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lewis m. g-rist, Proprietor, j Jfnbtpcitbtnl Jamilg ftctospajjcr: ?or tljc promotion of tjje political, Social, Agricultural aitb Commercial Jfnfcrests of fjje Soatjj. TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR, IN ADTAKCF. VOL. 21. YOEKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 4, 1875. 3STO. 44. ju original ^tora. ^ Written for t|ie Yorkville Enquirer. Sleepy Hollow. CHAPTER IX. A CHAPTER OF EVENTS. That day my father and Dr. Wardlaw were closeted long together. I shut myself up in my own room, trying to suppress the fever of excitement which took hold of me, and to prepare my mind for the worst, whatever it might be. At last I heard the library door open, and some one come out. Footsteps echoed in the hall below, then descended the front steps, and the garden gate shut with a clang. I waited for a little while longer, in an agony of suspense; then I could endure it no longer. I felt that I must go down, and find out something. Perhaps I would meet papa, somewhere about the house, and he would explain matters to me, of his own accord. I stole timidly down to the parlor, and looked in. Dr. Wardlaw was sitting in an arm chair, near the fire-place, his arms crossed and an expression of thoughtful gravity upon his face. He looked up, and the gravity vanished. A bright, triuraphantsmile kindled on 1 * ' ? 1. J nis lips ana id dis eyes, as ne arose auu cauie forward. He took me iD his arms and kissed my brow. "Rosamond?my little Rose!" he said, soffclv. "Hose de la monde?my rose of all the world!" "Papa?" I found courage to utter. "Has given you to me; but I had a sore struggle to extort his consent. It was a difficult game to play; but the stakes were too high for me to lose. It was a conflict of life or death 1" I trembled. "Is he very?very much displeased ?" I asked. "Displeased ? He says he gave you carte blanche to follow your own inclinations; he has no right to be displeased." "No?but I could not leave him, you know, unless be really gave his consent. Please tell me if he did." . "Certainly he did?did I not tell you so before? Don't ask me any more questions now ; let me realize the happiness of the present moment?the happiness of feeling that you are truly, truly mine." Still I was not satisfied ; I must know exactly what had been said, how papa had looked, and all about it. Having received the information I desired, i came to the conclusion that the affair was, on the whole, more satisfactorily settled than I had ventured to hope. "Where is papa now ?" I asked. "Gone out?probably to recruit his strength, after the conflict." "Please do not jest," I said, seriously. "I almost feel as if I were doing wrong." "Rosamond," he rejoined, with equal seriousness, "do not make me think that you feel any reluctance to marry me. I want you to give me your heart so truly, so entirely, that your love for me, and the knowledge of mine for you, will absorb every other consideration. You have nothing to reproach yourself with ; your father, good and kind as he is, has a monomania on the subject of your leaving him, and to this he would sacrifice your life. No parent has a right to act thus. Forget that he has shown auy reluctance to sanction our union, and take it for granted that when he is able to reflect calmly and reasonably on the matter, hi* good sense and his very love for you will etfect a revolution in his feelings. Until then, think of me alone, and of the happy future which awaits us. You believe that I will make you happy, do you not?'' "Yes?yes!"I murmured, pressing his arm. "And you love me? Let me hear the assurance from your own lips." I satisfied him, and then, casting aside the thoughts which harrasseed me, gave myself up to the enjoyment of the present momeut, and the consideration of all the happiness in ufrvro far mo a a tko trifo r\f fko mo n fn tuVtrvm ow/tv ivi u<vf ***j wuv 'i uv vi nit iu?u nv nuviu my heart had gone out freely from the first. Little by little, he drew from me the confession of the delight I had felt iD his society, and my loneliuess and restless feelings when he had gone away ; and theu repaid me for this acknowledgment of ray weakness, by telling rae how lovely I had seemed to him from the first moment he saw me, and how the thought had flashed over hitn that if he could pluck this fair rose and wear it on his heart, he would be the happiest of mortals forevermore ! "But I feared, at first, that it wa3 a presuraptious idea. I thought you would consider me too old and world-dried to be the recipient of such a boon as your young, fresh love." "You are not old," said I, looking into hie face. "Not more than thirty-five, I should say. "More than double your age! But it is even worse than that?you must add on still three years." "Thirty-eight!" "Yes?does it frighten you ?" "0, no," said I. "You will be all the better able to take care of rae." "Yes, I think I can manage that." "But I am a spoflt child, you know." .Never mind. I won t draw the reins too tight." "Dr. Wardlaw," said I, abruptly, "I want to ask you a question." "Dr. Wardlaw will answer no more questions of yours; but Arthur will, with pleasure. I waived the point dexterously, and went on. "Will you tell me whose picture that was that you left here, when you went away ?" He suddenly became very grave. "That reminds me," he said, in an altered tone, "of a fact of which I have, unintentionally, kept you iu ignorance, and of which you ought to be informed. I quite forgot to mention to either your father or yourself, that I am a widower." "So I fancied," I rejoined. "You do not surprise me at all." "No?" he said, inquiringly. "I was not aware that I had ever made any allusion to my former life." I reminded him of what he had said when we were walking together, on the evening prior to his departure, about some one who had died, with the assurance on her lips, that she had been happy all her life. "Ah ! yes," said he. "I recollect now. That was Edith?my child-wife. It was a boy-and-girl marriage. We were first cousins, i l.j i r L-L..1 j aDU nan UKtJU pi ayiiiaiss irum uauynuuu. "And you loved her very much ?" I queried. "Yes, I loved her. But Rosamond, why re-open a page closed so long, long ago ? Those memories, though undestroyed, have been deeply buried for many a year. They seem to me now as the shadows of a dream." "But tell me something more about her," I persisted. "Wasshe beautiful ? Was that picture like her ?" Very much like her. Of her beauty you cau judge for yourself." "Yes, she was certainly beautiful," said I, meditatively. "Not in the least like me." "Not in the least," he rejoined, with an irrepressible smile, as he noticed my furtive glance toward a mirror opposite. I pouted a little. "I hate light hair," said I. "Do you ? I think it so charming." "And blue eyes." "They are my favorites." I laughed with restored good-humor. I felt no farther jealousy of the pictured Edith's dark orbs and waving, dusky curls. I let the subject drop, which gave him evident re-1t lief; and we chatted unreservedly until aunt j i Mabel, apparently quite unaware that any- j i thing unusual was in progress, came into the i room. "I have just got a line from your papa, my c dear," she said to me, "announcing the fact ( that he has unexpected business to attend to in the village, and will not be at home until j evening, so we are not to wait dinner for him. j I hope it is nothing sdrious; it is such a very t unusual thing for him to do." In my own mind, I inclined to the belief i that my father's real motive for absenting himself, was his reluctance to meet Dr. Ward- a law in the character of my affianced lover; or ( perhaps a desire to gain time to compose his j 1 feelings and accustom himself to the idea of a the new condition of affairs. j It was quite late in the evening when he f returned. I ran out in the hall to meet him, s and helped him off* with his overcoat. "How tired you must be, papa," I said, 1 trying to speak in my usual voice, though { there was an under-thrill of anxiety in it I t could not quite repress. a "Yes, I am tired, ray dear. Is tea ready ?" 1 "Just ready; we would not have it brought 1 : - ? " V ill UUlM yuu uauic. "You got my Dote safely, I hope? You did not wait dinner ?" I satisfied him on that point, and holding his hand in mine led him into the parlor. He neither rejected nor returned my caress. He had spoken wearily, but calmly, and when he came into the light, I noticed that his face wore a look of care, without being cold or stern. He conversed much in his usual manner, nor could I perceive any abatement in his polished courtesy toward his guest. I fancied, however, that he was keeping his real feelings in abeyance, and wearing a sort of mask. When bed-time came, Dr. Wardlaw said, looking toward aunt Mabel, that as he would be obliged to leave very early in the morning, he would say good-bye at once, as he did not wish any one to take the trouble to rise to see him off. "I shall come down, of course," said papa. "I am accustomed to rise very early." "And so am I," said my aunt "It will not inconvenience me at all." I had already arranged with him to be down in time to bid him good-bye, so I said nothing. He smiled at me, and gave me a quiet pressure of the hand, as we exchanged good-nights; but I noticed that papa kept his eyes studiously averted from me whenever either of us spoke to the other, as if he feared to read in our glances the tokens of a mutual understanding and confidence in which he had no part. I rather dreaded the idea of the parting in I the morning, before so many witnesses; but I need have had no fears. One moment he | had me to himself, while aunt Mabel was putI ting up his lunch, and my father had gone i out to give some order about the horses. "Rosamond, you will hear from me very j soon. Will you promise to write to me of| ten ?" "As often as you like?but I am afraid I don't write nice letters." "They will be nice enough to satisfy me, I do not doubt. Let me hear from you regu' larly, at least three times a week ; and they j must be long letters, full of your thoughts , and plans and wishes, just as if you were talk- i I ing to me?just as you will tell me all your j thoughts one day. When shall that be?" "Oh! how can I tell? In a year or two, perhaps." "In a month or two," he rejoined, cou6- j dently. "Don't look so startled. I am a ; raan of action, and I do not brook unnecessa; ry delays. I will settle it all with your father. | Of course, you must not oppose iny wishes. | There they come?no time for more conversaI tion, now. Good-by?ray little love ! We I shall soon meet again." ! \ I did not know whether to laugh or cry, as I 1 j I went up to my own room to reflect on his r j parting words. It seemed to me an impossi- r. } bility that we should be married as soon as he f ; had said. Yet the resolute manner in which i ! he had spoken, and the confidence he appear- c ] ed to feel in my compliance with his wishes, t provided he effected the desired arrangement, t gave me a sort of idea that in this, as in most ] I things, he would have his own way. t I longed for an explanation with ray father, j but none came. After Dr. Wardlaw had t ; gone, be never mentioned his name ; and so t | unreal did my engagement seem, that I was ! s ! sometimes tempted to fancy it must be only a ! c j little romance of my own. 11 j To some one, however, I must open my j f | heart; and this one was my godmother. She j t I received my confession without much surprise, j ( I -_j 1 i : L_J i i 1 aim uwneu iu nuviug nau ner suspicious i ' aroused, by some words my father had, one j f I day, allowed to escape him; but she was con-; 1 ; siderably perplexed by the discovery of the ! i singular position in which the affair stood, t ! It would never do, she said, to have it made j 1 a mystery of. Papa ought to consider the , look of the thing. If I was actually engaged, ] j it ought not to be kept a secret from every- \ j body a? if it was something to be ashamed of. J i I "I cau't proclaim it," said I, and Dr.! < I Wardlaw has no friends here to talk about it; ' so I suppose it will go on this way until I am y I actually married?if that event ever takes ,1 ' place." "But how very odd of your papa, Rosa- j ] ' mond! If he wished you never to marry, he , I should have said so from the first; but hav- 1 ing his consent, he ought to act in a rational 1 ' ; way about it." > ' I was returning alone one evening from an 1 ! errand to the village, when I heard a rapid < j footstep following me, and directly a voice j that I knew, accosted me, as its owner came to i j my side. j "Good evening, Miss Rosamond !" it said, 1; and I looked up in disagreeable surprise to encounter the gaze of Stephen Ilolcombe's i black eyes, and reluctantly placed the tips of my fingers in his offered hand. I j "Howcoldly you look at me!" he said in a ] ; low toue, giving ray fingers a pressure from i which I withdrew them in iudiguant haste, i j My first impression was that he must have s been drinking too much, and I did not relish 1 the idea of his walking with me under such cir- j cumstances; but I was at a loss to know how i to get rid of him without giving him positive ! offeuse, which, on Ellen's account, I was un- 1 willing: to do. I therefore merely assumed j j my most freezing maimer, and said nothing I in reply. j i "I have long waited for an opportunity of < seeing you alone," he coutined; "but the fates i have been against me until now. Having at ' j last secured it, 1 cannot let it pass without i ' unburdening my soul to you once more?" "Mr. Holcombe," I interrupted him, "this I is rather singular language?in the first place, j i I cannot conceive why you should desire an :; interview with me ; it is a desire which I cer- i tainly do not reciprocate." i "Itosamond," he exclaimed, vehemently, ' "do notspeak so cruelly. If you only knew?" 1 "I will not allow you to go with me a step < J farther," said I, stopping abruptly, while my i ; face crimsoned with reseutment, "unless you I instantly change your tone. You have no ! right to speak to me as you are doing, or to I call me by my christian name. Your engage- 1 raent to my cousin does not give you any silch i I privilege." 1 "My engagement! Don't matter me! Do ! you suppose I care anything about that ?" i "What do you meau?" said I, looking him ; ; indignantly in the face. "Are you lost to all < ; sense of honor?" 1 I "Rosamond, hear me! Nay, I will speak," I ' he cried, catching my hand as I was turning i iway. His eyes were flashing and his countelance wore a fierce look. I was dreadfully Tightened, but I had the presence of mind to ' estrain my agitation. "Mr. Holcorabe, let me go," I said, in a tone ! >f forced calmness. "This is not the conduct )f a gentleman." "You compel me to it! There?I beg your jardon," he said, dropping my hand. "Will rou not remain quiet and listen to me for a noraent ?" "Not if you say things you have no right to itter." "I have a right?a right to speak the truth, md you have a right to know it. I do not :are for your cousin Ellen. She has never iad my heart. In a moment of rash pique md anger against you, I first professed to be jartial to her, and then there was no escape or me. But it is you whom I love?whom I hall always love. Rosamond, hear me! fou do not know my heart. You do not mow the depth of devotion of which it is ca>uble?you have only seen the worst side of ne hitherto. Only take me under your guidince, and you can do with me what you will, ifou will learn to love me. I will earn your ove by my constant, untiring ministration to 1 ? "l??ll MAirtn onrvrflmn rour imppiu^ss. iuu 3uau ici^u ou^iv>ujv iver ray every thought and action. You shall nould me into any form you like. My heart, ny life, shall be at your command. Think yell before you reject such homage as mine !" Astonishment and anger had nearly taken iway my breath, and made me at first absoutely incapable of replying to this unexpectid speech, poured forth, as it was, with a rapdity of utterance and a vehemence of gesture, vhich denoted extreme excitement and eagerless on the part of the speaker, and left me no loubt of his sincerity. As soon as I could :ollect ray thoughts, Ianswered with the most ntense concentration of scorn in my face and nanner, which I could possibly muster. "Your language, sir, is simply an insult to ne, considering the circumstances in which we ire placed. Whether you choose, or not, to gnore your engagement, it is still binding ipon you ; and even did it not exist, you have ilready had sufficient proof of my sentiments oward you to make you aware that it would )eimpo88ible for me ever to marry you. Add o this the fact that I have promised to marry mother, and nothing more is needed to place rour present conduct in the most dishonora>le, perfidious and ungentlemanly light." "You!?you have promised ! Rosamond, s that true ? But no?I have never even leard a hint of such a thing?you are only elling me so to frighten me off?" "Really," said I, "your politeness is exem)lary. I am not accustomed to having my tatements disbelieved. It is a matter of no :onsequence to me, however, whether you :redit what I tell you or not. In any case, it a time for our conversation to come to an end. L/eave me now, if you please." "Now, you are bent on exasperating me 1 Be warned?do not arouse the lurking devil n me, or you may repent it, too late! Once nore, do you persist in your disdainful treatnent, or will you consider what I have said to rou?" If ever man looked as if he had a "lurking levil" in him, he was that man just then. I ooked hastily around for some means of es ape from au interview which was now beaming too trying for my nerves to endure. \tthat instant I heard the welcome sound of vheels ; it was a farmer's wagon coming along. \Iy heart bounded with relief, and I sprang 'orward. exclaimimr? "Oh ! Mr. Liddel, I am so tired ! Please )ick me up and give me a ride home." CHAPTER X. MY WEDDING. Dr. Wardlaw proved himself a man of his vord. How it all got arranged I scarcely cnew?some letters passed between him and ?y father, of which I did not see the contents, riien he wrote to me, asking if I could not ix a day early in November for our marriage, ind then I cast myself upon aunt Mabel for sounsel, and somehow before I had had time o realize what we were all about, I found hat I was to be married on the fifteenth of November; a little les9 than two months from he time that he had first spoken to me about it. All this time papa never said a word on he subject which lay so near ray heart; and it la9t I felt as if I must break this barrier of lilence, no matter at what cost. I chose a ? t n I juiet hour one evening wneu there was no rear | >f interruption, and approached my task in j 'ear and trembling, though with the resolve | ,o accomplish it somehow. I brought a low | ihair to his side, and leaned ray head against | lis arm, inviting a caress. It did not come at j irst; but presently his hand touched my j jrow, and softly smoothed back my hair, as j n the olden time. My heart swelled, and j hough I tried to restrain thera, the tears at ength burst forth. "Daughter," said papa, gently, "why do fou cry?" "Because I cannot help it," I sobbed. "I want to feel that you love me just as much as jver." "And do I not ?" he rejoined, in a tone vhich was carefully calm and collected. 'Have I giveu any proof to the contrary?" "You don't look at me or speak to me as pou used to do; you seem to keep me at a dis:ance." "Xay, child ; it is not I, but circumstances which seem to create an estrangement between js. But Rosy, there is 110 estrangement. I j love you 110 less than I have always done. 1 , 1 rl c/?u ??nal tt Iaitq vnii " | /UUK OVttlttJJ IV T V ;vu ?u\/*v? I was a little comforted by this, but not satisfied. "Papa, if you would only let me talk to you sometimes about?about?" "About your marriage," said my father, in j i grave tone. "Is that what you wish to say ?" j "Yes?oh ! papa, it seems so hard to feel | Lhat I am cutting myself off from your sym-1 pathy, just where I need it most?so hard j aever to have one word of counsel from you? never one wish for my happiness?nothing to | show that you feel au interest in my future: life?nobody to talk to me or advise me but iunt Mabel. It has always been so different; in everything else, all my life!" I felt his baud tremble, and he paused before he replied. "Rosy," he said, at length, "it would have ! been wiser in you not to broach this subject1 again. I had hoped we had done with all 1 discussion of it, now and forever. You have made your choice, which I trust may prove a 1 wise one, and I have offered no opposition to I it. I feel that I have no right to stand in the j way of your happiness, and therefore refrain j from exercising the authority by which I might, if I ehose, keep you with me for three J years, or nearly three years, longer. I do 1 not choose to have you regard me as a tyrant, j ar a eruel, hard-hearted, selfish father. I do , wish, most sincerely, that you may find all the happiness you expect in your married life; Bmd as far as my estimate of Dr. Wardlaw's character goes, I see no reason to apprehend that you will be disappoiuted. Beyond this, [ cannot go. We are all differently constituted, and we cannot change the nature God : has given us. No doubt, I am a peculiar per-1 son ; but being so, you must excuse my pecu-1 liarities, which will remain with me till I die. You aud I have lived together almost as one, j in heart, in word, in deed. I accepted you as your dead mother's representative, and reseived you into the sacred place I had given her in my heart. Whea that is once more left vacant, nothing on earth can ever fill it agaiu. Often when counseled to marry a second time, I have pointed to you, and an- [ ho swered, "That child is all I need ; she is my wil companion, the joy and treasure of my life." 1 I never realized, somehow, that a day would an come when I should be called to give you up. sat If I ever thought of your marrying, it was with or the hope that ere that time I should be re- mi moved from earth, having had you with me ' to the last. I put aside the idea of a separa- an tion between us as a vague, untangible evil mc that Providence would mercifully avert from me. I see now that this reasoning was blind no and futile?selfish?if you will. I suppose I br< am selfish in my love for you; but that is one I 1 of those inborn weaknesses of my nature which a f cannot be rooted out. The knowledge that I wa had all along been cherishing a mere delusion, hai came upon me with a shock which I could not an quite withstand, for I am less strong than I go< thought myself. But it is the will of God fai that the closest ties should be broken Borne- me times; and I must be thankful that it is only no' my happiness which is affected by the sever- die ance of this one." nei I was greatly agitated by this speech, and hn made no ettort to conceal my distress. "" "It is not only yotrr happiness which is af- pb fected," I answered, when I could speak. "You make me more unhappy than I can mi express to you, and if you say the word, papa, I J I will give up my marriage, even now?give frij up Arthur, and everything, sooner than cause mj you such pain!" me "Hush, Rosamond; you speak wildly! You raj know I would not exact such a sacrifice from you, nor do I, in the least, desire it. On the tuc contrary, such a proceeding on your part cm would only excite ray displeasure." ny "Then, what am 1 to do ?" I cried, in despair. "The prospect of my marriage makes you wretched; the idea of my giving it up tot makes you angry; you bid me be happy in ray pa own way, and then make me miserable by wh showing me that I am doing you an irreparable injury." ed, "Just so," said my father, quietly, in reply thi to this outburst. "That is the order in which rig things stand, and, unfortunately, we cannot to reverse it. Cease to distress yourself about wh what is inevitable, and resign yourself to it as ty I do. Time will, no doubt, soften the pain ru| which we both feel. With patience the severest wounds are healed." ani "But I am not a philosopher," I answered, gn "I cannot reason dispassionately. I act from do feeling and impulse." aQl "When you are as old as I am," said my *.hi father, "you will know that feeling and im- "n ??ii i m \ pulse are not always sate or desiraoie guides. Were I to act from feeling and impulse now, perhaps the result would not be entirely satis- ?0' factory to you. Be satisfied to know that my t0 reason holds them in check, and bids me con- C01 suit your welfare alone." ?1.0 This argument was unanswerable; and I "n felt that farther appeal was vaiu. I sobbed until I was tired, and then dried my tears, "l? and gradually consoled myself with the wo thought that Arthur would kuow how to make me happy. I remembered, too, hissug- w" gestion that the lapse of time would effect a auj revolution in my father's feelings, and could only hope that this anticipation might not ^ prove a delusive one. At all events, I found m that no present effort of mine could accomplish the desired result; and was forced to ov accent DaDa's counsel, and resign myself to the inevitable, with the beet grace I could P11 muster. no The fifteenth was rapidly approaching, and 0D all due preparations progressed accordingly. Dear aunt Mabel was like a good fairy, hovering about me with kind, motherly care, and erl casting the sunshine of her cheery presence all P. over our house, which would otherwise have , j. been gloomy enough. The wedding was to 1 be a very quiet one. It was to take place at home in the morning, and we were to go di- . rectly off" to Dr. Wardlaw's home in South gDJ Carolina, for neither of us wished for the rCj doubtful diversion of a honeymoon trip. Papa .. had never even suggested that Dr. Wardlaw should be invited to remain temporarily at his jja house ; and remembering what he had once said iu regard to his presence there, after our marriage, I felt that our best and safest plan . was to make the parting a quiet and speedy . one, and remove ourselves out of the way with all possible despatch. R No doubt it was a matter of some wonder- , raent to our friends, that this important event ^ of our life should be allowed to take place un- tU) accompanied by any striking celebration, kuowiug, as they did, the delight my father had always taken in making the most or every occurrence in which my interest or pleasure fu] was concerned. But after a few natural ques- t() tious, they ceased expressing their ideas on an the subject, at least, to me ; and my unavoid- ^ able reserve in regard to it, joined to papa's immovable reticeuce, and perhaps, a judicious hint or two from aunt Mabel, in right places, t0 probably gave them the idea that the less they ^ visibly indulged their curiosity the better. on I awoke on the morning of the thirteenth in a flutter of expectation, for on that day Dr. j Wardlaw was to arrive, having engaged a room and board in the village for the period of his stay there. My own preparations were | by this time complete ; and I had nothing to do but to wander about the house and grounds 8j1( at will, in a state of restlessness and quasi melancholy that made me by turns absurdly ^ gay and unreasonably depressed. I felt half teI sorry that the romance of my courtship was so nearly over; half frightened at the thought ]( of the new life I was about to enter. Yet I |>0J had an eager desire to find peace and happiness ; a natural youthful craving to shake off re{ the dullness of constant care, and the tram- j mels of enforced and painful reserve, which made my once joyous home a dreary and sor- tj(] rowful ahode. u My father's wedding present to me was a h :i! * -.1 .1: 1? ?,1 ? . muglliuueu L SUL Ul UlUHJUUllO, auu a jjcan locket which had been my mother's, contain- ^j. ing some of her hair, and a miniature like- wj ness of her, copied from one in his possession, w? set in the back. I thanked him warmly, but (j() told him I would have been better pleased if he had given me also a likeness of himself. e "No, child, no," he replied ; "I am too old ca to have my picture taken. When you forget dr how I look, you can refresh your memory by j ] coming to see me." jnj I thought this a good opening for relieving wj myself of something that was on my mind. do "When you wantU9, papa," I said, boldly, an "you will write and tell us so, won't you ?" tr My father changed color. gj{ "Surely," he replied, "you are not going to become such a stranger as to need an iuvita- gaj tion for every visit you pay me." Le "But Arthur is a comparative stranger, gn papa." th? My father gave me a look of mingled entreaty and reproach, and turned away without a word. My little artifice had resulted # only in failure, and I was bitterly vexed with on myself for attempting what I could not ac- In eoraplish, in reviviug a question which it was if the part of wisdom to leave at rest. if Evening came, and with it came my be- sla trothed, looking boyishly bright, eager and wii happy. The sight of him was like an oasis he in a barren plain, and his greeting was balm let to my tired and harassed soul. thi "How pale you look," he said to me, when wr the first effusion of our meeting was over, and we were sitting quietly by the parlor fire. "You have not been taking good care of yourself. When you are in my charge, I shall see jn that your roses bloom again." "Do roses bloom in November, in Carolina ?" I asked, playfully. "Some do, all the year round. The air of Sleepy Hollow you will find particularly shi beneficial, Rosamond. I sometimes wonder rai w you will like my home. I am afraid yoi II find it rather lonely and dull." Then I commenced to ask him a thousanc d one questions, and his answers made m( isGed and happy, and no fear of lonelinesf dullness with him found a place in mj nd. That evening passed?the#next day cara< d went?and the sun arose upon my brida >rn. We had a hurried, early breakfast, of whicl one partook. There was to be a compan) iakfast when the ceremony was over, whicb tad a presentiment would greatly resembh uneral feast, and my own share in which 1 s resolved to make as slight as possible. 1 d wanted to be married in a traveling dress d take leave immediately, but this mj ^mother so stoutly opposed that I wa: ' ' m t?! J _ __ d to ananaon toe scneme. iwo onue# kids I should aud roust have, and she wat t going to see me looking old-womanish anc mal in a gray poplin gown and straw bon t, by the side of their white muslins anc e furbelows and flounces. So my dress wat lite silk, quite simply made, with a. lonf lin veil of tulle and an orange wreath d I thought as I looked at myself in th< rror, when my toilette was completed, thai lad never seen so complete a picture of f ghtened ghost as my reflection presented t< ' gaze. In truth, now that the final rao >nt was at hand, I felt dismal enough, anc r tears were dangerously near?a conditio! ich excited aunt Mabel's extreme solici le and apprehension, lest I might mar the nfort of our guests and disturb the ceremo by an untimely burst of emotion. 'Rosamond,child, you really must not cry,' s said entreatingly, as she put the finishing iches to my dress. "It would put youi pa in a dreadful state, and I don't knov iat we should all do." "No, I wont't cry, aunt Mabel," I answer reluctantly; and in my effort to carry ou 8 determination, I fixed my features in t id form, which was anything but becoming them, and kept them so during the ordea ich ensued. They say all brides look pret ; but I am sure I was an exception to thi le. Well! it was over at last, breakfast and all d Mrs. Arthur Wardlaw, arrayed in th( ty poplin and straw bonnet aforesaid, cami wn stairs, with red eyes, to bid her relative d friends good-by. The worst partingit with my father?was reserved for th< al one ; and my heart seemed to come int< r threat. and nt.ifle me. as I aDDroached llitl """ "* * i? ~ "fr iere he stood, a little removed from every dy else, at one end of the room. I wante< pull him out into the hall, anywhere, so I jld have him a moment to myself; but hi od quietly there, and drawing me close t< n, looked calmly and steadily into ray en ating eyes. His lips were white, but thej 1 not tremble, as he uttered his farewel rds. "God bless you, Rosy ; my best wishes g< th you, and with your husband. Good-by d write to me very soon." "Papal" I murmured, clinging to him h ! papa, tell me, once more, that you lov< !?that I am your own Rosy, still I" He faltered for a moment, then; but sooi ercame the passing weakness. "You know that I love you always," he re ed, gently. "It is growing late, you mus t stay any longer, now. Good-by?my littl e!" The last words escaped him, as if involun ily, and were uttered with a sudden quiv ng tenderness that went to my heart. Hi t my hand in my husband's. I did no tness the parting between them, for I wa nded by my tears; but it must have beei ry brief, for almost at the same moment, I is led off to the carriage, which stood wait I for us. The order to start was given ipio cracked his whip, and the carriag lied smoothly off over the gravel road, i tie black boy running before us to open th tes. We passed the latter, and the happ; me of my girlhood was left behind, to b :n by Rosamond Lambert no more. My husband acted wisely. He forbore t< ;errupt my natural grief, but let it for i ae have its vent, knowing that its full out uring would ease my heart moreeffectuall; an any consolation he could offer. And si was. After a little while my tears exhaustei jmselves, and I was able to listen with re rning calmness to the brief words of affec n with which he sought to soothe and diver f mind, saying just enough, from time I ae, to direct my thoughts to the future, si II of interest to me, or to call my attentioi surrounding objects as we traveled along d by the time we reached the railroai ition I was almost myself again and able t< t up my blue veil without fear of attraetiiij tice. Here I had to say another good-bye the sable Scipio, who had "toted" me as i by, and given me my first lessons in ridinj horseback, and who was very anxious U informed by "the doctor" when I was com I back again. "Doctor, please bring Miss Rosamond sooi pay we all a visit; de ole place will be toi lesome when she gone." "I promise to let her come just as often a 3 wants," was the reply; "and I dare sa; ur master will let you visit Carolina one o 3se days, if he finds that you are pining al Matilda." Hereupon Matilda giggled, and Scipio dis lyed his ivory teeth in a delighted smile a courtship had long been going on be een the sable pair, which would probabl; suit in a stylish wedding some day, provi d Tildy could be induced to relinquish he lduess for having five or six beaux at i ae, and would consent to return home with t me to live. A serio-comic leave-takiiq tween them ensued, which was cut short b; e shriek of the approaching locomotive >e train stopped, we took our places, anc th a whiz and a roar we were off, Matilidi iving her white handkerchief from the win w as long as the stution was in sight. The evening shadows were gathering as w iched our stopping place, where Arthur' rriage was waiting to receive us. An hour' ive brought us to the close of our journey ooked eagerly out. A dark, indistinct build y, with lights shining from the fron ndows, rose up before me. The fron or, displaying a lighted hall, stood open d negroes were moving about among th< ;es with pine-torches, which shed a fitfu ire upon the dusky scene. "Welcome to Sleepy Hollow, Rosamond,' d Dr. Wardlaw, as he assisted me to alight waning upon his arm, I ascended the broat mite steps, and stood tor tne nrst time upoi 3 threshold of my new home. [to be continued next week.] of The more quietly and peaceably we ge the better?the better for our neighbors nine cases out of ten, the wisest policy is a man cheats you quit dealing with him he is abusive, quit his company; if hi nders you, take care to live so that nobodj II believe him ; no matter who he is, or hov misuses you, the wisest way is generally t< him alone; for there is nothing better thai s cool, calm quiet way of dealing with thi ongs we meet with. A chap kisssed his girl about forty timei ;ht straight along, and when he stopper 3 tears came into her eyes, and she saic a sad tone of voice : Ah! John, I fea u have ceased to love me." "No, I haven't" d John, "but I must breathe." The most glaring form of ignorance i swn in the ignorance of one's own igno nee, ' pstotg of JL tooliua. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. HISTORICAL SKETCHES OK THK Early Settlement of South Carolina. by bev. bobebt lathan. (continued from no. 42.) The summer of 1728 was, in South Carolina, excessively hot and dry. The crops were cut off, and so great was the evaporation, that many of the small streams and ponds of water were dried up. Wild animals were reduced " to the greatest straits, and many of them perished for want of water. This drought was followed, in August, by a terrific storm. The afreets of Charles Town were covered with water, driven in from the river. Houses and I trees were blown down. Twenty-three ships, } lying in the harbor, were dashed, with vior lence on shore, and totally destroyed. Only ! two large vessels?the Fox and the Garland? [ outrode the storm. These were war ships ^ stationed at the entrance of the harbor, for t the protection of the town. For security } from the flood, the inhabitants of the town were forced to take refuge in the upper stories I of their houses. It may not be uninteresting ( to remark that this was the third hurricane that had visited the country since its settle, raent by the English. The first was in 1700; the second in 1713. These, as we will see, were followed by others, at irregular periods. > The storm of 1728 was followed by the yelr low fever. This was the third time that this 'r dreadful disease made its appearance. So ? fatal was it at this time, that it was often difficult for friends to obtain assistance in burying their dead. The people in the country ^ became alarmed, and no person from the plani tations was permitted to visit the town, lest t the disease might be contracted and carried ? into the country. The town was dependent \ .upon the plantations in its vicinity for supplies. None being brought in, the town was threatened with famine. In the year 1728, the proprietors, with the g exception of Lord Carteret, sold their interest in the soil of Carolina to the king of Great Britain. The purchase of the seven-eights of this extensive territory was made for the insignificant sum of eighty-seven thousand five hundred dollars. The payment was to be 5 made in 1729. In 1719, the government of the State was surrendered to the King of j England. Now the soil was bought, and the j province became directly under the control of the crown of England. All things consider5 ed, this was a good thing. Under the proprietary government, it is very probable that the " colony would have struggled for a few years j and then died. By the act of the British parliament, power was granted the King of Eng} land to appoint a Governor for each of the Carolinas. In 1729, the province was divided ' into North and South Carolina, but the division was not effected until 1732. The line g was not run until 1736, and then with no degree of accuracy. So soon as the province was placed wholly in the hands of the King, everything began to assume a new and favorable aspect. A^ mong the first undertakings of the royal government, was an attempt to conciliate the Indian tribes and form, with them, alliances of friendship. Toeflectthis object, Alexander Cumraing was sent out with full power to ^ treat with the various tribes living in the ret gions now occupied by the north western counties of the State. In 1730, Cumming penetrated the forests as far as Keowee town, j three hundred miles from Charles Town. Here, in April, the chiefs met, and in a friendly manner entered into negotiations for the 'n general welfare of themselves, their people and the English settlers. Six of the chiefs accompanied Cummingto ] e Charles Town, where they were joined by ^ another, and all seven set sail for England, e and in the mouth of June arrived safely in England. They landed at Dover; thence they went to London and were ushered into the presence of the King of England. Speeches were made by the Indians and by King ^ George, and finally a treaty was drawn up and signed by Alured Popple, secretary of the lords commission of trade and planta'' tions for and in behalf of the English crown, and by the marks of the six chiefs for and in behalf of the Cherokees. These six chiefs 0 had gone to England as deputies of Moytoy, 3 the chief warrior of the Cherokees ; and, of 3 course, their action was regarded as binding, a In 1731 these Indian deputies returned to America. They accompanied Robert John3 son, who had been appointed by the King, } governor of South Carolina, j This was the same Robert Johnson who was y Governor of South Carolina when the propri* etary government in 1719, was superseded by(| the royal. The appointing of Johnson, Governor, showed that he had not, in the least, forj feited the confidence of either people or king. 3 He had struggled hard to retain the proprietary form of government, but he failed. He g did his duty. He was faithful to his employers, the proprietors of the province, and now, ^ in 1731, he is again honored with the office of ? Governor. The choice was certainly a wise one. Robert Johnson was thoroughly ac quainted witb everything connected with the | colony. He knew the men. ' Thomas Broughton was appointed Lieuten' ant-Governor, and Robert Wright, Chief Justice. William Bull, James Kinloch, Alexanr der Skene, John Fenwick, Arthur Middleton, j Joseph Wragg, Francis Yonge, JohnHamerton and Thomas Waring, were the remaining , members of the Council. From the com? mencement of his administration, Johnson , manifested great interest in the Royal governj ment, and also in the people of the colony. a He recommended the Assembly to pass a vote of thanks to his majesty, the King of England, for his great kindness manifested toward j e the colony, in purchasing seven-eights of the j g soil of the proviuce. He urged that the laws ! 8 for the suppression of vice be enforced, and j that the children and youth of the settlement I | be carefully educated, as the best possible I t means for the promotiou of virtue. Toward j t the settlers, who were at this time poor, and i many of them sad from the sore bereavements j g which they had suffered, the English govern-; j ment was kind, gentle and encouraging. The j I quit-rents, which were bought at the time the 1 i J soil was purchased, were, by an act of royal I j bounty, remitted. The king sent seventy J j"' pieces of cannon to the colony, and instructed i j 1 Governor Johnson to build a fort at Port i Royal and another at Altamaha. A compa-! i ny of foot soldiere was granted the colony for ' ! its protection by land, and ships of war were t; stationed in the harbors and along the coast, j i. for the protection of the commerce of the ! rnlnnv. These and similar acts of kindness ] ; and generosity, stimulated the people to strug- j 3! gle against the difficulties of the wilderness, j r with energy and hope. v The colony began to assume an importance i ) which attracted the attention of the large : i mercantile cities of England. The raer- J 3 chants of London, Bristol and Liverpool, established branch-houses of their business in ! Charles Town. Large numbers of negroes j were brought from Africa by these European j j merchants and sold to the settlers in South Carolina. In return, rice, silk, timber, furs ,: and leather, were sold by the settlers to these merchants. The exports of the colony now began to be so extensive as to secure to the 8 people credit in England. During the year -11781, nearly forty-two thousand barrels of ' rice were sent by the colony to England and to the other colonies in America; and ntteen hundred negroes were brought into the State. It would seem that the year 1731 marks a very important period in the history of South Carolina. Prior to this period, the inhabitants enjoyed very few comforts. The houses in which the people lived were miserable wooden huts. In Charles Town, there were in 1731, between five and six thousand dwelling houses, most of which were wooden structures. The county possessed fewer artificial comforts than the town. The farmers at that early day were notoriously slovenly. All that the majority of them aimed at, was to procure a sufficient amount of the absolute necessities of life. This could be accomplished almost without an effort. The restrictions which, heretofore, had been laid on commerce, and the inefficiency of the proprietary governments, had conspired to make the farmers careless and indifferent. So soon as the province became a part and 1 -r it? J ? parcm or me x>ntisu uuiuiuiuua, a luamcu change took place. The farmers became energetic, and in the year 1731, two hundred and seven ships were employed in exportinff^^^_ the surplus productions of the colony. The King instructed Governor Johnson to extend the settlement of the terr. iry in various directions. For the purpose of effecting this object he was ordered to lay out eleven towns. It was ordered that the district connected with each of these towns should contain a tract of twenty thousand acres of land. These towns were to be located on the Altamaha, Savannah, Santee, Ponpon, Wateree, Black, Waccamaw and Pedee rivers. On each of the three first named, there were to be two towns and one on each of the others. Each man, woman and child of every family which would settle on these tracts of land, was to receive fifty acres which was to be increased as the necessities of the family might demand. At that time, it was very common for individuals to come into the country in the capacity of servants. These individuals had engaged to labor in the capacity of servants only for a certain number of years. The king made provision for this class of persons. So soon as their term of service expired, they were to receive fifty acres of land, free from all rents, for two years. Women, as well as men, were entitled to this bounty. This was a wise provision. Many persons of good character came, at different times, into the country, in the capacity ot servants, ay tne wise provision of the king, these individuals were, so soon as their terra of service expired, enabled to assume, with credit to themselves aud profit to the country, the position of citizens. From this class of persons, some of the most worthy citizens of the State in after years, sprang. Whether or not all the towns that Governor Johnson was instructed to lay out were actually located, we are not able to say positively. Perhaps they were not; but one thing is certain, about this time the population of the State first began to spread over the territory. Purrysburgh, on the banks of the Savannah, was settled by a Swiss colony. This town was about thirty miles from the sea and seven miles above tide water. This settlement was begun under the auspices of John Peter Purry, of Neufchatel; James Richards, of Geneva; Abraham Meuron and Henry Raymond, both of Sulpy. In order to aid Purry in accomplishing his undertaking, the Assembly granted him two thousand dollars and sustenance for three hundred persons for the period of one year. Provision was made that the immigrants be Swiss Protestants of good moral character. The country had now been settled sixty years. Still the people enjoyed but few of the blessings of civilization. We have already seen that the dwelling houses of the majority of the country people were rude in appearance ar>A hut little rnmfnrt to those inhab iting them. There were even at this early period in the country, a few stately mansions ; but these were exceptions. A few rich men came to South Carolina, and from the infancy of the colony lived in English style. What we now call out-houses, were, of course, even more neglected than the dwellings. In 1731 there were few barns in the State. The domestic animals were rarely, even in winter, put into stables. They were turned into pens, near by the dwelling house, more for the purpose of keeping them tame, than with the view of protecting them from the inclemency of the weather. Horses, cows, hogs and sheep had increased most wonderfully. At this time it was no uncommon thing for a farmer to own several hundred head of cattle. These were no expense whatever, except the time that was spent in watching them and preventing them from going wild. They were fed neither in summer nor winter. In summer, they grew very fat; but in the winter they became exceedingly poor, ana vast numbers of them died. It is said during the winter of 1730-31, not less than ten thousand head of cattle died from hunger and cold. Up to this period the farmers laid up no food for their domestic animals, and it is said there was not a cow shelter in the country. Very little use was made of the domestic animals by the early settlers. Milk and butter were scarce, notwithstanding the fact that one individual would often own two hundred cows with calves. The cows and calves were allowed to run together in the forest, and the owner of this vast herd rarely had either milk or butter on his table.. Butter sold often for one dollar and a half per pound ; and sometimes for twice that amount in Charles Town. The first individuals who settled in the State were, it would seem From their conduct, extremely ignorant with respect to agriculture, and very little progress was made either in the science or art of agriculture by their descendants for more than half a century. They learned to cultivate maize from the Indians, and rice from the negroes that were brought into the colony from Africa. In 1731, there were very few mechanics in the State. The wages of a good carpenter, at that time, was about seven dollars and a half and diet, per day. Blacksmiths ranked about the same. Such a condition of things could - i?* i r_ _ nui last lOUg. 1U U CUUULiJf nmuu auv*v.^v. freedom to all such, wages would entice the struggling multitudes of Europe. The first settlers of the State did not, however, think of settling up the State with the laboring classes of Europe. They looked to Africa for laborers. Hence, the negro population' increased much more rapidly than the white. When the white population numbered only a little more than ten thousand, the negro population was forty thousand. The price of a negro, on an average, was about one hundred and fifty dollars. This sura was paid with ox hides and deer skins, or with a few barrels of rice, or of tar. Such a system was calculated to make the white people lazy. [to be continued next week.] ? ? The Stripes of a Barber Pole.?A gilt knob at the end of a barber's pole represents the brass basin which was formerly actually suspended from the pole. The basin had a notch cut in it to fit the throat, and was used for lathering customers who came to be shaved. The pole represented the staff held in bloodletting, and the two spiral ribbons painted round it represented the two bandages, one for twisting around the arm previous to the operation, and the other for binding. Barbers, in the olden time, were surgeons, but have fallen from their high estate since science has made its voice "to be heard on high." To this day, however, the gild of "barber surgeons" retain their ancient hall, in Monkwell street, Cripplegate, London. -