Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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YQMWBLBJl ICfjOUflRlERI N" lewis m. grist, proprietor, j Jjiiicpfnilcnt Jarnilg Uttospaper: Jfor % promotion of tlje. political, Social, ^gricaltnral ani Cammcrria:! Interests of % j&onfjf. |terms--$2.50 a tear, in adtakce. VOL. 28. YQEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 4, 1889. ' 18. Jrlertctl foetrn. LITTLE JI.U. The cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean, Yet everything within thai cot was wondrous j neat and clean ; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was j howling wild, A patient mother watched beside the death bed of i . her child. A little worn out creature?his once bright eyes ! grown dim ; It was * collier's wife and child, they called him "Little Jim." And, oh ! to see the briny tears, fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offered up a prayer?in thought ; she was | afraid to speak, Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life ; For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed, And prays that He will spare her boy, and take herself instead. * ? it-- 1 ?ft 1 tknoA sue got ner answer irom me uuy, suit jcw wvw words from him? "Mother, the angels do so smile and beckon to little Jim ; I have r.o pain, dear mother, now, but, oh! I am so dry, Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and, mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to - nis lips, He smiled to thank her, as he took three tiny little sips. "Tell father when he comes from work, I bid good night to him, And, mother, I'll go to sleep." Alas, poor little Jim ! She saw that he was dying, that the child she loved so dear Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear. # < The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is beard, The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak ' a word. He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead ; He took the candle in his hand, and walked toward the bed. His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd ! fain conceal. And, see, his wife has joined hiui, the stricken couple kneel; With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him, In Heaven once more to meet their own dear little Jim. Ihe Jdorii ieH?. TUt1; L/?9. Forget thee! in the banquet halls, Goask til}' fellow-men; ! Or ask the tear that secret falls, ; If I forgot thee then. At a lively, pleasant party, toward the close of the fall of 18?, I was introduced to Charles N . It Wits in the house of an intimate i friend of mine, some little distance out of < town. We had a ball in the evening, and, I < recollect, were uncommonly gay. I never was 1 in better spirits than in moving through a co- 1 tilion with the pretty Miss T ; we both betrayed our ignorance of oue part of the figure. < There is something very agreeable, at times, i in these mutual mistakes. When we had sat 1 down after the first cotilion, my wandering at- < tention was arrested by a young gentleman i whose entrance I bad not observed. He was 1 apparently about twenty-seven years of age; < his figure was thin, but fine; his features were < regular, his eyes dark and expressive, and but for the gloom that rested on his pale counte- < nance when I first beheld him, I should have called him eminently handsome. But in that < gloom there was so much of mental suffering, i and so much of absolute wretchedness?such 1 an absence of all hope, and such a shade of settled despair?that you became uneasy while ? you contemplated it, and turned away as from ] an inspirer of painful thoughts. I felt the melancholy to be contagious, and began to chat I and laugh with a group near me, to draw off my attention from that gloomy brow and com- ? pressed and sunken lip; but in vain. My eyes i involuntarily returned, as under the influence : of fascination ; even, while I talked with some appearance of earnestness to the lady who sat ] next to me, I could not avoid giving a stealthy i glance at the young stranger. There he sat as ' I first remarked him?near a window, and i somewhat retired from the rest of the compa- 1 ny; his head resting on his hand, which he ' now and then passed through his rich, dark l hair?from habit, as it were, for he was evi- 1 uently in a revery, iar iroin uie presenu scene < and its hilarity. The bright eyes of beautiful * women, sparkling with animation and joyous 1 excitement, attracted him not. The soft, half J wanton whisper, and the louder tone of festal 1 mirth, were equally unheeded. A lady was 1 called upon to entertain the company with 1 music. I was delighted to see her sit down to i' the harp?that loveliest of instruments?it 11 shows off a tine voice and a tine arm so well. 1 She commenced a sweet and plaintive air. It |] was an old-fashioned strain that I was fond of i when a boy. The deep swell of the music ap- < ]>eared to have a powerful effect upon the young j: stranger. He started from his revery, roused j: himself, and seemed determined to make up for his former unsociability by striving to be < agreeable. I never saw a more sudden change | in an individual. I would scarcely have re- ; cognized him, so altered was his countenance and manner. He began a gay conversation . with a smiling, rosy-lipped little girl, he had ] not before condescended to notice ; offered her i his arm, and they joined a group around the ' fair harper. I observed him. It appeared to , i methathisgayety was unnatural?unhealthy? < forced. It was not the free flow of heartfelt 11 joy. Probably it appeared the more so to me 11 from contrasting it with the gloomy expression ;: that first caught my notice. His deportment j 1 was now elegant and graceful; and his atten- ' tions were evidently by no means unacceptable ! 1 to the lovely creature who was hanging on his 11 arm, nor to those who joined her for a share of ! ] the handsome young gentleman's conversation. |" This person had deeply interested me, and i i wlieu cue uiioiu nan vyu i uroimi mj iiinm , i to introduce nie. He immediately complied ; < and the stranger was introduced to me as j 1 Charles X , an English gentleman, who had just arrived from a tour through our conn-j try. Young men are soon acquainted, espe- j cially where there is a congeniality of senti-! inent and feeling; and it was not long before j we were engaged in an interesting conversa^ tion. His language was conect and polished, his address easy and gentlemanly ; he had traveled over the greater part of Enrol**, and his mind was well stored with information ; his observations displayed a knowledge of the world, and, on literary subjects, a refined ele- j gance of taste. I was much pleased with him, for he was decidedly a superior man. When he grew animated on some subject that particularly interested him, and his eyes kindled, : and his countenance shone with a transient | enthusiasm, I thought him one of the most captivating beings 1 ever beheld. But then, there was that return of melancholy depres- j sion ; and when he had bc(yi wrought up to an excitement on any favorite effusion of poetry j or romance, his countenance would settle down into an expression of exhaustion?a repose of J gloom, which seemed natural to it, and the ne-1 cessary reaction of an unusual excitement; then, by a painful effort, he would endeavor to Keep up ins snare or xne spine 01 uie conveisation, aiul beam forth with some brilliant stroke of wit or lively sarcasm, and lie mirthful for a moment; and I could perceive that he possessed a keen sense of the ridiculous, j and that, at a time when his mind was freer ! and his heart calmer, he must have been a j most entertaining companion. I was convinced that there was some hidden grief that i lay, like an incubus, on his soul, and shut out , all enjoyment. I felt a powerful sympathy for him?a desire to alleviate his melancholy," not uumingled. with a curiosity as to t he cause. I i kept near him during the remainder of the 1 evening ; I exerted myself to appear cheerful; I endeavored to lead him into conversation on topics in which I thought he would feel an in terest, and to prevent the mind from reverting j upon itself, and feeding upon its own dark i thoughts; I tried to draw him into the dance, ! lmt without effect. "I will enjoy it more by j looking on," be said, with a faint smile? am afraid," added he, "my dancing days are over." lie sighed. I rallied him about such 1 a bachelor declaration in a fine-looking young fellow to whom the girls were waiting to be gracious; but I saw it gave pain, and ceased. We stole off before the company broke up, and, as it was a beautiful moonlight night, with a fresh, bracing air, we agreed to walk home. He took my arm, and I accompanied him to his lodgings. Our conversation was on different topics ; the persons we had met?the current news of the day; and there were long pauses; each one appeared to be absorbed in his own meditations. Once we engaged on the subject of youthful hopes and attachments; but as I perceived it occasioned some painful emotion on his part, I began to chat about the beauty of the evening, and the pretty lady who had listened to his honeyed flatteries, nothing loth. An acquaintance was formed, and we frequently met. Sometimes he was gay, and would give loose rein to his powers of wit and playful satire; sometimes he was reserved, moody, sad. On all occasions he was unequal, and restless, and fitful in his mirth. His vivacity would be crossed by that continually returning depth of gloom ; and his laugh would subside into an indescribable expression of internal suffering. There was a sadness that could not be removed ; and there was clearly remorse in it. I could perceive this in his start; his secret shudder, almost imperceptible in his troubled eye; and the slight perspiration 011 his fine manly brow. The vulture might be scared away for a moment; but was sure to return with a keener glance and whetted beak. Still he was anxious to amuse, and would open his portfolio of engravings, some of which were very beautifully executed. He would describe such of the scenes as he had himself visited, and would now and then forget his griefs over some wild and beautiful landscape of Switzerland or Italy. lie possessed a talent for drawing, and showed me a number of sketches he had made of our own scenery ; two of which I recognized, as they were views of scenery in my native State'with which I was familiar. One of them was a romantic view on the Hudson, near Catskill, the mountains in the distance. The other, a lovely, picturesque landscape, near the Mohawk, with an extensive prospect of the river gracefully meandering through a fertile and varied country. He had a true feeling for the beauties of nature, and it was delightful to listen to the remarks that fell from liira. One winter evening, about a month after our acquaintance had commenced, we were sitting together in his room before a low fire. Candles had not yet been called; and we sat for some time in silence, gazing upon the fire, that would kindle up into a bright fiame, and then subside, in playful wantonness, its it were. X was in one of his gloomiest reveries; and I did not feel inclined to disturb him. He turned abruptly. "S ,"said he, "have you not observed a strange inconsistency of conduct about me ?" I knew not what to reply, and hesitated. "You must?you must,1' he added, in a mournful tone, "you must have remarked it; but you want to spare my feelings. Alas ! it is not worth while." He passed his hand aver his brow. "Where is the medicine that fail minister to a mind diseased?uluck from I the heart a rooted sorrow ?" His voice was tremulous, and his eye was filling. "S , you have no doubt wondered at the 3ause of my depression. Listen to me. It is, this day, a year and six months since Edward Ci and myself crossed the Atlantic together." He stopped a moment. "We were school-fellows?class-mates?companions in the same sports?as fond and intimate as boys can be?Oh ! those days of joy and disinterested kindness! Gone, gone, forever gone!? Well, sir, our destinations in life were different, but our intimacy continued. Edward went into mercantile life, and I to the studies of a profession. He was high spirited and rather irascible; but a generous noble-hearted fellow. Our affection was ardent, and I believe natural." N paused, and then went on. "He called on me one morning, and told me that lie had an excellent offer to go to America, as an agent, for a, very respectable house, and, if I would accompany him, he would accept of it. I had frequently expressed a desire of visiting America ; and we both thought the opportunity a good one. We bade idieu to our relatives and friends, and set sail; we shared the same bed; we nursed each other; poor Xed was uncommonly sea-sick ; we were is brothers." His voice "trembled, and there was a convulsive motion of his lips. "But I must get over this." He drew his chair closer toward the fire. "I will get on with my story with more firmness?I am almost ashamed of myself, S . We arrived safely in Baltimore, the place of our destination ; and, like most ether young men in the heyday of life, mingled occasionally in scenes of dissipation. Edward had often spoken of his skill in a difficult and somewhat antiquated game of cards, and I thought with something of boasting and elation. I knew nothing of the game ; but for the purpose of tormenting him a little for his canity, and from a love of mischief, I resolved to apply niyseir secretly to it, ana ouiaineu a pretty stood insight into the game without his knowing anything of the matter. One evening we were sitting together with some acquaintances we had picked up, and to Edward's surprise, I defied him with his favorite game at cards. " 'Edward,' said 1, 'youare always boasting of your skill. I know but little about the game, yet I will lay you a wager I'll beat you.'" "Edward smiled with conscious superiority ,it my badinage, and produced the cards "We played?Edward was skillful. I exerted myself to the utmost, and succeeded. Edward was surprised and chagrined. I did not bear my victory meekly; on the contrary, 1 openly sxulted, and gave free scope to my bantering humor. Edward demanded another game? lie again lost. He became flushed and drank several glasses of wine. He still persisted in the contest; cursed his cards; and was still unsuccessful. I was too deeply occupied in the game to observe his countenance ; and in my merriment at an uncommon turn of good luck, I let out an unfortunate witticism?it was the drop in the full cup. Edward rose in i passion, dashed the cards from him, struck his clenched hand upon the table, and with jyes flashing fire, accused me of dealing unfairly. I was astonished ; and replied in what I thought a conciliating tone. But it was on- j ly adding fuel to the flame. He repeated his charges with vehement rapidity; and my temper began to rise. I told him he behaved like a child?that lie was heated with wine, and that, in the morning, when he had slept oil the effects of it, he would be ashamed of his present conduct. lie rushed across the table, almost overthrowing it, and aimed a blow at my face. 1 received it on my arm. The gentlemen present rose, and insisted on his leaving the room. lie did so, breathing threats and vengeance against me. As I expected, a | challenge was handed me that night; and, I j must confess, that, feeling indignant at his be-' havior, I received it without reluctance. I j arranged my pajiers, disposed of the little! property I had, and wrote a letter to my parents. If the duel took place, I considered that the chances were against me ; and I endeavored to prepare my mind for a fatal result. I had no exi?erience with the pistol; having only fired a few times in my life, at a mark in spoil. I requested a inoiiu u> act as my sec- ; oiul. and appeared on the ground a little before j the appointed time. Edward was not yet there. He shortly arrived, accompanied by a second. Wheal beheld my old school-fellow? the friend of my youth?and considered the purpose of our meeting, I felt a pang at my heart; and I believe the tears were in my eyes J when 1 went np to him. "Edward,' said I, 'has it come to this;' must we tight; we. who have known each otli-: er so long; loved each other so dearly ; and for such a cause ? Is there no way of settling I this unhappy difference ?" "Edward's countenance was fixed and unre-1 lenting. "'Sir,' said he. coldly, 'if you choose to; apologize for your unhandsome conduct last ; evening, 1 may receive your apology, and let the business go no further.' "I felt provoked, but kept down the angry reply that rose to my lips. "'Edward,' said 1, 'you have grossly insulted me; struck me ; if you will ask pardon for that outrage, 1 will willingly apologize for any provocation I may have given you.' "He interrupted me? " 'The blow was deserved, sir: deserved by your insolent sneering and mean conduct. 1 will not apologize for that." "'Edward,' said d, 'you wrong me. Yon encroach too far?by Heaven ! too far?the crushed worm will turn. And yet, 1 cannot? I cannot make up my mind to fire at my old companion.' "'Damn it,' said Edward, with a sneer, turning to his second, 'I believe the man is afraid.' "This was enough. " 'Take your stand,' said I sternly, 'and you shall see.' "The ground was measured ; we took our places, back to back; the word was given? 'Wheel and fire !'?I obeyed mechanically; raised my pistol?I am sure I took no aim but my hand was firm ; I fired, and the next moment beheld Edward spring from the ground, quiver and fall. The ball had entered his side. I went up to him. He had just time to falter out? " 'I am dying?I have brought this on myself. Charles?my dear Charles?make your escape.' "He gasped, and died. I stood over him till I was urged off. I saw his body conveyed to the next inn. when the seconds thought me riding off with speed. I secreted myself to give one last look at the remains of my friend. But self-preservation impelled me, and I went away. I traveled through the country ; I visited every place of note ; I have been in every metropolis in the United States; I have been in the best and gayest society; I have entered into scenes of high dissipation ; I have made one of every festive celebration of any importance ; but I never can forget my friend's last look ; the impression will never wear off; in the festal hour, the figure of Edward G bleeding, with his countenance of agony, will rise before me. I bear his last-words; I behold him stiffening in death. He is with me when alone ; he is with me in my dreams ; I fly to the company and amusement, but he is with me there; he follows me with equal step; I cannot fly from myself, and his image is a portion of my being?no?no?no?1 never shall forget him." lie stopped, and leaned his head on the table. "Now," said he, "now, can you wonder at my deportment V" I was loo much affected to reply. lie continued? "I lead a wretched, wandering, unsettled life. I have no spirits to enjoy anything. I feel an unwillingness to engage in any active employment; and I take a morbid satisfaction in resigning myself with perfect inertness to the vagaries of my own gloomy fancy. My mind cannot exert itself, even upon the subjects of which it was most fond, and with wViifli if Upph mn?if familiar. T am ill a mental lethargy. My mind has lost its grasp. I read without pleasure. I think without improvement. My nerves are unstrung, and I sometimes think my memory fails?011 all subjects but one?one, stamped with indelible, burning characters, on my heart and brain. I ought to return home?to my parents?to my profession. But as yet I cannot." He ceased. I sat a few minutes; I could not conceal my agitatiou. I was grieved to see him thus, but knew that the voice of consolation or any cold reasoning would only prove offensive to him in his present state of mind. I took out my watch ; it was near ten. I pleaded that I had some papers to attend to before I went to bed; and rose to depart. He took my hand. "Farewell," said he, "if I can, I will make up my mind to return home in the next packet." I whispered something of the soothing influence of time, and the solace of home, sweet home, and friends most dear to the wounded heart. He sighed, and wrung my hand. "Farewell," said he, "come and see me often. Do not wait for the ceremony of a return of visits. Between you and me that ceremony may now, I think, be well spared." "I bade him good night, and departed. I saw him but twice afterward. lie engaged a passage to the East Indies, and from thence he was to return to his native land. By this time I hope he is with his family, and happier than he was when I took leave of him on board the "Achilles," bound for Canton. THE BLACKSMITH. Young Joe, the blacksmith, was a sturdy fellow?rather tall, broad shouldered, arms big with muscle, and a good liatured .'ace, well worth seeing, if only for the bath of good humor it gave you. Everybody liked him ; and his forge was the resort for village idlers, who loved to watch him strike the shining sparks fron>the glowing iron, and listen to his cheery voice?for something of a singer was Joe. There was an hour in the day, from three to four in the afternoon, when Joe would have none of them. Why? Because the child Nellie, across the way?a blue-eyed, sunny thing, dearly loved by the blacksmith?always spent 1. ui. 1.:^, mat nuui w 1111 nun. As Joe worked, she was wont to stand, with hands behind her back, watching him in an old-fashioned way, quiet and talkative by turns. Sometimes she asked strange questions that puzzled him. "Joe ?" she would commence. "Well, cherub V" "Doesn't the fire burn beautiful, Joe ?" "Yes, dear." "What makes it, Joe'?" "The wind from the bellows, cherub." "What makes the wind from the bellows do it, Joe V" "My working of 'em, dear." "I don't mean that; but what should make the wind do it even then V" Much puzzled, and being no scientist, he would answer: "Joe's not wise enough to tell you that, cherub!" and then finding him puzzled by her questions, the blue eyes, on occasions like these, were won't to widen with astonishment, for she thought Joe knew very nearly everything. When she was leaving, it was her habit to put her arms around his neck and kiss him; and they loved eacli other very, very much. But the time goes by for young and old. It seemed but a little while till Nellie became almost a woman, and it was no longer proper for her to go to Joe's forge; but to be sure he could go to her. And now, not to linger by the way, Joe had learned to love her with all the love of manhood, and she returned his love. They would have been very happy but for Nellie's father. The old man would have her look higher than a blacksmith. So when Richard Ross?young, handsome and rich?came to the cottage, the old man smiled and encouraged him. This Richard Ross was not worthy of Nellie. For all his riches, his heart was merest dross beside the pure gold of Joe's. When he passed the shop the sturdy smith brought his hammer down like an angry giant; for, you see, this Richard Ross was stealing his lift? away. "Yes, stealing his life away. Joe's ruddy face grew pale ; if the torture continued long, death would be the end. You may judge from this how much he loved her. Still he went to see her. If he found Richard Ross there, he left hastily, and, rushing back to the forge, worked like mad till midnight. "One evening, Nellie's father shut the door in his face, with a "I don't want you coming here any more!" Joe knew how obedient the girl was, and the words struck him like a sword. The next day he received a note, so sad, from little Nellie. It said she loved him still, but he must not come again. Her father said so. He commanded her to listen to Richard Ross ; she had never disobeyed her father; she could not do so now. "Rut I will plead and pray, dear Joe. and you must hope.*' Rut Joe did not hope. He gave her up. He felt angry with her, for her obedience to her father. Time went on, and the blacksmith grew paler yet. He grew morose, too, and unlike himself; and the village loungers no longer loved to gather at his forge. The name of Richard Ross maddened him. Once he caught one by the throat for saying that Richard and Nellie were to lie married soon. One day the idiot of the village, "Crazy Sam," stood watching Joe. The lad had something on his weak mind, and nodded and shook his head in glee: then drew from ! his locket two silver pieces and gazed on them with swelling pride. Finally he asked: i "Why don't you cry, Joe Mann ? why don't s you cry ?" The blacksmith glowered on him from under I a frowning brow. "I'd cry if I was you, Joe," said the idiot; "I'd cry if Richard Ross stole my gal." i With a sound that was half a roar of rage, half a groan of pain, Joe sprung upon him, and in an instant had borne him to the door, and set his knee upon the idiot's breast. In another moment he might have killed the boy, but that the idiot's helplessness and terror made him pause and recalled him to himself. A thought struck him. "Who told you to say that V" he demanded. "Richard Ross. He gave me money to say it." "The low hound !" shrieked Joe. "Heaven have mercy on his soul!" lie released Crazy Sam, and went about his work again quite calmly; but the pallor of his fane was awful to see. When evening drew ou he picked up a long, rusty knife blade, and fitted it in a stout handle. Then he stepped to his grindstone, and sharpened and ground the rusty blade. Ah 1 but Joe was clfcnged ! There was despair and murder in his noble heart. The night fell; and he stood, knife in hand, silently waiting. "Richard Ross leaves her home at ten," he muttered, "and goes through the lonely road through the wood." When it came nine he could wait no longer, but sped away to his ambush. Behind two trees, growing close together, which completely hid him, he crouched and listened. He had an hour to wait. The silence was awful. No bird sung among the trees, and the leaves hung lifeless, stirred by no breath of wind. Joe pressed his hand to his forehead and found it burning hot. He began to be afraid, he knevf not of what, perhaps of his own soul He felt his murderous purpose weakening. He rose and walked about the wood and thought upon his wrongs. This gave him new resolve, and he returned to his hiding place, and crouched again. But again his terror was renewed, and the hand which hekl the knife trembled. The village clock struck ten, and at every stroke he shuddered. lie heard footsteps on the road. Nearer, nearer, came.the man for whom he waited. For a moment Joe's mind seemed gone. Before his eyes he saw a great sea of blood. From him fell great drops of cold sweat. Nearer the footsteps came. Ilis brain cleared and he could dimly see the young man a few feet from him. He gazed through the trees to the sky, and saw a single star looking down upon him like the eye of God. With a shriek of fear he flung the knife from him and fled? from murder. It was over, and blood was not upon his soul. All that night he lay like one dead on the floor of his little shop. The morning sun, flm /Ino+xr MMnrlnw iUlUUlg lis V\ IllllUU^U LJ1& uuouj ,?nj uw?, fell upon liini there. Miserable as the man was, it saw no better sight tl^n this crushed soul saved from crime. But some one brighter than the sunlight entered at the door. It was Nellie. She saw him there upon the floor and her blue eyes filled with tears. She bent over him and touched him gently. "Joe ! dear Joe !" she called. He sprang to his feet, gazed on her coldly, and would have fled, but she restrained him. "Joe," she said, "I have hoped?I have pleaded?I have prayed?I have won. Take me in your arms." Not yet did lie understand her, and she added: "Father has learned to pity you and me, .Toe. and says we may fee husband and wife. Richard Ross has gone forever." So Joe took her in his arms, all is repentance, and joy burst forth in a flood of tears. Utilizing Rough Ground.?On many farms there are portions of land that cannot be plowed without great difficulty on account of ravines or stones. They may be seeded to grass and used for pasturage, but it is hard to cut the grass that grows on them. This broken land may generally be utilized to excellent advantage by planting it to crops that require considerable room. Grapes do well on rocky and broken land, if sufficient pains be taken to prepare the places where the vines are to stand. Quite a large hole should be excavated and partially filled with manure and loose earth. A rocky soil is ordinarily warm and well drained by the spaces between the stones. Many of the best vineyards in Europe are located on lan 1 so broken and rocky ; that it cannot be made to produce paying crops of grain, grass or potatoes. Tomatoes can also be profitably raised on broken land. The vines require considerable space in which to spread the branches. There is some trouble in preparing the hill, but the warm location and good drainage will generally insure large crops that ripen early in the season. Pumpkins, melons and squashes may be planted on , broken and rocky land to most excellent advantage. As the hills should be about ten feet apart, but little difficulty will be found in making them. Excavations can be made with spade or pick if necessary, and nearly ; filled with suitable manure and fine earth. The large space between the hills will require little attention except to remove the weeds which will not be very troublesome in a poor ; soil. If a farmer has a large tract of broken | and rocky land he can scarcely do better than , ! tn nliinf if to forpst. trpps. co'vincr a nreference , I to those that will produce' nuts. ? |; Tiiey Were All Poor Boys.?An exj change culls the following historical facts, ? | which should encourage every young man j struggling under discouragement and pov- i | erty : I John Adams, second President, was the | son of a farmer of very moderate means. The i j only start he had was a good education. Andrew Jackson was horn in a log hut in i one of the Carolinas, and until a grown young ! man, supported his mother's family by work! ing on a farm. James K. Polk spent the earlier years of ! his life helping to dig a living out of a new | farm in North Carolina.,. He was afterwards j a clerk in a country store. Millard Filmore was the son of a New York | farmer, and his house was a very humble one. I lie learned the business of clothier. James Buchanan was born in a small town i among the Alleghany Mountains. Ilis father j cut the logs and built his own house in what i j was then a wilderness. Abraham Lincoln was the son of a poor i Kentucky farmer, and lived in a log cabin unj til he was twenty-one years of age. Andrew Jolmson was apprenticed to a tail- ; I or at the age of ten years by his widowed mother. He was never able to attend school, ' and picked up all the education he ever got. James A. Garfield was born in a log cabin, j He worked on the farm from the time he was strong enough to use carpenter tools, when | he learned the trade. He afterwards worked on the canal. Origin ok Lifk Insurance.?The rise of ! life insurance may be traced to several sources. : The doctrine of probabilities developed by Pascal Huggens, as a game of chance, was \ ! applied to life contingencies by the great Dutch Statesman, Jan DeWitt, in 1671, but j it was not until some time after that it was I applied to life insurance. In 1698 there was i ' a hint of modern life insurance in a London 1 organization, and this was followed by another ( association two years later. The operations of ; ! these two seem to have passed away without j giving to their successors any clear nature of J i the plan of operations. A third, the Amicable I Society for a Perpetual Assurance Oflice, was 1 founded at London in 1706. It was mutual; i j that is, each member, without reference to I ; age, paid a fixed admission fee, and a fixed annual payment per share on from one to three i | shares; at the end of the year a portion of the j fund was divided among the heirs of the dej ceased members in proportion to the shares ; held by each. There grew up with this the 1 election of members, in after years, then the j limitations as to age, occupation, health, and < ! other suggestions which were finally developed ! : bv other organizations upon scientific princi- i ' pies. ! lUiscdliitteous gUaiitttg. STOKY OF THE ALAMO. HOW BOWIE, CROCKETT AND TRAVIS ME1 THEIR DEATHS. This sketch is an account of the burning oi the bodies of the heroes of the Alamo, aftei the storming of that fortress by the forces oi Santa Anna, on the 6th of March, 1836, and includes the murder of Col. James Bowie. The facts were i elated to me by the Mexican lifer, Fermine Cassiano, who was then but a small boy, who was an eye-witness of the c*/tAnn Tin -Jo lmniirn 1 n ^Pnv<i a nnur htr Mm OV/CUCi HO IO AUUUIi Jil 1CAUO 11UTY IJ J tilC name of "The Masher.'1 I knew him during several years, and feel that I can vouch for him as a truthful Greaser, if such can be found. After the fort (the celebrated church of the Alamo at San Antonio) had been stormed and all its defenders'had been reported to have been slain, and when the Mexican assailants had been recalled from within the walls, Santa Anna, accompanied by his staff, entered the fortress.. Cassiano, being a fifer, and therefore a privileged person, and possibly the more so on account of his tender age, by permission entered with them. lie desired to see all that was to be seen, and for tliis purpose he kept himself near to his general-in-cbief. Santa Anna had ordered that no corpses should be disturbed till after he should have looked upon them all, and seen how every man had fallen. He had employed the following citizens of San Antonio, who are, in most part, living in advanced ages, Josefa C. Fortere, E. 0. Stevenso, Jack Harrisio, "Pablo," and other persons, to enter with him, and point out to him the bodies of several distinguished Texans. The principal'corpses that Santa Anna desired to see were those of Col. W. Barrett Travis, Col. James Bowie, and another man, whose name Cassiano could not remember. I asked him if the other man's name was Crockett, to which he rep'ied, "Maybe so ; I can't remember." On entering the fort, the eyes of the conquerors were greeted by a scene which my informant could not well describe. The bodies of the Texans lay as they had fallen, and many of them were covered by those of Mexicans who had fallen upon them. The close of the struggle seemed to have been a hand-to-liaud engagement, and the number of slain Mexicans exceeded that of the Texans. The ground was covered with the bodies of the slain. Santa Anna and suite wandered from one apartment of the fortress to another, stepping over and upon liie uk?u, uuu sei-uungij* eujujoiifj imo scene of human butchery. After a general reconnoitering of the premises, the dictator was conducted to the body of Colonel Travis. After viewing his form and features for a few moments, Santa Anna thrust his sword through the dead man's body and turned away. He was then conducted to the body of the man, whose name Cassiano could not remember. This man lay with his face upwards and his body was covered by those of many Mexicans who had fallen upon him. His face was florid, like that of a living man, and he looked like a healthy man asleep. Santa Anna also viewed him for a few moments, thrust his sword through him and turned away. Then a detail of Mexican soldiers came into the fort. They were commanded by two officers, a captain and a junior officer, whoso title Cassiano could not explain to me, but whom I shall for convenience call the lieutenant. They were both quite young men, very fair, very handsome, and so nearly alike in complexion, form, size and features that they were supposed to be brothers, the captain being apparently a little older than the other. Cassiano did not remember to have ever seen them before, was confident that he never saw them afterwards, and lie did not learn their names. After the entry of the detail, Santa Anna and his suite retired ; but the two officers, with their detail, remained within. The two kept themselves close together. My informant was desirous to know what was to be done and remained with the detail ; and, to enable him to see all that was to be seen, he kept himself near the two officers, never losing sight of them. As soon as the dictator and suite had retired, the detail began to take up the Texans to bring them together, and lay them in a pile. I had learned from other prisoners that the Mexicans at the same time performed the additional work of rifling the pockets of the slain Texans. The two officers took a stand about the centre of the main area. The first corpse was brought and laid as the captain directed. This fAi'tnod a nciiplpim fr?r tllP nilp TllP hlldifiS were brought successively, each by four men, and dropped near the captain's feet. In imitation of his general, the captain viewed the body of each Texan for a few moments, then thrust his sword through him, and then, by a motion of his sword, directed the four riien who had brought him, to throw him upon the pile, which pantomime was instantly obeyed. When the Texans had all been thrown upon the pile, four soldiers walked around it, each carrying a can of camphene, from which he spurted the liquid ui>on the pile. This process was continued until the bodies were thoroughly wetted. Then a match was thrown upon the pile, and the combustible fluid instantly sent up a flame to an immense height. While the fluid was being thrown upon the pile, four soldiers brought a cot, on which lay a sick man, and set it down by the captain, and one of them remarked: "Here, captain, is a man who is not dead." Why is he not dead V" said the captain. "We found him in a room by himself," said the soldier. "He seems to be very sick, and I suppose he was not able to fight, and was placed there by his companions, to be in a safe place, and out of the way." The captain gave the sick man a searching look and said: "I think I have seen the man before." The lieutenant replied, "I think I have, too," and, stooping down, he examined his features closely. Then raising himself up, he addressed the captain. "He is no other than the infamous Bowie !" The captain then also stooped, gazed intently on the sick man's face, assumed an erect position, and confirmed the conviction of the lieutenant. The captain then looked fiercely upon the sick man and said : "How is it, Bowie, that you have been found hidden in a room by yourself, and have not died fighting, like your comrades ?" To which Bowie replied, in good Uastilian : "I should surely have done so, but you see I am sick, and cannot get off my cot." Said the captain, "You have come to a fearful end?and well do you deserve it. As an immigrant to Mexico you have taken an oath before God to support the Mexican government; but now you are violating that oath by fighting the government which you have sworn to support. But this perjury, common to all your countrymen, is not your only offense. You have married a respectable Mexican lady, and are lighting against her countrymen. Thus you have not only perjured yourself, but you have also betrayM your own family." "I did," said Bow.j, "take an oath to support the laws of Mexico, and in defense of those laws am I now fighting. You took the And. ifiioti mm nppotifpil vnnrflnmmissinn in the army ; you are now violating that oath, and betraying the trust of your countrymen, by fighting under a faithless tyrant for the destruction of those laws and for the ruin of your people's liberties. The perjury and treachery are not mine but yours." The captain indignantly ordered Bowie to shut his mouth. "1 shall never shut my mouth for your like," said Bowie, "while I have a tongue to speak." "I will soon relieve you of that," said the officer. Then he caused four of his soldiers to hold the sick man, while the fifth, with a sharp knife, split his mouth 011 each side, to the ramus of the jaw, then took hold of his tongue, drew as much of it as he could between his teeth, out of his mouth, cut it off and threw it upon a pile of dead men. Then in obedience to a motion of the officer's sword, the four soldiers who held him, lifted the writhing body of the mutilated, bleeding, tortured invalid from his cot and pitched him alive upon the funeral pile. At that moment the match was thrown upon the pile. The combustible fluid instantly sent up a flame to an amazing height. The sudden generation of a great heat drove all the soldiers back to the wall. The two officers. pale as corpses, stood gazing at the immense column of fire, and trembling from head tc foot, as if they would break asunder at ever) joint. Tne lieutenant said in a faltering and broken articulation : "It takes him?up?tc God." It is believed that the officer alluded to the ascension, upon the wings of that flame, of Bowie's soul to that God, who would surelj ' award due vengeance to his fiendish murder: ers. 1 Not being able to fully comprehend the great combustibility of the camphene, it is al1 so believed that the sudden elevation of that 1 great pillar of fire was an indication of God's hot displeasure toward those torturing murderers. It is further believed that the two officers were of the same opinion, and this accounted for their great agitation. And the narrator thought that the same idea pervaded the whole detail, as every man appeared to be greatly frightened. "Fni- ? time t.hn mnivlprprs stnnrl amiiTPd expecting every moment that the earth would open a chasm through which every man in the fort, would drop into perdition. Terrified by this conviction, they left the fort as speedily as possible. On a subsequent day, Cassiano entered the fort again. It was then cleansed, and it seemed to be a comfortable place. But in a conspicuous place, in the main area, he saw the one relic of the great victory?a pile of charred fragments of human bones.?Texas Paper. THE CIRCUS. It was not until 1832 that a tent was used. The first tent was an "80-foot round top," and was erected at ?point where the Bowery and Grand street intersect which was then way out of the city. In this tent seats were supplied, and the event marked an epoch in the circus business. The managers were not long in discovering that a man should be sent ahead to announce their approach. The agents, however, kept only a day or so in advance, and they were expected to talk people into a frenzy of excitement over the proposed treat. Later, where practicable, brief notices were put in the newspapers; but in those times papers were few and far between, and were seldom printed oftener than once a week. It was not until a long while afterwards that bills were used. Shows always halted outside of a town to prepare for a gorgeous entrance. Vaulting and similar feats continued to be the main features for years. A man named Levi Vnrth nspfl to turn 100 somersaults in succes sion, and his fame spread from one end of the land to the other. Jumping from a spring board and tossing a cannon-ball drew plaudits from the spectators. The shows of these early days lasted about an hour and a half. When, finally, an elephant became part of a show, people young and old, would follow it for miles. It was such a great prize that it was kept closely blanketed to hide from unprofitable eyes. If a fat boy happened to be with a circus he, too, was kept out of sight. Next to an elephant a fat boy was the biggest attraction. At last when evening performances were substituted, the tents were lighted with flambeaux, which flickered and smudged and emitted a great deal more smoke than light. In the course of time domestic animals, such as foxes, rabbits and coons, were put in cages and exhibited. About 1840, John Robinson, the great four horse rider startled the country by his miraculous feats upon the bare back of a horse. In the same year Van Amburg took his circus to England, and made a large amount of money. In 1850, or thereabouts, the price of admission was put up to 50 cents, and "reserved seats," which were simply common seats with a piece of carpet spread over them, were offered. Setli Ilowe went to London with his circus in 1856, and took the British people by storm. His avertising bills, though they would now be considered common, were regarded as wonderful. They were printed in colors, and where posted drew vast crowds. People would stand half the day and look at them. They wondered how such great sheets could be printed, and did not seem to understand that they could be struck off in sections and be put together afterward. They thought they must be run off on a colossal printingpress. The streets were actually blocked by people viewing them, and the authorities were obliged to order them down. Tiie Weeping Willow.?There is no doubt now about its being a native of China and Japan. Representations of it are frequent on all Chinese porcelain. The form under culture is a female one, and they have all been propagated from one individual tree. It is somewhat different from the male form. In if in Lrnnrrn do ''Vaniiri " !1S T lPillTIPfl *JCi?Jc*U 11/ 10 am/ H u 1*VJ x ww ? from the Japanese commissioner during the centennial, and not "Angaki," as stated by Thunberg. llow did it first get to Europe ? Caspar Bauhin, who wrote a book about plants, in 1071, refers to it as "Salix Arabica, with leaves like a chenopodium," and gives Ranwolf as the one who made him acquainted with it. The Dutch were for a long time the only Europeans allowed to trade with China. It is highly probable that the Dutch brought it to Europe, and, with the intimate relations with Holland which sprang up with the advent of the Prince of Orange to England, the weeping willow made its way to the royal palace at Hampton court. At any rate, this was the first willow known in Europe, and nothing is yet positivly known as to how that plant came there. The name Babylonian willow is a poetical fiction, and came from a mistranslation of the Bible version. The willow is wholly a native of arctic or temperate climates. There were never any willows in Babylon of any kind, and harps could not be hung on them. The nearest ally to the willow there is a poplar?but it is extremely improbable that harps were hung on even these. Those the most familiar with the flora of ancient Babylon seem to have settled down to this, that our common oleander, of which they used large quantities in their gardens, was this tree of the Babylonians on which their harps were hung. But those who know of the deadly poisonous juices of this plant will be slow to believe that there was much handling indulged in, either by hanging harps 011 the branches or otherwise. If we take the phrase as a figurative or poetical one, expressive of sorrow that was involved by continued captivity, and the oleander as expressive of joy and happiness, we may find some ray of explanation. At any rate, the translation "willow" is an unfortunate one, as it leads to much misconception of the surroundings of the Jew in those ancient times?Philadelphia Ledger. A Turk as a Bachelor.?If he be a bachelor, Church and State combine to make life miserable for him. He must live with his parents, and, while they still.exist, the authorities content themselves with a general reprehension of his celibacy. But when they die, if they leave him homeless, his troubles begin. It is forbidden any householder to take any young man into his dwelling without permission of the civil and religious magistrate of the quarter. Before this is granted the lodger must undergo a severe inquiry, which takes into account not his personal reputation only, but that of all his kindred. The landlord, moreover, must display his ability to have this young stranger waited on without offense to morals?that is, without employing his female servants or the female members of his family. If the bachelor be rich enough to occupy a house, or to rent "unfurnished chambers," he cannot possibly obtain that simple privilege unless he show that a woman of good repute lives with him therein. Those who can produce a blameless mother or a sister have no difficulty, when the identification has been thoroughly established ; even an elderly aunt is admissible. But if a young man have no kindred he may go homeless for an indefinite time. The aboliton of the slave trade is a grievance he warmly feels. *In days ere this edict was passed, one could go into the market and buy a female creature, white or black, ugly or beautiful, according to one's means, and thus fulfill the law. Times have changed. It may probably be the fact that slaves are still to be purchased by those who have cash enough. Many Turks have assured me it is so, though I have met with none who spoke, j or admitted that he spoke, from experience. But the cost is very high ; the merchant would : not deal with a young bachelor likely to be thus circumstanced, and the transaction would I surely be discovered.?AU ihr Year linnnil. i | FREAKS OF. JURIES. ' Shiel, in his inimitable sketches of the | Irish bar, tells of a verdict of a Clare jury, , in a case of "felonious gallantry." They acquitted the prisoner of the capital charge, but s found him guilty of "a great undacency." R. J Shelton Mackenzie, in his notes to Shiel's text, says: "This is nothing to the verdict of a Welsh jury: "Not guilty?but we recoin( mend him not to do it again." Mackenzie . . also/ related that an English jury, not very ; bright, having a prisoner before them charg1 ed with burglary, and being unwilling to con" vict him capitally, gave the safe verdict: | "Guilty of getting out of the window." He i adds that the most original was that of an [ Irish jury before whom a prisoner pleaded i guilty, throwing himself on the mercy of the court. The verdict was : "Not guilty," The > Judge, in surprise exclaimed: "Why, he has ; confessed his crime!" The foreman responded: ; "Ah, my Lord, you don't know that fellow, but we do. He is the most notorious liar in il- 1.~l~ man mk/. tnc uuwic tuuiiiij', anu. nu bncivc uicii wjiu know liis character can believe a word he 1 .says," and as the jurors adhered to their verdict the "liar" escaped. J W. Edmonds reported to the Albany Law ' Journal of June 19,1870, a murder trial, which took place in New York City, and in which lie appeared for the accused some thirty years before by appointment of the court. The defendant was a young woman who, leaving poor parents in New Jersey, went to New York City, and obtained a place as waiter in a restaurant. She met and married a young butcher boy, but kept at work until her pregnancy compelled her to desist, when she went to her parental home to be confined. When she returned to her husband's lodgings in New York City, she found them vacant and her own effects packed off. It was a case of heartless desertion. She discovered bim at a slaughter house talking with a woman, who wore at the moment, what she recognized as her, the defendant's, best dress, which she had bought with her own earnings before marriage. He refused to talk with her. The next morning he was seen to take a proffered cake from the hands of the young woman, divide it with some companions, and in a few hours was dead, his companions being taken very sick, but surviving. The police, investigating the matter found he had three wives, or rather three women who supposed themselves his wives. All three were arrested, but two were speedily released, as our heroine admitted that she had done the business. The case of the defense was weak, but after only a few minutes, absence the jury returned with a verdict of not guilty. The prisoner's counsel asked one of the jurors on what ground she had been acquitted. "It served him right," was the answer. The Inventor of the Wheeluarrow.? It takes a great man to do a little thing sometimes. Who do you think invented that very simple thing called a wheelbarrow ? Why, no less a man than Leonardo da Vinci. And who was he ? He was a musician, poet, painter, architect, sculptor, physiologist, engineer, natural historian, botanist and inventor, all in one. He wasn't, a "jack at all trades and master of none," either. He was a real master of many arts, and a practical worker, besides. When did he live ? Somewhere about the time that Columbus discovered America. And where w;is he bom ? In the beautiful city of Florence, in Italy. Perhaps some of you may feel a little better acquainted with him when l ten you that it was Leonardo da Vinci who painted one of the grandest pictures in the world?"The Last Supper,"?a picture that has been copied many times and engraved in several styles, so that almost every one has an idea of the arrangement and position at the table of the figures of our Lord and his disciples; though . I am told that without seeing the painting itself no one can form a notion of how grand and beautiful it is. And only think of the thousands of poor, hard working Americans who really own, in their wheelbarrow, an original "work" of Leonardo da Vinci! Tiie Sand Blast ?Among the wonderful and useful inventions of the time is the sand blast. Suppose you desire a piece of marble for a gravestone ; you cover the stone with a sheet of wax no thicker than a wafer ; then you cut in the wax the name, date, etc., leaving the marble exposed. Now pass it under the blast and the sand will cut it away. Remove the wax and you have the cut letters. Take a piece of tine French plate glass, say two by six feet, cover it with a piece of tine lace and pass it under the blast, and not a thread of the lace will be injured, but the sand will cut deep into the glass wherever it is not covered by the lace. Now remove the lace and you have a delicate and beautiful figure raised out of the glass. In this way beautiful figures of all kinds are cut in glass, and at a small expense. The workmen can hold their hands under the blast without harm, even when it is rapidly cutting away the hardest glass, iron or stone, but they must look out for finger nails, for they will be whittled off quite hastily. If they put on a steel thimble to protect the nails it will do but little good, for the sand will soon whittle them away, but if they wrap a piece of soft cotton around them they are safe. You will at once see the philosophy of it. The sand whittles and destroys any hard substance, even glass, but does not affect substances that are soft and yielding, like wax, cottou, fine lace, or even the human hand. How Milton Came to "Write "Paradise Regained."?It was at the time of the great plague that the poet of "Paradise Lost" took up his abode at Chalfout, and it was through the instrumentality of a common friend of his and William Penn's that this retreat was se lected. Thomas Ellwood, the Quaker had made Milton's acquaintance in London some years before, when hunted out of house and home by the Bucks Justices, and read Latin to him in his lodging in Jewin street. When the plague grew fierce in the city, the blind poet bethought him of his one-time Secretary, and asked him to find him some retreat in his neighborhood. Ellwood took this "pretty box" for him ; and it was here that he suggested to him the idea of "Paradise Regained." Milton had handed him the manuscript of "Paradise Lost" to pass his judgment on. "I"pleasantly said to him," Ellwood relates in his Life, "'Thou hast said much here of paradise lost, but what hast thou to say of paradise regained?" He made me no answer, but sat some time in muse; then he broke off that discourse and fell upon another subject. After the sickness was over and the city well cleansed, lie turned thither ; and, when afterward I went to wait on him there, he showed me his second poem, called "Paradise Regained," and in a pleasant tone said to me, "This is owing to you, for you put it into my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which before I had not thought of." Sweet Minded Women.?So great is the influence of a sweet minded woman on those around her, that it is almost boundless. It is to her that friends come in seasons of sorrow and sickness for help and comfort ; one soothing touch of her kindly hand works wonders in the feverish child ; a few words let fall from her lips in the ear of a sorrowing sister does much to raise the load of grief that is I towing its victim down to the dust in anguish. The husband comes home, worn out with the pressure of business, and feeling irritable with the world in general: but when lie enters the cosy sitting room, and sees the blaze of the bright tire, and meets his wife's smiling face, he succumbs iri a moment to the soothing influences which act as the balm of Gilead to his wounded spirits, that are wearied with combating with the stern realities of life. The rough school boy Hies in a rage from the taur.ts of his companions to find solace in his mother's smile; the little one, full of grief with its own large trouble, finds a haven of rest on its mother's breast ; and so one might go on with instance after instance of the influence that a sweet minded woman has in the social life with which she is connected. Beauty is an innificant ]x>wer when compared with hers. r