Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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GECarroll ifrs ^ lewis m. grist, proprietor, j ^it $nbtptnbtitl Jfamilg fttfospapr: Jk t(ie IJriraurfiim ttf % facial, ^griraltnral aitb Cmnnurtial $ntefsts of tjjt smrtji- -|teems?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOL. 17. YOEKVILLE, S. O., THT|i|?Sk>.?.Y, NOVEMBER 9, 1871. ^ ' 'v NOv45. . Jin Anginal Jdatg Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. . A TALE OF A SEPTUAGENARIAN. CHAPTER III?Continued. The McColloughs were forced to the cooclu sion entertained by their less charitable neigh bors from the first alarm, namely, that th< woman had ahsonnded and left her nhild 01 them. But How had she gone, was the ques tion. Mrs. McCollough felt sure, no carriagi had passed the road that day. In truth, n< vehicle of any kind, for she had been looking out at every one passing during the day There were no prints of horse feet or wheeli any whore near the wash-place. They exam ined her trunk. No article of clothing wa marked. Not a paper of any kind to be found Evidently, all ideotity^of parties had be$i purposely Bhrouded. b Mr. McCollough went be the *t)l(MNatior S,or(f,,, knowing that it was from that direc tion these people had first come; but nowhere on the road, nor at the ferry, could he hear oi individuals or vehicle similar to those he sought. One boy in the vicinity declared, that two days before, he was coming from Chesterville, where he had been sent to buy sugar for his sick mother, when he had seen, four miles this side, a carriage and a gentleman driving it, and described one like the one in which the lady had come to Mr. McCollough's. The youth was known to possess a vivid imagination, and some discrepancies being apparent in the tale, the whole was disnn nnm/v^kr? ftnr TKf uaiucu ao umii/iuij nuj vtvuvuw* a **v school-master of the neighborhood, in rouud text, wrote off many placards describing the man and woman, adjuring all honest people to discover them if possible, and let theii whereabouts be known to Mr. McCollough that he might return to their rightful charge the deserted child. These were scattered abroad, through the means of travelers, and posted up in Georgia, South and North Carolina, but without results. People were profuse in their advice to the McCollough's to seek lodgings for the child in the poor house, but neither of them had an idea of casting the infant on the doubtful mercies of the guardians of the poor; and the purse, Mr. McCollough said, left in his hand by the lady's escort, after the board and nursing were deducted, left still a surplus sufficient for the maintenance of the child for a year ; and Mr. McCollough would not have consented, even had there been nothing to repaj him, to have allowed the child to go from his home to any but the one it should have inherited. Iu his increasing interest in the developing boy, it would have given him a pang if the eflbrt to discover its parents, hethoughl it his duty to make, had been successful and < haan tnlron frnm hia linmo fft| Mrs. McCollough, she thanked no one tor any . T| .rr-TTT??Y~mT^>nr offer as a feasible mode ^ of "getting rid of the child." "No/' she would say, "I promised that pooi r thing, the last words-'! spoke to her, to take \ care of her child fill she came back, and 1 $ feel bound by those words to do so." Mrs. McCollough would persist in pitying a woman who left her baby, feeling in her in creasing love for her own child and the little stranger, it must have been the force of ver\ Q ?, cruel circumstances to have made the youn| mother act as she had. The good woman de clared two babies were very little more trou ble than one, and both the excellent peoph felt very tenderly toward little John Ran dolph ; and when Mr. McCollough thought ol the day he named the child and the lady't tears and kisses, his righteous indignation, at her unnatural conduct in deserting the child would subside to a unison of feeling with th( gentler judgment of his wife, and he, too would fain pity the poor thing ! A year rolled round. The Monday afitei John Randolph's first birth-day, was sales day in August, and Mr. McCollough, as wa* the wont of the farmers generally, went up to the Court House to see what was going on Few papers were then printed in the Unitec States, and not by any means generally taken A letter, to come to any member of a farmer'i household, was quite an event; and, conse quently, the mail had little interest in it, as i general thing, to country folks. Mr. McCol lough never thought of going to the post-office and felt quite excited by a message from th< post-master that there was a letter for him ii the office. John Kelsey, his neighbor, wai standing by, and walked round with hira to the store, where the post-office was kept, to ge it and hear the news it might contain. Witt *x good deal of eagerness he opened the letter The bystanders, who were acquaintances, anc generally interested, saw its contents wer< short and evidently unexpected to the farmer "Who is your letter from?" said Mr. Kelsey at last. , "I can't tell," said Mr. McCollough. "It a fifty dollar bill in it for that child we've go: raising." "Ts'there no name ?" asked several "No, see! Here is all that is in it?this fiftj dollar* bill, and just the words, "Take cart of the childAnd they are written in bacl hand." "I wonder where the people live. They ar< rich folks, that's certain," said one by-stander "The letter is post-marked Salisbury," pu - in the post-master. The letter was inverted, and sure enough on its back, the post-mark of Salisbury wai clearly and unmistakably to be seen. "I always said those people were from Salfe bury," said Mr. Kelsey. "I think," said Mr. McCollough, "as sooi as I finish laying by, I'll go up to Salisbury and try to ferret them out. I hate to thinl of giving up the child, but I fear they ar making me a cloak for wickedness. Tha they are able to do a good part by the child i clear, from the way they give and send m money." "I wouldn't keep the brat," said one of th party, (perhaps envying the farmer the pos session of the bill,) "I'd send it to the poo I house." "No; my wife promised to take care of i t.:1! its mother returned, and although she di * |not know what she was engaging to do, w agree in thinking we ought to make her wor * $50 at the period of this occurrence, was a lit eral remuneration for the homely necessities < an infant in the country. At that time the boar of a young man, going to school any where in tli up-countrv, was from $25 to $30 a year. The re ative worth of money may be shown by the fa< that a$50 bill would buy a No 1 horse at "that tim< h ' good. He is as fine a child as my own, and ' it wpuld be a trial to ine to see the child born - ! under ray roof and nursed at my wife's bosom go away, even with his parents, and with no j one else should he go. Right is right, and it is not right to permit them to forsake him; so ^ 11 will go to Salisbury in a few days to see if I I can make them out" Mrs. McOollough felt very sadly at-a re: mote prospect of having to give up one of her - j boys, but she felt her husband's views were - correct, and said no word to dissuade him from e the trip. He was gone a week and entirely i unsuccessful. There was no one correspond ing to either of the parties sought for, either * in the town of Salisburv or its vicinity. The ) post-master's memory was not remarkable, ; and he could uot recall the mailing of a letter, . some weeks before, to Mr. Samuel McCollough, i Chester C. H., South Carolina. So the fai mer went home, no wiser than when he left 3 it, and his wife felt a great sense of relief in . retaining her possession of the little unknown. CHAPTER IV. Sam aud John Randolph McCollough, as t the latter, too, was called, grew apace; were P hard on their clothes, thoughtless and boisi terous, as boy natures are apt to be, but v/ith all, generous, affectionate and obedient lads. The nine days' wonder at the desertion of the child, was long since over. Strangers, coming in, mistook the children for twin' brothers, and Mrs. McCollough never correo, ted the impression. Each year, Mr. McCc lough received, by mail, a similar remittance to the one already mentioned, and it became ( a matter of course to the worthy man. Reg ularly, on sales-day in August, he went up to ( Chester to get it, aud never came back emptyI handed. The letter always waited him con( taining the fifty dollar bill, and the italicized [ words: " Take care of the child." [ In all, there was but one difference?this * ? ni?lro fkatr tnnrA riavor . 111 U1C puob'uiai xuj uu\>j nviv uv?v? vuv ( same. One year the letter was from New I York, another New Orleans, then from NashI ville, and, perhaps, the next from Savannah. The donor evidently intended to baffle all inquiry. The two boys did not dream but they ( were brothers. The unknown was called by [ the foster-father's name, and the treatment of 1 the children was so entirely the same, the most jealous scrutiny could not have dis( cerned a shadow of partiality to one above I the other. There was also a general resemblance between the children. Both had dark . hair and dark eyes and regularity of features, ' and the little boy, with others, supposed him' self the son of those he entitled father and . mother. The farmer and his wife taught the t boys a little at home^ta give, them a start; and when they were nine, a good teacher opened a neighborhood school, to which Mr. , McCollough sent them. Sam soon learned to ! out-wrestle and jurapYarther than any boy in I school, and left the studying pretty much to . .Tnhn Ranrlnjnh not vnntnc * " 1 1 r"rl""iT^vtpQtha ; seemed natural!^CfrlSEESL^ymt4eftrning.'' and got them seniors."' k The progress the child made, and the pride evinced in him as a brag scholar, would have excited geqeral envy in the school, had not the ' little fellow been so merry and unassuming? } ready to help a mate with a hard sura, or 'r whisper the right spelling of a word ; but this made him "all right," and he was admired ' by the school. However, there were one or two exceptions to the geueral rule. The next neighbor's son?Tim Downing?could not get over John Randolph being always head in p the spelling class, and having the chief praises of the school-master to any one who called in L to see the exercises of the school. This boy took advantage of any little occasion which | .might arise, in their daily intercourse, to aggravate John Randolph byill-natured aggres' sions. At the same time, a wholesome fear of Sam McCollough's hard fists, kept him Ycora r pushing things too far. He was not afraid of John Randolph, but his coward heart, (al* though he was the larger) rather quailed in 3 view of a fight with Sam, and he well knew *! the latter would not let John Randolph get ' the worst of a rencounter, without taking it ' on his own hands. 3 Each Saturday, Mr. McCollough sent to White's Upper mills,* a bag of corn to be 1j grouud for the week's bread, and the boys " I took it turn about to go with it. They always * | liked to go, for it was a great place of rendez" I vous at the end of the week for men and boys, 1 and the frequenters of the mill made their 3 time pass with jokes and jumping, pitching 3 horse-shoes, and wrestling, which of course 1 made it very pleasant. 1 John Randolph was about eleven, when, one * Saturday, he was sent to mill, and just before i him, with a "turn," was Tim Downing. Some " i wrestling was going on, and Tim proposed to ' j John Randolph they should try a twist with * one another. The younger boy declined on account ofTira's superior age and weight. 3 Tim threw out a taunt of his being afraid, ^ and one word led to another, John Randolph displaying a good deal of patience. Tim did not appreciate it, but mistook it for cowardice, r assumed quite the bully, and at last shook ? | his fist in the smaller boy's face. John Ran: dolph now thought "forbearance ceased to be a virtue," and doubling his fist struck the big 5: boy a good strong blow. Tim returned it, and * j blow followed blow in quick succession. The 1 by-standers watched the fight with interest, in! tending to interfere soon and prevent John ' j Randolph getting hurt, for they saw he struck 3! the first blow. They had also seen how Tim provoked him, and admired his pluck. To * I their surprise, Tim was getting rather the worst, when he struck his foot against a root, 1 j fell, and rolled several feet on the sidling f I grouud before he could recover himself, * i John Randolph wiped the blood from his e | nose, ready for another onset; but Tim, instead ! of renewing the fight, walked off in another 8 j direction, muttering savagely. The men e , patted John Randolph's back, called him a j hero, and laughed heartily at Tim Downing e ! for his discomfiture. 5" l As soon as the meal was ready, John Ram r , dolph got it on his horse and started for home j Mr. MeCollough's was four miles distant, and l* j he knew the sun would be down before he gol ! home. Just as he was riding off one of the ? j Kelsey boys called, "Stop, a little while, Johr _ j Randolph, my meal will be done directly, and >-: we can go on together." d ! "No," said the boy addressed, "Mother will j? j be uneasy any how, it's getting so late ; and ;t I *On big Fishing Creek. Now, I believe, caller i. I Crawford's mill. ' father always says as soon as our meal is ready, we must come right on home." j "Father! mother!" mimicked Tim Downi ing, who was standing near, sore and surly, j "You think yourself somebody, don't you, | John Randolph? 'Father! mother! indeed! You are no more the son of old Sam McCol lough and his wife, than I am. You are a ! nice young one to be putting on airs and j don't know who your daddy is." j Oue or two by-standers said "shame" to i Tim: but John Randolph rode on silent and heart-sick. The pitying looks of those around confirmed to him the truth of the tale. He could not but urge old gray on faster than her wont, and hardly took time, after Jake took off the bag, to carry her to the stall where the 1 feed waited, so excited were his feelings and intense his desire to go to Mrs. McCollough for sympathy. Mr. and Mrs. McCollough sat in the piazza; the latter with little Rose* an infant daughter, whose advent, the year before, gave the boys so much delight it quite obscured the quieter demonstrations of the parents. Mr. McCollough was smoking his evening pipe, and Sam on the steps, whistling, as he whittled at the triggers of a "dead-fall." As they sat quietly, talking now and then, John Randolph rushed in and without preface exclaimed, "Oh! Mother, Tim Downing says you are not my mother?that I'm not father's son." Breaking down, he put his head on Mrs. McCollough's knee and burst into a passion of tears. The good couple were completely taken ahack. but the woman first recovered. | "Who told you such a tale, John Randolph r "Didn't you hear hira say, mother?Tim Downing! That boy's the biggest liar. Never mind I I'll bounce him, Monday, and make him blue,"?said young Sam, much exI cited. j "Pooh! pooh boys! Don't let me hear any more of this nonsense. Tim is a very bad boy?not worth your notice. Why John Randolph, continued the farmer, as the little j boy's sob's were unabated, "Rose is laughing at you, to mind such a tale." "Yes, come, come," said Mrs. McCollough. Hush crying now?you are too big for that. Here Rose, kiss 'bubba Johnnie,' and tell him to hush." "Thus by evading questions, making light of the source from which the tale came, and diverting the boy's mind, the child's fears were allayed, and he moved on happily with the healthful current of the good family with whom his lot was cast. Mr. McCollough rode over to his neighbor Downing's and asked him to instruct his son not to say anything more of the kind, as he preferred John Randolph should not" know the truth till he was older; and he wished to talbhim then, himself, the sad fact that who or wbat he was, was unknown. At this period, the Rev. Mr. Walker, the pastor of the Bethesda Church, had a large classical sch'Wft nnp t\"n It was only ' about six miles from Mr. McUoIlugh, and he determined to send Sam and, John Randolph, (when they were sixteen) there. In ploughing season they were to board with Mr. Walker; and when the horses were having nothing to do on the farm, the boys were to ride from home to school. In Mr. Walker's congregation there lived a Mr. Goldsmith, with quite a family of daughters. The eldest, Miss Letitia (commonly called Lettv to her great disgust) was a lady of age unknown to all polite. She certainly had not arrived at years of discretion, although parenthetical lines about her mouth, and asterisks around her eyes, might have misguided the uninitiated in their judgment. She had an uncle, (Gen. Smithson) who was a member of Congress from one of the upper districts, and from his greatness, Miss Letitia drew lustre to herself, and felt she was the heroine of the neighborhood. Pardon me, shade of Letitia! I should have said vicinage ! She read 'The Children of the Abbey,' 'Eveliua,' 'Santa Sebastiano, or the Young Protector.' I fear she was more familiar with their pages than those of her Bible, and, in turn, imagined herself to be Amanda, Evelina and Julia, acting each character as she conceived it. She reveled in a mystery, and the whispered tale of John Randolph McCollough's unknown origin, awoke, to a high degree, the sentimental maiden's interest in him when he first entered Mr. Walker's academy, and the romance she wove around the youthj ful unknown, threw the disguise and long disj simulation of 'The Young Protector' quite in the shade. On all opportunities, Miss Letty devoted herself to the youth. Most boys would have been shy and teazed by her particular attentions ; but the school-boy's gibes were easily turned aside by John Randolph's merry humor, who entered with zest into the spirit of the thing and played the second part to Miss Letty's first, to the entertainment of all 'lookers-ou in Vienna.' This amusing flirtation was carried on until just before his two year's course ended at Mr. Walker's. On what small hinges often turn the gate of our I destiny. The execution of a merry thought was the accident which revealed to him the true iucident of his birth. The knowledge which, or rather want of farther knowledge, ' InJ flirt Virtof itaawi l\!n ll^Vi uugui/cu. nic ucoi jcaio ui uio me. During the session of Congress, a wagon passing from Washington to the Southward, brought from General Sraithson to the Goldsmith family, a box of presents. No letter accompanied it, but the wagoner explained he ! was in a hurry to get on and could not wait j for a letter. The general sent word he was i well, and would write soon by mail; and on I each article in the box he had put the name of the one for whom he had selected it. ! On opening it, Miss Letitia's name was attached to a beautiful article. At first, to her, , as well as the rest of the family, the present was a nondescript. It was about ten iuches in . length, composed of strips of green morocco j and puffs of green satin, alternately running t its length. It was open at one end with four r narrow green ribbons run in a casing near the edge. The opposite end was closed and finished off with a handsome tassel of green and gold. The strings drew the fair Letitia to [; the conclusion it was a bonnet. On trying it . j on, it was a perfect fit; and the whole family , i coincided with her judgment in regard to the L article. | fThe next Sunday was big meeting at Bethesda, and Miss Letty tied it on, knotting I j ?Still alive.?Mrs. Wylie, of Chester. [ fThe incident related is no embelishment ol . fancy, but a thing of actual occurrence. For ob1 vions reasons, real names of the parties are nol I given, though details are closely observed. j the ribbons under her chin with a great degree | of satisfaction in her fashionable appearanoe, j thinking, amiably, of the envy her less stylish^ j neighbors must feel; and conciously, of the imI pression she was bouud to make, this day, on I John Randolph. I The new fashioned head-gear, with grenaj dier grandeur, struck all beholders with woni dering admiration 1 The wearer's head gave j many a self-satisfied toss at the thought of I her own elegance and fashion, and the school boys, among whom were Sam McCollough and John Randolph, were duly impressed by i the towering aspect of the new style of bonnet, an^ the latter, in a spare moment, drew on a j blank leaf in his hymn-book, for his sister 11 Rose's benefit, a picture of Miss Letty as she | entered the church with her new bonnet on. ! All peculiarities were a little exaggerated, but I the draught was so like it could hardly Jb# ] termed a carricature. , I The fine bonnet Gen. Smithson had sent to i Letty Gojdsipith from Washington, was the talk of the congregation for two weeks. No one thought of trying to imitate it?all conceded it would take a connoissure's hand to con, struct it. Several persons who had not attended meeting, the day of its advent, carne out the next Sunday of preaching to see it. i Alas! Miss Letty again entered the sanctuary, her old bonnet on her head and the new one suspended by the green ribbons from her arm. The mail had come during the week and brought Gen. Smithson's letter. A new light was shed on Letty's present He said, "I hope Letty will like her reticule; they are very, fashionable, and carried by all the ladies in Washington." The ludicrous mistake was irresistable to John Randolph, who delighted in a joke; and instead of attending to good Dr. Alexander (who preached that day for Mr. Walker,) he took out his pencil and drew on another blauk leaf in his hymn book, Miss Letty's new style, and wrote under it? 'Come look on this picture, then on that, And see the reticule turn'a to a hat.' After the first sermon, there wfcs the usual intermission between morning and evening services, and Miss Letitia beckoned the young man to her side, warmly inviting him to "partake of the sylvan collation her gentle parent had prepared." The youth was nothing loth, for Mrs. Goldsmith's nature was as practical as Letitia's was poetical, and her "good things" were quite noted. He, therefore, went, with a good grace, forward to the benches on which the lunch was spread. A hearty repast usually induces thirst, and Miss Letty was not too ethereal to feed the "inner man" on her mother's dainties. Having finished a successful attack on bread and butter, turkey, ham, pig, pie and pastry, she turned to her cavalier? "Will Mr. McCollough transmit to me a draught of the crystal fluid, Deity, in His beneficence, provides for all his creatures, on every hill and dale, in every cot or vale." To hide his almost irrepressible amusement, ! ika Trmir.fr mnn K?nf finaiilr Fnrwrnrd fn nrn. cure the cup of water, and as he did so, his hyinn bodk fell out of his pocket at Miss Let-' ty's feet. In a kind of ecstacy, she grasped the book which belonged to "him." When he turned to hand her the water, she had opened it, and her eye was just resting on his too faithful representations of herself. The burlesque was too palpable, even for her not to see it, and she cut off any attempt at an apology by the artist, by pouring forth the vials of her wrath on his head. "No gentleman would ever have been "guilty of such an indecorum," she cried. "The action proclaimed how base his origin ! Mr. McCollough had need beware; the child he had so generously fostered was a serpent, and would yet sting the hand which had fed it. I deserve all," she concluded, with a last burst of scorn, "for permitting an unknown creature, such as you are, to come into my presence. Be gone! nameless thing that you are, to the shades of obscurity fr^a whence you sprung!" The iron entered the y^pphan's soul. The countenances of those around, so aghast at the onset, the remembrance of Tim Downing's words, uttered so long ago, confirmed her passionate vituperations. In confusion of countenance he withdrew, and getting his horse, started homeward at full speed, the surging thought burning in his brain, urging him onward to learn the truth, even though he feared to know it. As before, after Tim Downing's taunt, now again John Bandolph rushed in on Mr. and Mrs. McCollough without a word of preparation, and tremblingly asked to know if the tale was true, "that he was not their son." The faithful foster-parents no longer sought to disguise the fact. "John Randolph," said Mr. McCollough, "the)hourhas come when it is only right that you should know all, as far as I can tell, relating to your birth. It is, at best, but little more, ray boy, than that uuder this roof you first saw light. In yain have I tried to learn who or what your parents were or are." Then kindly the old man repeated the bare incidents known to the reader; in conclusion adding: "Your last birth-day brought the letter, but it contained five hundred dollars and a new sentence. It was, 'Send the boy to South Carolina College.1" "Father, can you not tell anything to give me a clue by which I may find my mother?" "No, my poor boy! I have used all the ! means I could to discover, but without sucI cess. I had intended this week to impart to you this knowledge, which to-day was so cruelly told you in harsh words. You are now ?lrl onnimli fn Koor fho fnifli tuihVi I rV You know, full well, the love with which your infancy and growth have been nurtured, will live in our hearts toward you, ray child, till we are laid in our graves." "But my mother loved me! You say when > you named me, she kissed me and wept over me! Some cruel destiny drove her from me, surely; and that she has not ceased to love and remember me, her yearly enclosures show." "Yes, John Randolph, I've always told i husband I believed that poor young thing loved you. At the time, I did not notice particularly her actions, but many of them have > since come back to me, and there was certain; ly a great trouble at work in her heart all the while she was here; and like a haunt, has ? come back to me, her last words?"take care of my baby till I get back"?till it seems to me, ; in trying to make good ray promise, I've al; most come to thinking more of you than my Sammy." r "If I have loved you so mother, and you ; cared so much for me, what would be the joy to my own mother and myself, if after all this <aaurl long time, we could be re-united. I will apt out to-morrow, and the sole of my foot | ajlfcH know no rest till I find her, for I am sure I will at last" j^No, John Randolph, you must first finish . your education?the money is in my trust for U^tpnrpoee." ^Father, I cannot study! Take the money sttd send Sam to college. I see now, why you said you could only send one. Let Sam go? 'I? pt you must The money is in my hands &i$you. For the purpose it was sent, it must Mased. Y ou have 110 more ngoi to give it tpe for Sam's benefit, than I have to take .|^How can 1 study ? Iwill believe ray young mbther was i\ good woman, yet here I stand *wjr>twn, k thing of scorn and an object of uSon. every one who has a name. There no post for me till I unravel the mysRandolph, have I not been to you 4jP?&me fhtber I have to Sam ? Now, I claim fri/to you the obedience I would from him. I lay my solemn injunction on you to finish your education, as your friends have provided you should. I do it for your own good, strengthened by a sense of duty I owe myself and you, to guide you rightly, while under age, as I would Sam." "Your father is right, my son. Go on with your studies. I've always thought when you had got through college, your people would be apt to claim you. They have seemed so particular for you to learn, and it does look as if they had an eye on you somehow, to know how you get on, for how else would they haye known you were ready to go to College." The tact of the woman spoke in these homely words. There was a show of reason in what she said, and a hope glowed again in the wounded heart of the suffering boy. Here was an incentive held forth to do his duty, and go on with his collegiate course. Perhaps, (he conceived,) it might depend on his College lifey whether he would be acknowleged by those to whom he rightfully belonged or noi. With increasing assiduity, he prepared for his approaching examination. The merry humor which had embellished his daily life was gone, and a grave earnestness marked his demeaner, and a reserved manner was apparent in his intercourse with all excepting the family who had adopted him as their own. Mis. McCollough's heart felt deeply for the boy. He was very dear to her, and each day she grew more gentle and caressing toward hitf. Sam seemed to feel the shock of the announcement as much as John Randolph, for tthe secret had been kept as inviolably froji one as the .other.- The adopted son showed increased tenderness for all, but the cloud was very heavy'.pver him and the only rays peuetratiug were the hopes suggested by his foster-mother. j CHAPTER V. ?JftrCTainbtW wmsnutmill iruill ffflirleatoh tAdve months, and if was a lonely anxious yetf$gyjp good merchant. He, missed the society of-his wife and daughter sadly; besides, there was a panic in commercial circles. One or two houses, deemed most staunch, had failed. Cam bell & Gower weathered the storm, but the senior partner had devoted his every energy to save the house. He had not been able to get away from his business to pay a visit to his brother and daughter; but Robert had been down to Charleston twice, and given him good accounts of Henrietta. She was improved in health, he said, from the time of her visit to Georgetown. Henrietta did not write; but letters were rarely written in those days, excepting on business, and the step-father was satisfied with the affectionate messages brought by his brother. Mrs. Cambell only rested a week at home, after arrival, until she went up to Williamsburg for Henrietta. Mr. Cambell still would not leave his post, even for the few days she would be absent, but let her go alone on the pleasant errand of seeing Robert and Sue, and bringing the bairnie home. Mrs. Cambell had a cold exterior, but a warm mother's heart beat within; and she was hardly able to restrain tears of joy which arose at the thought of meeting again her only child. As she drew near the gate, she looked to see her daughter run out to meet her, though she had had no opportunity to send to her word of her arrival in Charleston. She could not help experiencing a sensation of disappointment as the coach stopped, and she descended from it unperceived by any one. Her knock was answered by Mrs. Robert Cambell. The ladies met cordially, and the mother constrained herself teenier the house, give answers and make enquiries relative to her own and her sister-indaw's health. The first pause she asked? "Where is Henrietta ?" "You know she only staid with us two months, till she went to Mrs. Taylor's, and will not consent to come back. Her health seemed to decline while she was here, and Mrs. Taylot^wae up and took her hack to stay a month, bittern has remained ten. Mr. Cambell has gone' for her three times, but she declined coming.'' "Very unaccountable! Why did not Robert tell his brother when he was in town ?" said the mother, somewhat irritated. "He did. I insisted on his going down to i see brother Jamie about it, although, of course, my first object was Henrietta's health and happiness. I did not feel satisfied, as she had been left in our care, for her to go away and remain so long. I wanted to go to Mrs. Taylor's myself for her, but Mr. Cambell could not make arrangements for me to leave home." "There is something wrong, Susan!" "No; she was not well here, and it is a pleasanter country around Georgetown than up here. Robert is away now, and said he would return by Mrs. Taylor's and insist en Henrietta's coming up with him. But broth er Jamie, he said, was willing for her to exercise her own fancy in the matter." "I tell you, my husband thinks she's here ! I do not doubt you, Susan; but there is something wrong. Ring for my coachman to come round agpin. I must go as far as I can toward Georgetown to-night." A chill of apprehension struck the hearts of both women. They knew not what to fear, but the wife did not seek to detain the mother. The sun had gone but a little past the meridian the next day, when Mrs. Cambell neared Mrs. Taylor's. Still the mother's heart was enveloped in a dread, like the undefined horrors of a night-mare. Her fears could take no shape, but hung heavily around. At the gate, opening at the beginiug of the long ave ue leading up to the residence, she met fc Charles Taylor. He was delighted to see her, fc and dismounted from his horse to come to the p coach window to greet her. She restrained ol the eager questionings arising from her heart fc to her tongue, and said she believed she would a get out of the carriage and walk with him to p the house. It would be a relief from the long a confinement of the coach. Bidding the driver ri to go on and announce to Mrs. Taylor her b approach, she immediately broached the sub- si ' A^llAW tVk/'ktlfvVlf a /J IIOl bliuugiiwo* u "Is Henrietta here, Mr. Taylor ?" she asked h abruptly. , a "Here! No madam, it is ten months fince a she was here." . n "Where is she; can you tell me?" o "At her uncle's, Mr. Bobert Cambell's. I ti saw him last week. He told me she was quite a well." . . ii "I'm just from there, Mr. Taylor, and they e told me she was here.'* y ' "Who.told you so?" ' i "Mrs. Robert Cambell." , st Taylor leaned against a tree for support, e The mother's fears had prepared her in part tl To the young man the shock was overwhelm- si ing. ii "Mrs. Cambell," said Taylor, after a silence e of some moments duration, "there is villainy, h and Robert Cambell is the man who has com- f< passed it." c Then straightforwardly he told of his visit w to Williamsburg, Henrietta's evident unhappi- v ness, the visit to his mother's, its termination; n anddu 'n" her stay at Georgetown he had si found it so hard to guard his promise to Mr. tl Cambell, he feared to put himself in teropta- r tion's way by visiting her again. He had met h Mr. Robert Cambell several times, and been o assured her health had continued to be im- a proved since her visit to Mrs. Taylor. n Mrs. Cambell and Mr. Taylor agreed, for b the present, they would not allow hi<? mother, o or any one, to share their anxiety ; and then n proceeded to the house. The next day Mr. Ii Taylor accompanied Mrs. Cambell back to tl Williamsburg, determined to demand, at the a sword's point, Henrietta's whereabouts from I Robert Cambell. a Twilight was gathering around as they S drove up the avenue to Robert Cambell's & home. On the front steps sat, motionless, a h figure in white, the sight of which made even S the firm nerves of Mrs. Cambell quiver for a ( moment. Surely, it was a spirit. Could v Henrietta, in the flesh, be so white and still a as she drew near? The coach stopped?the v two alighted.' Still the girl was immoveable, fi The mother, frightened, ran to her. I "Henrietta, my child 1" il A look so pitiful, so imbecile, she turned on ii her parent, then fainted in her arms. tl Taylor approached, but Mrs. Cambell mo- h tioned him away, clasping her daughter, and li in the greatness of her excitement she bore v her easily up the steps and into the mansion, a Taylor turned to a servant approaching. "Whom in vniir mnnfnw?^ 1 1 ? "He's gone off somewhere, sir. He came c home just a little before dinndr and brought r Miss Henrietta home front your mother's, t Then, as soon as he eat something, went off n again. Poor Miss Henrietta, as soon as mis- b tis told her her ma had been here and was d gone on to Georgetown, she couldn't eat a c thing, she took it to heart so; and she's been g sitting on the steps watching for her ever b since." v "Where is your Mistress ?" g] "She's right sick, this evening, in bed sir." b "When did your master leave home to go t< for Miss Henrietta ?" 1< "A week ago, sir. It's a pity she didn't ri come home when he went for her last month, 1< She mightn't a had the spell of sickness up u here." ^ "Did Caesar drive your master ?" "La*! no, sir. Master sold Daddy Caesar p and Maum Millie, way last year, off to Geor- h gia. Mistis did hate it mightily, for she h thought a heap of both of them, especially tl Maum Millie." J "Who drives now ?" ^ "He's been driving himself, these times \ that he went for Mias Henrietta. a It was evident the secret was not known to this negro. He could not ask any more direct si questions for fear of compromising Henrietta's a: name. The negro thought no evil now, and he must not suggest any. But for Robert a; Cambell he had a day of reckoning! He sat on the porch. He could not bring himself to n cross the threshold of the fiend he believed to have worked the ruin of the woman he loved, b Ho could not leave till he saw Mrs. Cambell, I but he would not let the servant put up his v horse. He could not even allow the animal to eat out of this man's garners. si Mrs. Cambell bore her daughter into one ti of the well-known apartments. Henrietta fell f' into a succession of fainting fits, sad indeed to w her mother, though not alarming, for she si knew it was from nervous exhaustion, and o; soothing attentions and simple restoratives ii were the agents to employ. With Mrs. Cambell, feeling never gained a; the ascendancy over reason. Though stirred f now to the uttermost depths of her soul, she b preserved her calmness. She rang for a ser- if vant, and after procuring cold water and .iro- it raatic vinegar, dismissed her again, not caring to arouse a gaping curiosity by keeping her ? in attendance. Several hours in the night ti wore on, before Henrietta spoke coherently C with her mother. Then the full heart poured h out the tale of its sufferings. The story was p one of misery and crime?she, poor girl, the ei guileless viclim. fi On leaving Mrs. Taylor's the morning she ci received the note signed with the name of ber it aunt, she went on, not suspecting any evil, w It was a great relief to her to know, by her aunt's note, that Mr. Robert Cambell was it away from home ; for not long after she was h< domiciled in his house, he had offered her ca- 01 resses from which her delicate nature revolted, though her innocence prevented her from st knowing how base they were. Soon he made e< to her horrified ears professions of love. She T knew not which way to turn to escape his per- di secutions, and felt Providence had sent a de- h< liverer when Charles Taylor proposed the visit dj to his mother. She was very much attached tc to Mrs. Robert Cambell, and was glad of the it opportunity to enjoy her society in his absence, w but determined to arrange it so as to get back c: to Georgetown before his return. She was E within ten miles of her journey's end when tl dusk fell on them. Soon after, two men in E masks rode up to the carriage and ordered the le coachman to stop. One of the horsemen dis- 01 mounted, and, opening the door, commanded cl Henrietta to get out In speechless terror she it obeyed, but when he essayed to lift her light n: >rm and place her behind the other rider, she ?und voice to demand the meaning of their roceedings, offering her word that thousands f dollars should be paid to them, without irther enquiry, if they would let her go unlolested. Neither of -the men gave any rely, and from fright she fainted completely way. When she recovered she was in a carage, which was rolling rapidly along, and y the moon now risen, she could see she was lpported by one of the masked men. Renered desperate, she found courage to threaten im with punishment for this outrage, and sked for the coachman and maid who had ccompanied her. Stity no word of reply was fiflanra Reamed more J out; j auu uuio waw *? ?> ?? ?? ruinous to her than the loudest threats. They raveled some miles farther, then made a halt, nd before she was aware of his object, he had itroduced a gag into her month. She resisted bat it was a feeble effort?her delicate wme-v*ee*heasted by terror snd fatigw; I little farther on they oame to a house and topped. - The driver got down and asked-for tertainment, explaining that they had lost heir way and were belated. In a lower tone tie heard him tell he was traveling with an i valid sister, whose midd was slightly dementd. As her straining ears caught the words, er timid nature stfnk in utter despair, for she lit that there was no power within her to ope with such diabolical cunning. Her pulses 'ere throbbing fast with a high fever, and 'hen, before she got oat of the coach they reloved the gag and gave her a glass of water, he drank greedily, though the bitterness oi he draught warned her it was drugged. She emembered little more clearly. From then, er perceptions were dulled. They traveled n, she thought, perhaps a week. Still it was II a vague impression. She remembered a larrioge ceremony in which she stood as the ride without volition?the bridegroom one f the masked men. All was like the wierd lemory of a horrid nighf-mare. Then?how ing after she knew not?the awful awakening hat the marriage was all a pretence and hei bductor and husband, was no other than tobert Cambell. For months she boarded in , small village, she could not tell where iometimes, weeks; seemed to pass without hei aeing Cambell. She was now what he firei ad represented her?a harmless lunatic Ibe remembered he came to this place twice )nce he went off and left her there; then * " * <11- t_ A. rben he returned, ne iook ner wim mm u ome place in the country. Here her babj ?as born. He left her there, and with the in ant she again woke to some pleasure in life tut her inexorable tyrant had torn her from t and brought her away from the only thing a existence to charm away, for one moment he memory of her ruin. She had implored im to leave her with it?the one comfort in ife; but no, he had brought her back tc rhere&ll would deem her the guilty thing she seined. .. /r{ . It is needless to try to follow the workings fcriw WrtlmJl 8I>?. llBI ru^d.daughter with loving words, and caches, evading a promis^^^^^eh^^^ ot broken. SWT-remembered Robert Camell had well cloaked his evil deed, and she etermined to continue the deception. The hild should be cared for, but Henrietta was uiltless; and with such a witness as the abe against her, it would be hard to. conince a censorious world. However much be hated Robert Cambell, he was her husand's brother. His shame was theirs. How, do, could she ever wring Jamie Carabell's Dving heart with the tale of his darling's uin, wrought by his idolized brother. Tay>r and herself must keep their'counsel, lockig in their hearts forever the bitter tale of wretchedness. At last, Henrietta, calmed by her mother's resence and words, fell into a sleep of exaustion. Then Mrs. Cambell noiselessly left er, and found Taylor still waiting her on ne porch. His sympathy was good for her. lad she not been able to share her trouble, it would have hardened her infinitely more. Vith him she took counsel, after telling him 11 Henrietta knew. "His wife knows nothiner. ooor thiner. She aspects, but let her find peace in her ignornee." "The negroes who took the carriage, I learn, re sold." "Then, as I've believed all the time, that ote was a forgery. Susan never wrote it" "I am not a man of words, Mrs. Cambell, ut that man and myself cannot both live, will track him down a thousand miles for engeance." "'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, lith the Lord.' He will make his word rue, Charles Taylor, and wait his season to alfill it. Any violence toward this hoan rould lead to enquiry. This, for Henrietta's ike, must be avoided. Oh! for a draught f Lethe's stream, to forget, instead of seemig to do so." Taylor acquiesced with Mrs. Cambell, and greed with her, too, in respect .to the child ol [enrietta. "It would be better off never to e mortified by a knowledge of its origin, for ' one parent was guiltless of sin?how sunk 1 the depths of infamous iniquity the other." The next day, Mrs. Cambell started with [enrietta homeward, making very easy stages aveling. On the third day they reached harleston. Henrietta was tutored to meet er father with a smile, and convinced of the ropriety and possibility of keeping the misrable occurrences of the last ten months om him, the mother's imperious nature overirae her daughter's feebler one, and she ifused something like life and effort into the retched girl. Mr. Cambell was shocked with the change 1 his daughter, and thought the illness which ad made it must have been of a more serins nature than her mother seemed to think. Mrs. Cambell carried Henrietta through a rict regime of salt-bathing, morning and irfinino rMna plioorfiil nnmnonv onrl fnnira IVUUIg VVUI^WUJ MUVk WVUIWt be marked physical improvement in her aughter's appearance proved the wisdom of er course. Still, there reigned ever in her aughter's mien an impenetrable melancholy, >o gentle to be called gloom, but touching in s extreme misery. With her father alone as there a semblance of cheerfulness. She )uld but strive to call up a smile for him. [3 seemed so to feed on them, and grieve at leir absence, with Mr. Cambell, therefore, [enrietta made a real effort, and the guilesss old father never knew no sunshine looked ut from heart and the lips alone simulated heeriness. She was repaid by his happiness 1 each bright look she wore for hini, but her lother's requisitions on her to enter into society was a task or entire wretcneaness. She was not what she seemed, and bitter remembrances were ever surging in her soul. She shrank from the cold, hard world, as if the fear they might divine the hidden thing and cast her from them, was the paramount , thought of her life. Naturally a transparent nature, prone to confide and believe in those around, she was doomed to live with a dark secret ever locked in the recesses of her crushed heart. At first she resisted her mother's determination for her to take her place in society. The struggle was useless. Kind1" Vii.f Mrs ramhnll ORSPTf/vl liflr dfi iJ | uuu muiijj *?*??? vw??vv?? ? ? ? > cision as to her daughter's course, and Hen> rietta's pliable nature could but ?bey* In truth, she was last becoming a m^re automaton in her mother's hands, and the stronger nature of the parent swayed, without being aware of the unlimited power she exeress&d i over her crushed child. Mrs. Cambell's nar. . J tare, always impferiohi, f ance of acknowledging Henrietta's misfor 1 tune, gre# prOttder ' more' defiant, as It ; were, toward society, while she feared its dei crees as she never had before. [to be continued next week.] < # -? ' The Use op Money in Electioneering. | Hon. Joel Parker was waited upon recently by the committee appointed by the Trenton Convention to inform him of his nomination 1 as Democratic candidate for Governor of New I Jersey. Governor Parker responded to the address of the chairman of the committee in a brief speech, which he closed as follows: ? Gentlemen?I have not sought this nomination. I did what I could to prevent it I ! would at this moment prefer to advocate the > election of any one of the distinguished gen1 tlemen who were candidates before the Coni vention, all myfriends, who so magnanimous, ly declined. With my record *fuTly in view, ( ? the people have nominnted me. The people [ must now go to work and elect me. Although ; it would involve a great personal sacrifice to j ' hold the office again, yet, under the circum' stances of the nomination, I have no option ; but to obey the popular will and accept the nomination. I deem it my duty to use all lei gitiraate and honorable means to secure my 1 election. If I cannot be elected without the corrupt use of money let me be defeated. It ' is time the use of money in elections was stopped. If suffered to continue it will dest troy our Government . I would not regard it . as an honor to be elected by such means, for after all, the honor conferred on a man by of' fice consists not in the mere Jiitii&ing of the ' position, but in the manner in which it is ob> ' tained and in which its dutierare'performed. r I thank you, gentlemen, and, through you, all the members of the Convention you represent, . for the great honor bestowed upon me. i , Marriage.?Tell us not in idle jingle "marriage is an empty dreamfor the girl is i dead that's single, and thingB are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest, single 1 blessedness is a fib; "Man thou art, to man > returneth," has been spoken of the rib. Not i enjoyment and not sorrow is our destined end ' or way, but to act that each to-morrow finds , us nearer marriage day, Life is-long and w jroutb. ift.flfifltinfc Mid nay hmrfr. though, light and gay, still like pleasant drums are oeatiug ' wedding marches ail the day. In the world's ' broad ?# of l^attl^ in the biyouac of life, r be notfflte dumb driven eettie^be a heroine 'r a wife. Trust no future, however pleasant; i let the dead past bury its dead; act?act in t the living present, heart within and hope ahead. Lives of married folks remind us we can live our lives as well, and, departing, leave behind us such examples as shall "tell"?such examples that another, wasting time in idle sport, a forlorn, unmarried brother seeing snail take heart and court Let us, then, be up and doing, with a heart on triumph set; still contriving, still pursuing, and each one a husband get IjOVE ok the.deaimeul.?jriace ayouug girl under the care of a kind-hearted woman, ' and she, unconsciously herself, grows into a graceful lady. Place a boy in the establishment of a thorough-going, straight-forward business man, and the boy becomes a self-reliant, practical business man. Children are 1 susceptible creatures, and circumstances, scenes and actions, always (impress. As you influence them, not by arbitrary rules nor by. stern example alone, but a thousand other ways that speak through beautiful forms, pictures, etc., so they will grow. Teach your children, then, to love the beautiful. Give them a corner in the garden for flowers; s i encourage them to put it in the shape of hanging baskets; show them where they can best view the sunset; rouse them in the morning, not with the stern tune 'To Work,' but with the enthusiastic 'See the beautiful sunrise!" Buy for them beautiful pictures, and encour' age them to decorate their rooms in his or her childish way. Give them an inch, and they , will go a mile. Allow them the privilege, and they will make your home beautiful. Difficulties of Successful Lying.? After all, the devil fights under great disad' vantages, and has to carry weights in all his races, which are almost unfair. He lies, as a 1 matter of course believing thoroughly in lies, thinking that it is by lies chiefly that he must i make his running good, and yet every lie he tells, after it has been told and used, remains as an additional weight to be carried. When you have used your lie gracefully and successfully, it is hard to bury it and get it well out of sight. It crops up here and there against you requiring more lies; and at last, too often, , has to be admitted as a lie?most usually so admitted in silence, but still admitted, to be forgiven or not, according to the circumstances of the case. The most perfect forgiveness is that which is extended to him who is known to lie in everything. The man has to be taken, with a squint or a harelip, or a bad temper. He has an uphill game to fight, but when once well known he does not fall into the difficulty of being believed.?Trollope. Cottee.?Concerning coffee, twenty years ago, says a physician, I purchased in Paris I small filtrating coffee-pot For a long time a used the coffee erround as coarsely as it i usually sold in the shops. Although procure ing the best berries possible, I did not uni- . formly succeed in obtaining at the breakfasttable a first-rate beverage. I consulted many wiseacres, some of whom said that the water , used should be hotter, others that the coffee should be first soaked in cold water, etc., etc. By mere accident one day, I happened to have the coffee re-ground to the fineness of snuff. Herein lay the mystery. I have never since failed to obtain a strong, full-flavoured beverage, and that, too, without using so large a quantity of coffee. Thoughts.?The mind is busy: it is not sleeping. It is a mint always coiningthought, very debased coin it sometimes turns out, but also sometimes very pure and beautiful. Some men's minds coin no thoughts but those of business: others none but those of pleasure; but some men's minds have thepower of turning all to gold by connecting aU4 that is around them with thoughts of Goa and his wonderful love. 16T No one should attempt to do more than one thing at a time. When you have finished slandering your neighbors, go and say your prayers, but don't attempt both at once. V ' r m