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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | ^it Jnitqwitbcrf Jamilo ftcfospaptr: Jfor % |)rffi]totioit of tjic |)o!itical, Social, ^griraltoral anit Commercial Interests of tjjt Sontji. TERMS?12.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 28. ' YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, MAY 18, 1882. . 20. fleeted factrw. THE SHADOWED CROSS. Iti wedded love our lives had twined. One year?one careless, golden year? And then he died, my darling died; And, for the joy that harbored there, My heart was tilled with dark despair. I traced the haunts he loved the best In dear, lost days?alas, so brief! And Mem'ry's breathings, once so sweet, But fanned the furnace of my grief; They brought no tears to my relief. At early dawn I sought his grave, 'Mid quaiut carved stones, overgrow n with moss And lo ! upon the hallowed moundIn seeming emblem of my lossThere fell the shadow of a Cross. And kneeling there in tearless woe, Methonght I heard my darling say : "Oh, love ! thy grief a shadow is, Which as a dream shall pass away. Where shadows melt in cloudless day!" Then found my anguish vent in tears, strange tears of heav'n born peace, that shed A ?/\ll mrt, 1 m OAll] O Wnlr Aalltl * And when I rose thus comforted, The shadow from the grave had fled. THE MAY FLOWERS. Oft have I walked these woodland paths Without the blest foreknowing, That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing. - To-day the sweet wind sweeps away The faded autumn splendor, And shows the sweet arbutus flowers ? Spring's children, pure and tender. O Prophet souls, with lips of bloom ! Outvieing in their beauty The pearly tints of ocean shells, Ye teach me faith and duty. "Walk life's dark way," ye seem to say, "With love's divine foreknowing That where man sees but withered leaves God sees the sweet flowers growing." JU ?rigtual -Itorg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. DEATH IN THE GUP, BY J. WITHERSPOON ERVIN. I was a very young lawyer at the time, having been admitted to practice but a year pre?! '1 T .../%? Awnn4-1ir onmrieo/1 TL'Hon T VIOUSIV, (illU J. VJICUHJ oui^'iiovu iiuvu A opened the note brought me by the jailer's son, and found it was from Mrs. Ada Laroche, and dated from the prison to which she had been committed, a day or two before, on a most terrible charge?that of poisoning her husband, to whom she had been married but little more than a year. I was the youngest practitioner of law in the county, and I was more than surprised at her intimation in her note that she desired to employ me to defend her ; for her case was regarded as a desi>erate one, and there were old and able lawyers at hand who had more skill and learning than I ; and, to tell the plain truth, I thought this was a case, the management of which, required the most consummate skill and shrewdness to make even a decent and respectable defence. I felt overwhelmed and sick at heart in view of the responsibility that I was called upon to assume. I never before felt so unequal to the task of doing j ustice to the cause of a client. I thought it would be weak and unmanly, as unprofessional, to decline the case : and although 1 expected it to bring me in a handsome fee, I would much have preferred that it had fallen into the hands of some older member of the profession, who was competent to make a more lawyer-like and decent appearance in the case than I felt able to do ; for all the facts of the case, so far as they had been ascertained, came in rapid review through my mind, and I saw nothing at which I could catoh to reflect even a doubt upon the guilt of the accused. Did I then believe Mrs. Laroche ? That was quite another question which I had not answered even to myself. Sending a verbal reply by the messenger to lpt her know I would soon see her in person, I j ? hi. began to prepare myseu iur uie uiicnicn uj recalling to mind all the facts in the history of Mrs. Laroche, so far as I was acquainted with them, to see if I could extract from them anything that might weigh on either side of the case. She was the only daughter of a poor, wandering old teacher who earned a meagre and precarious support by giving lessons from house to house wherever his services might l>e required; and yet Cecil Laroche, a young and wealthy planter, and the representative of a family tracing their descent from a long line of French nobles, had overstepped all the traditional customs of his aristocratic family and ventured to marry her. It produced at the time quite a sensation in the community in which Laroche lived ; not, indeed, a noisy and vulgar excitement, for the creme de la creme of which he was a part, was too refined and punctilious for such a display of feeling. It was, however, quite a shock to the aristocratic circle to which lie belonged, that any of their number should have contracted such a ruessalliance, and his conduct was to be rebuked by their altogether ignoring the young bride who had been brought in among them like a sweet, modest violet gathered from some sequestered nook, altogether outside of their aristocratic pale. They were as far removed from all social connection and sympathy with her, as though she were the daughter of a Fiji Islander whose highest attainment was the making of uncouth music upon the tomtom. There was no consultation among them, or comparing of notes about her case. The marriage was in violation of the law written ui>on the daily life and habits of the aristocratic community, and the penalty was a ioregone conclusion. The young bride was tacitly condemned to the most rigid social ostracism?a judgment all the more indexible, in that its tendency was to prevent the recurrence of a similar offence on the part of any of their circle who might be tempted to an alliance outside of their narrow social pale by the seductions of rare beauty and worth, which are more often, perhaps, found blooming and nourishing outside of exclusive circles than within them. And so the grand house of Magnolia Grove remained unvisited, even when the presence of the young bride there?a stranger among strangers?might have eloquently pleaded for the social crumbs that fell from the over loaded tables of the rich. Ada Bonneville, was a flower well worth the gathering. She was a rare beauty, such as one does not often meet with, either among fashionable exclusives, or the common herd of mortals, upon whom they look with proud disdain. Her Bohemian experience of life had shown her much of the world, and she had profited bv it, as the t>ee by his wild, gypsy me among the flowers. From the contact her nature had gathered all that was worthy, and instinctively rejected all besides. In truth she was kept from the evil of the world, so far as the love and care of Jacob Bonneville could protect Iter. True, he was a helpless and unthrifty man, with only his violin and his musical talents to depeml on for his hread. instead of a balance at his banker's; but poor and helpless as he was, old Jacob was a kind and considerate, and even a wise father, and few of us could have done Itetter if deprived of our money bags and turned adrift in the world, without a God-speed, to work or to j starve. He had not always been a wanderer, dependent on the chances of life. He had? : j though he never spoke of it to any one save j Ada?been brought down from affluence to : poverty, and notwithstanding he was a wan: derer now, and knew he was a wanderer, and j a very poor and helpless one at that, yet he j never thought of Ada as one who could, by any i possibility, share the humiliation of his re.duced condition. He had come down, step by step, in the social scale, until he was at the very bottom of the ladder; yet he never felt that Ada had made the descent with him. He I looked up to her as one who had kept, and would continue to keep, her first position in life, whatever might become of an old and broken wanderer like himself. He thought she j was as worthy of celestial care as Elijah the J old Prophet, and somehow had it in 11 is minu that, when there were no more pupils to teach and nothing in his scanty purse to buy a new pair of shoes or a loaf of bread, the ravens or the angels would be sent to supply those and all other things to Ada. His humility and self abnegation were touching. He felt like a guilty man in Ada's presence when the world used him badly and his poverty and ill-success made it impossible to anticipate her wants and gratify her tastes. He felt as guilty as 1 hough he had committed murder or been guilty of some great dereliction of duty when Ada came to him for a new lionnet or to replace some shawl that had gone out of fashion, and he had 110 money to grati- ; fy her wishes. Oh what self reproaches he heaped upon himself for being a poor man and unable to supply the wants of his daughter that he knew were all reasonable enough. This trait in old Jacob's character was the se- ( a cret of his want of success in life. Had he , been a hard, selfish, grasping man, always 1 thinking of self and endeavoring to make all , the world, Ada included, subservient to his ease and comfort, instead of toiling for the 1 benefit of others, I am very sure the poor old ? man would have had a balance to his credit at ( his banker's, even if he had not laid up one 1 shred of treasure "where there are 110 moths to ] corrupt and 110 thieves to break through and < steal." * Selfishness is the very salt of success. 1 I don't say we should make it our staple food, but the man who seasons all his actions with , it, is pretty sure to be clothed in fine linen, ( and to fare more sumptuously every day than ( did poor old Jacob, who had not enough of | that kind of condiment about him to keep his fortunes from utterly sailing. j And I am afraid that although Ada was so , sweet tempered and so devoted to her father, ^ she was sometimes unjust to him in her , thoughts, and resected him too little when j she contrasted him with the rich men who } rode in their carriages and lived so magnifi- ( cently. "Bread is not to the wise, nor riches ( to men of understanding." I am afraid that j Ada did not consider this sufficiently, and , that in her heart, she accused her poor, loving, j self-sacrificing father of a want of wisdom and ( understanding because of his poverty. , Old Jacob had once been quite rich. Years , ago the crash had come, and after his debts ^ were paid he found himself quite poor. When ( his fortunes were at their worst, he was like ? a carcass at which the dogs and vultures rush, ] eager to make the most of every shred and , bone. They had it all their own way and j tugged and pulled unt il there was not even , the skeleton or a fragment of his fortune left. He was very poor indeed, and it never occurred to him that the time would come, or 5 1 had actually come, when all this was to be reversed, and that Jacob now needed help. No one ever thinks of pouring water into a spring ^ that has supplied them when its sources have dried up; but we stand on its margin with j empty pitchers and doleful faces, wondering j if it will ever run a^ram, or whether we shall really have to look out elsewhere for some ^ other running fountain, or whether in sad truth, we shall have to take up pick and spade j and dig us a well. Let slime and weeds cover the old spring; it cannot supply us again! J Old Jacob hardly realized that his fortunes were like a dried up fountain that would never ^ be able to help any body else?mind you, he j thought of others first?or himself again ! For himself he found temporary resource in music and in his ability to teach it success- ( fully. It was to be only for a short time? until something better should turn up. But things never do turn up, when it becomes of si>eeial importance to us that they should turn' ^ up, and that quickly. If they turn at all they ' are sure to turn the wrong way. And it was so ' with poor Jacob Bonneville. Things kept turn- . ing up, and turning up, but it was always the wrong thing and turned the wrong way, until at j last Jacob and Ada were turned out of house* and home, ar.d sent adrift upon the world. * lie gave lessons in music upon the piano, flute, 1 and violin wherever pupils could be obtained. He shrank from his work in the early days as ' a humiliation, but one he must endure for the 1 sake of his daughter. Years had come and < gone, and he was still a wanderer, and a gray, J wrinkled, broken and homeless one. Nothing 1 had turned up in all these years but poverty, 1 and the humiliations that belong to it. But 1 Ada had grown up as beautiful as a dream. " j She, at least, had never been suffered to feel ] i the pressure of their narrow circumstances. 1 j The self sacrificing and uncomplaining spirit ' of old Jacob had even hidden from her the re- ] j volt ing features of the bitter poverty that 1 looked him in the face all the day long. She had at times a dim perception that her ' father's face had become careworn and hag- 1 gard, and she feared that the world was not as just and kind to lum as it should lie, and did not rate him at his proper worth; but I Jacob, when in her presence, tried to wear a I contented and cheerful face. If the iron was eating into his soul, what good, he asked himself, would come of her seeing the wound and j knowing his pain V It was kind and brave of i him to button his coat over it and talk like a I man on a bed of roses, when the thorns that pierced him were too many to be numbered ; but in practicing this deceit?brave, magnanimous old father!?he was thrusting away | from him the sympathy of his child, the sweetj est thing that can come to console and com-1 ; fort a parent when the storms of the world j have broken and bowed him, and he feels sore j and heavy within him that brokenness of heart r.iiie linnn liim whpii ho realizes that ; his race is run, and lie knows in his heart that! : there there is nothing left for him in the cup j ! of life, either of joy or gladnes, success or | rejKfse?nothing, nothing but the bitter dregsnothing but failure, and weariness and the ; grave. Old Jacob almost worshipped his daughter. When he compared her with his pupils, the daughters of the best families in the land, his i judgment, as well as his feelings of paternal j pride, told him that in beauty and true maidI enly refinement, there were but few who could 1 compare with her ; while in the advantages of solid education and a well informed mind, i she surpassed them all. lie himself had superi intended her education, and?alas for him !? I he was, that saddest of all things for a man j out at the elbows and with broken shoes?a ripe classical scholar, capable of enjoying all | that was elevated and refined, while fortune ' denied him the coarsest comforts of life. It was far down in one of the most exclu- , sive communities to be found in the South, i where wealth and family were everything, i that Jacob Bonneville, had drifted, rather than ' gone. Such men as he, with much intellect 1 and little will, are like the sea-weed on the 1 tide. The stolid oyster has his place in the | mud and on the rock, let the sea roar as it < may. Against the storm and the wave, the Leviathan moves in his strength; but the ] broken weed never rests, never battles with i the current, but is ever drifting, drifting, ] drifting, whither the winds and the waters i drive it. i It was a community of wealthy planters residing in easy reach of their overgrown 1 estates, around a little inland village com- t posed of traders and merchants and of those c who earned their bread in the sweat of their i faces, upon whom the haughty owners of the i soil looked down with disdain, as upon a race c far inferior to themselves. 1 The old village church?a place wnere men ( are supposed to meet on a level?was at least f one gathering point where these two classes s might have an opportunity of beholding each t other once a week and of looking into one an- s other's faces across the social gulf that separa- c ted them, here as elsewhere, and quite as 1 widely. It was an old church with a pic- 1 turesQue belfry, half enveloped in ivy, and had r an organ loft where a quaint organ, that 1 might have come down from Mediieval times gave out its grand, solemn tones on the Sab- t bath day ; and now, since Ada had been dom- }] iciled in the village, its deep tones were often i; heard on pleasant summer afternoons, render- p ing with exquisite skill and effect, the grand a chef (Vceuvres of the old masters. Here Ada \ and Cecil Laroclie first met. He was one of i, the wealthiest young planters of this aristo- r eratic community, and the rare beauty capti- u vated him at first sight. She was too young, h too proud and too true to her maidenly in- a itincts, to have made marriage a necessary s consideration ; but he was an admirer of her h sex, a man of polished and captivating man- t uers. and. without too closely scrutinizing his a character, the child of the wandering music t teacher consented to become his wife. a Was the old man, broken and ruined as he t was, overjoyed at this fine match ? Did he s isteem it a grand triumph for his homeless t laughter ? Some might think so, but the news I fell upon him like a blow. t Others might have accounted it a great good b fortune that the daughter of a poor old man c who had a hard struggle for his bread, was t to be wedded to a stylish and aristocratic n v'oung planter who had counted his wealth by b :ens of thousands ; but even though old Jacob a night, in a manner, have rejoiced at the turn S if the wheel of fortune so far as it affected his a laughter's lot in life, yet still, at the same time c t almost crushed the unregarded old man o whose fine instincts told him that his presence b n the home of his daughter, bringing to mind n ;lie humble lot from which she was taken, f; would be felt by its haughty master as a most I jnwelcome intrusion. Humbly he took his t: ilace at a distance from the bridal party in an o )bscure corner of the village church while the t< solemn ceremony was passing. It fell upon lis ear like a service for the dead. When it d was ended, he felt himself, for the first time p 11 his sad life, an utter outcast from all hu- \ nan sympathy. h Did she, standing at the altar, and, with a t lelicate and refined taste, wearing on her s lerson nothing but the plain and simple brilal outfit that had been provided for her out f< if the poverty of that desolate old man, feel c ;hat a rift had commenced breaking along the ilane of her life, separating all her past from s ;he fufure, and that the old father, who had r ivirn/l lmr rmipli mill silfillt.lv SJlfi.rifififtd SO v ",v" J ? J mich for her Rood, was al>out to vanish and 'all utterly from her daily life ? With a bright and happy face, but eyes y trimming with tears of reawakened tender- y :ess, she hastened to seek out the old man in e presence of them all, and cast her arms about 41 lis neck. She had begun to realize all his c struggles, and all his tenderness for her, and d ;he mingled feelings that were so busy in his n leart at this hour. "Now, father, give me your blessing and S ;ome with me at once to your new home? fours, father, as well as mine?where we will jj ;ry to make you so happy." h "The mercenary beggars!" was the thought d if more than one. 44Will they betray their c aaseness, and show, even here, their exultation h it the bargain they have made V" But the old man, striving to be cheerful and joyous, excused himself. He was the poorest p nan present, but his pride was purer and t loftier than them all. He would never give d them occasion to say that his daughter had s married to find him bread and a home. y They went their way?Ada to her grand h lome on Magnolia Hill, where troops of ser- n rants atttended her, and rich furniture and n comforting luxuries were on every side, but y [ am afraid that after all, there was as many f thorns in her new way as in the old, and t that she hungered quite as much; for, while C the tables of the neighbors around her were a overloaded, no social crumbs were allowed to o fall to her?poor sociallieggar lying at the gates c of Society, in its purple and fine linen and faring sumptuously every day. No good Samaritans passed along her way?only Righteous Phari- S sees, who passed her by. And Cecil Laroche: t lie was more of a social Pharisee, I fear, than r either he or she suspected. He passed by, s too?nearer than tiie others?but he never t turned his eyes to look at her wounds, or f poured oil into them, nor bound them up. I He did not, perhaps, know that in his tine a ?i l.i < ..!! *1,?1.fl.Joxroc ft IIKIIIMUU hilt: L'UUIU iau IIIiw uicuanuo ui uiu,iu., v. who made her far poorer than when she came t there, and dealt her many a wound that he never saw or thought of, so silent and uncom- i plaining was she when the arrows of careless t or hasty words were piercing her to the soul. \ Much less did she suspect that those that cut deepest and rankled most, were winged from 1 his own bow. | S And old Jacob's way ? Well, it was a lonely t one, too, and led him far away to the wilder- i ness on the borders of a silver lake, where he i. entered up a homestead and the rough handed ( but warm hearted settlers built him a com- s fortable cabin and he gathered around him a 1 numerous colony of robbers, of which we may s call him the captain ; and they went forth daily s to ride the bloom of the sourwood, the thyme, i the buckwheat and the clover. Jacob became t a great bee-keeper and sat down to a quiet-life amid the hum of bees and the bloom of his c young orchards. lie did not have to beg, 1 either, for social crumbs from the rich man's 1t table. Whole loaves, buttered too, with kind is words and neighborly deeds, fell to his share, j t Yet Jacob was sometimes ah lingered, too, ! 1 when he would have given all the notes scored j 1 by the grand old masters for the sound of that, tonus wpi'p imisir- In his soul. I ( UIIC WJU. n ?IV ? V?..v? ? ^ 1 , and that lie never heard now. But Jacob i wrote almost every day to Ada, though many ! j of his letters to her lay in his desk only as evi- j c deuces of his constant thought of her. The , 1 tone of the letters he sent by every weekly J mail was cheerful as though he had dated them t from a palace and all the beautiful country : around it was his own. Oh ! hypocritical old t Jacob Bonneville 1 How he hid all his cares and sorrows and privations under a bushel, < and paraded his blessings on the hill top! i He was not the man to sprinkle with his i tiysop, another man's veal pie. He would < keep the bitter herbs for his own dish, and < ?ive others butter and honey from the honey- , 3omb. You now know something about'Jacob and ?' iris daughter?what fashion of people they 1 wrere, and can imagine how I, the youngest < lawyer at that bar, felt as I took my way to < ;he jail to answer the summons for my professional services. i When I reached the jail I had not fully de- 1 ;ermined whether I should respectfully and J irmly decline the weighty responsibility of < ;onducting the defence in so critical and im- 1 >ortant a case, or whether I should at once f iccept it and go to work with all the energy i )f my nature in preparing to defend the help- 1 ess woman. Rumor had made out a strong :ase against her; and if, on the trial, the ? acts alleged could be substantiated, all the a lubtlety and force of argument I could bring I o bear could avail nothing. An appeal to the a lyrapathies of the jury might in any ordinary 1 :ase, be attempted with some hope of success; t >ut the crime of the prisoner is so cold, calcuating, atrocious and treacherous, that one uay appeal to the sympathies of the human * leart in vain. e The facts of this case, so far as rumor could * >e relied on, were simply these : Laroche .and ^ lis wife had sat down to breakfast alone at an ' inusually early hour, not even a servant being y resent. Laroche had risen from the table on 8 .ccount of the restiveness of the horses that ^ vere harnessed to the carriage and awaiting 1! dm in front of the porch. The driver in a v oment or two succeeded in bringing them inder control, when Laroche returned and 11 lastily drank a cup of coffee that was served a t his plate. Almost immediately he was v eized with violent pains, and exclaiming that v ie was poisoned, was taken so violently ill * hat a couple of physicians were summoned, f nd he w;is borne to his chamber by the assis- 11 ance of the servants, where he lay in great gony, delirious the greater portion of the 11 ime, and expiring shortly before sunset. The V ymptoms pointed clearly and unmistakably t: o poisoning by the administration of arsenic. 2 t was said that Mrs. Laroche, in her statement a o the physicians, admitted that during his 1 rief absence from the table she replaced the 2 up of coffee at his plate, with her own. I 3 bought this a very unfortunate admission, ^ ot precisely as showing a criminal purpose, ^ ut as calculated to excite suspicions of such u design, which no ingenuity could remove. " ? A'? ?? ??r. "'Ann nnn/tArllO/1 T TTTQ O llrtf 0 U lit! US UlUtlVCS VYCIC uun^ciucu, X Iiua 1IVI ware that any was known to exist which ould be attributed to her for the commission, f so flagrant a crime. That Laroche had een unfaithful to her, I knew was the com1011 report, but I was not aware that the net of his infidelity had ever reached her. t, f that could be shown it would at once es- ii ablish a sufficient motive for the commission b f the crime, and give a much darker coloring v 0 the whole affair. The poisoning had taken place on Wednes- p ay. Mrs. Laroche had been committed to c rison the following Friday, and the following n Vednesday was the day on which I received |j er note. Early the next week the trial must ake place. Thus it will be seen that but a 0 hort time was left me for preparing the case, t As I entered the jail I called to the jailer e or the key to her cell and stood awaiting his n oming at the foot of the stair-case. "Go on, sir, right up," cried out old Joe p itacy, putting his head out of his room on the 11 ear of the hall ; "first room to the right as h ou git up, second story." ^ "What! not locked up in a cell V" asked I. "Bless you, 110 ;" said old Joe, coming for- ^ rard without his coat, a big burly individual, e i'ith slippers on his feet, and a girth of waist s qual to that of a full grown hippopotamus. 3' 1 haven't the heart to turn the key on such a P ritter as her. If they want her put in the F ungeon and the door locked, they'll have to j lake somebody else jailer, for I'11 never do it." t "The charge against her is a very grave one, si fr. Stacy." 0 "Well I knows that, too," said the big, bluff liler, halting just in front of me with his ands 011 his hips. "If she'd been a rich mini's h aughter, there never would have been any p barge, and she wouldn't have been brought a ere." ^ "Everybody believes her guilty, I suppose." ^ "Xo, that they don't," said Joe Stacy, squar- J tig himself up before me like a man who in- 0 ends to maintain his opinion a Voutrance ; "I $ on'tforone. You mark it, Mr. Richards, v ri lie never gave Laroche that pison. Such a n roman as she wouldn't strike even a copper- p ead if it gave her a death-wound. She is too auch a lady to say an unhandsome thing, ^ auch less to do one. And here's all you law- 11 ers backing down and showing the white ^ eatlier, one after the other, when all the poor 0 hing wants is that they shall stand up in p ,'ourt and see that 110 unfair turn is taken t gainst her. Oh ! ain't they all a precious set Sl f sneaks when it comes to helping an inno- P ent child like her !" *' "Has she applied to any one ?" p "Why don't you know she has ?" said Joe tacy, indignantly. They are all bought up jo assist the prosecution as they call it. La- ? oche's rich kin want her put out of the way j, o they can come in fori the property. Do you t hink I'd let money keep me from helping a o ricndless critter like her in her troubles, and c le hired?yes sir, hired?to help tear her char- J cter to pieces ? No, sir; money wouldn't ount with me against a friendless woman hat has her innocence written on her face." c "If it come to money, Stacy," said, I "she t s as able to pay as those who are aiding in i he prosecution. Laroche's estate must be ^ vorth half a million and it will all go to her." e "Yes, so it would, but she's above all you awyers in her notions of right and wrong, t she wouldn't touch a penny of that property a o give people a chance to say she poisoned the i nan for the sake of his money. Now you see ? vhere the trouble is in getting some one to J lefend her. They all left her to herself ; and ^ 10 she has come to you who have scarcely a F leard on your chin. I don't mean any disre- c ipect, Mr. Bichards; but it's a sin and a ^ shame she has nobody to dejiend on but you? ? f you don't flinch, too," he added, plain- ^ dvely. (] "Never fear, Joe," said I, "if it is a charity c :ase, If she could pay a heavy fee she would i lave to look out for an abler lawyer, and al- 1 hmirrh there is but little beard on niv chin. I a - ? ~ " * ' g iliall try by hard work to make amends for ^ hat; but I really wish Mrs. Laroche had a t letter and more experienced counsellor than c l am. Her case requires it." i "Don't you fear," said the old fellow, en- ^ :ouragingly, while he shook his forefinger im- ; ressively in my face, as though he were im- r arting to me some important advice, and c dealing up a knotty point. "Go in and win, s leard or no beard. It ain't the longest whis- s cered cat that has the sharpest claws. You g jail make the fur fly if you try, 1 reckon. I [ ,vant to see the whole posse come it at us of li hem old lawyers that grip so hard at money, p whipped out?floored. You shan't go unpaid, 3ither. Martha! Martha I" called he, turning his face towards the rear of the building, md at the third summons a spare, sharp-nosed )ld lady, spectacled, and with a lace cap, looked out from the same door from which old Joe had issued at my summons. "Martha," said the old man, quite meekly md benignantly, to his better half, bring me ;he gourd with the nest eggs off the top shelf )f the cupboard. You have to take the aim jhair or you'll never ritch it." The old lady, who was as thin a3 a lath, n a few seconds returned and silently handed X) the bulky old jailer a huge gourd that night have contained a peck and a half. A circular piece some six inches in diameter had >een cut out of the top and formed a closeitting cover. The gourd, it struck me, had n nhana nuite. a familv likeness" to old Joe limself. "Now, Mr. Richards, I don't say to a man, jo in and win, and keep out of the ring myelf. Now, I can't jine in the fight myself, )ut I can stake my money on you; and here," aid he, unrolling a striped cotton rag that le took from the gourd and handing me a >ank-hill?"there's flrty dollars to begin with." "Why, what does thi3mean, Mr, Stacy ?" "It means that I'm going to back Mrs. Laoclie with the last egg in the next," answerd old Joe, proudly. "The others llinched rom her because they thought all the monoy ras on the other side. You have come up o the scratch like a man, and I'll ??to it ou shall get something besides thanks, for tanding up to the poor creatur'. Take it and ioyour best, for I can swear, if I was a swearng man, that she never made herself a ndow." "Never mind, Mr. Stacy," returned I, "let ae win first," and seeing that he continued to dvance upon me in a determined manner nth the bill in his hand, as if it were a weapon vith which he was going to exterminate me, added: "You had better keep it until the rial is over, for then Mrs. Laroche may stand a much more need of help than I of a fee." "Well, but this ain't a lawyer-like proceedng," said old Joe, ruefully." But maybe ou are half right. It's here for you all the ime though whenever you will have it. Now o up and see what you cau make of the case, ud if you come to a knotty point?outside of he law, mind you, just call me up and I'll ive you my help." And giving me a hearty lap on the back by way of encouragement, lie bulky fat old fellow, with his bunch of eys in one hand and his gourd of nest eggs uder the other arm, waddled slowly off to is private apartment towards the farther end f the hall, leaving me to proceed on niv way o consult with my unfortunate client. [to be continued next week. | HOW GREENBACKS ARE MADE. None of the public institutions of the Capiat has the fascination of the Beureau of Printag and Engraving. It is here where greenacks, the prettiest and finest money in the; rorld?are made. When you enter the Bu-' eau you are politely bowed to a sitting room, rhere you register your name and occupation, [ you have any. In a few minutes a guide omes .and calls : "This way, please." Every aorning a heavy box vehicle, looking like a uge iron safe on wheels, trundles from the .'reasury over to the Bureau, bringiug the aper destined to return as money. Eyery ne of these myriad sheets are counted at lie Treasury and charged to the Bureau. Evry one of these must be returned in perfect noney, or even if spoiled by some unlucky ccident. The careful account thus begun ontinues through the many handlings of that reciouspaper, guarding every avenue of fraud, making every human being who handles it ouest as the conductor's bell-punch is honest, ecause it is impossible to be otherwise. In a room on the first floor are the engravers, bout a score of them, bending under mellow, lilk-white shades, patiently putting features, xpression, grace and language into the relating steel. On the walls liang some rare pecimens of their cutting. A finished raoney late is a work of art, and would cost about 1,500. The govemment pays skilled engravers o that counterfeiting loses much of its charm, 'lie vaults in this room holds the plates, and here they rest every night. The locks are et so that they cannot be opened until seven 'clock every morning and then only by the resence and aid of three officials, each with a ifferent key. Up stairs we see the plates in use on a undred engravers' presses. The men run the resses while the girls put the paper in place ud take it away with the clear impression on ; as it smokes from the heat necessary in the rocess. The pressmen are paid by the piece, nH ?nmf? nf f.hftm npfluire wonderful dexteritv. 'hey are required to pay the girl $1.25 a day ut of their wages, but I saw one who had 5.50 left for himself out of an average day's r'ork. Every turn of the lever on the press sgisters and at the day's close each presslan has to account for every sheet he has andled. The money is printed from bills on the sheet, ifter being numbered and receiving the seal t goes to another room, where it is counted gain and placed in a drying machine, very luch like a patent peach dryer. When thorughly dry the sheets of four bills each are ut under a pressure of six or eight tons, and his gives a new bill its dependent stiffness, o that it wants to get right out of your ocket. The bills are then severed and done up ii packages of one thousand each. These are arried to a room where the final count takes lace. All the best counters are women. Most of hem are paid by the number, and some of hem have fingers of wonderful limberness. )ne woman is pointed out to everybody. She as a national reputation. She can count a housand bills in six minutes, the fastest time n record, and in all the millions she has ounted has never make a single mistake I Vhen the money is finally counted it goes to he vaults and thence to the treasury. Drkams.? Dreams are night thoughts, unhecked by the judgment and uncontrolled by he will. It is not true that we do not reason n dreams, that exercise of the judgment is wholly suspended, and tliewiu is entirely powrless or ceases to act. These faculties are lot altogether in abeyance, but they doze vhile the subordinate powers of the mindhose which play the part of picture carriers ,nd record finders?ransack the treasures of nemory and mingle together in the direst conusion of old things and the new. Imagination s not active, but it remains just long enough .wake to supply the connecting links which jive seeming continuity to those parts of the ihantasmagoria which we chance to remember n recovering perfect self-consciousness, and, vliicli, being remembered, we call "dreams." sTo one remembers more than one dream, uness he has been aroused from sleep more than ?nce. This has led to the inference that [reams only occur at the moment or in the act if awaking. There are dreams which take ilace in the process of returning to consciousless? for example, those instantaneous scenes .nd spectacles which are suggested by the ound or feeling which rouse the dreamer ; mt as the result of a long and close study of he subject with a view to discover the nature if dreams and the laws of dreaming, for rnedcal purposes, in connection with the treatnent of sleeplessness, I am persuaded that Ireams occur in the course of sleep and are vholly forgotten. That they do not and canlot take place in deep sleep is probable, beause deep sleep is general sleep, and when this tate prevails the subordinate faculties are leeping, and the pictures and records which ompose dreams are not disturbed. To undertand dreams we must understand sleep, antl t is because the two phenomena have not litherto been studied together that so little is renerally known about either. IgMtxsem* fading. TWO MUTILATED COINS. An old man entered a Little Rock store, and' taking from his pocket an old buck-skin pouch, he emptied two coins on the counter, and then, after regarding the silver for a few moments, said: "Mister, I want to buy some goods to make i a dress." "That money is mutilated, old gentleman. This twenty-five cent piece has notches in it, and this fifty cent piece has been punched. You see, they have been abused. I can't take them." "Abused," said the old man. "Abused," and he took up the fifty cent piece and looked at it tenderly. "And you won't take it on account of the holes. Heaven grant that I did not have to offer it to you. Years ago, when my first child was a little girl, I punched a hole '? J -A?Vint* nnnlr I in inis cum anu stiuug itmuuuu nu un>u. xt was her constant play thing. At night when she went to bed, we'd take it off, but early in the morning she would call for her watch. When our John?you didn't know our John, did you ? No. Well he used to come to town a good deal." "Where is he now ?" asked the merchant, not knowing what to say, but desiring to show an appreciation of the old man's story. "He was killed in the war. I say that when John was a little boy I strung this quarter around his neck. One day his watch got out of fix, he said, and he filed these notches in it. He and his sister Mary?that was the girl's name?used to play in the yard and compare their watches and see if they were right. Sometimes John wonldn't like it because Mary'8 watch was bigger than his, but she would explain that she was bigger and ought to have a bigger watch. The children grew up, but as they had always lived in the woods they were ashamed to wear their watches. When a young man came to see Mary once she forgetfully looked at her fifty cents. What are you doing ? asked the young man, and she looking at her watch, he took it as a hint and went home. After this she did not wear her watch in company. Well, Mary and the young man married. John went off in the army and got killed. Mary's husband died, and about two years ago Mary was taken sick. When her mother and I reached her house she was dying. Calling me to her bed, she said : "Papa, lean over." I leaned over, and, taking something from under her pillow, she put it around my neck and said, "Papa, take care of my watch." The old man looked at the merchant. The eyes of both were moist. "Do you see that boy out there on the wagon ?" he said. "Well, that is Mary's child. I wouldn't part with this money, but my old wife, who always loved me, died this morning, and I have come to buy her shroud." When the old man went out he carried the bundle in one hand and the watches in the other.?Little Rock Oazctle. HISTORICAL AMERICAN FLAGS. At the commencement of the American Revolution there was a variety of flags displayed in the revolted colonies. The Union rtacre monfinnoH fiwmentlv in the news 4 4 "ft" WW papers of 1774 were the ordinary English ensigns bearing the Union Jack. These generally bore some patriotic motto, such as, "Liberty" "Liberty and Property" and "liberty and Union." After the battle of Lexington the Connecticut troops displayed on their standard the arms of the colony, with the motto Qui tranatulit suatinet, and later, by an act of the Provincial Congress, the regiments were distinguished by the colors of their dags, as, for the Seventh, blue and for the Eighth orange. The early ships of New York are said to have displayed a beaver, the device of the New Netherlands, on their ensigns. It is uncertain what flag, if any, was used by the Americans at Bunker Hill. The flag displayed by Putman at Prospect Hill, on July 18, following, was red, with Qui tranatulit austinet on one side, and on the other side an "Appeal to Heaven." This last motto was adopted April *29,1776, by the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts as the one* to be borne on the flag of the Congress of the colony, a white flag with a greeen pine tree. What flag Arnold carried in his expedition to the Canadas is not known. The first armed vessel commissioned by Washington sailed under the "Pine Tree Flag." The first republican flag unfurled in the Southern States was blue, with a white crescent on the upper corner next to the staff, designed by Colonel William Moultrie, of Charleston, at the request of the Council of Safety, and was hoisted on the fortifications of that city in September, 1775. The flag displayed on the east bastion of Fort Sullivan, afterward called Moultrie, on June 28,1776, was the same, with the word Liberty on it. On the west bastion waived the flag called the "Great Union," first raised by Washington at Cambridge, January 2,1776. They consisted of thirteen alternate red and white stripes of the present flag of the United States, with the cross of St. George and St. Andrew emblazoned on the blue cotton in place of the stars. This flag was carried also by the fleet under the command of Commodore Esek Hopkins when it sailed from the Delaware Capes February 17, 1776. Hopkins had the device of a rattlesnake in the attitude of striking, with the motto: "Don't tread on me." This emblem was suggested probably 4-1% ?r? fLn rinwononnra of flia uy tllC UUU3 UlOplOJCU ail illiu ilOfTM{/HpV4W ww WWW time, which represented a snake divided into thirteen parts, each bearing the abbreviation of a colony with the motto beneath "Join or Die," typifying the necessity of union. The snake was represented generally with thirteen rattles. Sometimes it was coiled around the pine tree at its base and sometimes depicted at full length on a field of thirteen alternate red and white and red and blue stripes. ?Philadelphia Times. Old English Law Against Beggars.? For an able-bodied man to be caught a third time begging was held a crime deserving death, and the sentence was intended on fit occasions to be executed. The poor man's advantages, which I have estimated at so high a rate, were not purchased without drawbacks. He might not coange master at his will, or wander from place to place. He might not keep his children at home unless he could answer for their time. If out of employment, preferring to be idle, he might be demanded for work by any master of the "craft" to which he belonged and compelled to work whether he would or no. If caught begging once, being neither aged nor infirm, he was whipped at the cart's tail. If caught the second time his ear was slit, or bored through with hot iron. If caught a third time, being thereby proved to be of no use ui?on this earth, but to live upon it to his own hurt and that of others, he sufered death as a felon. So the law of England remained for sixty years. First drawn by Henry, it contained unrepealed through the reigns of William and Mary, subsisting, therefore, with the deliberate approval of both the great parties between whom the country was divided. Reconsidered under Elizabeth, the same law was again formally passed, and it was therefore the expressed conviction of the English nation that it wa^ oetter for a man to die than to live a worthless life. The vagabond was a sore spot upon the commonwealth, to be healed by wholesale discipline, if the gangrene was not incurable ; to be cut away with the knife if the milder treatment of the cart whip failed to be of profit. ? ? ? " Preparation of Peanuts.?Peanuts to be prepared for the market are placed in a large cylinder, from which they enter the brushes, where every nut receives fifteen feet of a brushing before it becomes free. Then they are dropped on an endless belt, passing along at the rate of four miles an hour. On each side of the belt stand girls, and, as the nuts fall on the belt, the girls, with a quick motion of the hand, pick out all the poor looking nuts, allowing only the best to pass the crucible. Those that do pass drop into bags on the floor below. When the bag is filled it is sewed up and branded as "cocks," with the figure of a rooster prominent on its sides. The peanuts caught by the girls are thrown to one side, picked over, and the best singled out, bagged and branded as "ships." These are as fine a nut for eating as the first, but in shape and color do not compare with the "cocks. * rne third grade is branded as "eagles." These are picked out of the cullings of "cocks" and "ships." The cullings that are left from the "eagles" are bagged, sent to the top story, and what little meat is in them is shaken out by a patent sheller. The nuts being shelled by this new process, the meat drops in bags below, free from dust or dirt of any kind, and is then . shipped in two hundred pound sacks to the North, where it is bought by confectior ers for the purpose of making taffy or peanut candy. It may be here stated that a peculiar Itind of oil is extracted from the meat of the nut, and in this specialty a large trade is done among the wholesale druggists. There is nothing wasted, for evea shells are made useful. They are packed in sacks and sold to stable keepers for horse-bedding, and a very healthful bed they make "wnat the Girls Should Gain.?By all maana lot tho rrirla loam hnw fch f?nnk. What. right has a girl to marry and go into a house of her own unless she knows how to superintend every branch of house-keeping, and she cannot properly superintend unless she has some practical knowledge herself. Mont men marry without thinking whether the wo .nan of bis choice is capable of cooking him a mail, and it is a pity he is so shortsighted, as his health, his cheerfulness, and indeed his success in life depend in a very great degree on the I ind of food he eats ; in fact the whole-household is influenced by her diet. Feed them on fried cakes, fried meats, hot bread and other indi- . gestible viands, day after day, and they will need medicine to make them well. A man will take alcohol to counteract the evil effects of such food, and the wife and children must be physicked. Let all girls have a share in housekeeping at home before they marry ; let each superintend some department by turns. It neted occupy half the time to see that the house has been properly swept, dusted and put in order,' to prepare puddings and make dishes, that ? many young ladies spend in reading novels that enervate both mind and body and unfit them for every-day life. Women do no not as a general rule get pale faces doing housework. .. Their sedentary habits, in overheated rooms, combined with'ill-chosen food, are to blame for bad health. Our mothers used to pride themselves on their housekeeping and fine needlework.?Baltimore Sun. A Hanging in London.?After the sentence of death has been passed the condemned person is at once placed in solitary confinement, where he remains under close si rveilance until the time of his execution arrives. When the fatal day arrives the paraphernalia of death is brought forth in the shape of a movable scaffold, which is kept in a convenient place ready for service, and hardly a week goes by that it is not used. The executions all take place in the jail yard, which is a ,[>aved court surrounded by a high stone wall. The scaffold is surrounded by a rope ten or twelve feet distant on all sides, to keep back the few spectators. When the appointed time arrives, which is generally about 12 o'clock in the'day, the condemned man is led from bis coll accompanied only by a priest or preacher, according to the creed of the condemned, and a single guard. Standing upon the raised platform. awaiting their coming, is the man who ia 4-a Ja tiTArlr wKioK rG/iiiirOQ flA VYIllph fflVm LO IAJ UV HID TrVliA HU1VU JkV^UUVW wv uamwm titude and physical courage to carry out, He is dressed in plain black clothing, and his face is covered with a black domino. When the condemned man is placed over the trap, a short time?say ten minutes?is allowed the priest to offer up a prayer for the rest of the soul of the departing man; then his arms and legs are firmly bound, the black cap placed over his head, the noose properly adjusted around his neck, the lever pulled, and the man drops through the trap about four feet and all is over with him. When the prison doctor pronounces life extinct the body is cut down and taken into a receptacle under the jail and# buried in quick lime, which causes its almost immediate decomposition. There you have the end of an English murdsr in London. After Eighteen Centuries.?The tikeleeton of a woman with a child has been discovered at Pompeii in a narrow street about twelve feet above the level of the ancient pavement. It is well known that the catastrophe * TV miilt n fKl/?lr ohAIITfll* UL IV A. U. CUUJWOUCCU W1 til a WiVO. ran;nvi of small pumice stones, by which the streets of Pompeii were covered up to the roofs of the houses. Stones were succeeded by ashes, which became solid owing to the action of successive showers of boiling water ; and ^hese ashes now form the top layer of the materials which cover the ruins of Pompeii. Most of the unhappy beings who remained in the houses after the eruption first reached the town made their escape through the windows, but the greater part of these fugitives could have taken but a few steps, and must have been quickly .suffocated by the poisonous fumes. With one arm the woman whose skeleton has been found was clasping the legs of the child, whose body shows contraction in the arms and legs and a general emaciation, which lead us to suppose that the child must have been very ill. It was a little boy about ten years of age. Doubtless the woman was the mother of the child. Some jewels found on the female skeleton indicated a person of condition ; two bracelets of gold encircled the arm which held the boy, and on the hand were two gold rings, the one set with an emerald, on which is engraved a horn of plenty, and the other with an amethyst bearing a head of Mercury. Facts About Specie.?The Ameiican Register prints a table giving the amount of both the imports and the exports of specie to and from tlie United States for twenty-six years, from 1856 to 1881 inclusive. The exports of specie exceed the imports by not less than one thousand millions of dollars. From Mr. Spofford's valuable annual wo get the following interesting facts : 1. There were 8650,000,000 of specie ir. the United States on the first of November, 1881, according to the estimate of the director of the Mint. 2. There were, according to the same authority, only 8398,541,683 in specie in the United States on the first of June, 1879. 3. The excess of imports of specie during 1880 and 1881 was only 8167,000,000 (in round numbers). ' 4. The amount of specie produced in the United States from 1857 to 1881 inclusive was only about ?1,300,000,000. 5. The amount of gold produced in the United States from 1845 to 1880, inclusive, exceeded the amount of silver produced by more than one thousand millions of dollars ! < 6. The estimate of the aggregate production of silver and gold in all countries from 14?3 to 1875 is ?10,802,329,343?that is to say, nearly eleven thousand millions of dollars. Spare Moments.?A boy,-poorly dressed, came so the door of the principal of a celebrated school one morning, and asked to see him. The servant eyed his mean clothes and thinking he looked more like a beggar than * anything else, told him to go round to the kitchen. "I should like to see Mr. W said he. "You want a breakfast, more like ?" "Can I see Mr. W r" asked the boy. "Well, he is in the library; if he mus; be disturbed, he must." So she bade him follow. After talking awhile, the principal put aside the volume that he was studying and took up some Greek books and began to examine the new-comer. Every question lie asked the boy was answered readily. 'Upon my word," exclaimed the principal, "you do well. What, my boy, where did you pick up so much V" "In my spare moments," answered the boy. He was a hard-working lad, yet almost fitted for college by simply improving his sjtare moments. A few yeanHater he became known all the world over as the celebrated geologist, Hugh Miller. What account can you give of yonr spare moments ?" /