Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

lewis m. grist, proprietor, ^it fitlwptitbtitt Jfamiln ^tetaspapEr: Jfor t|ie promotion of % |!olitical, Social, ^gricnltnral anil Commercial interests af t|t Sont|. terms?$3.o? a year, in advance. "VOL. 22. YORKYILLE, S. P., THURSDAY, JUNE 8, 1876. 3STO. 23. pstotg of J>. (tfatoliua. ... ? ? HISTORICAL SKETCHES OP THE Early Settlement of South Carolina. B7 REV. ROBERT LATHAH. * BATTLE OF RAMSOUR'8 MILL. After the discomfiture of Buford at Waxhaw, Tarleton repaired to Camden. The facts in the case were soon communicated to Sir Henry Clinton, the commander-in-chief of the British forces in America. Over the affair at Waxhaw, the British were jubilant. After the fall of Charleston, they thought the State of South Carolina was subdued. Now they were sure of it. On the third of June, Sir Henry Clinton wrote that there were very few ?- a -.L /-i 1;? L _ i j , ... people u> Douiu i^arunua. wuu utvu iiul reiurued to their former allegiance to the British government. On the fifth of June, Sir Henry, full of bright hopes, and cheered by the prospects that the thirteen colonies would be, in a short time, made, as formerly, a part and parcel of the British government, set out with the main body of his army for New York. The British army in the South was left under the command of Lord Cornwallis. Before leaving for New York, Sir Henry Clinton ^ issued a proclamation, in which the paroles of, citizens were nullified, and all were required ' to take up arms for the purpose of crushiog out as speedily as possible, the rebellion. No neutrality was allowed. Whoever was not for the British government, was to be regarded as against it. Citizens were required to enter the British army and assist in subduing their fellow citizens. This, when viewed in one aspect, was a wise step; but when viewed in another aspect, was very unwise. Sir Henry Clinton, no doubt, thought the people of South Carolina were in sympathy with the government of England. At least, he thought, from all the external signs of the times, that the great majority of the people of South Carolina had despaired of the success of the colonies. ?118 pttBI. experieiiue UUgllb WJ nave uaugiib uiui differently. The people were not subdued. They were only quiet. Those who had rebelled against the government of England were still, in heart, rebels. Necessity was forcing them to remain in a neutral state. Besides, multitudes of individuals had left the State * and were, in connection with the citizens of other States, preparing for renewing the conflict. Pickens, Sumter, McCall, Hammonds, Hampton, Liddle and Rutledge, together with multitudes of other South Carolinians of little less note,had sought voluntary exile for a time. The same course bad been pursued by Hawley, Clarke and Dooley, of Georgia. Like Alfred, one of England's early raonarchs, these men had secreted themselves amongst the "back water" men, and were waiting, like Alfred, for a proper occasion to pounce down upon the invaders of their country. Both Clinton and Cornwallis were mistaken. South Carolina was not subdued. Her pat-J Yfwomy-ffiatrrirvtwiie oT nSceSfffy arid tepf quiet. The massacre of Buford's command drove the inhabitants of the Waxhaw settlement in various directions. Most of them sought shelter and protection amongst the Whigs of North Carolina, in the regions adja^ cent to Charlotte. The widowed mother of Andrew Jackson, with her two sons, found a home in the house of widow Wilson, in Sugar ^Creek congregation. In this Whig region the tale of their suffering was told. The massacre of Buford's command was narrated, and the "hornets' nest" region was thoroughly aroused. Generals Rutherford and Davie called out the militia, and the Rev. Dr. McWhorter poured his patriotic soul into a speech to them. Everybody was full of patriotic sentiments, and anxiously desired a fit time to strike a blow, to defend the rights of their country, and avenge the blood of their massacred countrymen. General Davie having been wounded in the thigh at the battle of Stono, on the 20th of June, 1779, had now k sufficiently recovered to take the field. With " a part of bis cavalry, he undertook to reconnoitre the country between Charlotte and J Camden. The militia were dismissed, with instructions to put their arms in proper repair and be ready to meet General Rutherford at a moment's warning. North and South Carolina were originally one, and under the royal government of England; and to-day they remain twin sisters. The region about Charlotte and the upper section of the State of South Carolina, was settled by people from the same country, by a people entertaining the same political notions and the same religious creed, and worshipping God in the same way. For more than two hundred years, they have preserved - ? * i ?i ? i mi _ _, tbeir type clear ana wen maraea. ine struggles and triumphs of South Carolina were the struggles and triumphs of North Carolina. When Charleston surrendered, both wept. When Buford's command was butchered, both were incensed. When Ferguson fell and his command was annihilated at King's Mountain, representatives of both States were there and the joy was mutual. The object of the British officers was to . ^ station garrisons in various sections of the State of South Carolina, gather up and embody the loyalists, and as soon as the crops of wheat were harvested in North Carolina, march into that State and put its inhabitants tinder the yoke. Cornwallis was anxious to form a junction with the loyal Scotch in the region of Fayetteville. Here the romantic Flora McDonald had landed in 1775, and espoused, with all her soul the cause of George the Third. Unfortunate woman, she in turn hazarded her life both for the house of Stuart and the house of Hanover; and, in her own language, was "no great gainer by it." When Sir Henry Clinton set out for New York, Lord Cornwallis returned to Charleston, leaving Lord Rawdon in command at Camden. Knowing that the Waxhaw coun+ ? a'ooo riM* nf dAtprminod Whios. and also w; ~? o-, a fertile region of country, Lord Rawdon established a garrison on Waxhaw creek, about thirty miles south of Charlotte. The militia of the counties of Mecklenburg and Rowan were called out by General Rutherford. Rawdon made an encampment at Hanging Rock. Rutherford had about eight hundred militia in camp, about eighteen miles northeast of Charlotte. On hearing of Rawdon's advance to Hanging Rock, Rutherford advanced ten miles, to Mallard creek. The cavalry, numbering only sixty-five, under the command of General Davie, were formed into two companies, and placed under the command of Captains Simmons and Martin. A battalion of five hundred light infantry was placed under the command of William P. Davidson. Such were the preparations made by the North Carolina Whigs to thwart the efforts of the British. Before setting out for Charleston, Lord Cornwallis had seut a man by the name of John Moore, into the region of country now occupied by the town of Lincoln ton, North Carolina. This John Moore was a loyalist, and had been in the British army for some time. His parents resided some six or seven miles from Lincolnton. On the seventh of June, John Moore reached the neighborhood. He wore a sword and a ragged suit of regimAnfolc TKo norli/inlar ancnnnf r\f t.hp Hp. tual state of things in the South was brought to this region by John Moore. This candidate for military honors, announced himself as Lieutenant-Colonel of Colonel Hamilton's regiment of North Carolina Loyalists. He called upon the loyalists in the community, to meet him in the woods, on Indian creek, on the tenth of the month. When the day arrived, about forty men were on the ground. Moore proceeded, in a set speech, to communicate the general instructions of Lord Cornwallis to the loyal citizens; the purport of which was that the loyalists were to lie quiet until after harvest, but in the meantime to get ready for operating with the British when called upon. Just as this meeting was about to break up, a runner arrived communicating the intelligence that Joseph McDowell, who was out scouring the country in search of the [ leaders of the loyalists, was only eight miles I * 11 J 1 __ A x _ L.'? distant ana naa omy iweuiy meu iu um wmmand. Lieutenant-Colonel Moore felt confident that, with forty men, he could capture i McDowell with only twenty men. It was necessary to make some arrangements for the enterprise, and the next morning all were to assemble for the onset. The next day came, but McDowell was gone. He was pursued as far as the mountains between Burke and Lincoln, but not overtaken. On the 13th, a general rendezvous was ordered by Col. Moore at Ramsour's Mills. Two hundred loyalists met Moore on the 13th, and on the 14th the number was greatly increased. Nicholas Welch, a Major in Col. Hamilton's loyal regiment, was among the number. He was a native of the community, and instead of being clad in rags like Moore, he wore a splendid suit and was able to display a large amount of gold guineas. It was Welch's time to make a speech. He told the people of the success of the British arms and of the melting away of the American forces. Captivated by Welch's fine regimentals, or thirstting for his gold guineas, the loyalists were inspired with great confidence in the man and his cause. Poor Moore and his ragged uniform sunk into contempt. The camp of these loyalists, or tories, was discovered by Colonel Hugh Brevard and Major Joseph McDowell. These brave Whigs hung around their camp, and excited within them any thing else but feelings of confidence. Welch attempted to capture Brevard and McDowell, but was uniflraaag&fMr'? ' 1 *. ' " .-H So soon as General Rutherford learned that Lord Rawdon had returned to Camden, he determined to make an attack upon this tory camp at Ramsour's Mills. On Sabbath, the 18th of June, he set out from his camp, which at that time was south of Charlotte, for the JTupkasege ford on the Catawba. Whilst encamped at Mallard creek, General Rutherford, not knowing as yet what course Lord Rawdon would pursue, ordered Colonel Locke, Major Wilson and Captains Falls and Brandon, together with the other military officers in the region, to raise men and disperse the tories. Rutherford's object in this was to retain his own force to oppose Rawdon. On the same day that General Rutherford set out in the direction of Ramsour's mill, he sent a dispatch to Col. Locke and his men to meet him near Tuckasege Ford, on the evening of the 19th, or the morning of the 20th. The early part of the 19th was wet and unfit for moving. About twelve o'clock, the rain ceased and the sun shone out. The guns of the soldiers having become wet, were fired off. This caused a general rush of the Whigs of the neighborhood to Rutherford's camp. On the evening of the same day the Catawba was crossed at Tuckasege ford, and that night the men under Rutherford encamped about six teen miles irom Kamsour s mm. No plan of operation was concerted between Rutherford and Locke. The latter, in good faith and with proper spirit, in concert with other kindred spirits, set about making preparations in earnest to disperse the tories. On the morning of the 19th, the forces under McDowell, Wilson, Falls, Brandon and Locke encamped on Mountain creek* on the West side of Catawba, about sixteen miles from Ramsour's mill, and thirty-five from the camp of General Rutherford. The whole force amounted to about four hundred men. Here a council of the officers was held, and their future movements freely discussed. Some suggested that they should recross the Catawba and wait for reinforcements; others proposed that the whole force should march at once and form a junction with General Rutherford. Both these propositions, for various reasons, were objected to. Some, in the overflowing of their patriotism, insinuated that both propositions indicated a fear of the tories. This settled the question at once. It was determined to boldly attack the tories as soon as possible. Colooel Johnson was sent to inform General Rutherford of their conclusion and to ask his cooperation. Johnston arrived at Rutherford's camp at ten o'clock on the night of the 19th. General Rutherford, thinking that his message had reached the camp of Locke shortly after the departure of Colonel Johnston, remained in camp anxiously awaiting the arrival of Locke's forces. Late in the afternoon, Locke, McDowell, Wilson, Falls and others, set out, with the four hundred men under theiu, for the tory camp at Ramsour's Mill. At the west end of the mountain the troops were halted for an hour and the officers consulted respecting the mode of attack. Every officer was left to his onn discretion and to act as circumstances might demand. The only thing definitely arranged was that the companies un der McDowell, Brandon and Falls should act as cavalry and march in front. At day light they were within a mile of the enemy's camp. | The camp was favorably situated for those occupying it It was on the hill three hundred yards from Ramsour's Mill and about half a mile from Lincolnton. The tories had a picket guard of twelve men stationed in the road which passed over the hill. The horsemen under McDowell, Brandon, Wilson and Falls were arranged by twos. So soon as the tory pickets discovered the cavalry, they fired and fled to their camp. They were pursued to the lines and then the tories poured in a galling fire, which drove the cavalry of the patriots back. The cavalry passed i through the infantry under Locke and afterwards formed and renewed the attack. As might have been expected, the mode of attack was very disorderly. The Whigs moved i forward boldly, but in great disorder. In ! a short time the tories, driven from the I hill, retired behind the ridge. Here their fire became more destructive, and the paj triots took shelter behind the bushes. Captain Harden, at this juncture of affairs, led a small band of Whigs into the fight Protecting his men behind a fence, he poured in a destructive fire upon the right flank of the enemy. The Whigs made an oblique movement which put them in possession of a more favorable position. The conflict now became a hand-to-hand fight The parties struck each other with the butts of their guns. The tories finding that tbey were pressed at all points, left the ridge and crossed over the creek on the other side of the mill. When they were seen thus posting themselves, Major Wilson and Captain Alexander were sent to urge General Rutherford to hasten to the assistance of the patriots. They met Rutherford about six miles from the battle-ground. Major Davie and his cavalry rushed at full speed to the scene of action. Colonel Davidson's command followed with all possible speed. These parties had not gone but a couple of miles until they were informed that the tories had retreated and the battle was over. The loss on each side was about equal. It was hard to tell a tory from a Whig since both were dressed in citizen's clothes. The Whigs wore, as a mark of distinction, a piece of white paper in the front of their hats, whilst the tories wore a branch of pine in the same place. When the fight became hand to hand, the tories took the pine branch out of their hats and threw it away. The tories sent in a flag asking a truce to bury the dead, but at the same time Moore and Welch marched the tory troops away; or, to speak more correctly, they ordered every man to run away or get away as best he could. Moore, with a squad of thirty men, reached Camden where he was abused and degraded by the commander of the British forces. After the battle was over, about seventy men were found dead on the ground, about one half of which were Whigs. About one hundred on each side were wounded, and about fifty tories were taken prisoners. Captains Dohson, Smith, Falls, Bowman and Armstrong were killed, and Captains Houston and McKissick wounded. The tories lost in officers, Captains Cumberland, Murray and Warlick, killed; and Captain Carpenter wounded. The patriots were victorious ; but it was a sad victory. The next day the dead were buried, and a long aud loud wail was uttered by the relatives of the slain, many of whom had fallen by the hands of their neighbors and j utary lesson, and proved to the British that the country was not subdued. HOW THE BANKER LOST HIS DAUGHTER. A London correspondent furnishes the following readable story: A very good sell is related of a wealthy ' ' ?L- 1 J u..? Danger nere, who IS very guuu-imiureu, uut inclined to be a trifle fast in bis views of life. He had a favorite clerk, a young man about twenty-one, remarkably handsome, modest, and highly intellectual. For these qualities be was liked by every one, and the banker did not escape the feeling of good will. He was as poor as?his salary, and had no connections to posh his after-fortunes, and so, like most English clerks, he would rise to a hundred and twenty pounds a year, to go on for eight years, at ten pounds a year rise, and marry when he got two hundred pounds a year, henceforth to vegetate for the rest of his life. The banker, on Sunday afternoons, when no one was expected, would occasionally ask the young man to visit his family at his suburban villa, as the conversation of the young man was so correct and sa clever it could not but be of advantage to his children. This was a mistake, evidently, but it was a goodnatured error, and we can only wish, all of us, that there were many more committed. I have not mentioned that there was a beautiful daughter of nineteen, but that may be always ini4aratrw\/1 in #ni! TCnorliah familv fchnt him UUUU..VV.. ? V "ts J known wedded life long enough. But there were, of course, no attentions on the part of the young man, other than extremely delicate, reserved, and proper. The youth, in spite of two or three days' invitation to the banker's seat, to breathe the fresh air and clear bin lungs of London smoke, was evidently very ill, and though he declared himself well and robust, the banker shook his head. "I cannot make out what is the matter with my young clerk," said the banker to a confrere who was in his back office with him after the youth had just brought in some papers. "Well, you are rather green, I should say, for a man of your time of life and experience," said banker number two. "Don't you see what's the matter ? He's in love." "In love! bah! He is modesty and propriety itself." I tell you it is a fact, and with a rich old fellow's daughter, who would no more think of having him for a son-in-law than you would." "Oh ! the haughty old fool; my clerk is as good as his daughter, aud be hanged to him. Thank you for your hint." As soon as banker oumber two had disappeared, the clerk was called in. "So sir. vou are in love, and pining away for the object of your affection ; that's your secret, is it ? Why did you not tell me before, sir?" The youth was silent. "Well, my boy, I pity you ; but I'll give you a bit of advice. If the daughter is fair, she is worth running a risk for. Look here ! there are ?500, and two months' leave of abI sence. Run away with the girl. Bah ; don't i look so stupid. I did the same thing before | you, aud it has not hurt me." | The clerk fell upon his marrow-bones, and I was upon the point of making a clean breast ! of it when the old gentleman rose and left precipitately, to avoid a scene. The young mau considered and acted, and the consequence was that the next day week there was no daughter at the dinner-table of the banker at the country-house. The house was in consternation, and search for her was made in all directions. A note was, however, found on her dressing table, conveying the customary prayer, and one enclosed from the young clerk, stating that, believing the banker had meant to give him a hint with regard to his daughter, and was not able to give his public consent owing to appearance, he had acted on his suggestions, and that, ere his father-in-law received the letter, he (the clerk) would be bis son-in-law. The pill was a bitter one, and the joke a terrible one against him, and the city men are very averse to a joke against them, so it was hushed up, and has only got to the ears of the purveyors of scandal, and to your correspondent, who records it as a trait of London life. ?be ?file*. THE FRENCH GUARDSMAN* With the army of Marshal Saze, encamped ear Fontenoy, ready to give battle to the allies, there were not a few ladies, who, impelled by a chivalric feeling, or personally interested in the fate of some of the combatants, had followed the troops to witness the triumph of the French arms. Their presence was at once the incitement and reward of valor, for what soldier would not fight with tenfold galntkAn Ua hnan k la AvnlnSla ?r awa jailirjr9 VTUCU UU anon VUMII Uio QA|/iua?? irV4v witnessed by the eyes of her he loved as wife, mistress, or mother, and whose safety or honor, perhaps, depended on bis prowes* ? Among those most distinguished for their beauty was the youthful Heloise, the lovely daughter of the Baron de Clairville, a French general officer. The beaux yeux of the demoiselle had enslaved more than one young officer, but of the host of suitors none could boast with reason of encouragement, except Henri de Grandville, and Raou), Count de St. Prix, both commanding companies in the French Guards. Both were handsome and accomplished young men, and both had their spurs to win upon the field of battle. They bad been fast friends until tbe pursuit of the same lady had created a sort of estrangement between them. Little was known of Henri de Grandville previous to his reception of his commission in the guards. He had been brought up by his mother in the old provincial chateau, and though his manners and education were those of a gentleman, still he seemed but little acquainted with the world, and above all ignorant of the lighter accomplishments of the courtier. Perhaps this very simplicity of manner and frankness of character, contrasting so strangely with tbe fashionable affectations of tbe court, endeared bim to hi? nnmradea. and strnniriv D re possessed He | -- ? ? r -- o'tr ?~ loiee de Clairville in bis favor. His rival was of a different stamp. Raoul de St. Prix was a dashing, brilliant officer, brave'as steel, but fond of dress, reckless, dissipated, and extravagant. Yet his faults were those of his age, and belonged to the circumstances by which be was surrounded. The Baron de Clairville, while he left his daughter free to make her selection, yet, as a plain, blunt soldier, rather than a courtier, secretly inclined to favor the pretensions of Henri. Still, his treatment of the two young guardsmen was the same, for they gave equal promise of military gallantry. It was on the eve of the battle of Fontenoy that Henri sought an interview with Heloise, who occupied a gay pavilion near her father's tent. He found her alone and weeping. "Mademoiselle," said he, "you are unhappy. Will you permit a friend to inquire the cause of your sorrow V "Cau you ask me, Monsieur de Grandville ! Of the thousands of brave men who lie down to-night in peaceful slumber, how many will sleep their last sleep on earth! How many eyes that will witness to morrow's sun arise, will be closed forever before it goes down at evening! 0, what a dreadful business is this trade of war! My poor father, be never cares for himself, he never asks his men to go where he is unwilling to lead. I iear for his safety in the deadly conflict of to morrow." "If the devotion of one faithful follower can save him, lady," answered Henri, "be'as> sored of his safety-. I -would poor -out-theblood in my veins as freely as water to shield the father of Heloise de Clairville." "But you?you?Henri?Monsieur de Granville?you think nothing of your own life." "If I fall," answered the young soldier, "my poor mother will weep bitterly for her only son, though he perish on the field of honor. But who else will shed a tear for the poor guardsman ?" "Henri!" exclaimed the young girl reproachfully, and the soft eyes she raised to his were filled with tears. "Is it possible?" cried the young soldier. "Can my fate awaken even a momentary interest in the heart of the loveliest, the gentlest of her sex ? Ah ! why did you render life so dear to me at the moment I must peril it?" "Believe me," said Heloise, drying her tears, "that I would not hold you back when honor beckons vou. It is to such hands as yours that the houor of the golden lilies is committed. I am the daughter of a soldier, and though these tears confess my sex, I houor bravery when it is displayed in a good cause. I honor the soldier as much as I detest the duelist." "Then listen to one whose sword was never stained with his brother's blood. I had thought to go to the field with my secret concealed in my own breast, but something impels me to speak out. I love you, Heloise? I have dared to love?to adore you." The lair girl blushed till her very temples were crimsoned over with eloauent blood. The young soldier threw himself at her feet, and taking the fair hand she abandoned to him, covered it with kisses; nor did he rise till he had received confirmation of his new born hopes, and knew that, for good or ill. the heart of Heloise was irrevocably his. Finally he was compelled to tear himself away, but be carried to his tent a feeling of delicious joy which steeled his mind against all thought of the chances of to-morrow. The moments passed away in delicious reverie, but at length he was interrupted by St. Prix. The Count was in the worst of humors?his tv rrr moo A a ft tPllli liOaaiAll a nrl ho throw Ul V/*T ff UO vital (k tv i in |/iao?ivH| mmm uw v > himself into a seat, and fluog his plumed hat on the table with an energy that betrayed the violence of his emotions. "What's the matter, Raoul ?" asked Henri. "Has Saxe changed his plans ? Do we fall back instead of advancing?" "No, thank God I there will be plenty of throat cutting to-morrow, and the French Guards have the post of honor." "Thank Heaven 1" exclaimed Henri, joyfully. "You seem in excellent spirits to-night, Captain Henri de Grandville." "I wish I could say as much of you, Captain Raoul de St. Prix." "Tell me the cause of your felicity." "Enlighten me respecting your ill-humor." "Willingly, on condition that you will explain your satisfaction." "Agreed." "Well, then?you know the marked preference?marked preference, I say?always shown me by Mademoiselle Heloise de Clair- 1 ville." _ * "I will not dispute with you?go on." "You must bavfe been blinded by absurd 1 hopes not to have noticed it; every officer in 1 the army looked to me as the futur of the lady. 1 Well, sir, encouraged and led on by this siren, * i 1..i?t?:~v* i mane my propjaam iu ucr tu-mgnt.. rwc St. Oris! I had engaged to settle with tny creditors out of her marriage portion." 'Go on?go on?this is excellent, St. Prix." "Well, sir, she rejected me?me, the Count de St. Prix. A prior engagement, forsooth 1 1 I wish to heaven I knew the fellow 1 Before sunrise he should have more button holes in < his doublet than ever his tailor made." "Captain St. Prix," replied Henri, "you have not far to look. In me behold the fortunate suitor. Come, come; confess that your pride, and not your heart was engaged in the i affair. The game was fairly played; the stakes are mine." j "This trifling will not pass muster with me, sir," said the Count, Bternly. "Know?if you knew it not before?that Raoul de St. Prix never fixed his eye on a prize that he did not obtain, or missing it, failed to pnnish bis successful rival. You are a soldier, and you understand me, sir," be added, touching his sword knot with his gloved band. "This is midsummer madness, Raoul," answered Henri, with good temper. "Had I been unsuccessful, painful, fata) as the disappointment would have been, I should have resigned the lady to you without a struggle." "That showB the difference between a gentleman and a parvenu," retorted St. Prix. "A parvenu !" cried De Granville, starting to bis feet. "Yes. Who knows you? Whence came you ? You are an intruder in our ranks." "I bear the king's commission." "Yes, and have not courage enough to sustain it I have defied you to your teeth, and you refuse to fight" "My principles are opposed to duelling. In the words of the lady whose preference honors me, 'I honor the soldier as much as I detest the duellist.' Besides, has not the marshal strictly forbidden duels in camp ? Conscience, reason, authority, every consideration forbids my acceptance of the challenge." "Then," said St. Prix, "you shall submit to an indignity that disgraces a French gentleman forever." And raising his sheathed sword, he struck De Grandville with the flat side of the scabbard. Henri's sword instantly flashed in the lamplight, and St. Prix drawing his rapier, they were instantly engaged in deadly combat Both were expert swordsmen, and while one fought with the ferocity of hatred and disappointment, the arm of the other was nerved by a sense of wrong. The metallic ring of their blades was unintermitted, for neither paused to take breath, but, with teeth set and eyes glaring, thrust, parried, advanced, and fell back in the fierce ardor of the combat At last, De Grandville, seeing an opportunity, sent his adversary's blade whirling through the air, and drawing back his weapon, prepared to thrust it through his breast "Strike 1" said St. Prix; "you have vanquished roe in love and in arms, and there is nothing left me but to die." "Die, then, but on the field of battle, brave Raoul," said De Granville, "and since I have deprived you of your sword, take mine; 1 shall be honored by the exchange." "Hold 1" said a stern voice; and turning, Henri beheld with confusion the countenance of Marshal Saxe, who, attended by a file of musketeers, had entered the tent at the close of the duel. "You will give up your sword to this officer, Captain de Grandville," added he, pointing to a commissioned officer by whom he was accomDanied. "Count de St. Prix, you will pick up your weapon, also and surrender it. Officers who forget themselves so far as to seek each other's lives upon, the eve of battle, with the enemy before them, are unworthy of command. This is matter for the Provost Marshal." And the old soldier seated himself at the table, and eyed his offenders angrily and sternly. "May it please your excellency," said St Prix, "I alone deserve to suffer. I insulted the gentleman, and forced him to fight" "Forced him to fight?" said the marshal. "Hadn't he read the orders of the day?" "I do not claim your clemency, marshal," said Henri. "I committed this fault with my eyes open. But a man cannot always command his passions." .. "That's true, my lad. But what were you fighting about?" "A woman, your excellency," said St. Prix. "A woman 1 fools! a woman's that not to be had without fighting for isn't worth having. Well, well?boys will be boys. I pardon you on two conditions. In the first place you must shake hands." Henri and Raoul advauced and joined their bands. "And in the next place, that you give a good account of yourselves to-morrow. Sacre nom de Dieu ! I can ill spare two lads of spirit from the guards. And now, said the marshal, rising, after restoring their swords to the officers, "good night, gentlemen ; and plenty of bard knocks to-morrow." The next day witnessed one of those terrible encounters, whose sanguinary prints make a more indelible impression on the page of history than the records of the more generous deeds of peaceful life. The greatest gallantry was displayed on both sides, and on the part of the French no officers were more distinguished for their valor than the two guards men whose encounter on the previous evening we have just related. Raoul de St. Prix, in the early part of the engagement, fell sword in hand at the head of bis company, thus meeting with honor a fate he bad earnestly desired. Henri de Grandville, in the course of the day, found himself in command of the regiment, every officer of higher rank having fallen. When the carnage had ceased, he laid a stand of captured colors at the feet of the commander in-chief, and was complimented by Marshal Saxe at the head of the army, receiving assurance that his gallantry should be at once reported to the king. Flushed with triumph, the young guardsman flew to the presence of his mother, to receive her embrace and recount, in modest terms, the story of his deeds. She rejoiced in his safety, and sympathized with his joy. But all at once, as he made her the confident of other hopes, and enlarged on the prospect of bis speedy union with Heloise de Clairville her countenance changed, and her eyes become suffused with tears. "Dear Henri," she said, "I knew nothing of this. Why did you not sooner apprise me of this fatal passion ?" "Fatal passion, dear mother! Why do you thus characterize the love I bear to the purest, the most beautiful of her sex ?" "She is, indeed, all that you paint her, Henri ; but you roust learn the hard task of renouncing your hopes. You can never marry her." "And why so ? Do you refuse your consent?" " Alas! no. But the Baron de Clairville?" "tie regards me wun a ravoraoie eye. i have reason to think he knows of my attachment to bis daughter, and approves it. Even now, his congratulations had a marked meaning, which could hardly be ambiguous." "But a fatal, an insurmountable barrier lies between you and the object of your hopes." "Do not keep me in suspense," cried the young soldier. "Explain this mystery, I implore you." "Have you fortitude to Jisten to a dreadful secret, the possession of which has well nigh destroyed the life of your mother ?" "God will give me strength to bear any stroke," replied Henri. "Thanks to your instruction and example, I have schooled myself to suffer, unrepining, whatever Providence, in its infinite wisdom, sees fitting to inflict If I have a soul for the dangers of the field, I have also, I think, the courage to confront those trials that pierce the heart with keener agonies than any the steel of a foeman can inflict Fear not to task me beyond my strength." "I will be as brief as possible," said the lady. "Your father, Henri, was of noble birth and possessed of fortune. My own share of the world's goods was small, and yet it was on this pittance alone that we were sustained, till the exertions of a generous friend procured you, under the name of De Grandville, (my maiden name,) a commission in the guards." "Then De Grandville was not the name of my father." "No?he belonged fo the noble house of Montmoreoci. The early years of oar mar- > ' v>r?" ried life were passed in happiness that I always feared was too great to be enduring. It was brought to a bitter and miserable end. Deadly enemies?for the best and noblest have their foes?conspired against your father, and he was accused?falsely accused, mark me?of treason to his king and country. I will not tell you by what forgery and peijury be was made to appear guilty?but he was convicted?and sentenced " "Sentenced 1" "Ay, sentenced, and suffered. He died by ?t- i?J- ir /? tuc imuua ui iuv/io?cu/ uc ^ ui w< "Monsieur de Paris /" "The executioner!" Henri uttered a piercing cry, and covered his face with his hands. He remained a long time in this attitude, his frame convulsed bv the agonies of grief, while his mother watched, with streaming eyes, the effect of her communication. At length he removed his hands, and raised his head. His countenance was deadly pale?the only indication of the train of emotions which had just convulsed him?but his look was firm and high. "Mother," said he, pressing her hand, "I thank you. It was better to learn this dreadful secret from your lips than from the words of another. Henceforth we will live for each other?we shall have a common sorrow and a common fate. I pray you to excuse me for a few moments. I will soon rejoin you, but I have first a doty to perform. The young guardsman passed from his mother's presence to that of the Baron de Glairville. "Welcome, welcome! my brave boy," said the old soldier. "You have fairly won your spurs." "Sir, you flatter me," replied Henri, gravely. "Not at all. Saxe himself says that more " * ? j ?h?i ?.11 i il l:. (listinguisnea gauaniry never ion uvuntui uu notice." % "Yon think then, baron, I can claim a post of honor and danger in the next engagement f "Yon can lead the Forlorn Hope if you like." "Enough, baron. I came to ask your forgiveness." . "My forgiveness 1" "Yes, sir, for having wronged you unconsciously so lately as last evening." "Wronged me, and how, strange boy ? You talk in riddles." "Last evening, sir, on the eve of battle, which might well, considering what followed, have been my last of life, I sought your daughter. Her manner, some unguarded words she dropped, emboldened me to declare a secret which I had hitherto kept fast locked in my breast. I threw myself at her feet, and told her that I loved her." "And she " "Confessed that she loved me in return." "Henri! my boy?my son?my hero ! this news makes me feel young again ! it gladdens my old heart like the shout of victory upon a stricken field. Is this yeur offence? I freely pardon it." "You know not all, baron. You knew that I was a poor and obscure soldier of for tune." "The man who has distinguished himself as you have done this day, might claim the baud of an emperor's daughter." "Baron, between me and Heloise there lies a black shadow?a memory?a horror, which forbids our meeting. The very name I bear does not belong to me." "And how may you be named, young man, if not DeOrandville 7" "Henri de Montmorenci," replied theyoung soldier. "De Montmorenci 1" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name. The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field." "And on the scaffold, f" added Henri, with deep emotion. "The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a dreadful tragedy. But he suffered unjustly." "No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death, the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia, would rise" before me. "Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest of France (alas for our history 1) have closed their lives upon the scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise you have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's hand?take her and be hap! py" "Make her the companion of my agony 1 Never." "Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy fantasies." "No, no! urge me not," said the young guardsman. "Let me return to my poor mother. She has need of all my consolation. I renounce forever my ill-fated attachment Heaven, for its own wise purposes, has chosen to afflict me. Farewell, baron; I thank vou for your kindness?your generous friendship. You and Heloise will soon learn that Henri de Montmorenci is no more. After the next battle, if you seek me out, yeu will find me where the French dead lie thickest on the field." "Noble hearted fellow!" cried the baron, when Henri had left him. "He ought to be a field marshal." "Marshal Saxe requests your immediate presence, baron," said an aide-de-camp, presenting himself with a salute. "Monsieur de Baron," said the commander-in-chief, when DeClairville had obeyed the summons, "I have chosen yon to carry my despatches to the king; you will find yourself honorably mentioned therein, and I think the favor of royalty will reward your merit" The baron bowed low as he received the despatches from the hand of the marshal, and was soon ready for the journey, first taking a hasty farewell of bis daughter, whom he commended to the care of Madame de Grandville, (or rather Montmorenci,) during his absence. In five days thereafter, he reported himself to the marshal, and was then at liberty to attend to his private concerns. He found Heloise in the company of Henri and his mother, and the gloom depioted on their countenances presented a singular contrast to the raidant joy that sparkled in the eyes and Btniled on the lips of the genial and warm-hearted old soldier. He kissed his daughter, saluted Madame de Grandville, and then, shaking the young guardsman warmly by the band, exclaimed: "Good news, Henri; I bring ydu a budget of them. The king has beard of your gallantry, and inquired into your story." "The memory of your father," continued the baron, "has been vindicated by a parliamentary decree affirming his innocence. His forfeited estates are restored to his family; and I bring you, under the king's seal, your commission as full colonel in the French Guards, and letters patent of nobility, Count Henri de Montmorenci I" ^ .. Henri and his mother were nearly overwhelmed by this good news; while Heloise clung to her father's arm for/upport. "No fainting, girl," said the happy baron. "That will never do for a soldier's wife. Here, take her, count, make her happy?and let as bear do yore or your TOiunieenng on Forlorn Hope?at least, daring the honeymoon." We need not add that the baroo'a iojun* tions were implicitly obeyed. ? / f?ps?n?UMU$ fading. OBEYING ORDERS. The "oldest inhabitant" perfectly remembers the Widow Trotter, who used, many years ago, to inhabit a small wooden house away down in Hanover street, in somewhat close proximity to Salutation alley. Well, this widow was blessed with a son, who, like Goldsmith, and many other men distinguished in after life, was the dunce of his class. Numerous were the floggings which his stupidity brought upon him, and the road to knowledge was with him truly a "vale of tears." One day he Came home, as usual, with red eyes and hands. "O, you blockhead!" screamed his. mother, she was a bit of a virago, Mrs. Trotter was? you've been gettin' another lickin', I know." "0, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that is one nv the regu'lar exercises?licking me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master,'. I'll hear the 'rithmetic class.' But, mother, to change the subject, as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is there enny errand I can do for you ?" "Yes," grumbled the widow ; "only you're w OKruu wuw buuui overjuiuijj jruu uuuutake?go get a pitcher of water, and be four years about it, will you ?" Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended bis way in the direction of the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered hie friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from hie home, dragging a heavy sea chest after him. "Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a band, and help us down to the Long Wharf with this." "Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a pitcher o' water." "What do you care about your mother?? she don't care for you. Come along." "Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it again." With these words he stowed away his earth* enware under a flight of stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard the ship. The pilot was urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had shipped the day before, wishing no good to his eyes for the delay he had occasioned. AUast be lured to Bob and said? " w nac ao you'sey, youngster, to snipping with me ? I'll treat yon well, and give you ten dollars a month. "I should like to go," said Bob, hesitatingly. "But ray mother " "Hang your mother 1" interrupted the captain. She'll be glad to get rid of you. Come? will you go 1" v "I hain't got no clothes." N "Here's a chest full. The other chap was just your size; they'll fit you to a T." "I'll go." "Cast off that line there!" shouted the captain ; and the ship fell off with the tide, and was soon standing down the bay with a fair wind, and every stich of canvas set She was \ bound for the northwest coast, via Canton, and back again, which was then called the "double voyage," and usually occupied aboilt four years. In the mean while, the non-appearance of Bob seriously alarmed his mother. A night passed, and the town crier was called into requisition a week, when she gave him up, had a note read for her in meeting, and went into mourning. Just four years after these occurrences the M ship returned to port, and Bob and his friend were paid off. The wages of the widow's son amounted to just four hundred and eighty dollars, and he found, on squaring his accounts " !?!< *V? ft Aant.in fKof kio a/lmnnaa Via ft WlbU liUO vnpbtiJU| nunv uio nu *imjvvw uv>v> amounted to the odd tens, and four hundred dollars clear were the froits of his long cruise. As he walked in the direction of bis mother's house, in company with Joe, he scanned with a curious eye the houses, shops, and the people that he passed. Nothing appeared changed; the same signs indicated an unchanging hospitality on the part of the same landlords, the same lumpers were standing at the same corners?it seemed as if had been gone only a day. * With the old sights and sounds, Bob's old feelings revived, and he almost dreaded to see, debouching from some alley, a detachment of boys sent by bis ancient enemy, the schoolmaster, to know why he had been playing truant, and to carry him back to receive the customary wolloping. When he was quite ne.' r home, he said? "Joe, I wonder if any body's found that old pitcher." He stooped down, thrust his arm under the stone steps, and withdrew the identical piece of earthenware he had deposited there just four years ago. Having rinsed and filled it at the pump, he walked into his mother's house, and found her seated in her accustomed arm chair. She looked at him a minute, recognized him, screamed, and exclaimed? "Why, Bob I where hav you been ? What have you been doing ?" "Gettin' that pitcher o' water," answered Bob, setting it upon the table. "I always obey orders?you told me to be four years about it, and I was." The Credit System.?Treating of the credit system of purchase as contrasted with the cash system, a recent writer says: The practice of buying the necessary artiolon nf the hnnnehnld nn credit, ifl fatal to irood V4W w* w**w ""wr ~77"^ o economy. The housekeeper has always to pay dearer when she does not pay cash. The tradesman roost have interest on his money, for a man will never, in a busy community, be willing, and is seldom able if he is willing, to forego it To the ordinary cash price of the article he, therefore, adds the interest which may accrue during the time that credit is allowed. This, moreover, is not all; there must be a premium exacted by the dealer for the risk be runs in trusting out his goods to that class of more or less dangerous customera who never pay ready money. Even the most honestly disposed of these are often unsafe debtors; for they are generally imprudent Annnoh to anticinate their incomes, and to overran them in expenditure. The credit system, moreover, is a temptation in unnecessary purchases. There is a sort of check in the sight and touch of the hard earned money to the disposition to dispose of it lightly. On the other hand, there is something in the facility of credit, removing as it does the disagreeable necessity of payment to the boyer, who can gratify his love of possession with a momentary sense, at any rate, that its gratification costs nothing. There is no such cheap and cautious purchaser as cash. A Modern Miracle.?There is a man living in Wilson, North Carolina, fifty-four years of age, who never owed a cent to a living soul in his life, and, as the records will show, was the first man for the past thirty years to pay tales to the sheriff. Though a blacksmith and plough-maker by trade, he cuts and makes his own clothing, and when engaged at bis work, if there is a call at his shop, his wife goes to the anvil, and will shoe a horse, brace a plough, upset an a^e, or perform any other job in the line, with as mnch skill as her husband. If aUoooples were as earnest and honest as this worfhy pair, there would be fewer Mr. and Mrs. Belknaps in the world mt A glkssfol of a strong acid lemonade dottd every morning before breakfast durinjf thejftrix spring is better than pills for constiMp'w biliousness. To luck the lemon is better for jwtife effect.