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lewis m:. grist, proprietor. | ^ii Jnbcpcnbcnt jfamiln $f ctospapcr: ^jr tljc promotion of tjjt |jolitical, Social, Agricultural aitb Commercial JiJmsts of % Sontji. |terms?$3.00 a year, in advance. VOL. 19. YOBKVILLE, S. P., THURSDAY, APEIL 17, 1873. NO. 16. JU Original jlfartg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. f FLORIMOND; OR, Divorce or No Divorce. t?t- line nr idu WtPTVG JO I JHUOI VUkUA IIAHtUUI CHAPTER XXI. BERTA WR/TES A LETTER. The next day was cloudy and dismal. Florimond sat beside the one little narrow window, which their miserable garret room contained, trying to paint by the gloomy light. On the previous afternoon, after many disappointments, failures and harsh rebuffs, she had at last gained access to the presence of a kindhearted photographer, who had given her some photographs to color, as a test of her skill. Since daylight she had been working inces^ santly, anxious to complete her task and get farther employment. The number of uncolored faces was rapidly diminishing, under the skillful manipulations of her quick fingers, .but Floriraond was weary, and felt faint and weak. She had scarcely touched food for days, and the anxiety, fatigue, excitement and hard lessons and misfc/tunes of her recent experience, had already told fearfully on her high-sensitive, nervous organization. "Mamma," said Berta, who was standing beside her mother, looking out on the heavy sky and dirty street beneath, "how long are we going to stay in this dreadful place ?" "I do not know, my child," answered her mother wearily, sighing. "We have no other place to go. God be thanked for even this shelter." After this reply, Berta was, for a long time, grave and thoughtful, and then asked hesitatingly, looking the while steadily at her ^ mother? "Dear mamma, why does not papa come and take us away from this awful place ?" "Your papa does not know we are here, my child." "And do you know where my papa is ?" "No, I do not" "Suppose you wanted very much to write to him, mamma, where would you send the letter r "It is not very likely I should write to him underany circumstances," said Floriraond abstractedly, selecting a new picture and regarding the face attentively. "If, however, such a necessity should arise, I should send the letter to your grandfather, who lives at Madisonville since the war." "Mamma, please tell me, why does not papa come to see U3 and stay with us all the time, like other littie .girls' papas ?" "Your father and I did not agree, Berta, on some points; and the greatest difficulty of all was, he did not care for me as some other husbands do for their wives." "Oh! mamma," exclaimed Berta, domplete ly appalled. "Did not care for you ! Why how could that be, and you so good and sweet; and, Mr. Bainbridge says, the most beautiful lady in the world." "Not for him?your father." said Florimond, bitterly. ( "Oh! I am sure you must be mistaken, mamma," said Berta, pleading for the father whom she had never seen. "He must love you. If he would only come and take us away from this horrid place, back to dear Clare UIU1I V* "Ah ! Berta, I see how it is," said Floriraond ; "you are tired of your mother and our wretched poverty, and you wish to desert me. Well, go to your father. 1 would not keep you against your desire." "My dearest, dearest mamma," said the child, fondly embracing her mother passionately, "I could never leave you, even for ray dear papa?it would quite break my heart; but you look so sick, mamma, and we have nothing nice to eat, and this is such a dreadful place?and I thought if papa would come and take us back to Claremont." "Pray do not speak of happy Claremont," cried Floriraond. "I cannot bear the sound of it! It quite unnerves me," and the unhappy woman threw herself on the miserable couch in violent emotion. Berta climbed up beside her and sobbed and moaned, and lavished upon her mother the tenderest words of affection. For a long time without any avail, but when the storm of emotion had subsided, a profound calm ensued, and lulled by the child's soothing caresses and gentle words, Floriraond fell into a quiet slumber. When Berta was assured that her mother slept soundly, she moved gently away, and slidiug down from the high bed, noiselessly left the room. Descending flight after flight of dirty, rickety stairs, the child at last reached the door opening on the street. For a moment she stood motionless, looking out into the busy, strange street, with a feeling of dismay; but there was a mighty purpose working in Berta's heart, which gave her strength to attempt anything. Stepping out on the pavement she ran lightly across the street to a small stationer's shop, whose existence she had discovered from her garret window. Entering this, Berta asked ( timidly for some paper, a pen, some ink and a postage stamp. She spoke so low, she was obliged to repeat her wants to the Jew who stood behind the counter. * The man asked her how much money she had to pay for all those things, ana Jtserta tnrew a snver nan dollar on the counter. She was furnished accordingly, and ran back as fast as possible to the high room in the garret. Her mother was still asleep, as she sat down in a corner to write her letter, using an old wooden chair for a desk. She took care to place herself in a position, where her employment could not be observed from the bed. Here she wrote, and ^ re-wrote, and wrote again, and destroyed again, until, at last, she accomplished a letter to suit her. It was in a large, scrawling, beginner's hand, the letters made like printed letters; nor was the grammar and orthography unimpeachable, and yet it could be easily deciphered and the sense understood. The child wrote: Dear Papa : Your poor little girl wants to sec you very luucn. X"Jea?u WIIIC nuu uinv us an ay lrom this dreadful place. We have nothingto eat and poor mamma works so hard, and is so sick? and it makes me cry. All of mamma's money lias been stolen, and "we have no clean clothes to {nit on. Uncle Ralph wants mamma to marry jim, and I wish she would, unless you come fo't us, for then we would live again in "a big house ^ and have everything nice besides, and not have tocry so much. Mamma told uncle Ralph she could not marry him, for she was your wife, and, papa, you ought to love her and take care of her, for she is so good. We have no dinner to-dav and I am very hungry?nothing but hard bread, which chokes me. Pleaso come, papa, and tak< us away. Our name here is Mistress Ravens wood and Rerta ; but I know my truo name ii Berta Dandridge. I shall wateh for you everj day, papa, and if you do not come, send us som< money to buy something to eat. Your poor little Bkrta. Having folded the epistle to the best of hei ability, Berta inserted it in an envelop and then carried it down to Mrs. Tillsit, to address for her. With the usual curiosity of womec in her condition?and other conditions be sides?Mrs. Tillsit began to ask questions. "And who is this Judge Dandridge, Berta?' "He is my grandfather." "Yourgrandfather? Good gracious! And is he rich ?" "I?I think he is," said Berta. "Then he won't answer this letter, I guess,' said Mrs. Tillsit; "rich folks ain't got much use for poor ones, no matter now near Kin Did you ask for any money ?" "Yes," said Berta, coloring, astonished al her penetration. "Well, and in case he sends you any, did you tell him how to direct the letter, so as tc make sure you get it?" "No, I did not," said Berta. "Well," said Mrs. Tillsit, "I'll just open il and write on the back here, 'No. 379, ? street care of Mrs. Tillsit.' Now I will seal aud post it for you, and Berta, remember if h( sends you any money, tell your mother anj little which she could spare for the rent of hei room, would be a great help to me." Having promised to bear this in mind. Berta hastened back up stairs. Her mother, completely exhausted in mind and body, was still sound asleep. It was now late in the day, and Berta began to suffer severely from iua^ nitiou and the pangsof hunger. She stood on a chair,and reached from a dingy shelf againsl the wall, a piece of the much anathematized hard bread, which she ate up to the last crumb. for she had now reached a point far beyond fastidiousness. Her mother awoke late in the afternoon amidst sighs and groans, and com' plaining of languor and fatigue. She was astonished and dismayed to find out how long she had slept, and arising precipitately, pro ceeded to resume her work on the pictures But she was faint and sick, and almost blind, and such sharp pains were shooting through her head, as made it impossible for her tc continue. In despair she groped her wav back to bed saying, almost fiercely? "For God's sake, child, a drink of cold wa ter. I am almost burning up." Berta hastened to do her bidding, and wher she brought the water, her mother clutched at it savagely, drinking with avidity, to the last drop. She then threw herself back or the bed saying, with a piteous moan, "I'm afraid I am going to be sick. God have mer cy on you, my poor child," which were the last sensible words Berta heard from hei mother's lips for many dark days. CHAPTER XXII. THE RESCUE. Doctor Eglinton had just returned from the morning's professional round of visits, and descending from his carriage, strode with his I usual careless grace toward his office, when ! he beheld a sight which detained him. It I MTOO ttio rrnilr>liprl fimirp < ,f a child who sat on "liV V.V-V.wv. "O""*" "" the stone steps crying and sobbing with greal '^bitterness. "What is the matter, ray poor child ?' asked the doctor benevolently. The child raised her pale little face with its great browr eyes, and with a cry of delight, sprang joy^ fully into his arms. "Good God !" exclaimed the doctor, "Is il possible, Berta? Where did you come from my child; and have you been ill again ?" But Berta only clung convulsively arounc his neck, without the ability to articulate 8 word. Ralph carried her into the house, and observing with dismay her perceptibly feeble exhausted condition, laid her on a sofa and gave her something to drink. This beverage revived Berta so much, she looked up grate fully into his face and said? "Thank you, uncle Ralph." "I thought that would make you feel better j ma petite" said uncle Ralph, looking down in J utter astonishment on the soiled, faded dress and the general air of untidiness which no^ j pervaded this child of fortune, whom he had I never seen before, except attired in the daim | tiest apparel; "and now, Berta, do open your j lips and tell me whence you came, how you I got here, and, above all, where is your i mamma? I have searched lor her in ali i directions." "Oh ! uncle Ralph !" exclaimed Berta, cry^ ! iug afresh, "I have come for you to go tc : mamma, for Mrs. Tilsitt says she is dying." "Dying ?" cried Ralph, dropping into a | seat and groaning with the sharp agony ol ; such unexpected news, "I cannot believe you, j Berta. Dying! Oh! Florimond." "She has been very sick for more than a 1 week," said Berta, "and she docs not kno^ : even me," and this thought made her sob ve hemently, "and I thought I would come foi j you, to see if you cannot cure her as you die me. I started very early this morning, but J did not know the way, and got lost ever sc many times. I was so tired I could not wait another step, and so I sat down on a door stef land cried for a longtime, when a lady cara< ! out, and she spoke to me kindly, and askec me what was the matter. When I told hei j I was looking for you to go and see my sict ' mother, she said, "poor little girl; I wiil tak< you to Doctor Eglinton's office on Michigar avenue," and she brought me here. The ser vant told her you were out, so she told m( then to sit on the steps and wait until yoi i came." "God bless her. whomsoever she mav be.' , ejaculated the doctor, fervently; "but come i Berta, these are precious moments we ar< losing. We must hasten to your mother i God grant it may not be too late !" ! Berta arose and tried to follow him, bui ; tottered on her feet, which the doctor perceiv 1 ing, he lifted her again in his arms, and ther . regarding her face keenly, said, "Look here child, have you had anything to eat to-day ?' "No, I have not." i "3/on Dieu ! to think you have come to this to think she has suffered so much, rather thai ' receive assistance from me ; one who has n< '1 pleasure on this wide earth, comparable to tin ;! pleasure of serving her." With the child stil in his arms, he went into an adjoining room , filled her hands with biscuit, cake and colc tongue, and saying, "You must eat this as w< i go along?we have no time to lose"?proceed ' l ed to deposit her inside the carriage. Hi | drove furiously, plying Berta, the meantime ; ! with questions which brought to light all o 1 the hardships, losses and privations, whicl 5 they had endured since leaving Avondale. j Ralph was horrified beyond expression and r grieved to the heart. Berta knew the name of the street and pointed out the house when they reached it, so there was no time lost in a * vain search. Mrs. Tillsit met them at the I door, vouchsafing the information that "she ' was no better?was in fact mighty bad off." 1 "Where shall I find her ?" impatiently asked the doctor, and was forthwith conducted, by Berta, up innumerable flights of dark, filthy stairs, into the dismal hole where Florimond lay. At the door could be heard her 1 feeble moaning, and the burden of her cry was "water, water." Ralph looked upon her. His head drooped upon his bosom, his Herculean chest heaved with a deep groan, and the i strong man stood for a moment overpowered with emotion. Then recovering, somewhat, his calmness, he felt the hot, burning hands t and chafed them tenderly in his own, pressed them reverently to his lips, and murmured in I a broken voice, "Oh 1 God, to find you thus." ? Roused by the touch, Florimond turned her flushed face full toward him, and gazed at him, but without any recognition in the want dering look. Her eyes had all that vivid ? brilliancy, that vacant glittering, which makes 1 one shudder to behold, i "Water, water!" she moaned. "Water," said the doctor, turning to Mrs. ' Tillsit, who just then entered the room. She handed him a glass containing water. He , first carried it to his own lips and applied it , to his nose. i "Sacrebleu I Is this the nauseous stuff you , have given her to drink?" he asked, and throwing the water, glass and all, out of the i window, he left the room precipitately, like a ; man half mad. In a short space of time he I J !_ ; 4. 1.. 1 reiurneu, imaging n grtai lump ui iuo, num , which he chipped off a portion in fine flakes, I and fed to her with a tea-spoon. The poor s sufferer clung to the spoon, and swallowed the refreshing particles with an avidity and fiercei ness which brought moisture to his eyes. ; Satisfied and refreshed, at last her hand re leased its clutch, and she sank again into a . heavy stupor. Then Doctor Eglinton took , Mrs. Tillsit aside and had a short but earnest i conversation with her, and they went togeth) er to another apartment entirely empty, of ' larger proportions, and a pleasanter situation. "This, I suppose," he said, "is the best we - can do for the present. It must be thoroughly swept immediately. I will have a bedi stead and everything necessary brought witbI out delay, and in the meantime, if she wakes s and asks for water, give her ice. I will be i back in a few moments." i "True to his word, he was not long absent. In company with him came an elderly lady i of most pleasing manners and benignant coun tenance. This was Mrs. Brown, a professional nurse, whom the doctor immediately dispatched to the sick room with all necessary instructions. He remained to superintend the proper arrangement of the furniture, which was now arriving. When everything was prepar! ed with the most exquisite neatness and com> fort, the doctor went above and knocking at ! the door asked if the patient was ready to be 1 removed. ; "Yes," said Mrs. Brown, "we administered t the warm bath, and I think she feels more ; easy and comfortable." "No doubt," said Ralph, "and she will be > ? *-n- -.-ii ...i? ? t i more comioriaoie sun, wueu wo gt*i nor uuu I of this close, horrible hole. The idea of puti ting a human creature into such a death-pen 1" He felt the patient's pulse, and laid his cool hand on her hot brow. Exquisitely lovely t she looked, in the snowy fresh robe they had , put on her?her black hair flowing and waving over the pillow, her cheeks scarlet with 1 fever, and her eyes glowing with unutterable l brilliancy. 1 "Was there not a dressing-grown in that , trunk of clothing?" asked the doctor. I "Yes," said Mrs. Brown, produciug it. 5 "Well, put it on her, and then she can be removed to the other apartment." "She is now ready," said Mrs. Brown ; but how shall we manage to move her ?" "No trouble about that," said the doctor ; i and he took her in his arras and carried her , gently down, with as little apparent effort as t if she had been the merest child. The patient I was soon comfortably installed in her new apartment, which, with its bed of snowy white ness and well-ordered arrangements, presented i quite a different appearance to the comfort less quarters she had left. The patient, no I doubt, felt the beneficial results of the change, though for a week or more, there was no visi ble material improvement in her condition. Her disease had gone on so long neglected and unchecked in its course, she now required i the closest attention and watchfulness, and f the most skillful treatment. All of which, , ray reader may readily believe, she received from Doctor Eglinton and the experienced i nurse he had provided. All that human skill r and human devotion could do, Ralph per j formed for this suffering human?this woman j whom he loved with man's strongest and purI I est affection. He thought of everything? [ I provided everything and spared neither labor > J nor expense in promoting her comfort and ; welfare. One day he felt his reward, when ' l/\/vl?A/l of U!m nnfli Ot'OO in tplnnli I r lUilllJUliU iuuivcu ai nun, nibu v j vo muivx ; once more shone the light of reason, and asked I in a sensible voice? r "Where am I ? Is that Doctor Eglinton ?" : "My veritable self," said Ralph, his voice j! unsteady with joyful emotion. I ! "I am so glad you know me?how do you -1 feel now ?" i! "I?I feel very well," said Floriraond ; but i : it seems to me I have been on a long journey ' and am very tired. What is the matter with 'me? I cannot get up. I do not recollect this ,! room. Where am I ?" i | "You must not try to get up," said Ralph, . i "you have been very sick, and were moved j into this room, it being pleasanter than that II horrid garret." - j "Oh ! I remember it all?the whole hideous i ! story," said Florimond, shuddering, an ex,' pression of painful remembrance flitting over ' j her face." "Where is my poor child ?" "She is here, and well," said Ralph. "I , j will call her for you, but I wish to say to you 1 : first, that you must not give up to desponden); cy. In the providence of God, some prqvis2 ion will be surely made for you and her. It 1 : is so important in your recovery, that you ,; should be cheerful. Will you try to get well 1 for Berta's sake? What would she do with5 j out you ?" -! "What, indeed 1" said Florimond, "my poor * little lamb! Doctor, promise me, if I should , | die, that you will try to comfort Berta and f: that you will take her to her grandfather." i I "I promise you faithfully; but God be j thanked, I think now, there is no probability of having to perform the promise. You are now, I think, entirely out of danger, and with proper precautions and a brave, hopeful spirit, will be quite well in a few weeks." j "I will do ray best," said Florimoud. j "Doctor who is that strange lady ?" "This is Mrs. Brown, your nurse. You must thank her for getting well, for she has watched by your bed, day after day, and night after night. She is an old friend of mine. Many a night have we spent in company beside the sick. Come here, Mrs. Brown, I know you will be delighted to see our patient is quite herself." While Mrs. Brown was making acquaintance with the mind contained in that body she had tended so long, Ralph went out and sent in Berta. With that consideration and delicacy of feeling which distinguished him so eminently, he left the mother and daughter to meet alone. Indeed, after this turning point, he frequented the sick room much less than formerly, paying new only the briefest professional calls. His great desire seemed to be to render Florimond's debt of gratitude as light as possible, and to make his own share in her recovery as little conspicuous as might be. His attempts, however, in this direction were quite foiled by Berta, whose tongue ran constantly to her mother in uncle Ralph's praises. She described how she- had gone in search of him, all he had said aud done on that occasion, how he had bought that nice furniture, and, in short, every separate incident which had been treasured up by a child's tenacious love for petty details was narrated with minute precision. "And all these nice things, mamma," said Berta, smacking her lips over elegant an Charlotte glace <? la vanille, "which we- have to eat. are sent bv uncle Ralph's orders from the French restaurant, not far from here. He told me whenever I wanted anything particular, or you desired anything not s|nt, just to order it from the servant, and it would surely be sent." "You must never do it, Berta?do you hear, child ?" It is distressing to me to be under such heavy obligations to any one. My dear child, how shall we ever repay him ?" And Mrs. Eavenswood was preoccupied in thought for the rest of the day. So much so, that the doctor noticed it, during his usual afternoon's visit. "Do you feel quite as well as you did this morning ?" he asked, searching her face. "Oh ! yes, quite as well." "Then, what is it? Has anything annoyed you? Your spirits are oppressed?" he said, gently. This watchful tenderness so affected Floriniond, she grew hysterical and began to cry, which made the doctor half frantic. In answer to many impassioned questions, she begged him to believe there was nothing the matter with her?"she was only nervous and weak, and tired of confinement. If she could only get out in the fresh air." "Yes," said Ralph, "that would make you feel better. The surroundings here are so disagreeable?the air so impure ! Well, if you 1 -1 ? .1 ...111 nnf nrry onw m/lPO Villi lire very auu urm may go to ride to-morrow into the beautiful fresh country. Now, is not that a refreshiug prospect ?" "Very," said Florimond, drying her eyes, and making a great effort at calmness. Satisfied, Ralph left, promising no* to forget the ride on the morrow?as if he could! He came; but found her by no means well enough to go. Mrs. Brown protested against it, saying she had spent a very bad night, had cried almost incessantly?scarcely closing her eyes. "Something is bothering her mind," said Mrs. Brown, privately, to the doctor. "She is very melancholy, and nothing but that constant fretting has brought on such a violent headache and fever." The next day things were even worse. "You do not treat me kindly," said Ralph, drawing a chair beside the bed; "not as a patient should treat a physician. There is something weighing on your spirits, and you will not tell me what it is. I am almost augry with you." "Oh ! do not say so," said Florimond. "I could not stand that! After all your kindness?your goodness, which I can never repay." "See here," exclaimed Ralph, "is that the thing which is troubling you." Great God ! Do you not know one gentle smile from you will repay m> for all, and more than all, I have ever done for you ? Now, I am angry, indeed !" "Come back," said Florimond, for he had turned away. "It is not that, indeed!" (We wonder if some stories will not be forgiven iu the judgment day, when their motives are considered.) "I am willing to be under obli-1' A ,*? M.,?n fV*or\ T non anvr ganous lu yuu, which 1a inuio hiuu * to anybody else. Forgive me?it is only nervousness I think. Give rae something to quiet ray nerves and to make me sleep, and see if I am not all right to-morrow." "Well, then, that is a bargain between us," said the doctor, writing a prescription. She was much brighter in the morning, and ' the shadow was gone from her face. Florimond had made up her mind, on the vexed question which had tormeuted her, and felt better threfrom. Indecision is always tormenting, and right or wrong, when one has | settled the question definitely, it is a certain : satisfaction. The next day she was pronounced able to take the ride. "That horrible house," said Floriraond, i "settling herself comfortably on the luxurious seat, "I wish I were saying good-bye to it forever 1" "Well, who knows ?" said the doctor, a pe| culiar smile on his face; "perhaps you are. I did not tell you I intended to bring you back to it, did I ? Do you not think it fair, now that I have you in my power, to take some slight revenge for that unkind turn you served ' me some short time ago?" "Pray do not speak of it," said Florimond, i her inflammable cheeks growing the hue of a | red rose. "I have?regretted?it so much ; since. I hoped }'ou had forgiven me." "So I have?entirely." I Iu reply, she raised her dark eyes to his, | and their mournful beauty fascinated him more powerfully and strangely than ever. "Doctor Eglinton, do you remember our last conversation at Avondale?" "Perfectly?every word of it." "I take this opportunity to say to you, if ' your wishes are the same as regards myself, as they were at that time, I now express my willingness to accede to them. As soon as the vows which now bind me to another are honorably annulled, I will become your wife." "My wishes on that subject are unalterable," said the doctor, in a low voice fall of passion-1 ate feeling, "and your words make me the i happiest of beings." He took her hand and sought to press it to his lips, but was so aston- j ished at its cold contact, that he hastened to | : draw the light shawl, which envoloped her,! closer around her person. "Why do you tremble so violently ? Are 1 you cold ? Your hand is like ice ; and these : dainty nails, which are wont to be pink, are now blue." "I think I have a chill," said Florimond, . . . . i her teeth almost chattering in her head. "Some more of your nervousness," he said, fondly, reproachfully. "Come, Floriraond, | this will never do. But a moment ago you | were as rosy as the flush of dawn and now ! your face is marble white. You are very excitable. I should not have allowed you to speak on that subject this afternoon?you are not strong enough for such an exciting theme. Are you better now, or shall we return ?" Florimoud could only answer with a faint assent. . On the feturn route they took a very different direction, and drew up in front of a large, elegant house in a fashionable street. Mrs. Browu and Berta, to Florimond's infinite astonishment, were standing, with smiling countenances, at one of the front windows, j Cold, faint and miserable, she could not speak ; a word, but looked at Ralph in silent questioning. He lifted her out, explaining the while, that he had engaged rooms for them here, as it was impossible she would ever recover in the unwholesome region of her late abode. Berta now ran out to meet them, dressed with Mrs. Brown's utmost skill, and in a state of boisterous enthusiasm. The rooms, consisting of a neat private parlor, chamber and dressing-room, were very soon reached, being on the second floor, in the shadiest, coolest part of the house. And you must only feel indebted to me for the selection of them," said Ralph, ensconcing her in a large rocking chair, "for, my dear madame, you are now an independent woman, with a handsome salary of your own earning. Three cheers for Woman's Rights 1 Here is the official announcement of your formal election by the honorable Board of Trustees, to the position of Instructress in drawing, painting, polite literature, etc., etc., in the Great Western Female Academy and High School on Washington street. I have the honor, madame,-to present you with this important document, with my best wishes for your happiness in your new career!" Floriraond took the paper from his hand and muttered something incoherently. "I did not hear you," said Ralph ; but he caught her grateful look and bending low caught also her grateful words. "Noble heart! You are your mother'sown son?the kindest, the noblest man on earth ! [to be continued next week.] ^Histcllitttcous flcatUug. From Howard Glyndon, in Phrenological Journal. DRIVEN TO DEATH. All hygienic reformers agree iB decrying the use of artificial stimulants. There is, however, a natural stimulant, which, when wrongly employed, has worked more harm to great men than any spirituous compound ever yet invented. I allude to the excessive activity of the human brain in some one direction, through aspiration or emulation. Many people are murdered outright by the strength of strong but undisciplined wills. They are as dangerous to the possessor, as baleful, as fraught with evil consequences, both mental and physical, as are the natural elements of earth, air, fire and water, when not restrained by the necessary governing power. We have all been recently saddened by the death of the great editor, Horace Greeley. He furnishes one of the most mournful, as well as one of the most illustrious examples on record of the terrible power of the mind over the physical functions. No man with so strong a will could possibly have had as hard a master as it proved itself to him, and in the end no worse enemy. The hardest-hearted overseer of scourged and cowering slaves never drove his victims with the ferocity with which the arch-tyrant goads its defenseless servants, the brain and the body, into doing its hard behests. These self-inflicted lashes are the most merciless of all. A man may eschew every known stimulant excepting this one. But if he knew not now to moderate and keep in bounds the demand upon his brain and body, his precautions in the end will still prove useless. If living a regular life, as concerns habit of eating, drinking and exercising, the whip and the spur may with seeming impunity be applied for years. But if the will, during these years, is allowed unchecked power, and that power is all turned in one direction, a new and most dreadful'danger is gradually created. The force of the will being all bent upon the ends to which the man's life is dedicated, it requires constantly from the brain unlawful services. He who can not habitually, when he is down at night, leave all his cares at his bedside, with the garments which he has put off, stretching himself on the hollow of God's hand, content to slumber there in all a child's abandon, till the dawning light awakening him, finds himfull of new strength to take up again the burden of his days, has no grounds to hope for continued health and strength? much less for long life. There are, however, some rarely organized, who, even under morbid conditions, may almost by the mere force of will, keep alive and active for years, after an ordinary man would be in his grave; but of such stuff is not made the common run of ; humanity. The mere fact of habitually ta-1 king his cares to bed with him, kills many a man in the meridian of life. This is because the unceasing censorship J exercised by the will over the brain, compell-! ingit to continue active when it should be in-; j active, gradually but surely lays the founda- i I tion of inability to sleep. "Of all morbid con- j I ditions, this, when once developed, is the har! dest to conquer. You may tell me that a man ! I can not work, can not walk, can not eat; but j : I will not lose hope till you tell me that he I j can not sleep. For then I certainly know | i that death is coming, it may be slowly but ! surely. But if I can induce the patient to | sleep naturally, I know that I shall be able, j j in time, to reestablish his appetite, and upon ; | that his strength will follow. Upon sleep, which is rest, and upon rest, j | which is new life, I must build up all other 1 j things. Let every man beware, then, how he turns I _ 4 P m (Iia rv>n ..m n m nf tl fnfl nafupo o nrl > 1 a Ul'ill cm LU lliciuuiiliuic Ul tuvu uutuit,! M>>U > let him not, in his passion to do, ride rough- j shod over brain and body, else, ere long, the master will be left with none to do his bidding, 1 | powerless and alone when he shall have worn i ! out, prematurely, his much abused vassals. | This means the severance of soul and body? ! I or worse, the death in life?of insanity. | j Hence there is no power which a man who j makes a work-shop of his brain, ought to cul-; j tivate more assiduously than the power to I sleep. A3 long as he has that power, he is comparatively safe. As soon as he impairs it there is no safety for him anywhere; and when he finally loses it, there is no salvation in any curative. You may tell me that he looks strong, is active, feeds well, enjoys life; but for all that I say that if he is habitually so, he is walkiug daily and nightly arm in arm in death. Some aay I shall hear that he has fallen suddenly, most likely without warning, but I shall not be surprised. The excessive action of the brain, to which it is spurred by an indomitable will, active in season and out of season, and which has never learned the vital lesson of passiveness, is the rock upon which so many great, men are; wrecked. With such the utmost vigilance is required to prevent the will from abusing its power, and overtasking its servant, the brain, which, if it is taught to do but one thing, viz.: to work and to keep at it, actually requires au inability to rest, and at length, too old and too worn out to learn new tricks, is utterly unoKlo tn nr>mnr<?hpnrl much le.?S to obcV. the unusual commands which the will at last tries to impose upon it, when it is too late. "Rest, now," says the will to the brain, after years of enforced action. But the brain no longer comprehends the meaning of any command save one: "Work on!" And quite unheeding, it goes on blindly toiling like a poor, sightless horse, which having all its life been accustomed to walk round and round harnessed to some machine, at last, in its very death struggle, mistakes every sound of its master's voice for a command to labor, and mechanically, but vainly, with its last breath, tries to struggle up to fulfill the old routine! So it is at last, with the brain, when the will says to it, too late, "Rest!" In response it goes on working, because that is the only thing it has been taught to do. They tell us that Horace Greeley had been unable to sleep for years before his death. Spite of his splendid constitution and his otherwise correct habits of life, his will to work, in season and out of season, killed him in the end. Sleeplessness had been for years slowly but surely sapping the foundation of his life, and it needed but an unusually strong combination of adverse circumstances, with extra work and anxiety, to cause the rare fabric to totter t.n its fall. Otherwise he mieht have lived many years longer. As it was, he was simply tired to death, and no rest but that long rest of the grave, was he able to take. ? From the Washington Dally Chronicle. JEFFERSON DAYIS. THE REA80N WHY HE WAS NOT PROSECUTED. It is a little curious how soon great events fade from the memory. The Charleston Daily Newz publishes a narrative said to have been disclosed by Judge Clifford, of the Supreme Court of the United States, at a dinner table, assigning the reason for the abandonment of the prosecution of Jefferson Davis for treason. It is alleged that soon after the war Judge Clifford, Attorney-General Speed and eminent members of the bar were called together at Washington to consult on the subject ; that this consultation resulted in the abandonment of the prosecution for the following reason, which we quote: "After the council had adjourned, and Judge Clifford had returned to his home, Mr. Headley enquired the result of their deliberations, and Judge Clifford made a striking and characteristic reply in something like the following language: 'Remarkable as the fact may appear, we find that the laws of the United States are not so constructed as to afford any certainty of punishing high treason or rebellion, and Mr. Davis, if arraigned under them, cannot be brought to conviction. Perhaps it is that the men who framed our fundamental law and system of government, and whq were then fighting forliberty with halters about their necks, did not pay much attention to the question of punishing in the future the acts which they were committing themselves.'" The facts in this case were these: Jefferson Davis was arrested and held in custody by the military authorities. While so held, a cabinet consultation was held on the question submitted by President Johnson, whether he should be tried by a military or civil court. A majority of the cabinet voted in favor of a trial by a civil court. Attorney-General speed was instructed to taae tne necessary steps for the transfer of the prisoner from the custody of the military to the civil authorities. He was indicted by the United States grand jury both in Washington city and in Virginia. The United States District Court of Virginia was selected as the proper tribunal for his trial. He was accordingly brought to Richmond by the military authorities and put in custody of the United States marshal. On motion of his attorneys, he was admitted to bail, and afterward discharged under the belief that he was embraced in the pro visions of a general proclamation of amnesty. The only subject connected with his trial ever seriously discussed was the question of the practicability of securing an impartial jury for his trial in any district where he had been or could be indicted. It was believed to be impossible to secure such a jury in Richmond, and very doubtful if it could be done in Washington, on account of the sympathy in favor of the "lost cause." It was thought that if indicted in any one of the loyal States, where no such difficulty need be apprehended, a serious question of law would arise under that provision of the constitution requiring the trial of criminals in the district where the offense was committed, as Jefferson Davis had not personally committed any overt act of treason in any of these loyal States. His offense in such State might be held to be, at the utmost, only that of complicity or constructive treason. And, in addition, the policy of transferring a criminal from the district where he personally committed the crime to another district, where he could be held to be only constructively present as an offender, would be bad in policy, bad as a precedent, and ought to be avoided.. There never was any question of his guilt or the sufficiency of the law for his punishment on the part of the president or of any member of his cabinet. But it was not beleived that a jury, selected in the usual mode in Richmond at that time, would convict Jef ferson Davis of treasoD, on account of the condition of public opinion at the seat of the recent rebel government. But the final cause of the abandonment of the prosecution was the supposed legal effect of an amnesty proclamation. ? Chinese Ingenuity.?The city of Pekin abounds with doves, which are profitable to the owners as food. Formerly they were I preyed upon by vultures, which are so exceedingly numerous, also, that it would have been literally impossible to have protected the pigeons against the exterminating warfare of a cruel enemy, had not a lucky mechanical contrivance been secured for their security. The Chinese make small whistles that give a shrill sound when held against the wind, which are fastened to the tails of the birds iust as they are ready to be weaned. Fly which way they may, the little organ pipe screams lustily, without impeding the bearers; for, go as they choose?the swifter the better for the whistle?they frighten their old vagabond destroyers prodigiously, which fly as fast as their wings will carry them when they hear an approaching whistle. Is this science j or art ? THE STAKS A3U 9Xttirx.3. The stars and stripes became the national flag of the United States of America by virtue of a resolution of Congress, passed June 14, 1777 : "Resolved, That the flag of the thirteen United States be thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stare, white, in a blue field, representing a new constellation." This resolution appears in the Journal of Congress, volume 2, page 165. Although passed on the date given aoove, it was not made public until September 3, in the same year, when it appeared in the Boston Gazette and Country Journal. The flag seems to have been the resultof the work commenced by Washington, Dr. Franklin, Mr. Lynch, Mr. Harrison and Colonel Joseph Reed. On t.hfi 2nd .Tanuarv. 1776. Washington was in the American camp at Cambridge, organizing the new army which was that day created. The committee of conference, consisting of Franklin, Lynch and Harrison, sent by Congress to arrange with Washington the details of the army, were with him. Colonel Reed, one of the aids-de-camp, was also secretary of the committee of conference. The several designs for flags had long occupied the thoughts of Reed and his associates. The flag in use by the army was a plain red field, with the British union of the crosses of St. Andrew, St. George and St. Patrick on the upper left corner. Several gentlemen of Boston sent to the American camp copies of the King's speech. It was received on the date mentioned above, and the effect is described in the British Annual Register, 1776, page 147, thus: "The arrival of the copy of the King's speech with an account of the fate of the petition from the Continental Congress, is said to have excited the greatest degree of rage and indignation among them ; as a proof of which, the former was publicly burned in the camp, and they are said on this occasion to have changed their colors from a plain red ground, which they had hitherto used, to a flag of thirteen stripes, as a symbol of the number and union of the Colonies." The use of stripes to mark the number of ' - * ? - a . 1 1 1_ . me otaies on me nag cauuoi ue uieai iy uwcu, but may be accounted for by a custom of the camp at Cambridge. The array of citizen volunteers comprised all grades of men. Very few were uniformed. It was almost impossible for thesentineU to distinguish general officers from privates. Frequently officers were stopped at the outposts and held for identification until the arrival of the officer of the day. Orders were issued that the different grades of officers should be distinguished by a stripe of colored ribbon worn across the breast. Washington, as Commander-in-Chief, wore a ribbon of light blue. The stars on the blue field?"a new constellation"?were suggested by the constellation Lyra, time honored as the emblem of union. The thirteen stars of the new constellation were placed as the circumference of a circle, and on a blue field, in accordance with the resolution already given. That was the flag used at Burgoyne's surrender, October 17th, 1777. By a resolution of Congress, passed January 13th, 1795, to take effect May 1st, 1795, the flag was changed to fifteen stars and fifteen stripes. That was the flag of 1812.' By a resolution m\sed April 4th, 1818, to take effect on the allowing July 4th, the flag was again changed to one of thirteen stripes and twenty stars; and a new star to represent a new State, ordered to be placed on the blue field on the 4th of July following the admission of such State. The flag planted on the National Palace in Mexico had thirty stars. It now carries thirtyseven. ? HANDWRITING OF DISTINGUISHED MEN. ^ * * TTV i <*n / Uoionei t orney, in nis "jcvecoiieciions or Distinguished Men," says: "Senator Sumner's writing is characteristically large and distinct; short sentences, carefully pointed, good ink and excellent stationery, somewhat after the Parliamentary fashion. He is a prodigious worker, and, I fear, even his prostration cannot keep his hand from pen and pencil. Caleb Cushing writes very rapidly, and it requires one familiar with his manuscript to interpret it Of all men, however, none was harder to understand than Thaddeus Stevens. I have some notes of his which would pnzzle an expert John Lothrop Motley, the historian is singularly precise. Thackeray seemed to rejoice in small feminine characters, and took great delight in his letters to bis friends to decorate the border with all manner of curious caricatures. Robert T. Conrad, the 'poet, was a most delicate and dilettante writer. Some of his poems were not less models of literary beauty than of mechanical taste. William B. Reed, so well known in politics and in literature, writes a hand very much like tke venerable Henry C. Carey?fair to look upon, but sometimes hard to unravel. Stephen A. Douglas dashed off his letters without much regard to appearance. He seemed to be always under a high pressure and what he wrote was written with intense feeling. John C. Fremont signs his name boldly, a little alter the Dickens style. William H. Seward was excessively particular in the preparation of his speeches, and composed with deliberation. I heard an old stenographer say that after he had taken down Mr. Seward, literally, in one of his greatest efforts, and presented him the full report, the statesman recast the whole discourse and sent it to the printers in his own hand. Senator Morton writes in bold, round characters. Thurlow Weed's is significantly editorial?anybody who sees it can tell that he has ? ' ? i* i i if if.i 1 reeled on multitudinous leaders, lucixiicnaei, of the North American, writes nervously, in straight lines, frequently hard to solve. Boker, the poet, prides himself upon his cool and dainty chirography. Rufus Choate was a dreadful affliction to the printers when they got hold of his legal papers, and the man who most resembled him in his time, George \V. Barton, of Pennsylvania, was almost as prolific in his oratory as in his handwriting, and it was far easier to enjoy his magnificent rhetoric than his written sentences. Filmore's style was methodical and slow; Pierce's quick, bold and legible; Lincoln's small, careful and rather labored; Grant's unpretending and easily read." ? ? A correspondent of the Scientific American states that butter, as we. know it, was not in use before the commencement of the Christian era. It was then used as a cosmetic or hair dressing by women. For some centuries later it was used as a burning oil for lamps, and churches were lighted with it in France at so late a period as the year 1500. Since then it may be considered as an article of food solely. What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life, to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other 11 silent, unspeakable memories at the raome'it of the last parting? ? KaT There are many fruits which never turn sweet until the frost has lain upon them. There are many nuts that never fall from the boughs of the forest trees till the frost has opened and ripened them. And there are many elements of life that never grow sweet aud beautiful until sorrow troubles thera. JST A Georgia preacher, in translating the sentence, "The harvest is over, the season is ended, and thy soul is not saved," put it, "De corn has been cribbed, dere ain't aqy more work, and de debbil is still fooling wid dis community,"