Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, February 01, 1872, Image 1
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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