Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, October 04, 1877, Image 1
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.
- ?