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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*