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lewis m. grist, proprietor.j Inbcpenbent Jfamilg Itefospaper: Jbr fjje promotion of % |joliticaI, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of % Soat|. |TERMS?$3.00 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 18. YORKYILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 1, 1873. NO. 5. r i : - - .. ^ ^ fleeted fodtg. I COURAGE TO DO RIGHT. We may have courage; all of us, Tosta'rt at honor's call, To meet a foe,'protect a friend, Or face a cannon ball! To show the world one hero lives The foremost in the fight? But do we always manifest The courage to do right? To answer No! with steady breath, And quick, unfaltering tongue, When fierce temptation, ever near, Her syren song has sung? To care not for the bantering tone, The jest, or studied slight; Content if we can only have The courage to do right? To step aside from fashion's course, Or custom's favored plan ; - To pluck an outcast from the street, \JL UUip A iciivK * ??% If not, then let lis nobly try, Henceforth, with all our might, In every case to muster up The courage to do right. Jw Original frisc jftarg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE OAKHURST ROMANCE. ) BY MRS. HENRY DBAS. CHAPTER VII. With some difficulty, Brooke banished the open-mouthed, staring children, who were all agape with wonderment and curiosity, and having locked the door, returned to Sarah's bedside. "Oh! dear, dear, dear," moaned the old woman, restlessly moving her feeble hands. "To think I should be layin' here now, with all this trouble on my mind, and judgment staring me in the face ! Child, child, I hope my maker will forgive me, but I'm most afraid you never will." "I, Sarah!" said Brooke. "I am sure you have never done me any wrong." "You won't be so quick to say that when you've heard all." And she hid her face in the pillow, and broke into a quavering cry. "Hush, hush," Brooke said, gently endeavoring to soothe her. "I am sure you are distressing yourself without cause. You haye always been good and kind; and if you have ever unintentionally done anything that it troubles you now to remember, if it in any way concerns me, I assure you I freely forgive it." "But it wasn't unintentional. It was a deliberate sin. If I warn't going to die now, I wouldn't have the courage to confess it to you; but I can't face the judgment seat with such a weight on my conscience. Promise me one thing, Master Brooke?promise me you won't curse me, nor my memory when I am gone." "You may rest assured," said Brooke, earnestly, "that I will never think of you but in the kindest way." "God grant you may! but I fear me 'twill be as much as you can do to forgive me. Oh! dear, dear, dear! what's the good of putting off telling you any longer ? it only makes it worse." Brooke felt truly sorry for her evident distress, though he supposed her to be merely grieving over some imaginary, or at any rate greatly exaggerated cause for self-reproach. She had always been, as far as he knew, an upright, well-conducted woman, honest-hearted though rough, and he could not imagine what offense against him, or dereliction from duty, she could possibly have been guilty of, to produce such remorse. "Suppose, Sarah," he said, "you dou't tell me what it is, if it is so hard for you to speak about it. Whatever it is, you may count on my forgiveness, and I am sure God will pardon you, since you so sincerely repent." "Not tell you! child, the Evil One put those words into your mouth, for a temptation to draw me away from my duty," she cried shrilly. "Isn't it the temptation he's laid on me on all these years, and I've been wicked enough to give up to it. It was bad enough to do what I did, but to be silenf over it was worse. When your father died, I was most crazy then to think he didn't know the truth; but Master Arly was so sickly, I kept thinking he might die young, and there was no other near kin for the property to go to, and then I would feel easier. Master Brooke, what'll you say to me if I tell you that that property is all your brother's?that you have no more right to it than ray Sammy in there." Brooke looked at her inquiringly; he fancied that her mind was wandering. "No, child, I ain't light-headed," she said, replying to his look. "I'm as much in my j senses as you are ; but I dare say it's hard for | you to believe. Master Brooke, I've been I acting a lie these twenty-four years. When j Mr. Eversham and his wife went abroad,! when their first child was a baby, they left j the child under my care; and when they ! came home I gave you back to them instead ' of their own child. You were not theirs." | "Not theirs," Brooke repeated mechanically. j "No. Their own child was a puny, ailing little creature, and died a month after they j had gone; and the devil put it in ray head to j put you in his place. Child, I'm not raving, i though you may think it." "Goon, Sarah, I am listening," said Brooke. | A mist had risen before his eyes, and every- j thing in the room seemed to be wavering un- j steadily around him ; but he spoke in a calm ! voice still. "That much is told," said Sarah drawing a ! long breath. "Lord, I'm thankful that Thou | hast given me strength ! I shall die easier j now. Master Brooke, will you please give ; me some water to drink, there's a pitcher and ! glass on yonder shelf." Brooke rose and got the water for her as she requested. He was stunned, as if he had | just received a great blow, or a sudden fall; i but the acuteness of the pain was to come af tenvard; there was only a dull, numb feeling as yet. "Now I must tell you all about it," Sarah went on. The predominant feeling in her mind at that moment seemed to be relief at having gotten over the main part of her disclosure. "As I've told you, your father and mother,, or I should say Mr. and Mrs. Eversham, went away to Europe, when their little son Brooke was an infant a little over two months old, and left him with me to nurse. I had just j lost my own baby, a sweet little creature about; the same age ; my husband had gone out1 "West to find employment, and my girl Ellen, | the only one I had living, was out at service;; so I was living quite aloue. Mr. Eversham left a nurse with me to look after the baby,: but I suppose she found it lonesome where I i lived, for in a couple of weeks after he'd gone ! i she gave me so much trouble that I packed her off, and determined to look after the child myself. "You might think it strange that such rich people as Mr. Eversham and his wife should have sent the child to a poor place, like mine, to be taken care of; but I had a great reputation in those days as a nurse, and I had everything neat and comfortable about me, and when they asked me if I wouldn't go and stay at Oaklands with the baby, and I begged them to let me take him home with me instead, because I didn't like to shut up every thing and go away, witn noDoay to mina me house, they consented to let me do so. If I wanted anything, at any time, I was to apply to Mr. Conway, who would attend to it for me. "One day, soon after the nurse had left, I was sitting at work in my room, with the baby asleep in his cradle, when Mr. Gray, who was minister of the parish in those days, came in to see me. "Well, Mrs. Neale," he says, "so you've got your little charge all safe, I see. How's he coming on ?" "I told him the baby was delicate, but I thought, with care, I could bring him round. "I'm sure if good nursing can do it, you will," he answered. "Have you heard about the baby that's been left at Mrs. Parker's house ?" "A baby, sir?a foundling ?" I asked. "Yes. It was discovered in a basket inside her garden gate, carefully wrapped up, with no trace of any kind about its clothing to help her to identify it. The old lady is most distracted about it," says he, "and came to me for advice. She says she can't keep it, and doesn't want to send it to the poor house. Now, Mrs. Neale, I thought may be you could help me out in the matter. Don't you know of anybody wlio'd be willing to take the unfortunate little infant, for a consideration ; or may be you'd take it, yourself." "Me take it, Mr. Gray ?" I answered him. "I've got my hands pretty full as it is." "I thought," said he, "you had a nurse for this child." ? "She's gone off, the hussy," says I. "She didn't suit me, so I just sent her away, and now I'm minding the baby, myself." "Then I suppose you are kept busy all the time," says he. "Well, I'm sorry; I was in hopes you'd be able to assist me. Don't you know of any one else who might do it ?" "Well, I thought, and thought, and at last I asked him how old the child was. He said it was very young, he supposed not more than two or three months old. I didn't see what I was to do with two babies the same age, and so I told him. Presently he said that if I could just take the child for a day or two, to relieve the old lady's mind, he would exert himself to provide for it in some way; but he really thought if she had to keep it a night longer she would go crazy." "Well, I told him I could do that, at any rate, if it would really be helping him out of the trouble. And that very evening the little foundling was brought and given into my i care." i "Sarah," said Brooke, with a shudder, "answer me one question. Was?I?" His lips refused to frame the rest of the sentence. The old woman understood him. "Yes, dear," she said compassionately, "you were that child. Don't take on about it, Master Brooke, don't;" for Brooke's face had sunk in his hands. "Go on," he said presently in a hollow tone. "Let me hear the rest at once." Oh! child, the story of my wickedness is to come." "As I told you, Mr. Gray promised me to i try and provide in some other way for you, and I was only to have you for a little while. You were such a sweet beautiful child that when I once got you I hardly liked to think i . .? uri T Cw* aDOUG giving you up aguiu. >? itcu j. 111SL took you in my arms you smiled right up into my face, so different from little Brooke, who was a fretful baby, poor little soul, and nearly i always crying. I didn't see how anybody : could have had the heart to desert you. "I had kept you two days, and was expect- i ing to hear again from Mr. Gray, when the other baby was taken suddenly with a fit, and 1 before I could get help for it, or send for the doctor?in fact I had no one to send?it died. You can think what a fix I was in, aud how : dreadful I felt about it. "Well, Master Brooke, all of a sudden the idea came into my head?why not make out as it was you who had died, and then put you in the dead baby's place. Nobody would know; you were about the same size, and didn't look unlike, for you both had blue eyes and fair skins, and as for the rest, no one who had not compared you would ever notice the difference. It was an awful bold idea, and I do believe Satan must have given me courage to carry it out. I dressed you up in some of the other baby's pretty clothes, and carried i you with me to the Grange, and told Mr. j Conway I was in trouble, for that the little j foundling Mr. Gray had persuaded me to take j had died suddenly, and I wanted him to be kind enough to help me in the matter, as I was all alone. "So he made the arrangements for me, and poor little Brooke was buried in the village churchyard, and nobody knew a word about the little deceit I had played except myself." The old woman paused, partly to rest, partly j to notice the effect her communication had on Brooke. The latter sat with his face still hidden in his hand, dumb and motionless. He _ .. 1 .1 AAmntinkAM/] A MAollfn r\P U?kof I UUUIU IJUL V-UllI JJI UJJC11U LUC leattbj ui IMIUV tie had heard; it seemed to him like a hideous dream. Could it be possible that Sarah was speaking the truth?had all that she was reI lating really happened ? or was the whole thing a fabrication, the creation of a fancy | disordered by fever. | "Sarah," he said presently, "I can't take in | the truth of what you have told me. Is it all j really so ?" "As I'm a dying woman, Master Brooke, I : can swear to the truth of every word." I There was a long, dreadful silence, broken only by the loud monotonous ticking of the , clock on the mantelpiece. Brooke was trying i to realize his position. Who was he ? what j j was he ? Not the master of Oaklands; not j Arlington Eversham's brother. He was no- j i body; he did not even know his own name.: It was a horrible thought, j Presently old Sarah spoke, in a pitiful, de- j precatory tone. "You don't speak ! you don't look at me! j Master Brooke, I knew you'd curse me." "No," said Brooke drearily. "No, I don't' curse you." ! "Do you forgive me ? Oh! child, can you! forgive me ? Remember, Master Brooke, I'm a dying woman; and I've repented of my sin. If you can't forgive me, I'm afraid God won't either. She held out her hands imploringly, as she spoke. Even in the midst of the dull despair that filled his heart, he felt a ray of pity for the poor conscience-stricken creature, then beseeching him to pardon the act by which his whole life had been so strangely altered ; the revelation of which had cast him so suddenly from the height of his prosperity down into an abyss of helpless, hopeless wretchedness and bewilderment. "I forgive you, Sarah," he said touching her hand for a moment with his. His voice sounded strangely in his own ears ; he seemed to be some one else?to have lost his own . Ji.i.? mill* V?ifi nn/-l V*ia no ma lUUIlLlkY, mm I1IO luuuuc uuu 1110 1IUIIIM "Bless you for that! God bless you for those words!" said Sarah, fervently. "I feared you never could bring yourself to say them." "And no one ever knew of?of what you have told rae," Brooke forced himself to ask, presently. He wanted to hear the whole of the miserable tale. "No one, dear; not a living soul. I lost my husband shortly after, and my grief for him swallowed up my other thoughts for awhile; then Mr. and Mrs. Eversham came home, and I carried you to them, and they praised me up for the care I had taken of you, and said you had grown so fine and strong. I schooled myself to listen to their praises without shrinking, though I felt as if I mustBink into the earth with shame, at the knowledge of what I'd done; and, having once faced that out and seen them satisfied, it all seemed made easy. And as years went on and I saw what a fine, noble boy you were, and so clever and good too, I began to think that what I had done was all right, for you deserved to be rich and grand; and then your brother was so weakly I was always thinking maybe he might die, and who so fit to be master of everything as you ? And so I got used to it like, and didn't worry over it more than I could help; until these last few months, when it's just been pressing forever on my mind. And when this mortal sickness came, something whispered to me to send for you and tell you right away, or I'd have no peace with God." "And was there no clue?not the least sign by which anything could be known concerning me?" "No, dear?not one. You were a nice, clean looking little thing, and your clothes xoaya oil r?nnd and narofnllv nut nn. thoUf?h W? B""" """ J t , aplain. Whoever put you there must have been very particular to guard against anybody finding them out." Brooke sighed, a deep, heart-rending sigh. Every avenue to the hope of discovering his name and parentage 6eeraed closed. He felt himself cast utterly adrift in the world ; his whole past life a bright delusion and mockery, his whole future blank, void and shapeless. Old Sarah, after a few more rambling remarks and tearful protestations, which Brooke scarcely heard, relapsed into silence; and he 3at there, staring at the dull expiring embers on the hearth, trying to shape his thoughts into some sort of order, and unconscious of the flight of time, until a loud, impatient neigh from his horse, which he had left fastened outside, roused him from his abstraction. "The poor beast must be cold and tired," he muttered. "There's no good in my staying here any longer, I suppose, so I may as well go home." Home! The word was a mockery. He had no home. "To my brother's house," he corrected himself. That, too, was a mockery. Who was his brother? The thought of Arly brought tears for the first time to his eyes. "It will nearly kill him," he thought. "He must not know yet." Old Sarah had fallen asleep. She looked very ill and haggard, but he did not see any sign of immediate danger, or any reason for farther delay at her cottage; so he went into the next room, roused the children, who were all huddled on the floor asleep, told them he was going home and they had better look after their grandmother, and that he would ask Dr. Harris to visit her in the morning; then mounting into his buggy he set off in the direction of Oaklands. It was a clear mooulight night, and Selim trotted well. An hour brought him to the gate; the sleepy negroes did not hear his whis tie, so he was obliged to alight and open it for himself. "It makes no difference," he said bitterly, "I have no right to their services now." Actuated by this reflection he made no farther attempts to rouse them, but carried his buggy and horse to the stable, un-1 harnessed Selim and placed him in his stall, and then let himself with his latch key into J the house, went up stairs and flung himself, j all dressed as he was, upon the bed. There was no sleep for his eyes that night, j no rest for his excited brain, through which a j million perplexing thoughts chased each other i in wild confusion. So entire a revulsion had been given to his feelings, so extreme was the shock they had received, that it was no wonder he could not yet clearly weigh his situation, or form any definite plan of future action. One thing he was resolved on. He must quitOaklands. He had no right to be there; it was Arly's place and not his. Whither he should go, he must leave for time to decide; only he felt, and the thought struck anguish to his heart's core, that in the whole wide world there was not one spot of ground that he could call his home. "I am a wanderer on the face of the earth," he thought. "The curse of Cain is upon me, though I have committed no crime to merit it." And then in his gloom and bewilderment and distress came a consoling thought, a remembrance of the source whence he might still hope for aid and comfort. "Our Father," he murmured in broken tones; and the weary mind found rest; and with the prayer he had learned when a little child, still upon his lips, he fell, at last, into an exhausted ; sleep, just as the gray dawn stole in. The sun had mounted far into the heavens \ when he awoke. He started up, wondering at first at finding himself lying with all his clothes on ; then a recollection of the experiences of the previous night flashed over him, and with them came a return of the bitter pain. He could bear it better now, though; his ! nerves had been strengthened by those few hours of sleep. He would not give way to useless despondency, he thought; he must bear his trials like a man. A few days, at any rate, must elapse before any visible changi could be made; Arly was still too weak t( endure the shock of the disclosure that woulc Live to take place. It was a relief to havi even that brief respite before him. Mean while, he would be able, perhaps, to shap< out some plan, to make some arrangement for the future. He would have time to think it over. He bathed his face, arranged his hair anc dress, and went about his daily employmeni as usual. He did not forget to send th( promised message to Dr. Harris, asking hiir to visit Mrs. Neale ; but ere the evening hi received tidings of the old dame's death. Shi . 0 had expired that morning, before the doctoi reached the cottage. And now Brooke's secret was all his own Might it not still remain a secret, and the fa tal revelation be blotted out as though it hat never been made? None would be the wisei for it; many would be the happier, for he wel knew that his Swn misery could scarcely b< greater than that which the knowledge of tin truth would entail upon others. It was but a passing thought, a suggestioi that flashed over his mind; but he put itfron him with scorn. He could endure life with out fortune, without a home, without a name but not without honor. He could make t name for himself; but honor once lost coulc never be reclaimed. The burden which wai laid on him was great, but a consciousness o his own rectitude would help him to bear it. He marvelled at the skill with which h< feigned cheerfulness and unconcern during the next few days. He went oftener thar usual to the Grange; there was no harm ir that now. Of course he would be to Clare when once she knew his story, as though h< had never been ; so it was no disloyalty t( her to feast himself, with yearning, hungering tenderness, on the gentle glances and kindly words that came from the eyes and lips of th< woman he loved, knowing how soon they with all things else that were pieasam am desirable, would be rent away out of his life forever. And Ethel, since that sickness ol Arly's, had been more gracious to him thar ever before, so that each hour of their inter course made her presence dearer to him, anc invested the thought of leaving her with c keener pang. When ten had passed, he made up his mine that he could stay here no longer. Arly was nearly as well again as usual, and it was bet ter that he should leave him now than wail until his return to Oaklands. He did nol tell any of them of his intention; he did nol wish them to know his secret until after h< was gone. He well knew how they woulc combat his resolution to go from them, and he feared his strength might fail him, and yield to their solicitations. The night before he left, he wrote a letter tc Mr. Conway, explaining everything. He made it as concise as he could, consistentlj with the expression of his feelings, for eacl: word seemed to be written with his heart's blood. In it he enclosed this note to Arly. "My Brother:?For I must call you so foi the last time?my dear, dear brother! Mr Conway will tell you my sad story; I have entrusted to him the care of breaking it tc you as gently as he can. Forgive me foi leaving you without an explanation in person but dearest Arly, I cannot trust myself with a word of adieu. My heart is breaking al the thought of our separation, but I feel thai it must be. I well know all you would say tc persuade me to act differently ; I well know? and the thought is a consolation?that youi love for me will never change. Throughoul my life, whatever fate or fortune may betide me, the memory of our past intercourse, the happy, happy years we have passed together will be inexpressibly dear to my heart. How dearly I have loved you, and will forever love you, no words of mine can tell. "I do not know whither I am going, and il is best that you should not hear from me foi awhile. One of these far-off days, when 1 have earned a name for myself, I will come tc you again. Meanwhile think of me, pray foi me, and believe me as ever, most truly and devotedly yours." There was no signature at the end, for he ? > ' ?vr.i. naa DOCS 10 put. ixut tsveu ilia viinouuu name, the name he had been always familiarly called by, could he call his own. He left his letters, addressed to Mr. Con way, in a conspicuous place on his dressing table, where he knew his servant would find them in the morning. Then he packed in a valise the few articles he could carry with: him ; some necessary clothing, and a few lit tie keepsakes from which he could not part A little Bible of Arly's which was lying or the table, he put in his pocket, substituting his own for it. In the latter he placed t folded paper containing a short, fair curl o: his hair, with the date of the day and year he knew no farther explanation of the ex change was needed. A small sura of monej it was absolutely requisite for him to take strictly speaking he was not entitled to i cent, but he well knew how gladly Arlj would still have shared with him everj dollar he possessed; so he decided to carrj what was already in his purse, which, or counting it over, he found would be euougl to last him for a few weeks, at the end o: which time he trusted that he would be in i way of earning more. And now all his preparations were made and kneeling by his bedside he lifted his hear in a brief but earnest prayer to the God o the friendless and fatherless on earth. On< bursting sob escaped him ; but he must checl his emotion, for he had no time now for tears Rising from his knees, he took his vaiiae in hi! hand and quietly descended the stairs. Then was no fear of any of the servants being u[ at that early hour, for there was barely lighl enough for him to see. Letting himself oul at the hall door, he passed across the lawn where the dew lay heavy on the grass. His faithful Pedro bounded from his kennel tc greet him. "Nay, old friend," Brooke said as he returned his caress, "thou and I musl part company to-day." He led him back tc xl Irvi-vlri r*r? 11 n of ln'm luitll m. lilt; Aeunei, lOliu luuaiujj uy Ub U1UJ miru ?*, proachful, enquiring eyes. "I know not how soon I may be without bread to eat, ray pool Pedro," said his master, "and I could not lei you starve. Lie here, and take care of thai until I come back !" He threw his handker chief to him, and the dog immediately la\ down by it, satisfied with the charge entrustec to him. Sometimes a trifle will influence oui gravest resolves; and at that moment Brooke'i courage sank, and his resolution wavered, ai the thought came into his mind how faithful ly Pedro would guard that handkerchief, hov unwillingly he would give it up?he wel knew, to none but Arly?and how many year it might be before he himself would return t< reclaim his trust. ; j But he had no time for the indulgence of )! such thoughts. Without trusting himself I with another backward glance, he hurried 3 out through the gate,across the fields beyond; Pedro all the time lying down beside the 3 handkerchief, and looking after him with wisti ful eyes. ; [to be continued next week.] {|psittUatt?ttsi ?lcaiUtt0. f ~ | WHO WILLIAM WIRT WAS. , James Parton gives us this story of the life i ? of William Wirt, which is very entertaining, ? " i if not entirely true: 11 Bladenburg, iu Maryland, near the Potora- < ac River, was a thriving village before the i * Revolutionary war, having a great trade in i " exporting tobacco and importing foreign mer- i 1 chandise. In ths village there was one tav- ! r em, kept by Jacob Wirt, a native of Switzer- i 1 land, assisted by Henrietta, his wife, who was 3 a German. William Wirt was the youngest 1 of their six children, and he was born in 1772. " Besides this tavern, Jacob Wirt possessed : some other property in the place, and he was 1 1 thus enabled to maintain his family in plenty, i l and with some homely comfort. He died 1 . when his son William was two years of age, leaving an estate of three or four thousand 1 dollars to his young family. 1 . Among the frequenters of the Bladensburg ' tavern was a lawyer by the name of Carnes. I 3 During the lifetime of the father, he had be- < f come warmly attached to the family, and par- i ticularly to two members of it?the eldest i j daughter, twelve years of age, and this pretty i r amusing little William, aged two. When the I ' landlord died, and the whole care of the s 1 house fell to the landlady, he lent her a help- i ' ing hand in many ways, advising her about i ? her property and the education of her chil- I 3 dren. When at last the mother died also, he < > redoubled his attentions. That eldest daugh- 1 r ter was then a beautiful and blooming girl of ' eighteen, and it is evident that he already < looked upon her as his future wife. He sent J 3 the boy to a Latin school, and after seeing his 1 > education well begun, he removed to Georgia, 1 where he had great success at the bar. Soon ] ; we find him inviting Elizabeth Wirt and her I f brother to come to Georgia, and live with him. 1 , The young lady accepted the invitation, and i became his wife; but the boy had found other < friends, and saw an opening to an education 1 ' nearer home. i 1 And it was all owing to his engaging qual- * ities. He describes himself as a pert, lively, 1 I saucy and pretty school-boy, who sang comic J 3 songs very well, danced with great agility, . and made smart answers, which, he says, j. caused him to be thought "a genius." He does not appear to have been a very diligent student, but he was extravagantly fond of rot raantic and humorous literature, i He well remembered the incident which < 1 first suggested to his mind to try for the legal 5 profession. His excellent school-master was 1 I in the habit of taking his pupils to attend the 1 sessions of the county Court, four miles dis- { taut from the school. Among the advocates 1 ) was a popular and brilliant young man of the i i neighborhood, well-known to the boys, and a 1 r great favorite with them, who seemed to them I , to surpass his elders in wit and eloquence. 1 Young Wirt admired him extremely, and to i the whole school he appeared the hero of the < county. < r "Why should we not have a court of our j own ?" was the ;rv as they trudged home- ' 3 ward. It was agreed to. Wirt was appointed to draw up the rules. He was the hero of this J ' juvenile forum, and it was there that he ac' quired the taste for legal pursuits. The part ' . he took in that school-boy court led him di" rectly to real courts and real cases. One of ' his school-fellows?the son of a noted lawyer 1 and politician, named Benjamin Edwards? ( , happened to take home a copy of the rules * ' which Wirt had daawn up for the guidance i [ of the mock court, to which the author had s ' appended an elegant epistle, apologizing for ( | their imperfections. This production young 1 Edwards displayed to the family, and he ex- 1 ' tolled, in unmeasured terras, the eloquence ' and gayety of the author. His father read 1 the rules, and was much struck with their humor and spirit. He wrote to Wirt, then ' fifteen years of age, telling him that he had two nephews and a son preparing for college, ' I and inviting him to become an inmate of the t laiUUY, UliU uncut 141C otuuico U1 LUUOC wiw young men while prosecuting his own. He ( ! could not but accept so opportune an invitai tion. He resided in this family twenty . months, winning the cordial esteem of every member of it, and receiving from the experienced lawyer the most useful, paternal, assidj uous guidance in his studies. Forty years after, we find hira writing to this benefactor ' of his youth in terras of the most affectionate t gratitude. Indeed, everybody loved hira, and i took pleasure in helping him ; for he must . have been as handsome, as pleasing, as joyous, as brilliant a young fellow as ever captivated ' human affections. He was twenty years of age. A friend in' formed him of an excellent opening for a I j lawyer in Culpepper county, Virginia,and he f hastened to seize it, carrying with him, as he ; used to say, his whole library, which consisted . of Blackstone's Commentaries, two volumes r of Don Quixote, and a volume of Tristam . Shandy. Having no case himself, young ' Wirt went shares in a small cause that beII longed to a friend of his, who was also to make 7 j his first essay. His friend began by making fI a motion which, though legal and proper, was j I not usual in the courts of that county. The ! ! old lawyers objected, and put their objections , ; in by no means the most friendly form. Wirt J rose indignant at what he conceived unworthy I treatment of a beginner. His fears forsook 1J hira, and he defended both the motion and the mover of it with warmth and firmness. , He made au excellent speech, and sustained t his point so well that one of the old lawyers f: of the county came to the assistance of the , i young gentlemen, and their motion was gran' j ted. L j He soon had considerable practice, married ' j into a respectable family, and made his way 3: in due time to wealth and renown. The 3 j young lawyers in those days used to ride about > | on horseback from court to court, amusing t j themselves as they rode with pleading imagi1.1 nary causes and other games, keeping it up j to late at night at the taverns over their wine. ' J Wirt's magnificent display of oratory at !; the trial of Aaron Burr gave hira national ce ?| lebrity, whicn lea to nis appointment to me v ,' Attorney-Generalship of the United States, ? t: which he held during two administrations, ,1 and in which he acquired solid distinction. He would have entered the public service j long before if he could have done so without 11 sacrificing the interests of his family, whom : i he loved with peculiar tenderness and devot: tion. He died in 1834, having preserved his t' buoyancy of spirits and all the winning traits . [ of his character to his last days. Like so r I many others of his countryraeu, he was lured, | in his old age, into standing for the Presideni cy, as the candidate of the anti-Masonic party. r He received seven Electoral votes, those of 3 the State of Vermont. . fiSfThe office of religion is, not to drive us | back upon ourselves in anxious self-criticism, . j but to take us out of ourselves and unite us j to the whole, in loving self-abandonment. A 3 j man must take himself for better or worse, ) and forget himself, if possible; so shall he I soonest arrive at the beatific vision. SIX DAYS STRUGGLE WITH A BOIL. I awoke on Monday morning with a painful itching, stinging feeling, all in a spot no larger than a lozenge. Woke up Mrs. Quad, ind asked her opinion. She said it was a boil. Woke up Long Primer who shares our :ouch. After several kicks at the spot he intimated that it was a boil. Had some diffi3ulty in standing up to eat breakfast. Went down; asked everybody what was good for boils. Had seventy-four recipes, running from sticking salves to a hot iron. Only swore forty-one times during the day. Tuesday.?Didn't wake up?I was already iwake. I measured the boil and found it as large as a tea-cup, and the feeling was worse. Tt 1 a. _ ???-* ? L ? ? L.ii Ln/1 f a ki-QQ lr nff xrieu lo repeuL a njmu, uut uau iu and kick the dog four blocks to ease my mind. Children got under the table. Mrs. Quad unusually gracious, and not hinting anything about pin money. Went down town. Man said he'd pay my fare on the car. Struck at him and explained that it made my back ache to ride. Newsboys kept a whole block off. Man asked me for a dollar, and I tried to kill him on the spot, only restrained by respect for my boil. Number of swears frightfully increased. Had Job flung at me forty times. Concluded to sit up all night; but got a little 3leep while standing on my head. Put some Sax seed to the boil. Wednesday.?House got on fire at daylight. I told the folks to let her burn, but they put it out. One man wanted to know why I did not display more ambition. Tried to shoot him, but he got over the alley fence. Children were sent to the country this morning, probably for a change of air. Boil is now u large as a tea-cup and saucer both, particularly the saucer. No signs of "heading." seems as if I should go mad?I am mad. Put some more flax seed on, and tried to look sad ind pensive. Just got to looking so when I ran against a chair. Policeman pounded on the door and said he would arrest me if I didn't 8top that family fight Told him I was the only one up, about as high as I could get said he would sympathize with me, but went ->(? fn.rmt tft fTon'f Irppn r?f t.hft JII auu lUi^UU UUi VMM w MW|# v. idjectives. Have contracted for a barrel of lax seed. Thursday.?Wife left home this morning, probably for a change of air. Left a note on ;he table, telling me she was quite sure that I lad a boil. Peddler rang the door bell, and isked me if I wanted some pie-plant The coroner was lagging him away on a day the iast I saw. Friends called and wanted to see my boil. I indignantly refused to allow them to do so, and they went off offended, saying :hat I was mighty particular. Big fire round the corner. Fireman gave me a kick for a joke. I tried to fight the whole department, but came to just as they were showing me ;hrough a back window. The exercise caused the boil to enlarge. I was too exhausted to swear; merely stood myself up against the wall slanting, and reviled boils. Cat and dog disappeared ; probably for a change of air. Friday.?Am lying on the floor, too inaignant to move. The boil is there yet. I have made up mind to let it run. Servant girl reached me in some victuals through the window, and said that I seemed to be restless ibout something or other. I could only reply by a look. I have a calmness which comes from a knowledge that one is looking into his tomb. Coroner has been twice, and seemed much put out that I hadn't killed anybody jlse. Said I had gone back on him. Fellow ;arae up here and asked me why I was not playing base ball, and got offended at my silence. Said I needn't be so stuck up cause I happened to have a big boil; and went away without handing over. I am just at the point where man cares nothing for anything. The boys are shouting mad dog under the window, hoping to get me up, but I don't move. Saturday.?"Was just passing into an unconscious state, singing a hymn of resignation' when I felt?I felt?well, I yelled, I sprang an top of the table, kicked off the crockery, ;ore up a ten cent shinplaster, and tried to and some one to take my note payable on light. The boil was broken. I called the log, whistled at the cat, sent a dispatch to ;he family, raised the wages of the girl, and ;old the man who owed me borrowed money, ;hat he could pay meT any time it suited him, and I haven't got it yet. Take things easy when you have a boil. They are good for the health. Although no one blames a man with a boil 'or swearing, don't swear. They don't amount ;o anything. Any one can have a boil as veil as not. All you have got to do is to enlure. A PRINTER'S MISFORTUNE. Some years ago, when the writer was a reporter upon an Eastern paper, it devolved apon him to write for the same edition an account of the presentation of a gold-headed cane to the Rev. D. Mudge, the clergyman of ;he place, and the description of a patent hogtilling and sausage machine, that had just aeen put in operation at the factory. ]Now, what made Dr. Mudge mad was this. The nponsiderate buccaneer who made up the forms got the two locals mixed up in a frightful manner, and when we went to press, someching like this was the appalling result: "Several of the Rev. Dr. Mudge's friends called upon him yesterday, and after a brief conversation the unsuspecting'hog was seized by the hind legs and slid along a beam, until ie reached the hot water tank. His friends explained the object of their visit, and prejented him with a very handsome gold-headed butcher, who grabbed him by the tail, swung bim round, cut his throat from ear to ear, and in less than a minute the carcass was in the water. Thereupon he came forward and said there were times when the feelings overpower ..J nnn o.,rl fn* tpiot rooann ViwnillH Tint-. VAJCf ?*?*-* IVi fMMV ? tempt to do more than thank those around bim for the manner in which so huge an animal was cut into so many fragments was simply astonishing. The doctor concluded his remarks, when the machine seized him, and in less time than it takes to write it the hog was cut into fragments and worked up into ielicious sausage. The occasion will long be remembered by the doctor's friends as one of ihe most delightful of their lives. The best pieces can be obtained for fifteen cents a pound, ind we are sure that those who have sat so ong under his ministry will rejoice that he las been so handsomely treated." Mad ? Well, about nine o'clock next mornng the office had been abandoned by every nan but the advertising clerk, and he ascenled to the roof and robed himself in boiler ron, so that he could watch the venerable dergyman tearing round down there in the itreet with his congregation, all wearing the )anoply of war, and carrying butcher knives md things. The next day we explained and ipologized, but the doctor stopped his subicription and began to take'the rival paper."? Exchange. Live for Others.?What is the use of iving, unless you can better some soul and jriug it nearrer to God ? What gain like ;o this can the days give one? To cheer the lespondent; to lessen the grief of those who nourn ; to draw by the irresistible attraction )f sympathy and personal goodness the erring ,o your side; to impress the fretful with the lobility of patience, checking their noisy loraplaints by the gravity of your silence; to ighten the burden of poverty pressing on so nany backs; to supply the young with a vortny ambition?that is to live. Woe to luch as die unregretted; whose departure jrings no moisture to the eye! Woe to the ioh man whom the poor of his neighborhood do not raiss at deatn; wnom toe wiuow and fatherless do not mourn as a departed friend ; whose departure is advertised, not in the obituary of the press, but in the sudden absence of little luxuries from the bedside of the sick, and needed comforts from the homes of the poor! THE FIRST PHOTOGRAPHER. It has been generally taken for granted that the discovery of photography dates back only to the year 1830, when Daguerre in France, and Talbot in England, published the results of their investigation. It appears probable, however, that the art was discovered and practically applied by Matthew Boulton, partner of the celebrated James Watt, as long ago as the close of the last century, and was then allowed to fall into neglect, and to be forgotten. Boulton belonged to a secret scientific society, which was accustomed to meet at his house. He died in 1809; and on the subsequent examination and removal of the vast collection of documents stored in his library, there were found a number of crumpled and folded sheets of paper, with pictures on them of the moet puzzling kind. On smoothing out these pictures thev were found to consist of copies, on large sheets of very coarse paper, of certain well-known designs by Kaufman?the porous water-marked paper being thickly coated with some varnish-like oiikntnn/in nn flio olirflll<A ftf which tVlft Tlifiturfl OUUOMtllW) VU WUW WU*?ww va ?. bad been produced. All the sheets found in the library, as well as others afterward discovered, presented the same characteristics? a glossy surface, with minute varnish-like cracks, the drawings of the figures most elaborately finished, the lights and shades so fully rendered as to give much the effect of a mezzotint, and an invariable reversal of the position of the figures. Further research also led to the discovery of two silver-metal plates, about the size of a sheet of note paper, precisely resembling in appearance those used by Daguerre in the early days of photography. On each of these plates was a faint image of Boulton's house, so unmistakably taken from nature, and so evidently produced by the aid of light, that experts at once pronounced them to be photographic pictures, taken directly by means of a camera. Attached to these plates was a memorandum stating that they were "sun pictures," representing the house prior to certain alterations made in 1791. All these facts lead to the inevitable conclusion that the discoveries of Daguerre were anticipated by Boulton. Watt, it is well known, was the true father of the steam-engine, which in his hands first became a machine of real, practical value; and it is a curious fact that a discovery of almost equal importance, in a wholly different field of scientific research, should have been made by the man associated with him as a partner in business. The Old-Fashoned Mother.?Thank God! some of us have an old-fashioned mother. Not a woman. of the period, enameled and painted, with her great chignon, her curls and bustle, whose white jeweled hands have never felt the clasp of baby fingers; but dear, old-fashioned, sweet-voiced mother, with eyes in whose clear depths the love-light shone, and brown hair, threaded with silver, lving smooth upon her faded cheek. Those dear hands worn with toil, gently guided our tottering steps in childhood, and smoothed our pillow in sickness, even reaching out to us in Seaming tenderness when her sweet spirit was aptizea in the pearly spirit of the river. Blessed is the memory of an old-fashioned mother. It flows to us now, like the beautiful perfume of some woodland blossom. The music of other voices may be lost, but the entrancing memory of hers will echo in our souls forever. Other faces will fade away and be forgotten, but hers will shine on until the light from heaven's portals shall glorify our own. When in the fitful pauses of busy life our feet wander back to the old homestead, and crossing the well-worn threshold, stand once more in the low, quaint room so hallowed by her presence, now the feeling of childish innocence and dependence comes over us and, we kneel down in the molten sunshine, streaming through the Western window?just where long years ago we knelt by our mother's knee lisping "Our Father." How many times when the tempter lured us on, has the memory of those sacred hours, that mother's words, her faith and prayers, saved us from plunging into the abyss of sin I Years have filled great drifts between her and us, but they have not hidden from our sight the glory of her pure, unselfish love. Who Smokes.?A curious investigator has gathered a great number of facts relative to smokers. Ben Johnson loved the "durne weed," and describes its every effect with the gusto of a connoisseur. Hobbes smoked pipes innumerable after his daily dinner. Milton never went to bed without his pipe and a glass of water. Sir Isaac Newton was smoking in his erarden. at Woolsthrope, when the apple fell. Addison had a pipe in his mouth at all hours, at Button's. Fielding both smoked and was rumiaant. Shelley never smoked, nor Wordsworth, nor Keats. Coleridge, when cured of opium, took to snuff. Campbell loved a pipe. Sir Walter Scott smoked in his carriage, and regularly after dinner, loving both pipes and cigars. Byron wrote about sublime tobacco, but was not an excessive smoker. Goethe did not smoke, nor did Shakspeare. Carlyle, now past seventy, has been a steady smoker for years. Alfred Tennyson is a persistent smoker of some forty years. Dickens, Jerrold and Thackeray all puffed. Lord Lytton loves a long pipe at night and cigars by day. Lord Houghton smoked moderately. The late J. M. Kemble, author of "The Seasons in England," was a tremendous smoker. Moore cared not for it; indeed, Irish gentlemen smoke less than English. Wellington shunned it; so did Peel. Disraeli loved the long pipe in his youth, but in his middle age pronounced it the tomb of love. Washington Irving was in no wise addicted, nor is William Cuilen Bryant. Both Willis and Morris abstained from smoking. Bayard Taylor and Stoddard enjoy the cigar. Why Jefferson Died Poor.?-It is related of Jefferson that he might have been a rich and not a poor man, as he was, but for the multitude of admiring visitors who thronged Monticello from year's end to year's ena, and literally ate him out of house and home. As many as fifty strangers sometimes swarmed in upon him in a single afternoon. They came on horseback and in carriages, and dozens of them staved all nieht. and manv of - ? - ? y ? Q f them stayed for days and even weeks. No other man of whom we have any record was ever so overrun by visitors for so long a period. They came from all lands and belonged to almost every rank in life. It was not possible to turn them away. Jefferson bad to stand the punishment, and he stood it bravely and with at least outward serenity of spirit, although his inward struggles were terrible. He finally sold his library, perhaps the best then in America, and the choicest possessions he had on earth. He also sold some of his land. A few friends, and even the Legislatures of a few States, tried to help him. But these efforts were of no avail. His affairs grew worse and worse. He finally petitioned the Legislature of Virginia for permission to dispose of his estate by lottery; but before the act was passed he died, and his estate was sold at auction by his creditors, and his heirs were turned from their ancestral door forever. The census statistics of Massachusetts show there are over fifty thousand more females than males in that State. j