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wis >i. grist, proprietor. | Inbepottoitt Jfatttilg ^ebspaper: Jor % ^ronurtioit of f{[? |joIilitaI, Sochi, ^gricnltaral anb (fattncrcial Interests of t(je Sont|. {terms?$3.00 A YEAR, IS ADVANCE. VOL. 18. YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1870. JSTO. 9. m ?tiginal frtec ,f t#tg. Written for the Yorkvillo Enquirer. THE OAKHURST ROMANCE. BY MRS. HENRY DEAS. CHAPTER XIII. The peaceful household at Mansfield Park was suddenly invaded by aruthlessfoe, which had already visited, with fatal effect, several neighboring places in the county?scarlet fever. Cecil was its prey, and soon the dread form of death appeared to hover mistily in the distance, awaiting to claim its victim. For many days the boy lay unconscious, sometimes raving in delirium, sometimes sinking into a death-like stupor, from which oftentimes those watching around hira feared he would never awake. Mrs. Mansfield hung over hira in agony too deep for tears, and Richard was his patient, faithful and most loving nurse. The skill of the physician and the tender nnrl nnrpmittinc care of their assistants, were ? O at length permitted to baffle the disease, and the household idol, so nearly torn from their grasp, was brought back, very slowly and gradually, from the very brink of the cold river, to be cherished more closely than ever in their grateful hearts. But on the very day in which the physicians pronounced him so far convalescent as to remove all apprehensions for his safety, Richard sank beneath the disease. Long watching and fatigue had so exhausted his energies that his constitution appeared to have lost all power to resist the inroads of the fever, which this season was unusually violent in its form. "I fear, madam, the enemy we have just routed in one quarter will give us hard battle in another," said Dr. Lennox, very seriously. He had conceived a great liking for Richard, who had won his special regard by the skill and fidelity with which he had nursed little Cecil. "Oh! doctor, is he so dangerously ill?" asked Mrs. Mansfield anxiously. "I fear he is, madam ; but we must do our best. I advise you not to speak of this to our little boy just now; he appears to be very much attached to his tutor, and anything of an agitating sort must be avoided, as it would prove injurious to him in his present weak state. You must continue with Cecil as usual, and if he asks any questions about Mr. Powell tell him he is a little worn out and I have prescribed rest. I will provide the best of nursing for our young friend, so you need give yourself no trouble on that score." "You are very kind, doctor. I am thankful he is in such good hands. I trust and pray your efforts to bring him through may be crowned with success. I cannot tell you how he has endeared himself to us!" said the old lady with tearful eyes. "I will do ray very best," said the doctor ; and nothing could exceed the kindness and solicitude which characterized his attendance on his new patient. Richard was very, very ill; there was no doubt of that; fully as ill as Cecil had been, though the disease took outwardly a less violent form. He did not rave as the boy had done, but lay for the most part very quiet, save for the low broken words in which, from time to time, when most under the influence of the fever, he murmured fragments of sentences that showed his mind was busy with memories of past days and scenes far away. The familiar names of his former friends were most often on his lips, and the name of Ethel especially so frequently recurred in these wanderings that the doctor one day said to the attendant nurse, "I fancy, Mrs. Long, that our patient is or has been in love. Do you observe how constantly he repeats that name ?" "Dear heart! yes, sir," said Mrs. Long. "It's in his mouth night and day, until I feel so sorry to listen to it, for it seems to me he must be pining to see her, whoever she is. And he's the easiest patient I ever had, so quiet and gentle like. He's all the way from Ameriky, ain't he doctor ?" " Yes, all the way from America. He came here quite a stranger, I believe." "So I heard. Poor young gentleman ! he must feel awful lonsesome sometimes, I should say. No wonder that his mind should be always wandering offto his home, now he's light headed." And Richard, in his own fancy, was Richard no longer, a stranger in a strange land ; but Brooke Evershara, walking under the green oaks of his Virginia home, or within its stately walls; or else in that other home not less familiar and less dear, where lived still, as he thought, the kind friend and guardian of his boyhood and his youth. Of him he spoke, and of Arly; but Ethel, Ethel, was oftenest the yearning cry of his heart. "I fear me, doctor, he'll not be much longer in our hands," said Mrs. Long, wiping her eyes, as the doctor stood beside her, looking anxiously down on his patient, on the ninth day of his illness. "We shall soon be able to tell," was the renlv. "If he holds out through the night, I 1 V -- w W shall have hope." Many a time through that long night did Mrs. Long put her ear to Richard's lips to see if he really breathed ; more than once she laid her hand on his heart and could not be ~r sure that she felt it faintly fluttering. He talked no longer now; his mind seemed to have ceased working, and he lay in an utter unbroken calm, a complete lethargy of all his faculties. The doctor came at daylight in the morning, half expecting to find that there was no longer occasion for his visits; but as he bent over Richard and felt his pulse, and laid his hand softly on his forehead, his countenance brightened. "Mrs. Long, this is a more healthy and natural sleep than he has had yet," he said in a whisper, as he turned to the nurse. "With God's help I believe we shall bring him through. "Do you think so, sir?" said the uurse, doubtfully. "I do. I shall remain here now until he wakes; I am almost sure we shall find his mind composed and clear when he does." The skillful physician was right. The crisis of the disease was past, and when nearly an hour later, Richard slowly opened his eyes, they rested on the faces bending over him, with an enquiring, but not an unreasoning gaze. "Ah ! doctor," he said faintly. "I have been sick, have I not?" "Slightly so," the doctor answered. "Come, you are to be very quiet now, if you please. You are much better, but not Btrong enough to talk yet." And Richard, whose strength was then just about equal to a week old baby's, submitted unquestioningly to the mandate, and closed his eyes again without a word. It was while he was lying thus, tranquil } and motionless, looking, with his blonde complexion and delicate features, made more delicate and refined by illness, and the wistful, languid expression of brow and lips, more like a woman than a man, that Mrs. Mansfield came to the door to inquire about him. She had been pretty much banished from the room by the doctor, who told her that her place was with Cecil, and that one patient at a time was as many as she could attend to; and had only seen Richard in the height of fever before. "Come in. madam," said the doctor in a cheerful whisper, so as not to disturb the patient, who appeared inclined to sleep again. "Our young friend is better, this morning, I am happy to say." "Is he, truly ? I am most thankful," and the old lady approached the bedside with the stealthiest of treads. She looked earnestly at Richard for a moment, then with eyes full of tears she turned suddenly away and left the room. The doctor followed her in some alarm, and found her quietly crying on a sofa in the entry. "My dear madam, what distresses you ?" he .asked. "I assure you that I do not consider that there is any farther cause for apprehension." "No doctor, it is not that?but?Oh 1 have you never observed what a likeness there is between him and my dear sister Marian, whom you must remember ? It struck me more forcibly just now than ever." "Yes, I have observed it frequently," said the doctor. "It is singular how these resemblances occur sometimes." "I drew my heart to him from the first. He looks at this moment precisely as Marian did in her last moments. Oh! dear, sometimes I think?I don't know what 1 It would be an impossibility, of course; and yet?" "Think what, my dear Mrs. Mansfield?" asked the doctor, looking at her in surprise, for she appeared more excited and moved than seemed to him justifiable by so slight a cause. "Nothing?never mind, doctor; I am very foolish to have had such an idea," said the old lady, composing herself: nor would she tell him what the idea was, though he tried to draw from her an explanation of her words. She repeated that she was very foolish, and that old people would get unreasonable fancies sometimes; and then she trotted off to Cecil, leaving her old friend looking after her with a comical air of perplexity and concern. But the idea that had occurred to the old lady's mind, and which had come to it in a vague indefinite form, almost since Bhe had first seen Richard, gradually increasing in strength and clearness from time to time, now haunted her with a persistency that would not let her shake it off, try as she might. Every time she law him it gained fresh force; and indeed, since his illness, his resemblance to the portrait down stairs had so startlingly increased, that it was no wonder that the doubts and conjectures it had given rise to should agitate Mrs. Mansfield's mind to a degree that became at last positively painful. She kept silence on the matter until Richard was so far recovered as to be able to discuss any subject without fear of becoming excited. Then she made up her mind to have a good long talk with him. "Richard, my dear," she said to him one day (she had got into a way of calling him 'my dear' since his illness.) "I want to ask you a question which may seem very strange, but you must not think it impertinent" "Impertinent, in you, dear Mrs. Mansfield," Richard answered, smiling. "Well, then, would you mind telling me something about your family ? Don't think," she added, coloring, "that I ask you this from mere idle curiosity ; I have a reason, a very important reason, for desiring to obtain some information concerning this subject." Richard bent his head, and a painful flush suffused his face. At last he replied, not I without difficulty, "Your question necessitates a confession on my part, which perhaps I have been wrong in withholding from you all this time. I hope you will forgive me, when I tell you that I have been playiDg the part of an impostor, since I first came under your roof, and for some months previous to that time." "An impostor!" echoed his listener. "Yes," said Richard, his blue eyes now meeting hers with a frankness that did not seem characteristic of one who could willingly practice a deception. "I have played off a shameful imposition upon you, and one which merits your extreme displeasure and condemnation?and yet from the experience I have had of your kindness of heart, I cannot but think that you will, forgive me when you hear the story of my misfortunes. Mrs. Mansfield, I have been living in your family under a name which is not my own." "A name which is not your own, Richard!" "Yes. To neither my Christian nor my 1 surname have I the smallest title. It is merej ly a fabrication of my own." "And your real name," faltered Mrs. MansI field. j "I have not the slightest idea. I have ! never heard it." i The old lady looked astounded, but there was not the smallest trace of displeasure mingling with her surprise. "Will you tell me all about it?" she asked, with eager anxiety depicted on her face. And then Richard, in brief but moving words, told her his strange sad story. His * * ? *-i ? j listener drank in ms account witn oreamiess j interest, and when he paused exclaimed eagerly, ! "The year, Richard, the year! what year ; did you say it was ?" j "Judging from my present age, it must ! have been the year 18?, just twenty-seveu ! years ago." 1 "Yes, yes, so it was?that was the very | year! Richard, will you ring that bell?or ! no, pray do me the kindness to go yourself I and send one of the servants immediately off | for Dr. Crosbie? Ask him to come to me at i once?at once, mind!?on business of great j importance. Oh! my heart, how it does beat." "I hope you are not ill," said Richard anxiously. "No, ray dear, no ! but I am anxious, very anxious?pray don't delay sending." And Richard hastened off, full of wonderment, to obey her commands. Meanwhile the usually placid mistress of Mansfield Park was suffering from a very singular attack of nervous and feverish excitement and impatience. The moments in her fancy appeared ages until the arrival of Dr. Crosbie, who presently made his appearance ! on his sober-looking brown mare, who had brought him at a reasonable pace, he having learned from the messenger that there was no illness at the Park. * "Well, my dear madam, what's to do now ?" he exclaimed as be entered the drawing-room. "Doctor, pray come with me into the libra* ? ? * ''11 i- i-i ry, wnere we snail oe less name to luierruption than in here. I have to consult you on a subject of the greatest importance." And she led the way into the designated apartment, where for an hour and more they were mysteriously closeted together. At the end of that time the library bell summoned a servant, who transmitted to Richard a message requesting his presence. According he proceeded thither, and found Mrs. Mansfield leaning back in her arm chair looking flushed and tearful, and the doctor sitting near her with his arms folded, eyeing her in a professional way. "Here you are, young man," he said nodding to Richard. "Take a seat. This excellent lady here desires you to hear the relation of a narrative which, it seems, may possibly concern you, and has chosent me to be the narrator. Whether I shall accomplish my task intelligibly or not remains to be proved." Richard took a seat near him, and the doctor, without farther preface, commenced. "It is just twenty-seven years ago this summer since Mrs. Mansfield's sister, Mrs. Albert Beaumont (Marian Harcoiirt that was) went to America with her husband, who was desirous of establishing a mercantile firm in one of the Southern States. The young couple had been married eighteen months, and carried with them an infant, a boy, who at the time of their leaving home was scarce six weeks old. Beaumont was one of the younger sons of a large family, and though talented and well-born, was of a roving, unsettled disposition, which inspired him with the idea of trying his fortune in the New World. Marian was a sensitive, delicate creature, averse to the idea of leaving home, but her husband's will was her law, and she made no resistance to it. His father, old Mr. Beaumont, a wellto-do lawyer, had established them in a comfortable house in London, but nothing would suit my gentleman but to break up the establishment and set off for a new country, everything at home being too slow and impromising to suit his fancy. "They reached New York in safety, after a fair passage, and here Beaumont left his wife and child, and went on South. He proceeded to New Orleans, and wrote Marian a promising account of the place, and expressed a strong idea of making it his abode; but a fortnight after his arrival, she received information announcing that he was dangerously ill with yellow fever, and summoning her presence without delay. "The distress and terror of the poor young wife at this intelligence may be imagined.i The fever had just broken out in New Orleans, and her husband was one of the first cases, as it had not yet become epidemic. She had no j fears for her own safety, but she would not venture to take her infant with her, not know-1 ing that so young an infant would not be j liable to the infection; and she decided, with many doubts and fears, and much heart-rending anxiety, to leave it under the care of its nurse in New York, which she accordingly did, setting out for New Orleans the day subse quent to that on which the information had been received. "On her arrival in that city she found that j the news of her husband's illness had been exaggerated, and that it was by no means so i serious as she had been led to suppose; it was not very long before he was sufficiently recovered to be removed to some other city, I for- j get which ?" "Mobile, Alabama," interrupted Mrs. Mansfield. "True. He decided to go to Alabama, as the taste he had of New Orleans climate did not precisely suit him. His wife, strange to say, did not take the fever, and on their arrival in Mobile, she wrote immediately to the nurse, in whose care her infant had been left, to bring it at once to Mobile. In addition to a considerable sum of money which she had left in the woman's hands to be employed for the use of the child, she enclosed by her husband's direction, a check for a still greater amount, to defray the expenses of the journey. "Some time passed, and the woman did not arrive, nor could she gain any information of her whereabouts. She wrote to the persons with whom 6he had stayed in New York, and learned from them that the woman, whose name I think was Howland, or something similar, had left there with the child on the appointed day, but that they had heard nothing of her since. Every available means was employed to gain information, but in vain, and from that time the mother never saw or heard of her child more, until after it was too late for her to reclaim it. "Months passed away; Beaumont established himself in business, and began to do well, but his wife drooped and drooped, and it was evident that the shock she had received had undermined her health, and that it was gradually, though surely, failing. Being absent, too, from home and spending all her husband's business hours in solitude, she had nothing to divert her from the contemplation of her grief, and it preyed continually and fatally upon her mind. "At last there came an elucidation of the mystery, but it was one which only plunged Mrs. Beaumont into deeper grief, as it effectually destroyed all hope she might ever have cherished of recovering her lost child. "One day a Roman Catholic priest came to the house where she boarded, and begged to see her. When she went down stairs, which she did in some surprise at the summons, she found that he had come freighted with a most important communication. He told her that he had lately received the confession ofa dying woman, who had requested him to impart what she had revealed to him without delay to Mrs. Beaumont. This woman was none other than the nurse in whose care the lost infant had been left, and who had now brought to light the infamous transaction by which the disappearance of the unfortnnate little creature had been effected, and her own share in the crime. "Her story was on this wise. She had left New York with the child, at the summons of its parents, intending to go directly on; but, on the way,she fell in with a man by the name of Flanigan, a good-looking Irishman, of the same creed as herself, who managed to win her heart by his attention and flattery. He soon got from her all the particulars of her journey, whither she was going, her reason for going, &c., and among other scraps of information she imparted to him that she was entrusted with a sum of money, which rendered I her timid and apprehensive, as she was unac customed to traveling alone. It was probably hearing of this money that first put it into his head to arrange the plot of which he made her the accomplice. This was, that they should.go somewhat out of their route in orj der to avoid suspicion, leave the child she was carrying at some foundling institution, to get rid of the trouble of it, and then get married and go off somewhere?westward I think?together. The woman appeared to have been at first horrified at hie proposition to abandon the infant, hot somehow he had infatuated ! her by his flatteries and his specious address, | and finally induced her to consent They stopped at a village in Virginia, called Oakhurst?" j "Oakhurst!" cried Richard. "My Oak1 .1 on nurst v "Be patient, if you please, young man! They stopped, as I was saying, at this Oakhurst, a small village in- county, Virginia, situated, I think, on a branch of the river.". "The very same," said Richard, who was now trembling with excitement. "Good. Well, this examplary pair, on their arrival in the said village, finding that there was nothing in the shape of a foundling hospital, or any public institution of the sort, where they could deposit their burden, left it at the house of a lady there and decamped in the night for parts unknown." "And the lady's name"?faltered Richard, ! who was turning alternately from pale to red, as with parted lips he leaned forward, eagerly drinking in every syllable that was uttered by the narrator. "My dear sir, I am coming to that by-andby, if?" "Oh! doctor," interrupted Mrs. Mansfield, who had scarcely managed to restrain her im patience so far, "how can you torment him so?and me?" "My dear, good madam," said the doctor, "am I not correct in stating that you particularly requested me to tell the story to our young friend here, on the plea that you did not feel yourself competent to give a sufficiently clear and succinct account of the evedts recorded therein ? Now it seems to me that it is a narrator's privilege to employ what language seems to him best, and in this case you most unjustifiably?" "Oh 1 go on, go on 1" said Mrs. Mansfield, sinking back in her chair, overpowered. "Anything is better than to stop so long to talk about it." "Very well, madam. I shall take great pleasure in proceeding. The accomplices were duly united to each other in wedlock, but no.sooner had Flanigan obtained possession of the money he coveted, than he quietly deserted his wife and was never heard of j more. ' 1 A 1 ll _ 1 | "The woman was now seized wim cne Keeu. est remorse for what she had done, and as soon | as she could raise the means sufficient for the [journey, retraced her steps to Oakhuret, resolved to use her utmost endeavors to recover the child she had so cruelly abandoned, and restore it to its parents. When she arrived there she found that the child was dead, or supposed to be dead. The lady with whom it had been left?Mrs. Parker was the name? had got it placed in charge of a woman living some miles off in the country, a child's nurse by the name of?I really forget now what." "Sarah Neale!" interrupted Richard, whose excitement was now. so intense that it was almost beyond control. "Neale was the name, I am pretty sure. Well, Mrs. Flanigan learned that this woman had taken good care of the child, but that a few days after it was Bent to her it died suddenly in convulsions. All these particulars she gathered in an indirect manner, from persons residing at Oakhurst. without revealing her object in asking, or the interest she felt in the matter. Being conscience-stricken and full of penitence for what she had done, and anxious to make a full confession of her guilt to the parents whose trust she had so basely betrayed, the woman now went to Mobile to seek them, but immediately on her arrival there, fell ill with small-pox, of which she afterward died. In her last moments she sent for the priest, who related her story to Mrs. Beaumont, requesting him to see the latter for her, and implore her forgiveness for the wrong she had done her. "And now," continued the doctor, rising abruptly from his seat, and laying his hand ou Richard's shoulder, "it seems to me, young man, that any child who can put two and two together, or, in other words, can compare your story and my story, can see that the two stories combined form as nice a chain of circumstantial evidence as could be desired in any court of law or justice in the United Kingdom, or in the United States of North America, if that pleases you any better. Go to your aunt, Albert Beaumont, and receive her blessing!" and with these words, Dr. Crosbie dashed out ~ aw/1 rrrn o Q^Arlltr o Pfariro rrl /l Ja_ | Ui Li 1IC l UUlliy auu uuo ouvt mjt mvwinntu viiu covered by Cecil, to the latter's great amazement, assiduously wiping his eyes with a red silk pocket-handkerchief, at one of the hall windows. In a moment Richard?or rather Albert Beaumont?was in Mrs. Mansfield's arms, while the old lady, in broken, joyful words, sobbed out her gratitude at his restoration to his family. j "My dear boy?my own dear Marian's j child! Something drew me to you from the : first. When I saw how like you were to your i precious mother's picture, I felt a conviction j that there must be a tie between us, but I did not guess how near. I can hardly feel that you are only ray nephew?I must look upon you henceforth as my own dear son." [conclusion next week.] . ? t8F The ways of Providence are inscrutable in selectiug its instruments of reform. If we are to credit the New York journals, the man whose ability and vigor secured the disruption of the corrupt Tammany ring, left England in consequence of unpopularity, superinduced by a pleasant habit of beating his wife. Thus one people's poison is another people's meat. So we go. ftUscfUattrous flcaflttti). NEW SCRAPS ABOUT PATRICK HENRY. Rev. Edward Fontaine, of Louisiana, recently read a highly interesting paper before the Long Island Historical Society on Patrick Henry, the great Virginia orator of the Revolution. Mr. Fontaine is a descendant of the distinguished man of whom he spoke, the facts being compiled from unpublished family documents, and correct many errors to be found in the biographies which have already appeared. Kev. Mr. Fontaine said that ever since he was seventeen years of age, he had kept a i . .M i_:_ _x I journal, and all cne anecaoies 101a mm 01 Patrick Henry by the eldest of his grandsons and three of his daughters, had been carefully written down. From that source he should draw the material for his lecture, and at the same time endeavor to correct many mistakes in what had been said of him. The biography written of him by William Worth, in 1857, had passed through fifteen editions, but it abounded in mistakes, and some of them he hoped to be able to correct. THE FATHER OF PATRICK HENRY was Colonel John Henry, of Aberdeen, in Scotland, who came to this country,in the year 1630, and settled in Virginia. He become a justice of the peace, a magistrate, and was also a colonel in the colonial forces. He married a Mrs. Sim, the widow of Colonel Sim, of Winchester. She was formerly Miss Winston, and descended from the celebrated Welsh family of that name. Patrick Henry inherited the prudence of his Scotch father, and the fire of bis Welsh mother, and they combined to make him an orator who spoke as Homer wrote. Although Patrick Henry filled almost every position of honor and trust which it was in the power of his fellow-citizens in Virginia to bestow upon him. HE WAS A POOR MAN when elected Governor for the fourth time. He declined the honor on account of his poverty. The times, however, have changed in that respect, for now men take their seats without being worth a cent, and retire from office worth millions of dollars. But the idea never seemed to occur to him, while the sword and the purse of Virginia were at his disposal, that he could amass wealth by a judicious use of his patronage. Although he never attended college he received an excellent classical education from his uncle, and was also taught those principles which made Virginia so great a State. He was taught "to be true and just in all my dealings, to bear no malice or hatred in my 1 jart, to keep my hands from picking and stealing, and to do my duty in that state of life which it shall please Goa to call me." An error had been committed in regard to the statement put forth of the apparent want of preparation of his speeches, and from what Mr. Worth had said it might be supposed that there was nothing of the "smell of the lamp" about them. He was, however, another illustration of the saying that "a poet is born, but an orator is made." He had poetical abilities of a very high order, but his speeches were all carefully prepared. HI9 PERSONAL APPEARANCE was exceedingly striking; he was six feet in heierht. had dark curly hair, and a very commanding countenance. But bis most remarkable feature was his eyes, which were deeply set, and of a hazel hue; his organ of speech was perfect, and its tones were like that of some grand wind instrument, and always under perfect control. He had a poetic temperament, and although born a poet he made himself a great orator, and in in his speech on free trade he said, "Fetter not commerce. Let her be free as air, and she will return upon the four winds of Heaven, to bless the land with plenty," Those were words which could not have been uttered by any man unless he had been A POET. In preparing for his work he spent one hour every day in prayer, a practice which is now very seldom observed, except by ministers of the gospel and old-fashoned men and women. In 1789 he retired from public life very poor, and the next nine years he spent in securing a competency for his family. During that period he laid up an ample fortune for each one of his thirteen children, and then, in 1796, finding that his family was in easy circumstances, he retired from the practice of his professon, but with a constitution badly shattered by a complication of diseases, not one, however, of which .had been brought on by vice or excess of any kind. Mr. Worth had asserted that although he was a sincere Christian, it was after a form of his own, but it was a mistake to say that he was never attached to any religious society, for he lived and died and was at all times an exemplary member of the Presbyterian Church. The characteristics of Patrick Henry as an orator, a patriot, Christian and a statesman were 1 * i?iU \r? ID6U b|JUikCli Ui Si gicab iUiigiUj auu bucu iu&? Fontaine said his last speech was made in April, 1799, only three months before his death. He was then a candidate for legislative honors, having been induced to return to political life in order that he might use his influence to prevent the secession of Virginia, which she had reserved the right to do, during that year. HIS PROPHETIC UTTERANCES in regard to the dangers which were likely to beset the country when the Federal Government should have unlimited power to levy taxes in the different States were then spoken of, and the corruption which would follow the appointment of an array of tax-gathers, collectors and inspectors, was set in forth {Patrick Henry's speeches, and also in his private conversations, during which he said that when such things happened, then the country would fall under the heel of a usurper, and the Republic would be no more. When he made his last speech, John Randolph appeared at the same place, Charlotte County Court House, in the heart of Virginia, and made his first political speech, and on that occasion Patrick Henry recognized the young man's talents, and exhorted his fellow-citizens to cherish him as one who would do them good service. The passage which has so often been quoted, "Is peace so sweet, or life so dear, as to be purchased as the price of chains and slavery ? God fordid it. I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death," had already exerted a vast I'nflnnnno <->n finf-p nf mankind, and it was still ringing through the world, and wielding a power which nothing could withstand. In conclusion, Mr. Fortaine said that Patrick Henry was a greater orator than any other, either in ancient or modern times. Neither Demosthenes, Cicero, or the elder Pitt, through their eloquence could accomplish the objects for which it was exerted, while Patrick Henry always did. [Loud applause.] On motion, a vote of thanks was tendered to Mr. Fontaine, and before the audience dispersed the lecturer exhibited the last letter that had been written by Patrick Henry. A Very Safe Safe.?There is an account in a San Francisco paper of a safe which an ingenious mechanic constructed and declared to be absolutely burglar proof. To convince the incredulous of this fact, he placed a one ! thousand dollar bill in his pocket, had himself locked into the safe, with an ample supply of provisions, declaring he would give the money to the man who unfastened the door. All the blacksmiths, and burglars, and carpenters in the State have been busy for a week boring and blasting, and beating at the safe, and the j man is there yet. He has whispered through I the keyhole that he will make the reward 810,I 000 if somebody will only let him out. Fears are entertained that the whole concern will have to be melted down in a blast furnace before he is released, and it is proposed, to pass in through the keyhole a fire-proof jacket to protect the inventor while the iron is melting. POPULAR *PHRASES. The trite old saying, "Every dog has his j " anfclv annlies tn oar subiect of DODular phrases. faiey spring op suddenly, play their part, achieve a ceiitain degree of popularity, and then are lost sight of. No one knows where they come from, or where they go, or how they go. Their existence is generally short, springing up with some particular event or circumstance, and when it is forgotten the 1 term which expressed its signification drops out ofuBe. The success or popularity which accompanied them is only temporary and of short duration. The most active agents in circulating and diffusing these phrases and words are the wild boys of the streets, commonly called the "street Arabs," and the minstrels. Both act in their respective spheres, but in an entirely different way. The former circulate them among themselves, and thev gradually extend to other classes, while the latter by means of a song or a ioke, address them to hundreds of persons at the same time, and by their sue* cessive repetition cause them to "take." Stump-speakers also play a prominent part in the diffusion of these phrases. There are nu merous other ways by which they are circulated and rendered popular, but those just mentioned are the most prominent. mnnt: nnnnlar nhrft?#> at thenresent time is "What are you going to do about it?" Almost every person is familiar with its origin and the various ways in which it has been used. It sprung into existance during an interview between "Boss" Tweed and a reporter, j at the commencement of the Reform movement, and appearing at an auspicious moment, it was taken up by the press and spread throughout the country, and is in daily use everywhere. The year 1870 was very prolific in these, and the ones which made their appearance during that year became very popular, but are now becoming worn out. Among the most popular were "You know how it is yourself," "How does the old thing work ?" "Put a head on him," and "How is that for high ?" The first two are supposed to have originated with W. M. Tweed, and were used by him, at least, five years previous, although they were not appreciated until lately. The phrase, "How does the old thing work ?" is a contraction of "How does the whole thing work?" which was a favorite and frequent question or expression with the "Boss" when addressing his "workers concerning the political condition of the districts which they controlled. , At the commencement of the late war the phrase "can't see it" and "can't see the point" were all the rage. When the news of the at, tack of Fort Sumter was received in the city scarcely any one would believe the news con, tained in the extras, and would say "they couldn't see it," meaning that they could not believe it. It was followed by "I can't stand " "-*1- 1tA?TfAtTA? UA/IAIMA A a LLItJ prcaBj WI1LUU UIU UUI> liuncvct utuuuivi 1U popular as its predecessors. About four years ago it was the custom among gamins to address a person who was passing by shouting out, "Say,"and as the ! person addressed would turn around to see who was calling him, they would add, "can t you see ?" in the tune of the "Star-Spangled Banner" of which these words were the first line. Many amusiDg incidents occurred in this way, but its popularity ran the usual course and then died out, being scarcely ever heard now. "Hunky Dory" has always proved a favorite expression, and seems to be an Americanism. Its derivation is rather obscure and very little known. The following, I think, is the true one: Hunk was the term used by boys a century ago in their play for a goal, and is still in use to this day, particularly in the game "tag." To be "hunk" or "all hunk," was, therefore, to have reached the goal without being interrupted by the opposite side. The word finally became corrupted to hunky, which means in popular phraseology, "all right." The "dory" attached was subsequently added, and is probably a modification of the French word doree, meaning gold. "Sound on the goose" is a phrase of similar import, which is verv popular in the South, meaning to be orthodox on the slave question. Another is "up to snuff," an old English phrase, which means knowing, sharp, wide awake. There is also 0. K., an abbreviation for all correct,improperly spelled Oil Korrekt, whose origin is somewhat similar to that of U. S. A Government official, who was very illiterate, was accustomed to sign the documents which came UDder his notice with his name, and to show that they were all right, added the words "Oil Korrekt," which were in time abbreviated to 0. K. Policemen have received numerous nick1 * i i 1 J names, ana a Btreet Doy is scarcely ever neara to mention one by the above title, but calls him a "cop" or a "peeler" and shouts to his comrades when he sees one coming to "cheese it," "stew it," or "lay low." Cop means to catch, and also to beware, and by the addition of er is formed into a personality as copper, an old London term for a policeman. When Sir Robert Peel introduced the new police into England they were called "peelers," which has emigrated to this country and become engrafted on our stock. "Cheese it" is a corruption of "cease it," to leave off or to hold one's noise. A "dead beat" is a person who is completely worn out or done for, and his effects are said to be "up the spout," or "in hock," or at his "uncle's," where they have been placed in order to "raise the wind," or "whistle up the breeze." "Up the spout," originated in a pawnbroker's shop, where the spout is the ele| vator by which goods are removed from the , ground floor to the lofts. The "beat" is often heard to sigh for "old times rocks," when he was "some pumpkins" or a "big thing on it," and was able to "step up to the captain's of, flee and settle" like "any other man, and was Ada otm" , UUIICU a uuuj u\jj nnu a giooo wjv wjr vuv J "b'hoys." He ran with the "machine," too, and was always ready to go the "whole hog or i none" when "everything was lovely and the goose hangs high." But he went "to fight mit Sigel," and having "seen the elephant," he returned without any "stamps," for he lost all his "spondulicks" in "fighting the tiger," , which finally "settled his hash." Almost all the popular English phrases find their way to this country, and are received with open mouths by that class of people in! eluded under the head1 of vulgar.. The reverse, however, is not equally true, for the English do not adopt many of our popular phrases. A few have been carried there in various ways, and are "current coin;" but the great majority lose their point when they leave our shores.?N. Y. Paper. A Remedy for Croup.?We have been interested in reading the following statement > made to us by an intelligent mother. We give our readers the benefit of it, or' at least give them the opportunity to see whether it i has any benefit. i A remedy for croup was given me by a sister who heard it from Professor Bronson, a ' physiological lecturer, since deceased. "Let a healthy person fill his lungs with pure air, then slowly breathe upon the patient's throat and chest, commencing at the point of the chin, and moving slowly down to the bottom of the windpipe. Repeat for a few minutes and it will give relief in cases where all other means fail. ! My boy was always subject to croup; came near dying with the rattling,, noisy kind, at about eleven months old. i saved him with ! water and ever after prevented a serious atI tack by watchfulness and water. But when | three years old I let him play in tho brook I one warm, rainy day, and he took a severe | cold, and had a still kind of croup, the first and last time he ever had it. In spite of all I could do he grew constantly worse until he could only gasp and breathe with his head thrown back. We thought his last moments had come, when I thought of and applied Bronson's remedv for a minute. Wnen I stopped he looked up and said: "Do so again, I mother, do," though he could not speak when I T Vrtu moiT ko aaourad that. T did fin x ucgau, JL vu ui?j again, and I believe it saved bis life. A WONDERFUL MAN-GEN. MAGRUDER. The old warrior sleeps the sleep of a soldier in a rode Texas grave, over which there is no monument. The grass was growing about it in the early summer, and there were some flowers there, withered and faded, scattered by a woman's hand. A votary at the shrine of nature and finished diplomat at the Court of Venus, it was fitting that there should be largetw of green-growing grasses and love flowers if roses are the tear-drops of angels, as the beautiful Arab belief puts forth in poetry, then is this lowly mound a hallowed spot, and needs not the sculptured stone, the fretted column, the ivy and the obelisk. Magruder was a wonderful roan. He stood six feet four inches high, and had a form men envied and women adored. His nerves were all iron. Foreign travel and comprehensive culture had given to his wit a zest, that was always crisp and sparkling. He never lacerated. To the sting of a repartee he added the honey of the clover. He could fight all ' . t? .L : uay ana aance au nigni. xu tuts luurumg a glass of brandy and a strong cigar renewed is strength and caused the cup of his youth to run over with the precious wine of health and high spirits. He loved magnigfioent uniforms, magnificent horses, magnificent riders and magnificent women. Gifted and graceful in conversation, he was a pet in the boudoir, and a logician in the barracks. He had studied French in Paris, Italian in Rome, and Spanish in the Halls of the Montezumas. The sabre exercise be learned from a Turk. His horsemanship was of the English kind?that is to say, not graceful, but impossible to be surpassed for firm riding and endurance. He wrote little love songs that were set to music, one of them, 'Tmogene," had in it the plaintive melody of a lover and_the sad rhythm of burial bugles. In the Crimea he astonisnea ine xrencn officers by sleeping at the front with chasseurs under fire. In Mexico he sent back to the Archbishop a perfumed glove he had found in his place when the city was won, and with it a note which read, "It is pretty enough to have belonged to a Queen. Would she have pardoned me if I had appropriated it As the Archbishop sent him, next day, a basket of delicious wine, it is supposed that the fair owner of the glove must nave looked leniently upon the handsome American soldier. Later, and he was riding with Gen. Scott down the lone street of Iturbide. Gen. Garnett joined them, and Magruder drew back a little for his superiors to confer together. A white puff of smoke curled out from an open window, a sudden report followed speedily, and Garnett and horse fell hard and bloody. An ounce ball, intended for Scott, had broken Garnett's thigh and killed his charger. Fearing another fire, Magruder galloped to the side of his chief and covered his body with his own. The old man's eyes never dropped, nor his voice changed an intonation. "How long will it take you to batter down that house ?" he spoke curtly to Lieut. Magruder, nointincr with a sweep of his fingers to the one nearest, and from which the bullet came. "An hour, by the watch, general." "Then open fire at point blank range, and leave not one stone upon another." It was done, and well done, and those who saw Magruder soonest afterward noticed thnt he had another bar on his epaulettes?he bad been made a captain. War was his element, the bivouac his delight, and the battle his perfect happiness. Besides, prodigal, fashionable, foolishly brave sometimes, a spendthrift, generous, a true friend and staunch comrade, the surrender at Appomattox made him an aged man in his prime, wrinkled his features, which had before resisted all the attacks of time. One who wandered far and long with hint in other lands, in sweet, sunshiny weather, relates how, from Vera Cruz to Chapultepec, he went with Magruder all over the battle-fields of the Mexican war. The light came back to his eyes, and the fire to his lace, when telling of Contreras, and Churubusco, and Perote, and Molino del Key, and the Belen Gate, and Chapultepec, and the City of Mexico. His talk was never ended of Scott and Twiggs, Wood and Worth, Smith and Pillow, Taylor and Quitman, and all the young subordinates who afterward played such bloody parts in the greatest of American dramas. Of McClellan, he told this incident, among a thousand : The fire from the hill of Chapultepec was terrible. Fifty pieces of artillery were massed against ray four-gun battery at point blank range, and in the valley below, a regiment of lancers were forming for a charge. Our fire had been slackened, and the men were lying down. A young man sat beside one of the guns, amusing himself with picking up pebbles and shooting them from his hand. The lancers came nearer. I called the young officer whom I had noticed, and he sprang up, saluting. "Your name 1" Lieutenant George B. McClellan." "Very well, Lieutenant Take command of one of these guns and disperse those lancers." The gunners rushed to their pieces. All the great cannons about Chapultepec went to roaring. The battle begun anew. Worth was sweeping up the acclivity, the lancers were routed, and the next I saw of McClellan, he was smoking a cigarette in the palace of Santa Anna?his face as black as a powder keg, and an ugly wound in his arm. What a book his life would make in the hands of some men. He once intended to write a biography. Whether it was begun or not, we do not know?most certainly it was never finished. The brave, fond heart is pulseless now. The form of the stalwart soldier is dust in its faraway grave. The laurels that he gathered and wore so well are faded and gone. Back from the unknown land no voice will come to tell of what rank he takes in the spectral col* umns, closed up and silent, awaiting the resurrection day. Yet God deals gently with a soldier. When he is brave, and noble, and courteous, and merciful, he has those attributes which assimilate Heaven, and therefore is he fore-ordained to happiness after death. It may be late in coming; the bivouacs are right cold and dreary, we know, for some; but after the night the morning, and after the judgment day the New Jerusalem.?Richmond Enquirer. A Legislative Reform.?Iowa proposes that her representatives shall hereafter meet but once in four yeare, and that the session shall be limited to sixty days. The people console themselves with the knowledge that "in extraordinary emergencies the Governor has the power to call an extra session." Economically considered, the plan might generally be adopted with advantage. 19" A Kentucky girl says that when she dies she desires to have tobacco planted over her grave, that the weed nourished by her dust may be chewed by her bereaved lovers.