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/ lewis m. grist, Proprietor.J A" fttkjpbent Jfamilj ftctosppcr: Jfor t|c promotion of % |)o!itiral, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of % Soaijj. -TERMS?$3.00 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 18. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY,. J^ISTTLVRY 11, 1872. NO. 2. ** I 1 mi . -1 L!m a lomk an/I J# ftrigitul frig* fto^. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE OAKHURST ROMANCE. / BY MRS. HENRY DBAS. CHAPTER III. The "White Sulphur Springs were unusually crowded that season. There were some distinguished guests there from several of the States, and a galaxy of beauty and fashion assembled to do them homage. Among so many belles, it was difficult to decide who actually bore off the palm ; yet it was generally conceded to Clare Ransome, who, if not the most beautiful woman there, was certainly the most elegant, the most graceful, and the most stylish, and consequently the most sought after by those who were anxious to win social distinction. Happy the timid debutantes whom this reigning queen 1 * A *?_n__ _t_ .u took under tne rriencuy auencx ui u? mu6, for thereby they were ensured popularity, and partners to their hearts' content; while to be classed as a friend or an admirer of Miss Ransome's was an honor which few of the male sex were not anxious to attain. The young lady was fully conscious of her own attractions, and accepted the homage rendered her as simply her due, wearing her laurels with as much calmness and self-possession as if they were of many years' growth, though this was in reality but her second season "out" It was a sultry evening, and the broad piazza of the hotel was thronged with promenaders, who found the atmosphere out there more agreeable than that of the heated and brilliantly lit ball room. Clare had been walking for some time with an elderly senator, and exerting her powers of fascination on him quite as successfully as if he had been twenty years younger, in spite of the proximity of his better half, a stout good-humored laay in me amplest and most rustling of silks, who, sitting on a settee near the door, watched the movements of her lord and his fair companion with a smile of placid amusement, quite juntinged by jealousy. "By the way, Miss Ransome," Mr. Harvey said as they came to the end of their sixth or seventh turn, "thereis a young friend of mine here to-night who is v-iry anxious for the honor of an introduction to you. Have I your permission to present him ?" "Any friend of yours, Mr Harvey, I am sure, must be charming. Who is he, please ?" "Young Owen, a fellow townsman of mine, and a poet of considerable merit, and some fame. Have you never chanced across any of his writings?" "I don't remember the name; perhaps he wrote under a nom de plume." [ ."So he does; I forgot. He styles himself \ Courtland." "Oh! is he Courtland ? We all read that lovely 'Aspiration,' in the Magazine for May, and wondered whom it was by. I have seen some of his smaller pieces, too, and liked them so much," said Clare. ".Do you Know, l have never met a real poet ? And I should like, so much, to know one." "Well, I think he is a real poet; and he never goes beyond his depth, or writes stuff that matter-of-fact people?like myself?cannot understand. Now there is never a line of his poetry that does'nt please me, because it is full of heart." "Do tell me something about him, Mr. Harvey ; I feel quite interested." "All I know of him is that he is a poor, but very ambitious man, who is striving to win for himself a name in the literary world, and at the same time supports a mother and sister who are dependent on him, with his salary of clerk in a merchant's office?an occupation most uncongenial to his tastes, but forced upon him by stern necessity. He is a most estimable young fellow, and deserves a better position. His family is one of the first in our State." Clare Ransome's pride, which had begun to take alarm, was satisfied by this last clause. "I shall be pleased to know him," she said, graciously; and accordingly, in due time, Mr. Owen was brought up and presented. A somewhat undersized, quiet-looking man with nothing striking in his appearance but a pair of deep and thoughtful hazel eyes, overhung by a massive brow; nothing poetical about him, as Clare thought, with a slight feeling of disappointment, at her first glance. But when he drew his chair near her and commenced talking, she was attracted first by the peculiar sweetness of his voice, and the charmingly graceful, yet totally unaffected language in which he clothed even the simplest ideas; next, by the depth and originality of some of the ideas themselves; and, insensibly, she found herself abandoning her usual rule of enchantress, and quite forgetting to display her own wit and brilliancy, while surrendering to the pleasure of listening to him, so that perhaps she had never before seemed so natural and charming as now. She alluded to his poems ami touched on their merits with no overwrought enthusiasm, but a quiet energy of feeling and appreciation which brought a kindling flush to his cheeks, and a proud and happy light to his eyes. "If every one were lil>e you, I might have some hope," he said. "Hope! Why, Mr. Owen, surely you are not destitute of that!" she exclaimed. "Sometimes I am, or nearly so," he rejoined. "I have many a time come to the conclusion that it would be better for me to put aside this dangerous gift of mine, and confine myself entirely to more useful and more profitable things; but somehow I cannot resist yielding to temptation, and the more it is indulged the stronger it becomes." "But it would be a shame, a real sin to give it up !" cried Clare. "You know we are told not to bury our talents, but use them for the good of mankind." "I doubt if mankind would be any the better or wiserfor reading ray effusions," said Mr. Owen smiling. "Pardon me; I think few people could read 'Aspiration' without feeling better and happier than before?and wiser too." "Why, Miss Ransorae, that was nothing but the cry of a famished soul." "It was very beautiful, and made one desire higher and holier things than often come into \ one's thoughts," said Clare softly. Then she felt half-ashamed of being beguiled into so serious a strain ; and having been brought up ^ with a laudable abhorrence of everything in the shape of sentiment, immediately turned the conversation into a lighter channel, thereby checking a grateful response that was on Mr. Owen's lips, and causing a somewhat 1 pained and disappointed expression to settle | on his face. Clare was sorry, and provoked with herself, almost fearing he must think her rude, but it was too late now to repair her error ; so she rattled on, talking cleverly enough j on indifferent subjects, such as she was wont : to discuss with the generality of her adorers, j Mr. Owen smiled, and responded gaily, proving himself quite conversant with the run of ordinary small-talk, but Clare fancied that he was a little bored, and that she was all the time weakening the pleasant impression she had been at first conscious of making on him. "How hateful it is to live only for fashion and admiration," she exclaimed that night ?1?? -k- ???? MAAm (,T Qinlr WUtJU SUB Wtv5 iUUUO 111 IICI IUU1U, jl gv,v u.ui. of it all, sometimes/' As for Paul Owen, he sat a good while in the moonlit window of his chamber, reflecing, before he could make up his mind to go to bed. To a poet there can be few things pleasanter than to listen to just and sweetly worded praises of his own poems, from the lips of a beautiful woman; and Paul had not been aware of how keen a pleasure he had experij enced in listening to those praises, until the thought had flashed over him, with an unac! countable thrill of perplexity and pain, that i perhaps Clare's interest was only well-feigned ! after all, and that it was only vanity and self delusion that had made him think it real. Why this thought should trouble him so sorely, he did not attempt to discover just at present. Before very long, however, the revelation came to him, in spite of himself. It was quite useless for him to call himself a fool and a madman, and all sorts of uncomplimentary names, and to declare that such outrageous nonsense never had been heard of, and that it must not, could not, would not and should not be allowed; there it was, and he had to make the best of it, and a very hopeless and unpromising best-it seemed. The plain state of the case was, he was over head and ears in love, and had beeu so frara the first hour of his acauaintance with Clare Ransome. Each day A of their intercourse had only confirmed and strengthened this unluoky passion^ and Paul, in a great fit of righteous indignation and selfreproach, swore privately that this fblly must cease without farther delay, and that he would withdraw himself from the fascination of her presence at once and forever. But after he had partially packed his trunk, his heart grew weak and his resolution wavered, and finally he decided that it could not do much harm to wait a little longer?and so he waited, and his bonds grew stronger every day and every hour. Perhaps Clare did not know how firmly she was rivettiug them ; perhaps she was unconscious of the mischief she was doing. She took more pleasure in Paul's society than in that of any one else; she always felt a thrill of satisfaction at his approach, and a sense of disappointment if he kept away from her more than usual; so that naturally her manner to him was very gracious and sweet, and being anxious to please him, she could scarcely fail in her endeavor to do so. She was not much given to reflection, and did not stop to analyze the precise state of her feelings regarding him. Of course, Paul knew that he could not ask her to marry him. Look at the difference in their positions! She, wealthy, admired, courted?the idol of society; he, poor aud without prospects, save of the dimmest and most intangible kind, and holding no better office than an obscure clerkship. What had he, therefore, to offer her but his heart and good name?possessions sterling in themselves, but not all important in the estimation of the world, as he had sufficient wisdom to know. And in spite of his infatuation, he was quite nlaa* oin-kfor? onnilffll til disrftVRr that his idol ,"v"* ~ was of the world, worldly. "And yet that is only on the surface; there is so much that is pure and noble and good below! Would to Heaven that mine were the task to remove the dross, and train and develop that soul to its best and highest capabilities !" sighed poor Paul Owen in his despairing love. His holiday was drawing to a close, and his spirits sank each day to a lower ebb at the thought of the approaching separation. How dreary it seemed to look forward to returning to the wearisome daily drudgery from which he had been so glad to escape. More wearisome it would be now than ever,- after the glimpse of life and light he bad had in between. "Do you know that I am going to leave you j soon ?" he asked Clare, one evening. He wanted to know whether or not she would care about his going. "You are not, really ?" she rejoined; and and there was such a sudden change in her voice, such an unmistakable clouding of the ! brightness of her face, that Paul's heart gave a bound, and he looked away to hide his own too evident emotion. "Yes," he said, after a moment, trying to | speak in his ordinary tone. "I am bound to return by the first of September, and I must leave here on the twenty-sixth, to make the connection on the right day. So you see I have but four d' ys more." "I am very sorry, Mr. Owen ; we have seen so much of each other, that we are quite like old friends, are we not?" She said it so naturally and simply, and with such a frank air of regret, that Paul fancied he must have been mistaken in thinking he had detected more than an ordinary softness in her man* j ner a moment before. | "Yes, we are quite like old friends," he re I sponded, quietly; and though it had almost ! come to his lips to tell her how much more : than a mere friend she had seemed to him, he : put aside the impulse with a resolute effort of i will, feeling how unwise a one it was. In i spite of that calmly worded phrase of hers, however, Clare's mind was in not quite as tranquil a state as an observer might have supposed. Mr. Owen's announcement had come upon it with a decidedly unpleasant shock, and her thoughts, as well as his, comI meuced to revert somewhat dismally to the i future. ! I hope my readers will not be too much i shocked when I teli-them that Miss Ransome ; was all this time an engaged woman, j It may be as well to go back a little and see j how it had come about. Our brilliant belle had been not more than i sixteen?a mere simple little school girl, in 11 fact?when young Brooke Eversham, of Oak lands and Rawley Park, first came to her father's house in Richmond. And it fell out 11 that Brooke being a handsome, courteous j young fellow, fresh from college, with a wini ning way about him that made everybody his ; | friend, made somewhat of an impression on ! the then susceptible heart of Mademoiselle j Clare, who told a bosom friend, in strict confi- t . dence, that Mr. Eversham was the handsomest i i i and most delightful man she had ever met, i ! and that she really believed she was half in 1 I love with him. The first part of this speech 1 was repeated and in some way came to the | ears of Mr. Ransome, a prosperous city bro- 1 j ker, who soon after summoned his daughter j to a conference in his private apartment. f "Look here, Clare, do you really like young Eversham ?" he asked. ; "Why, papa 1" said the young lady blushing scarlet. "What do yon mean ?" "Why, I mean this?that I shall consider it a very fortunate circumstance if you do, for I can inform you that in all probability he intends asking you to become his wife." "I am sure I never dreamed of such a thing," said Clare; and she was perfectly honest in what she said, for she had considered her little romance as entirely without foundation. But the fact was, Mr. Ransome was extremely anxious for the alliance to take place, and had been casting about for some time for ways and means whereby to accomplish the desired end. Brooke Eversbam and his brother Arlington were orphans, arid joint owners of two of the finest estate in Virginia, besides a good deal of city property, the income from which alone, constituted a fortune in itself. Mr. Ransome was a tolerably rich man, but he had a large and expensive family, and he felt particularly anxious to see Clare, who was his eldest girl, well established in life. He was very fond and proud of her, and naturally thought that any man who should marry her would have a right to consider himself exceedingly fortunate, so that he believed himself to be doing young fevershara quite a favor when he fixed upon him as the privileged individual whom he was to win for a son-in-law. Mrs. Ransome, quite as ambitious as her l/vwJ an+orarl rooflilir inM his nlflns. and beintr a thorough woman of the world, set to work i with no small skill and discretion to bring them i to a happy result So Brooke Eversham was 1 invited continually to the house, and petted i and f6ted and treated like one of the family, I and he and Clare were constantly thrown to- 1 gether in the most natural way, uutil finally ] Mr. Bansome's assurance to his daughter was j verified, and Brooke did actually ask her to i become his wife. So they were engaged, and < Brooke never exactly knew how it had all j happened, but took it for granted that it was j all right, and that he ought to be very happy. I As Clare was so very young, Mrs. Ransome i told Brooke that she must make a stipulation with him not to steal her darling child from ] her under two years at least, and he gave the I promise without any difficulty. The two < years passed, and Clare went into society, and said she wanted to enjoy herself before she was ? tiorl dn\cn tn mnrripd lifp and nf>W her 8eCOud f season had come round, and still no time was 1 appointed for the wedding. The young lady's parents hinted at the expediency of a day be- 1 ing fixed, and Brooke said all that was proper on the subject, but Clare always turned it I off with a laugh, and refused to come to any decision. She must have a little leisure to think, she said, before she could make up her i mind on 60 important a matter. And in this ; second season of hers at the Springs, Brooke took himself off on a rambling Western tour, < travelling in an independent fashion with his 1 dog and his gjjn, which, he declared, was a refreshing change from the hackneyed amuse- 1 ments of a watering-place. In spite of his < absence, Clare enjoyed herself this season im- < mensely. i But now "a change came over the spirit of her dreams." Hitherto, she had been nothing < but a careless, giddy, unthinking votary of fashion, reveling butterfly-like, in the pleas- ] ure of each passing hour, aiming only at ad- ] miration, and happy because it was lavished so freely upon her. She was not much ad- ; dieted to flirting, but she did care for the society of men, and for their adulation; or, rather she had done so hitherto. Now, all of : a sudden, she ceased to find it entertaining; their compliments became vapid, their presence tiresome ; and, strangest of all, she be- * gan to like to be alone?unless, indeed, Paul I i ~ . ~r i uwen was present. "I know what it must be," she said to herself one day. "I'm pining for Brooke." She accepted the happy little fabrication with enthusiasm, and cherished it pertinaciously for a time; during which period of self delusion, she wrote an affectionate letter to her absent fiance, telling him that she really missed him, and would be so glad when he came. But on the evening of the very day which witnessed the inditing of that letter, came Paul's revelation of his intended departure ; and poor Clare cried herself to sleep that night, calling herself a humbug, and convinced that there was no such thing as happiness in life. She appeared the next morning at breakfast with her usual serene countenance, and chatted entertainingly to her next neighbor; j and Paul, profiting by her example, was very gay at his end of the table, and scarcely once looked her way, after which he betook himself to solitude, and Clare saw him no more that day. That evening, and the next, and the next, they met as usual, and were very friendly, but Paul kept a little more away from her than was his wont. Poor fellow, he could not trust himself too much to the influence of her charms; and Clare, seemingly content that it should be so, laughed and danced with her former gaiety and animation, while people noticed what a becoming color she had, and thought they had never seen her looking prettier. Sinking on an ottoman to rest, after along waltz, Clare was startled by a quiet voice j near her, which saia, i "Have you no word of greeting for me, < belle amie /" 1 "Why, Brooke! when 011 earth did you ar rive ?" | "This evening, by the train. So you didn't , expect me ?" J "Howshouldl? You never told me you 1 were coming." < "But I got your letter yesterday, being < nearer home at the time than you supposed, < and in it, if you recollect, you favored me with J an intimation that my presence would afford ( you some slight gratification. On this hint I 1 hastened hither on the wings of love?alias, ] the cars?and me void? 1 "Not against your will, I hope." "Against ray will? Assuredly not The 1 truth is, I was coming anyhow. How have you been enjoying yourself ?" "Oh ! inexpressibly; that is to say, as well 1 as might have been expected. And you?" 1 "Passably. I have had a good many amu- \ 1 sing, and some interesting experiences. I ( suppose, judging "from appearances, you have j Qot had much leisure to waste in bestowing a * thought on the absent." I j "On you ? On the contrary, I assure you, I ] [ have thought of you quite often, especially i 1 lately." * I' "I hope, Clare, you have not been flirting," j{ said Brooke, in a somewhat serious tone. "Not of any consequence?no more than if j pou had been here. Why do you ask ?" "Oh ! merely as a matter of curiosity, of j ( course." 16 "Then why did you say you hoped I had i{ aotr "Well," said Brooke, twisting his moustache a little absently, as he leaned on the oack of her chair, while gazing at the dangers revolving before him, "because I would prefer, of course, that you should not; it is well that people should not talk. Of course t have perfect confidence in you." Clare leaned her head back, and a little sigh escaped her lips, and a weary, dissatisfied feeling oppressed her heart. She wished Brooke had spoken more warmly, or seemed to feel what he was saying; she wished she :ould feel happier in his return. But that was just her trouble; nothing interested her much. "You are too tired to dance this evening, I suppose ?" she said, presently. ' "Not too tired to dance with you, if you ( will honor me." j "No, I didn't mean that?I was thinking ] that I would like to go out on the piazza for a ' little, if you will CQme with me." ] "Certainly; it will be infinitely pleasanter 1 than in this hot, crowded room. So they went out, and Paul Owen, leaning J igainst a pillar in the shadow of a vine, l watched them with jealous eyes as they saun- ] tered up and down. Clare was quite aware of ' liis presence, and perhaps it was a sort of feel- 1 ing that it was best for him to have some inti- ' mation of the truth, that caused her to lean k with more familiarity on hercompanion's arm, < md talk to him in a more confidential tone, | than she would otherwise have done. And when Brooke, fancying, after a party of peo- i pie who had been promenading out there had ] *one in, that they were quite alone, drew her 1 nearer to him once, and kissed her brow, she 3id not prevent him, for she thought, "It is ? ust as well he should find out that I am enjaged." When they approached that end of i the piazza at their next turn, Paul had van- 1 shed. ; The next morning he came to say good-bye. ^ Brooke was with her, and she introduced them j each other, whereupon they exchanged a ] jourteous bow. _ j "Well, I am off, Miss Ransome, as you see," i laid Paul, with a glance at the travelling bag * ind shawl on his arm. "I have come to shake j lands before starting." ^ "So you are really going on this train ? I } ? ?-11 I-~ ~ nl/iooonf i'amrnotr lopeyou win unycnaaic auu j/ihwbui/juu.uvj, ( "Thanks. You will be soon leaving here t ;oo, I suppose." ' "In a week probably, or ten days." 1 "So soon as that ??Hark! there's the bell, 1 md I must be off. Good-bye, Miss Ransome, j pou won't quite forget me, I hope." j "Certainly not. Remember, if ever you < pome to Richmond, papa will always be glad ] ;o see you. Good-bye 1" "You are very kind." A brief pressure of J ;he hand, another hasty adieu, and he hurried { )ff, while Clare looked after him with a smile jn her lips, and a strange, dull feeling of pain 5 it her heart. i "Who is he?" Brooke asked when he was 1 )ut of sight. I "A poet?a friend of old Mr. Harvey's. ' Ele introduced him to me. Come, Brooke, , et's go in, it's tiresome sitting out here." ; [to b? continued next week.] ] i^?? 1???i^???? ] !$i$ceUatJt0ui0 JMidrs. , THE "BOUNDTREE" MURDER. J During the progress of the ku-klux trials in he United States Court at Columbia, the ] prosecution put upon the witness-stand, for the , purpose of showing up some of the deeds of i -he organization, one Shoolbred Cohen, who < nade the following revelations in relation to * he murder of Tom Roundtree, in this county, 1 ibout the first of December, 1870. The witless said: , "I live in Cleaveland County, North Caroli- j ia. Two years ago I lived in York County, i [ joined the Ku Klux in 1869, in North Car- ] plina, about December. Frank Ellis initialed me; there were twelve or fifteen in the clan. The understanding was, that we were ;o advance the interests of the conservative 1 inrt rmt doron flip RpHlPfll nftrt.V. I hftVe ? jeen on some raids. The first was on the 2d ] )f December, a year ago, against Tom ( Round tree, a colored Radical. Hewaskilled. 1 Ned Turner came over and gave me notice ? ;o meet on a Thursday night, at Morse's Creek, i n York. I met there Robert Morse, Reuben i joforth, Asbury Mullinax, Wallace Wiley \ ind others; a good crowd gathered; Gabriel j Humphreys and George Turner came up; this ] was about 10 o'clock at night; we met in the ? woods off the road. George Turner took 1 command and led us on to a quarter of a i nile of Roundtree's house. We then dis- i nounted, left four or five to guard the horses, 1 tnd pushed on to the house. As we jumped the f fence, around the house, I threw off some 1 rails, so that Roundtree might hear and escape, ! 3ut he didn't. They commenced firing into i ;he house; fired some 75 shots, till Turner j jrdered them to stop. They surrounded the ? aouse. Jasper Spencer and others lifted a big i rock, and threw it against the door and broke I It. They went in and couldn't find Round- < Tee. Somebody hollowed out, "He is in the i loft!" They commenced firing there. Ross ( Seapaw ran in to the door, and as he stopped, < Roundtree shot him in the head and wrist, < md jumped out of the window to run, and they i jommenced firing on him. I ran round the t louse and saw him fall; but he wasn't dead \ pet. Some of the party then went up and 1 lsked him for his militia guns, and held him i lown. While this was going on, Henry Sea- s jaw went up and looked at his brother, Elijah | Ross Seapaw, who had been shot, and when J le saw his blood trickling down, he turned, f Irew a long knife, and walked up deliberately 1 ;o Roundtree and cut his throat, from ear to 1 jar. They then went in the house, found c ;hree guns and a.pistol. About this time, t rve heard shooting down in the field. Some me was hallooing: Rally, boys! rally! i Here are the Ku-Klux ! George Turner hal- i looed back: Yes, here we are are; and ready 1 for you, too ! But directly, the men at the f tiorses sent word to be off quick ; and we has- 1 tened on, mounted and rode off. I was on 1 mother raid, when John Wright waa whipped. 1 [ went with the McSwain boys. We went to < Mr. Morse's place first, but didn't find our e man there. Then we rode on to Jane Bahee- t iy's, a white woman. We surrounded the s louse, and then broke in. Didn't see any 1 me at first, but raised the floor, and there we I 'ound John and Jake Wright and John Morse. 1 Joe Harden ordered twenty-five good switches s jut, and we commenced whipping. John \Iorse and Jake Wright ran off, and Joe i Elarden then tied John Wright to a tree, r tnocked him down, and beat him painfully, r They then took Jane Baheely, and poured tar 5 ind lime on her, and ordered her to leave the c jounty in three days. c TRUTH STRANGElpTIIAN FICTION. j Hermits are generally held to be creatures i if romance rather than reality, yet they are \ luch beings even in this prosaic age. A re- ] jluse died in Saline county, Kansas, a week j >r two ago, who for twenty long years, has ived absolutely alone. He lived in a large ] ;ave, some ten miles from the town of Petra, ] ? '1 "...Kino, irofl lrnmvn nf Kin Pflrlv pnrppr f UJU iJUlillJlI? n UO nnuuu V* mm# -w?- - j ??- , intil after his death. That career then prov- t ;d to have been very touching and mournful. ] The hermit's name was Franklin Elliott. During the years of his solitary existence in ,he cave he was an object of constant speculaion and curiosity. Once or twice only in the pear he came into the town. He would then carter game or pelts for powder, shot and salt, seldom anything else, speaking as few words is might be, and then hastening away. Sometimes he would be seen in the woods carrying \ long rifle and quantities of game. If he jaw people approaching he would try to avoid them by turning aside into the forest. If that happened to be impracticable, he would stalk moodily straight on. When spoken to lie would reply briefly and coldly, and at mce depart. He had a commanding air, a proud, set face, and, in spite of his squalid attire, long elfin locks, and singular mode of life, inspired as much respect as curiosity. The cave in which he lived was commodious, having been enlarged, evidently by himself, from a small hole to an apartment twenty-five feet square and ten or twelve feet high. When sxamined after his death it was quite void of furniture. Pieces of stones and niches in the rocky walls apparently served as chairs, tables, and shelves. A rifle and fowling piece tvere found, a long, broad bowie-knife, fishing tackle, cooking utensils, and a number of books. Among the latter were copies of J Shakspeare, Sterne, Addison, Schiller, Southey t md Spencer. In one corner was a heap of i blankets and skins, and on these lay the soli- t tary occupant of the retreat, dead. I Two gentlemen had been hunting near by t ind were overtaken by a storm. Seeking ref- < ,ige at the cave, they knocked at its heavy i Iron door. No response being made to their i repeated summons, they pressed cautiously to j ;he inside, and saw what we have described, t They also found a small tin box, such as is ( jsed by lawyers, and in this were papers that fuade clear the unhappy man's history. He sad been well born, educated and affluent. 1 [t would appear that he must have been early * n life elected to the Legislature of bis native 1 State, Kentucky. Before this he had become ' passionately attached to a young girl. A ( likeness of her, showing that she must have { possessed remarkable beauty, qualified by a 1 'ather sensuous and cruel expression, was * ilso found in the box. Sets of letters in dif- ' "erent hands, made the whole drama clear. 1 'Olive," for such was her name as written on ? ;he portrait and in the letters, had led Elliott 1 it first to think his love for her returned. In 1 )ther words, she amused herself with him ( ifter the fashion of may of her sex without * laving any real feeling. While the game ( ,vas going on some one crossed her path for 1 vhom she conceived a veritable passion. She ( jorresponded with the fresh admirer, but 1 acked moral courage to tell the other one ? ,he truth. Either for this reason or out of 1 jontemptible vanity she kept up her affairs with both. Elliott discovered all, as letters c n the tin box, written by "Olive," to both 1 limself and his rival, proved; such letters, 1 searing the same date, were found side by side, 1 ind stained with blood, in the same package. | In the same package was a yellow printed J ilin out from an old newsDaner. It cave an 11 iccount of a frightful duel fought between the ;wo men with rifles at twenty-five paces. Elliott shot his antagonist through the head. The cause of the duel as described by the slip iYas a dispute at cards. It describes the slain nan, Bailey, as "handsome, brave, and lax of principle." What happened afterwards as egards "Olive" is unknown. Neither law aor public opinion was severe on dueling in Kentucky a quarter of a century ago, so that .here was no particular reasou for Elliott to ly. He went abroad, however, and seemed \o have remained iu Europe two or three fears. Whether moved to return and to seek s i solitary life by the stings of conscience, or >y the misery of a broken heart, can only be conjectured. It is only known that he did re- , ;urn, and that he abandoned friends and so- . ciety forever, and lived like the melancholy Jacques, in an "abandoned cave," until death . nercifully cios d his eyes. The compassionite will be glau to be told that tender hands . -everently disposed of the poor outcast's re- , nains, gave them decent burial, and marked . ;he spot with a memorial stone. Upon it is nscribed: Franklin Elliott. A Stranger. STovember 7,1871." j MARRYING THREE SISTERS. a Isaac Frome arrived in Montreal, from Wales, in 1864, with 84,000. He purchased * i farm near the city. His pursuits proved a 8 aecuniary success, and, like the Caelebs, he j commenced to search for a wife. Early in 1867 he fonnd the priceless gem for which he 8 lought. She was named Sarah Jane Brumby, * ind her motherwas a widow. With his charm- . ng wife in the homestead, the farm began to * vear new attractions. Everything seemed to J jrosper, and money came to him rapidly. But alas, temptation came. His wife had a c lister Emma. He had not seen Emma until J le married Sarah Jane," but ab, how much ^ nore divine a creature he thought the sister- k n-law! Besides being ever so much better 1 ooking, she was better educated, and alto- J jether smarter. Her smiles and eyes haunted lim day and night. Soon Sarah Jane and he 1 Degan to have testy tiffs. Emma held herself iloft, but she sympathized with Isaac, and his j irm frequently elapsed her waist when Sarah / Jane's eye was not there to mark. The marked existence of Isaac and Sarah Jane soon s Decame intolerable, and after twelve mouths c )f matrimony the young wife returned to her \ nother. With indecent haste he procured a c livorce from a New England court and three j lays after he was in possession of the bogus ( lecree Emma and he were clandestinely mar- ? led. What an Elysian future he pictured for t hem. But another disappointment! Emma ^ vas indolent, slothful, and preferred to lie in a Ded poring overing a novel rather than meet g ler husband at the breakfast table. When E the rose for the day she arrayed herself in f jorgeous apparel, and drove in a buggy to 0 Montreal, where she spent the day shopping a md in expensive frivolities?never however, ^ )y any chauce visiting her mother's house, t LMirious breaches of domestic peace naturally ? msued, and bickerings and high words were e he order of the day. D When Emma had been married about eight 8 uonths Isaac learned that his wife had a lover n n Montreal, and another sister, of whom he t lad never heard, in Buffalo, N. Y. He re- a lected what a deceitful wretch Emma was. v Tis mind was soon made up. He would al- f ow Emma all the rope she wanted until she i >ecame hopelessly involved and then he would ' livorce her. That was his resolve, butanothir extraordinary mania possessed him simul- a aneously,a burning desire to see this Buffalo t ister, Fannie. She was four-and-twenty, and f lad been rather wayward since Bbe was tilteen. | 3 tfr. Frome went to Buffalo, without stating 11! lis intentions to Emma. He managed by ! b ome means to discover Fanny. 11 She was more dangerously beautiful than 1 iver Emma appeared. Miss Fannie was not! b nuch disgusted when she learned that her ad- e nirer was the husband of her two sisters.' h she quite approved of his suggestion about a a livorce, and after deliberation deep and pon- j t lering profound, it was arranged that Fannie 1 hould visit Montreal for the purpose of watch- t ngEmraa. This feat accomplished, a decree b vould be applied for, pending the receipt of q vhich the Montreal farm was to be sold, and Fannie and he were to remain in Buffalo, ind so- the compact was made. F Emma received her hymeneal quietus in an 6 [ndiana divorce court, and he hastened to his f Fannie, and they were made one, and took up 1 ,neir aooae in a nuuuauiue uuusc. auu uun . hey quarreled. Fannie had spirit, and when } [saac attempted blows she showed a tiny re- Jj solver that quieted him. Isaac was humbled } ind subdued; but he resolved to be revenged, 1 md he was. Without warning of any kind 1 le broke up the establishment, sold the fur- 9 liture and announced the house to let. Fan- c lie's rage was terrific, but the hot-headed ' Welshmen was not to be diverted from his J jurpose. Honey and flattering and abuse r md gall were alike lost upon him. He was v naster, and he resolved his wife should know e t, or perish in the attempt. Isaac determin- ^ id to leave Buffalo for the West, but Fannie's r jounsels prevailed, and the couple, with some c $15,000, came to New York and took up their r ;emporary abode at the Metropolitan Hotel. ? In May 1870, they leased a house on Twen- ' ;y-seventb street. Fannie had the lease drawn r n her own name, and she banked her own lash. He contented bimself with placing J >IU,UUU wfiere fie couia put nis nana on it ,vhen wanted, and he spent his time where ' ind how he pleased. He was about 25, but n appearance be looked a decade more. A iourse of persistent excess did not tend to en- ? lance his appearance or to improve his health. ? Por over twelve mouths, ending August last, j: iis chronic condition has been one unending c nebriation. . Not unnaturally, his very pres- Q mce in the house became intolerable to Fannie, j Early in September the degraded wretch found ?] ;he door closed upon him, and he was informed j xorn a window by his wife that she had ob- t ained a divorce, that the house was hers, and a bat she would forward his clothes and trunks c ,o any address indicated. That ended his c lareer in harness with Fannie. When he net her he was a stalwart, healthy young 3 nan, worth 89,000 or 810,000, while she was j joor. Now he was worth but $3,000 or 84,000, r ottering to an early grave, while she is worth )ver 820,000.?New Yorlc Mercury. L" Life in Death.?Over in Brooklyn there j1 s a young girl who, seven ^ears ago, was j brown from a horse; her back, if not abso- 1 utely broken, was at'least so injured that her ? )ody ceased to perform its functions, her heart 1 leased to beat, and she was dressed for the e jrave; but about her face there remained so c nuch of life that her guardian, an aunt, reused to allow her burial. ' After a few days, i vonderful as it may seem, she recovered the g lse of an arm, she breathed, and to this day r be lives, her body perfectly helpless, the fac- 8 ilty of swallowing entirely destroyed, life is 0 naiutained by injections, and weekly surgical r mAwnfiAno Anokla fKo nrilionnn vniinir prcmtlirp I ic /JJCI UliiUlJO ^liauiv tiiyy '1111#14^J J vuug v*vww**?v ^ ,o remain on earth. One hand is tightly c dosed, the other she uses with an almost natlral freedom. She is partially blind, and can >nly faintly utter a few broken words. Her )ody is wasted till it is the size of a child of lix or seven, but her face is still pretty and )ears no signs of her fearful experience. She inserts a knife in the closed hand and iuts sheets of wax into proper shape, and noulds it, colors, it, and makes very beautiful vax flowers, lying upon her -back, with a aised shelf swung across her breast. She has aken no food in the natural way since her inury, and is the most wonderful case probably n this country. As her parents left her well )ff aud she has an aunt whose devotion adnits no mercenary thought, this young lady s comparatively unknown. But what a fate las befallen her?a living death ! Who can ;ell what may be the action of her mind, for ihe is incapable of writing much, or speaking )ut a few words, aud withal seems to have developed an unknown sense, for when her aunt inters the room with a letter she herself canlot read in the gloom of the apartment, the lalf blind creature, lying perhaps turned juite away from the letter, utters a strauge loise and faintly speaks the name of the perlon from whom the letter comes. ? The Crucifixion.?A distinguished Gernan scholar, Herr Kelb, in a recently pubished work, considers that he has settled the rue date of the Crucifixion. He shows that here was a total eclipse of the moon concomtant with the earthquake which occurred vhen Julius Caesar was assassinated, on the L5th of March, B. C. 44. He has also calcuated the Jewish calendar to A. D. 31, and he result of his researches confirms the facts ecorded by the Evangelists of the wonderful g )hysical events that accompamea tiie umci- f ixion. His astronomical calculations also t how that on the 6th of April, A. D., 31, here was a total eclipse of the sun, accorapalied, in all probability, by the earthquake p poken of in Matthew. This mode of reck- " ming is verified by another calculation, made g )y calculating backward from the great total e sclipse of April, 1818, which also gives the t 5tb of April as the date of the new moon, A. r D. 31. As the vernal equinox of the year t 'ell on March 25, and the Jews ate their Easter lamb and celebrated their Feast of d he Passover on the following new moon, it is v dear that April 6 was identified with Nisan j L4 of the Jewish calendar, which, moreover, t vas on Friday, the day of preparation for the t Sabbath, and this agrees with the Hebrew Tal- h nud, so that astronomy, archaeology, tradi- ji ional and Biblical history seem to unite in t ixing the date of the Crucifixion at April 6, s D. 31. v ?-*- g( A Remarkable South Carolina Boy n Mechanic.?We find the following in the y kientific American, of the 25th ult: We have on our table a complete model of l horizontal steam engine, with tubular boiler \ >f the locomotive type, separate from the tl >oiler, the workmanship of which would do k iredit to an experienced mechanic. Every n >art is stated to have been made by Master a 1 T. Mason, (at the age of fourteen years,) t< iumter, S. C. Nothing is omitted, even a tl niniature steam gauge being supplied. Mas-; ii or Mncnn will if hp continues to Drocrress. be i o , master mechanic at an age when boys in s] ;eneral have scarcely an idea beyond tops and r; narbles. He will please accept our thanks a or sending his engine for our inspection, and o ur predictions that, if he lives, he will occupy s< , distinguished place among the engineers of h his county. Few men could beat the execu- r< ion displaced in his working miniature en- ii ;ine, which, in its details, indicates a knowl- cj dge of steam and the laws of action most re- e) aarkable in such a youth. Let Master Maon apply himself diligently to the study of lathematics, mechanics and drawing, and * here can be no doubt of his future. We may S dd that this young mechanic received a sil- P er medal as a first premium on this model J' rora the Agricultural and Mechanical Socie- J1 y of South Carolina, at its fair of 1869. " . li A Quick Quarter.?A boy worked hard g 11 day for a quarter; he bought apples and h ook them to town and sold them in the street p or a dollar. With the dollar he bought a r< tieep. ine sntwp uruugiib miua muiu, ...... he fleece brought him another dollar. He ought another sheep. The ne:ct yea- he had wo sheep, two lambs and a yearling sheep, 'he three fleeces he sold for thr<je dollars, and ought three more sheep. He now had ight with a fair prospect. He worked where ,e found opportunity, for bay, corn and oats, ud pasturing for his sheep. He took he choicest care of them and soon had a flock. ?heir wool enabled him to buy a pasture for hem, and by the time he was twenty-one he >ad a fair start in life, ar l all from the narfor pftrnfld in one dav. # # ? " The Benefit of Work.?Some good ieople try to bring up their children so xquisitely that when the children go out for hemselves they have no self-control, and are mmediately bankrupt. Let children make istakes and learn by their mistakes. Just n proportion as a child is worth anything he s full of force, and it must have an outlet. The damnation of thousands of young men is n bringing the full, fresh power of youth to he city, with no work for an outlet. They oon find something to do. O, the slaughter if young men ! My heart is sick and heavy. )ccupation?work that uses you, that fills rou, is your salvation. There is nothing nore dangerous than an educated community vith nothing to do. There are thousands of ducated women who do not work. No doubt jod intended that men and women should arry. But in the inequalities of the present ondition of society many women cannot be aarried. If these women are in feeble health, ir have little force, there is not much trouble; >ut I don't wonder that the bold, eagle-like ?A ?? ^^ *? J /l?f Aflf 11 fn r\?* iuiures iret iu iueu niuito auu nib, ?#* hat the great hearts dash themselves out in caste. There must be an outlet for these ramense forces, or society will go on getting corse and worse to the end.?Beecher. Every-day Religion.?Religion, if it is ;ood for anything, will not be an affair of Sunday alone, but of every day of the week, [oing with us into the field and the shop, into he caucus and the town meeting, guiding and ontrolling us in our labor and our rest, in iur amusements as well as our devotions, and n our public as well as private relations. The minister, therefore, must deal with our ife in its every aspect, seeking to elevate it to he Christian standard, that we may be "whole .nd entire, wanting nothing." But, while acordins to him this untrammeled freedom, I ounsel you not to depend upon him to do rour thinking, or fail to weigh in the scales if your Own judgment all that he may utter. I cowardly, subservient spirit is not less denoralizing in the pews than in the pulpit, fou will best honor your minister, not by an inquestioning assent to his opinions, but by andidly and charitably expressing, and firray adhering to your own, \it upon a conscienious examination of the subject, you cannot igree with him. Such differences need not ead to any alienation between you, but may yen become a basis of mutual respect and onfidence. Traveling Stones.?Many of our readers tave doubtless heard of the famous Traveling itone of Australia. Similar curiosities have ecentlv been found in Nevada, which are de cribed as almost perfectly round, the majority if them as large as a walnut, and of an irony lature. - When distributed about upon the loor, table, or other level surface, within two >r three feet of each other, they immediately >egun traveling toward a common center, and here huddled up in a bunch like a lot of eggs n a nest. A single stone, removed to the listance of three aud a half feet, upon being eleased, at once started off, with wonderful ,nd somewhat comical celerity, to join its felows; taken away four or five feet, it remaind motionless. They are found in a region hat is comparatively level, and is nothing >ut bare rock. Scattered over this barren egion are little basins, from a few feet to a od in diameter, and it is in the bottom of these hat the rolling stones are found. They are ' rom the size of a pea to five or six inches in liameter. The cause of these stones rolling ogether is doubtless to be found in the mateial of which they are composed, which aplears to be loadstone or magnetic iron ore. 4 4 Scolding.?If laughing begets fat, it is no ess true that scolding is the parent of meagerless. Who ever saw a plump termagant? The virago is craggy?cragginess is the badge .11 her tribe. It would seem that the attriion of a fierce, exacting temper gives harpless to the human frame as inevitably as a ;ritty grindstone puts a wiry edge on a broadx. Artists understand this fact, and govern hemselves accordingly. They invariably epresent ladies supposed to be given to "the arapage" as remarkably high in bone. Ihrews are thus depicted in comic valenines, and all the illustrations of "Curtain jectures" have presented the "rib" of Mr. Caudle without a particle of fat Lavater, eferring to female fire-brands, says, flatly to heir faces, that their noses are sharp. We lave a dim idea that lie mentions some excepional cases of ladies with snub-noses, who are jven to snubbing their husbands, but those brra a mild variety and only a small propor too of the genus scold. Tenderness to Mothers.?"Mark that larent hen," said a father to his beloved son. With what anxious care does she call toother her chicks and cover them with her xpanded wines. The hawk is hovering iu he air, and, disappointed of his prey, may terhaps dart upon the hen herself, and bear ler on in his talons. "Does not this sight suggest to you the tenlerness and affection of your mother ? Her watchful care protected you in the helpless leriod of infancy, when she nourished you, aught your limbs to move, and your tongue o lisp its unformed accents. In your childmod she mourned over your little griefs; reoiced in your innocent delights; administered o you the healing balm in sickness; and intilled into your mind the love of truth, of irtue and of wisdom. Oh ! cherish every Butiment of respect for your mother. She lerits your warmest gratitude, esteem and eneration." How to Cook a Ham.?The late General Vinfield Scott, an acknowledged authority in be culinary art, was of opinion that few cooks new how to cook a ham, because they did ot boil it until soft enough to be eaten with spoon ! A great artist told the writer never > serve a ham under one year old ; it was ben to be soaked all night in soft water, and ' Kiinninir icafar if ufao til Via nut. i ,pU004l/IQ) A UUUlUg VTMW* J *W IIMW VV MV jr?.v n the fire in a large pot of cold water, and lowly boiled at least twenty minutes for evey pound it might weigh ; and as for skinning ham, he held it to be an outrage, a sacrifice f quality to a mere appearance, which no msible man should be guilty ot If your am is served cold, as is always done in EuDpe, it should be souzed in snow or ice-water nmediately after coming from the pot, beause the sudden cold prevents the flow and scape of the juices.' Preparing for the GrbJat Journey.? 'o be buried alive is a disagreeable continency. But it may be made pleasant if the roper means are employed in advance. King berio, of West Africa, disdaining the simple talian method of attaching a bell-rope to is big toe, has ordered an immence coffin, ned with velvet cushions and having huge lass windows, to be prepared; within are uge decanters, containing gin and other comounds, to'keep his Majesty from leaving his jalm in too great a hurry. r-/ ' A.