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le wis m. grist, proprietor. An Inbrptabfltt Jantilg ^Ittospaptr: Jfor ijje ^romation of t(ie political, facial, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of % jJontjj. TERMS?$3.00 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 22. YOEKVILLE, S. C? THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1876. NO. 19. Jto Original .ftorg. fmsmisf: BY AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR. CHAPTER XIV. * I pass over the next few weeks of wandering, though they were enjoyable enough to us all. At least they were to me, and Olive appeared tranquilly pleased, though still too quiet and reserved to satisfy the requirements of my heart. I yearned for a fuller confidence between us, a response to the outpouring of my own devotion, which I lavished without stint upon her. Eveuher unresponsiveness? nay, her coldness, as I felt itsometimes?could not check the ardent effusion of my love. We settled down, at last, in a lovely spot on the banks of the Rhine. An old ivygrown castle, partly in ruins, but with a mod era addition, so tastefully contrived as not to destroy the picturesque effect of the original structure, stood on a rugged declivity, just where the river curved and dashed in a cascade over the rocks. The scenery around was wild and romantic, and the quiet and solitude were congenial to both Olive's taste and mine. A mile distant was a pretty village, containing a Protestant chapel, where we could go to worship on the Sabbath when we chose. And one or two aristocratic families lived sufficiently near to be within visiting distance, should time and opportunity bring about an acquaintance between us. We therefore established ourselves in the modern wing of the castle, which we rented from the proprietor, a Baron Somebody or other who never lived at home. Furnished as it was, in a somewhat antique but sufficiently comfortable style, we found no difficulty in soon making ourselves at home; and an old couple who had been in charge of the establishment before our arrival, provided us with an excellent attendant in their daughter, a good-humored strapping damsel, who did the work of two English servants, and considered me mu nificent in the matter of wages, while she fell in love at once with my wife, and was zealous to serve her in every way. All this time Selwyn had been coostantly with us, occasionally absenting himself to branch off on a little tour in another direction, but never remaining away long. When we fixed upon our place of abode, I set apart a room for him, desiring him to consider it his headquarters whe he remained on the Continent. It appeared to me that Olive was not particularly well pleased with this arrangement. She acquiesced in it, however, without offering any objection, for she never contradicted me in anything. I do not know when it was that the idea first presented itself to my mind, that Olive was indifferent to my affection for her, and did not yield it the return it merited. I am now approaching a period of my history so unparalleled, that every circumstance in any way connected with it, both before and afterward, seems confused and indistinct to my re collection, so completely are they all obscured by the one event whose overpowering horror has clung.to me these mauy years, and is casting its gloom about me like a pall as I lie on my dying bed. I know that when the first, faint shadow of this suspicion fell upon me, I drove it instantly away, regarding it as a mere distempered fancy of my own, and chided myself for my weakness in suffering it to arise ' 'mo Tt WAfl Oil Ufi's even iui a uiuiuquii'uwuib uiv. ?v .. ? natural disposition, I argued, to be undemonstrative and self-contained. I, with my fiery impulsiveness, my unreasonable ardor and excitability, could not expect a similar display on her part. Her feelings were calm but deep, and found but little play on the surface of her character. Ought I not, knowing so well what she really was, tq take her for what she was worth, and be more than content in my possession of her? But these arguments, though seemingly of ample weight, did not lay the dreary doubt at rest, only quieted it for the time. Back it came, again and yet again, each time with fuller force, until at last it became the torment of my life. It clung to me so pertinaciously after a while, that it banished all my peace ; and though I * ? - M J l!t breathed no word ot it, it ranxiea ute a iestering wound in my breast. Secretly I watched Olive with a vigilance that never faltered, as though hy so doing I could seaijch her inmostsoul, and lay its secrets bare. I weighed her most trifling words and actions, striving thereby to arrive at the knowledge I desired to obtain. Every glance of her eyes, every tone of her voice, became invested with a new significance, and were to me the signals of fresh misery or overweening delight, as I found them cold or kind. I fancy that Olive became aware, before long, of this watchfulness on my part; for gradually a sort of nervous constraint crept over her manner which was not habitual to her. If I spoke to her suddenly she would change color, and look disturbed ; and once or twice, on unexpectedly entering her room, I found her in tears. I was walkiug with Selwyn one afternoon in a secluded shrubbery adjoining the castle, and the depression I felt being apparent in my manner, he presently asked me the cause of my unusual gravity. "I don't think you have spoken five words in the last quarter of an hour," he said. "What has come over you, Phil ? You're not like yourself at all, to-day." "Only a headache," said I, carelessly. "I am subject to them, you know." Selwyn passed his arm through mice, and gave it a fraternal pressure. "My dear Phil," he said, very gently, "I hope you will pardon me for saying so, but do you know that of late I have observed a change in you, and one that causes me serious uneasiness ? You look pale and unhappy, your appetite is gone, and you are so restless you never settle down at anything for ten minutes together. What is amiss, my friend? Have you any trouble that I can lighten, or help you bear ?" A few moments before, nothing would have induced me to acknowledge that anything really was the matter, except the trifling indisposition I had brought forward as an excuse for my silent mood ; but now his sympathising tone, his questioning glance, seemed to melt my reserve. I made no definite answer to his questions; but some broken sentences escaped me, by which I gave him to understand that I was Unhappy and disappointed, and considered myself one of the most unfortunate of human beings. "Good heavens 1" he ejaculated, raising his hands in mock surprise, "and this is gratitude, Phil, for the gifts of Providence! What on I earth have yon to complain of in your lot ? , It seems to me that you are most bounteously endowed. You have fortune, friends, a lovely wife who is devoted to you. That last, best gift alone should make you the happiest of mor- ' tals for life, and chase every shadow of dis- ' content from your heart." I was silent for a moment, then broke forth < with an abrupt question. "Selwyn, does it seem to you that Olive is i happy ?" ! I He looked at me with a surprised air, which ' I felt, rather than saw, as my eyes were bent i upon the ground." ! "My dear fellow, what an extraordinary 1 question," he rejoined. "Have you any rea- ! bod to suspect her of being otherwise Y' "That is no answer, Selwyn," said I.' "I < want your opinion, not a counter-question." i "My opinion! But how can I possibly . have an opinion on such a subject? I never I supposed for a moment that it was one which I admitted of a doubt. I concluded that her happiness, as well as yours, was an incontrovertible and thoroughly established fact." "You think, then," I pursued, "that she has 1 cause for happiness ?" "Cause for happiness ? Surely, I think so, ; Phil. Being your wife, and the recipient of such affection as yours, she could scarcely fail, < I think, to be happy." i "Unless something were preying upon her < mind," I persisted; "some private trouble J which she was unwilling to disclose. I have ; fancied that she looked depressed of late." "Only a reflection of your own grave as- i pect, Phil, you may depend. Besides?excuse ; me for saying so?Mrs. Lyndon would scarcely fall bo far short of that confidence in you < which, as your wife, she must feel, as to con- i ceal from you apy subject of UDeasiDess or ] anxiety which troubled her." 1 This was a home-thrust; I winced under it, 1 feeling bitterly that this perfect confidence of i which he spoke did not exist. i "Of course," I continued, in a lighter tone. < "I did not mean that I suspected any serious i trouble or anxiety on her part, because of f that I would be aware; but some trifle may 1 annoy her, to which she may attach greater 1 weight than it really possesses. Howeveii-, all this is, I daresay, is a mere fancy of mine; and I should not have spoken of it at all, had you not questioned me first about my seriousness." "Then your seriousness, as you call it, arises 1 solely from the idea that your wife is not as 1 happy as you wish her to be ?" * "I su ppose it does?at least, I can't attribute f it to any other cause." 1 "Then let me tell you, my dear Phil, you I are wearying yourself needlessly. Believe me, from trifling misunderstandings like this, J great unhappiness often arises, especially be- 1 tween married people. You see I take a 1 friend's privilege, and speak to you plainly, t I know you won't take offence at what I say." J ,r "Certainly- , I rejoined. ?"Yon haven s given me too many proofs of the interest you 8 take in my welfare for me to doubt it, or mis- J interpret your kind intentions. But as to J misunderstanding, Selwyn, there is nothing of 1 that sort, I assure you, between Olive and my- i self. I would not have you suppose so for an 8 instant." 1 "Oh! no, I did not suppose it. I merely alluded to the possibility of such a thing. But ( now, to change the subject?have you had ? news from Lyndon lately 7" Our conversation, thus directed into a new > channel, did not again revert to its former 1 theme; but afterward, in reflecting upon < what had been said, I felt a regret that I had | * spoken as freely as I had done to Selwyu. ? Nothing but his powers of persuasion could ? have led me thus to disclose my mind. I was J careful after that to feign in his presence an t ease and gayety which I was far from feeling, 1 to induce him to think that the disturbance of mind I had betrayed had entirely passed ( away. J With Olive, in private, it was different. So unendurable had the constraint between us 1 now become, that I resolved one day to break through it, and endeavor once for all to es- ^ tablish the confidence without which, I was < sure, we could never really be happy. I ehose an occasion when Selwyn was ab- \ sent on a jaunt of some days' duration in the i neighboring country; and repairing to my t I oka TTTOQ Q IAHQ Q f KfiP F TT11C a OlbklUg'lUUIU, TTUC10 OUO ni*o wv mv. work, sat down beside her and gently drew the embroidery from her hand. "My dear Olive," said I, "won't you give me your attention for a few minutes ? I want very particularly to speak to you." "Certainly," she answered without hesitation, but with some surprise in her glance, then seeing that I paused, she added: "I hope nothing is wrong ?" "I hope not, either," said I. "It is just that which I am anxious to find out." j "You speak in enigmas," she rejoined, with a faint smile; but I thought an embarrassed look came into her face. "They shall be made plain. Olive, tell me truly, are you happy here?" The question was an abrupt one, and evidently startled her. "I like this place very much, Phillip," she \ replied ; "why should I not be happy here, as j well as anywhere else ?" "That is not the point of my question. I! i \:r~ I meau, are you uappy iu your preaeui me, ir respective of this place, or any place?" < A flush came over face. Her glance fell, I i and she paused before answering. My heart 1 throbbed painfully. This seemed like a con- i firmation of my fears. But directly her clear f eyes were raised again to mine, and she took j my hand. I "I am not entirely happy, Phillip; but I 1 am afraid you will be vexed if I tell you the j > reason why." . < "Afraid of me, Olive?" * "No ; but afraid of displeasing you. How- ' ever, I will run the risk. Phillip, I would < be far better satisfied if Mr. Selwyn were j i away from here." i "Selwyn !" I echoed, while my heart gave I a great bound of relief. "Does his presence i make you unhappy ?" i "I did not say that; but, truly, Phillip, I j cannot like or admire him." "He is my best friend," said I, "and it i grieves me that you should cherish any ani-1i i mosity toward him. I think you are prejudiced ; for I am quite sure he has done noth- 1 ing to merit your dislike. He admires you excessively, and is most anxious to win your i favor." ; "I don't think he is sincere," she rejoined. "Not sincere!" I burst forth indignantly. "Why, what in the world, my dearest Olive, can you know about that? You forget that my frieadship with him is one of long standing, and I~ must certainly be a better judge of his character than you are." "Perhaps so; I only give you my opinion.'' "At all events," said I, "he has been invited to stay here, and we certainly cannot revoke the invitation. I do not see what is to be done, but to wait until he chooses, of his own accord, to leave us." She was silent. I grew irritated, unreasonably enough no doubt, but my affection for Selwyn, and my faith in his affection for me, were sensitive points. I rose from her side, and walked with impatient steps to and fro. She resumed her embroidery, and went on with it without saying anything farther, until [ spoke again. "I hope, Olive, for my Bake, you will try to sonquer this dislike, and make yourself agreeable to Selwyn as long as he remains with us. It would pain me very much to see you treat bim with coldness. I am more deeply attached to him than you suppose." She hesitated a moment, then answered? "I will never, I hope, be rude in my beha-1 vior to any one, still less any friend of yours ; but as to conquering the feeling I have for Mr. Selwyn?call it dislike, or prejudice if pou will?I cannot promise to do that." "There it is 1" I exclaimed. "You are like other women in this respect, that you will bold to your opinion, whether it be irrational or not, no matter how earnestly one tries to persuade you out of it 1 I did think, Olive, pou were above the weakness of your sex." "I am sorry you are disappointed," was her reply; "but indeed, Phillip, I try to please pou in every way." "And I am sure I find no fault with you, except in this one respect," said I, my temporary displeasure vanishing at the gentle de precation of her tone. We pursued the unwelcome subject no farther ; but so completely had it engrossed my thoughts, that it did aot occur to me until some time afterward to reflect bow entirely it had changed the current if my mind, and diverted me from the painful ideas which had occupied me when I jought this interview, but substituting others, unpleasant indeed, but far more easy to be iome in their place. CHAPTER XV Sometime now elapsed, unmarked by any musual event. Olive seemed more cheerful ;han before. My own mind, too,was set at rest, ind I began to think I had suffered useless lelf-torment, in the vague fears and apprehensions which I bad allowed for a time to jet dominion over me. A crisis, however, was near at hand \ly mind to-day is feverish, unsettled, and wanders continually from the point. I can lot write connectedly as I would I ,hiuk ray strength is failing now very fast [ must jot dowD, as best I cau, one or two itepping-stones, as it were, to the final event. But oh, this fever that consumes my brain ! [ must force myself to think steadily and conlectedly for a brief space. This confession, n the torture it inflicts on me to write it, is a tort of expiation for my sin ; at least, I fain vould believe so One day a letter came?a letter from Rulolph, containing an enclosure to Olive. This mclosure?which appeared to be only a short lote?she oddly enough, refrained from showng to me, or alluding to in any way; but after -eading it, folded it and put it aside without lomraeut. Selwyn was present at the time, ind I noticed that he gave her a peculiar r|Anr>p?a crlanp.p T did not like. It was both iearching aud critical. I felt angry, injured, [ scarcely knew why; and holding out my land toward Olive, I said, with feigned careess n ess? "Let me see what Rudolph says to you, Dlive?and you may read his letter to me if rou like." She colored deeply, and gave me an entreatng glance. "There is nothing interesting in his note, Phillip?but you shall see it presently, if you lesire to do so." I was violently angry ; but not for worlds vould I have betrayed the agitation I felt, or Selwyn's eyes were upon me. I pretended a laugh, made some remark about a commulication of vast importance, entailing so much jaution on the part of its recipient, and then ,ook up my hat and went out. I was walking lastily up and down in the open air to cool ;he heat of my temper, when Selwyn joined JUG. J.1C LUU& 111 J aiui, iuuaiug an ujq ou ot iously that I burst out laughing, and asked lim what was the matter. "I have come to ask you that question, Phil," he quietly replied. "You are dreadfully excited, and all about a trifle?the merest trifle in the world." "Excited!" I echoed, instantly resuming ny gravity. Who says I am excited, and ibout what? Explaiu yourself, Selwyn." "My dear Phil! You are a poor actor?you ire too generous and sincere to dissimulate. But I am sure y^u do your own frank nature ujustice if you allow any feeling or suspicion \f ioolrtiiou t.n nnisnn vour mind for so slieht "J"?- J -- I J -0 i cause." I burst out in a sort of frenzy and asked lim what he meaot. My blood was fairly soiling now. His words?yes, his, my dear;8t friend's?ah, the serpent! The black ;raitor ! What more did he say ? What did [ reply ? I cannot tell. My memory fails me igaim I only know that in this interview, sought out by him with a fixed and devilish purpose, were sowed in ray too susceptible mind the seeds of a fatal passion which svas to consume me with its flame, and lure me to my own destruction. So help me Heaven, I did not of my own impulse conceive the suspicion which, by faint hints and inuendoes, was then awakened within me. No direct accusation?no openly expressed opinion?only a covert sympathy, an insidious pity, manifested rather by looks than words?dropping like sparks of fire on dried stubble, there to j smoulder a brief while until a sudden breath should blow them into flame! Jealousy? jealousy of him whose name and blood were mine?of the brother who had never wronged me from infancy. Jealousy of his fondness for Olive?still more of her fondness for him. A thousand memories seemed to start up and confront me in corroboration of my suspicion. A thousand convincing proofs, as I madly thought, of the correctness of my fears. I went over in my mind every sign of partiality she had shown him, from the time when we were boys and girls together. These, and her coldness to me?her strange behavior?her anxiety to leave Lyndon after becoming my wife, or, rather, her repugnance to going there as my wife. Rudolph's emotion, too, at parting with her?all seemed naturally explained. How much, or how little, I betrayed of these frantic thoughts to him who had stirred them up, I cannot now recall. I was conscious, in some degree, of the necessity for self-control, for dissimulation, even with him, my tried and trusty counsellor and friend, as I believed him to be, weak, blind fool that I was. I remember storming out some incoherent sentences, while he reasoned, argued, soothed?feigning surprise and dismay the while at my angry mood, as though he had not excited it Then I left him abruptly, feeling that I must seek solitude or die. Ooce alone, reason, or something akin to it, re-asserted its sway. After all, what had happened ? My violent outbreak over, and a comparative calm succeeding to it, I gathered up my disconnected thoughts, and reviewed dispassionately the whole subject of the disturbance. It lay plainly in what Selwyn had said?and yet, what had be said ? I could not take hold of a single definite word? he had looked and breathed his meaning, not uttered it It might be his warm affection for me?his zeal for my happiness?that had made him over anxious to put me on my guard. He had probably been hasty in his conclusions?had acted with well-mean! impetuosity, not foreseeing such consequences. I had believed or understood more than he intended to convey?bad behaved absurdly, in short, no sooner had I arrived at this stage of my reflections than I was ready to tear my hair with rage at my own folly and want of self-control. In short, I was distracted by conflicting emotions; but the upshot of it all was that I determined to act as if nothing had happened, and thus make amends in a measure for the irrational behavior , of which I had been guilty. 1 beJieve Selwyn was astonisnea 10 see me walk calmly into the parlor that evening. Though of course he did not even look his surprise. Olive was serious and silent, but that was nothing unusual, and the evening passed away in the ordinary manner, my wife, according to custom, retiring at an early hour. Instead of remaining below to smoke or chat with Selwyn, I followed her speedily, resolved to obtain an explanation in regard to the note. And now,I discovered how absurd, how groundless had been my jealous suspicions; for, on my demanding?I remember now with what imperiousness?to see the unlucky missive, she handed it to me without a word, with only a glance of reproach, at my unkind tone. I tore it open. It contained but a few lines, and those a message of kindly warning to me, to beware of Selwyn and his professed friendship. He knew, the writer said, that I was deceived in the estimate of my friend's character, and would, perhaps, one day repent of admitting him to too close an intimacy. He wrote this to Olive, instead of to me, knowing hQg_atrongly prejudiced I was__in Selwyq\ favor, and thinking that the caution transmitted to me through her, might be met with more toleration than coming directly from him. Vexed as I was at what I considered officiousness and injustice on my brother's part, I was intensely relieved at finding how complete had been my own mistake in the suspicion i naa iormea. i This, however, was the beginning of trouble, i for the seed sown by Selwyn's treacherous i hand was not up-rooted, but remained to spring up and bear bitter fruit at a future < day. I noticed after this, a special avoidance of our guest on Olive's part, and attributed her < conduct to Rudolph's warning, to which, no < doubt, she attached undue importance. I ( fancied that Selwyn, too, was changed. I observed a restless excitability about him, alter- , nated by fits of gloomy silence, and his manner. was often absent and pre-occupied. I ( questioned him one day about his changeful < moods, and he told me that be had had some j disagreeable letters from home, and that buai- < ness matters would speedily require his return. Still he lingered?for over two mouths he had now been domesticated at the castle, and it ' seemed as though he could not make up his mind to leave. And now I must record a fatal discovery I made one day, suddenly and unexpectedly, while my wife was absent from the house. She had gone in her carriage on an errand to the neighboring village, and I, wanting to find a missing paper of mine, and thinking she might accidentally have put it away in her desk, went to look there for it. My search proved fruitless; and being in baste, I i replaced the desk very carelessly too near the edge of the table on which it usually stood, and brushing it with my elbow as I turned away, overthrew it on the floor. As it fell, a secret drawer flew open, the spring broken by the force of the fall; and disclosed a red- < covered book, with "Journal" in gilt letters od the cover. i Olive's journal I I took it up, and an over- l powering desire to acquaint myself with its contents seized me. Here was a medium through which I might discover her inmost thoughts, her real feelings toward me. I 1 could no more have resisted the temptation i to take advantage of so favorable an opportunity of satisfying ray curiosity, than if I had been in the power of the Arch-Fiend himself, and forced to obey his mandates?as I believe now I was. I sat down, and opening the book, devoured the record on its pages with feverish eagerness. The beginning of it?which seemed a continuation from a journal left off in another volume?dated as far back as the second year after she came first to live in our family. It contained many allusions to her recent loss, in the death of her parents, and many expressions of affection for my mother, toward whom she seemed to feel a strong sentiment of tenderness and gratitude; some account of her daily occupa - * m * ^ tions at .Lyndon, wun irequeot meuuuu ui Rudolph, who appeared to be associated in all her pursuits ; and an occasional brief allusion to myself. I turned over these pages rapidly until I came to the period of my mother's death ; there was but a hurried, unconnected description of this event, written tremulously and blotted as if with tears. The writer's emotion had seeraed'to overpower her, and make this record a difficult one to accomplish. Then, after a lapse of some weeks, the subject was taken up again, the writing being dated now at Bath, where she was established at Miss Storr's. And now, indeed, I found something to startle me?for it was related here how my mother, on her dying bed, had called her to her side, and exacted from her a promise that if ever I should ask her to begome my wife, she would yield to the re quest t I seemed to turn sick and cold. Was it for this alone that she had married me ? I read farther?oh Heaven I my worst fears, my most agonizing apprehensions, were confirmed ! There, in broken terms, was portrayed the struggle going on in her mind?the reluctance to fulfill this promise, combined with the conviction that it was incumbent upon her not to break it, invested as it was with an especial sacredness as having been made to the dead, and the dead so beloved 1 "Never," she wrote, "shall your bounty to the friendless orphan be repaid by such ingratitude, my more than mother 1 The sacrifice shall be made, though my heart breaks in the effort. But you, so good and kind, have doomed me to wretchedness, and destroyed ko fairaat linnM nf mv llffl." A (rro&n of in VUU 1HIIV9V UV^W V* ?M J ? Q expressible misery escaped me as I read these' words. I wished that I had never been born, rather than live to bear the weight of woe like this. But there was yet more in store for me?my cup was not full. Frantic to discover whether she had yielded her affection to another, I read on with delirious haste. Yes, the torturing confession met my eye? she loved, or had loved?and the object of her love was?Rudolph. A few bitter, anguished words revealed the tru th. Her sorrowful striving to crush down this unhappy love, the fruitlessness of her struggle, and mingled with these, passionate prayers to Heaven for aid, and strength to bear the lot which it had fallen upon her to endure. Beyond this there were but a few scanty allusions to passing events. The journal bad been dropped previous to our marriage, and taken up again at intervals in a listless, incomplete way, as though the writer's interest in it bad failed, and her weariness of soul had made it too great a task to be pursued. I closed the book. Although the written part of it comprised many pages, I had mas- , tered its contents in a quarter of an hour, and I sat for a short space of time like one stunned. What should I do ? What, in fact, remained for me to do, but to bear my woe as best I might, in secresj and silence? Of what avail would be reproaches now ? Indeed, how i could I reproach Olive for conduct prompted solely by a sense of duty? She had couceived herself bound to marry me. And that she did not love me was surely no punishable crime. She had never professed to love me, therefore I could not accuse her of falsehood. < That she bad striven faithfully to act well her part in the condition to which she had 1 been doomed, simple justice forced me to believe. She was unfortunate?not culpable? 1 and if the unfortunate should be visited with 1 retribution, who, alas, so unfortunate as I ? 1 The discovery that I was not loved?that 1 Olive bad married me against ber will?that 1 there could, in consequence, be no hope of 1 anything but unhappiness resulting from our 1 union?might, of itself, frightful as it was, ( have been softened in some degree to me by ' time One gets inured to almostooy grief, J when the first shock is once over, and philoso- > phy, if not resignation, comes to one's aid. 1 But what rankled most in my heart was jealousy. It was a passion to which I had ) ever been too prone to yield, and now it was most fiercely excited by the revelation of Olive's love for another 1 Whether this love still existed, or whether she had by this time succeeded in conquering it, I had no means of knowing?but it had existed, and this knowledge, combined with Selwyn's hints, was enough to cast me into an abyss of torment from which I saw no outlet of escape. Mechanically, I replaced the journal in the drawer?repaired the injifred spring so as to conceal, temporarily, the damage it had received ; restored the desk to its accustomed place, and then left the house, leaving a pencilled line to state that I would be absent, on business for a couple of days. In my present condition, I could not meet Olive, and I desired a brief interval of reflection, that I might arrange my distracted thoughts, and decide upon the best course left for me to rvtiffliia [To be Continued.] pstotg of $. (tottna. ~ EISTOEICAL SKETCHES OF THE Early Settlement of South Carolina. BY BEV. BOBEBT LATHAH. ? THE FALL OF CHARLESTON. After the attempted, but unsuccessful, storming of Savannah, on the 9th of October, 1779, the French and American armies continued, in appearance, to prosecute the siege. It was only a feint. Both armies were making preparation for raising the siege. On the night of the 18th of October, the American forces, under General Lincoln, retired to Zully's Ferry, and the French forces, under Count d'Estaing, to Caustin's Bluff. From this point, the French proceeded to Tyber, where they had left their ships. Here the French arrived on the 20th of October, whence the French Count left the Continent. General Lincoln marched from Zully's Ferry to Charleston. No doubt both General Lincoln and his troops were cast down and sad. The two armies parted, say the American historians, with the kindest feelings toward each other; but the British historians give a very different account of their separation. The British historians say that no good feeling existed between the officers of the French and American armies before the attempt to take Savannah by storm, and after this unfortunate affair, it was with great difficulty that an open rupture was prevented. Each party reproached the other for bad management and cowardly conduct. Gladly the two armies formed a junction, and as gladly they separated. All the circumstances of the case seem to favor the British account rather than the American. The fall of Savannah into the hands of the British, late in 1778, and now the unsuccessful attempt to drive the British out of it in 1 77Q ma?n n a ha aaIo mlfino Kllf Vint? VX7At*A 1 AI I fj ffwc oyjg vmnuiiviui j vuv vuvj nww 4 only the precursors of a more calamitous event Strange as it may seem, the British, although meeting with but little successful opposition, still they made but little headway in reducing the country to subjection. They were nominally in possession of all of Georgia, and much of the lower section of South Carolina. Actually, tbey were in possession of only Savannah. So soon as it was learned that D'Estaing < had left the American continent, Sir Henry Clinton set out in earnest to effect his long 1 cherished plan of reducing South Carolina to t A ..li.tsife::; - ..1 subjection. On the 26th of December, 1779, Sir Henry Clinton, with Admiral Marion Arbuthnot, set sail from Sandy Hook. On board the fleet was a land force of five thousand troops. Every preparation had been made for'the expedition. The equipment was perfect; bift no hnman foresight can provide agaiust all casualties. The voyage was not only tedious but attendant with sore diasters. Several of the transports and provision ships were damaged by the sea; a few were taken by the A mericans, and all were, more or less, injured. An ordnance ship with all her stores sank, and nearly all the cavalry and draught horses were drowned. After a long and tempestuous voyage, the armament reached North Edisto sound on the 10th of February. The following day was spent in landing the troops on John's Island. The British army, led by the commander-in-chief in person, was now within thirty miles of Charleston. Had be marched immediately against tne city, it most have fallen into his hands at once. General Lincoln had less than two thousand continental troope, and the militia would hare been panic stricken on the appearance of so formidable a force as that under the command of Sir Henry Clinton. Had an immediate attack been made by Clinton, the probability is that General Lincoln would have retreated and left the city of Charleston to the mercy of the enemy. Sir Henry Clinton, notwithstanding the great superiority of his forces over those of General Lincoln, determined to take the city by seige. Lincoln, on tbe other hand, went to wotk, in conjunction with the civil and municipal authorities, to put the place in a condition to stand a regular invest- j men! The course pursued by the British General showed that he feared the ghost of Fort Sullivan. Twice the forces of bis Brittanic Majesty had been repulsed and driven away, humbled if not disgraced, from Charleston. Now the commander-in-chief of the British forces in America, determined to proceed del!U??a?a1n on/1 naiitiniiolv With ftfl m nrh lluci atcij auu vmuvivuw?j< n ? ?*# military ceremony as if be were about to besiege a grand old European eity, whose frowning battlements looked down in contempt upon an approaching enemy, the British general began the work of besieging a city only one hundred years old, and defended by only a few indisciplined militia and a General bred a farmer. Charleston, at this time, was in a very unfit condition to resist the attack of the enemy. The financial condition of the State of South Carolina was absolutely desperate. The price of a pair shoes was near a thousand dollars, and everything else in proportion. The small pox broke out in the city, and served as an Bxcuse to deter the country militia from joining the forces in the city. The truth is, the militia were hopelessly demoralized. They ireaded the idea of being cooped up in a belooornorpH r.it.v. Most of them were conscious that they would flee.at JJbe JraLonaet, and. the J idea of having no outlet begat within their minds feelings akin to despair. When Sir Henry Clinton arrived the Legislature was in session. Governor John Rutledge was granted dictatorial powers. He was invested with power to do anything that would prevent the Republic from suffering barm. Absolute power was granted him, except that no man could be put to death until ifter trial by a jury. Governor Rutledge, together with all the friends of the Republican party in the city, advocated defending the place to the last extremity. General Lincoln's intention when Sir Henry Clinton's forces arrived, was to evacuate Charleston and retire to the up-country, and then, at some fit time, having collectid a sufficient force, return and drive the British out. This would have been the proper iouree, but General Lincoln was forced to yield to the wishes of the citizens. He was, io doubt, deceived by being told that rein foreements would flock to him from all quarters of the State. Not only so, but he had lent dispatches to Havana soliciting aid from ;he Spanish Governor. Expecting that some jvent would occur, which would enable him to defend the city, he went to work to strengthen the fortifications. A ditch was cut across Charleston Neck, from the Ashley to the Cooper river. This was protected by two rows of abattis. The works which had been lonstructed on the approach of Prevost, were itrengthened. Men and boys, and even wonen, went to work on the fortifications. Three inndred negroes were brought in from the plantations in the neighborhood by Governor Rutledge and put to work. Night and day ;he axe and spade were plied. Gen. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney, with a imall garrison, was stationed at Fort Moul ;rie. Captain Daniel Horry was sent to isbley Ferry, to keep a look out for the apiroach of the enemy. General Monltrie was >rdered south to collect a militia force, direct he general movements of the American cavilry, and, in any way that he could, harrass he foe. The works in front and arpund the :ity from Hadrell's to Hospital Point, were 'epaired, strengthened and manned as well is circumstances would allow. Commodore Shipper, with a small force which Congress lad sent south, was ordered to take his stand n the harbor, and prevent the fleet of Admi al Arbuthnot from crossing the bar. Such, iriefly, was the disposition made of the Amer;an forces. Determined to hasten slowly, Sir Henry Clinton established a military depot at Waploo, on James' Island, and repaired Fort Johnson. After near two months' delay in ireparing for the seige, his forces moved forward on the 28th of March, crossed the Sto10, and on tho same day crossed the Asbly at ;he point where the first settlement in the Btate was made. Here, to make assurance loubly sure, entrenchments were thrown up confronting those of the Americans on the innnaita oK?p? 17mm fchfl time that Sir Hftfl ry Clinton landed on John's Island, up to ;his time, the only opposition be met with was l single skirmish party led by Colonel Washngton. ,3. Arbuthnot and Clinton acted in concert, ind this will explain, to some extent, the long lelay that Clinton made on James Island, irbuthnot found it difficult to get his large vessels over the bar. The guns had to be emoved and various contrivances resorted to n order to effect his purpose. On the 20th, Arbuthnot crossed the bar with his small ihips and transports, and drove Commodore Shipper from Five Fathom Hole, near the dty. The British land foroee having crosaad. Ashey river, filed to the right and marched dawn ;he Neck, to a point within eleven hundred yards of the American works. Here, on Sabbath morning, the first of April, they broke ground. As Clinton marched down the Neck, the van of his column was attacked by a corps of light infantry led by Colonel John Laurens. In this skirmish the British lost, in killed and wounded, about thirty. One of the aids-de-camp of Clinton, the Earl of Caithness, was wounded. On the 5th of April, Oeneral Clinton made another advance, and, having erected a battery and mounted twelve cannons, demanded a surrender of the town and all the forces in it. Just about this time, General Woodford, with seven hundred Virginians, entered the city, and reported that considerable numbers were hastening to the succor of the beleaguered city. This, together with the entreaties of the oitizens, who, as yet, knew nothing of the horrors of war, induced General Lincoln to reject the summons to surrender. Two days after, the batteries of Clinton were opened upon the city and the American works, and for thirteen days a terrific cannonade was kept ? ? L_ L.iL UK 'V UUbU pOI UCD* On the 9th of April, Admiral Arbuthnot ran by Fort Moultrie and took shelter under the guns of Fort Johnson. As the British fleet passed Fort Moultrie, General Pinckney opened a terrific fire upon it Twenty-seven sea-men were killed, a transport ran aground, and was burned by her crew. General Pinck-. ney hoped that Commodore Whipper would keep the British fleet back, whilst he would be allowed to pour in upon it an enfilading fire from Fort Moultrie. Whipper ran his squadron up the Cooper river and sunk bis vessels, together with some merchant ships, between Shu tea and Folly Islands, and the city. The object bad in view in sinkingthese vessels at this point was to prevent the British fleet from running up Cooper River and raking the town.^? So soon as the British fleet crossed the bar and passed Fort Moultrie, it was evident that unless succor was soon received, the city must fall. About the time that the guns from the British batteries commenced firing, Governor Rutledge left the city for the porpose of arousing the county militia and sending them to the defense of the city. The civil affairs of the city wfere left jn the hands of the Lieutenant Governor, Christopher Gadsden. Governor Rutledge passed up the country "between the Cooper and San tee Rivers. He 1begged, * * '1 - *- - t I A. tie entreated, ana tnreaienea, out cuuwteu few men. The only quarter of the city which waa open was on the Cooper River. To keep communication with the country open, General Lincoln sent General Isaac Huger, with three hundred cavalry to Biggin's Bridge, in the neighborhood of Monck's corner. Sir Henry Clinton, anxioas to cut off all communication between the country and.city, sent out a body of fifteen hundred chosen troops under Colonels Webster, Tarleton and Ferguson, to scour the country in search of -Huger and hie cavalry.?On die night of the 14th of April, Colonel Tarleton with his legion of cavalry, and Colonel Ferguson, with his riflemen, led by a negro through by-patbs, completely surprised Huger's men. The Americans made but little resistance. The men fled to the swamp, and thus most of them escaped ; but all the baggage of all kinds, together with most of the horses, fell into the hands of the British. ; >; After the British fleet had stationed itself in a position not to be molested -by Fort Moultrie, the greater part of the garrison was ordered to the city. Lieutenant Colonel Scott was left in command of it, with a few men. On the 7th of Mayt Colonel Scott having been summoned by the British fleet, was forced to surrender. The British flag was soon seen over its walls. When Sir Henry Clinton first landed oh James Island, he sent for reinforcements to Georgia, and ordered three thousand more troops from New York. The troops from New York, under command of the gallant Earl Cornwallis, arrived four days after the overthrow of Huge^s troops at Biggin's Bridge. Cornwallis was stationed at Haddrell's Point. All communication between the country and city was now cut off, and the investiture of the city complete. The third parallel of the enemy's works was finished, and the city was subjected to a terrific cannonade, both from the land batteries of Clinton, and the fleet of Arbuthnot. Night and day the firing was kept up. The defences of the city gave way before the heavy guns of the enemy, and the honsee of the city were set on fire by the carcasses thrown into the city. Men, women and children were killed in the streets. No place was safe, and hunger began to stare the besieged in the face. All hope failed the garrison, and the citizens were in a state of alarm bordering on despair. General Lincoln was urged by the citizens to surrender on the best terms he could obtain. On the 9th of May, pressed on all sides, General Lincoln surrendered to Sir Henry Clinton and Admiral Arbuthnot. Everything passed into the hands of the rnemy. This, as we will see in the sequel, was saddest blow the State of South Carolina had experienced. Men made of different material would have folded their arms in despair and *1- e TV* given up U1U (Jltuae Ui liccuuui BO two*. American garrison lost in killed, ninety-two; in wounded, one hundred and forty-eight. The British lost in killed, seventy-six; in wounded one hundred and eighty-nine. Washington's White Chargebs.?Geo. Washington was an excellent horseman. It is said that he could ride at a full gallop and retain a silver dollar between each knee and the saddle, such was the tenacious grasp of his thighs upon the horse. He was very fond of his horses, and liked to see them thoroughly groomed. The manner in which his white horses were kept white is curious. Mr. G. W. P. Custis states that the night before they were to be used they were entirely covered with a paste, the chief ingredient of ^vhich was whiting, and were then completely clothed and left for the night to sleep on clean straw. By morning this coating was hard and dty; it _-u .l? i L-J. was men uruoueu nuu uutucu uu, iwhuk duo hair white and gloesy. After this the. noofe were blackened and polished. To complete this curioas toilet, tne boraee' mouths were washed, and their teeth picked and washed, when they were considered to be groomed, and were ready for work. . V"' ? ?- ? ' Marking Tools.?Much trouble can often be saved bjtmarking tools with their owners' names, which cap easily be done in the following manner : Coat the tools with a thin layer of wax or hard tallow, by first warming > the steel and rubbing on the wax warm Qj^tWrl^ it flows, and let ik'otiftfc. i When hard, mark tiie name'through the wax with a graver, and apply nitric acid; after a few momenta wash off the add, and wipe with a soft rag, when the letters will be etched into the steel. A