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lewis m. grist, proprietor, j Jniicjmttat Jamiln Hetospapcr: |for tjit promotion of f\t Initial, Social, Agricultural attb Commercial Interests of t|e Sontjj. |terms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 26. YORKYILLE, S. O., THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 1880. NO. 15. Jl gtomawo of ELLE1 i 01 KING'S m BY MRS. MAR' 4 CHAPTER X. Oh ! such a day, So fought, so follow'd and so fairly won, Came not till now.?Shakspeare. 'Tell Miss'Ellen to come to me immediately," said Mr. Adams, as he stopped, for a moment, ut the door of the Mansion House. "What is the matter, Mr. Adams?" said Ellen, in alarm, as she answered the hasty summons. "Bessie, Bessie Craig is dying. Can you go to her?" "What do you tell me ? Bessie, Bessie dying ? Oh ! it cannot be." "It is too true. Go down, if you can, for her father is helpless from paralysis, brought on, I suppose, by the dreadful stroke." "Oh ! this is dreadful," cried Ellen ; "but what is the matter ? She was quite well when I last saw her, but a day ago." "I cannot tell. I only fear it is the foulest murder that ever was perpetrated. The old man cannot speak. I found him I bound in a chair, in his own house, and Bessie lying at his feet, her dress almost torn from her body, and bathed in blood, from the rupture of a blood vessel, I presume, for I saw no wound. She either would not or could not speak to me; but clung to her father, and hiding her face on his knee, moaned as if her heart would break. I tried to get something out of Andrew, but he only muttered, 'Tories/ and poioted to Bessie." "Good Heavens!" cried Ellen, in pallid terror; "this is too terrible to realize ; but I will go to her?will go at once. Oh ! the cruel, cruel haud that could have injured that innocent girl. What fiend could have done it?" "I much believe it was that Ferris. He incited a party against me, that came and burnt the most of ray library last night; swearing my covenanting principles made me the rebel I was, and threatening to take ray life for that sermon, at the church, the other day. I judged, from what I heard, that Fer ris was up here, robbing Mr. Willougbby 01 what he could lay his hands on." "He was; and knowing the character of the man, my uncle saved himself from insult, perhaps from injury, by making a complete surreuder. He and his myrmidons swept everything. They literally robbed us. It is likely uncle Hubert will object to my going down to the homestead to day. But 1 must go to Bessie." "I do not think there will be any danger. The tories are now all collected in Ferguson's camp; and, even if they were not, every principle of humanity calls for assistance at the homestead." "Are you going back ? If so," said Ellen, "I will go with you." # "No," replied the minister, compressing his Hps, while a frown gathered on his usually placid brow, "my duty is yonder, to-day," pointing to the heights of Kiug's Mountain. "If such scenes as yon I left behind, would not arm every man?priest or layman?then would I say that charity had died in-the human heart, and we deserve to be butchered, insulted and dishonored. I know not how I shall tell poor Bowen. It will go nigh to madden him." Ellen turned tearfully away as the picture of Bessie, in the pride of her young beauty and timid love, rose before her, and bidding the minister good speed, with many an inward prayer for a blessing upon their arms ; with many an anxious thought for one whom she well knew would he in the thickest of the day's battle, she turned, with a sad heart, to fulfill a woman's and sister's duties to little Bessie Craig. As the minister rode along, he met with many of the neighboring people hastening to the scene of combat. Some riding bare back, with dangling trace chains, roused by some fresh tale of terror in the excitement of the coming battle, to strike a blow for vengeance and freedom. As they rode along together, 110 noisy boisterous toues, or excited profanity, testified to the passions that were stirring their nature. No, the feeliug was too deep and holy for the outbreak of speech. Occasionally, a tale of butchery would be told, but in low tones that spoke deeply of smothered passion, or hissing out, would come in spasmodic utterance; a story of dishonor and wrong that whitened the pallid cheeks to a still more deathly hue, and forced the blood from lips bitter in strong determination to repress the furv of passion. And with their burning eyes fastened on the bristling crest of the British encampment, they pressed on. The man of God, the minister of peace, roused to holy vengeance; the gray haired father made childless by British butchery ; the stalwart man enduring his wrongs with heroic fortitude; the beardless boy forced to premature manhood, quenching his tears and nerving his heart by memories that curdle the blood to look back upon ; all, in a silence more ominous thau words, hastened to the patriot's camp. As they reached it, an order was passed rapidly along the line. Laconic as it was appropriate, it agreed well with the character of the determined leaders of that day's action? "Tie up overcoats; pick touch holes; prime afresh, and be ready to fight." The party now entering, were warmly welcomed ; their familiarity with the ground and arrangement of the British camp, proving highly usefui to the officers of the patriot army. Acting upon the information thus obtained, the officers determined to divide their columns and attempt to surround the mountain. f~By their division, Sevier's troop formed the rijght; Cleveland's and William's together, under whom were our heroes, Dayie and Bowen, the left; Campbell's the right of the centre; aud Shelby the left centre. Hurriedly as the order was made, it could not be excelled for judgment and military skill. There was a common centre for these columns, and that was the standard of England, on the crest of the ridge, fluttering proudiy and majestically over the scarlet uniforms and glittering bayonets of Ferguson's undaunted regulars. Their game was before them, and these mountain hunters needed neither leader nor captain to show them how to fight. With a hope that he might be spared the necessity of telling Captain Bowen his sad news, Mr. Adams, still urged by duty, rode through the ranks in search of him. At length, he descried him handiug a despatch to Campbell, which his ubiquitous corps had just intercepted on its way from Ferguson to Cornwallis. It was read aloud at the head of the line. He said : "I hold a position on the King's Mountain, and all the rebels out of h?U cannot drive me from it." There was no boastful shout of scorn among that determined little band, but a grim smile, as each muscular hand grasped the rifle or the sword in a tightening clasp, and with their chivalric leaders at their head, answering to their cry of "forward !" they struck into a gallop. Riding up to Bowen, as he took his position in his troop, Mr. Adams said? the ?fV0luti0n. LMPEELL; OUNTAIN. r A. EWAET. "You are surprised to see me here, Ellick? but I have had much to nerve my arm since last I sa\ you." "I have heard of it, Mr. Adams," replied Bowen, not comprehending the full import of his words, "and I sympathize with you deeply in your loss, but," he continued with an eager look, "we are to settle such matters to-day." Mr. Adams could not find it in his heart to damp, by news of such sorrow, the impetuosity and ardor of the young trooper. For some time he rode by his side in silence, and listened to the eager hopes of the patriot, or watched wi>;h a sickening heart, the excited flush on his manly cheek and the sparkling of his dark eyes. At length, with a manner of careless security, Boweu turned toward him, and asked in a low tone, with a smile trembling on his lip? "How is Bessie?" "God knows, Ellick," replied Mr. Adams with a cheek blanched in deep feeling. For an instant, Bowen gazed upon him, every particle of color fading from his cheek ; then in an unnatural calmness asked : "What has befallen my Bessie ?" The manner and the calm tone deceived Mr. Adams, and he replied? "The worst you can imagine." The hitherto pale face of Bowen, flushed to the deepest scarlet, the blood started from the bitten lips, as with a shuddering recoil he involuntarily reined his horse back upon his haunches; then burying his spurs into his sides, bounded madly on for a few paces, as with a thickened utterance he cried : "And that is worse than death ? For God's sake speak and free me from this terror or my brain will burst;" aud he grasped the good minister's arm in a c^asp that left its blackened impression. "Would to God, I could, Ellick," replied the good man, frightened, as he well might ' ? n 1 ? . (cL.4. T De, at tne agony Deiore mm ; uui x unu oaj nothing?but would to God, Bessie were dead." There was a pause, and amid the clattering of the hoofs around, Mr. Adams could distinctly hear the deep suffocating respiration of his companion. At length, with a look of the most wretched despair, he turned, and in those painfully inarticulate tones, said: "When ?" "Only last night," replied Mr. Adams, the tears springing to his eyes in his deep sympathy. "And I so near! My little wife! Oh ! Bessie." The strong man was melted. The reaction saved, perhaps, his reason, and for an instant his heart was flooded with a memory of ineffable tenderness, but only to be followed by a desire of unconquerable vengeance. "Tell me all," he said ; when seeing Mr. Adams hesitate, he continued, "don't be afraid?see yonder," and he pointed with his gleaming sword to the heights they were now rapidly approaching. His active fancy and knowledge of Ferris' hate, filled up all that Mr. Adams could not understand, and the wild desire for revenge could scarcely be restrained to a discipliue necessary to his military position. Fortunately, in this moment of irrepressible vengeance, they came upon an advanced piquet of the royal army. The simple and laconic speech of Col. Cleveland suited well the excited spirit of Bowen, and was a speech the men could understand: "My brave fellows," he said, "we have beaten the tories already, and we can beat them again. They are all cowards. If they were not, they would support the independence of their country. When engaged with them, you will want no word of command from me. I will show you how to fight by my example. I cau do no more. Every man must be his own officer and act from his own judgment. Fire as fast as you can, and stand you - ground as long as you can. When you can do no better, run ; but do not run quite off. Get behind trees and retreat. If repulsed, let us return and renew the fight. We may have better luck the second time than the first. If any of you are afraid, let them retire, and I beg they may take themselves off at once." The firing commenced. Some of the Americans were on horseback, and others on foot; some behind trees and other exposed; but every man, though obedient to the voice of his commander, was fighting without the ueffoin+o nf miliforir HiopinliriP and aninia A VOll CfrlU lO UA lUIIIWiti J \nuvA|/t?Mvj i i i ----ww ted with the enthusiasm of liberty. The piquet soou gave way, and with loud shouts the mountaineers pressed them to the main body, threatening, in their mad career, to break into their very encampment. Col. Ferguson ordered his men to charge, and suddenly the Americans listened to the voice of Cleveland as he commanded them to retire. They had scarcely given way when Shelby, who had completed the circuit of the rnountaiu, poured in a well directed fire. Facing this new adversary, another bold and gallant charge of English regulars forced him down the hill. But auother band of unerring rifles compelled the British commander once more to change his front, and wheeling rapidly, the patriots were again driven back. Before they could effect a rout, Campbell had ascended the mountain and renewed the attack from that eminence, compelling the British to wheel, which they did in double quick time, but in perfect good order; and having received reinforcements from within the line, the charge was made i with the whole British force at the centre column. With Ferguson at their head, animated by hi.s voice, the shrill notes of his silver whistle rising high above the din of combat, they made their impetuous charge. Again, the bayonet, in British hands, told, and Campbell gave way before it. But Cleveland had rallied, and Sevier was moving forward, and the double fire was terrific. Campbell's retreating columns heard it. They knew it war the voice of their compatriots, and rallying, they wheeled and rushed upon the advancing columns of the enemy. But Ferguson, seeing his dauger, threw his men into three columns, lacing eacn coiumu of advancing patriots, and bore down on the I entire American line. But it was too late. The mountain was encircled by foes as bold and deliberate as they were prompt, active and skillful. The British were fighting with men who knew not what defeat was; men I whose arras they had themselves nerved to j the bloody action of that day. It was con| quer or die. It was the last hope of this bleeding State, and Carolina's blood was up and alike unconquerable, in the unyielding principle of right, or the fierce energy of despair. The mountain-hunter calmly, but rapidly loading, and deliberately aiming, sent a death messenger in every bullet. Then came the rage of battle. The mortal hatred between Whig and Tory along the border, rendered the contest bloody, vindictive and relentless. Every one turned in revenge. The cruelties that had been practiced during the Tory dominion nerved every arm, and private feelings of individual exasperation met then a bloody satisfaction. The advancing columns met. The English soldier, with his admirable discipline and indomitable courage, here proved his training and met with the generous forbearance a brave foe always yields to another. The Tory looked upon the circle of fire encompassing him, and read the bitter hate and relentless fury of those Who were bearing down upon him, and charged the closing flame with the energy of despair. But the circle narrows and the British cavalry were ordered to mount. Ferguson, with a gallantry as inJ li.~ LI? rnrta /Innnnm f A WOU QDPtl in UUUJ1 LUUiC tto 11/ rfCkO ucopciuvv, "w wvvm, ?m every part of his ranks, cheering and encouraging his men. Determining, in one desperate charge, he took his position at the head of his cavalry, and high above the din of battle cried, "crush the d?d rebels to the earth." The Americans heard it, and there was a pause. Then the mountains shook with the tramp of coming steeds; and horse and foot came thundering down its side. The rifles were silent; there was the low click of the cock ; sixty paces intervened between them and the coming foe; then a pealing discharge, a recoil, and the patriots rushed forward upon the charging enemy. The craven Tory felt his hour had come, as the hot breath and fierce glance of his foe met him. For au instant he crouched, then a spring of despair, a terror-stricken shriek, a wild yfell for mercy, the groan of the panting spirit, and a mutilated corpse. With dripping sword and bloodshot eyes, Bowen had followed the fortunes of the day. The command to advance had been followed by a reckless charge that made the succeeding escape miraculous. Suddenly retreating before the advancing foe, he disputed every inch of the bloody ground, till agaiu the shout of "forward" sent him spurring into the thickest of the ranks. Where the shot fell thickest, there his black steed, flecked with foam, was seen plunging through the smoke, his sword sweeping in fiery circles about his head, and his thrilling shout summoning his followers to the charge. Again and again he met the object of his fury, but only to be drawn from him in the tide of contending parties. Still with unflinching purpose he followed him, and if ever man suffered death in Protean shapes, that day the traitor Ferris suffered. The glare of those blood-shot eyes, as they sought him in the fury of battle, seemed to scorch his inmost soul, and with a terror his brutal nature had hitherto been a stranger to, he shrank in pallid dread from the encounter. L caun outrun mat iate ui vcugtautc uuioi upon him, and left him weak, crouching and pitiful, in mortal dread. It was in the last encounter they met, and nerving himself to battle for life, Ferris met his adversary. Striving to conquer the startled terror which the memory of his crimes had ever left him, in his usual surly doggedness, he awaited Bowen's approach. There was a deadly struggle?the one fighting in the energy of despair for a life that had no preparation for the future ; the other in a revenge that knew no satisfaction but life-blood and a determination to send the sinner to the doom he so richly merited. The contest was short as it was severe. Bowen, grappling with his enemy, dragged him from his horse, and a blow from his broad sword brought him bleeding to his knees. There was au agonizing cry for mercy, as the guilty creature fell, and and saw, in terror, Bowen reining his horse to trample him where he lay. The ear that a short time since would have answered the call, so in sympathy with the charities of his own heart, was now deaf to its cry, and trampling the wretch beneath the hoofs of his horse, Bowen saw, without remorse, the writhing orrnnv hoard fho vain arsnoal and as the quivering, mutilated corpse lay still in death, shouted his triumph, aud calling to his men to follow, saw them dash over the bruised remains of his mortal foe, and led them to the last charge. Resistance was in vain, but the unconquerable spirit of Ferguson refused to surrender. His men were falling on every side, and the success of his bayonets gave him barren ground, which be could but for a moment retain. Still, to be conquered by such a set of balf-naked savages, wet, dirty and bloody as they were, from scenes of that hot October day, was too galling for his pride, and he fought with the desperation of a dying ambition, as again and again he drove the patriots to the foot of the hill. But Campbell cries, "Follow me!" and the wild men of the mountains spring with a maddening cry to the charge, as they answer the fearful daring of their leader; and Sevier's sword is seen glancing, like a gleam of light, as he gallops, with a clatter and crash, at the head of his men, through the devouring fire; and Cleveland's excited appeals infuse new spirit into his troops, as they charge after him like semi devils, as they are. Anri Shelhv. the ahle nffieer nnd imnet.uou9 warrior, brought his men up with a skill and courage worthy of him; and the fiery valor of Williams, as he passed, unheeding through the iron tempest, and with the chevalier gullantry of his nature, tossing his gun from him as he saw Ferguson armed only with sword and pistols, and crying, "I will have a single hand tussle with him or die,'' dashed on to victory or death! Charging up the rugged hill-side, they drove the Hying enemy before them, with a strength and terror as prompt and deadly as a bolt from heaven. It was an awful moment. The destinies of America were in these patriots' hands and they knew it, and fought like men and like martyrs. Foemen were mingled hand to hand. Res^enge and patriotism on the one hand?rage and despair on the other. From the thick haze of curling smoke, arose now a loud and fierce huzza ; now a yell of terror? now a cry of triumph, mingled with groans and shrieks of anguish. Occasionally might be seen a speeding horseman, the twinkle of polished steel, or the stern face of a patriot, as the flash of his gun for a moment illumined determined features. In the midst of the deadly charge, a white horse was seen galloping ; riderless down the hill, the shrill notes of that silver whistle that had so often cheered the men through the heat and burden of that stormy hour, was silent; there was a cry of despair, a yell for quarter, a triumphant shout of "the flags are struck," and "victory !" "victory !" "victory!" resounded from the mountain. CHAPTER XI. And she was lost and yet I breath'd, But not the breath of human life; A serpent round my heart was wreathed And stung my every thought to strife. Byron. The sun was yet an hour high when the battle was ended. Ferguson lay dead on the field. Williams lived to hear the shout of victory, with prophetic fervor to thank God for his country's deliverance, blessed the brave boys, his sons, who bore him in their arms, and died "content." The havoc had been terrible?not one of the British force escaped. Two hundred and forty were killed and two hundred were wounded ; over seven hundred were taken prisoners, and fifteen hundred stands of arms fell into the hands of the Americans. It was a loss of one-fourth of Cornwallis' array. The assailants had the honor of reducing a number superior to their own, and for this crowing victory, one hour sufficed?"a crowding hour of glorious life." Of the patriots, twenty-eight were killed and sixty wounded. A large proportion of these were officers, from the fact that with the American volunteers, the officer not only commands his men, but goes before and shows the way, and how to fight. Perhaps this exasperated the Whigs yet more against the conquered, and in the moment of unsubdued and rankling passion, ten of the tories were hanged. Among these, tbe two tory troopers who had accompanied Ferris in his murderous errand, met their doom. It was deemed necessary to guard the passages of the Catawba in order to delay the news of the victory from the knowledge of Cornwallis, who was then at Charlotte, waiting for a convoy of stores. Troops were accordingly sent to secure these passes, and so effectually did they intercept all intelligence, that but confused accounts of the affair reached the enemy. At length, Cornwallis was compelled, for the safety of Ninety Six, to bring his army, though weakened by sickness, across the Catawba river. He then received his first intelligence respecting the dif ferent posts in the province, and discovered that he had now to contend with all the difficulties of a defensive war. Scarcely was victory proclaimed, ere Bowen, blood and travel stained as he was, was seen galloping from the scene ^f combat. The fierce passions of . bia soul were not yet quelled. They yet breathed from his compressed lips and blood:shot eyes, and in the involuntary spur which he gave to his fleet and noble steed. Like an arrow he speeded on, till arriving at the homestead, he threw the reins over the neck of the obedient aninml and hurried in. One hasty glance at the torn and ruined garden, one shuddering look at the cold and inanimate corpse of old Andrew Craig, stretched where last he had eat at his hospitable board, and with a lowering brow and tearless eye, guided by the voice of Bessie's song, he entered the chamber. Propped up in the bed, she was singing, in the wild delirium of fever, the songs he had so often listened to in happier times, when Bessie's warblings were to him sweeter than the songs of matin birds. Her cheek was still rounded in the full oval of health, and flushed to the deep glow of burning fever; her eye sparkled in unnatural brilliancy, as slowly and lingeringly she twined the brown curls around her white fingers, and sang in low and touching song, a plaintive Scotch melody. She did not see, or did not notice, the trooper as he entered, but called to Ellen Campbell, who was standing near, and said : "Miss Ellen, will you give me the flowers, now ? and the glass? for Ellick is coming and I'm tD be his wife; his bride the morn, and its time to be ready. Have I on my white I dress ? Yes," she cried, pulling at the sleeve ? ?' *.!.. "k..t U'o ?ai niAD " unrl clio I U1 Ufj gUVWJ, UUUIO nut UAtU i J ? ? ?? uuv rolled her sleeves high, leaving her dimpled arms bare. "Now the flowers, Miss Ellen, and the glass. I must see my bonnie face once more, that Elliek's so proud of. Do you know what Ellick tells me, Miss Ellen ? That he loves me for my beauty, but dearer far, for the love that lights it; and I smile and say nothing, when he asks me if I love him, and I never tell him how, when I dream of him at night, I wake with beating heart and hide my face in my pillow, fearing in great | shame, the love that burns my cheek and starts the tears to my eyes, though no one sees me but my Maker; or when I smile in happy memories of him, I start and shrink if a step comes near, thinking they will read ray dear secret in my tell-tale eyes. And so, though he knows I love him right well, he does not know how much little Bessie longs t to be his wife, that I may go when I please, without any shame, and kiss his manly cheek, or press my arms around him and tell him all my love. And I do not know why I tell you now, Miss Ellen ; but something makes my tongue talk, and oh! my heart is bursting;" and her tones sank in wretched memory to a low wail, as she wept. "But I'll never be his wife ;never, never rest my head on his leal heart; never see his brave form more; never smile on his dear face again ; never, never, feel his lips on mine as they whisper, 'I love you, Bessie,'" and wailing and weeping, "never, never, never," she moaned her self into a low song? "Soon my weary e'en I'll closeNever mair to waken?never, never never, never malr to waken," until she sank into an uneasy slumber. Ellen had, in breathless entreaty, motioned to Bowen to be silent, and as poor Bessie fell into sleep, she led him, unresisting, in his deep despair, into the next room. By the assistance of Mr. Willoughby, who was with her, she prevailed upon him to change his blood-stained clothes and to wash the marks of the bloody conflict from his person. He asked no questions, but quietly submitted to their direction, when they told him his appearance might shock Bessie, who had returns of hemorrhage from a ruptured blood vessel. His determination, however, was unalterable to return to the room, and no sooner had he cleaned himself of the revolting stains, than agnin he hurried to the chamber. Bessie was again moving in restless slumber. Her cheek was crimsoned to the deepest damask as she tossed her white arms and moaned in .agony. Suddenly starting, wide awake, she uttered a most apalling cry of terror, as she clasped her hands above her bead and cried? "Save me, save me; oh! God, save me. Father, where are you ? They will murder your Bessie; oh!" she cried, cowering under the bed clothes and clutching them around her person. "Spare me, for God's sake spare me; or kill me?though so young, I am not afraid to die. In mercy kill me, and God will bless you. Ellick, Ellick, oh, God ! your Bessie, Ellick ! Is there no mercy ! mercy! mercy!" and shriek after shriek followed in startling peals, till Ellen, perfectly unnerved, throws herself upon the bed in bitter and passionate grief, while poor Mr. Willoughby, with tears streaming down his cheeks, in vain tried to console her. In suffering, scarcely less intense than poor Bessie, Bowen stood by her side. She did not know him, nor did she know any one. In tearless silence he watched the delirious struggle till nature relieved the sufferer, and again the blood gushed from her lips. He thought she was dying, and his livid face was now contracted to greater endurance. But Ellen quickly arose, and with her gentle woman's hand, wiped the oozing life-blood, as she whispered to Boweu, that it was not yet death. The hemorrhage ceased and relieved the delirium, and in perfect exhaustion, Bessie's white face now rested on the pillow. She exhibited no surprise as she opened her eyes and gazed long aud earnestly at Bowen. At length, stooping to kiss her damp brow, he whispered? "Do you know me, Bessie?" She smiled, and clasping his hand, whispered in almost inuadible tones? "I knew you would come." Drawing him down toward her, she stroked the brown hair from the face that was almost as white as her own, and smiled in sweet childish trust. But gradually her face became troubled. Memory, that had been hushed for a moment to rest, again claimed its power; she moved restlessly. Again the fever burned her cheek and quickened her pulses. She looked uneasily around. "Father is sleeping, Ellick," she said, "but I'll go and rouse him, directly. He's no well, but he'll be better the morn, he says." Unconsciously, she used much of the Scotch dialect of her childhood, which, with the plaintive tones of her voice, made it doubly touching. Her eager glance sought out every object in the room. Her mind was evidently working in rapid thought, her lips opened to speak, then as if impatient at some inward consciousness, closed again, only to move once more in restless eagerness. "Ellick!" at length she cried, "whft says I cannot be your wife? Do you not love your little Bessie?" And without waiting for a reply, she continued: "If I smiled on other lads it was na that I loved you less ; but that I loved to see you follow me with your eyes in jealous fear, lest Bessie should think more of another. How often I smiled in other faces for the dear delight of winning you, by a simple word, to forgive your Bessie! How often I refused the kiss you pleaded for, that I might watch my moment, and looking up in your face tempt you to snatch what I was so ready to grant! How often at the kirk, dear Ellick, I would not meet your eager look, till in the instant of parting, I would send the blood rushiDg to your lace, with a laughing glance! Oh ! Ellick, you do not, you cannot, know all the wiles of Bes sie's love ; teasing you with its change, binding you with its trust, and loving you dearly, loving you through it all, Ellick !" shelaughed. "Do you inind the night you asked me? How bashful ycu were; and how I teased you, though longing to hear your loving tale?and how you forced me to listen to you, while I pouted and loved you all the dearer for the manliness that bade me be quiet? And I laughed and said, "No," and you did not speak ; and would not understand how Bessie longed to hear it all again, and you bid me good bye and would have left me ; but when you took my hand, somehow you did not give it up, and I could not take it from you till, dear Ellick, I found myself weeping in your arms and you so proud, (and so happy) of your capricious little lassie. And I thought I then I never would tease you again ; but I did, Ellick, and you forgave me till?"Oh !" she shudderingly cried, "that awful dream? it chokes me. Air, air!" she suffocatingly gasped. Panting a moment, she cried? "Ellick, dear Ellick, I never wronged you in thought, word or deed. You were dearer than all the earth beside. Oh! how I loved you! So proud of your free, bold step; so proud of your manly bearing; so proud of your love; but prouder than all Of your honest heart. And now to lose you ! What terror is this between us!" she cried, clasping her hands to her heart. "I feel it here, but I cannot tell what it is," and she looked in agony around. Gradually a look of settled despair passed over her face, and moaning, "I know it, I know it all now," she buried her face in her pillow and beseechingly moaned for him to leave her. Clasping his arms around her, Bowen bent down and whispered low and lovingly in her ear. Gradually the clenched hands relaxed, gradually the hidden face turned to him, till burying her head on his shoulder and weeping quietly, she whispered her tale of terror there. Fainter and fainter, grew the whisper, as closer he drew the dear form. "Wake, father," she said ; "I miss him."They looked on each other in troubled consternation. She smiled. "Is it so? Thank God ! He would have been very lonely without his lassie. And you, Ellick?" she looked at him long and lingeringly?"I cannot comfort you," she said, and calmly continued; "that wicked man is?" "In hell," said Bowen, in uncontrolled passion. "Hush, Bessie," and the wrathful tones were muttered in deep curses, while a scowl of deadly wrath gathered on his brow. "Poor Ellick!" said the girl, from whose heart every emotion of wrath or terror had faded, as she lovingly stroked his face, isa T<!llpn " ahft amilpd. and crrasned her ? ""? ? ? o r ---- | hand ; rested one kind look on Mr. Willough-; by, then turned, as if glad once more to rest on Bowen's bosom. She smiled in his face, and murmured some low words of love, the flush died from her cheek, her eyes closed like a weary child sinking to rest, a long sobbing sigh, and Bowen was forever alone. Reverently laying the dear head upon its white pillow, he knelt by her side, and placing his hand upon the breast that had so lately beat in loving pulsation to his touch, he took a solemn vow, devoting himself to the cause of liberty, wholly and entirely, till God should drive the oppressor from the soil. Severing a long brown tress, and kissiugthe pale lips that still smiled in sweet serenity, with a firm step and stern purpose, he turned from all that was dear to him, to await the moment that was to consign the parent and child together to the earth. [to be continued.] ^ n _ 1 !_ I. ? J _ 1 A. .TAPER TULP.?oo mucn is ueing saiu auoui the paper pulp, which is so extensively used in the manufacture of paper, at this time, that a brief description of the process of making it will be interesting. Any white soft wood may be used. The bark is taken off, the knots, dark and decayed places cut out. It is then put into a large caldron and boiled, which extracts all the glutinous matter and resin and renders it soft. It is then put on a large stone grinder, with water pouring on it all the time. This grindstone wears off all the fibres until they are finer than sawdust, which float away into a receptacle. The water is drained off by means of a fine sieve, leaving the pulp, which consists of fine fuzz or splinters of wood. It is white, and requires no bleaching or chemicals, but is ready to be mixed with rag pulp or anything else that has a strong fibre and will receive the proper constituents to make it into a paste, after which it is run into ???"* rakflMoo TO OKI KoTTfl fn hfi TUfl all Af] pupci OIICCIO y ni ICi^ao lugu HUT v vv w .. and bleached with chloride of lime, soda, ash, and alum, and such strong chemicals, to take out the color. Then they are picked to pieces and made into pulp. The process by which wood pulp is made is purely mechanical, and as any soft wood, such as cottonwood and poplar, may be used, it can be made cheap; say at about one cent per pound. How to Quarrel.?It is always easy to find a subject to quarrel about, and almost always easy to find a person who is just hottempered enough to give you an opportunity. With subject and person at hand, the way is open to make life as disagreeable as possible, and you can feed on hot words until your moral digestion is spoiled. We have noticed that in every quarrel it is the reply and not the assertion which makes the trouble. The man who gets mad cannot possibly have a good time until he can get a second person mad also, and if he succeeds in that, the two have a very enjoyable season. When a man says a biting thing to you, if you can only get your tongue between your teeth and hold it there for a few minutes, the storm which portends you will pass away ; but if, on the other hand, are determined to give as good as is sent, a rivalry immediately begins, and you become hot, feverish and unreasonable. The old negro was right who said that the reason why a certain quarrel was settled, was that one of the parties "kep' on axin' 'pertinent questions and de oder kep' on sayin' nothin', an' that," he added, "will settle a big difficulty quicker than anythin' else." Chinamen, in numerous small parties, continue to arrive in New York from the Pacific coast. Those who arrived last week are represented to be greatly delighted with that city, where their treatment is so different from what they have been accustomed to in San Francisco. They are specially delighted with the privileges they are permitted to enjoy in common with other people, such as riding in the street cars, the use of the ferry boats Ac., They are also pleased that they can walk the streets without being compelled to dodge a shower of missiles or other hostile manifestations from the hoodlums. MR. DODGE'S SUCCESS. Our Southern fellow-citizens are accustomed to assert that the colored man has two glaring faults?that he will not work and his presence casts such a blight upon chickens that no white man can profitably engage in raising poultry in the Southern States. Mr. James C. Dodge, who recently emigrated from Natick, Mass.. to Laurelville, Ala., has signally refuted the popular Southern estimate of the colored man, and has succeeded, not only in keeping chickens, but inducing thirty-lour colored men to work for him without wag<-8. Mr. Dodge arrived at Laurelville. last Snrinf* with the intention of cultivating a farm. The local white population received him courteously and wished him every success, but they warned him that he could not induce a single colored man to work on his farm except at preposterous wages. When he casually introduced the subject of chickens, they assured him that there was an African church within a mile of his newly purchased farm, and that he might as well try to keep icicles in a hot-house as to raise chi'kens in such a neighborhood. Mr. Dodge was a stubborn man, and, withal, an ingenious one. He determined to prove to the Laurelvilians that he could do precisely what tb%y said he could not do. Accordingly, he offered to bet with Judge Slemons that he would cultivate his new farn with colored labor, and tbat he would raise chickens without losjng a single one by colored larceny. The bet was taken, and Mr. Dodge went to his farm and began operations. With the aid of the Laurelville carpenter, Mr. Dodge built a magnificent chicken-house, with accommodations for five hundred feathered guests. The windows were made so small that not even a consumptive colored hoy could pass through them, and the door was of unprecedented thickness and strength. In one side of the chicken-house, Mr. Dodge required the carpenters to leave a round hole of about two feet in diameter, for a purpose which he declined to explain. Much pity was felt for him by his neighbors, on the ground that he was wasting his money in a vain attempt to struggle against the chicken-stealing genius of the colored people; but Mr. Dodge "guessed" he was all right, and "cal'lated" that his chickens wouldn't be stolen to any great extent. When the carpenters had finished their work and had gone home, Mr. Dodge unpacked a large bundle which he had received from the North, and after dark he filled his chicken-house with three hundred chickens, and, locking it securely, went to bed. About 11 o'clock that night a leading citizen, of chicken proclivities, made bis way into the chicken-house through the hole which had been left open. He chuckled quietly at the folly of Mr. Dodge in locking the door, and at the same time forgetting to close the hole in the side of the chicken-house. When he had selected a dozen of the largest chickens, he undertook to creep stealthily out of the hole, but found his egress impeded by a series of sharp and projecting spikes. He then realized that he had been caught in a trap of the same general nature as that pleasing variety of mouse-trap into which the mouse readily enters through a wire-lined passage, the pointed^nds of which prevent him from escaping. The leading colored citizen s estimate of white intellect underwent a sudden change, and he sat down gloomily in the corner of the chicken-house to invent some plausible tale which would account for his presence, when the inevitable moment of discovery should come. Half an hour later the minister of the colored church entered the chicken-house, and was warmly greeted by his predecessor, who was beginning to feel very lonesome. From midnight until dawnthe arrivals were almost incessant. The fact that three hundred chickens were in Mr. Dodge's chicken-house, was known in every colored cabin within a radius of two miles, and the oppressed race had risen as one man and resolved to have those chickens. At half past three there was standingroom only in the chicken-house, and gentlemen arriving after that hour were compelled to return home disappointed. After a comfortable breakfast, Mr. Dodge took his shot-gun and the key of the chicken house, and proceeded to ascertain what i luck his trap had brought him during the night. To his great pleasure, he found, thirty four able-bodied colored men in the chick en-house, and, after the most careful investigation, he ascertained that not a chicken was missing. He put no unpleasant questions to the colored men whom he had caught, as to why they had crowded into his chicken-house, but he merely informed them that he supposed they had come to assist him in planting, and that he was greatly obliged to them for their kind assistance. At noon Judge Slemons and a dozen white Laurelvilians arrived at the farm, and gazed with amazement at the spectacle of thirty-four colored men working energetically in the field. When the Judge was convinced that no chickens had been stolen during the night, he frankly admitted that he had lost his bet. Since that day Mr. Dodge has never lost a chicken. He has, however, only caught a few sporadic colored men, and has thus been obliged to hire most of his labor. Nevertheless, he has successfully refuted the assertion that no white man can keep chickens in Alabama, and has, on at least one occasion, induced thirty-four colored men to work for him without pay. Whether his plan would be permanently successful if tried in other parts of the South is, of course, uncertain; but there is certainly good reason to suppose that it would greatly increase the security of chicken property.?New York Times. NATIONAL COMPARISONS. New York and Pennsylvania seem large, while Texas and California are dimly appreciated. But such a survey as we have supposed will supply you with new and vaster standards of measurement. Texas, for instance, may look no larger on your atlas than New York. But you will learn that Texas is larger than England and France combined ; that it would make five States like New York, seven like Ohio, thirty-five like Massachusetts, and two hundred like Bhode Island. The six New England States are larger than old England, and yet not so large as the single State of Missouri. California would much more than cover all the New England and Middle States combined, and would almost j cover France. New England, with Maine | doubled, would hardly equal Oregon, and j not much overlay Minnesota. Nevada is as big as New York and Pennsylvania, and Oregon is larger still. Nebraska is bigger than New England. Ohio would make five Masschusetts, and yet Kansas would more than make two Ohios. Texas alone nearly equals in area the old thirteen ; and Texas, Colo' rado, California, Oregon, Minnesota, Nebraska and Kansas, all but equal in extent [ all the other States and Territories combined. Such comparisons somewhat assist the mind in the difficult conception of a territory more than 3,000,000 of square miles and more than 2,000,000,000 of acres. And y et mere extent of surface alone is but a questionable ad- j vantage. The great desert of Sahara in northern Africa is almost as large as the United States, and all the worse for the human dwellers in it. But a vast proportion of our Country's area is not meiely arable, but in great section* fairly teeming with the elements and conditions of fertility. Broad regions are loaded with annual harvests which almost surpass computation, while beyond these still wider tracts stretch illimitable, untouched and untilled, keeping their untold treasures of plenty for the millions yet to come. The farms in the thirty-eight States and Territories, at the last census, nine years ago, contained 407,000,000 of acres. The mighty tide of westward immigration, during the last year or two, must have raised this total to nearly or quite 500,000,000 acres. Grant's Opinions.?The Mexican correspondent of the New York Sun has served up a rich tropical treat for the readers of that paper. Grant and his party are interesting the people of the Mexican capital, where live curiosities are rare. But, according to the correspondent} the tropical climate has quite removed the reticence for which General Grant was once so remarkable. He and his friends have become decidedly communicative. It seems that he is a candidate, and has never been anything else since the war ended. He regards the proposal to put him at the head of an iBteroceanic canal con pany as a scheme of politicians to get him out of the way. He thinks he was elected President in the first place, by the almost unanimous wish of the American people, and if the politicians were out of the way he would be elected now without opposition. But the newspapers, controlled by these politicians, are against him and make a deal of trouble. Still, he was elected in spite of them once, and would be again. He is very poor. The failure of the Government to- provide a pension for its exPresidents, leaves him, an old man v/ithout a profession and with nothing to depend upon. Hence he du^ht to be elected President. Then, but for his energetic measures, it is very doubtful whether Hayes would h*we been able to take his seat after he was counted in ; he made all the necessary military preparations for the inauguration of Hayes, and had there been the least disturbance, would have imprisoned the Democratic senators and seized any State government that made objection to such high handed acts. "The present incumbent," as he calls Hayes, is a very weak man, and there may be trouble in the coming election, when it is very important that the Republican candidate should be a strong man. This is said to be Grant's idea of the situation. The Grant Republicans will hardly circulate such reports for campaign purposes. WHY PEOPLE ABE POOR. It is stated,, on very excellent authority, that "the poor have ye with you always." The remark was true when uttered, and has been true ever since, and from appearances always will be. There are those who have no disposition to save; who "live from hand to mouth," so to speak ; who take no thought f ? IT~ nnv>. lUl l/Wliiuiiun. ixayiuj^ cuuugu tui i>uc pi?ent hour they are content, and leave the future to take caire of itself. If property were to be equally divided among the people Monday morning, before Saturday night the majority would be in destitute circumstances, dead broke, while the prudent and saving would be on the road to pecuniary independence. One class of people spend whatever money they get bold of, and as fast as they get it, while others save means that come into their hands, judiciously invest the same and become rich. There are those who not only do not know how to save, but they do not know how to spend. If they get anything, it goes for what they do not need ; for articles that could be dispensed with. Those who are destitute of the comforts of, life as a rule, may blame themselves therefor. If they have anything, they do not take care of it. They buy articles that people in better circumstances would think they could not afford. So they are always poor. Relieve their wants to-day and they are no better off to-morrow. They are bound not to savfr?to have nothing, and are generally bound to be in debt if they can find anybody to trust them. Of course, we understand that people are some-times unfortunate. They get sick, or those dependent on them become so. We know that people are sometimes overtaken by misfortune ; but where there is one case of this kind, there are fifty in which the entire trouble may be found in the indisposition to save. t).? r A tit, aio mrrti Pnixia Vnnr rianor lfl JJlljLi AAr V/,.1 inu X OCfiO* JL vut ?w a great comfort to me. In every number i find something to put away in mind and memory ; something that I did not know before, and which will be of advantage to me in time to come. If a man can read he can get a good education by hking one good paper; he can keep up with the world, and make himself an s entertaining member of society; he can talk up a little on most any subject. Bock learning is a very good thing, but I know a man who has a power of that, but he never reads the papers, and he passes for a fool in his neighborhood. Some papers are not much account to appearances, but I never took one that didn't pay me, in some way, more than I paid for it. One time an old friend started a II**1 a AtTtcrr ^Arrn ir? .Q/\nfhtcoafam rtaAf. ill lit; avioj uunu IU mvuvunvevviu V)W* gia, and sent it to me, and I subscribed just to encourage him, and so after awhile it published a notice that an administrator had an order to sell several lots of land at public outcry, and one of the lots was in my county. So I inquired about the lot*.And wrote to my friend to attend the sale and run it to fifty dollars. He did so, and bid off the lot for me at thirty dollars), and I sold it in a month to the man it joined for a hundred, and so I made sixty-eight dollars clear by taking that paper. My father told me that when he was a young man, he saw a notice in a paper that a school teacher was wanted away off in a distant county, and he went down there and got the situation, and a little girl was sent to him, and after awhile she grew up mighty sweet and pretty, and he fell in love with her and married her. Now, if he hadn't took that paper, what do you reckon would have become of me ? Wouldn't I be some other feller, or may-be not be at all ??Dixie Farmer. Why the Law is Uncertain.?Language is an imperfect instrument for the expression of ideas. Not a few of its forms are ambiguous; that is, they spsak in two ways. Readers and hearers are left in old Isaac's perplexity. The voice is that of Jacob, the hand is that of Esau. Many of the terms of language are equivocal. They have two meanings, so that the reader is in doubt as to the mind or intention of the writer. Those who draft statutes know how difficult it is to frame a law which shall be free from ambiguous expressions or equivocal terms. Judge Story once told a personal incident, which illustrates this difficulty. He was employed by Congress to draft an act. So important was it that he spent six ir? fmnniv rxOt^OAf iffl r\V?l?QOAiSlf\(YV iilVUbliO rn UJlLig vv J^viiVW a\aj ^uiuevvwgj His purpose was to make the statute so clear that the most astute lawyer should not be able to cast the shadow of a doubt upon its meaning. The draft, proving satisfactory to the lawyers in Congress, became a law. In less than a year, a suit, involving the interpretation of this very law, came before the court over which Justice Story presided. Having heard the arguments of the able attorneys, the Judge confessed that he was unable to decide upon the meaning of a statute which he himself bad framed. He, of course, knew what he had meant to put into the law. But the criticisms of the two lawyers showed him that he had used such ambiguous expressions that it was doubtful if he had said what he meant to have said*