Jacinto Sanchez confined in its grasp, i ad been nailed firmly to the wooden cross, where j has ever since remained. t "Such, Senor," said Jose Maria, as he again 1 ossed himself, "is one of the stories of the Pass i (* .1 - ?LJ1 A.. _ *n..i xl J ! I? j i me XjVU une. uut u muse eou wemuriea ui ime could speak, they each, perhaps, could tell i sad a tale." A MELANCHOLY ROMANCE. A strange incident took place in New Orleans a w days since. A man, far advanced in years, id been employed to carry a box to a certain quarr in the city; but, previous to his reaching this istination, he fell dead in the street The aulorities ordered the body to be removed to the jarse depot; the box being meanwhile left in an Ijoining house. The inmates proceeded to exninc the box, when to their astonishment, it was und to contain the skeleton of a child, and the :ull and some other bones belonging to the body 'an adult. The discovery was communicated to le proper authorities, and at length the following irticulars transpired: Don Ramon Duran, a nave of Spain married in Catalonia, many years jo, a wealthy lady called Donna Isabel Romero, r whom he professed the most tender attachment The latter dying after the emigration of the ooue to New Orleans, Duran by some means obtain1 the skull and some of the other bones of his deased wife, which he ever after kept with the eatest care, wrapped up in a piece of black silk, ime years after the death of his first wife, Duran arried a second?a person much younger than mself. By this wife he had a daughter, on whom i fondly doted; but the latter dying about 1838, lien only in her seventh year, Duran was plunged t imlflP flnfl nnf frt rvo*4 i tllC gi'cutcau auvi uww/i mmvu uvv w |yiuv x. th his daughter's body, hod it secretly embalmed, o id put into a box with the remains of his former tl fe; but in order not to appear as opposing the 1 vra and established customs, he went to the exinse of a mock interment ? o This loss exercised so strong an impression on ^ s mind that he seemed indifferent to all about m, and his affairs began rapidly to decline. His J :enly sensitive mind was, however, destined to h el another, and from the attendant circumstances, h ill more painful bereavement, in the elopement fi his wife, which even almost unseated his judg- tl ent Ruin made now such rapid strides in the ft i-tunes of this hapless man, that, in the course of z< short time, the once wealthy proprietor was re- " iced to the condition of a common beggar. But a i had still one treasure left; the humble suppli- b t wandering from door to door, dependant upon h iblic charity for support, had yet in his possession $ ignored and priceless gem, which shared with q, m his fortunes?the box containing thp bones of k s wife and child. He thus lived for a series of g are, and whenever it became necessary to shift p 9 place of residence, the box containing the pre- 0 >us relics was ever his first care, and for which he n ived a shelter under the title of important par j] ire. His last residence was at the house of a r dow who had known him in better timea Here n i lived until sickness overtook him, when the t mty means of his hospitable landlady not allow- e ing ber to administer to his wants, he removed to the public hospital, where he died abotrtayeafabd a half since. This lady, who appears in some degree to have imbibed his prejudices, oat Of respect to bis memory, would not for a long time, allow the relics so highly prized to be removed; bat the earnest solicitations of her acquaintances; who were already, as weS as herself, apprized of the contents of the box, induced her at last tooonsent Roper steps having been consequently taken to insqre their admission to the public cemetery, an old man was employed for the purpose of conveying thOm to.the . hearse depot, who, as we have seen, sunk under his burden to rise no more. ' > '> THE TRUTH A!fD STUB BOB* FACTA. Hon. B. H. Hill, who is now in Washington, recently wrote quite a lengthy letter to the Augusta Chronicle, in which we find the following truthful paragraph: . w ? . s . ~? A Inner mnmnerinn wKinli T hiut vi^n nveln fcelligent Republican, ended with this speech froin him: "I belong, Mr/ Hill, to the Republican pgrty, as you have seen. I do know the masses 'of die Republicans do not desire to do hijpsticetp the Southern people. Our leaden told its these harsh measures were necessary to keep down the spirit of resistance at the South. -We are bOgmfaug to discover that the Southern people are willing to live hy. the Constitution, and whatever the leaders may desire, the masses of the RepubGcsnMy31 ask nothing more. We are ready to repudiate the policy of ourleaders, but we do not Kke thej^emocrats, and there is no third party. f Neither do ire Hke Andrew Johnson, yet I tell you frankly we ire troubled with the thought thai such V bad ill-tempered man as Wade may possibly take his place. It is difficult to see what we shall do,or an do, but on this you may rely: The wmetrof 'he Republican party North toiU never consept to force on the Southern people a government vfy&h ce tcould not accept for ourtdoa. I only wish :he people, North and South, understood each )thor as you and I now do." # . The sentiments contained in the above extract, >ur Southern readers may rest assured, are then mtertained by the great minority of the Republican party, and they represent, too, the real .wishes >f the people. The statement Mr. EBB makes of his conversation with the prominent Conservative Republicans in the North, oboveys as correct a pen photograph of the desires and feelings of the mass )f the Northern people as obuld well be portrayed n so brief an article. We have striven for the past three years to oonvinoe the peopleof GeOBgia rod the South, that the North, as represented in he great National Republican party, had no desire jo wreak retaliation, or be governed by .a spirit of nalioe and revengeand, it is, therefore, a pieasn corroboration of the views which we havehtlreofore expressed on this question. What a volume of goodness and sadness is wrapped up in that single sentence, "I only wish ah the people, North and South, understood each other is you and I now do." It is really to tee with what avidity the people of both sections swallow the most ridiculous reports of the coocfiion and oonduot of their political opponents. USil there is a greater soeiaKnterehange between the Northern and Southern people, our whole country K i! a IT C. !T1X5_ 1 ivui cuuuiiue uj HUiiur iruiu uie wuuui miareprcsentationa that are made by evil men on both sides, for the base purpose of manufacturing political capital and advancing their selfish ends. ' More :han one-half the bitterness and sectional animorfy that prevails between the North and Sooth can safely be attributed to the gross ignorance and mismderstanding that prevails among the American people, of the real sentiments and intentions of the wo sections of our unhappy land. May an All (Vise Providence hasten the day when we, ahull enow each other, not as enemies, but aairse and sincere friends, bound by the silken oord of virtue, uid united in our hearts by the golden Enks of love ind fraternity.?Savanncpx Repvbliam. I Great Battles op Modern Taos.?The Journal MUitaxre, of Berlui, publishes some interesting statistical details relative to the battle, of Sodowa, compared with our engagements, from vhich it appears that a larger number of men were mgaged in it than in any other battle of modern imes. "The troops engaged at Leipoe," says the Journal, "amounted to 240,000 allies and l40,000 French, a. total of 380,000 men; at Wagrtm the lumber of French was 200,000, and that of the kustoians 140,000, or 340, OOOinalL AtSol&rino, here were 150,000 Austrian?, and 150,000 allies, wing 300,000 men; Borodino, 130,000 French vere opposed to 120,000 Russians, making a total >f 250,000 men; at Waterloo, there were 40,000 Prussians, 65,000 allies and 75,000 French, or [80,000 men in alL The total number of troops hat took part in the battie of Sadowa,were420,- / >00, consisting of 220,000 Prussians and 200,000 Austrians. With regard to the number of guns, Licipsic takes the first place; in that engagement 5,000 were used?1300 belonging tothe allies, and r00 to the French. At Sadowa the number of' lieces was 1620, of which 820 were Prussian and 100-Austrian. The battle of Solferino comes next 200 cannon were used there, 800 belonging to the kustrians and 400 to the allies. As to the km of oen killed and wounded, Leipsic also occupies the irst rank; the total pat hors dt combai in that >attle was 100,000, of which there was anequal lumber on both sides. Borodino ranks next, in rhich each belligerent lost 30,000 men, or 60,Q0Q a all At Waterloo the Prussian loss numbered " 000, that of the allies 20,000, and that of France 9,000, being a total of 46,000 men. At Wagram ach belligerent left 25,000 men on the field. The tattle of Sadowa approaches very near that of iolferino. In the latter engagement the loss of be Austrians amounted to 13,000 men, and that f the allies to 15,000. At Sadowa the number of? . . illed and wounded on the side of the Prussians ras 10,000, mid on the side of the Austrians 20,00, or 30,000.men in all Respecting the numer of prisoners made, the battles of Leipoc and iolferino may be placed on the same line, the toil in each battle amounting to 20,000 (French and Lustrians). This is the greatest number of prisners captured in modern engagements. As to be capture of cannon, 30 -were taken at Leipsic, 40 at Waterloo and 174 at Sadowa. ? ? ? - ? The Bones of Bull Run.?A correspondent f the Cincinnati Commercial, writing of ft visit to le battle-field of Bnll Run, says': The first thing that greeted my eyesat Manassas unction was a forcible reminder of the war. The age piles of bones, horse bones, and sad to Bay, uman bones intermingled, lay whitening right in ont of the hotel They are picked up off thfcjtfc e-field by the owners of the soil, and carted JferO >r shipment by the oars, to be ground into ftrtiK:rs at some mill in Baltimore. The price here is a penny a pound," one of Fairbanks' platform sales to weigh the deliveries, and several tons of ones have been shipped, (hoe man, with a girl to elp him, collected in two dgys enough to come to 16. My landlord, a Pennsylvania Dutchman amed Varner, brought out a long and powerful airing bone from the bar, saying: "Here now is >me poor fellow's thigh bone." The sight was ot such as to inspire cheerful reflections. In anther great heap were piled masses of.campkettiee, msket barrels, wheel tires, sohd shotgndi&oken bell, fragments of swords, bits of wagon gear, old usty firelocks and the like. Tina, too, is for the lazket, the last relics of the huge debris, of desruetion of which every battle-is tin fruitful parol