Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, November 11, 1869, Image 1
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YOL. 15. YORKYILLE, S. C., THTJBSDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1869. ., 4^STOr 45.
?hc iellet. \
"the wrong ticket. 1
One of the many men who came and went t
as patients in ward six of our hospital at Wash- t
ington, was Bernard Heine, a handsome, stal- c
wart German, fresh, blonde, brave and merry. *
He was there three months in all; and being 1
a social fellow, and a favorite of mine, told
me all his history, in general terms, at first, *
but gradually growing more confidential as he ^
knew me better, and became more assured of 1
my sympathy. I knew what a wild, adventurous
youth he had been in the dear fatherland; t
by what hair-brained scrapes he had angered
his friends; how, at nineteen years of age, he a
had run away and come to this country; how 3
his parents had died during the two years in
which he had heard nothing from home, and J
they nothing from him; and how sore his
heart was when he thought of them, and knew
what grief he must have caused them. I *
knew about the Van Dorms, with whom he
had boarded two years before he entered the u
army, and how the young people were like t
brothers and sisters to him, and the old people c
like father and mother, and how Liza Van u
Dorm wrote to him every week. And here 1 F
guessed somewhat more than I knew. I guessed
irom the slight embarrassment, the mingled d
coldness and kindness with which he spoke of r
her, the Unsatisfactory way in wliich he ac- %
counted for his having entered the army, the 1
faint shade of annoyance which sometimes 1
crossed his face when he read her letters, and
his slowness in answering them, that Miss Liza t
was fonder of him than he of her, and that,
maybe, he had entered the army to get rid of 8
her. I had known cases where nice young 8
men had been cordially received and fondly
cherished in families where there were mar- r
riageable daughters, and where, in spite of F
themselves, the force of circumstances had
obliged them to assume ties which they took
reluctantly. 1
I like to see men do their own wooing, and
always respect a man who flies from a wooing c
woman. So my guesses made me like the 1
youn^ soldier all the better. He had made 8
his will before entering the army, lie told me, ^
and left everything he had, among the rest a ?
life insurance of five thousand, to the Van
Dorms. He exaggerated his cause of grati- I
tude to them. He had no one else in the world
who cared for him; and, besides their general 8
?- ?ji: *1? i?J ? i"i
ineuuuuess, uiej nou uuxbcu mui unuugu u severe
sickness, and refused to take any extra b
pay for it. b
"They are the only ones in the world who f
would mourn, if I should happen to get a bul- b
let through me," he said, with a touch of bitterness
in his voice which showed that there v
was something yet untold in his story. s
Later, one evening, when I was sitting by I
him, to soothe and quiet him, after the tormenting
pain of having his wounded foot f
dressed, I got the rest of the story. He was t
feeling unusually depressed that uight, and
seemed to wish for a confidant. It was then
that I first heard Helen Ayre's name. She t
was a little yellow-haired schoolmistress, who v
also had boarded at Mrs. Van Dorm's, had, b
indeed, known them longer than he had. I t<
could see how he had loved her from the tone tl
of unwilling, yearning, angry tenderness with
which he spoke her name. I could see more tl
than that, what he, like a fool, as men always b
are in such circumstances, could not see, the t
angry jealousy of the Van Dorms, their insinuations,
the seeds of distrust which they U
slily sowed; how, while he had not dared to t:
speak of love to the girl, they had made him o
believe that she had boasted of her power
over him ; how he had been made to think r
her a coquette, and mercenary, careful not to a
give him -too much encouragement till she d
should know how much money he had. "When t
he spoke of her capricious treatment and grow
ing coldness toward him, I could see that these *
were but reflections of his own distrust of her, t
and the effect of their mischief-making. I hinted
this to him, but he would not hear to it.
Oh, the Van Dorms were the salt of the earth, d
and his best friends, and they were incapable
of deceit. c
"But maybe they wanted you for Miss Liza," t
I ventured.
He dropped his eyes. s
"If they did," he said, "they would not use
dishonest means to bring it about I ought *
to consider that a new proof of their friend- t
ship for, and confidence in me, even though I
should be unwilling to gratify their wishes." *
I liked his reserve and his trust. They v
were honorable. c
"At last, she left the house and went elsewhere
to board," he said. "I think they had t
been a little cool with her for treating me so, 1
and she didn't want to stay. Besides, I sup- a
pose she hated the sight of me. When she
went out of the door the last time, I came 1
from the parlor to bid her good-by, and she i
turned her head away." i
"Did you ever have any talk, or attempt
any explanation with her?" I asked. 1
"No. We never had anything on the sub- t
ject, either understanding or misunderstand- t
in&" . ,
"Master Heine," I said, emphatically, "it is 1
my private opinion that you have been made 1
a dupe of." t
He smiled faintly as he shook his head. t
"Oh! if you knew them, you wouldn't say 1
so." s
"Have you ever heard from her since you t
came here ?" I asked. 1
"Not a word." t
I was silent a moment, wondering if the <
poor little, yellow-haired schoolmistress might 1
? ^ i 1-:__ I?I * ?i i? :
not nave Deen oreajung ner iit-tirt tuuwiy uu- i
ring the past year, and if she could just know ?
where I was at that moment, if she would not ?
consider me the most enviable woman in the f
world. t
"I wonder none of the Van Dorms come out
to see you," I said, presently. i
"Oh! they wanted to come," was his quick a
reply; "but Mrs. Van Dorm has been sick, 1
and there was no one else who could leave, f
Liza had to take care of her mother. The
boys and their father are driven with business, s
Besides, I wrote them that I was only slightly
hurt; and you know I am going to have a i
furlough in a few weeks. ?
Our conversation was interrupted here, for
more sick and wounded were brought in, and ?
I had to attend to them. The ward already {
seemed nearly full; but many were convales- [
cent, and those who wished were transferred t
to the convalescents' room, and we crowded all a
the beds we could get into the ward. The next
morning, the man in the bed next to Heine's t
died. As the custom was, as soon he died, the 1
card containing his name, age, place of birth, I
regiment, company, rank and disease, was ta- 1
ken down from the wall at the head of his bed,
and carried to the office to be recorded, and J
reported. The weather was cool, and his fu- t
neral was put off till the next afternoon.
The next day, just after the funeral time, <.
as I sat in the wartf taking a few minute's rest
after giving the thres o clock medicines, I <
glanced towards the door, and saw two spectres
there. To be sure, they were men, stout
and tanned, but their faces were, in spite of 1
an, of a sickly white, and their eyes were open
md fixed glaringly. They were both staring
it Heine, who sat up in bed reading the Washngton
Star newspaper.
I approached them, though half afraid. If
hey were madmen, it would be well to have
hem stopped on the threshold ; if they were
lairvoyants who beheld some vision of horror
o us unseen, I felt safer to be near their
)iercing eyes.
"You wish to see any one?" I asked politely
nuch in the manner we would compliment a
volf or a panther which we expect will devoUr
is the next moment.
One of the nfeu never stirred, nor seemed
o hear me ; but the other, without turning his
yes from their terrified gaze, pointed mutely
md with a shaking hand to the man who sat
o calmly readiing hs newspaper.
"That is Bernard Heine, I said. "Did
'ou wish to see him ?"
The man shuddered.
"He is dead," he said. "We have just been
o his funeral."
"Oh! no, it is a mistake," I replied soothagly,
beginning to see what was the matter,
hough not knowing how the mistake had ocurred.
"He is erettinp alon? nicelv. There
0 o ? O t ,
i not the least likelihood of his dying at
(resent"
"But," the man persisted, still staring, "his
leath was reported with his age, place of birth,
egiinent and company, and we have been toother
the whole year. We heard it, and saw
t in the morning's paper, and we came down
rom Camp Distribution to his funeral."
By this time the other man had got his jaws
ogether and looked at me.
"Did you get near enough to the chaplain
it the funeral to hear the names read ?" I
isked.
"No, we were late, and the names had been
end," was the reply. "But we saw the pa>er
with all the particulars in it."
I could but smile at his persistence.
"Well, you can go and asL him if he is dead,"
said, turning away to attend to my business.
They crossed the ward warily, with their
yes still intently fixed 011 the object of their
ncredulous fear, and when they were half way
.cross, Heine looked up and saw them. A
>right smile broke over his face, aud he held
>ut both hands.
"How are ygu, Herman ? And you, Matt?
am glad to see you."
At the sound of his ringing voice, and the
Lj. _ I* V _1 i* i.L 1_ -i. J Li
lgni oi nis cneery nice, mexr lust uouoi vanihed
and they sprang forward to grasp his
land, and one hung about his neck and kissed
lim, and burst into tears, while the other stood
ilent, but with brimming eyes and a quiverng
lip. It made my own eyes fill.
At first Heine listened to their story with
wondering incredulity, and suddenly turned
Jbout and reached the card above his bed.
le glanced over it, and then looked at me.
"Have you succeeded in convincing your
riends that you are not dead V I asked going
o him.
He gave me the card.
"That explains,v he said. "You know our
>eds were pushed along night before last, and
re forgot to move the cards. I suppose in the
lurry, when Thomas died, the ward-master
ook down the card over his bed and sent it to
he office without looking at it."
Heine seemed moved, not so much at the
houglit of death associated with him?he had
iecome too familiar with it for that?but the
he sight of his friend's unexpected devotion.
I left them, and they sat long with him, not
;oing till the very last minute that left them
ime to get to camp before their pass should be
verstayed.
I found thut Heine's name had not been
ead out at the funeral, the chaplain, who was
cquainted with him, and had seen him that
lay, perceiving that there must be some misake.
"Well, Heine," I said, "you sec you were
rrong in one thing; there are others besides
he \ an Dorms who would mourn you dead."
He looked up with glistening eyes.
"Yes, God bless the poor fellows. I didn't
[ream they cared so much about me."
"Learn one thing by this," I said, signifiantly.
"It is not the deepest or truest affecion
that -professes the most."
He dropped his eyes and for a moment was
ilnnf Thnn cairl
jliivu liv oaiu .
"They will hear of my death. Ned Trask,
vho told these fellows?told them he had writen
to Van Dorm and sent the paper."
"Such an unlucky mistake!" I said, and
vent, in a fever of annoyance, to scold the
vard-master, and send the right card to the
>ffice.
Later in the afternoon Heine beckoned mc
0 him. There was a little unusual color in
lis face, and light in his eye; and though he
miled, it was a merry smile.
"I've been thinking that I will wait awhile
>efore writing," he said. "Perhaps I ought
lot, but I would like to see how thev all take
t."
I agreed with him. Perhaps it was wrong,
jut I also would like to see how thev would
ake it." So we practiced a "masterly inacivity,"
and waited.
Two days after, as quickly as the mail could
iring a letter, came an epistle directed to the
ady-nurse of ward six, New Jerusalem hospi?1.
I opened it, and read at the bottom of
;he second page, "Gertrude C. Van Dorm."
[t was a precious epistle, written, as she assured
me, by a woman at death's door, though
he writing was uncommonly firm, and the
auguage surprisingly fluent for a person in
hat condition. She also assured me that the
leceased was unto her like a sou, and indeed,
lad he lived he would have been her son, beng
engaged to her eldest daughter. I read it
dl, and then went and sat by Heine, feeling
ingry enough with him for this engagement,
md fully willing to tease him by telling him
he whole truth.
"Heine," I said, holding up the letter before
ne, "Mrs. Van Dorm is anxious that your
vatch, and any papers and money you may
mve died possessed of, should be sent to her
orthwith."
He colored, and looked intently at me, but
aid nothing.
"She says that she had done a great deal
or you," I went on, "and that you are under
;reat obligations to her."
"I told you what they have done," he said,
1 little hastily. "For the rest, I have alwavs
,~:.l 1 A !,? monv
;U1U mjf uuaiUj auu uuvu tuumut uiv iuuii T
ircsents I have made them. I tried tu pay
hem tenfold all the expense they have been
it for me, and I guess I have succeeded."
"She is very far gone," I said, showing him
he letter. "See how feeble the writing is ?
't is impossible for them to come on after your
>ody. She supposes it will be decently buried
lere."
Heine grew redder in the face, and a look of
min,of mortification, clouded his usually frank
ixpression.
"She says that you were engaged to her
laughter," I said finally."
A spark of tire shot from his wide-opened
:yes.
"It is a lie!" he cried.
I gave him the letter and he read it, his
iamb shaking and his eyes flashing while lie
read, and at the last word, he fiercely tore the
sheet from end to end, then turned and hid
his face in his pillow. I think the poor fellow
shed tears at tne bitterness of his awakening.
I bent over him for a whispered word:?
"Remember the comrades who loved you so
much better than you thought. Perhaps they
are not the only ones." Then I left him to get
over his troubles as best he might. .
Once and a while, as I went about, I glanced
at him sitting pale and grave, pretending to
read. When I found time I was going to ask
him what I should do about answering the letter,
when one of the nurses came to me saying
that a lady was in my room waiting to see me.
I went out immediately.
Going into my shaded room, I saw a small,
black-robed figure sitting in my arm chair, and
as she put her veil further back, caught sight
of a tlun, white face that turned towards me.
She said not a word, and did not rise, but only
sat there as if half-fainting, and looked at me.
Alas! in that sorrowful place, I had grown
familiar with such sights.
On looking more closely, I saw that this little
lady was a young girl, but so pnle and hollow
eyed, that at first glance I might have taken
her for twice her age.
"My dear, 1 said, taking her hand, you
havo come here to look for some friend. Do
you know whether he is living or not?"
She panted out a breath or two, and herpnle
lips fashioned the word "dead."
I turned to the table and poured her a glass
of wine. She took it obediently, and leaned
her head against the back of the chair, but
with her widely searching eyes still fixed on
me.
"Will you tell mc his name?" I said, presently.
Sne strove to speak, but seemed unable to
utter the name. Then she put her hand to
the bosom of her dress, and taking therefrom
a card photograph, held it toward me, but
without relinquishing it. I looked and saw a
fine likeness of Bernard Heine, in civilian's
dress, evidently- taken two or three years before.
The sight electrified me. I glanced up at
the white forehead, and there were the pale
yellow locks drawn back from it, and there
was the violet blue of the eyes, in which Heine
had never seen such anguish, so that only the
color was left true -of the description.
"You dear little creature!" I exclaimed,
baiuug uci ui u.lj aAiiio, uuu wcxiuciij iciuuvni^
her bonnet and shawl that I might hold her
more closely. "So you loved Bernard well
enough to come here for him."
"Can I get him?" she whispered faintly, too
much exhausted to weep. "I have come for
him. I came as soou as I heard, and have not
slept or eaten since."
"Yes, you can get him!" I said, hardly
knowing how to temper the news I had for her.
"You can have him forever. Do you know,
dear, there was a mistake made?"
She lifted her head from my shoulder, and
clasped my hand in her shaking palms, her
startled eyes on my face.
"Be happy!" I said ioyfully. "He lives."
The sweet head nodded aside, and she slipt
down fainting.
It wasn't long before she revived, but it was
long before I could <juiet her, and persuade
her, not only that Heine lived, but it was best
she should not rush to him that minute. At
length I bethought me of the little curtain
window in my room, looking into the ward;
and drawing the curtain partly away, gave
her a peep at him, as lie' sat there reading.
Troubling all over she stood, and, without removing
her eves, drank in the sight, as one
perishing of thirst drinks in water. The tears
began to flow fast and the sobs to come.
"I loved him all the time," she said; "and
once I thought he loved me. But it seems not,
or else they made mischief between us. I
would never have sought him living, never!
but when I thought him dead, my pride was
in the dust I would have crawled here on
my knees, if I could have got here in no other
way. How pale and sober he looks! Is he
very ill?"
"No; his foot has been bad, but is getting
on so well that he can walk about a little with
a crutch."
nt i j j : it.. ?
i nave sunercu so uuring me iu?t year,
she sobbed, but wiping her streaming eyes that
she might not lose sight of him, "it has worn
me to a shadow. And I couldn't tell anybody.
They thought that I was in consumption, and
I let them think it; but it was only heart-ache,
and that was worse. You may think it strange,
dear lady, that I talk so to you," stretching
out a little white hand to me, but unable to
remove her eyes from him, "but this shock has
broken my reserve, and I must speak once, or
die!"
"Dear child, confide in me," I said; "and
trust also the future. Now I must go back to
the ward. Will you stay here alone, or do
you wish to go in now to see him?"
"Oh, no!" she cried, in alarm, the blood
pouring into her face. "What would he think?
I only wanted to go in when I didn't know
what I was about. I would not have him
know, not for worlds, that I am here."
"What! will you go back without speaking
to him, or letting him know," I asked.
"Surely," she said. It is enough for me that
he lives. Dead, I might have claimed him;
but living, I am nothing to him."
"You are much to him," I could not help
saying. "He has told me of you, and I think
he prefers you to any other. Besides, you
should pity as well as love him. lie thinks
that he has scarcely a friend in the world.
That is what he looks so pale and sober about
now.
"But don't tell him I am here," she pleaded,
as I went out at the door; and turning to promise,
1 saw the light of a new hope blooming in
her face.
I could think of nothing else, and made
every excuse to go often to speak to Heine,
that she might see him move and look up. But
she nor I could see no smile 011 his face, though
he had seldom more reason to smile. Little
did he know whose loving eyes were watching
him.
I went back to my room presently, and the
more I saw of the young stranger, the more I
admired her, and the less I wondered at him
for loving her. She was so sweet and dainty;
and such a strong, true heart beat in her
breast I did not like her less that she persisted
she must go back the next morning, and
refused me permission to tell him of her coming,
though I had no intention of obeying
her.
She stayed with me that night, and was expecting
to start in the morning at 10 o'clock.
My morning labors done, I went and sat by
Heine's bed, mindful of the eyes that, unseen,
watched us.
"Heine," I said, "wouldn't you like to know
how Helen Ayre took the news of your
death ?"
lie was sitting pule ami gloomy, all his old
cheerfulness gone. At my question, he half
turned away his head.
"No!" he answered bitterly. "I have had
enough."
"Oh, very well then! I won't tell you. But
I thought you might care to know," I said
carelessly.
"What do you mean ?" he exclaimed, turning
his eager face to mc again.
"Oh, its no matter," I said, making a pretence
of going away. "If you don't feel any
interest?"
A powerful hand grasped my wrist and held
me. Heine must have been strongly moved
to do that. He did not even apologize when
I resumed my seat, somewhat disconcerted at
such an exhibition before a score or so of men
j who couldn't know what the matter was.
"Has she written?" he asked, trembling with
impatience.
[ "No ; but I happened to know her. She had
business in Washington, and called to see
me."
| "Darn these women! What torments they
are ?" he exclaimed fiercely. Why don't you
tell me!"
I forgave him on the spot, for. he couldn't
help it.
"The poor little soul was very much grieved,
though you don't deserve it," I said. "But I
comforted her. You were a wretch to desert
1- j.? ?j ?
SUUU a UCttUUC, ttiiu n iuvi LU ict mc yau
Dorms dupe you so."
"Where is she?" he panted out.
"Oh, she is going north this morning," I said
carelessly. "Her visit is over. She has friends
here (so she hud Heine and I), and she is now
going to leave them."
"Where did you see her?" he demanded, as
if I were nobody at all, and he my master.
"You haven't been out of the hospital since I
died; and she must have been here. Who is
that looking through the window of your
room ?"
I couldn't help laughing; but I sobered myself
the next moment. For Heine, with his
face on fire, and his breath coming like that
of a spent runner, was stretching his arm to
reach his crutch that lay under the bed, and
preparing to get up.
"Now, Heine?
He minded mc no more than he would a
feather. Staggering rapidly to his one foot,
he rested on the unaccustomed crutch, and
began crossing the floor with seven-leagued
strides.
I could only follow him, hoping that lie
would have some delicacy about entering my
room uninvited. Not a bit. Before I reached
it, he flung the door open and leaped over the
threshold. And there stood the dear little,
frightened, mortified creature in the corner of
the room, vainly trying to hide her face.
"My dear little girl!" he cried out; "is it
you? and do you care whether I am dead or
alive?"
She dropped the hands from her face, and
looked at him standing there, maimed, radiant,
with eager arms outstretched. There was no
room for pride in her generous heart. .She
came shyly forward a step or two, till within
reach of his arm that caught and clasped her.
I meekly withdrew and closed the door after
me, carrying a vision of that yellow head restinn
ntrflinai H mtip'r hlnp inrtkp.t.
It was nearly a week before I found myself
at leisure to reply to Mrs. Gertrude C. Van
Dorm'6 letter. My reply was as follows:?
"My dear Madam.?I regret not being able
to send you Mr. Heine's watch, money, and
papers. He refuses to give them up, insisting
that he has use for them himself He sends
his regards, however, and begs that you will
have no uneasiness concerning his welfare, as
his wife, Mrs. Helen Heine, formerly Miss
Helen Ayre, is here and in constant attendance
on him. I have the honor to be, <fcc."
What I wrote was simply true. They were
married. Heine, terrified lest he should lose
her again, entreated, and I was on his side.
He was six feet tall, and I was five feet six;
he was a lieutenant in the artillery, and I lady
nurse, regent in the ward; what could a
poor little yellow-haired schoolmistress do
against us ?
"Why, they had me married in spite of my
teeth," the minx would say, if you would ask
her now.
But the only way in which she showed her
teeth on this occasiou, was in the happiest
smiles that ever were smiled.
JrtUsrfUanrouo ftarting.
THINGS IN CALIFORNIA.
A Teunesseean, lately removed to California,
writes his impressions of the State to the
Nashville Union and American. We extract
the following paragraphs from his letter dated
at San Francisco:
T? J* l.ii. T i 11 1! x xl ^
m my iorrner leucr 1 u>iu you very nine
about this city ^ and, being afflicted with the
headache this evening, I design telling you
but little now. San Francisco is surrounded
by the bay on one side and a succession of barren
sand hills, devoid of vegetation, on the
other. Such, indeed, was the character of the
ground on which the city stands. Water,
however, and a thin layer of soil soon carpet
the sand with verdure, and make the desert
bloom like a garden. So the singular scene
is presented of a beautiful park, while the ndjoining
lot is a waste of sand.
Property has advanced here with incredible
strides. It equals Chicago in this respect. A
small lot recently sold on Montgomery 6treet
for $185,000. Away out in the suburbs, two
miles from the business part of the city, small
lots just large enough for building a house
upon, are worth from $5,000 to $15,000. Three
years ago, they could have been bought for as
many hundreds. Wonderful arc the tales we
are told: how men have made wealth here
nnd how they have squandered it. They sound
like the story of Aladdin. When the mines
were first discovered here, the gold was found
on the top of the ground, in the beds of rivulets,
creeks and rivers, in the mountains. The
miuing was altogether surface digging. A
gentleman told me that in 1849 he and another
had a claim, from which they obtained as
much as $3,000 per week, they two alone working
it. It was on the banks of a river. When
first discovered, there was so much gold glittering
in every direction in the sands around
there, they actually hesitated where to begin.
Their last day's work panned out $800. That
night the floods descended, and, when the morning
came, their treasure was ten feet under
x rp I _ x! .1 _ i .1 _ x
wuicr. xne rains conunueu, ana me waters
did not subside for six months, when lo! their
golden sands had drifted away. "Wages at
that time were enormously high. Laborers
got sixteen to eighteen dollars per day. Everything
else was proportionately dear. Money
was so plentiful no one seemed to prize it.
Faro banks did a prodigious business. Every
day miners would come in from the mines,
with little sacks of the precious dust hung over
their shoulders, go straight to these faro banks
and a few hours afterwards emerge from them
without a cent in their pockets. They would
then return to the mines and repeat the operation.
Gambling had such a strong fascination
it was almost universally indulged in.
Mining communities are naturally given to
this vice. Their money comes by chance, and
they are cheated into the belief that they arc
the special favorites of the fickle Goddess.
Mining, though still important, is no longer
the principal element of wealth of this State.
There are certainly many rich mines, from one
of which a lump of gold weighing one hundred
pounds, and valued at $25,000, was taken
a few days ago, but attention is now being directed
chiefly to agriculture. But beforeleaving
the subject of mining, I ought to give a
; passing notice to the mineral wealth of Arizona,
which belongs nominally to the United
i States, but really to the Apache Indians, and
that of Mexico, a country belonging at present
to banditti, but which will some day, I
fear, be the Southern boundary of Uncle
Sam's dominions. Arizona contains the precious
metals in vast quantities. None of the
mines are worked, however, owing to the hosi
tility of the Indians. So rich are the deposits
tnat numbers of men have selected claims
and have been keeping watch and ward over
them for years, enduring great privation and
exposing their scalps to the knife of the savage,
in the hope that the arm of government
would, some day, be strong enough to encircle
and protect them, when their fortunes would
be secured. A small military force has been
beting there; but brave, vigilant and active
as they are, they can do nothing. The Apaches
are bold, skillful, cunning ; tney know every
foot of the ground; are fine horsemen, and
splendidly mounted, and equipped with the
i most improved fire-arms. The whole country
is as bleak and barren as Sahara. So sly and
daring are they, that one of them will sometimes
crawl into camp and suddenly mount a
fyorsc and carry him off triumphantly, in spite
of the firing of the sentinels. You can, from
these facts, imagine what advantages they
have over our troops. I am informed, by an
officer who served for sometime in Arizona,
that the redskins kill more of our men than
i we do of theirs, and that for every savage
, killed the government expends $1,000,000.
i No quarter is shown by either -party. Kit
Carson once proposed to the authorities at
Washington to secure all the scalps of the
Apaches for $20 apiece. Morality aside, this
would have been an economical bargain. The
silver mines in Mexico are unsurpassed in
richness, but the working of them is expensive.
Besides, the government refuses to permit
the exportation of bullion. It has to be
coined in that country, and the percentage for
coinage, together with the rapacity of Mexican
officials, reduces one's pile about thirty
per cent This grievous tax produces its natural
result, smuggling, and large quantities of
bullion are shipped out of the country in that
way.
, As I have heretofore intimated, agriculture
is beginning to attract the attention of capitalists
; and, assuredly, the inducements offered
the farmer are nowhere more captivating than
here in California The land is exceedinglyfertile
and productive, and is not easily exhausted.
In San Joaquin Valley wheat has
. been sown every year for sixteen years on the
same ground, without any sensible diminution
of the crops, and without the use of any fertilizers.
The same cannot be said, however, of
all the lands. From twenty to thirty bushels
' to the acre are produced. The second year
the ground is not seeded, as a volunteer crop
springs up quite as good as the first.
Cattle and sheep raising, particularly the
latter, are verf profitable. Two or three men
can herd 10,000 sheep. They are very prolific,
and live on the grass without any other feed
and without shelter.
In speaking of the cereals, I should have
i mentioned a peculiar quality belonging to
California wheat, to-wit: that it never sweats
in the ship's hold, and is consequently better
suited for transportation by sea than wheat
raised in the States. Another valuable quality
is the faculty the flour possesses of absorbing
much more water in the baking process than
other flour, thus giving greater weight to the
bread and enhancing the profits of the baker.
These peculiarities cause it to command extra
prices in France and England. Farmers are
never pressed here in the harvest season as
they are in Tennessee; for the grain will stand
in the field for raontlis after it ripens.
Grape culture is prosecuted very extensivc.
ly and with the most gratifying results. Forty
varieties are grown. It is estimated there are
from 25,000,000 to 30,000,000 vines. The
wine manufacture is extensive.
Oranges, lemons, olives, and almonds are
raised in Los Angelos county. To show you
how profitable they are, it is only necessary to
make a few statements. An orange tree is
worth from 825 to 875 every year. There are
20 or 40 to the acre. Therefore, an orange
orchard of ten acres is worth to its owner from
85,000 to?make the calculation yourself.
Almond trees grow thicker, and produce yeari?i.
i?i. o ii.~ TL
' | ly UL iCilSL oA A W tliu UCC. J.1IC I/IDU uw
i never dies ; at least, it bears l'or hundreds of
years. It has been growing here for sixty
vears, and during that period there has never
been a failure of tlie olive crop. These orchards
are of slow growth. From the setting out of
i the scions or the cuttings, or the floating of
, the seed, seven to nine years elapse before they
i return a profit. But remuneration is certain
. if one has the patience to wait. "What a little
paradise a person could make around him here
m California! How delightful the prospect!
Think of living in orange and almond groves,
: fanned by breezes laden with the aroma of a
thousand tropical fruits! This is no wild
fancy. It is in the power of every man, how'
ever poor lie may be, if he have industry and
patience, to make for himself such a home.
; The statements I have made are derived from
reliable sources. I have conversed with old
citizens who know, and I have consulted
statistics on the subject. Some of my information
I have gathered from a young lady, a
boarder at my boarding-house, whose home is
in Los Angelos, and whose father owns an extensive
ranch in that vicinity, and possesses a
valuable orange orchard. I expect to visit
that section of the country before a great while
to see for myself. The oranges of the San
Francisco market are shipped here from Tahiti,
Mexico, the Sandwich islands, and from China.
But they are of necessity pulled green, and
have consequently a bad flavor. The oranges
of this State, being but two or three days from
market, cam be plucked when fully ripe, and
are therefore better and find readier sale.
Yesterday municipal, legislative and judi
cial officers were elected 111 this city, and the
State generally voted for members of the Legislature.
Money was freely and publicly used
to win the election. Men would hang round
the head-quarters of the different candidates
and ask to be paid for their votes. One man,
let me instance, edged his way through the
crowd to the treasurer and demanded money.
A double gold eagle was slipped into his hand.
"Is that the best you can do ?" he asked, with
a contemptuous sneer. On receiving an affirmative
response, the villain tossed the coin
back to the giver, and strode away to seek a
bigger bribe.
Comfort For Tea Drinkers.?111 the
life of most persons a period arrives when the
stomach 110 longer digests enough of the ordinary
elements of food to make uj) for the daily
waste of bodily substance. The size and weight
of the body, therefore, begin to diminish more
or less perceptibly. At this time tea comes
in as a medicine to arrest the waste, to keep
the body from falling away so fast, and thus
to enable the less energetic powers of digestion
still to supply as much as is needed to repair
the wear and tear of the solid tissues. No
.wonder, therefore, that tea should be a favorite,
on the one hand, with the poor, whose supply
of substantial food is scanty; and on the
other, with the aged and infirm, especially of
the feebler sex, whose powers of digestion and
whose bodily substance have together begun
! to fail. Nor is it surprising that the aged female,
who has barely enough of weekly income
to buy what are called the common necessaries
of life, should yet spend a portion of
her small gains in purchasing her ounce of
tea. She can live quite as well on less common
food, when she takes her tea along with
it; while she feels lighter, at the same time
more cheerful, and fitter for her work, because
of the indulgence.? Chemutry of Common
Life.
A STOEY OF CinCKAMAUGA.
A gentleman who witnessed the play of
Enoch Arden at DeBar's Opera House, relates
a circumstance very similar in its details
to the sad stnrv of the east-awav sailor. We
give the statement in his own words:
"That play recalls to my mmd a circumstance
that happened in my owu experience.
A sergeant in my regiment was wounded at
Chickaraauga, and was reported dead. He
was seen to fall in the heat of the engagement,
and our lines being pushed back, the body was
not recovered until next day. When the poor
fellow was found he was so mutilated by being
trampled on by the cavalry that his face could
not do recognized. A comrade, however,
found in his breast pocket a miniature of his
wife, and sent it to her, with an account of his
death. It turned out that the body was not
that of Tom C , but a .Sergeant of another
company. Tom, desperately wounded, fell
into the hands of the enemy, and-was sent to
Andersonville, where the rebel surgeon cut off
one of his arms and one of his legs, and, in
spite of bad fare, he recovered in due time.
I never knew why they kept Tom so long in
prison, except it was for the purpose of exchanging
him for a sound mar
"When poor Tom returned to his home in
Pennsylvania, he was a mere wreck of his former
self, and nobody in the village knew liinr.
His wife had removed to Illinois with her
parents, more than a year previously. Without
making himself known to any of his old
acquaintances in the village, Tom started for
Illinois to hunt for his wife. When he arrived
in the neighborhood where she was living, he
learned that she was married to aft old friend
of his, who had followed her from Pennsylvania.
His first impulse was to make himself
known to her, ana claim her as his own ; but
when he saw the snug cabin in which she was
living, and heard how kindly she was treated
hv her husband, he changed his mind. 'Suppose
I go and claim her/ he said to himself,
'how can I support her, with only one arm and
one leg, and a body weakened by months of
suffering at Anderaonville ? No; she is happy
and contented, and thinks me dead, and I
will not destroy her happiness and become a
burden to her.
"Tom acted upon this resolution, and worked
his way to New York, where he set up a
small business as curb-stone merchant, selling
nuts, and cakes, and soda-water, and getting
along prosperously. He soon made money
enough to buy him an artificial leg, and after
a while he got a patent arm made, and to see
him walking along the street, you would not
suppose that he was but little more than half
a man. He was a good business man, and in
the course of a year enlarged his stock in trade
and opened a regular retail grocery. He made
money last, and became a prosperous merchant,
respected by all who knew him.
"In his prosperity, he never forgot his wife,
and always cherished a hope that she would
be restored to him. He was a regular subscriber
to the village paper published at the
town near which his wife lived, and read it
with great interest. One day he saw in this
paper the announcement of the death of the j
man who had riiarried his wife. He lost no j
time in starting for Illinois. He found his (
wife in deep mourning for her late husband, (
and she had added another infantile link to ,
the family circle. Tom made himself known t
to her, and was rejoiced to find that she still ]
loved him as fondly as ever. It was some ,
time before lie could convince her that he was ]
not a ghost returned from the other world. ]
In order to make things sure, the parson was (
called in, and Tom anil his wife were married
over again. They went to New York, where
they are still living, as happy a couple as you
will find in Gotham. They live in a brown J
stone front, and the family, when I saw them, .
were preparing to add another little link to i
its circle. Of course, they do not tell every
body about their family matters, but you can '
l'ely upon this story as strictly true. The ending
is rather better than that of Enoch Arden, i
and I think Adams would do a good thing if ?
he would depart from the version of Teuny- t
son, and in the last act get Phillip Ray ground
up in his own mill?accidentally, of course? 1
make poor Enoch step in and eujoy the wife
and the fortune left behind.
"What about the picture of Tom's wife,
found in the pocket of the dead soldier? ?
"Oh, I forgot about that. Tom says when r
lie was wounded and left upon the field, a .
straggler came along, and he stopped him. ?
Supposing he would bleed to death, he gave i
the picture to the straggler, with a message to i
his wife. The rebel cavalry made a charge
soon after, and killed the straggler, with the t
picture of Tom's wife in his bosom, and carried i
Tom off to Andersonville. That accounts for t
the picture being found and causing everybody
to bejiev& that Tom was killed.'?-St. Louis
Republican. t
ABOUT NEWSPAPERS. I
The Journal of Commerce, dwelling on the t
fact that during the past thirty-five years no c
less than fifty-five daily papers have been \
started in the city of New York, lived for a i
short time, and then died for want of adeauate \
support, after having sunk millions of dollars, y
moralizes in this instructive vein: t
The reasons why not more than one out of v
(say) fifty daily newspapers succeed are net
generally understood. If they were, instances c
would be fewer of the sinking of fortunes in fc
the unavailing attempt to found a daily?a e
waste of money as literal and complete as if r
the owner had burned it hi his parlor grate, t
The first and greatest difficulty is the want h
of sufficient means. Upon this point, which d
has been frequently elucidated, we will barely I
touch. To run a first class daily (and only g
such stands the least chance of surviving in the a
struggle for existence) costs not far from $1,- p
000 a day, even with a moderate circulation, n
This* rate of expenditure takes frightful daily b
bites out of the capital; and, unless the pro- d
jector has the purse of a Stewart, Astor, or e
Vanderbilt, he cannot stand the inroad upon b
his funds for many months, or weeks or da vs. b
Among professional newspaper . men in tfiis t
city, the cash in hand required to give a first tl
class newspaper a chance of life, is estimated p
at from a half to three-quarters of a million. *
Its failure, without such a sum at its back? t'
which it is prepared to invest boldly and sa- r
gaciously?is certain. Its success, after all n
the money has been spent in the wisest and f
u ost judicious manner, is still highly problematical.
Unless all the circumstances favor the
mdertaking?if there is a weakness or want
>f tact developed at any stage of it?no amount
>f money can put a new dailyjpaper in profitible
operation in this city, fhe failing newalapers
ore usually brought up with a round
urn before many tens of thousands have been
rank. The backers become alarmed?and
lack out. If the new concern is a stock com?ny,
the subscribers to shares pay but one or
wo of the assessments, and then forfeit what
hey have invested rather than lose more.
)nly in a few cases are men so lucky?or perlaps
we should say so foolish?as to go on
vesting a real half million, before abandonng
their ill-advised newspaper scheme. Discouragement
and disgust commonly superrene
by the time that $50,000 or I $100,000
lave vanished in the yawning gulf
The editor then goes on to show that the
lewspaper business differs from most others
n the fact that when once established it can
x indefinitely extended, with no risk and but
AvfM ^aAatkl^r ?i/fo
Itti^ OA 111 C* UVUUIVy MJU miua
A newspaper with machinery for printing
JO,000, 30,000 or 50,000 copies can throw off
L00,000 or 150,000 with bat a few hours more
vork. The newspapers now existing can supply
the widest, demands for their issues. They
eprescnt every variety of public opinion and
nterest; no person has tlie least difficulty in
fotaining a newspaper that meets his views
ind suits his special want. If no journal
:ould possibly print more than 5000,10,000
>r 15,000 copies, then the supply, would foil
ihort of the demand, and there would be room
'or other papers filling . actly the same fields .
is those already established. The lightning
jresees of New York newspaper offices could,
unong them, supply at least one paper a day
o every adnlt who can read in the United
States. In the dry goods, grocery, boot and
ihoe, hat and cap, drug and other "lines of
jusinesa, where articles dealt in are heavy
ind bulky, no ten or a dozen men in one city,
mle8s they have acres of buildings and armies
if clerks, could supply the enormous demand
or those goods. Tne extension of their busiiess
is attended at every step by immense excuses
and new risks, which are not incurred
n the enlargement of tbe circulation of a nCwsmper
that is once well founded. Ten or a
lozen papers can furnish the public with readng
matter just as speedily as a hundred could
lo it, and at a cheaper rate.
The promising fields of first-class daily
i--: J_ :_j
lewspapers ucing vnoujr uaajucu, uu ucu
ournals can command & great success, except
Jy taking away subscribers from other papers.
This is a very difficult-thing to do. It never
?n be done except in cases where the paper
o be supplanted wantonly and persistently
leglects the interests or abuses the confidence
>f its subscribers. So long as it pursues a just,
lonorable and judicious course, meeting the
rants of its customers in all or most respects,
lie ties of friendship between the subscribers
md the paper are as hard to break by any
nitride third party as the links which bind
>ld friends in business or social life. Occaiional
defects and errors, if such there be in a
lewspaper, are overlooked by those who have
jecome attached to it through its daily perusal
for years. Tliey may sometimes become
lissatisfied with it on account of something
.vhich has slipped into its columns, and may
stop taking it; but the absence of the familiar
beet at their house or office for a few days be:omes
an insupportable deprivation, and they
lasten to take it again, and possibly to apologize
for having stopped it. This we believe to
>e a common experience in the history of all
staWished newspapers. No friendship on
sarth is more constant than that contracted
jy the reader for a journal which makes an
lonest and earnest effort to merit his continled
support.
#-^>4
WHY DON'T BOYS LEARN TRADES f
The present generation of young men seem
0 have a strong aversion to every kind of
,rade, business, calling or occupation that rejuires
manual labor, and an eaual strong teniency
toward some so called "genteel" em)loyment
or profession. The result is seen in
1 superabundance of elegant pensmen, bookkeepers,
and clerks of every kind, who ean
jet no employment, and are wasting their
ives in the v&m pursuit of what is not to be
lad; and a terrible overstock of lawyers with>ut
practice, and doctors without patients.
The passion on the part of the boys and
roung men to be clerks, office attendants, mescngers?anything,
so that it is not work of
he kind that will make them mechanics or
radesmen?is a deplorable sight to those who
lave full opportunities to see the distressing
(fleets of it in the struggle for such employncnts
by those unfortunates who have put it
>ut of their power to do anything else by negecting
to learn some permanent trade or busness,
in which trained skill can always be
urned to account. The applications for
derkships and similar positions m large estabishments
are numerous beyond anything that
rould be thought of by those who have no
(hanee to witness it. Parents and relatives,
is well as the boys and young men themselves,
eem to be afflicted witn the same infatuation,
ro all such wc say that the most unwise adrice
you can give to your boy is to encourage
lim to be a clerk or a book-keeper. At the
>est, it is not a well paid occupation. Very
requently it is among the very poorest. This
s the case when the clerk is fortunate enough
o be employed; but if he should happen to
>c out of a place, then comes the weary search,
he fearful struggle with the thousands of
others looking for places, the never-ending
lisappoinments, the nope deferred that makes
he heart sick, the strife with poverty, the huniliations
that takes all the manhood out of
he poor soule, the privations and sufferings
if those who depend upon his earnings, and
?ho have no resource when he is earning nothng.
No father, no mother, no relative should
vish to sec their boys or kindred wasting their
oung lives hf striving after the genteel posiions
that brings such trials ana privations
ipon them in after life.
How do these deplorably false notions as to
hoicc of occupations get into the heads of
toys ? Why ao they or their parents considr
it more "genteel or desirable to run erands,
sweep out offioed, make fires, copy let
.1. A! J.- 1- - L.i. .L.?
era, etc., uitui u> xumo nata ur duuco, ui mj
ricks, or wield the saw or jack-plane, or handle
the machinist's file, or the blacksmith's
lammer ? "We have h eard that some of them
;et these notions at school. If this be so it is
,^ad perversion of the means of education
irovided for our youth, which are intended to
aake them useful as well as intelligent members
of society, and not useless drags and
rones. Should it be so, that the present genration
of boys get it into their heads that,
ecause they have more school learning and
ook accomplishments than their fathers had,'
hey must therefore look down upon the trades
hat require skill and handicraft, and whose
roductions make up the vast mass of the
realth of every country, then it is time for
he controllers and directors to have the intcior
walls of our school houses covered with
iiaxims and mottoes warning them against the
utal error.?Philadelphia Ledger.