Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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? lewis m. gkist, proprietor.! Jitirqjtniitiri Jfamilg ffeiospagtr: Jfor i\st promotion of political, Social, ^grintlfaral anb Commtrcial interests of fjjt j$onf(t. TERMS?$3.00 A YEAR.INADVANCE. VOL. 22. YORKVILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, MARCH 30, 1876. NO. 13. ' ' ? - . - - - ..<ni n . _ III original ^tsrg. thetron chesx BY AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR. CHAPTER III. It was some time before the change, which stealthily and gradually crept over Mr. Lyndon, became apparent to those around him ; for at firstitonly affected him inwardly, and he was able to pursue his usual avocations with his customary diligence and tranquility? outward tranquility, at least It began to show itself, by degrees, in an absent and preoccupied manner which was not habitual to him; fits of silence and abstraction, as though some secret care were weighing on his mind. Then his temper grew sharper?his wonted mild and gentle tone sometimes took an unpleasant accent, and he would make a hasty or a pettish answer to some innocent remark, if it did not chance to accord with his present mood. His wife was the first to notice these symptoms, and they caused her much anxiety. She fancied they might be the precursors of illness, and often asked him if he felt unwell. But on one occasion he seemed so annoyed by the Question, and reolied with so much asper 1 ? 4 ity, that she did not venture upon any farther remark. She oould not, however, hide the concern she felt, and followed him with such i wistful looks whenever he was in one of these unamiable moods, as plainly to betray what < was in her mind. "What are you watching me so for, Marga- i ret f" he asked her once, on an occasion of this kind. "Is there anything wrong about mef i "Not that I know of, my dear," she gently i answered; for she was afraid of offending him by a more direct reply. i "Not that you know of? What does that mean ? Do you suspect anything wrong, then ?" "I never said so, Edward?didsl ?" < "No, but you look?you watch me and fol- i low me about in an odd kind of way. If I < say or do anything that you don't like, or don't approve of, can't you tell me so, and be j i done with it ?" i A codple of months before, Mr. Lyndon i never would have dreamed of speaking to his "i wife in such a tone?a tone of suppressed irritation, as if trying to find vent for his resent- i ment at some real or fancied injury. She felt it keenly, but loved him too sincerely, and ! had her own temper besides too thoroughly i under control, to allow herself to make an angry reply. "I will not watch you, if you dislike it," she i answered, mildly; "but I did not suppose it < could displease you. You never used to ob- j ject to my following you about, as you call it" i "Of course I like to have you near me," he i rejoined, in some compunction for his hasty ! 1 ??w*?* 1 * ' u \ intently, as if something was the matter. It < makes me uncomfortable." Thereupon he i got up and left the room ; and she was more than ever convinced that he was either feeling ill, or had some trouble weighiug upon him ( which he was unwilling to have her share. His uneasy feelings did not diminish, but rather increased as time went on. He was ] himself hardly conscious of their growth, or , ? "^~ ItAktA ma/^a o of t>oniiniio ptjruaps L1C WUU1U uavc ujauc a obivuuuuo vi" | | fort to conquer them, and, by making such an j effort in the beginning, have succeeded in driving them from his mind. But there was the cause ever before him, or, at least, ever within reach; and it must be acknowledged that it was very often under his eyes, for it possessed such an odd fascination for him that he was continually stealing off* secretly to look at \ it. He would go into the little spare room j and shut the door, and feast his eyes on what i he fancied might be the repository of untold | wealth. By nourishing an idea continually t in the imagination, it attains a surprising j growth in a comparatively short time. And ( having once conceived the idea of the exis- , tence of this immense wealth, he dwelt upon ; it until, from a mere supposition, it seemed to ( become a fixed fact. And the charm of this , fancy lay also in another with which it was indissolubly connected?namely, that this , wealth would one day fall into his hands. While Capt. Lyndon, poor man, was harmlessly passing his hours in whistling to his bird, or , dosing over books, with never a recollection of ( the unlucky cnest to disturo ms tnougnts, nis brother was yielding himself, by slow degrees, a prey to a terrible disease, that was blight- , ing his better nature, and perverting all its good and noble qualities to an ignoble use. The thirst for gold?that fatal fever which has | blackened the fresh purity of so many hearts, ( and wrought misery in so many innocent lives and happy homes?was asserting its dominion ( over him with ever increasing power. New | and sordid desires, selfish aims and calcula- , tions that had never before soiled his mind, found existence there now. Higher and purer aspirations fell to the ground. Duty became irksome, because it interfered with the indulgence of secret things; and where love and < unselfishness had once exercised their influ- ; ence, the demon avarice now reigned. . It was not long before the younger members i of the family became sensible of the change ; in their father which had, in so early a stage, aroused the watchful solicitude of Mrs. Lyndon. Like her, they at first naturally concluded that he must be sick, or worried; but when they found that the indications which troubled them did not pass away, and yet that no cause was assigned for them, but that their father visibly shrank from any appearance of solicitude, or any questioning on their part, they appealed to their mother's judgment for a confirmation of their^fears. "Indeed, I do not know what to think," she said, sadly, one day, in answer to Lily's anxious questions. "I was afraid at one time, like yourself,that yourfather might be unwell; but he denies feeling badly, and his health seems much as usual. It seems to annoy him to be spoken to about it." "That is what I cannot understand," said Lily, her eyes filling with tears. 'T merely asked him, this morning, if he had headache, because it struck me that he looked tired and dull, and he answered me quite sharply that there was nothing the matter with him, and that he did not see why I should suppose that there was. Now, you know, mamma, that is so different from papa's usual way. I never knew him to be cross before." "You must not call him cross, Lily," replied her mother, gently. "No doubt he has some trouble on his mind, which he is unwilling to speak about." "But be ought not to make us suffer for that." Lily looked, as she felt, especially aggrieved, for she had always been Mr. Lyndon's pet daughter ; more with him than any of the other children, and considered that on that account she was particularly entitled to his confidence. And this new phase of his character was so surprising that she could not refrain from speaking about it. "Perhaps it is some difficulty in pansn matters," Mrs. Lyndon went on, anxious to justify him in their daughter's eyes. "That would naturally depress him, and make him act in a way that might seem a little unaccountable, sometimes. "But why should you not know, mamma, if it were so ? Doesn't he tell you everything ?" "He does, usually," Mrs. Lyndon admitted. "But one can't tell what little difficulties might spring up, that he would not be willing to discuss with anybody. I suppose it is so with every one, once in a while." "I never thought papa was one to have any concealments, or make mysteries of things," said Lily. "And everything in the parish seems to be going on well, as far as I can see." Sometimes the distemper took a new turn, and displayed itself in fits of unusual gayety and excitement. The rector would take Daisy on his knee, tell her funny stories, make the most absurd jokes, and laugh extravagantly at his own conceits; would talk loudly and rapidly to his wife and daughters, discusain?y a dozen f.onins in a breath : would slaD his boys on the sholder, and ask them all sorts of comical questions about their doings at school; in short, comport himself in the most erratic and undignified fashion, which disquieted his wife even more than his gloom and taciturnity would do. That something was wrong, and that more than a mere passing annoyance, she felt more and more convinced; but though her anxiety and distress grew in strength as time went on, *he strove in vain to get at the root of the disorder. There were days again, when his former self seemed to return, his querulousness disappeared, and he would be once more genial, affectionate and kind ; for a nature so intrinsically good could not be at once overmastered, or its better feelings completely thrown into the background without a struggle. But these intervals of self-assertion only made his contrasting moods more unpleasant; and they grew, besides, rarer and rarer, until his family came to regard them, unhappily, as the exceptions rather thaD the rule. A shadow had stolen over the once bright happy household, not acknowledged, but daily and hourly felt. The unrestrained confidence which had existed between the head of the family and the other memoers was impaired; the trail of the serpent had entered the little Eden, and its baneful influence withered the pure domestic joys in which its inmates had once revelled. The only person there uuconscious of the change was the Captain. He was too constantly secluded in his own room to know much of what went on l^XIT, m imi uiu urun.nu iujuuui,uu i m; occasions of their intercourse, seemed to him unchanged. He did not know, poor man, that it was only by exerting a careful command over himself that the rector succeeded in maintaining bis usual demeanor toward him. He did not know that with the growth of covetousness another evil feeling, deadly in its nature and effects, had sprung also into life?a feeling so subJe that it did not betray itself even to the heart wbere it existed, until so strength ened and encompassed by surrounding pas-! iious that it dared to creep into view; a feeling akin to that which had first brought death into the world, and stained the shuddering earth with Abel's blood. How, or when, the cravings of avarice had first linked themselves to this darker thought? In what manner they had first awakened a dim, undefined desire for the time to come, when, by the death of its present possessor, the treasure on which he had set his heart would fall into his hands, the rector never knew. He seemed to be encompassed in a net whose meshes were ever twining more fatally about him. Like a struggling fly in the web of its enemy, each frantic effort to escape only lessened his chances of liberty, and bound him more firmly in the snare. For he did struggle, hard and desperately against Satan's wiles at first. He shrank in horror and selfloathing from the knowledge of his secret 3iu ; but the voice of conscience grew fainter, or his ears closed themselves to its cry. His moral perceptions seemed weakened; blindness fell upon his eyes. It was as though a dark enchantment were cast over him, distorting all things to his mental view. And there, under his eyes, like a grim, motionless fiend, prompting him onward in his evil course, stood the iron chest, mocking him with its security and strength, which baffled curiosity, and laid an impassable barrier between his longing vision and the Secret it enshrined. CHAPTER IV. A year had elapsed since Sir Henry Lyndon's bequest had come into the Captain's possession; and affairs continued in much the same state as the last chapter has described?the rector being by turns fretful and gloomy, or unnaturally gay aud excited ; still fulfilling his parish duties, yet in a less satisfactory manner than formerly, for his heart was in them no longer. It was an absolute i task to him now to write a sermon, and he j brought out old ones oftener than met with : the approval of those of his hearers who were j critically inclined. His visits to the poor | were less frequent, his manner to them more abrupt and less cordial than before. He was' often heard to find fault with their careless- j ness and their ingratitude, shortcomings upon which he had, in former days, been wont to j look with more lenient eyes. Among his ac-; quaintances he was constrained and reserved ; people noticed the change and wondered what had come over him. At home it was worse. His children no longer approached him with familiarity, but kept shyly aloof, fearing a rebuff. Even Lily ventured but seldom in his study, not knowing when her presence there would be welcome. Only his wife, in her 1 clinging and faithful love, kept as near to him as ever, hoping still by her constant tenderness and untiring, patient, though stealthy efforts, to win him back to the ways he had forsaken, and exorcise the mysterious demon that possessed him. Subduing all pride and self-love, she would not suffer herself to resent the slights he sometimes cast upon her, or to show, by look or word, how deeply they wounded her. She ministered to him with the' patience and fidelity with which she would have nursed him through a severe bodily illness, trusting to time to remove the daDgerous symptoms, and restore him to his former soundness. For in her heart a terrible suspicion had gradually found place?terrible, yet not so terrible as the truth?she fancied he was growing insane. Night and day the fear haunted her; but she breathed it into no mortal ear; none knew it but God. In her hours of solitude she wrestled in anguish with this haunting fear, sending up fervent prayers that-a calamity so dreadful might be averted from them ; or, if it did come, that they might have strength to bear it. It chanced, about this time, that a letter came to Mrs. Lyndon, from a widowed sister of hers, who lived in another State, telling of a long and trying illness from which the latter was slowly recovering, and begging her to go and spend a few weekB with her, during the necessary absence of another relative, who had hitherto nursed her, but was now unexpectedly called away. The rector's wife was sorely troubled and perplexed by this summons. On the one hand, the call seemed too urgent a one to be refused ; on the other, she felt that it was almost impossible for her to make up her mind to leave her husband. When she showed the letter to Mr. Lyndon, however, he seemed to think it such an indisputable fact that there could be no room for doubt in the matter, but that it was her duty to go without delay, that she felt herself forced to yield to his decision, especially, as she could not venture to give him her reasons for desiring to remain at home. With a heavy heart, therefore, she made her preparations ; and took occasion, when alone with her daughters, to give them many charges concerning the care of their father while she was gone. "My dearest girls," she said to them as she was packing her trunk, and they stood by, handing her such articles as she called for; "you must be very good and attentive to dear papa during my absence, and not let him be worried about anything; and above all, you must promise not to mind any little uncomfortable things he may say or do, for we must always take into consideration that he is not well." (This fiction of his being out of health had come to be accepted now as an established fact by all the family ; though in their own minds they all knew that there was really something else underlying this apparent cause for the alteration in his deportment.) "Indeed, we will, mamma," said Li',,. "We will take just as good care of him as you do." "And you must write very frequently, for you can't think how anxious I shall feel to know how every thing is going on." "We can write on alternate days," said Edith. "Lily can write one day, and I the next, and then you will hear regularly." "Oh ! you needn't write every day. I could hardly expect that; but I should like to hear at least twice or three times a week." "I hope aunt Elizabeth won't keep you very TTTTT^-, JUKI XJUJ. ?"I must stay as long as she requires me; but I trust that will not be more than two or three weeks. Of course, I could not leave her until Julia returns. I wish I might ask her to come back with me. The change would probably do her good." "Don't you think you could ?" said Lily, hesitatingly. "I don't know. I should like it?but it might not quite suit." All three of them were equally conscious of the obstacle which stood in the way of this natural arrangement; but not one of them would give utterance to it. It was a sacred subject, even among themselves. Mrs. Lyn don sighed heavily. Sometimes she felt as if the burden of life now were almost too heavy a one for her to bear. But she knew that others had heavier burdens, and found strength to carry them; and she dared not murmur at her appointed lot, though at times the future looked dark to her, indeed. It was quite an event for any one of them to be going on a journey, for it was but seldom they had a call from home, "and there was considerable excitement attendant on Mrs. Lyndon's departure. She herself felt inclined to regard it as a great undertaking; but the younger ones rather envied her the opportunity of going among new scenes, and experiencing a little variety in life. Had she been coiner under more cheerful auspices, she would not have disliked it, but in the present state of affairs the prospect of the change was to her anything but a pleasant one. One thing, however, cheered ber?her husband seemed brighter and better, and altogether more like himself, during the few days that elapsed before her leaving, than he bad done for some months past; and in bidding him good-by, she was consoled by the hope that this improvement might prove a permanent one. To tell the truth, the rector was not grieved at his wife's departure. There bad been a time when the anticipation of giving her up, even for a week or two, would have troubled him, and made him feel as if he were losing something essential to his daily comfort and peace of mind. But now her companionship was, at times, a little irksome to him. He felt under a sort of restraint, in the consciousness that she was exercising a secret, though unflagging supervision over him ; a supervision under which he winced, though he knew that it sprang from motives of the tenderest affection. He did not guess how much or how 111*. 1 ^ "An/1 r\P mhot mqo v\qqqLnrr in lime sue UUUIU lunu ui nuuv nuo j/uuuiug tu his mind, and perhaps attributed to her a keener penetration than she possessed. Until a year ago, there had been no reserve between them, even in the smallest trifle. Their mutual interchange of thoughts and ideas had been as frank and open as the noonday. But now there was a fine, intangible barrier, felt by both, though with different emotious. To her, it was a subject of bitter sorrow and regret; to him,oneof vexation and impatience. He chose to fancy that the difference lay with her, while, in reality, it was created by the change in himself. And now he felt that he could breathe mere freely, if her watchful, loving eyes were, for a time, removed from him. He was anxious to be alone, as be knew he could more easily evade his children's society than hers. After their mother had left, a sort of gloom fell upon the children. She had always maintained a degree of outward cheerfulness which sustained the spirits of the household, and made the altered demeanor of its head easier to bear. The rector shut himself up continually in his study, and the girls did not like to intrude upon him. Although, whenever he emerged from his retirement, they were particularly careful to show him every atten tioo, and to act toward him as if they did noi feel that anything was amiss. And how did he pass these hours of soli tude? In writing sermons, or reading theological works, or mapping out duties and labors for himself among the people ? No. H< would sit up for hours in a reverie, with fixed downcast looks, his hands listlessly folded be fore him, his books unopened on the study ta ble, many of them covered with dust. The} had lost their charm for him, and he preferred his own unwholesome thoughts to their divine and healthy teachings?thoughts ol money, and what money could do?golden visions floating continually before him, making every-day occupations appear profitlest and tame, and robbing even his high calling of its sacredness and beauty in his eyes. The work once so gladly and willingly performed was now reduced to mere drudgery. The home he had once loved, the domestic comforl he had enjoyed, now seemed poor and bare and valueless. Even family tiee seemed tc ' - * _ ? _ | * have weakened m tneir clasp upon nis neari He would steal off, when no one saw him, and gloat over the chest which had made all this misery, but which was to make, as he*t>elieved, his fortune and happiness. Sometimes he would pass his hands over the surface of it, almost carressingly, feeling its strength, and lingering over the massive lock, as if by the touch of his fingers he could persuade it tc open, and reveal to his expectant eyes the valuables hidden within. Oh! that his vision could pierce that iron barrier, and satisfy hie longing mind as to the reality of its gorgeoue -imaginings! This suspense was intolerable. What would he not give to end it? Could it be ended?and how ? Only in one way?by the death of the owner of the chest; that is, before the end of the allotted term or years wmcn muse expire, according to the provisions of the will. One of the years had passed?nine more were in prospect. Nine weary, tedious years to drag their slow length along! He felt that he could not endure the waiting?he would surely lose his reason in the interval. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was already losing it Then that darker thought would come, that was ever lurking like a grim shade of evil in the background of his reflections?a thought vague and shadowy, like a phantom, yet with a certain fearful suggestiveness of outline, only needing a few bold touches to give it the necessary distinctness of detail. What if his brother could?be?made to die? Murder was a horrible word?it was a horrible thing. He would not think of that word. Did he not read aloud, every Sunday, from the chancel, "Thou shalt do no murder ?" But somehow, though his thoughts never actually touched that point, they revolved around it, now approaching, now receding from it, always with a dread submissiveness to the fascination of a power wmcn tney muiu uui t-giupv. nun. rtrr-sentngesnmnm" tudes presented themselves to his mind?a child pursuing a butterfly in a meadow, catching and imprisoning it, and watching its gay fluttering life die gradually out; that was not murder. An angler, who flung his line in the stream, and drew his quivering captive out of its native element to perish slowly upon land, did not commit murder. A person who knew that a certain prepared dish was poisoned, or that a certain state of atmosphere contained the elements of destruction, would not commit murder by suffering a fellow-being, or an animal, to eat of that dish, or breathe that atmosphere. Yet the same end came alike to all. And then, he thought, how useless were some lives! How meagre, aud airalens, and unprofitable, was'the existence of some oi God's creatures on this earth. '* ^ ? ill. StiJJ, they were (jrod's creatures, ana nao * right to live. Had He not placed them the re ? But it was a pity, nevertheless, that they should stand in the way of others, as they often did?especially where they derived no benefit, no enjoyment, themselves from their own existence. Could the choice be offered them between a prolongation of this tedious, vegetating life, and a painless termination to it, ought they not willingly to accept the latter ? Then again?if his brother should live to inherit this bequest, what use would he make of it? He was so eccentric?he had such odd, unaccountable ideas at times. What if he should fancy to dispense it all in charity tc the poor, or give it to some public fund, instead of reserving it for his own kindred, who, he might think, had already a sufficiency ol this world's goods, and needed no morel There was no telling what folly?what madness?he might be guilty of! It would be almost a thing to be deplored if the money did ever fall into his hands. His judgment was no Kntfor tfun a. nViilrl'n Hfl wjm no more r.ana ble than a child would be of managing sc weighty an affair. How much better that some one should get it who could put it to a wiser use. How much good, for instance, he himself could accomplish with larger means, if he had them 1 How he could enlarge hie own usefulness, and add to the comfort and happiness of his family ! It was a wonder that, with these thought* preying upon bis mind, he could go through his church duties even as creditably as he did ; but he managed to fulfill them so as tc avoid any special remark, though his parish ioners noticed that he was looking rather spiritless and dull, and thought that his mannei lacked something of its wonted fervor. He kept himselfat this time very much aloof from society of all kinds, only going out when he was obliged, and seeing such visitors as he could not with propriety refuse. One night, impelled by a power he could not resist, he rose, after the rest of the household were wrapped in repose, and stole upstairs to his brother's chamber, which was on the second floor. He put his ear to the door, and listened. All was profoundly quiet. He gently tried the latch, and found it yielded to his pressure. Captain Lyndon never locked his door at night. He said that he was a very ? ? J e* t* sound sleeper, ana in case or nre, or any other alarm, he preferred that there should be easy access to his chamber, as he might not w^ken of his own accord. The rector entered, walking noiselessly with bis slippered feet, and approaching the bed, gazed by the light of the moon, which shone in brightly through the window, on the sleeper's face. The Captain was, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, a very plain man. His features were large and irregular, and his complexion wore the sallow Hue of prolonged illhealth. But the expression of his face wtu t singularly mild aud child-like, and this nal ral gentleness was enhanced now by the p - cidity of tranquil sleep. Looking at him he lay there ; one pale, thin hand npon 1 breast, his scanty grey hair pushed upwa s from his forehead, and his breath coming a , going with the regularity of an infant's, - was impossible not to feel a sentiment of kic - liness, almost of compassion, called forth r his peaceful and feeble appearance; for 1 I disease had progressed more rapidly tbi - usual in the last few weeks, and added to t f delicacy of his looks. An emotion of tl i sort stole into Mr. Lyndon's heart now as gazed npon him ; and silently seating himsi i in a low chair that stood by the beside, ; watched him long and fixedly. ) His thoughts traveled back to the tii I when they had been boys together?he t > younger, but always strong and sturdy, t ; defender of George against enemies at scho > his protector in all boyish contests, and i > garded by him with the affectionate admii , lion wbicb tbe weaker one is apt to feel I such a case. Tbe difference in age betwe i them was not great?less than two years , and they had been continually together, i work and in play, at home and at school, frc , the earliest period to which his memory we I back, until, as men, their several vocatio i had called them apart. George, with 1 ? gentle disposition, had yet, strangely enoug a desire for military life, and had procured t commission in the army. He had never, ho i ever, seen active service, and before roai i years ill health compelled him to resig , Since that time bis home had been with t rector, so that the whole period of their sej ration had been really a very short 01 Bound together thus by the ties of nearly > lifetime, it would seem as though their fe . ings toward each other ought to be of a pec i liarly kind and fraternal nature. It hi never occurred to Mr. Lyndon, until latt ; days, to question the fact of their being t i They had lived harmoniously together, toti lv unlike in disposition, and also in many their views, but each yielding readily to tl idiosyncracies of the other. Then, as increa , ing feebleness of constitution was accomp , nied by a corresponding weakening of tl i mental faculties, the invalid became an o ject of especial Bolicitude, receiving eve mark of care and attention which sincere s fection could prompt. And now, what had become of this brothc ly love, the growth of all these years? i Strangely enough, Mr. Lyndon could n have answered that question explicitly, if 1 had tried. He could not have analyzed 1 , own feelings sufficiently to decide whether 1 affection for his brother still existed or n< In all the varied emotions which hadagitat his breast of late, he had never experience one spark of hatred, even of dislike, towa him. No one could dislike a being so total i inoffensive as he was. Looking at him no he felt the old tenderness revive, almost iuii iuiuc, iu iiu iiuix?uuu j uu?me uuut , part of it was that this did not, in the lea , alter that gnawing, ever-present longing i have him out of his way?to have the roi i left free for the accomplishment of his urge i wish. It seemed as if his nature had resolv i itself into a dual existence, eacn pare qui distinct from the other. But the better pa his true self, was powerless to resist the ei promptings of the other, to which it was i tally linked. But this was absolute madne you will say. No other cause can be assign for so singular a phase of mind; so total ' perversion of all that was good and worthy his nature. It was not madness, howev< One frightful passion had seized upon hii i usurping the throne of lawful desires, and i serting its own sway with irresistible powi ' Call it monomania, if you will; but in otb respects, his mind was sound, though eve , thought, every impulse, was, unavoidabl 11 fainted by the poisonous breath of this one weed. I have said that be was moved now by > sentiment of tenderness?that his heart w flllnrl mifti a anftonnrl fonlino" flfl hfl looked u ucu niwii ov/,vvuvu -^"-O the boyishly innocent face and restful attitu of the sleeper. Yet so strong was that otb impulse stirring within him, that had it be possible for him, by a motion of the hand, stop the current of life that ran in his brol er's veins, that motion would have been mat and the Captain would have awakened more. [To be Continued.] psforg of ?. (Jtooliw HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF THE Early Settlement of South Carolin BY BEV. ROBERT LATHAN. BIOGRAPHY OF GEN. ROBERT HOW Our plan allows us the amplest latituc Whatever will throw light upon the histo of South Carolina, we claim as legitimate within the scope of our undertaking. Wi this understanding, it is our intention, frc time to time, to give a brief biographic sketch of those heroes who struggled i American independence. i Of the private life of him whose nar i heads this sketch, comparatively nothing c i be said. General Robert Howe was born > Brunswick, North Carolina. It would bei teresting to give a sketch of his early histor bat this we cannot do. Like many oth great men, he sprang into public life, not 1 s degrees, but at a leap. Sometimes men cc t trol the circumstances by which they are si > rounded, and become great in spite of th< ) surroundings. During the Revolutionary j riod of American history, the circumstanc I made the men. Merchants, mechanics, fan ers, lawyers, physicians and literary amateu were called from their various avocations ai i placed in command of armies. It was : , age of heroes. For a long time, the politic i storm had been gathering. Boys drank the spirit of resistance with their mothe I milk. Robert Howe was a patriot by all t instincts of his nature, and by the force ' education. * - /? 11* .1 TT _! n.. > in it 16, we nna mm in ine nouse 01 vx?i ; mons of his native State. The Virginia Lc , islature had passed certain resolutions wi , reference to the encroachments of Englai ; upon the liberties of the American colonii , One object of these resolutions was to secu concert of action among the colonies. T1 Legislature of North Carolina approved these resolutions, and appointed a committ of correspondence. Robert Howe was a mei ber of this committee. i In 1776 the Provincial Congress of Nor tu- Carolina, ordered two regiments of five hunla dred men to be raised James Moore was apas pointed Colonel of the first regiment, and Roblis ert Howe, Colonel of the second, rd At this time John Murray, more commonly nd known as Lord Donmore, the last royal Govit ernor of Virginia, was .laying waste the lower id- section of the State of which he was Goverby nor. He had proclaimed martial law, and lis issued a proclamation in which he declared an the State free. In his army, he had a mixed be multitude of British regulars, vile and abanlis doned tories and negroes, who had been stolen he or enticed from their masters, under the preelf tence of freeing them; but really that they he might be put into forts and made to do the dirty work of Dunmore and his notorious ne abettors. VDunmore scoured the country in he search or Mrs. General Washington. He he stole Holt's printing press, and carried away ol, captive two of his printers. Finally, he made re- his headquarters at Norfolk, and placed a a- garrison of negroes, tories, and British regain lars, at what was called "The Great Bridge," en on Elizabeth river. Colonel Woodford was ? sent against this motley band. With a body at of minute men, he met them, and by the aid ?m of brave and skillful subaltern officers, and nt brave and obedient men, the plunderers were ns routed. The battle of "the Great Bridge" lis was fought before day-light on the 9th of De;h, ceraber, 1775. Five days afterward, Robert 1 a Howe, with his North Carolina regiment, w- joined Col. Woodford and took command of oy all the troops. p. Dunraore, after the affair at "the Great he Bridge," abandoned his fortifications at Nor* " 1 ' . i.~~U >a* ioik, ana wim ma waii? uuujpo ww& i?ugo vu ie. his ships. The poor, deluded negroes were a turned off and left in a most deplorable consi dition. Some wandered back to their old tu- homes, and many starved. ?d The supply of provision, on board Duner more'8 ships was very limited. In fact, he 30. was forced to send parties on shore to procure il- supplies for each day. Colonel Howe watchof ed his movements closely. These foraging be parties were cut off, and, besides, a constant a- fire was poured into the ships from the upper a- stories of the houses. Dunmore and his band be of outlaws were soon threatened with famine, b- Just when Dunmore was in the greatest diary tress, a British frigate entered the harbor, if- This timely circumstance revived the drooping spirits of Dunmore. The captain of the ir- frigate was sent by Dunmore to Colonel Howe, with an imperious command that he ot instantly cease firing upon the ship, and furbe nish those on board with a supply of provis?is ions. The haughty Governor threatened, in lis the event his demands were not granted, that 3t he would bombard the town. Howe boldly ed returned for a reply that he would neither j ed cease firing upon the ships, nor turrnsn tne rd men on board the vessels with supplies. Dunly more prepared to put his threat into execuw, tion. On the last day of 1775, an order was in sent to remove the women and children, and ?r ueiuieuaji,guiui iubiiw yauriwov^&ifl? ' at, the Dunmore and Liverpool?commenced- to to bombard Norfolk. A party, at the same ad time, were sent on shore to set the town on nt fire. ed The population of Norfolk, at that time, ite was about six thousand. During the two rt, years previous to the bombardment by Dun/il more, it had grown up very rapidly. Most Fa- of the houses were wooden buildings, and ss, many of them were filled with pitch and tured pentine. The wind was favorable for the ina cendiaries; Soon the flames spread in all diin rections, and the bombardment was kept up 3r. by the ships. The city was reduced to ashes, m, and the inhabitants turned adrift in mid-winis ter. Dunmore accomplished nothing but the 3r. destruction of the town. This was very great, er amounting to near two million of dollars, ry The suffering of the inhabitants from the loss ly, of their dwellings, in the dead of winter, canill not -fee estimated; but the loss of life by the bombardment was only a few citizens who ? a were killed in the streets. No soldier was as killed. Dunmore was repulsed and his troops at prevented from landing. de In 1776, Robert Howe was made a Brigaer dier General and sent south. After General en Charles Lee was ordered north, Robert Howe to succeeded him as commander of the southern ;h- army. We have already traced the vicissile, tudes of fortune through which he passed up to no the time of the fall of Savannah. After the affair at Savannah, he left the south and became connected with the army of the north. ? He was with General Wayne at Stony Point j on the 16th of July, 1779. General Wasbing* ton planned the battle of Stony Point, but ? it was executed by Gen. Anthony Wayne. Stony Point and Verplanck's Point, on the Hudson river, had been taken only a short time before, by Sir Henry Clinton, .in person. These two forts Becured communication between the different sections of the col E* onies. Their lose was a source 01 gnei 10 le. General Washington. At once he began mary king preparations to recapture them, and ily General Wayne was consulted with reference th to the undertaking. Wayne's reply was: >m "General, I'll storm hell if you will only plan it." Washington knew that Wayne meant or what he said. In the neighborhood of Stony Point, there ne resided a Whig by the name of Lamb. Capan tain Lamb owned a negro who, in honor of in one of Home's great men, was named Pompey. in- Soon after the British got possession of Stony y; Point, Pompey visited the garrison, carrying er strawberries, blackberries and other early by fruits to sell to the soldiers stationed at that in- point His visits were daily and very accepir table to the garrison. He completely won sir the confidence of both men and officers. >e- Pompey, like his master, was a good Whig. !es He gave a faithful and correct report of all m- that he saw and heard in the fort, to his masrs, ter, by whom it was communicated to the ad commander of the American forces. A few an days before the attack was made by Wayne, :al Pompey reported to Colonel Johnston, the in commmander of Stony Point, that bis master r's would not let him any longer bring fruit to he the garrison in day-light, since he was busy of with his crop. The garrison could not think , of doing without blackberries. Arrangements i m- were made by which the countersign was to : ig- be given to Pompey every night th On the 15th of July, Wayne had all the id dogs in the community killed, so that by their ] is. barking, his advance might not be made i re known. About one o'clock, on Jhe morning 1 be of the 16th, the army, under Wayne and 1 of Howe, commenced to advance with the ut- 1 ee most silence. Pompey, with a budget of bern ries, accompanied by two strong men, were sent ahead. They came to the first sentinel, th who received the countersign from Pompey. i Un that night, it was, "ine rorc is oura j Without suspecting anything, the two men seized the sentinel and gagged him. The same thing was done to the other sentinels. In this way the American forces were not discovered until they were within pistol shot of the pickets. The pickets fired, but the intrepid Americans rushed forward with empty guns and fixed bayonets. The drums in the fort began to beat,and the shout, 'To arms, to arms!" was raised by the officers. The Americans rushed forward, shouting at the top of their voices, "The fort is ours! the fort is ours I" In a few minutes such was the case, for at two o'clock Wayne sent the same words, as a report of the battle, to General Washington. An attempt was made at once to take the British works on Verplanck's Point General Robert Howe was sent to make an attack upon Port LaFayette, but in some way or other, misunderstood the order of General Washington, and failed to accomplish the undertaking. During the Revolutionary war, two rebellions, or mutinies, occurred in the American camp. The first in January, 1781, and the other in June, 1783. General Robert Howe was sent by General Washington to quell both these rebellions, which he did with dispatch and to the satisfaction of the Commander-inChief and the country generally. ? It only remains to notice what may, with some propriety, be called the interposition of divine providence respecting Howe and some others. We met Robert Howe and Anthony Wayne at the storming of Stony Point On a former occasion we met Robert Howe and Christopher Gadsden on the field of honor as they termed it. In plain English, we met them fighting a duel. The history of two other individuals is intimately interwoven with that of Kobert tlowe ana -antnony Wayne. These two individuals are Benedict Arnold, the traitor, and Major John Andr6, the spy. Arnold had no love for Howe, and Andr6 was accustomed to regard, with sneering contempt, both Howe and Wayne. The history of Arnold and Andr6 is inseparably connected. ^iThe mention of the name of the one, suggests that of the other. The name of Arnold is covered with disgrace, and Andr , with all his virtues, was not incapable of a little and mean thing. Late in the summer of 1780, General Washington sent Wayne Lo make an attack upon a British post, a shore distance below Fort Lee on the Hudson. The main, object was to drive off a large number of cattle on Bergen's Neck, within reach of the British at Paulus Hook. Wayne made the attack upon the British post ?t Bull's Ferry, and sent Major Lee to drive off the cattle. Lee succeeded in driving away the cattle, but Wayne failed to take the post at Bull's Ferry, and lost more than sixty men. This tickled Andr6 very much, and as he was a poet, or at least he thought he was, he made lb lUfe hiIUJUUI Uf s lUUg epic called ifie "Cow* Chase." It is divided into three cantos, and nnnninta. in all. of seventv stanzas. The com manders are called by all sorts of ridiculous names, and all sorts of witty things, and some times obscene things are said concern* ing them. This epic, as he himself calls it, was published in "Rivington's Royal Gazette," on Saturday, the 23rd of September, 1780. It was on this day that John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart and David Williams arrested Andr& The last stanza of the poem reads as follows: "And now I've closed my epic strain, I tremble as I show it, Lest this same warrio-drover, Wayne, Should ever catch the poet." It will be remembered that Andr6 was tried at Tappan, on the 29th of September, 1780. Robert Howe was a member of the court martial by which he was tried, and General Wayne, the "warrio-drover" mentioned in the last stanza of the poem, had command of the troops at Tappan. Wayn^ did catch the poet. After the duel of Howe and Gadsden, Major Andr made sport of it. Howe, Gadsden, Charles Cotesworth Pinckney and'! Bernard Elliott are, in the poem, held up tcj ridicule. Howe was president of the court-martial that tried Arnold and censured him; arid he was a member of the court that sentenc&jl Andr6 to be hanged. Wayne was there as commander of the post The presence of the^a two men must have called up strange reflectic^s in the mind of the unfortunate AndrA The "?^ patriots, under Wayne and Lee, are stigmatized by AndiA in his "cow-chase" as "dungborn tribes." On the original manuscript was written by Andre himself, the following stanza: "When the epic strain was sung, The poet by the neck was hung, And to his cost he finds too late, The 'dung-born tribe' decides his fate." In a military point of view, General Robert] Howe whs deficient in the ability to plan any great undertaking. His failure at Savannah resulted from a want of forethought. Colonel Campbell discovered, in a few hours, a secret passage through the swamp by which General Howe's rear might be gained. Howe, although he had been in the neighborhood for days, railed to discover this passage. As an officer, General Howe's talents were only moderate; but his patriotism was such as to establish him in the favor of his countrymen. From the beginning, his attachment to the cause of the colonies was unflinching. He was brave and patriotic, but incapable of planning and executing a great military expedition. Where the Chinaman Getb hib Jokes. It is said that a Chinese gentleman thinks it beneath his dignity to manufacture his own witticisms. He appreciates wit and is fbnd of tea, but he would as soon grow his own tea as to make his own jokes. When he goes into society, he carries in his pocket a package of prepared witticisms and repartees, which he has purchased at the nearest joke shop. When conversation flags, and he conceives an opportunity for saying something brilliant, he draws a humorous remark from the top of his package, and gravely hands it to his neighbor. The latter as gravely reads it, and selecting from his bundle of repartees the one which is appropriate, returns it, with a bow to the original joker. The two then solemnly smile in a courteous and undemonstrative way and resume their conversation, feeling that they have acquitted themselves with conspicuous brilliancy.?-N. Y. Timet. Coksolation.?Nature never takes back her gifts. Clouds may pass between you and the sun, but the sun is there, and will shine forth again. It may be a stormy night, and the stars are hidden; but they shine on, perDement and pure, behind the driving rain, and wui again look out upon you with their calm eyes, and say, from their inaccessible and infinite heights, "Be patient, little child! be inpatient and wait till all the storms and darkness shall have passed away." *