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lewis >i. grist, i'ropi-ietoi-. J" ;|it! Jnbcpmbraf Jfamilg Itetospaptr: Jbr fjje |roinatii)n of l|jt |jali(iral, Social, ^gricnltaral anb Commercial interests of % Sontjj. |terms--$3.00 a tear, in advance. vot, 25. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MARCH 13, 1879. NO. 11. $Mr4 foctrg. WHAT DOES IT MATTER? It matters little where I was bom, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrank at the cold world's scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure ; Bnt whether I live an honest man, And hold my integrity firm in my clutch, I tell you, brother, plain as 1 can, It iriatters much. ! It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin and care; Whether in youth I am called awav, Or live till my bones and pate are bare; But whether I do the best I can To soften the-weight of adversity's touch On the faded cheek of my fellow-man, _ It matters much ! It matters little where be my grave, Or on the land or on the sea; By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave, J It matters little or naught to me; But whether the angel Death comes down, And marks my brow with his loving touch, i As one that shall wear the victor's crown. It matters much! jlu (Original -i-totu. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE BARSTOWS. BY VICTOR VERBTON. CHAPTER V. LUCY*8 NARRATIVE CONTINUED?CLOUDS IN THE BLUE. April 9th. We are having the loveliest - * * n _ weather now! Spring has set in unusuaiiy early, and in the nooks and hollows of the mountains which have been sheltered from the snow, the little wild flowers are already * springing. I gather; them with joy, for they remind me of my dear native land. Although different in kind from those to which I have been accustomed, yet flowers, after all, belong to the same kindred everywhere, and like all other offspring of beneficent Nature, speak to the heart with softening memories, and seem to form a connecting link between the far distant corners of the globe. When, I wonder, shall we revisit our former home? Ralph never speaks of it. I suppose we shall at least spend this whole suminer here. Yesterday, I was walking out alone, and could not resist the temptation of going into Franz Birkoff's, to see the Holcombes. It may have been wrong, but common civility certainly required that I should return Mrs. Holcombe's call. She is old enough for my mother, and after taking the trouble to walk all the way to our house, she would have considered me a perfect bear, not to acknowledge her politeness. I had a delightful visit, and was even more charmed with Miss Holcombe (Margaret, her name is) than with her mother. They are refined, cultivated people, and I am sure, if I was only allowed to be friendly with them, they would prove most congenial companions. Mrs. Holcombe reproached me, in a pleasant way, for not having been there before. I pleaded, as an excuse, that I went, out verv little, and looked after all the household affairs, which occupied a good deal of my time. "But your household is a very small one," she rejoined, smiling. "Only your husband and yourself," I believe. "That is true," I admitted. "But my husband likes me to be with him, and?and?" "And so you are always together," supplied Miss Holcombe. "You ought to be devoted to each other, to get on comfortably in this secluded life?otherwise you would be pretty sure to get to quarreling!" "Quarreling!" I echoed ; and then launched out into praises of Ralph, which was foolish of me no doubt, but I wanted to change the subject, and my hearers listened very indulgently. At last Mrs. Holcombe said? "You must bring this husband of yours to ses us. I am sure he must be worth know ^ 99 ing. "I will tell him," I replied; "but notwithstanding his many perfections he has one fault, which is an aversion to paying visits." "Not an uncommon one with gentlemen," remarked Mrs. Holcombe. "However, considering that we are strangers in a strange land, I hope he will make an exception in our case." I left as soon as I could, and on the way home was overtaken by Ralph, who ran down the mountain to join me. He had been out hunting as usual, but this time without success." "Where have you been, little one?" he asked, drawing my haud through his arm. "Oh, I got tired of staying home alone, so I went out for a walk," I replied. My cheeks burned at the subterfuge I was practicing, but I was not sufficiently courageous to own that I had disobeyed his commands. After all, it is Ralph's own fault that I am driven to this concealment. He has made me, for the first time, afraid of him, or at least of his displeasure, which I find too terrible a thing to encounter voluntarily. But1 I am unhappy in thinking of what I have done. I heartily wish the Holcombes had never come to this place ! April 14th. I knew it would come at last. Well, the truth is out, and that is one comfort ; but such a storm as we have had ! Day before yesterday there came a note to me from Mrs. Holcombe, which ran on this - _ wise: "Dear Mrs. Barstow?Since your charming visit, my daughter has done nothing but think and speak of you, and to gratify her (aud, I need scarcely add, myself also), J have thought of a plan for bringing us all together for a whole day, to the promotion of the acquaintance thus pleasantly begun. Margaret feels so much stronger and better than she did, that she is quite equal to a little picnic in the woods, and we have fixed upon Wednesday next, should the weather be propitious, to visit the old ruined castle we were speaking of, aud dine there, goiug and returning on mule-back, which will be easier for her than one of these rough carts. Now won't you and your husband lend your cooperation to our scheme? I think we can manage to spend our time very pleasantly, and the distance is not far. Please let us have an answer by return of the little messenger. Very truly yours, "Emily Holcombe. "P. S.?If Wednesday does not suit you, ?ii? ...:n ?.oli " UliUUi^i uaj >>111 uu no nvii? Now I felt myself in a dilemma! Ralph was out, but of course would have to know all about it wheu he came home. I had one alternative, which was to refuse decidedly at once?but what decent excuse could I give for doing so ? If it had not been for that unlucky postscript, I might have invented an engagement for Wednesday, and kept to it; but leaving it to me to substitute another day if I chose, rendered it impossible to decline | the invitation without positive rudeness. After thinking it over for five minutes, I went to the door and told little Haus Birkhof, ! who had brought the note, that I would send i an answer that afternoon. That would give rae an opportunity to decide upon what I j should do. Just as the boy had gone, Rosel came to, I me tb ask for assistance in her cooking. She J had got herself into a dilemma, and could not get out of it without my help. Into the kitchen I went, and stayed there about half an hour, forgetting entirely that I had left Mrs. Holcorabe's note?open, too?on the parlor table. When I went back, there was Ralph walking about?and as I saw his face, it flashed over me in a second that he knew all. I turned hot and then cold, and felt stricken dumb. | "Lucy," he said, stopping in his walk and j looking at me?such a look ! "Lucy, I want to speak to you. What does this mean ?" 1 And he pointed at the note. "You can see what it means," I managed to get out, in a stifled sort of voice. "I suppose you have read it." "Yes, I have read it," he answered. "It was lying open on the table, and I took it up, not even knowing what it was. I did not suppose you had any secrets from me. Come here and let us talk about it," and taking my hand he led me to the sofa, and sat down beside me. His manner was so quiet, so self contained, yet so stern, that it hurt ine more deeply than a burst of anger would have done, and I could not keep back my tears. "When did jou visit Mrs. Holcombe?" he asked, fixing his eyes on my face. I barely managed to answer, "Last Tuesday afternoon." "Was not that the afternoon I joined you, coming home ?" "Yes." "And you told me you had gone out for a walk. Oh, Lucy I" "It was not an untruth," I sobbed out. "I did go for a walk, and when I was near the cottage I went in. I had no intention of going, when I left this house. But I felt that I ought to return Mrs. Holcombe's visit, and I went." "Mrs. Holcombe's visit!" he repeated. "You never told me that she had been here."' "She was here two weeks ago," I answered. "And I never told you, because you had made me afraid. Once I was not afraid of you, but now?" "But now you are," he finished, bitterly. "Not afraid of you, exactly," I replied. "But it frightens me to have you angry; you can be so very, very stern." "You talk childishly," he answered, impa- | tiently. "I have never said one word to frighten you, as you express it. If I spoke strongly, it was because I felt strongly on the subject, and because I wished to impress upon you the necessity for complying with my expressed desire. You have wilfully disobeyed me ; this I can forgive. But you have also wilfully deceived me, and this it is not easy for me to forgive. Oh ! Lucy, why, why have you let this barrier come between us ?" "I couldn't help it," said I. "You put me in a most awkward, disagreeable situation, and when I was taken unawares I did not know how to act." "How were you taken unawares?" he asked. "Why, by Mrs. Holcorabe coming to 6ee me, so unexpectedly. You know I did not carry the jelly myself, that day ; I promised not to go, and I did not. Of course I never dreamed that she would come here first. But when she took the trouble to walk this distance, just to thank me, and then begged me to visit her, how could I refuse ?" "You valued her opinion of you?the opinion of a perfect stranger?more than my approbation. I thought I was asking a small sacrifice of you, in the case, compared with the much greater sacrifices you have voluntarily made for my sake. But women have a wonderful way of looking at things," said my husband bitterly. "It is hard, indeed, to fathom their minds. One would suppose that the love which was true and deep enough to induce you to abandon your native land, and all its associates, without a murmur, to make your home with me amid these Alpine wilds, would certainly be sufficiently powerful to enable you to avoid a temporary ac quaintanceship, which can profit you nothing, when you kuow I am particularly opposed to it." "It can profit me nothing, perhaps," said I, "but it can give me great pleasure, and seems a most innocent resource. As to my love for you that has nothing to do with the matter. It is a too well-established fact to be brought into the question at all. I might say, and with greater justice, that the love you feel for me?and which eveu your harshness to me can not make me doubt?ought to be strong enough to allow me so small an indulgence as to allow me the friendship of two refined, agreeable and cultivated ladies, th9 very first people with whom I have come in contact, since we came to live in this place, who are in any way congenial to me." J I suppose I spoke in a very excited way, and looked no doubt, wrought up, as I felt. Ralph made no answer directly. At last, with a great sigh, he broke forth? "Yes, what you say seems true enough : ! poor child, poor child! No doubt I appear | tyrannical and harsh. Oh, if you could but j read my heart!" | "Oh, Ralph!" I cried throwing my arms : around him, "if you would but let me know i J your real, true reason for acting in this way? if you would but explain this mystery, for I 1 know there is a mystery, I should be so much I better satisfied, so much happier; I could ! obey you gladly if it did not seem that you 1 were acting from mere caprice. But are you | doing it to try my love, or what?" "vr-i " Kq niicu-prpfl with an JL^IUl UIUI UUt liV M1W..W.VV.J emphasis which I could uot doubt was sincere. "Believe me, if I had not a reason for what I do, I would not deny you any gratification which might fall in your way. Tell j me," he suddenly added, fixing his eyes upon | me, while he pressed my arm in a grasp which j was painful, "tell me honestly, from your soul, j do you value my welfare, my happiness, be| yond every earthly thing ? Is your life bound ; up in mine, as that of a true wife should be?" I was so startled by his almost terrible ear; nestness, that at first I could not reply. At ! last I managed to say, "You know that it is; how can you ask me such a question ?" "Then," he rejoined, "perhaps you will be I more willing to yield to my wishes, when I tell you that I ask no self-denial, require no ! submission on your part, which is not absolutely essential to my peace of mind, and yours?aye, perhaps, even to?" He checked himself abruptly. "Lucy," he continued, in a softer tone, releasing my arm and drawing me to him as he spoke, "let us forget that this altercation has ever arisen between us. Let us drop the whole subject of it, and be as we were before. I am willing to forget that you have done anything contrary to my wishes. Do you also put aside the rej membrance of the harsh words I have spoken, and let there be nothing but harmony be| tween us. Do you consent to this ?" j "Ah!" I replied, "if you always spoke to me in this way, it would not be hard for me to give up to you." "I was not cross to you at first, was I ? I pleaded with you, in the beginning, as gently as I knew how. But do you give up to me in earnest now? Are you satisfied?" What could I say ? I was certainly not satisfied. I could Bot be while his confidence was still withheld. He had given me no explanation, and it seemed vain for me to hope for one. But I was weary of the contest, and his love and favor promised peace?the restored peace for which I longed. After all, putting duty aside, there can be no happiness for me outside of his affection; no misery equal to knowing that my conduct has forfeited it So I yielded?yielded unconditionally, and for a while forgot the justice of my cause, in the joy of knowing that this, our first, and I hope our last quarrel, was at an end. So resolved am I to give him no farther cause for displeasure?to avoid even the shadow of another difference between us?that I have, at his dictation, written an excuse to Mrs. Holcombe, without giving her the least explanation of a refusal, which must make me appear to her either intentionally rude, or totally ignorant of the laws of good breeding. Perhaps she will place a more charitable construction on my conduct, and suppose me to be crazy. Well, let it be so. Ralph is satisfied, and that, henceforth, shall be my standard of behavior. April 27th. As might have been expected, I have neither seen or heard anything of the Holcombes since my note was sent. Of course they will never seek me out again. I am so ashamed, so mortified, that I think Ralph would pity me if he could penetrate my feelings. But never, by word or sign, will I betray them to him. May 19th. My journal has been interrupted by a delightful little tour through the mountains, which Ralph has made as enjoyable for me as possible. He has been absolutely lover like in his attentions; and this, be it understood, is a different sort of devotion from that which even the fondest of husbands is apt to manifest. He has watched my every look, anticipating my slightest j ?i :.? u:? j.. nioii, a Liu Diiumug mo ouiiuuuuu iui mj uum* fort and happiness in every way. Whether he has meant it as an atonement, I do not know, but I do know that he is dearer to me, if possible, than ever, and that never, never, never again shall a cloud arise between us that I can prevent. No, his tenderness is too precious to me to be ever again forfeited by any act of mine. I feel that I am indeed the centre of his joy, his life; and knowing this, what more can I desire ? To my relief, I found, on our return, that the Holcorubes had left this place, not to return. Now I cau breathe freely once more. May 27th. Since writing that, Ralph has been ill. Not very dangerously ill, but sufficiently so to excite my keenest anxiety, to make me feel, with a pang passing description, how fearful a thing it would be for me to lose him ! Oh ! in the hours of the night on which I most trembled for his safety, how, in the solemn silence of my vigil, did my heart rise up and condemn me for every unkind word I had ever uttered, every wilful act which had ever caused him pain ! How hauntinglv came to ray ears the dread warning of the time when we two, so closely J x l\ inA ~.,A T UUUUU lUgeiuei, must uc pai iuu, auu nun x bowed beneath the fear that that hour might be at hand! And oh, when my terror was lightened, 'and all danger, if danger there was, was past, with what a burst of thankfulness did I fall on my knees and praise my Creator for his mercy! I feel that I have been very wicked. I have thought too much of ray earthly estate, of earthly joys and cares. But henceforth it shall not be so. I will go back to my former habit of serving and praising God, from whose hand I have received such abundant tokens of goodness and mercy. And oh, that my darling Ralph may be led also to thick more of these things. I fear I have not sufficiently tried to direct his attention to them. May 30th. Ralph's convalescence has been a tranquil, happy time. I read aloud to him every day, and then we have such charming talks. We have arranged a regular plan of reading for the summer; and every now and then we will recreate ourselves by a little jaunt like the one we lately took. Only I shall not let Ralph fatigue himself again as he did then, for I feel almost sure it had something to do with his illness; and he did it just to save me from fatigue. To-day he is so much better that he has gone out, for the first time, for a walk. I am as happy now as I can be, and go singing over the house all day long. June 2d. This morning I asked Ra'ph, casually, how long he supposed we would remain here. "Don't you like the place, dear?" he asked in return. "Oh, yes, very much," I replied. "Then, would you not be satisfied to make it our home?" I had not contemplated this idea before. But he went on to speak of the advantages of the climate, and of the suitability of the surroundings to his desire for seclusion and solitude; and dwelt so much on the delight it affords him to have me, as he says, all to himself, that I could not let him even catch a glimpse of the momentary dismay I felt. For we are certainly far removed from the world here, and from most things which once upon a time seemed indispensable to the enjoyment of life. But after all, society does not constitute happiness ; and in his pleasure I will be content. CHAPTER VI. lucy's narrative continued?a son and heir. May 3d, 18?. I have let my journal lie for a long time unopened in my desk. First, I left off writing because there was so little to write about. Every day seemed pretty much the same as the others. Then I got ; languid and sick, and did not fed like wrii ting; and then I had a good deal to do, and ; so I just waited. But I think, now that my baby is nearly | eight weeks old, it will be an unpardonable : slight upon him if I don't make him the subject of at least a page in this record. Everybody's baby is, I suppose, the sweetest and dearest and loveliest pet in the world. At least, so they think; but I know mine is. He has dark eyes exactly like Ralph's and is going to be the image of him altogether. But Ralph does not consider it a compliment, when I tell him so. If I had leisure, I believe I would do nothing but hold baby and play with him, I love him so. But of course, I must do other things some times. As it is, Ralph thinks I have him forever in my arms. Yesterday he said to me? "You waste a greatruany hours on that child." "Waste, indeed !" said I. "Precious angel; whose time and care has he a better right to than his own mamma's?" "I thought you said Rosel was such a good nurse; you had better let him get accustomed to her," said Ralph. "I don't want to have him get too much accustomed to anybody but me," I replied. "He might not love me the best if he did." "What nonsense," said Ralph. "You are his mother, and of course he'll love you the best. As to me, you never have a minute to spare for one of our good old-fashioned talks; and I believe that you have forgotten that there are such things as books in the house." "I tell you what I believe," said I, "and that is, that you are jealous of the darling. That is why you don't like to see me pet him too much." Ralph laughed, and went away. I said it in jest, but I almost think that I spoke the real truth. Fancy it, my baby! your own papa jealous of you ! Was there ever such a ridiculous idea? "May 12th. Baby has not been christened yet. There is no Episcopal clergyman within reach, and I don't like to have it done by any other ; though of course, if he got very sick, or anything of that sort, I would let the old Lutheran pastor across the mountain baptize him, rather than nobody. I have always determined to call him after Ralph, and so regarded it as a fixed fact, that I never said much about it, until yesterday, when the subject some how came up under discussion. "We'll have to call him Ralph Junior, to distinguish him from you," I remarked. "No, indeed ; I don't intend him to have my name," answered Ralph. "Find another, and a prettier one for him." "Prettier! I think it beautiful," I exclaim" "T * * * I - I* ea. "11 nas always oeen a lavurue immc ui mine; and of course he must have it, Ralph ! I particularly wish it." "And I particularly don't wish it," said Ralph, very good-humoredly, but I could see he was quite in earnest. "Pray oblige me, darling, by yielding to my wish on this occasion." "As 1 do on every other," I retorted, half laughing, half vexed. "Please give me your reasons, Mr. Autocrat." "I have given you my one reason already; I dislike the name. If he were christened by it, I should never call him any thing but Tom or Jack. So be warned in time." "You are really the most provoking person I ever knew," said I. "The idea of you disappointing me in this way!" "It's a trifle to be disappointed about," he rejoined. "Indeed, it is not!" I cried, warmly. "It is quite a serious thing, and I had set my heart upon it. I never dreamed but that you would be willing." "I suppose he saw how much I felt about it, for he came over to where I sat, and petted and coaxed me until I had to smile. Then (just as if I had given up) he said? "You are a dear, good little girl, to give up to me, and I'll reward you by letting you bestow on the little shaver any other name in \vnrl/1 vnn oVmoac Whv not call him after your father ?" "No, indeed!" Papa disliked his own name as much as you do yours, and with much more reason. 'Andrew' is as ugly as can be, and I won't impose on baby by disfiguring him with it. I am quite sure papa would not have wished it, if he had lived." "Well, then, pick out some fancy name. I am sure there are hundreds always on hand." But the "hundreds," when counted up, reduced themselves to a very few that I would even think about. Nothing seemed as desirable as the one I had first fixed upon. At last I thought of 'Wilfred,' which has something noble and chivalrous in the sound of it. Something like what I hope my boy's character will be. So I chose that. Ralph said it was high-flown and romantic. But he was well pleased that I had conformed so easily to his will. Wilfred Barstow ; how prettily it sounds ! Between ourselves, Master Wilfred, this papa of yours is pretty resolute always, in having his own way. And what is more, he won't give a reason for anything he does unless he pleases to. I wonder if you will be as dear, charming, splendid and tyrannical a darling, to your wife, when you have one?you poor little mite! May 20th. We have heard quite unexpectedly of a chance of getting baby christened, which Ralph has agreed to profit by. An old English clergyman is stopping for a few days at the little village of Pateau, fifteen miles from here, and Ralph has ridden over there to ask him to come to us. Of course we can't carry baby so far, over a rough road, and in this damp weather ; for it has been very misty and cool for a week past. I only hope he won't refuse to come. At all events, I have got the spare room ready ; for I suppose he will stop here for a night, or perhaps two. May 22d. Ralph and the clergyman arrived last evening. He is a delightful old man, with silver hair, and a benign, fatherly expression ; just the sort of one that I should have chosen to christen our dear little babe. I did not see much of him after he came, for he was tired with his ride, and went early to bed. I am sure it is very kind of him to come so far. I May 30th. A strange thing has happened. I don't know whether I am right in connecting our change of plans with something Mr. Trevor, the clergyman, said; but I can not help believing that I am. As usual, Ralph won't give me any satisfactory reasons for what he does. At any rate, we are to leave this place in a few days, and go to some other, we don't know exactly where. It came about in this way. The evening before Mr. Trevor left (he stayed two days) we were all sitting talking in the parlor, and the conversation turned upon the different Americans he had met abroad. A few months ago, he said, he met, at some German watering-place, a very pleasant party of our countrymen, mostly from the Southern States. With this party was an odd couple, a lady, also from the 8outb, and a queer German doctor whom she had married just after her arrival there. She had been twice a widow, he had been told, and her last husband was dead somewhere about two years. His name had been Tracy, and his widow had traveled 1 - ? i i*. j_ _ about, first in America aoa auerwarus iu England, almost ever since bis death. "He had met her in England last Spring, when she was staying with some acquaintances in the country, near London, and been rather struck by her dashing, flighty manner, contrasting as it did with her weeds. I saw my husband's face change, and in a hurried, constrained sort of way he asked various questions about the former Mrs. Tracy; which of the States she was from; whether she intended to return to America, or would remain abroad; where her present husband's home was, and whether they were traveling for the summer, and so on. Mr. Trevor could not answer very accurately. He believed she intended to make her abode in Germany. They were traveling about for the present, and perhaps were not far off, for they had spoken of making the tour of the Alps. After we were alone, I asked Ralph why he had been so inquisitive, and who this Mrs. Tracy was. "Don't you know ?" he asked, looking at me as if surprised. "Why, no?I don't remember anybody at home of that name," I said. "1 forgot; you didn't know her, but I thought you knew the name. She is a person whom I don't like, and don't care to meet again. That is, if it's the same one, which I think likely. But it is possible I may be mistaken." I was going to ask him something more about her, but he checked me rather abruptly, said he was tired, and went to bed. The next morning, after the clergyman had left, Ralph said to me in a careless sort of way, "I believe you are not particularly fond of this place, Lucy, are you ?" "Why, I don't know but that I am fond of it, now," I replied. "Since baby came, it has seemed to make our little home a hallowed spot." "You romantic child !" said Ralph. "At all events, I suppose you would not object to a change." "Are you going home?" I cried. "No, dear; not to what you call home?but I thought that word, in our case, meant any spot where you and I could live together," said Ralph. "At all events, I am thinking of trying a change of base. We might find some prettier, pleasanter spot than this, somewhere on the other side of the Alps." "But do you know of any?" I asked. "Not exactly; but I have the location pretty well defined in my mind. It won't be a long journey from here. The jaunt will do you good, too, and even if we don't get settled directly, that won't matter much." "But all our things, Ralph ! Are we to leave them here, just so, or carry them along, or what ?" "Qnmn fianT nra /ion travplina in a ?JUlUO IWn ?IV VMM wmmj , D ? wagon. The rest can be left until I return, or send for thera." I felt rather dismayed at the prospect. "If it were not for baby, I should not care," said I, "but I think he would be likely to get sick, wandering about in that vagrant way. In fact I should hardly dare to try it." "I forgot all about the baby," said Ralph. And I believe he actually had ! He was silent for a little while, then went on to say that "perhaps he could cross the mountains first, alone, and come back for us, after finding a place. Of course, this is the only sensible plan. If we are to move at all, baby must be kept safe and comfortable, and not exposed to the hardships of an indefinite journey." But what puzzles me is this sudden resolve of Ralph's after his seeming so well satisfied here. He says now that it is possible we may return, some time hence; but as to his reasons for leaving, they seem so contradictory and vague that I don't believe he is quite sincere in what he says. That is, I fancy he does not choose to explain his real motives, and expects me, as usual, to give up quietly [ without knowing the reason why. I wish we I could wait until later in the season; the weather is too unsettled yet. But Ralph has ; gone off on his quest, and I suppose in a week It 1 11 _ J ^ ? ^ I or so we win De caneu upuu iu muvo. It is quite true, as I said, that I have be! come attached to this place. Now that I am I used to the loneliness, I do not mind it, and I the climate and scenery are all that we can I desire. And our little garden, planted and cultivated by our own hands, makes the cottage a cheerful home-like spot. Then my good, faithful Rosel; I shall be truly grieved | to part with her, and she says she cannot leave her parents to accompany me so far. I j must trust to getting another attendant where II am going. I do believe Ralph is afraid of ' meeting this Mrs. Tracy, whoever she may I be. Who is she, I wonder ? July 1st. I have not written in my journal for a month, we have been so busy moving and getting to right. At last we are settled in our new home. When I am asked how I like it, I scarcely know how to reply. As to its beauty?well, in this magnificent niAiinUin rorrinn if is nnt flRSV to find a SDOt 'U^U"W'U -V y ^ devoid of outward charms. But it is very lonely ; lonelier even than the place we have left. And I miss Rosel very much, for I had trained her into being quite a companion when Ralph was away from home. My new girl is a rough, though well-meaning creature, naturally intelligent, but absolutely wild. I am afraid it will be a long time before I make anything out of such raw material. However, the baby (whom she considers a miracle of loveliness) seems to have taken a fancy to her, which is consoling. As to neighbors, we have none, even of the commonest sort. The nearest, an old goatherd and his wife, are half a mile away, and there is 110 one else within walking distance. If Ralph wants solitude, he certainly has it now. He goes out very little, unless I can go with him; and that is not often, for I am afraid, as yet, to leave little Wilfred with Tina. In the evenings he reads aloud to me 1 while I work. He is very good and kind, doing all he can to make me cheerful and satisfied ; and I must be so, if only for his [ sake. It is a satisfaction to find that baby has I thriven on this change. He has certainly erown wonderfully in the past month, and is as strong and rosy as possible. What a real little mountaineer he will be.! We must try and keep him civilized, in case we ever do go back into the world. I suppose he will, at all events,?not go hack, for he has never been there, but go into it, some day. Well, it is certainly fortunate that Ralph and I are fond of one another. I don't know how we should ever get on in such a remote place as this if we were not. The only thing that troubles me somewhat, is, that he doesn't seem fond enough of baby. Perhaps he really is, in his heart; but I suppose men do not show their feelings, in such cases, as strongly as we do. I told him, one day, that he did not care as much for the little angel as he ought. "We were very happy before he gave us the pleasure of his company," he answered, somewhat evasively. "And are we not twice as happy now ?" I asked. "I don't know about that," said the provoking man. "You may be. I don't pretend to answer for your taste. You may pre* ' ? i- - x? ier oemg Kepi awaKe iwu uiirus ui cvoi j night, to haviDg peaceful and unbroken sleep. You may find it a wholesome recreation to carry sixteen or eighteen pounds avoirdupois about the house in your arms, aud tire your throat with singing, and?" "I don't do any of those things; at least, not to the extent that you make out. He is the best baby that ever was, and not at all wakeful," I interrupted. "And if you don't appreciate your blessings, I pity you, that's all." "Perhaps I pity myself," he rejoined, laugh-1 ing. "Never mind, dear; when he gets a little bigger I will appreciate him more. In the mean time, I miss your company somewhat ; but I suppose that is an evil I must accustom myself to." Of course baby doa take up a good deal of my time. It cannot be otherwise, while I have the chief care of him. I hope Ralph does not really feel neglected. I rather think that he only talks that way to tease me. He will be proud enough of his boy, one of these days. July 17th. Ralph does not seem well, lately. I cannot make out what is the matter with him ; but he has no appetite, is languid and lies about a good deal, which is very unusual with him ; and sometimes complains of an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. I pray heaven he may not be going to fall ill. I feel very anxious, though he laughs at my fears, and says he will soon be himself again. July 20th. Ralph has had some alarming symptoms, and I am half distracted about him. I entreat him to go to the nearest town to consult a physician, but he will not. He insists that he can get well just as soon without any one prescribing for him. "What if you should die in this desolate place, and all for want of proper advice ?" I asked him this morning. "I am not going to die," he answered, imt Jnnflv "TVvn't WnrPU Vfllirflplf a fid me? pablV/UUJt JL'VU w nviiJ J ? by unnecessary anxiety. It only makes me feel worse." Now it is not his habit to speak sharply, especially to me, and I know' that nothing but an entire disorganization of his physical and nervous system can make him so irritable. It is at a time like this that the loneliness of our situation weighs with a dreadful sense of oppression upon my mind. We are so absolutely cut off from all human aid! We are at least twenty miles from the nearest physician, and his skill, even, at the best, is doubtful. Still, if he has studied, he must know something of medicine, and it would be a relief to have him give an opinion regarding Ralph's case. It seems to me now that' it was the act of a madman, almost, to come and settle a family in a spot like this. I dare not dwell upon the possibility of such a catastrophe as ; and yet the idea haunts me with a persistency that almost defies my efforts to shake it off. Oh! my heart is down, down under a leaden weight, that crushes all the joy of life out of it. What lies before me ? Who can tell ? Even ray darling baby's innocent wiles cannot ease rae of ray pain, or banish the phantom that is casting its dread shadow about my path. Perhaps, however, my fears are groundless. God grant they may be so ! [to be continued.] "You Promised Me First."?A special from Vincennes, Ind., says that Johnson township in that county, was the scene of a funny attempt at a wedding recently, which has just been developed. In that locality lives Melissa Underwood, the fair daughter of an honest and respectable old farmer. Two young men, one P. H. Donovan, a farmer, the other William Ayres, a miller, were paying court to the fair Melissa. She could not decide which one to favor, having promised each one to marry him, but finally being more ardently wooed by Ayres, she consented to take him if it could be kept secret from Donovan. Ayres came to this city, secured a license and the necessary outfit, and one day, in company with a Justice of the Peace, proceeded to the Underwood farm. The bridal party were on the floor ana tne ?quire had nearly finished the job, when Donovan, to the surprise of every one, rushed in and declared that the ceremony should proceed no further. Donovan grabbed the girl by the waist and exclaimed, in piteous accents, "Oh, Meliss, don't you consent, for you promised me first." Ayres had her around the neck, and yelled in stentorian tones, "Go on, 'Squire, we are half-married now; finish up the job." The Magistrate, under the circumstances, refused to proceed, and Ayres, although halfmarried, is no better off than before, and Donovan i3 disconsolate.? Cincinnati Commercial. Hear Both Sides.?Never condemn your neighbor unheard, however many the accusations which may be preferred against him ; every story has two ways of being told, and justice requires that you should hear the defence as well as the accusation, and rememthat the malignity of enemies may place you in a similar situation. + Castor Oil.?Castor oil, besides being an excellent dressing for leather, renders it vermin proof. It should be mixed, say half and half, with tallow or other oil. Neither rats, or other vermin will attack leather so prepared. IpMfUwtM fusing. THE CHINESE INFLUX. how John's attention was turned to the united 8tate8. San Francisco, February 21.?The Mongolian octopus has fastened its tentacles upon the Pacific Slope, and is fast destroying its commercial and social life. The people of this region cry aloud that they may be succored in their extremity. There appears to be but one echo to the recent act of Congress, and that is "Sign the bill and free us from - 1 li-: j j a:? me uemuraiiziijg auu uc^iaumg wumvi mm the present coolie system; limit the influx of Celestials, and protect the industries and health, and home-life of our people; lift the burden that has borne us down, and give to the progressive inhabitants of this section an opportunity to develop its resources upon a prosperous and compensating basis." You have already learned by wire how earnest and emphatic have been the protests against vetoing the Chinese bill. Our people were never more in earnest in their lives. As this subject is being discussed, it may be interesting to consider, for a moment, how and when the Chinese began flocking to our shores. Ah Haw, who is with the Sam Yeoup Company, on Dupont street, says the first Chinaman who came to America was Chum Ming, a native merchant of Nai Sang, a province of Canton. He was an intelligent and enterprising man, and came over here from his borne id 104/. ijoing irom mis poiui. mj mic mountains, he be^ao prospecting, and was successful in finding gold. The discovery caused him to convey the intelligence to a friend, named Cheong Yum, in 1848, and this latter individual at once prepared to join his former companion in the new Eldorado. The news was so good that Cheong Yum, before setting sail from the flowery shores of his native Empire, BROKE THE INTELLIGENCE TO SEVERAL OP HIS FRIENDS, and the mining fever at once broke out in all the virulence of an actual epidemic disease. The present excitement East over the reputed Leadville discoveries was nothing, compared with the fever that prevailed away back in 1848, amongst the teaming population of Canton, over the alleged "finds" of gold in the mountains of California. Means of transportation were not as perfect then as now; there were no Pacific Mail steamers to bring them over by thousands, and so they came out, like Sir Joseph's "sisters and aunts and cousins" in "Pinafore," "by the dozens," on sailing vessels. When, in 1849, the Argonauts of the East began flocking to this coast in quest of the auriferous deposits of our streams, the Chinese population had as yet amounted to but an insignificant feature. Within four years following arrivals were more frequent and in larger proportions, so that by the close of 1852 there were perhaps 4,000 Celestials on the coast, and of this number about 2,000 were located in San Francisco. THE FIRST CHINAMAN WHO SETTLED IN BAN puiwrram located on what is now Stockton street, near Sacramento, and in that same region the Mongolians have ever since lived, and finally covered over what is now designated Chinatown. When it became apparent that Chinese immigration was a settled fact, steps were at once taken, through the native shrewdness of the Chinese themselves, to control it and take care of their own interests. It was then that the Yeong Wo and KongChow Companies? the first of the present six companies?were organized and began the business of aiding Chinese immigration. The Sam Yeoup Company was organized in 1857, and was joined to the first-mentioned associations. Later, when the influx of Mongolians had greatly increased, came the formation of the Ning Yeong, Hop Wo, and Yan Wo Companies, and the whole number were consolidated as the famous Six Companies, of which so much of late has been said and written. The immigration of the better class of Chinese, the merchants, it may be said, is attributable to the Sara Yeoup and the Yeong Wo Companies. The servants and lower classes generally, who have since formed the most disreputable element of the Chinese population?now designated as "high-binders"?were brought out by the Ning Yeong Company. 80 NUMER0U8 DID THE CHINESE ELEMENT BECOME that it drove out, before 1864, the white population from Sacramento to Commercial street on the east side of Stockton street, east on Commercial street to Dupont, and north on Dupont to Jackson, and south on the same street to Sacramento. During 1864 they increased the territory from Jackson and Dupont streets, east on Jackson to Kearney and north on Dupont to Pacific, and thence east on that street to Kearney. Since that time they have gradually encroached upon the white population, until they occupy an area of eleven blocks, bounded by Pacific street on the north, and Kearney and Stockton streets on the east and west. The area within these borders is about thirty-three acres, of which? deducting for streets and alleys?twenty acres are covered with buildings of all descriptions, rickety one-story wooden shanties and fourstory bricks. This once formed the best part of the city, where were located most of the high-toned hotels; but churches, hotels and residences have been forced further out by the ! on-marching Asiatics. STATISTICAL. We find that the Chinese population of San Francisco is about 32,000, and they follow the subjoined occupations in the numbers designated, as nearly as can be ascertained : Merchants and professional men 1,000 Laundrymen, 1,500 Cigarmakers, 5,000 Boot and Shoemakers, 2,000 Servants, 7,000 Slippermakers, 8,000 Gamblers, 1,400 Clothing-makers, 3,000 Peddlers 2,500 Fishermen 1,000 Laborers 1,000 Other occupations, 3,800 Women, 2,000 Total, 32,000 Go where you will in San Francisco, you find the Chinese, and from the bay to the foothills and the boundary lines of San Mateo. As to the RAPID GROWTH OF THE CELESTIALS here, Lee Kan, who is interpreter at the Bank of California, furnishes some very interesting statistics. He says: Chinamen began to do business here in 1850, and their stores were first opened on Dupont and Sacramento streets. During 1853-54 the influx was very great. In 1860 the total number of Chinese in the United States was about 60,000. In 1870 there were fully 80,000. There are now on this Continent about 150,000 Chinese, 120,000 of whom are here on the Pacific coast. He believes the Chinese population of San Francisco will reach 30,000, of whom about 25,000 live in the territory of Chinatown. ? t@T The policy pursued by some of our politicians?namely, that of trying to be all thingo to all men?reminds us of a story we once heard. A man who scorned the name of' trimmer said to the voters in his district: "Gentlemen, them's my sentiments, and they are the sentimonts of an honest man. Still, if they don't *uit the majority of you, I would have it understood they can be altered,"