Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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. mmmmm m s 1 ? lewis m. grist, proprietor, j Jninptnbent Jfamilj fjUtospper i Jor % Ijroototioit fff tjjt political, JSocial, ^griraltaral and (JDantmercial Jntcmts of \\i jJonfj). |terjis--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 28. YOEKVILLE. S. C., THURSDAY, AUGUST 3, 1882. NO. 31. ?octrg. Written for the Yorkville Knquirer. v A SIMILE. BY A8AFH. Behold yon streams take no repose, In verdant mead or flowery lea, But ever on see each one flows, And will till all have found the sea. True, they may loiter on the way, Where green savannahs bloom in pride, But there content they will not stay, Though beauty on them ever smile. No; on they'll flow with swan-Jike grace, Kachhumming in its own deep lore, Farewell to every flower they pass, Then softly kiss and leave each shore. They go to meet the glorious Main, Where true attraotion draws them fast, And there they will their joy proclaim, Till they away from earth have passed. And oh, what bliss for them 'twill be with Irlnrirftd WftVeS. iU IllQCb RUM CMVUV* < ? 9 Which there are pure as they are free To roam through Ocean's boundless caves. 'Tin this sweet hope, in flowery lawns, Prompts each to leave, with lingering gait, The spots their beauty most adorns, Their friends to meet and share their fate! Thus the affections of the soul Are ever flowing, warm and fren. As yonder streams are to one goal; And that's a heart of sympathy. There, like the needle, they ever point, And thither they'll forever flow And sparkle like a perennial fount, Till death shall bid them cease to go! Nor will tbey from their home e'er halt, Though every beauty round them throng. And may be heard, without a fault, To sing a sweet, bewitching song. Yet even there, though it be slow, They'll keepstraight forward on their way, To meet the heart to which they flow, And thus till life's last lingering ray. Oh then, what joy will it afford These weary wandersof the heart To meet the long-lost and ador'd, And know from them they'll no more part; But dwell where love fills every breast To running o'er with pure delight, Buoyant as waves that never rest But ever dance 'neath meridian light! Ihe Idler. A BROWN PAPER PARCEL. I am going to tell in a plain, straightforward way, how it happened. Tom says that I may make the story public, if I think his experience will serve as a warning to any one. He has been kind enough to give me several particulars of the affair which he has hitherto refrained from speaking about. To be sure, more than a year has passed, and the edge of poor Tom's mortification has become blunted, but there was a time when any reference to the unlucky affair of which I am about to write, in his presence, caused him great annoyance. Our factory?in the office of which I am employed as a book-keeper?is in the village of Dash, several miles from New York, on the line of one of our well-known railroads. The company employs nearly two hundred hands, and the weekly pay roll amounts to about twenty-five hundred dollars. Every Saturday, for several years, Mr. Lucas, the junior partner, of the firm, has been in the habit of going to New York by the noon train to draw that amount in small bills from the bank, returning by the train leaving the city at two o'clock. "This is unfortunate!" exclaimed Mr. Sloman, the senior partner, as he entered the office one Saturday morning, and threw himself into a chair. "Mr. Lucas has sprained his ankle and can't go to New York for the money, as usual. I suppose I must go, though I'm so busy that I don't see how I am to spare tlie time." "I will go if you wish," I said, "though I'm rather behind with posting, as you know, sir. Still ?? "No, no 1" he exclaimed. "I would rather go myself than spare you." "T " in ton u-iao/l Tnrn Slnman. who had * ?**J 1 * * W* |/VUVV? -v? ? '"7 teen seated at his father's desk reading the morning paper for the last hour, "I'll go, if you like, sir." Tom had been enjoying his college vacation for about a fortnight. Two-thirds of each day he had spent in lounging about the office, and it was in some slight degree his fault that I was behind with my work. I liked Tom. He was a well-intentioned fellow, but just a little egotistical. He loved good companionship, was talkative and made acquaintances easily. His favorite theme of conversation was Thomas Sloman, Jr., and that gentleman's shrewdness and sagacity he held in high esteem. "The man who wishes to overreach me," he used to say, "must get upearly in the morning." "I'll go, if you like, sir," said Tom, to his father. "I've nothing else to do, and I'd like a ride to the city and back." Mr. Sloman cleared his throat, as was his habit when anything annoyed him, and looked thoughtfully at his son. "I don't know," he said slowly. "Why, I'd like to go," said Tom. "Twenty-five hundred dollars is a large sum of money," said his father: "and you know, Torn, you are rather heedless sometimes." The young man made no reply, but his face flushed angrily and he began impatiently tapping his boot with his little bamboo cane. "There are a good many sharpers in Xew Yotk city, as you know," added Mr. Sloman, "and a man who carries money with him there needs to be very cautious and very careful." "My dear sir," said Tom, whom this remark had touched in a tender spot, "I flatter myself that I can bring that twenty-five hundred dollars from the hank in Xew York, to this place, without losing it. I think I am sharp enough to?" "0,1 am well acquainted with your opinion on that point," laughed Mr. Sloman, "and it is for that very reason that I hesitate to trust you. And besides, Tom, as I said before, you ' are often heedless in what you do." "You treat me like a child, father," grumbled Tom. "Well, well," said Mr. Sloman, impatiently. "We've talked enough about it. You may go, Tom, but I must caution you to be very careful with the money, and with whom you come in contact while you have it. Only a month ago, Mr. Lucas was followed from the city uy a fellow whom he thinks intended to rob him. You cannot lie too careful." Tom's reply was a supercilious smile. 1 could not help being amused at his sublime self-confidence. An hour later he stepped on board the train for New York. Not seeing a vacant seat in the car which he entered, Tom was about going forward when some one touched him on the arm and a voice said : "Here's a seat, sir." Tom turned. The speaker, an intelligent looking, well-dressed man of about thirty, was in the act of removing his valise from the seat beside him to the floor. "I have so often been inconvenienced," sail the stranger, as Tom took the proffered place, "by the hoggishness?I can't call it by am other name?of persons in the cars who fil every seat near them with their baggage, thai I never allow myself to give a fellow-travelei cause to complaiu of such conduct on my part.' "That is praiseworthy in you, sir," suit Tom, with an air of importance. "I wisl that every one was as courteous." "Thank you, sir. Going to New York, ! presume V" "Yes, sir." "So am I. I'm a drummer?always on tin wing. Traveling just now for Brown & Co. of Boston, woolen goods. It's a very fascina ting life, sir. But perhaps you're in the busi ness, yourself ?" "No." "No ?" Well, do you know, I half though you were. You have certainly a bnsines manner. I'll venture to say you've the making of an A 1 drummer in you sir." "Do you think so ?" asked Tom, pleased with what he thought a compliment. "I certainly do. What is your business ? if you will pardon my curiosity." "Just at present I'm a student at Yale," replied Tom. "Indeed I I have a brother at Yale. He's a Soph." "So am I. Perhaps I know him. What is his name ?" asked Tom. UJ0I16S " "What, Fred Jones, of Boston ?" "Yes." "I guess I do know him," cried Tom, with enthusiasm. "You must have heard Fred speak of me?Tom Sloman." "Are you Tom Sloman V I have heard Fred speak of you. He thinks very highly of you." "Fred and I a! ways get along well together," said Tom, complacently. "Yes ; I'm delighted to make the acquaintance of a college-mate of my brother's." Tom thought Mr. Jones a very agreeable fellow, and Mr. Jones certainly did all he could to strengthen the favorable impression he had made. He had, it appeared, been an extensive traveler ; and during the remainder of the ride he entertained Tom with a very genial, pleasant talk of his experiences in different parts of the world. He had just begun what promised to be a thrilling story of a strange experience of his in Paris, when the train came to a standstill in the Grand Central depot. "Do you go up town V" inquired Mr. Jones, as they left the car. "No," replied Tom, "I go to the Dash bank." "Sorry that we shall have to part. 1 go to Fiftieth street. I hope we shall meet again, my dear fellow." "I hope so, I'm sure, Mr. Jones. But I say, I should like to hear the rest 01 tnat story. "You may, I hope, sometime. Can't possibly stop now, I'm sorry to say, for I've a business engagement. Good-by !" and the genial, pleasant Mr. Jones touched his hat and hurried away. Tom took a Fourth Avenue car, regretting that he could not have the company of his new acquaintance for whom he had conceived quite a favorable opinion. Half an hour later he reached the bank and presented his check with a letter of introduction from his father, or the teller would not have cashed it. The money was handed him. After counting it, 'Tom wrapped the bills in some strong brown paper that he had brought with him, so <18 to make a common looking package that no one would suppose to contain money. "Now we'll see whether I can get back to Dash without being robbed," was his mental ?o i.o loff tl,o hiinlr "Tfanvhndv rAtiiuiiatiun oo iiv iviv viiv ** *? ? thinks he can get this money, let him tiy it." As no one heard the challenge no one accepted it, and Tom jumped on board a passing car. At the same moment a short, stout, elderly man, in a pepper-and-salt suit, whom Tom had glanced at and noticed in front of the bank, leaped upon the front platform. Tom entered the car at one end, this man entered at the other. There was certainly nothing very suspicious in his apj>earance. It was tliat of a well-to-do business man, but Tom eyed him sharply. Apparently quite unconscious that there was any one else in the car, the man seated himself and pulled a newspaper from his pocket and began reading with an appearance of great interest. Once only during the ride did this elderly man look up from his paper, and then it was to glance at Tom, who, to tell the truth, was staring at him with a fixedness which certainly merited some return. Upon the arrival of the car at the Grand Central depot, Tom arose to his feet and the pepper-and-salt suit arose to his. When Tom got out of the car the man in the pepper-andsalt suit got out too. "I half believe," thought, Tom, as he grasped the precious package more tightly, "that this old chap is after this money. All right, I'd like to see him get it." Tom entered the depot, and the man in the pepi>er-and-salt suit followed him. Tom pretended not to notice him, but advanced to the office and bought his ticket. When he turned the elderly man stood near him engaged in examination of the time-table and apparently not paying the slightest attention to him or his brown-paper parcel. "My dear fellow, this is indeed, a most agreeable surprise," exclaimed a familiar voice, as Tom turned away from the ticket office. "Is it possible that you too, return by the next train." The speaker was no other than the agreeable Mr. Jones, who as he spoke gras|>ed Tom's hand and shook it with great warmth. "Are you going back so soon V" asked Tom, nnnvnonto<l unnOflVIinPP nf lllS UCIJglilCU at lilt? UUUA^gv/bvu u|/|/vi??umw ???. companion of the morning. I thought " "Yes I know," interrupted Mr. Jones. "I expected to remain in the city a week, but I received a telegram recalling me to Boston. My grandfather has been taken very ill and is not expected to live. I couldn't ignore such a call, of course, and here I am. Wait a moment until I get my ticket. One to Boston, if you please, sir. Thank you. Now we're all right, I think. Come 011, my boy," and seizing Tom's arm, the genial Mr. Jones hurried him along the platform and on board the train. "I'm in luck," resumed Mr. Jones, upon whose spirits the melancholy condition of his grandfather seemed to have no effect. "I didn't anticipate the pleasure of your eomj pany on my homeward journey. Here's a I good place, suppose we sit here. That 's it. | Now we are as comfortable as you please." As Mr. Jones paused the man in the pep| per-and-sault suit entered and appropriated a 1 seat directly behind the one occupied by Tom, who thought, "All right, old fellow, I'm ready for you." but said nothing. Mr. Jones was as entertaining as ever. His How of spirits and his fund of anecdote seemed absolutely inexhaustible. "By the way," suggested Tom, as the train moved out of the depot, "suppose you timsn that story you had just begun when we arrived in New York this noon." "Story! story!" said Mr. .Tones, reflectively. "Ah yes, it was about my adventure in Cadiz with Don Carlos " "No, no,", interrupted Tom; "about an adventure of yours in Paris. You were returning to your hotel one dark night when your attention was attracted by a crv of "Help !" You " "Oh yes, I remember. Well, I rushed in the direction from which the sound appeared to I proceed. As I turned down a narrow street i the cry was repeated with startling distincti ness. I rushed forward and found that a j thick set man in a dark cloak was engaged in : a desperate struggle with two rough looking j men, who were endeavoring to throw him to ; the ground. He was lighting well, and giving his assailants all they could do to overpower him. Just then one of the rascals drew a ' knife. I gave a loud shout as I ran forward. 1 The rascals, seeing that help was approaching, took to their heels, and though I pursued ! them a short distance, they succeeded in efi fecting their escape. I turned to the scene of ! the late conflict. The stout man advanced towards me. "May I request your card, monsieur V" he ; j said, grasping my hand. >j "I hope you are not hurt." I said, in the u j wst x* rf iiun l uuiuu uiooici, "Not at all," lie replied. "Monsieur," he i added, with evident emotion, "you have saved , | my life, lie assured I shall not he forgetful of f \ the gratitude I owe you. Yo will hear from 1; me again." t j "So saying, he wrapped his cloak around r: him and disappeared in the darkness." ' j "And did you ever see him again ?" inquirI j ed Tom, who had listened to his companion's II story with great interest. I "The next morning, sir," said Mr. Jones, [ impressively, "as I sat at breakfast, a waiter i approached me. I "You are wanted, monsieur, at the Tuile j eries," he said. , "At the Tuileries," I gasped. "Impossible. By whom V" By the Emperor, monsieur." "Oh, there must be some mistake !" "There is no mistake, monsieur. A carrit age is in waiting at the door to convey you to s the palace." "Well, sir, I went out and entered the carriage, hardly knowing whether I was awake or dreaming. I exhausted my ingenuity during the ride in trying to imagine the reason of my summons to the Tuileries. A servant met me at the door. "This way, monsieur," he said, bowing obsequiously: "I have orders to conduct you to the Emperor's private apartment." "I followed the servant through a long, wide hallway, which I thought would never end." Presently we paused before a door, upon which my companion knocked. It was instantly opened by a man whom I at once recognized as the very individual whom I had resold from thn assassin's knife the liiarht before. "He sprang forward, saying, "Ah, monsieur, you little thought you had saved the life of an Emperor 1" "lie was really the Emperor V" cried Tom. "Xo other than the Emperor, Napoleon the Third. It seems that he had been walking the streets of Paris in disguise?like old Haroun Alraschid in the Arabian Nights, you knowwhen he was attacked by the men from whom it was my good fortune to rescue him. "I spent the remainder of the morning with him, and when I left he presented me with a magnificent gold snuff box set with diamonds. H lias never been any particular use to me, for I don't take snuff?filthy habit; but, I assure you, nothing would tempt me to part with it. It's in my valise now. Would you like to see it ?" "I should, very much," replied Tom, eagerly. "Just reach me my valise, then, and I'll show it you." To reach the valise, which was in the rack directly over his head, Tom was obliged to use both hands, and therefore relinquish i>ossession for a moment of the precious brown paper parcel which he had until then held in his lap. lie laid it upon the seat and arose to his feet. After gaining possession of the valise, he handed it to Mr. Jones, who drew a bunch of keys from his pocket. In the meantime Tom picked up what seemed to be his package of money. "It's an elegant box." said Jones; "and you will say so when you see it. Pshaw ! too bad ! too bad!" "What's the matter ?" inquired Tom, considerably startled by this sudden exclamation. "You haven't lost it, I hope." "Oh, 110, dear me, 110! Not quite so bad as tliat, but I've lost the key to my valise. Very provoking!" "Try one of mine.'" "It would be of no use. It's a patent lock, you see. Luckily, I have a duplicate key at home. Sorry I can't show you the box ; but never mind, it will keep and you'll have an opportunity to see it, I hope." Tom was annoyed by the unfortunate loss of the valise key, but he forgot his disappointment in' listening to the recital of a most extraordinary adventure of Mr. Jones'in Africa, which was scarcely finished when the train arrived at Dash. "Well, good-by, my boy. May the day of our next meeting be not far away." These were Mr. Jones' parting words. As Tom left the car he glanced at the man in the pepper-and-salt suit, but he was asleep, or pretended to be. "If he was really after the money he has had his trouble for nothing," thought Tom. Ten minutes later, he entered the office, where his father, Dick Fanshaw, the foreman and myself were seated. "Well, father," he said, with a complacent smile, "here I am again." "The money?is it all right ?" "Here it is, sir." "You had no trouble, eh V" "Of course not." "I am very glad of it," said Mr. Sloman, as he opened it. "But what's this ?" "The money's all right, I hope, sir." "Money ! There's no money here!" "No money there!" cried Tom and Dick Fanshaw, while I dropped my pen, aghast. Uuf o l/\f nf elino af a1/1 1VA1\GV " 'touting uui< n iui ui ohijj ui v.v* said Mr. Sloman. Tflm dropped into a chair, pale as a ghost. Dick uttered a low prolonged whistle, and I continued to stare bereft of speech. "What does this mean ?" asked Mr. Sloman, fixing his eyes sternly upon his son's face. Tom sprang to his feet, and his face lighted" up. "I'll fix it 1" he cried. "Leave it to me," and he rushed from the olfice. His father called him back, but Tom did not hear him. Dick stepped to the door and looked down the street. "He's running toward the railroad depot," he said. "P'r'aps the bundle got changed somewhere down there. Maybe he'll bring the money back with him all light." In fifteen or twenty minutes Tom returned and sank in a chair, gasping for breath. "Well," asked his father, "what have you done ? Where is the money V" "On board?the train," he gasped. "Hut I've?telegraphed his description?to C-, and when the train gets there?they'll arrest him." "Whom V Whose description ?" demanded Mr. Sloman. Then Tom told us all about the man in the pepper-and-salt suit who had followed him from 2sew York. When he had finished his story his father said not a word, but began pacing the floor with bowed head and contracted brows. Dick Fanshaw returned to his .ivwl I T\i/-?lrrarl im mv iu*l? ?UI l\j (ll!U 1 I'iunvu U|/ ?MJ "I telegraphed to the conductor,"said Tom, after an oppressive silence of live minutes' duration. "The train must have arrived at before this, and I'll probably get an answer in a few minutes. Ten minutes later Tom received an answer that the man he caused to be arrested was a well-known judge, and not the culprit at all. Tom overcome with shame and mortification, told his father the whole story of his trip, and Mr. Kloman at once felt convinced that Jones was the guilty party. "Impossible!" "We shall see," and Mr. Sloman seized his hat and left the oflice. During his father's absence, Tom sat and gazed out of the. window with a most doleful expression of countenance, and without uttering a word. Nearly an hour passed before Mr. Sloman's return. " As he entered the office at last, both Tom and I looked eagerly in his face. "No news ?" askecl Tom. "None but what I received from the conductor of the westward bound train which arrived at the station while I was there, lie said that your friend, the conductor of the train on which you came from New York was very much embarrassed by the mistake you made in telegraphing him that the old gentleman who you described had taken your package of money. lie was very angry when he was told of your suspicions, and soon everybody in the car knew all about. The passengers, of course took his part, as he was known by some of them, and the conductor was j abused right and left. The conductor, howevi /.. r.ii.iv eertam that, the man who sat with you, and who seemed so friendly, had something to do with the disappearance of the money. lie got out at M , the next station above here." U1 don't see how or when he could have I taken the money." Tom said. "Ididn'tlose I sight of the package for a minute." "Are you sure V" asked his father. "Come to think of it," cried Tom, changing I color. "I did lose sight of it just for an inj stunt. You see, Mr. Jones or whatever his name was?asked rne to hand him his valise, and I left the package on the seat while I took the valise down from the rack. "That was probably when he took the money," said Mr. Sloman. "Well, Tom, I fear we shall never see the twenty-five hundred dollars." Tom said nothing, but looked unutterable things. The robbery had evidently been carefully arranged by some one who was aware of Mr. Lucas' habit of going to the bank every Saturday afternoon. Whether the thief would have pursued the same course if he had had Mr. Lucas to deal with, we don't know, but probably not. That gentleman would, no doubt, have been subjected to an entirely different treatment. The money was never recovered, nor did i Tom ever hear from the fascinating commercial traveler again. ^lti5?UattC0tts ftaliujj. INDIANS IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Just below Nation Ford and the fine bridge of theC., C. & A. Railway, the Catawba River makes a broad sweep to the southward, thus partly enclosing a body of land familiarly known as the Bend. In it are fine plantations of the olden time; open fields surrounded by dense woodlands that are the growth of centuries, with here and there a large country house. About ten miles from Rock Hill, in the most remote section of the Bend, and upon the banks of the grand old river that takes its name from them, is the last remnant of the tribe of Catawba Indians in South Carolina. The tribe now numbers about eighty-five persons, and shows a slight increase within the past decade. Their reservation is something less than a thousand acres. The question comes up, how have they maintained themselves against the onward march of the white race V The answer is not hard to find?they have been friendly with the white settlers from time immemorial. Some years ago the Wjitya^moved West, and 4-a a tliAir 'uoonvtrotmn +V?Or? mil/ill SUIU tu luc OKltC liitaa tuviv/u^ viiuu iiiuuii larger than at present: but becoming dissatisfied there, they were permitted to return; a reservation was given them, which hey are not allowed to sell, and a yearly pension granted them, amounting probably to $800. These sons of the forest speak imperfect English, but among themselves converse in the Indian tongue. They are peaceable and quiet, and live by hunting and fishing, while they also work small crops, or lal>or for wages in the fields of their white neighbors. They are proud and reticent, seldom speaking unless spoken to, but always appreciating a kindness. They still keep up the art of making Indian pottery, and bring to town clay pii>e3, flower pots, and perhaps other little articles, for sale. At different times, members of the tribe have united with Baptist and Methodist churches, but it seems difficult to keep up a permanent religious interest. A Union Sunday School was recently organized for thenbenefit, which was subsequently removed to Richardson's Chapel, a Methodist church near by, and about thirty of the Indians now regularly attend it. The Indians live in log huts very mucli after the manner of frontier settlers, and these are, for the most part, scattered along through the forest; they dress in the same manner as their white neighbors. They still retain some Indian peculiarities, such as walking one behind the other whilst they are on a journey. A fondness for the fiery fluid is an Indian weakness, and has been probably the chief obstacle to their complete evangelization. Now that the towns of Rock Hill and Fort Mill are "dry," far less temptation exists for them to indulge this ruinous uppetite. It makes one sad to view the gradual decad ence of the Ked iuen. nere ana mere we imu a remnant left unmolested, because they have always beei> friendly to bhe whites ; at most it is only a remnant. The rest are far out in the Western wilds, pressed steadily towards that vast ocean that rolls so i>eacefully yet mightily u]K?i our Western shores. Should we not feel a deep sympathy for the Indian and help hiin to the higher and better life ? His soul is as precious in Heaven's sight as our own. There are in the Catawba River numerous islands, and on some of them are to be found Indian relics going back to the time when the Catawbas, as a mighty tribe, roamed these hills, fished in the clear streams, and fortified themselves on the islands. Not far from Landsford, where the dashing river spreads out for nearly a mile over the smooth, shoaly rocks, is Indian ilo.uad Island. As the writer sat fishing one day, aritflooked at the high conical mound, with great trees of a century's growth upon it, he heard the story of its probable construction. Not far away on the island is a lake, evidently artificial, and now overgrown with trees, whence the earth must have been carried and heaped up little by little to make the monument. When done, it served perhaps a two-fold purpose?a burial place and an outlook against the approach of enemies. It is now seventy-five feet high, and must have been much higher, and is perhaps fifty feet broad at the top, while its base is laid on broad foundations. .Near its southern nase tne canvas tent of a solitary trapper glistened in the evening light, making the picture complete in its uniqueness, and suggesting those early times that Fennimore (,'ooi>er loved to depict. That mound is the silent monument of a power and prestige long since gone by. So the Indian race, its prestige and its glory is everywhere passing away. Let us seize the opportunity and send to them a Christian civilization, which shall give them peace, prosperity and salvation, before they are gone from us forever.?I. Hartwf.ll Edwards, in l!<i)>ti*t Courier. THE LOVES OF LINCOLN. The death of Mrs. Lincoln at the home of that sister where she first met and was courted by her future husband closes the family life of Abraham Lincoln. She was not his first or deepest love. That distinction belongs to Ann ltutledge, whose father was the founder of the village of New Salem on the Sangamon, a village which is now deserted, ltutledge was one of the famous South Carolina families, and his daughter, four years younger than Lincoln, seemed to have impressed the whole community as a lovely and refined girl, unaffected, a "blonde in complexion, with golden hair, cherry-red lips and a bonny blue eye," says McNamara. McNamara was the lover who first won her heart, lie went home to New York to take West his parents, but was detained some years in Now York. In the meantime Lincoln pressed his suit, and the girl's parents doubting whether McNamara would ever come back she gave her love to Lincoln, but insisted 011 waiting for a formal release from McNamra before marriage. This waiting told upon her sensitive organism, her health declined and she died of what was called brain fever, August 25, 1835. This was the great grief of Lincoln's youth, llis reason was unsettled and his friend Howlin Green, had to take him off to a lonely log cabin ami keep him until he recovered his sanity. Then it ,vr) 1 tin i,u i?!ivn?j/i ftia nwrn heffinnintr: "Oil why 8hould the spirit of mortal he proud?" An old friend who asked liini after his election to the presidency if it was true that he loved and courted Ann Rutledge, got this reply: "It is true?true; indeed I did. I have loved the name of Rutledge to this day. It was my first. I loved the woman dearly. She was a handsome girl; and would have made a good, loving wife; was natural and quite intellectual, though not highly educated. 1 Mid honestly and truly love the girl and think often, often of her now." McNamara returned soon after her death, lived near the little burying-grnund, and in lStiti pointed out the grave of Ann Rutledge to Mr. Herndon. This affair had a market] effect upon Lincoln's life and added to its somber tone ; but it probably had also a Jeep er meaning in purifying and ennobling his inner nature. Mr. Lincoln, who by this time was a mem her of the Legislature and about *27, next "paid attentions" to Miss Owen, a small j young woman of some avoirdupois, who onct told him that she thought he was "lacking ii the smaller attention, those little links whicl make up the great chain of woman's happi ness," because he dangled along by her sidi once when they. were going up a hill, aw I allowed her friend, Mrs. Rowlin Green, t< I "carry a big, fat child, heavy and crossly ais posed," up the hill. A still more unto wart I incident happened once at Mrs. Abies', a sis I ter of Miss Owens'. Lincoln had sent won to Abies that he was coming down to set Miss Owens. She, girl-fashion, to test lie lover, went off "to Graham's, about a mil and a half. When Lincoln came and was si informed, he asked if Miss Owens did 110 know he was coming. Mrs. Abies said 110, bn one of her enfanls terribles promptly replied "Ves, ma, she did, for I heard Sam tell lie so." "Lincoln sat awhile and then wen about his business," says Laraon's account Letters exist from Lincoln to Miss Owens ii 18.% and 1837, in one of which he says: k'If you feel yourself in any degree bouni | to me, I am now willing to release you, proI vided you wish it; while on the other hand, ! I am wiiling and even anxious to bind you j faster, if I can he convinced that it will in any , ! considerable degree add to your happiness. | This, indeed, is the whole question with me. , I Nothing would make me more miserable than | to believe you were miserable?nothing more j happy than to know you were so." This is the language of an honorable man, j a cool lover and a practiced hand in the Eng- | lisli language. Miss Owens declined his hand | and lived to marry another man at her home in Kentucky and have two sons in the Confed- ] I erate army. Lamon prints also a letter of I Lincoln to Mrs. 0. II. Browning in 1838, re- | I viewing this affair in terms, it must be con- < j fessed, brutally derogatory to the young wo- | j man's personal apjiearance and parts. I.inj coin was evidently mortified by his rejection, | and ignobly attempted to represent to Mrs. | Browning (the wife of his new-found legis- | ! lative friend,) that the object of his affections | had been unworthy of them. I It was not two years (1830) before another j Springfield matron, Mrs. NinianW. Edwards, < had a Kentucky sister to live with her, Mary Todd, daughter of Robert S. Todd, of Lexing- | ton. Miss Todd was of distinguished family , in both States, her mother had died young , and she had been educated by "a French lady." j She had a keen sense of the ridiculous, was j -1 1.14! I.UI, ? lullml IA SiliUjJ, illllUI Liuun, Jliyil LCUipOlCU tuui.uiuillij ITU Lamon, "high-bred, proud, brilliant, witty, ; and with a will that bent every one else to her ] purposes, she took Lincoln captive the very moment she considered it expedient to do so." j She was ambitious to be the wife of a Presi- . dent, and was courted by Douglas until she | dismissed him for his bad morals. She said to < one of her mates, who had married a wealthy old gentleman, "I would rather marry a good . man, a man of mind, with hope, and bright | I prospects ahead for position, fame and power , than to marry all the horses, gold and bones ' in the world." Lincoln and Miss Todd be- | came engaged, though a pretty sister of Ed- : wards came near shipwreckingeven this match, i Pretty girls must have been distressingly thick } in those days, when Kentucky was sending j her best .blood into Illinois. Lincoln felt the Edwards attachment so strongly that he begged to be released from Miss Todd, (the ( Edwards girl married another man, for Lin- t coin never mentioned it to her,) and he "ran i off the track" again, to use the expression by < which he once described his first attack of in- j sanity. lie was "as crazy as a loon" for nearly j i a year, and did not attend the session of the ( Legislature of 184142, to which he had been ( chosen. They had to keep "knives and ra- t zors away from him." As he came out of it, ( the Edwardses advised Abe and Mary not to t marry, as they were unfitted to each other, ; and probably in consequence of this advice, t they?went and married on "one or two , hours'notice." Lincoln told his friend Math- j eny, who made out the license, "Jim, I. shall } have to marry that girl," and he "looked as t if he was going to the slaughter," and said s "he was driven into It," by the Edwards t family. But perhaps these expressions ought ] not to be taken too seriously. Lamon prints t letters from Lincoln to Speed earlier in the year, indicating his embarrassing position, his ( "great agony," as j^arnon cans it. , Tlie "Shields duel" was fought a month or < two before the marriage and was occasioned t by Miss Todd's satirical sketches in the San- ( gamon Journal. These sketches were dated ( from the "Lost Townships," a humorous ex- ( pression of indefiniteness in locality which j had a local point, and were written in ver- ( nacular and signed "Rebecca." The last one was in verse and signed "Cathleen." That j Miss Todd was 110 green Western girl is evinced by the spirit of these sketches of lo- 1 cal life, which are reproduced in Lamon's Life ; pf Lincoln. She teased Shields in them, and , lie demanding to know the author, Lincoln . accepted the responsibility. , Mary Todd made a faithful wife and Mr. j Lincoln a faithful husband. She had a de- , cidedly ambitious and political bent, but it 1 must be said to her honor that hei intimate j relations with Southern families were never j known to have embarrassed Mr. Lincoln in ] the Presidency. She was the first of the West- , ern wives to fill the White House at a time j when people were disposed to carp at Lincoln because a kid glove did not fit him. - That she j was not a success as a social mistress of the > White House, in comparison with Mrs. Hayes j and Mrs. Garfield, will not be counted heavily ' against her. Mr. Lincoln was not happy to 1 j the degree of an ideal match in his marriage ?. I relations, but Ilerndon, who knows the inner ' j life of the husband and wife, says : "All that ( I know ennobles them both." ! < THE PRAIYTE\MO>STER. Short of the frightful storms which are said j 1 to sweep over the sun itself, there does not ; 1 seem to be any other force in nature quite 11 equal in energy and terror to the tornadoes i | that so often swoop down upon the prairies < j of Kansas, Missouri and Iowa. These whirl- j ] j winds now deeraeu almost wnouy eiecuiuiu? 11 perhaps because electricity is the prevailing ! 1 fashion in dynamites just now?have thequal-! i ities and traits of the elephant's trunk. They : ] can overthrow a house or pick up a sixpence ; I j tear a full grown and massive tree up by the i roots, or strip the bark from the smallest twig, j i and without injuring the wood, as clean as j the boy peels a willow rod. Up into the fun-' j nel formed by the tremendous pressure and j ] whirl of the air currents, buildings, locomotives, cattle, and children are drawn as readily ; | as gravitation pulls them into an opening in j' the earth. Residences and barns, large struc- j 1 tares and small, are seized and ground into i ; indistinguishable dust, while fragile glass- I < ware and tender infants have been borne aloft j j j and set down upon the ground again without j | j the sligntest harm. I < ! The destructive tornado in Iowa, which j; nearly wiped out the enterprising town of' 1 Grinned, containing 1,100 inhabitants, differ- j < ed little, except in the amount of its desti ne- j ] tion, from its many predecessors and contem- ] poraries. A roar, a flash of fire balls, a crash, i and the frightful monster had passed on. In'< less time than it takes to tell of it, the ruin ; is wrought. For a few hundred feet in width, ] expanding sometimes to a quarter of a mile, ] and even a mile, and for a hundred miles in j length, wherever there are obstacles and objects other than forests, not a structure re- i mains. Occasionally, however, it seems to ; have touched the earth and bounded up again, ' | leaving extensive tracts of land untouched. The work of this demon in Iowa was pecu-1 ' liar in its horrible mutilation of the bodies of | < its victims. A fierce battle with cannonading j, 1 and shells could not have inflicted such wounds i ; or mangled the human anatomy in so singu-1 ' larly frightful a fashion. In some cases the ! clothing were torn off, and the shreds left i ' j clinging to the body lian 10 ue cut away iroui i j the flesh. Dirt, sand, plaster and cinders were | : ground into the flesh, and could not be wash- j ed or scraped away, as if the body had been j i mashed and rolled about under tremendous : 1 pressure in sand and ashes. The bodies were | ' I beaten into shapeless masses; spines were I : driven into skulls and through the top of the J i head ; backs were broken ; eyes torn out of the j sockets and left hanging down the cheeks ;! 4 j the entrails and organs of the body were scoop-! ' ed out of the body's cavities, and limbs pulled I ; asunder. The head of one beautiful girl was I t j so so crushed down into her body, that it had i II to be cut out. Even hens and prairie chiekJ j ens were plucked as clean of their feathers, as 1 ; if they had been made ready for market. Mod, 1 dirt, and gravel were not simply splashed on I to the sides of buildings, but driven into the | * fibre, as if discharged from a cannon. In one | 1 case a stable was lifted, carried over the tops j ? of the tallest trees and deposited on a hill six j or seven hundred feet away, the three horses j ^ in it being unharmed. Indeed the catalogue j - of ruin wrought by the tornado, and the mirac 1 ulcus escapes from its violence, fatigue credu2 lityand defy the imagination. Almost without l" an exception, however, those who were warnB ed by the ominous rush and crash of the storm, JI longenough to run to the cellars, escaped death, t j and with few exceptions all injuries also. : US*" "I can't get up early," said a poor victim | r to his doctor. "Oh yes you can," was the t reply, "if you will only follow my advice. . What is your hour of rising?" "Nine o'clock." i "Well, get up half an hour later every day, and in the course of a month you will find 1 yourself up at four in the morning." BEAUTY RULES. Rule One.?A woman's power in the world is measured by her power to please. Whatever she may wish to accomplish she will best manage it by pleasing. A woman's grand social aim should be to please. And let me tell you how that is to be done. A woman can please the eye by her appearance, her dress, her face and her figure. She can please the ear by studying the art of graceful elocution, not hard to any of us, for by nature we speak with finer articulation than men. She can please the mind by cultivating her own?so far, at least, as to make her a good listener ; and as much as she will. She can please the fancy by ladies' wit, of which all of us have a share. She can please the heart by amiability. Beauty of person is only one feature of true beauty. Rui.e Two.?Modesty is the ground on which all a woman's charms appear to the best advantage. In manners, dress, conversation, remember always that modesty must never be forgotten. There is now-a-days a tendency in women to rebel against old-fashioned modesty. The doctrine of liberty is spreading among us, for which I thank God. But the first effects of that doctrine on our minds are a little confusing. We are growing more independent and more individual. Some t* /? j_t j_ i i__ 3 i. t 1.1 /*_ <_t_ 3i us iancy inano De moaesi is 10 ue oiu-iasnioned, and of course we want the newest fashions in all things. I maintain that a modest woman is the reply of my sex to a brave man? you can no more have a true woman without modesty than a true man without courage. Hut remember, I use the word modesty in a tiigh sense. Not prudery. Prudery is on the nuface ; modesty is in the soul. Rosalind in !ier boy's suit is delightfully modest, but' not very prudish. Rule Three.?Always dress up to your ige or a little beyond it. Let your person be the youngest thing about you, not the oldest. A. very important lesson for a woman of forty. The attempt to dress for young almost invariably leads to a reaction of the spectator's mind, md traces of years become more palpable and more insignificant. Rut a slight and graceful issimiption of years in one's dress has an op>osite effect. Rule Four.?Remember that what women idmire in themselves is seldom what men adnire in them. In nine drawing-rooms out of ;en, Miranda or Cordelia, as novel heroines, .vould be voted bores. Women would say, kWe utterly decline to accept these watery jirls as typical of us ; we want smartness and ife." I don't really care much for Miranda >r Cordelia myself. Now this seems to me to a lit ion us against trusting too implicitly or ,00 far our own notions about oursel ves. Anitlier source of misunderstanding comes from lie novel-writers. We are the novel-readers, ind the novelist is forced to write heroines to mit our taste. He does not want to offend is. Thus it comes about that even the male mvelist is too often only depicting women's women after all. And 1 believe scores of mod;rn girls are seriously misled for this very reaioii. They believe they are finding out what nen think of them, when in truth they are ending their own notions handed hack to hem under a pretty disguise. ' Rule Five.?Women's beauties are sellom men's beauties. If ten men and women ,vere to go into the same company, and eacli >ex choose the prettiest woman there, as they ;hought, you would rarely find that they chose ;he same. If this be so, we ought not to trust mrselves even as to our faces without considering that the sex we are to please must in die end settle the question, and will settle the iuestion in its own way. Rule Six.?Gayety tem'peredby seriousness is the happiest manner in society. By which [ mean, that in all our gayety there ought to be a hint of self-reflect ion. The most agreeible women I have met with?and I think the most regarded?have been women of social position, who have been trained with a due regard for religion. Their worldly education bad made them mindful of grace and liveliness ; the religious education kept these qualities under a particular sort of control, which is perceptibly different from mere good breeding. It seems to me that vivacity and sprightliness are greatly enhanced by a vein of seriousness. Certainly no woman ought to be a mocker. Rule Seven-.?Always speak low. This is obvious. In support ol' it I need only quote Shakespeare, who calls it, "an excellent thing m woman." Rule Ekjiit.?A plain woman can never oe pretty. She can always be fascinating if she take pains. I well remember a man who svas a great admirer of our sex telling me that one of the most fascinating women he had jver known was not only not pretty, but as :o her face decidely plain?ugly, only the vord is rude. I asked my friend, "llow, ;hen, did she fascinate V" I well remember lis reply. "Iler figure," said he, "was it..if liui> /Ivoecii.rr u'-ia f'inlHpSS llPI* PVPl'V movement was graceful, her conversation was . lever and animated, and she always tried to ilease. It was not I alone who called her fascinating ; she was one of the most accepta)le women in society I ever knew. She married brilliantly, and her husband, a lawyer in urge practice, was devoted to her?more than f she had been a queen of beauties." Ilere ivas a. woman who, excepting a fairly neat igure, had not a single natural gift of appearmee. Is not this worth our thinking about? :hose of us women who care to please and are lot beauties born ? Rule Xixk.?Every year a women lives ;he more pains she should take with her dress. The dress of us elderly dames ought to be more of a science than it is. IIow often one tears a woman of fifty say: "O, my dressing lays are past!" "When, if she thought about ,t, they have only well begun. At least the Lime has come when dress is more to her than n-er. Remember, from forty to sixty-five is i quarter of a century?the third of a long life. It is a j?eriod through which a majority )f grown-up people pass. And yet how little pains women take?how little thought beforehand?to be charming then! Rule Ten*.?In all things let women ask ivluit will nlease the men of sense before she isks wiijit please men of fashion. I by no means intend that fi woman is not to have regard to the opinion of men of fashion, only she should not give it the first place. She will carry the men of fashion sooner by metli3ds that please the men of sense than men of sense by methods that please men of fashion. And besides, listen to the men of fashion. They always praise a woman for things which begin to perish at twenty-five. Even the old men of seventy will talk "a fine girl? tleucedly fine figure!" And they will call a woman rather on the decline, when, if she is on the decline, where and what are they? You see if a woman lives for the commendation of men of fashion she will, if pretty, piquant, or what not, have a reign for ten years. But if she remembers that she has charms of mind and character and taste, as well as charms of figure and complexion, the men of sense will follow her for half a century; and in the long run men of fashion will bo led by the men of sense. IIow to Strengthen' the Voice.?Howcan the muscles that aid in the resonance of the human voice be made stronger ? A large majority of the scholars commence with exhausted lungs, and before a sentence is finished the audience is pained in sympathy with the distress of the reader. The voice should be cultivated, and no teacher should allow a scholar to proceed unless the voice can be distinctly heard in all parts of the room. Practice iq>on one word until it is distinctly uttered is better than a page of mumbling that no one can understand, although all the words may be pronounced correctly. Require each scholar to fill his lungs with air in a full, long and deep inspiration, and then let it rush out forcibly, pronouncing a word at the same time. This is an excellent exercise, and if continued for a length of time will give strength ana iorce to the voice. Let the teachers try class drill for a few moments each day, and the embarrassment and restraint the pupils feel at first will soon wear off, and they will enjoy what at first was irksome. Nothing so effectually weakens the voice as a feeble use of it. Let each word be articulated distinctly and pronounced slowly. Let the lesson be related day by day until it is so perfectly known that no attention need be paid to the correct pronunciation, but all be given to enunciation. Exercise in orthopony and ortho'pv should be daily prae ticed, for they form the foundation of elocution. Correct position and continued exercise in singing and residing aloud educate the lungs and do much good by way of averting consumption, and they contribute to good health and long life. Let reading and instruction in reading be the hist thing neglected in our schools ; let them be taken from the rear rank which they now occupy, and placed in the van of the army of accomplishments ; let the chords of the human voice?the sweetest of sill instruments?be kept attuned, and let each teacher now commence, if he has not already, to train himself and his pupils in this long neglected branch of educsition. GEN. LOKING'S OPINION. General Loring, sit one time noted in Egypt, has been interviewed in St. Augustine, Fla., by a Florida Times reporter. The General, though he has been several years absent from Egypt, exhibits a good deal of feeling in regard to the recent catastrophe. He holds England directly responsible for the existing troubles and impending anarchy; and lie regards the bombardment of Alexandria, as, under all the circumstances, one of the most ~ 1 -* 1 1 boa n?nr auoimiuiuie outrages ul which imoluij iku auj record. In tlie bombardment and the extensive tires which followed it, nearly everything that constituted the magnificence of the modern city was destroyed, and lie says that capital will not easily be induced to go in and build it up again, while the Khedive, under the European domination which is sucking the life-blood of Egypt, does not command the necessary resources. The fortifications of Alexandria were built partly under Gen. Loring's supervision, and he is confident that if they had not been caught unprepared they would have given the English fleet a good deal more trouble. "It must be recollected," he said, "that the fleet was inside the harbor to which it would have been obliged to force an entrance had its hostile purposes been avowed at the beginning. This placed some of the strongest defensive works at a disadvantage. The worst difficulty, however, under which the Egyptians labored in their defense was, that their gunners had 110 experience in handling the great Armstrong guns with which the forts were provided." .Said the General: "I warned the late Khedive, Ismail, that these great guns would be useless unless he had men who knew how to work them, and that the only way to teach them efficiently was by actual practice. But as it cost about a hundred dollars every time one was fired, the Khedive felt that the expense was more than lie could staud. The result was that when the shock of battle actually came, the firing was wild and ineffective. I can assure you that if the Egyptian gunners had been as experienced as they were brave, the English fleet would have had a serious time of it." To the inquiry whether any effective resistance could be made by Arabi to the march of an army towards Cairo, the General replied that there were no fortifications between Alexandria and Cairo, but that a good deal of trouble and* delay could lie caused by the destruction of the bridges across the Rosetta and Damietta branches of the Nile, both of which have to be crossed in going to Cairo. As far as Cairo is concerned, it is not a fortified city and is of no use for defense. The General said he had no faith in Arabi Bey's ability to fight a regular European army, es- ? pecially the Khedive against him dividing the loyalty of the soldiers. But the strength of Arabi's cause lies not in his power to fight an English fleet or an Anglo-French army. It lies in the sense of wrong 011 the part of an industrious and long suffering people, who are victims of a slavery immeasurably worse than any ever known in the South. Arabi's revolt is but the symptom and expression of this sense of wrong; and even though Arabi may be defeated, the conflict will never really end so long as the life-blood of the Egyptian fieople is drained to satisfy the exactions of foreign bondholders." General Loring said lie went to Florida to write a book on Egypt, but he had not written a line yet. Chinese Anecdote.?A man who was accustomed to deal in marvels, told a country cousin of his that he had three great curiosities in his possession?an ox that could travel five hundred miles a day ; a cock that tells the hour of the night, and a dog that could read in a superior manner. "These are extraordinary things, indeed ; I I must call upon you and beg a sight of them," 1 said the cousin. The liar returned home and told his wife what had happened, saying that he had got into a scrape, and knew not how to get out. "Oh, never mind," replied she, "I can manage it." The next day the countryman called in, and inquiring after his cousin, was told that he had gone toPekin. "When is he expected back ?" "In seven or eight days." I "How can he return so soon ?" "He has gone upon our ox." "Apropos of that, I am told you have a cock | that marks the hour." j A cock just then happened to crow. "Yes, that is he ; he not only tells the hour ! of the night, but reports when a stranger conies." "Then, your dog that reads books?might I beg to see him ?" "Why, to speak the truth, as our circumI stances are but narrow, we have sent the dog to teach school." The City of Alexandria.?-'The imputation of Alexandria, Egypt, has increased from 0,000 a century ago, to 300,000 at the present day. The modern city is built on the isthmus connecting the mainland with the Island of j Pharos and on the island itself. The new streets, like the Hue Kas-el-Teen and the Hue J de Median, present the aspect of a European ! city, but in the Turkish quarter the streets are narrow and dirty. The new embankment I along the eastern harbor, and the new build| ings on the great square of Mehemet Ali have added greatly to the attractiveness of the city. The palace of the Pacha and the lofty harem first strike the stranger's attention on entering the city. Among the other large buildings are the custom house, the medical, naval and other schools. The Place Mehemet Ali, or grand square of the consuls, where the greater part of the massacre in the recent riots took place, is the centre of European Alexandria. The older houses recall those of Italian seaports. On this square are the principal hotels, banks, cfo<imeiiiit nffipps and the dwellings of most of i the consuls. At each extremity of the square is a fountain, which at sunrise and sunset are surrounded by Arabs performing their abluj tions. The Pacha's palace is finely situated, facing the sea, and is surrounded by beautiful gardens. The grand staircase is of Carrara marble. The buildings of the Harem stand i opposite the palace. Tiie Xose and the Face.?A somewhat | singular fact has been observed with reference ; to the shape of the nose, or rather the setting ! of it in the face, so to speak. To be strictly j correct from the artist's point of view, the ! nose should be accurately in the middle of the j face, and at right angles with a line from I the pupil of one eye to that of the other. As j a matter of fact, it is rarely or never thus I placed ; it is almost invariably a little out of Hip "miijire." and the fact of its being so is \ often that which lends .a peculiar expression j and piquancy to the face. A medical writer ! points out that there are anatomical reasons | why a slight deviation from the true central ; line may be expected, and that the nose which is thus accurately between the two eyes may i after all be considered an abnormal one ; the ! only absolutely true and correct organ being, ! in fact, that which deviates a little to the right ! or left. Blessed are the Puke in Heart? , The poor soul sitting in the dim chamber of | unregenerate nature cannot, through such J darkened windows, see the divine. To the simple-minded and holy, the face of (lod is I visible, seen in providence, in trial, in worj ship, in life, and in the hour of death. These are the blessed ones; happy are they who are. j thus living in the enjoyment of the Lord's presence, and are neither afraid nor doubtful, ; because he who is.,stronger than all, and bet! ter than all. is so evidently near to bless and saV0'