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lewis M. gkist, Proprietor.! ^n |nbepenbtnt Jfamilg ^tcfaspsptr: Jfffr l|t ^rmnotion of % political, Social, ^griraltaral anb Cammerrial Jirfemts of % jsonf|. TERMS?$3.00 A TEAR, IN ADVANCE. "VOL. 23. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1877. 3STO. 4Q. ?hc Jftwg ieHrr. WHY I MARRIED THE WIDOW. I always did like the Widow Beasely. ] liked her before she was married (her maiden name was Brown), and I liked her after she was married ; and when Dan Beasely died, 1 liked her so much that when she advertised for boarders I was the very first man to apply, and consequently I got the best room in the house. Mrs. Beasely i9 a decidedly good-looking woman. I always thought so, and I still continue to think so. She wasn't one of youi small, pinched-up, wasp-waisted creatures, Elizabeth?that was her Christian namehad a form of handsome proportions. She had bewitching eyes, and the most splendid purple-black hair that I ever saw. Her skin was cot so white as I like to see skins, but ae she had a pair of red rosy cheeks, I nevei cared much about the lilies. Her lips, 1 must say, were about the most ravishing paii I ever pressed to mine (for I won't deny that I have kissed Elizabeth), and her teeth?but mhaw! shall I make out an inventory of her charms, beginning thus: "She hath a sweet mouth ?" No; it is sufficient to say that she I was most decidedly lovely? "And through ber clear brunette complexion shone a Great wish to please?a most attractive dower, ?*peclally when added to the power." The widow did please me. In fact, I had always been pleased with Elizabeth, but 1 had no more thought of loving her than you have, gentle masculine reader; for, in the first place, she was five years my senior; and, in the second place, I was terribly in love with another woman, and the other woman was terribly in love with me. I don't know whether you know me or not, but you've probably seen me if you've ever been to Yazoo. I'm always to he seen in Yazoo when the weather is lair. My name is Washington Wad man. it was my greatgrandfather's notion having me christened after the father of his country, for you see ray great-grandfather was one of George's most intimate friends; they used to go "hooking" watermelons together. I am happy to state that my?the old gentleman still lives, at the rather mature age of one hundred and forty, is as hearty as ever, and can read Chinese without glasses just as well as ever he could. I haven't any profession, and as my Uncle John left me all his wealth at the time of his death, I don't really need one. Yes, Uncle John left me all his property upon one condition ; and as the condition wasn't a very disagreeable one, I have always, since my ancle's death, considered myself a man of property, although the above-mentioned condition was not fulhiled until yesterday. To understand my uncle's reasons for making such a singular will as he left behind him, it is necessary for me to inform you that he was a bachelor, and knew all about the discomforts of a bachelor's life; but as he didn't begin to realize these discomforts until he became too old?as he thought?to marpv he hecran to hate himself for not marrvine ;? **w - - w while he was young. And he extended bis hate to every other bachelor. So you see he left his wealth to me, provided I married before my twenty-fifth birthday. But in case I did not marry, thus forfeiting the property, it was to be equally divided between six old maids who all their lives had been willing and anxious to marry, but never had a chance. Now the reader will naturally suppose that I wasn't fool enough to throw away a fortune just for the want of a wife, particularly, as I happened to be in love with "A beautiful and happy girl, With step as light as summer air," who loved me in return, and had already ^ promised to be Mrs. VVadman. No, I had determined to marry, and for fear that something might happen to my darling Fanny, I had partially courted several other girls, and i won't deny that I had thrown one or two tender glances at the Widow Beasely. But the girl that I adored was sweet Fanny Cordwell. Yes, "She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine," as Petrarch said about a certain Mrs. Laura (I wonder how Mrs. L.'s husband liked that style of poetry?) and she was calculating to rule my household. I've given you some slight hints regarding Mrs. Beasley's beauty, and as I have said that I admired her, you may imagine that Fanny's beauty was of a similar order, but you were never more mistaken in your life. I doD't confine myself to admiring one particular type of female loveliness. No, I admire your Juno-like woman, be she light or dark, and I admire round, rosy, laughing-eyed women, tall, thin, sober-faced women ; but I love a small, angelic creature, with great blue eyes, golden hair, and a complexion "like roseleaves swimming in pure milk," and her name is Fauny, and she's only seventeen years old. It is a sad mistake on somebody's part that Fanny wasn't born several years' before she was, because it was on account of her youth that her mother persisted in fixing upon the very last day that my uncle's will allowed for our weddiug. Yesterday was the day appointed for our wedding. For weeks and months we had been making preparations for that great day. I can't say that Fanny and I busied ourselves much about the preparations, for there was nothing we could do except to sit ;.n the drawing-room and talk about how happy we should be when the time came ; for she did love me so, and I loved her so, that we were both unhappy the moment we were out of sight of each other. Well, the night before last, being the last night, as a bachelor, that I should pass on earth, I spent in the following manner: from seven o'clock in the evening until ten, I was with Fanny ; we sat on the sofa together. I had one arm around her waist, and she had one arm around my neck, and one of her little hands was in mine, and her beautiful head was on my shoulder. We talked?0, about so many things, and we kissed once or twice, or perhaps twice and a half. Then the little clock on the mantel struck ten, and then I tore myself away from Fanny and went home. It was just fifteen minutes past ten when I got to the widow's. I went in and found that ' very charming woman sitting at the piano and singing, "Thou art so near, and yet so M II fin T 1 - 1.1. _1_ 1 1 1 tar." vv nen i enterea me room sne looKea up at me so longingly that I really?well, I wished that there was more of me?two or three, for instance. Then we sang "Auld Lang Syne," and a tear bubbled up in the widow's right eye, and rolled slowly and sorrowfully down her beautiful nose. "Wash," said Elizabeth, (she always called me Wash,) raising her dark eyes to mine, the long, beautiful lashes still wet with a tear or two, "Wash, I suppose this is the last nighl you will ever pass under my roof." "I am thinking you are quite correct in your supposition, Elizabeth," I answered, cho king down a sigh; for I was feeling rathei blissfully melancholy, and the tones of Elizabeth's voice somewhat aggravated that feeling She had a remarkably melodious voice. At the poet says: "Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear." Yes, I always held my breath when Eliza - . beth spoke, and once or twice I got so red ir the face with holding on that I had to ask hei to stop and allow me to respire. "Wash, I?I hope you'll be happy." "Yes, Elizabeth, I rather hope so," I said laying my hand gently on her shoulder. "But she's very young." "Yes; but she'll outgrow that, Elizabeth. For the present, it is euough for me to kuow that she loves me as fondly as I do her." "I shall be satisfied if she only makes you happy, Washington. But, remember, no matter what may happen, I shall always re- 1 ' main your?your friend," sobbed Elizabeth, ' burying her face in the finger-board of the ! piano with a discordant crash, and bursting : into tears. 1 Gentle reader, this was becoming decidedly , 1 affecting; and although I am decidedly fond I 1 of affecting scenes, I objected very strongly to having oneon the night before my wedding, ' ' in company with such a charming woman as | Mrs. Elizabeth Beasely, because I was afraid 1 I might forget myself. So i nurneaiy oaae ' her good-night, and sought my chamber, leaving the widow to dry her tears with the pedal f of the piano. I Now you, my dear fellow, I dare say, did j 1 not sleep a wink the night before you were ' married ; but I did. I am not of a nervous ! temperament, and I had a clear conscience. ; I was at peace with the whole world. I bad eaten a light supper, consisting of a slice of ' cold ham, with mustard, an oyster stew, some ! ' cold boiled cabbage and beef, with a few turnips, carrots, beets, a spoonful of squash, a ; ' slice of dry toast and a cup of tea. So you ! see there was nothing to hinder my sleeping; and, consequently, the moment my head j touched the pillow ray eyes closed, and I . floated off* to the land of dreams. ^ | "'Tis morn?the orange-mantled sun, Breaks through the fading gray." i I started from my sleep, and rubbed my i eyes. My brain was confused, and I stared , wildly around me. There was a sickening ' i odor in the room. Where was I ? Was this i my wedding day ? I could not collect my scattered thoughts. Did I dream still ? No; , this was my chamber, and that Was the wid- 1 ow's voice that I heard in the hall below. Presently there was a knock at the door. 1 i "Who's there ?" "Me?Elizabeth. O, Washington ! we have been robbed !" I arose, partly dressed myself, threw on my ' dressing-gown, and opened the door. Eliza- 1 beth gave one glance at me, screamed, and, ' i turning nastily, rusnea aown stairs, x iuii lowed her, wondering what the matter could be. In the hall I encountered Smith, one of the boarders. He looked at me, and turned as pale as death, i "It's one of the burglars I" he cried. And, i with a howl of terror, he buret into the dining-room, and throwing himself from a window, ran down the street screaming "Murder !" "Egad !" said I; "they're playing a game on me, but they'll have to play it without my assistance. I'll go back to my room and dress." But I had just reached the foot of the i stairs, when the widow put her head in at the front door. She drew back, screaming. < t "Come, come!" said I. "This thing is i i played out." i "It's his voice," said the widow, her face < once more appearing at the door. i "Whose voice should I have but ray own ?" i I asked, rather testily. i "It's his nose!" i Then she came forward and took me by the i hand. i "O, Washington !" she cried, beginning to < sob; "where?where is your hair?" i Smith, Jones and Jenks came in just then, i "It is he," said Smith. i "Yes, it's he," said Jones. I "I'm sure ot that nose," said Jenks. ".out where is his hair ?" At that instant the cook came up aud grasped me hy the arm. "O, Mr. Wadman, where's your hair?" "You think you're wonderful funny," said I, with a sneer, and a glance that took in the widow, Smith, Jones, Jenks and the cook. "You think you're playing a nice joke on me, don't you ? And I suppose you consider your conduct ladylike, madam? And you are a trio of perfect gentlemen, no doubt; but I don't think so." "Why, the man's crazy 1" said Jones. "Mad as a March hare!" said Jenks. "He really thinks he has got a head of?" But Smith was interrupted by the entrance of my old friend Woodward, who advanced 1 toward me with a serious countenance, and ' placing his mouth to my ear, asked, in a sor- ) rnwfnl l\nnp of voice: "Where the deuce is your hair, Wadraan ?" "Et tu Brute!" I cried, tearing myself away from him. And then, bounding up stairs, I rushed into my room. "Am I mad ?" I asked myself; "or are they crazy ? My head does feel queer; rather light and airy?decidedly cool, too." I raised ray hand to it. "Good heavens! where is my hair ?" Then I ran to the mirror. The sight was too terrible, for my head had been shaved clean, and my face painted, with iodine. I screamed and fainted. When I awoke to consciousness, I found myself reclining in the widow's arms. All the boarders, the cook, the chambermaid, and the waiting-maid, were gathered around me. "0 horrible !" I groaned. "0, Elizabeth, do tell me the meaning of this 1" and I placed my hands upon my head. "Tell him," said the widow; "I can't." "Why, you see, Wadman," began Smith, i "the house was eutered last night by burglars. They took all Mrs. Beasely's silverware, and every thing else of value they rnnId lav their hands on. Thev took mv eold k i watch, coDfound 'em ! and we suppose that, 5 just for the fun of thing, they gave you chloroform, and then shaved your head and paint- ( ed your face with iodiue." "And?0 heavens! this is my weddingday !" And again I swooned. When I again opened my eyes the company had retired, all excepting Woodward and the widow, who still supported ray unprotected poll. " 'Twas a fiendish outrage!" said the widow. "Yes," I faltered; "it would have been horrible under any circumstances, but at present how much more so, on this, my wedding- , day!" s ..tii . ?JJ: :n j ? "ine weuomg wjii nave iu uc puotptjucu, . said Woodward. "I will go to Mre. Cord- j well's and tell her what has happened." , i "No, no; I'll go myself," I cried, starting ] UP- 1 i "What! with that head and face?" ' It's the only head and face I've got to go :, with ; and the wedding can't be postponed, j Do you remember my uncle's will ?" I ! "Uufortunate man ! I had forgotten the I will. Yes, the wedding must take place to- j day. But will Fanny?" j: "Do you think the dear girl fell in love with 1 s j my hair ?" I asked, savagely. 1 "Go and see," said the widow, leaving the i ; room. I dressed hurriedly with my friend's assist- j i auce, and, jamming my hat over my eyes, | was about to leave the apartment, when j Woodard stopped me with the question : "Hadu't I better get you a wig?" "No, I'll go to Fauny as I am. Remember ' s 'Love looks uot with the eyes, but with the | miud.'" And so sayiug I strode out of the j house and walked proudly down the street, | conscious that hundreds of eyes were looking , - at me; for the news of the horrible outrage j i had spread from one end of Yazoo to the other, i r and Fanny had been one of the first to hear it. j When I reached Mrs. Cordwell's door I tar- j ried not to ring the bell, for that had long , ceased to be customary with me. I marched boldly into the house, and entered the draw- i ing room unannounced. Fanny stood before me, but she did not speak, she did not move. "You might have thought a form of wax, Wrought to the very lite, was there, So still was she, so pale, so fair." "O, Fanny,darling, speak to me!" I cried, extending my arms to embrace her. Then she started and shrieked. Her mother rushed into the room and caught her daughter in her arms, and they screamed in concert. "0, Fanny, dearest, don't yell so 1 My hair will grow again, and my face will resume its original color before the honeymoon is ever." "Go! go !" she screamed. "I can't marry such a fright. Go, and let your hair grow, if it will." "But we naust be married to-day, dearest," [ urged. She gave one glance at my face and hairless cranium, and then covered her face with her hands. "No, no, I?I really can't marry you today. I?I renounce you forever. Adieu 1" Then she left the room, and I left the house. Returning to my boarding-bouse, I met Elizabeth at the door. A world of pity beamed in her beautiful eyes. "Is the wedding postponed ?" she asked, observing my sorrowful countenance. "Yes?worse. She has discarded me altogether. No woman will marry me now, and to-morrow I shall be a poor man," I said, jamming my bead against the door in a rage. "Are you Bure that no woman will marry pou, Washington?" Elizabeth asked, and her voice was more musical than ever. I looked down into her dark eyes. My heart gave one terrible thump as I asked: "Will you ?" "Yes, Washington." I pressed her to my heart, and she kissed my shaved head. "The wedding shall take place this afternoon," I said. "Yes, love." Again we embraced. Aud now the reader knows why I married the widow. And although I've only been married twenty-four hours, I've thought several times since, what a fool I was not to have married her long ago, and in my hair, without the fear of my uncle's will before me. IpSftHattwttii fgtiaditu}. From the Detroit Free Presx. HAD HE A CHARMED LIFE ? 4 Strange Incident in the Career of Stonewall Jackson. That was an awful day when that Confedsrate lion, Stonewall Jackson, crept upon poor Hooker hidden in the Wilderness. Lee on one side?JacksoD on the other, and the woods around Cbancellorsville shook and trembled, and were almost swept from the face of the garth by the whirring round-shot, the hissiug shell and the screaming grape-shot. Men were struck stone dead as the battle line ad ? J J At AAf] WAAHIIlid vanctu or reire?ieu. n nuciawu imuiu and bronzed faced veterans were torn to fragments and burled againBt the living. Wounded men fell in their tracks to be crsuhed in the earth by the great limbs cut from trees by shot and shell. The roar of guns, the crackle of musketry, the fierce shouts and awful groans made such a hell upon earth of that battlefield as was never seen before or after. Fighting Joe Hooker was in a box, but not a man in his great army dreamed that it was 30 until the long gray line of Stonewall Jackson came creeping through the quiet forest at 3 o'clock on that ever to be remembered 2nd lay of May, 1863. The light earthworks had been thrown up to face another way, toward All lines faneH Tjee. all men were look ng for Lee, when three divisions of Confederates, moving with soft step, took Hooker's irray in the rear, and drove one brigade pellmell into and over another, until veteran soliiers were without strength or presence of mind. That awful night when THE WOUNDED WERE BEING BURIED ALIVE in the woods, and the dead were thicker than the leaves just broadening into full life, a report ran through the reorganized ranks that the great Stonewall Jackson had been killed. Thousands believed it, but three of us, lying side by side in the new battle line born after night came down, put no faith in the rumor. Why we did not is what I started to write ibout. Stuart's cavalry had been following up Hooker's army, but it was like a rat following in the footsteps of a horse.' Lee was so far iway, and coming up so slowly, that Hooker iad time to throw up light earth-works, seize ;he best ground, fell trees to protect his flanks, iud make ready to shatter and hurl back the expected attack. On that second day of May his soldiers, hidden in the woods or lyng in the fields, washed their clothing, wrote etters home, made comfortable beds for themselves, aud were not in the least troubled ibout what another week would bring forth. AlS a deep river suddenly bends to avoid a nluff, so did that great army of Lee's bend to ivoid the Wilderness. It split in two, to at:ack at a given hour on both sides, and Joe Hooker sat in his tent and congratulated him ielf on his impregnable position?considered impregnable by him when two great highways ran along the rear of half of his army. 50 universal was the feeling of security that toon afternoon three infantry men started out TO BEG, BUY OR FORAGE FOOD. jigel's corps was on Hooker's west flank, and jommanded that day by Howard. Part of ;his corps faced the old turnpike and plank oad, part faced the other way. Most of the sen were hidden in the woods, and behind ridges, and up the broad highways, which should have been flrst looked to, Stuart was aushing his cavalrymen as skirmishers. We hree men were beyond Sigel's corps, and on ;he point of entering a farm house from which jverybody had fled, when,less than rifleshot iway, we caught sight of the Confederate adranee. The cavalrymen were advancing slowly, evidently expecting to find a heavy guard at some point, but at the time we imagined that less than a regiment of Stuart's men were feeling along up to pick up stragglers, locate positions, &c. We, at least, did not rear them, and the proposition to enter the bouse and secure a better view of the roads ?peedilv conveyed us to a chamber window. We could see but little more from that post, but we did see, soon after reaching it, THAT SAME STONEWALL JACKSON, ride from shelter out upon the turnpike in Cull view, attended by only three or four officers. He had come out there to make observations. Like a cat, before she destroys the mouse, he was woudering at what point he should strike to disable his victim soonest. Grim-miuded and sour-tempered was the third man of us, and war's horrors delighted him. When he had taken the second look at the little party sitting on their horses in the open road, a wicked smile crossed his face and he whispered: "By the hundred gods of the heathen ! but that chap on the left there is old Stonewall Jackson, aud I'm going to drop him!" Old Pete, our sour-tempered companion, had a first class Minnie rifle with him. He had carried it for several months, in some way escaping the attention of the inspector, and in some way always secured ammunition for it. I saw him, in at least a half a dozen instances, shoot down videttes or skirmishers who seemed to be a half a mile away, and he was known throughout the regiment as a dead shot. There was considerable firing around us from foragers, stragglers and men cleaning their guns, and a shot from the window might not attract particular attention. Resting the heavy gun across the window-sill, and having as steady rest as hunter ever asked for, "Old Pete" was ready to keep bis word. IT SEEMED LIKE COLD-BLOODED ASSASSINATION. I could almost count the buttons on Jackson's coat, and there seemed no escape for him. I was watching him when the rifle cracked. He had a field-glass to his eye, and the only movement we could see was a quick motion of the head, as if the bullet had cut close to his ear. The glass was not even lowered. "Old Pete" swore a terrible long string of oaths as he realized his failure, but in a minute was ready again. "I hope never to draw another breath if I don't kill him stone dead !" he muttered as he knelt down. Jackson did not face us as before, yet was a good mark even for a musket. We watched him as before, and this time the bullet must bave swept past bis face, as he dodged his head backwards. The glass was down then, but he raised it in an instant and went on with his survey. "Have I got to be a fool ? or have I grown blind?" howled "Old Pete," as he looked down upon his unharmed victim. I'll kill him this time, or shoot myself in this chamber?" It was dangerous to remain there longer, as the cavalry had crept nearer, and Jackson's aides seemed to have got the idea that a sharpshooter was posted near by. Yet "Old Pete" would have had a third shot if the Confederates bad been in the house. THE TARGET WAS AS FAIR AS BEFORE. He took a more careful aim, and yet when be fired he saw splinters fly from a rail way over beyond the general. The cavalry were then close upon us, and our two muBkets were lost in the hurried flight from the bouse. Half an hour after that, Jackson was driving our brigades and divisions as he willed. "I'll measure off the same distance, shoot off-hand, and bet my life that I can hit a soldier's cap nine times out of ten!" growled "Old Pete" as he hurried forward, and suddenly overcome by indignation and chagrin he battered his cherished gun against a tree i j J. i auu uesiruyeu iu As if seeking personal revenge, Jackson's legions passed right by us. The nearest brigade of Sigel's corps was picked up and dashed to pieces as a strong man would lift and hurl a child. Running along with amazed and frightened men, but bearing off towards our own division, we picked up other muskets to replace our lost ones. Reaching a knoll from which we bad another view of the turnpike, we halted for a last look; over the heads of the frightened, fleeing soldiers?over the ground strewn with arms and accoutrements? over the blue smoke just beginning to rise, WE SAW JACKSON AGAIN. He was far away, but it was Jackson. "Curse him 1 hut he has got a guardian aDgel," howled Old Pete, as he shook his fist toward the turnpike. No other man ever bad a rifle drawn on him at such fair range and escaped three cool, carefully aimed bullets. His escape sent a thrill of superstition through each mind, and from that hour to the moment when the news of Jackson's death reached us, "Old Pete" never spoke a word. It was a puzzle that he could not solve. As we lay in line, every musket barrel still hot, and every eye peering through the darkness to catch sight of the gray line coming on again, an aide came hur ryiDg along and snouted out: "We're all right, boys; Stonewall Jackson has been killed up the road there 1" "Old Pete" leaped up, whirled around to face the bearer of the newB, and savagely shouted back ; "You liel you lie! you lie! Stonewall Jaekson can't be hurt by shell or killed by bullet!" BUT IT WAS SO. Lying in the arms of those who loved him, so near us that the cries of our wounded must have reached his ears, was the mortally wounded general, whose skill and strength had no match. While the white-faced dead looked to the torn and shattered forest trees? while the wounded crawled here and there in their awful agony?while the living looked into each other's anxious faces and wondered if another night would find any of us there, the legions of Jackson were strangely silent. Now and then came the sudden boom of some great gun, sounding like a deep groan of despair, but there was nothing more to break the silence. While men rested in line of battle, having the awful horrors of war on every sine, mere was one wno gave up me me a* ue whispered, "Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees." From the New York Herald. REGISTERING DRINKS. How the Imbibers of Virginia are Paying the State Debt. Richmond, Va., September 14.?The Moffet register, or the "Moffet bell punch," as the people still insist upon calling it, has now been in operation three days, and as a most valuable and extraordinary source of revenue, it is regarded as a decided success. The average Virginian is now engaged in the patriotic duty of liquidating the State debt to the tintinnabulary music of the little gong in the register. The usual salutation to-day, instead of the ordinary "Let's take a driuk," is "Let's contribute to the payment of the State debt by registering." The repudiators or readjustee, who are opposed to the payment of the debt, carry their opposition so far as to refuse to imbibe any beverage of a stimulating nature requiring the payment of a tax, and they are necessarily obliged to have recourse motor Thia (innovAr in nnlv the case in a few extreme instances. EXCITEMENT AMONG THE DRINKERS. On Tuesday, the first day of the registers, there was quite an excitement among the portion of the community that usually patronizes the drinking saloons. As the little black boxes were placed in each bar, fastened by screws to the counter, crowds flocked in and called for drinks just for the very novelty of listening to the tinkling sound of the gong produced by the revolution of the crank as the barkeeper registered each drink. It was curious to notice how eagerly the patron, after swallowing his "straight," "toddy," beer or julep, would bend forward and intently watch the oDeration of the crank and take in the "ting" that gave notice that the tax was paid, aod that he had performed hia whole duty as a Virginian and a patriot. AN ADVANCE IN PRICES. As predicted several days ago by telegraph, aD advance in the charge for malt and alcoholic drinks took place all along the entire line of saloons. Heretofore the charge for alcoholic drinks was ten cents, and five cents for maltdrink8. The Moffet register law imposes a tax of two and a half cents on alcoholic and half a cent on each malt drink. In order to meet this tax, the saloon keepers at once raised the price of alcoholic beverages to fifteen cents, and they overcame the difficulty in the case of lager beer by substituting glasses holding a tenth less than those used previous to the introduction of the register and leaving the price at five cents. When two or more whiskies are called for, a reduction is allowed at 'he rate of two drinks for a quarter, four for fifty cents, and so on; but the tippler who drinks bj himself is victimized to the extent of two and a half cents, which ' is a clear gain above former profits for the barkeeper. ABOLITION OF THE "SLATE." j One of the immediate effects of the register was the abolition of the credit system by the j barkeepers. However willing they were to ( risk the loss of their liquors by "charging," , they are decidedly unwilling to pay the ( State tax upon drinks for which they might | eventually receive nothing. Hence the tra- , ditional "old score" and the modern "slate" ( are no longer institutions in the whisky shops | of Richmond. Every man has now to pay as j he goes, and the bartender takes good care , not to touch the crank for the purpose of ( registering until he has received his pay in the ] coin or currency of the country. , POPULAR SENTIMENT. < It is fair to say that public sentiment to- i day is largely in favor of the Moffet liquor i law. The custom of one or two of the saloons 1 has slightly decreased within the past day or I two, but not to such an extent as to warrant I the idea that the register is the cause. The i small advance in the prices does not interfere with regular or even irregular drinkers. It >' is only topers of the lowest type who grumble, . and to these can be added the class who do < not alwayB have ready cash in their pockets, < and who have been in the habit of having their drinks charged. For these the register < is inconvenient, and hence they condemn it; < but the great majority of the patrons of sa- | loons are heartily in favor of it. Everybody, including its opponents, concedes that, as a ? source of revenue, it is one of the best ever I devised, and if the law is properly enforced, < there is no doubt that it will eventually be J one of the most effective. < THE OPPOSITION. 1 The opposition to the register comes mainly ' from the saloon keepers, who fail to conceal . their bitter antagonism toward it. Several of j them protested against its introduction into their saloons ; others saw it fastened to their counters without a word, but with the most bitter feeling, and still others smilingly and ' gracefully yielded to the inevitable, and re- j ceived the little boxes with the tell-tale dials with the reluctant expression : ' "I'm satisfied if everybody else is. The tax don't come out of my pocket." It is still the intention of the liquor dealers to fight the Moffet law in the courts on ( the ground that it is unconstitutional, and, ! failing in this, to carry the war into the next 1 Legislature. Already, there are a number of 1 candidates for that body who expect to be 1 elected on the ground of their opposition to f the Moffet register. ! WHAT THE DEALERS SAY. When questioned as to their objections, the liquor dealers fail to advance any reasonable argument, except that they have no right to be made tax collectors for the State of Virginia. So far the register has not interfered with their regular receipts. It has rather increased them in some instances, and in only one or two very obscure instances have I heard of any decrease. "I hate to turn the damned crank," said one barkeeper to me; "it looks as if it was put there to keep you from stealing your taxes." Said another : "Everybody that comes in has to look at that register, and then they begin to count how many drinks you have sold, and make calculations as to bow much business you do and what taxes you pay. Now that's all very annoying to me. The State has no right to make an exposure of my business." A third said: "Itoften interferes with my business. When I have a rush, as is frequently the case, it is as much as I can do to collect money and make change, and having to stop every moment to turn that crank delays me and loses me both money and custom. Why can't the State furnish an engineer to work it as well as the machine ? I certainly have neither the time nor inclination. I regard it as a nuisance and a great impediment to my business." These comprise the main objections of the saloon keepers which with time will soon wear away, though there may be something in some of them. EVADING THE LAW8. How to beat the register is now the problem that engages the attention of many scientific minds employed in the barkeeping business. Before the use of the register it was easy to "knock down" on the boss, but now that can't be done, as the little dials on the face of the register tell to a drink the amount of cash that has been taken in. In this way the little box is a saving to the saloon keeper, as it serves as a check upon bis bartenders. While Richmond has less dishonest bartenders than any other city in the Union, nevertheless, as I said before, the problem of the hour is how to beat tbe register. Various devices nave v been suggested, but none have met with sue- fc cess so far, as I aui informed, except one, and r the genius who invented this is not a barten- 1 der. He came into a saloon this morning, t not far from where I write, and after assuring ? tbe proprietor that he would pay half a cent f for every movement made upon the dial of the 1 register, he took the crank in his hand, and, d by some extraordinary manipulation, and o without at all tampering with the register, t made revolution after revolution, sounding the ^ gong in the inside each time, but without a 11 single movement of the hands upon the dials, t where the drinks are registered by numbers, t This surprised everybody who witnessed the operation, but the modus operandi still re- f mains a mystery. WHAT 18 EXPECTED. What the register is expected to do is given in the following estimate : Last year the whole t amount paid by all the liquor merchants of ^ the State into the treasury was 8187,000. o Richmond liquor merchants paid 837,000. ^ Say that a man sells per day sixty drinks of t spirituous liquors, (tax on same 81.50) or for- ^ ty drinks spirituous liquors and one hundred j of malt, (tax on the two 81.50) his tax per , annum (81.50x365) would be 8548. Three Q hundred and fifty dealers, averaging that j( amount, would make a total of 8191,800 per annum for Richmond. Add to that 820,000 ^ for specific licenses and taxes not collectable by the register, and the aggregate would be ^ 8211,800. Ordinarily Richmond pays one- ^ fifth of the linunr tax of the State. There is in this case reason to suspect that the law will " not be as rigidly enforced elsewhere as in j Richmond; then say we will pay one-fourth f of the whole amount, and we nave an entire ' amount for the State of over $800,000 per annum. The above estimate is a very low one. The dealer that doesn't sell $8 worth of liquor n per day can't keep agoing. The receipts of many are five times this sum. The estimate, j therefore, makes liberal, even extravagant, ^ allowance for "leakagefor the barrooms and ? 8 to res that do not keep open on Sunday ; for ^ many small establishments that do not sell y malt liquor, and for the reduced tax the re._:i ton ucaiuo l,aJ Y estimated revenue to the state from j the moffet register. ^ An inspection of the MofFet registers in 1 twenty-four leading saloons up to midnight li yesterday, show a paid tax on alcoholic and s malt drinks of about $230 for the four days ( the registers have been in operation. A cal- e culation based upon this exhibit shows that in t 350 places where liquor is sold, the revenue to a the State from this city alone would be about t $100,000 per annum, and in the State about fc half a million. This will insure the Moifet ? register as a permanent taxpaying institution. OFF FOR AFRICA. I'he Great Negro Exodus--Liberia to be Populated iu About Fifteen Minutes. The New York World publishes the following letter: The remarkable movement which is now taking place among the freedmen in the South cannot he lightly regarded by far-seeing men, nor retarded by flippant and ignorant criticism. This movement has not been stimulated by outside influences, but has originated imong the freedmen themselves. The great cause of African colonization has for years seen languishing, and the general public sentiment has been that its work was done. But i few who studied the origin and principles cf the colonization scheme in this country have, with unfaltering faith, kept intact the machinery of the American Colonization Society and its auxiliaries, believing that the time would come when public opinion would igain demand a vigorous prosecution of this wnrlr Th#? nrpspnt. nrcw.ni7.pd movements of t? ?a ? the freedmen toward Liberia point to that time as almost present, and to a question which may shortly become a great national one. There has recently been formed in Charleston, 3. C., a society called the "Liberian Exodus Association," with Rev. B. F. Porter, pastor of a church in that city, as President, and Seorge Curtis, Secretary. The leading object of the association is to obtain means for emigration to Liberia. Unier its auspices large public meetings have been held and- effectively addressed by the President and others. The President has also addressed a letter to Wm. M. Evarts in its behalf, which received a prompt and courteous reply. In a recent letter to a friend in New York he says: "The people are desirous of going to Africa at the earliest practicable moment. Over 65,000 have signified their iesire to be transported to Liberia." A similar association has been formed in North Carolina under the name of the "North Carolina Freedmen's Emigration Aid Socie;y," with Robert Orr, President,and Sherwood 3apps, Secretary. Mr. Capps is a beneficiary ( of the Shaw University at Raleigh, where he oas been supported over eight years by the tind offerings of two friends. Having thns acquired an education, be is in baste to get to ( Liberia as bis adopted home and field of usefulness ; and, not satisfied with going himself, ie has done what he could by personal inter- , course, publio addresses, and the distribution , )f printed matter, to awaken the spirit of em- ( gration in others. Nor has be labored in rain. In a recent letter he reports fifty-one sereons?mostly in families?as applicants for j i passage to Liberia this autumn, giving their , lames, ages, occupations, and church connections. And so anxious are they to go that , hey offer contributions for the purpose, imounting in the aggregate to $1,105. In >ther States a like spirit is manifested, and ( throughout the country the colored people are noved by a spirit of emigration as never be- , "ore. An appeal comes from Selma, Ala., laying: "One thousand persons here want to jo. We are willing to pay all we have to get iway." A white Presbyterian missionary to ;he freedmen writes: "I will be very greatly obliged if you will send me pamphlets, circuare, or documents relating to emigration to Liberia. This region is now very much agisted with the subject, and I would be glad to >btain the facts in the case for the benefit of he multitude of colored people around me. I would be glad also to know whether the movenent in Charleston, of which Rev. B. F. Por-er is the head, is in any way connected with i he American Colonization Society, and is ap- i proved and endorsed by the society ? Also i whether, if I should find a small number?a i lozen or less?in this region, really worthy 1 ind deserving men, who would be useful anywhere, and could obtain best testimonials of i heir fitness, desirous of going to Africa, you i would be able to send them to Liberia in the j sourse of the coming year ?" It is not neces- i lary to multiply extracts from letters and ap- 1 )eals at hand to show that the prophetic ut- \ erances of great and good men are in a stri- I ting manner being fulfilled. The practical 1 juestion for the Christian philanthropist to i iecide is, what is our duty in regard to these < )lain indications of Providence? 1 From a consideration of these facts, and ' nany others of a like nature which might be < ;iven, we conclude that this mighty question < will soon force itself upon the attention of our 1 i i j .i ?. y lauonai government, buu lub part ui a uuo tatesraan is to take it in its inception and 1 control the movement, so far as it is possible 1 o control a matter that has it origin in the ~ earning desire of a race for higher social and >olitical liberty. And is it not time for oar ? ihil&nthropists to revise their opinions in regard to this question of African colonization ? 6 Ve have all the machinery necessary for send* 1 ng out all who are willing to go. From the < hou8ands who are anxious to go we can pick J ur men; we can send them to high and t iealthy country in the eastern part of Libe- < ia, and thus the way will be prepared for 1 hat great exodus, the symptoms of which are a lecoming more distinct every day. The duty 1 >f the present hour, while this mighty tide is t ising, is to hold fast and liberally support the ( ustitutions which we now have. What the 1 lemands of the future will be, when hundreds t >f thousands are appealing for help to return t o the lands of their fathers, carrying the twin ' ilessing of Christianity and civilization, it is i lot hard to imagine. Let us, then, hold fast i o what we have, and increase the efficiency of t he instruments we now possess. f S. D. ALEXANDER, a Resident of the New York Colonization So- ^ ciety. SOUTHWARD THE STAR OF EMPIRE. 1 Ben Hill says that the next President of L? mill nnf Anltf ka rtOTlfl). ' UC U Ui tcu kjbaico TTIIl UVt UUIJ uu bUV vwuu* late of the Democratic party, but that the | South will elect him with the assistance of nly forty-seven Northern electoral votes? 1 he South furnishing the balance of the oue | undred and eighty-five required to elect. > Jen Hill is content that, notwithstanding he overwhelming preponderance of his part 8 f the Union in naming the successor of Pres- 8 ient Hayes, the South should be awarded l. nly the second place on the Presidential icket. 1 There is a way, and one that is practicable, ? y which the South may eleot the next Presient with still leas assistance from the North; c nd if resort be had to this plan, it is not un- * ikely that the time is approaching when 8 American Presidents will be again chosen 8 rom the South in the beginning of the second , Arihit>0 aP pannKlin oo fpannontlv aa fhav I iere in the early part of the first. Texas is eight hundred and twenty-five ailes long, and seven hundred and forty miles v ride. Its area is 274,356 square miles, near- ? y six times that of the State of New York, our times that of Maine, Vermont, Massachu- c etts, Rhode Island and Connecticut com- c lined ; greater than Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Viscousin and Michigan combined. e The day cannot be distant when the State } nil have to be divided. Its population in s 859 was a little over 200,000. In 1860 it j iad increased to 504,215?a gain of nearly t 85 per cent. It contains now a full mil- \ ion of people, and the tide of immigration is v teady, notwithstanding the troubles on the Rio . Irande. When these shall have been permalently settled, it will be practically impossible o maintain one State government over the c ggregate to which the population is certain s o rise, and the people will not be content to a lave only the same weight in the United i states Senate as Rhode Island. f The division of the State into four States a was the original intention, and provision to that effect was made in the act of admission. But it is more likely that it will ultimately be divided into six States. The Radicals, in their haste to obtain a preponderance in the Senate, made new States in the West as rapidly as they could find any excuse, and did not even wait for the minimum of population required for one representative. That Ben Hill's Party will have a majority of the Congress which succeeds the coming one is at least probable; and more wonderful things have happened than that. One of the the first things that Congress will do will be to make four States, if not six out of Texas. Thus, it will be seen, Ben Hill could elect the next President, perhaps, with still less help from the North than ne calculates now will be necessary.?Chicago Times. HOW POSTAL CARDS ABE MADE. The paper upon which postal cards are printed comes in sheets about twenty-two inches by twenty-eight inches in size, and is packed in boxes containing about 2,000 sheets, and weighing 530 pounds each. After the boxes are unpacked the first thing in order is the printing. This is done by two Hoe cylinder presses, each of which prints fifty cards M itMMM/vaatAn TUA allAafa at a OllJglC lilipiCMlUUi JL uo piiuivu OU^VM are tbeo placed in racks and allowed to dry for two days, io order to prevent any blotting or defacement. Now tbey are ready.for the cutters, of wbicb there are three, at present. By the first, which is a rotary cutter, the sheets are divided crosswise in ten Strips, containing four postal cards each. The sheets pass in through this machine as rapidly as one can follow another. The stripe are then collected in packages of one hundred each, the edges are made exactly even, and the packages are then placed on the iron tables of the cutters, which sever them in the opposite direction. Of these cutters there are two, both known as the Cranston "undercut." Ten packages of one hundred sheets each, after leaving the the rotary cutter, are placed in the "under-cut," a lever is pulled which sets the machinery in motion, and up comes a heavy knife with a diagonal motion, and there are four hundred postal cards complete in a twinkling. A bit of brass is removed, allowing the uncut packages to be moyed up a proper distance under the knife, and the process is repeated. The cards are then taken in bunches convenient to be handled, and the edges are carefully brushed to remove all dust and "feather." Tbey then pass into the hands of eighteen girls, by whom they are counted out into packages containing twenty-five cards each. Twenty packages are placed in pasteboard boxes, which again are packed in wooden boxes containing from 1,000 to 25,000 cards apiece. The cresses are now Drintine about 1.000 000 cards a day. The contract requires that 1,000,000 cards shall be made in a day if the demand is so great. It is not expected that many visitors will enter the rooms in which the cards are made, but precautions are taken to prevent the loss or abstraction of cards. Every sheet printed is registered by the press, and the company is compelled to give an account of everyone. If a few cards were lost it would cause considerable trouble, although the loss might be triflng. Any cards that are spoiled in the cutting, or defaced in any way, are retained and destroyed by the government inspector. e Two Stories.?A gentleman, just returned from over the Canadian border, tells these stories: He was in the hotel general-accommodation room when two veterans of the (hotel^ bar, laying schemes for a drink, began to tell stories to each other for his benefit. "These are awful hard times," said one. "I never saw such times before, except when I was in Ohio, an' then I was hard put to it to git along. Nothing to do. I had a yoke of steers, but they wa'n't earnin' nothin'. But I lived right on the road the Western emigrants went over every day. So I dug a hole in ;hat road at the foot o' the hill, near my louse, turned a livin' spring o' water into \ ind made a good mud-hole. Well, when the emigrants came along, every day there would je one or more teams git stuck in ray modlole, an' they would see my steers standin' >ut doin' nothin', and they would send up ind git me to come an' help 'em out; and I ilwuz charged as much as five dollars a lift. (Veil, I kep' that mud-hole right np in go*d epair, till I made twenty-five thousand dolars out on't, an' then I sold it for three thou* land dollars an' moved op here." Story number two was the other Munchauien's companion-piece for the yoke of steers: "When I was a-choppin'?I could chop lome, you know?an' folks used to ask me iow much I could do in a day. 'Have you sver tried it ?' bs.vh the v. 'No. never.'savs - J - 1 ?? ? [; 'never but once, an' that wasn't really a ,ry.' "You see, jest to show 'em what I :ould do, I got np one winter mornin' afore ight and ground up my axe sharp, O, jest as iharp, an' went into the woods. An' I chopped ike sixty till about three o'clock in the afernoon, when I 'bought it was as much as I ;ould pile afore sundown, an' I went to pilin'. Well, when I had it all piled up it measured wenty-seven cords. An' then I kuew somebin' was wrong, for I knew at the rate I bad >eeD choppin' it oughter to be more. So I vent back, and began lookin' around to see vhat the trouble was. An' there, right at he fuBt tree I cut in the mornin', was my ixe-head. You see, the thing was loose an' dipped off, an' I had been choppin' all day vith the bare helve." The Old Bachelor's Latter End.?Let is glance at the latter scenes. Even he has lis day. When people find that he will not narry, and that he is getting on in years, they jradually "drop him." He ceases to be asked o parties, and haughty beauties turn up their loses when he suDDlicates for their favor. He nay not loee caste at the same time that the >loom of youth is robbed from him ; but when le begins to enter upon the regions of the sere ind yellow leaf, his flatterers drop away. He ees younger rivals upon his heels, and has to nake room for them. The old ties that renlered life dear to him snap, one by one, and tone form to take their place. Not being en;aged in any work of usefulness, he has to fly o his club for companionship, and he has no lifflculty in discovering that the "friends" vhom he makes there do not care a straw ibout him. People feel that he is, in some espects, a social failure, and they feel, furher, that it is his own fault They laugh at lim because he is vain and selfish, and coninues to hanker after admiration; they hold lis little foibles up to ridicule ,* they use him vhen it suits them, and forsake him when it uits them. Perhaps there is no man more jopelessly alone in the world than the gallant ild bachelor who has outlived the pleasures f youth and turned fifty.?Home Journal^ 4- ? - ISF'The whole force and pertinency of the txample of Jesus consists in supposing that le was a sharer with us in the same dangers ind sorrows, that he was tried as we are tried, hat he suffered as we suffer, that he tri .J __ 1 * a TT 1 impnea as we migni inumpo, unless we >egin by assuming this, his virtues, much as ve may admire them, are no more an examine to us than his miracles. ? To the hungry, give food; to the naked, slothes; to the sick, some comfort; to the sad, i word of consolation; to all you meet, a mile and a cheery greeting. Give forgiveless to your enemies; give patience to the retful; give love to your households; and ibove all, give your heart to God. - ?