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LBw 1 S ^l; GRIST'! ^ Jn liibtgmberf jamilg 1^8^: Jbr tbf ffrrection ct % Ilalitical, Social Igriraltml an) Omnnitl fntmsts of % <011% ^ j TE?^,"r7^ VOL. 15. YOBKVILLE, S. C., THTJBSDAY, DECEMBEB 9, 1869. NO, 49. ?be Jforg Met. HEARTS BROKEN AND HEALED. The children went laughing and singing down the village, the clouds began to pile up in the West for the coming sunset, and the first flush of Spring beauty tinted the hills aud the woods with a peculiar radiance. As they stood in the grove?Annie Linn and Charles Manson?the rush of the river, below, and the voices of the children froiu the road, mingled together like the bass and soprano of some exquisite melody; but if they heard it at all it was with that impatience which comes over one when happy sounds break in upon restlessness and trouble. She had come down there to bid him farewell?not from any girlish desire for a quarrel which should end in a pleasant reconciliation, but from a settled conviction of the he ik A AMAA in If AM miud La cessuv UI Lite Sltp, ?un u,uuw; iiiusi ut irrevocable. They were both young. A year before they had been, for a short time, engaged; but all that had long since been broken off, and this ' last interview was a great deal worse than useless, though perhaps without it neither could have brought their minds to regard that book of their lives as forever closed. Charles Mauson was the eldest son of a wid- . ow. He had been a spoiled, handsome boy? : I am afraid he was a wayward, reckless young : man~-ju8t one of those young fellows whom 1 everybody likes, and whose agreeable qualities and faculty of makingfriends prove their own greatest snare and temptation. I should have made one exception when I said everybody liked Charlie. Mr. Linn had detested him from his boyhood. He was a close-fisted, grim old chap, who always prayed as if he meaut to frighten the angels into doing their duty; who nad toiled incessantly all his life, and could not understand why any- , bo^y'should expect an existence at all different '" ** ' ' ' ' ,i# ' " { Now, as a boy, Charley would not work, ex- , cept to gain some special object. He hated a farmer's life, and was determined to go to col- 1 lege. He had accomplished that by a dint of , sacrifices on his mother's part?those few ] words tell the story of her life?and considerable labor on his own. He played tutor during the vacations; a distant relative helped him, and so he had gone on. But, alas! During the last year of his course, everything changed. ^Charlie made the acquaintance of an entirely different set? young men of fortune and expensive habits, whom hq ought to Imve avoided?and his natural disposition did the rest. He left the college very suddenly?good-natured people said he was expelled?and the next the village heard of him he was in London, but whether in bugines or not, no one knew. Before he. came home, old Mr. Linn discovered the engagement existing between him and Annie, ana, with his usual peremptoriness, broke it off at once. Charlie wrote her scores-of reproachful letters, which her father coolly burned before her eyes. Then a long silenoe?the terrible stories of his bad habits and dissipation. Nobody ventured to question the widow, for she was one of those women whom even village gossip did not care to approach with their affected sympathy aud ill concealed curiosity. As she sat in her place at church, people noticed how, week after week, the smooth hair gained an added tinge of gray, and the patient lines around her mouth deepened with hidden anxiety and trouble. Annie met her but seldom, and then there was but little conversation between them, never a word concerning the subject which filled both their hearts. Mr. Linn had forbidden any intercourse between the families ; but the widow had known him too long not to understand the truth and exonerate Annie from all blame in the matter. Old Linn loved money. If .Charley had been as steady as a young Solon, he would not have given him his daughter. It was conve- j nient that the young man ottered him a reasonable excuse for the course he pursued. Annie held her father iif great awe. She had ipherited thefeeling from her mother, who, ten years before had faded into her grave, perhaps glad that, for once, she could do something in peace and quiet. The neighbors talk still about her resignation; the old minister often alluded to her death-bed as the most edifying scene he had ever witnessed. I suppose Mr. Linn was sorry. Her health had been foiling for a long time, and she had been obliged to neglect her duty, and that fact helped to support him in his bereavement. He never married again, and Annie grew up under the shadow of her father's presence, and the tyranny of two older brothers, who were really prototypes of her parent. One of them was married now, and his bustling, active wife gave Annie a word of good advice, and set her face against Charles Manson, and all belonging to him, with a praiseworthy pertinacity. There they stood in the maple grove, with the sunset streaming about them, and the black sorrow swooping down over their souls like the heavy clouds that hovered above the radiance of the West He had been pleading so earnestly. But though her heart trembled beneath his words, and swayed toward? him with an old affection, his passionate language beat vainly against the fortitude with which her ideas of duty and right had armed her. j "You never loved me," he exclaimed with ] all a man's selfishness aud cruelty. "You are cold and hard?you can't feel." She only shivered a little?her tears had 1 crowded back upon her heart, and refused to 1 flotf. It seemed to her that Uiey were slowly < freezing there, and would press life out beneath the ice. "Why don't you speak ?" he said. "You see me going crazy before your face, and will . not speak a word to me." "I can't say anything more," she slowly answered. "Then, you give me up ? You cast me off i_.J? _i? T i;Q,t as every uouy erse jijvs uuiic i a uv? ?^v? to you?I never pretended that I was a good inan; but you might make me what you please." "O, Charlie! Charlie!"?the utterance of the old familiar name was like a sob?"if you * cannot be all that you ought from a higher reason, no efforts of mine could avail." "They would?they would!" She shook her head sadly, retaining all the while her forced composure, though inwardlv she trembled so that she could hardly stand. "They have made you hate me," he exclaimed. Yon look upon me as a monster. After all, how am I so much worse than other men ? If the truth were known, half those sanctimonious people who abuse me have done worse things than ?" She put up her hand pleadingly, and he stopped. She could not bear to hear him attempt such self-justification. With her religious feelings, the excesses of which he had been guiltv, appeared much more terrible than they would have done to a woman of the world. But she loved him in spite of everything, for when did such doubts ever change affection ? "O, Charles !" she said suddenly, "for your own sake, for your mother's, be true to yourself?make your life all that it ought to be." "What do I care for myself? As for my mother, she has a son to depend upon?I am of no consequence?no one will care how I end." "You are breaking my heart. Do not make us all so miserable." She wrung her bauds with a sudden passion which startled him. She was usually so quiet that, with his impetuous nature, accustomed to give vent to every feeling, he had, at times, accused her of a want of feeling. "It is mv heart which is breaking," be an swered. "Annie, don't throw me off-?don't ?end me away utterly desperate" "If you had lost every hope in the world, you ought not to be that. lean never be any- i thing to you?my father will never permit it.'' "And can you hesitate between us ? Is that your love ?" "My duty is stronger than my love," she jaid, "and I shall obey. Were I alone in the world I might well hesitate before I committed my happiness to your keeping; but I would do it?I would trust to your affection to me to lead you aright; but now?" 1 "Now you may doit. There is no one loves you as I do; you fear your father more than you love him; your brothers tyranize over ' you. Only come with ine?be my wife, and i let us be happy in spite of the world." . "Do you think I could be happy with my father's anger hanging over me r' "He would forgive you in the end." "You know him better than to believe that. No, Charles; rather have patience and wait. 1 Who can tell, if you did as you ought, work hard and make yourself a good name, that he would not in the end yield?" "He hates me too much for that. There is no hope." . The sunset was beginning to fade. Annie i dared not remain, and she was growing so faint and weary that she longed to end the pain of parting. ! "You arc anxious to go," he said bitterly. "You grudge me even this last half hour. Do i not fear, I shall never ask another." . " < "You will be sorry for 9uch cruel words < when I am gone," she returned. "JJon't make i ;hese last memories so bitter." Then his wild love came up again, and he mplored her with all the fervor of passion lot to leave him; but though she wept in agony ler firmness was unshaken. She could die, jut she could not take a step which she felt to i le wicked. - i "Then go!" he exclaimed. "I shall never ;rouble you again. tI swear you shall repent i ;his to the last day of your life. You have 1 nade me utterly desperate. I have nothing < ;o live for now." i "Your mother?remember your mother." ] "I shall be better out of her way?I have 1 been a curse to her all my life." ] Then his mood changed. He clasped An- 1 (lie for an instant in his arms, and before she jould speak he was gone. The last look of < iiis white face, convulsed with mingled emo- 1 :ions, terrified her so unutterably that she had < 10 strength even to pronounce his name. 1 After a time she rose from the ground, i where she had fallen rather than sank from 1 my will of her own, and went slowly home through the chill twilight. i For two days longer Charles Manson lin- J jcred about the village, then disappeared. It 1 was supjM)sed at first that he had returned to 1 London, but two days after his mother found 1 i letter in the room which he usually occupied. 1 It only said that he should never trouble 1 ler again?neither her nor any one. It was J letter that everything shouldimafc! 1 At first she could not understand the signa- i ;ure of the half-legible scrawl...iGradually it 1 jroke upon her n^Od;;that the leave-taking neant suicide. She--grew almost mad with 1 ;he horror of the wougHt -aL'.w! i The report went abroad, and eteryho#^ ormed a separate opinion. But when',$?tfc ! lings reached Annie Linn, she could notaoutjt^ ?ven for an instant, that he was dead. - - i Mrs. Manson wrote to his city friends. He < lad not been 6een; nowhere any tidings. She i ;ould do nothing. i lion o iirnolr nftood/1 Tf u'QU u hrinrlit J luuic buaii u n^ajuMocvui AV U ? lelicious Spring. The treed were all green; he crocuses and snow-drops were blossoming i n the little garden; a colony of robins haunt- 1 id the old apple-trees and flew in at the open vindows, telling beautiful tales of their South- 1 ;rn flight. But there was no peace in all its 1 growing richness of beauty and life. 1 It was the middle of the afternoon. Her father and brother were out, and Annie Linn i stood in the side door, looking across the field ] toward the river. 1 She saw a group of children rush wildly up J the path she had last trodden with Charles Manson. Out from the nearest house ran sev- I eral men, taking the path the children had i come up, which led to the cove. i It was a beautiful spot in the summer time, when the water was low, sheltered between 1 the high green banks of the shore and the tall i trees of the island; but at that season of the fear the current was so swollen by the Spring i rains, that the island was half overflowed, ana the pretty cove a deep, black eddy, where the i waters seethed and foamed in their insane i whirl. Annie Linn stood motionless in the doorway. From the first instant she saw the wild race of the children, she understood what had ; happened. They had found the body; he had been drowned in the cove. . Then the dreadful thought whether it had been accidental, or the work of self-destruction. She remembered his last words; but even in that hour of supreme agony, she could not see her way to have acted differently. She still stood there, while more people went hurrying down through the fields, and the excitement became general through the village. She heard some one passing through the next room. She must be alone or her very reason would go. She reached the stairs? fairly crept on her hands and knees, to the solitude of her own room. Perhaps an hour after, some impulse forced her to the window. She looked out. Up the path came a train of men carrying something over which was spread a white sheet, that fluttered a little in the wind. Only a glance! then she fell to the floor, and lost everything for a time in that blessed insensibility. The body was carried to the old brown farm-house. The face was swollen and unrecognizable, but the widow remembered the clothes. It was the body of her son. The evening before the funeral of poor Charles Manson, Annie Linn wandered out of the house into the fields?not towards the path which had formerly been her favorite haunt; she could not even look towards that. She saw the old, brown house on the hill, but did not venture to approach near. Some one came out of the door and walked down the hill. Annie knew her in an instant?it was his mother. She did not attempt to avoid the meeting. She stood there, passively awaiting whateve: might ensue, not even looking upas she hear< the footsteps come nearer. "Annie, Annie!" called a familiar voice which had an undertone so like his. There stood the widow, with her arms ex tended. Annie fell into them with one cry upon which the smothered grief of the past few days went out. It was a long time before there was a wore spoken; then tears came, and broken whispers which made each heart dear to the other "They say you blame me," Annie cried. "Child, my "boy loved you; that was enough I never blamed you?I never shall. We don'l care what people say?we understand one another now." "I wanted to see you?to come to you." "I know, I know. You can do so now, An nie; your father will never object any more." They clung to one another a little closei after these words. "You must not come to the house to-mw> row," the widow said. "Come to me when il is all over and they are gone." "I have been wishing?I want to see?" "No, no. O, it's dreadful. I could onlj look once. Don't, Annie, "don't." She hid her face for a moment to shut ou1 the painful image her own words had called up?'that pale, worn face, with so much of the tender beauty of age in it already. They had no words of comfort to speak to each other. It y/as very difficult to talk at all. But it eased their grief to stand together, feeling that each understood the other's heart Anuie clung to her with sudden energy. "Don't let them talk to you, I did love him indeed I did." *1 know it. You did what was right; nc one shall blame you in my hearing. I hope they'll let my boy alone now. 0, my Charley ! my Charley!" She checked the spasm of grief quickly. "I don't believe he did it on purpose. He wrote me a letter. I think he meant to gc T 1 1 *??a a. ttwujr, jl aupuuM; ac wnuucica uu wnmii tiic river that nignt?" A shudder completed the sentence. It was fuller of agony than any words or tears. They parted almost in silence, and each stole home, shivering with a chill that struck deeper than the pleasant coolness of the spring evening and would not wear away for montlis and years. * * * * Charles Manson had been buried a year, rhen came the second great trial of Annie Linn's life. The spring warmed into summer, but the mourning in which Annie Linn's heart was ihrouded did not grow more light She visited the widow very frequently. Her father never made any opposition, although be rather kept out of her way himself. However much he might believe himself in the right, it was not pleasant now to meet the poor mother, aqd remember all the harsh words he had spoken concerning the young man over whose grave the flowers he loved had already begun to spring. Of course, after the first few weeks of wonderings, Annie was left in peace by her neighbors. They had begun to forget the sudden death, and probably supposed she was doing the same. But the mother knew the truth, and each day knit her heart more closely to that of the uncomplaining girl. James Martin, having been left a widower, i couple of years before, and finding himself alone in the midst of the comforts his money brought about him, cast about in the county for another .wile, and, as fate would have it, be fixed his choice upon Annie. It was very foolish of him, when there were scores of girls who would have been in the seventh heaven at the bare idea of solacing his grief. But where such feelings are concerned, the wisest men are perverse; so no one but Annie could 511 the void in his heart. He became a frequent visitor at the house, but as he had usually some ostensible business with her father, it never occurred to Annie that las visits had any connection with herselt. t fancy he gave Mr. Linn a hint from the first; but' the old gentleman wisely held his peace, ind suffered events to take their course, never Ireaming that any daughter of his could be insane enough to refuse one of the richest men in the county, and in every respect all that my reasonable woman could,desire. When tire truth first upon Annie's mind, she was sorely troUBjed/^But it was difficult to know what coursei(tp?pursue. Martin began to ask her to drive out with bim, and as all the invitations were given in her father's presence, she accepted them from tiiin without the slightest hesitation. At last people began to gossip and make remarks. It was currently reported that the pair were engaged, long before Martin had i'ound the courage to show her more than common civility. At length Martin made her an offer of his heart and hand, with the air of a man who ilid not dream of a refusal, as was natural after her father's encouragement. "I am sorry," (she was obliged to interrupt him in order to speak) ; "I was not expecting this. I cannot be your wife, Mr. Martin." He stared at lior in astonishment for au instant, but could not believe her in earnest. "You think I ought not to have spoken so abruptly, and want to punish me for it," he said. "No, indeed, I cannot marry you. I do not want to give pain, but please don't talk ol this any more, Mr. Martin. I shall always be your friend, but I can be nothing more." "But your father always gave me reason to hope," he said, turniug red and pale with mingled pain and mortification. u:.., w J. UCVCl gilW illlll UIIJ uiuw; iw M\.I cup 1jv.lieve me. It was not until very lately that I ever dreamed your visits were intended for me." "But you will think difterentl)?I will not take your answer now." "You must, Mr. Martin?indeed you must, I shall never change." "You don't think me worthy of you?" he demanded, angrily. "It is not that," she answered, sadly, "I have no heart to give any man." She grew so white that, for the first time, he remembered the tjilk there had been concerning her and Charley Manson. That thought helped to check his rising anger ; but he began to plead his cause again. She was very kind, but perfectly firm, and he was at length obliged to acknowledge, in his own mind, that she was perfectly serious, and that no persuasion could induce her k take her station ill the world as his wife. He sought Mr. Linn, and informed him oi his ill success. "She can't mean it!" exclaimed the old gentleman, all the advantages of the match rushing more strongly than ever ujM)n him "These girls jiever know what they want." "Miss Annie seems to, at all events." "Nonsense! She wanted to tease you." "I never saw a girl show less inclination,' "I will talk to her," returned the old manii an imperative way. "I shall see you to-mor row?it will be all right." Mr. Martin went his way, divided in hii r opinions, and greatly chagrined at the probable 1 overthrow of all the pretty castles in tne air he had beep industriously rearing during the past , weeks of blind obscurity. "What's this Martin tells me ?" demanded - Mr. Linn, abruptly entering the room where , Annie still sat, her thoughts going back to the t previous year, whose narrow round had swallowed up the brief summer of her life. "He I- says you refused him." "I did, father," she answeied, trembling a . little before his power, but re taining the composure and courage which she had gained from . sorrow. t "I should like to know why." She took his arm and drew him to the window, pointing toward the distant graveyard, bathed in the soft light of eveuing. "Because, when you laid him down there to ' rest, you buried my heart also." The old. man's arm fell lo his side. Shel wpnt. nut of the room in silence, leaviner him. I - for the time, so much shaken that he could not ; pursue the subject either by argument or threat. * * * * * r Three years more had gone by. Mr. Linn was grown an old man, and, as he neared the ' grave, his rugged nature began to soften. He I turned from his sons' coarseness, and sought 1 comfort in Annie's affection and gentle ministering care, which did not fail him; and, ? cheered by her presence, he went on toward < the moment when he put off humanity ?nd its . trials, like a wom-out garment that the eager soul despised. 1 . The brothers were greatly dissatisfied with i the will?Annie shared equally with them. It would have been quite enough for her to have 1 been left in their care. What did she know > about the use of money ? It was of no avail to grumble, however; the matter was settled. Her elder brother was coming to take possession of the homestead, ! and as Annie could in no wise regard it her 1 duty to live with his wife, she made prepara' tions to depart. While she was meditating upon her plans, old Mrs. Manson came to her. "I thought you considered yourself my daughter," she said. "I do. I have no one left but you." "Then come home, my daqghter; my house 1 is your rightful home now." Bo the matter was arranged. Annie settled -W ' .% 1 111 f quietly aown in tne aear, oia Drown nouse? dearer even than her childhood's home, from ! its associations with Charley's memory?as if she had been indeed the widow's child. 1 Of course people wondered a little, but after [ all it was natural enough, and her brother's wife's peculiarities of disposition were suffi-. ciently well known to explain Annie's declination to make his house her home. * * x * * It was the first spring since the funeral took 1 place from the farmhouse. Annie was twentyfour years old. She had been out for a long walk, and it was already twilight when she ascended the hill. She passed through the yard, and as she reached the outer door, Mrs. Manson's voice reached her ear. She was startled?it sounded as if the widow was giving way to hysterical emotion. | "Mother!" she called out "Mother 1" "There she is!" the old lady exclaimed. "Richard, go and tell her?don't let her in 1 without?she'll 'die. O Annie, Annie!" She rushed into the hall before the frightened girl could stir; she caught her in her arms, weeping, and trying to speak, while Richard ' followed, little less agitated. "A letter, Annie," he said, trying to control 1 himself. "We're all mistaken; Charley?" "Is alive." The words died on her lips?power and ' sense forsook her in the agonizing joy of that moment. When she came to herself Charley Maiison was supporting her?was calling her name wildly. It was no dream.. He was there? alive?as she had sometimes dreamed might be the case, only to throw aside the thought as impossible in her quieter moments. It was very natural, improbable as it seems. After writing that letter to his mother, he had hurried to Liverpool and shipped to California without seeing one of his old friends. The bodv which had been found was indeed dressed in his clothes?things Charley had given on his arrival home to a poor tramp. He was some stranger, a drunken wanderer whose name never transpired. Charley had not for a long time written back, and when he did, the letters never reached their destination; so that he arrived that day in the village to find himself regarded as comfortably disposed of for five years past. There is nothing more to tell. Business had prospered with him ; his early habits had been flung aside, and the true noblei ness of his character shone out without a stain, i 80 the old miracle had done its work. ? How to Breathe.?The action of respira; tion should never be carried on through the mouth. "God breathed into man's nostrils the breath of life." The correctness of the inspired writer is fully sustained by modern physiology. The mischievous habit of carry1 ing on the action of respiration through the mouth instead of through the nose, is the real origin of almost all the diseases of the throat , and lungs and even consumption itself. Medieal writers tell us that the excessive perspira; tion to which some are liable in their sleep and which is so weakening to the system, is , mainly the result of sleeping with the mouth open. Whether you walk, sit, read, write or f<lfi?n. keen vour mouth closed, except when i ; f J 9 ' * engaged in conversation or necessary vocal reading. The philosophy is this: The velocity of the blood through the body and the heat of the ; body itself, depends mainly upon the quantity of the atmospheric air taken into the lungs. , Nature measures that quantity by the nostrils, not by the mouth. When the mouth is emi ployed, the measure is too great; and just sufficient when the nostrils are used. An excess of air overheats the body, while the passage through the mouth otherwise injuriously af: fecta the throat. The habits ot children in this respect should be carefully watched and ; regulated. Open mouths produce a vacant and unseeming appearance, and may be regarded as a very sure precursor of habitual I colds and sore throat. , F un ny Law Suit.?Two "gentlemen" were ? lately summoned before a police court in Bremen, Germany, one being charged with havr ing bitten off the end of a cat's tail, and the other with holding pussy during the operation. It seems that the first defendant had performed the feat to gain a wager that he would bite off . a part of a cat's tail. The defence was that a curtailment of the appendage would not only not injure the cat but would add to her comfort and convenience. A veterinary surgeon ' was brought in to testify to the same opinion, i but both the defendant's were fined, there being - no recommendation in any scientific work that cat's tails be abbreviated, especially by thesur3 gical application of human teeth. HpSttUaum fUadittg. LEGAL TENDERS. \ It is now believed in some quarters, says the Louisville Courier-Journal, that the 8u- y preme Court will render its decisions on the s constitutionality of the legal-tender act by the c first of January, and, that it will be adverse a to the act. There has been, it is thought, an 1 evident disposition on the part of the court to ? delay the decision, and what has produced j; the new determination does not appear. As " to Confederate currency contracts, made du- a ring the war, the court has already fixed the c liability of parties according to the gold value 0 of such contracts at the tftne they were made. Some think that the same rule Will apply to " greenbacks, indicating what the basis of set- F tlement will be in case of a decision against the constitutionality of the legal-tender act. ? The Cincinnati Gazette, a Radical organ of 11 unsurpassed influence in the West, has the > following: ! "These (Confederate) notes were illegal; but the de facto government forced their circulation, and therefore the parties who contracted c in them were innocent. Their value was shift- c ing, but still they had a sufficiently definite f relation to coin, so that it is easy to ascertain their actual value in gold or silver. And this P is the measure of the judgment. This rule applies as completely to the greenbacks, in f case they shall be declared not a legal tender, f* It 18 what we have maintained for a long time. Iu It robs such a decision of all its terrors, for, it e gives assurance that no man shall be made, 8' by any arbitrary shifting of the measure of value, to pay more than he agreed to. It pro- j! vides that in all cases of contracts in a curren- : cy which is not lawful money, but which was made so by the Government for the time, the v debt shall be adjusted by its coin equivalent n at the time." W:: shall be very well satisfied with such a deck' >n if such a one can be properly rendered. B>\t we are constrained to doubt whether it can. , There was no question of the consti- ^ tutionality of legal tenders before the Supreme v Court in the case of the Confederate contract g( that was adjudicated. The court was under e little restraint in declaring what it considered j, equitable. There was no strict law that could ^ govern in the case. In regard to greenbacks, j the court, it seems to us, has only to decide 0 either that they are or that they are not legal ^ tenders under the Federal Constitution. If y they are not legal tenders, those who owe debts ^ can, we fear, be required to pay the full amount ^ of thetr debts in what is a legal tender. This, / if insisted on by creditors, would certainly ^ work oppression and hardship and even ruin a in tens of thousands of instances, and we sincerely hope, though not confidently, that, in the opinion of the Supreme Court, such i\ decision can be consistently rendered as the CSncinnati organ anticipates. Some of our con- ^ temporaries, we see, invoke Congress to do ^ something to break the force of the blow if the ^ courts shall decide that all debts, whenever a contracted, must be paid in specie, but we do not see that Congress can do anything in the ? case unless it shall choose to override both the *] Court and the Constitution as it has done in ^ some other cases. If greenbacks are not legal tenders under the Constitution and the ^ existing laws, Congress cannot, by all the leg- J islatiou in the world, make them legal tenders. ^ That body may enact and enact, but green backs will not for that reason be legal tenders. WEBSTER'S RETAINING FEE. d One day a gentleman from New Bedford . waited upon Mr. Webster at his office in Boa- v ton?the little old office on Court street?wish- g ing to engage him for the defence in an important case at law. The visitor was himself p the defendant, and the amount at stake in the = suit was from sixty to seventy thousand dol- _ lars. He presented all the important points, j and Mr. Webster was willing to undertake . the task. But the client could not tell exact- & ly when the case would come on. "Very well," said Webster. "If you wish a to retain me for the defence in this suit, I will f hold myself in readiness, and will not engage ? for the plaintiff." p The gentleman asked what the retaining fee {, would be. a "A thousand dollars." ? "A thousand dollars!" il "See what I engage to do, sir. I not only j, hold myself at your command, perhaps for a j month or more, but I debar myself from ac- g( cepting an offer, no matter how large, from the t( plaintiff." A The applicant filled out a check for one v thousand dollars, and gave it to the great expounder. a "And now, sir," said Daniel, after he had ^ put the check in his pocket, "I will give you j, a bit of advice, gratis. If you can compromise tj this business, upon fair terms, with the plain- t] tiff, you had better do so." The client acknowledged his thanks, and took his leave. Daniel sent the check to the c< bank, where it was duly honored. i, On the very next day, the gentleman from New Bedford called upon Mr. Webster again. ]( The plaintiff was in Boston?had come up the 8] previous day on purpose to compromise?and h a compromise had been effected. to "In short," said the client, "we have made 0 a fair and satisfactory settlement." b Mr. Webster was very glad; and having so expressed himself, and duly congratulated his h visitor, he would have turned to other busi- w uess; but the visitor seemed to have something w further ou his mind?something that made p him restive and uneasy. h "Of course," he ventured, after a pause, "I a shall not require your services, Mr. Webster." j "Certainly not, sir." " . w "And?and?how about the thousand dol- w lars I paid you ?" faintly queried the gentle- ]y man, who couldn't see the propriety of paying tj such a sum for services which were never to be h rendered. tl "Oh?ah," responded Daniel, with a bland t< smile, "you don't understand. It is very sim- si pie. That was a retaining fee?called, in law, ci a retainer. By virtue of the contract, I, also, a am a retainer. What should I retain, if not 1] my fee ?" p And the gentleman from New Bedford went a away thoroughly instructed in the legal signi- ti fication of "a retainer." t\ ? The Idle Max.?The idle man is an annoyance?a nuisance. He is an intruder in a the busy thoroughfare of every day life. He si stands in our path and we must push him con- tl tetnptnously aside. He is no advantage to any v one. He annoys busy men. He makes them h unhappy. He is a cipher in society. He may fi have an income to support htm in idleness, or h he may sponge on his good natured friends, c But in every case he is despised. Young men, tl form habits of industry; do something m this tl busy, wide-awake world. Move about for the tl benefit of mankind, if not for yourself. Do not c be idle. God's law is that by the sweat of our a brow we shall earn our bread. This is a good tl one, and the bread is sweet. Do not be idle, n Minutes are too precious to be squandered thoughtlessly. s< A BIT OP BOMANCE. j The New York Sun tells a sad and roinan- ; ic incident of the career of the benefactor < vhose death two hemispheres are mourning.; ' A number of years ago, when Mr. Peabodjr 1 vas fast entering upon his career of success i is a business man, in Baltimore, he met, by < :hance, in the street, a poor girl, who was but f i child, but whose pleasing fhce And gentle ] nanner attracted his notice. Questioning her fi js to her parentage and surroundings, he lonna ler in every way worthy of his regard, and a it subject for hi# benefaction. He at once i dopted her as his ward, and gave her an edu: atiou. As she advanced in age, her charms f person as well as the brightness of her inellect, won the affections of her benefactor, through this relationship, he had ample opportunity of watching her progress, and day >y day her hold upon his affections grew tronger. At length, as the ward bloomed nto ^emanhood, though much _her sepior in ears, Mr. Peabodv offered her htt hand and ortuue. Gratefully appreciating his generosly, and acknowledging her attachment for 1 iim as almost a father, she with great feeling t onfessed that her honor compelled her to de- a line the acceptance of his greatest act of gen- s rosity, informing her suitor that her affections 1 ad been given to another, a clerk in the em- s loy of her benefactor. 8 Though disappointed and grievously shock- t d, the philanthropist sent for his Clerk, and s earning from him that the engagement had c een of long duration, Mr. Peabody at once t 9tablished his successful rival in business, and i oon after gave his benediction upon the mar- a iage of his ward! This, it is Baid, was the t rst blow his heart received, and it is possible fiat from this episode came the inspiration hat made the future of Mr. Peabodv so tmi- t ersally distinguished, and has rendered his a arae famous as the friend of his race. 1 > ? > c Hints on Courting.?Every able-bodied t oung man, during the winter, is expected to, o nd generally does, do a vast amount of visit- o ig, and to guard them from the rock on which o manv are sDHttinsr UDon. a whisper of ad- ( ice as to how they can perhaps enhance them- t elves in the eyes of tne young ladies; the y Sect may not be unwelcome, and many mar- i pre to late hours will thank us for insinuating < lie suggestion into theminds of their adorers, c t is simply this: Don't stay too long. Eight a 'clock is quite early enough to appear at v eauty's feet, and you should incontinently t anish at ten. Every minute you stay beyond * m militates against you. Your charmer su* ir two hours will begin to exhibit symptoms * invisible to you) of getting sleepy, if not fit- 1 gued. Her parents, will he kept up too late, k nd her mamma, in particular, deprived of the k recious privilege of cross-questioning your t< Angelica and directing you when you are out, f tne house. Endeavor to make yourself s agreeable as possible from eight to ten and ? ben leave promptly. Short ana frequent vis- 1 s tell, when your setting-out policy of stay- v ig until the old gentleman comes down and & sks you to remain % few minutes longer and t et your breakfast, never would count The i oung ladies will like this better and look all ( be fresher for not having been victimized from c 2n to twelve the night before, and make them- r elves more charming than ever the next time, a roung fellows suffemg from their first attack <j f calf love will think this cruel advice, but a he parents and young ladies will not 1 ? ! " ' J The Emperor Charles V., having one c ay lost himself in the heat of the chase, and <j wandering in the forest far from his train, af- 1 er much fatigue in trying to find a route, j ame at last to a solitary ale-house, where he 1 ntered to refresh himself. On going in he i aw four men, whose mien presaged him no c ;ood; he, however, sat down and called for g omething. These men pretending to be t sleep, one of them rose, and approaching the Emperor, said that he had areamt that he ook his hat, and accordingly took it off The <] econd saying he had dreamt that he had ta- ( :en his coat, took that also. The third, with c little prologue, took his waistcoat And the t ourth, with much politeness, said he hoped a here would he 110 objection to his feeling his ^ ockets; and seeing a chain of gold about his c eck, whence hung his hunting born, was ? bout to take that, too, but the Emperor said, Stop, my friend, I dare say you cannot blow <] t; I will teach you." So putting the horn to c is mouth, he blew repeatedly and very loud. ? lis people, who searched for him, heard the ^ ound, and entering the cottage, were surprised r 9 see him in such a garb. "Here are four t illows," said the Emperor, "who have dreamt j; rhat they pleased; I must now dream in my r urn." Sitting down and shutting his eyes for. ^ little while, he started up, saying, "I have 0 reamt that I saw four thieves hangedand 0 nmediately ordered his dream to be fulfilled, tie master of the inn being compelled to be lieir executioner. J The Woman Who Dared.?The Bureau v ounty Illinois, Republican has the following ? 1 regard to a "woman who dared "Some time ago a young countrv lass had a * ivcr, as most young country girls "do; and le made up her miud that she would capture v ira, if such a thing were possible. On a ceriin SimHnv evening, she craduallv drew out - ~ - -- Q; Q ^ V ? f him a confession that he 'liked her,' and, ? eforehe was hardly aware of hjmself, a prom- ? eof marriage. When Henry returned nome b e meditated over the matter a little, and ? ondered how foolish he had been. With his b ell known opposition to hasty marriages and b romises, how could he explain his conduct to P is fond parents? It was indeed a dilemma, nd one that perplexed him to solve. Some n ays after the incident above noted, the lady, horn we call Mary, had a party, and Henry as one of the invited guests. In the evening ? Lary informed him there was to be a wedding * lere and showed him the license. Imagine t1 is surprise on seeing his name mentioned in u le document. 'Now, Henry, you are going tl > fulfill your engagement,' she said, gently P ;roking him under the chin. He tried to ex- tl use himself on the ground of not being ready, " nd wishing a little time to arrangehi$ world- * r afTairs; nut it was no go. She fold him to t< -x 1-u e .... ?A,;. ? Ub Oil U UU1U law, uuu lUfib uuiou up iuc ujjbji ? t once and be done with it At this junc- t< ire tlie Squire made his appearance, and the tl ,vo were joined together in matrimony." a a Mis-spent Evenings.?Th'eboy who spends I n hour of each evening lounging idly on a a treet corner, wastes, in the course of a year, si hrec hundred and sixty-five precious hours, hich, if applied to study, would familiarize im with the rudiments of almost any of the b imiliar sciences. If in addition to wasting an C our each evening, he spends ten cents for a a igar, which is usually tne case, the amount e tiu8 worse than wasted, would pay for ten of il lie leading periodicals of the country. Boys, d bink of these things. Think how much pre- a ious time and good money you are wasting, t nd for what? The gratification afiorded by e lie lounge on the corner, or by the cigar, is \ ot only temporary but positively hurtful. 1 fou cannot indulge in these practices without s eriously injuring yourselves. You acquire 1 idle and wasteful habits, which will cling to pou through life, and grow upon yoa with Jach succeeding year. Yoa may in after life shake them off, but. the probabilities are that lie habits thys formed in early life will renain with you till your dying aay. Be warned then in time, and resolve that as the hour ipent in idleness is gone forever, yon will improve each passing one, and thereby fit yourelves for usefulness and happiness. * ? t". / j Singular Superstitions.?The Medical ind Surgical Reporter mentions as an instance if a prevalent superstition the case of an old ady in Iowa, who, when complimented on the eauty and preservation of her teeth, ascribed t to having "bitten the snake." She explaind that in childhood her father held a rattlenake by the head and tail, and each of the ihildren bit along the whole length of the back one, just indenting the skin as a preventive of onth-achoanddeoav: and the old ladv believes 0 the present in the efficacy of such an oper.tion. We know a hale old fellow, about 65 'ears old, from Pennsylvania, who-attributes lis complete recovery from consumption, when 1 young man, to his having followed the precription of an- Indian squaw, who directed 11m to cut ont and eat the hearts of two rattlenakes, and then hang the reptiles up by the ide of the fireplace, and when thoroughly dry, o pound them up in a mortar and take the pake powder in whiskey., The more ignorant lasses in New York and Pennsylvania have he notion that quinsy can be cured by hold* ag in the mouth a green firog t31 it dies. The mma! is said to absorb the poison from the hroat and swell up and die. - | ? e Kind WohDe.?They never blister (he ongue nor lips. And we have never heard of ny mental trouble arising from this quarter, [bough they do not cost much, yet they acomplish much. They help one s own good lAture and good-will. Soft words soften our wn soul. Angry words are fuel to the flames f wrath, and make them Maze more fiercely. Kind Words make other people good-natured, [old words freeze people, ana hot words scorch hem, and bitter worys make them bitter, and wrathful words make them, wrathful. There j such a rush of all other words, in our days, hat it seems desirable to give kind words a haace among them. There are vain words nd idle words, and hasty words, and spitefbl cords, and silly words, mid empty words, and oisteroos words, and warlike words. Kind fords also produce their own image m men s ouls. And a BeaqtifUl image it is. They oothe, and quiet, and comfort the bearer, "her shame him out of bit soar, morose, cn:ina feelings; We have not yet begun to use ind words in such abundance as-tney ought ? be used.?PatcaL _ J 4 % ' Gooi>Bye.?It is a hard word to speak, tome may laugh that it should be^ buftlet them augh. Icy hearts are never kind. It is a rora that has choked many an utterance, and tarted many a tear. Hie hand is clasped, he word spoken, we part, and are out upon he ocean of time?we go to meet again where *od only knows. It may be soon; it may be tever. Take care that your "good-bye be tot a cold one?it may be the last you can rive Ere you- can meet your friend again leath's cola hand may have closed his eyes tnd chained his lips forever. Ah ! he may tave died in thinking you loved him not kgain, it may be a long separation. Friends irowd onward and give you their hand. How lo you detect in each "good-bye" the love that ingers there; and how do you bear away with rou the memory of these parting words, many uany days. We must often separate. Tear tot yourself away with a careless boldness that lefies all love, but make your last words linger?give the heart its full utterance?and if ears fell, what of it ? Tears are not unmanly. How a Railroad Kino Travels.?Mr. forrence, Vice-President of the New York Jentral Railroad, keeps for his own use, and onstantly ready, an elegantly fitted uplocomoive, the seats of which are on steel springs nd richly upholstered, while every appliance i visible to keep out sparks and dust Itis in harge of a first-class engineer, whose only lusiiiess is to run his machine whenever the /ice-President wishes him to. Should Mr. forrence (Who resides in New York city,) onsider that his presence is important in Bufalo, the engineer is ordered to fire up, the elegraph conveys the intelligence that Torence is on the road, and away goes the horse hrnncrli tnwna and villflsea like a streak of ?" 'T?T-? ?TO ? ??ightning, resting not till the destination is eached. Business finished, the return is made, he horse is not in the stable, and not taken at again till the Vioe-President issues the rder for another ride. ' m ? A Vekomous Serpent.?Mr. Moon is very iiuch in the habit of "drawing the long bow. )ne of his stories is as follows: "Did you lever see one of these here hoop-snakes f' No," said his listener; "I didn't think there res any such thing." "Oh yes," said Mr. loon, "I've seen one. Me and my hired man ms down there in the home lot, by the side of he road, and we see something rolling down he hill, and says I, 'I guess that are must be ne of the hoop-snakes coming along.' My lired man he was afeared, and dim up a tree; ut I took my hoe in my hand, and went out nd stood side of a tree in the road, and when e came along I stuck out the hoe handle, and e hit it a slap, and he made a noise jes like % istol; and, sir, it warn't mor'n a minute afore hat are hoe-handle was swelled up as big as iylegl" i - >. ffiii~r/ " ' jw" ' ' !? Air Apt Retly.--A? old schoolmaster aid one day to a clergyman who came to exmine his school, "I'beueVe the children know he catechism word for word." "But do they nderstand it ? That is the question," said he clergyman. The schoolmaster bowed res ectftilly, and the examination began. A litle boy repeated the fifth,commandment? Honor thy father and thy . mother," and he as desired to explain it Instead of trying j do so the little boy, with hie face covered ith blushes, said almost in a whisper, "Yesjrday I showed a strange gentleman over ae mountain. The sharp stones cut my feet, nd the gentleman saw they were bleeding nd gave me some money to buy me shoes, gave it to my mother, for she had no shoes, nd-1 thought I could gojbarefoot better than he could." A Frenchwoman will love her husiand if he is either witty or chivalrous; a rerraan woman, if he is constant and faithful; , Dutch woman, if he does not disturb her ase and comfort too much; a Spanish woman, f he wreaks vengeance on those who incur his lispleasure; an Italian woman, if he is dreamy ma poetical; a Danish woman, if he thinks hat her native country is the brightest on arth; a Russian woman, if he despises all vesternere as miserable barbarians; an Engish woman, if he succeeds'hi ingratiating himelfwith the Court and the aristocracy; an American woman, if he has plenty of money.