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lewis m. grist, proprietor. | % fiikpeniiienf Jkmil|j ftcfospajjcr: Jfor f|t |)romotion: of t|e |jolificaI, Social, ^{jricnlhiral anb Commercial Interests of % Sonttj. ] TERMS?$2.50 A YEAR, IS ADVANCE. VOL. 39. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, JUISTE 14, 1883. 3^O. Q4. fleeted f flcttg. THE VISION. The following exquisitely beautiful poem was written by James Hislop, once a shepnerd boy, but afterwards a school teacher. It was written near the grave of Richard Cameron, who fell at Aird's Moss, in Scotland, on the 22nd of July, 1680. To those having a correct knowledge of the events which transpired in Scotland during the reign of Charles II., and especially to those who , . know the history of Cameron and'his followers, the poem is fall of tender pathos. Richard Cameron and manv of his followers fell struggling against fearful odds for civil and religious liberty. On the 3rd of June, 1680?less than two months before the death of Cameron, they pub/ lished to the world the following Declaration: "We do declare that we shall set up over ourselves and over what God shall give us power of, government and governors according to the word of God ; that we shall no more commit the government of ourselves and the making of laws for us to any one single person, this kind of government being most liable to inconvenience, and aptest to degenerate into tyranny." Near one hundred years after the publication of this Declaration, the American people, by their chosen representatives, adopted its sentiment and published it to the world, calling it "Thk Declaration of Independence." In a dream of the night I was wafted away, To the muirlands of mist, where the martyrs lay ; , Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen, Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green. 'Twasadreamofthoseagesofdarknessantt Diooa, When the minister's home was the mountain ana wood; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east, Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntabl e the clear shining dew, Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven, near the white sunny cloud, P The song of the lark was melodious and loud, And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and ^ deep, \ Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep. ^ And Wellwood's sweet valley breath'd music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness ; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning. But, oh! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings, Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings, Who drank from thescen'rv of beauty but sorrow For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying Conceal'd 'mong the mist, where the heath-fowl was crying, " For the horsemen of Earlshnll around them were hovering, " And their bridle reins rung through the thin inisty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was unbreath'd; With eves turned to heaven, in calm resignation, They sing their last song to the God of salvation. The hills* with the deep mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody aibd 'mid derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter. Though in mist, and in darkness, and fire, they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded, Their dark eves fiash'd lightning, as firm and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is ?' * rending. The nmskets were flashing, thoblueswords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlandsthe mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud dear*Anr)pf! Its drivers were angels, on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzled like gold of the seventh refining, ? And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the horsemen , are riding, Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before you, A crown never failing, a kingdom of glory! f he Jfottj Setter. PESBHYJf'S WARD. "I don't want to seem impertinent, old fellow, but I should really like to know how you happened to do it ? I should, by Jove!" "Got married, you mean ?" "Why, yes; you were old enough?" "To know better, eh ?" interrupted Larry Penrhyn, knocking the ashes off his cigar. "Precisely," answered his friend; "and you see, nobody expected it of you, because - f ~ 2 T 1 1 you were so certain 01 remaining a uacueiur, and gave everybody your word for it." "When I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I would live to be married," quoted Penrhyn, yet with a reflected cast in * his eye to satisfy one that something more rational was to be expected. It was a cool night, and there was confidence burning in the coals upon the hearth, and the two men sitting beside it, with the tobacco between them, were old cronies. Time and circumstances had drifted in between them, but for this one night, at least, they were together again, and sat talking as women are said to talk to each other of the hidden life, but as only men can, because of common morals, common manners and common follies. "I really could not help it, Tom," said Penrhyn, looking hard into the fire. "It really seemed the only thing to do at the * time!" ' It was rather a strange reason to give for " so grave an event, but looking into the calm, strong face of the man?taking into consideration the massive, intellectual brow, the ? firm, yet tender mouth, one might know * that it could be nothing less than worthy a true and honorable gentleman, however anomalous in form. "You want to know all about it!" at last, lie said, with a laugh, and blowing up a foi; of blue smoke around him he settled deeper in his armchair, as if the story was not a short one. "Well to begin with, my wife is the daughter of Halstead Scot, whom you doubtless remember." Now, indeed, did blank surprise sit upon the countenance of Penrhyn's friend, who did remember Halstead Scot, whose stupendous rascality and breach of trust had convulsed a city, and of whose miserable selfmurder the world yet talked about. "I do not wonder that you are surprised that I should have married the daughter ol such a man, especially as that man was not supposed to have a daughter up to the hour of his death ; but hear the story, and reserve your judgment until you get the case. "About six mouths previous to Scot's suicide, when his irregular practice was only being hinted at, softly, among the knowing ones, he came to my office one day and wanted me to join him in the prosecution oi some cotton claims against the government. "I thought it rather queer that a man in his position should approach me?scarcely a full-fledged barrister?with propositions ol such magnificence, but, more out of curiosity than any actual idea of taking hold ol the matter, I asked for time to look into tin ' case. "The papers were old, yellow, apparently without a flaw, and involving millions o dollars, yet I concluded that, in justice t( % j my own clients, I could not undertake to \Pork in the case. The next thing that i came was Scot's suicide, and the papers rang with his attempted fraud, his forgery and the complaints of the people wnose 1 moneys he had held in trust and speculated away. At this point in the unhappy , man's history, my real connection with him began. The morning following his death i there came to me, through the mails, a 1 letter reading something in this wise: i 1 " 'Larry Penrhyn?I believe you to be an honest man. I therefore give the" inclosed pa| pers into your keeping, feeling sure that the secret they contain will be safe with you, and t^at you will protect from all painful knowledge" the being whose life they so vitally concern. (Signed) Halstead Scot.' f'Now comes the most singular part of the story. The papers inclosed were a certificate of marriage between Halstead Scot and Gabrielle Wyndham; government bonds to the amount of thirty thousand dollars, registered in the name of Gabrielle Scot, and the necessary directions for finding that person. "Two days later there came to me another letter, written in a cramped, oldfashioned and feminine style, from which, as I oDened it. there fell out a printed slip cut from some newspaper, and" giving an account of Scot's unhappy end. The letter itself was scant of words and ceremony, and briefly stated that Scot had informed the writer that in case of his death I was to act as Miss Gabrielle's guardian, and requesting earnestly that 1 would see my . ward at my earliest convenience, and this letter was signed?Patience Wyndham. "Fortunately for my curiosity and the exigencies of the case, I could get away from town just at that particular time, and as there really seemed no way of decently abandoning the trusts without betraying the dead man's confidence, I started off at once. "It was a romantic little country place at which I found them, with mountains all around the half-hundred of houses; the church, the store, the tavern that formed the village, and near a little waterfall, that was a waterfall, not because some fellow with an eye for picturesque effect had built a dam across its course, out because there was an abrupt descent in the rock at that Eoint, I found Miss Patience Wyndham's ouse. "I had fetched her letter with me, and upon sending it in with my name, I was immediately admitted to the presence of a stately dame, whose attire was copied from some Quaker ancestress, and whose very countenance and manner bespoke her name?jraTience. out; hskcu me a ^icai many questions about Halstead Scot, which 1 could but answer with the meager, unpleasant truths that formed my stock of knowledge respecting the man, and them it came her turn to talk. She told me that years ago, when she was but eighteen, her mother died, leaving her at the head of her father's household. In one year after her father married again, and hfteen months later both he and the new wife had gone the way of all flesh, leaving Patience, at twenty, alone in the world, with an infant sister three months old to aire for, and an income that only, with the strictest economy, could be made adequate to their needs. "Well, for twenty years this woman, putting her youth and everything that is natural to it under her feet, was mother, sister, everything to Gabrielle, who grew from babyhood into a lovely girl, doing only 'her duty,' with unconscious heroism, and giving me the record as if it were something scarcely worth the telling, only that it was necessary to explain. "As I said before, the child grew up to be a lovely girl, fair and graceml, pure and good, and the faithful sister found all recompense now for what at first must have been all sacrifice, in this only thing of kindred blood left her. "At length there came a young lawyer one summer-time to fish and hunt in that quiet country place, and before Miss Patience quite came to realize the danger the heart of he* sister-child was won from her, and the couple were married. "To make a long story short, this young lawyer was Halstead Scot. Six months he spent happily with his young wife, then he went away, and, although he wrote her occasionally, he forbade her always to join him, and so the fair, frail creature laded day by day, until the hour when her baby came struggling into life, and then shut her weary eyes forever on a world wherein she had grbwn so sadly tired?wherein she had learned the bitterness of unfilled graves, and death that renders not unto dust?and Patience Wyndham was once more left to fill the mother's office to a worse than orphaned child. "Fifteen years passed, and, stirred by a reeling or remorse, Dy a reiiiemurniice ui ms okl romance or what not, Scot came once more to thfe little village under the mountains. He refused to see his daughter, and told Miss Wyndham enough of his own career to satisfy her that it was wisest so, but the week following his visit, a pure white monument, inform of a broken column, was erected over his wife's grave, and every six months during the remainder of his life there came regularly a certain sum of money to Miss Wyndham for the support of the young Gabrielle. "This was the whole of the story, as that sweet old saint told it to me, and naturally I grew extremely anxious to see the child of romance, over whom 1 was so singularly appointed guardian. ""'The child does not know her father's history,' said Miss Patience, 'and I could wish she might remain always in happy ignorance of it,' and then the child came in. "She was fair-haired, slight, blue-eyed, araceftd, shy, with nothing of her father about her in appearance or characteristics, and affrr a few days I came home, not in love with my ward, as you suspect, but thinking her a pure, innocent child, wonderfully born of such a father, and really not dissatisfied with my guardianship. "In fact, my charge was no burden to me while Miss Patience lived, and the thirty thousand dollars made all clear for the fu ture, I imagined, with a man's wonderful understanding of a woman's needs ; and so for three years, placidly the time went on ; then there came a note from Gabrielle herself, announcing the serious illness of her aunt, and I went hastily away into the country. "I found Miss Wyndham dying; her noble sands of life were almost told, and there will be few whiter robes in heaven than that she wears.. She had no fear for herself in that passing away ; only a great thought, reaching out into the future for the young girl whom she must leave alone in a world where her saintly eyes had seen much neither good nor true. "I promised all that I could and while the dying woman seemed to trust me, sne understood better than I how little equal to i the protection of a young girl's life an uni married man can be, and wa$ but half satisfied when the final moment came, i "Poor Gabrielle was distracted ; she clung > to me as a brother. I pitied her, but I myself more, because she took no thought, and I did, of the future which now loomed up before me like a terrible problem, to which the thirty thousand dollars offered I not the slightest clew of solution, f "What to do with her now 1 did not know. ; 1 had no near female relative; I had not even the traditional old nurse to help me ( out of the dilemma. My business was suffering from neglect, and yet 1 could not leave this clinging grief-stricken girl alone and unsettled in this first space of her deso lation. 1 "1 finally determined to ask a widow F j lady, who was a distant relative of Halstead , Scot, to take immediate charge of his daughi ter, but before writing to her I thought it , | would only be kind in me to consult my F ward in the matter, and learn if there were any other arrangement possible more conF genial to her own mind. ?I "She came to the interview looking most j fair and fragile in her black dress, and lis toned attentively to my proposition. Then r the tears which lay very near to her eyes in > I those sad days pushed their way from under the terse-drawn eyelids, and rolled heavily over the white young cheeks, and she said, ] in a trembling pitiful way: " 'Then I cannot live with you, Mr. Pen- i rhyn ?' J "I had rather pronounce the death sentence in a thousand cases than to be obliged ] again to meet the emergency that started < out of those innocent eyes at me; but some- s thing had to be done then and there, and I i had rather have tried modern strangulation in my own person than to have explained s to this pure child the reasons why she might 1 not live in my house as my sister, when j there seemed no other home?no heart in j all the world that held for her kindly feel- 1 ingsave mine. ] "So, as I told you in the beginning, it 1 seemed to be the only thing to do at the i time, I asked her, as gently and delicately as I could, to marry me. < "It came very sudden to her, and espe- l daily so to me; but she consented, not that 1 she was greatly in love with me any more i than I with her2 but because her quiet, 1 straightforward life had taught her none of the hollow sentihnentality of pride that 1 would have led her to question my sincerity, ] or the prospect of forming a connection that i held no romance, but only the continued < society ana irienasnip 01 one wnuiu ner i aunt had held in respect and trusted. 1 "Immediately, and beside Mias Patience's new-made bed, blanketed with a drift of sweet syringa bells, we were married, I feeling at least content that the sainted dead would rest now quietly from her labors, if her spirit might look down upon us two made one." "And?I beg your pardon?but did it turn out well ?" asked the listening friend, his cigar burned down to within a hairbreadth of the blonde mustache, and smothered recklessly with a long white ash. "Turn out well! Why, Gabrielle and I have grown to love each other to a degree that makes the slightest separation unhappiness to both. There are two babies, anaLord love you, man. I guess it did turn out well!" and the smoking Tom tumbled the long, white ash into the gayly painted saucer at his elbow, and murmured, somewhat cynically : "After all, it was an experiment!" "TRYPHOSA." "I say, Bert, were you off for that yachting excursion to Norway?" Mr. Bert Davenant was yawning over his newspaper in the pretty Mount Desert cottage which was all Eastlake angles, bamboo easychairs, and fluttering awnings. He was a handsome, dreamy-eyed man of somewhere between thirty-five and forty,?and as Captain Percy checked his horse in front of the rose draped railings 01 tne ience, ne niieu , liis eyes serenely. ! "I don't know that I shall go at all!" , said he. . i "Eh!" cried Percy. "Not go? Why, I thought the plan was all reaclV to go into ] completion just as soon as the Dido swings ] around this way!" ? "Nothing is certain, except taxes apd ) death," epigrammatically retorted Mr. . Davenant. Captain Percy stared, with rounder eyes j than ever. "You don't say, old fellow." quoth he, ( with a sudden catching of the breath, "that , you're going to be?married !" j "Worse than that," said. Davenant. "A j man is generally supposed to have the priv- , ilege of choosing a wife for himself?but I am made a legal guardian to a young woman against my willT" "Eh ? said Percy. "Now don't think me 1 impertinent, Bert, or inclined to pry into ? what does not concern me, but how on earth ] has this come to pass ?" } "Don't know myself," said Mr. Davenant, j leaning on the porch rail to watch the errat- j ic course of a gold-green beetle which had dropped down from amon^ the honeysuckles and was now making its energetic way through the high grass. "It happened? : that's all I know about it. Colonel Barry j died, somewhere in New Hampshire. He ( was a good fellow, Barry was?I don't see why on earth he couldn't have made up his . mind to live. We were great chums one J summer in Scotland. I knew that he was a j widower with one child, but I never troubled myself especially about his domestic affairs, j And you can imagine my surprise last week j at receiving legal notification that the poor . fellow was dead, of yellow fever in Florida, and that I was named as guardian, execu- J tor, and all that sort of thing, to the little j girl!" "Whew!" softly whistled Captain Percy. , "Name ?" Davenant winced, as he answer- ' ed: i "Tryphosa!" j "New England, all over," said Percy. "Age ?" "Don't know. Never asked. About nine- . teen or twenty, I suppose. Or perhaps seventeen?or fourteen.'' . "Your ideas are rather vague on the sub- j ject, aren't they ?" questioned Percy with a laugh. , "Perhaps so?but how on earth am I expected to know anything about it?" "Pretty ?" abruptly asked Percy. ] "I haven't the gnost of an idea." "Of course she's pretty," said the captain, thoughtfully twisting off the head of a great : pink-hearted hollyhock with his whip-lash. : "And, of course, you'll fall in love with her, : and marry her. Guardians always do." "Very likely," said Davenant, with a ! little shudder. "No use fighting against fate, you know." "Poor fellow," said Percy, with genuine compassion. "Well, I wish you well through it, Bert. 1 merely wished you to 1 know that I am off for Canada next week." ! "Suit yourself," sighed Mr. Davenant. "When does the unknown princess ar- ; riva'"' I "Some time this week." "Perhaps I shall be back in time to call i and see her," suggested Percy. "Pray do," yawned our hero?and once i more he fell into a day dream over the < newspaper, from which he aroused him- 1 self at the end of the half hour with a deep < sigh, and the exclamation : "Pshaw!" ( Which was followed up by the confession: . "I can't for the life of me, fix my attention on anything else! Why did he die? s Why couldn't he have sent her to boardingschool? Now, I shall have to send for old i Aunt Tessie to matronize her, I suppose, and the house will be full of sheet music, battledores and shuttlecocks, and dolls! O, ] ye Fates, what have I done to deserve this?" lie had just commenced on a letter to i Mrs. Tessie Trott, his old aunt, that after- i noon, when a sturdy knock rattled against the panels of the outer door. "Come in," said Mr. Davenant, forming with his pen the words "rely upon your j never-failing kindness" before he looked i up. There, straight before him, stood a tall ! woman, gaunt of figure, sallow of complexion, with a preposterously false row of little chestnut curls across her forehead, a poke bonnet, and a carpet-bag stuffed to its i utmost limits. "Much obliged," said Mr. Davenant, with the invariable courtesy wnicn lie evinced to women on all occasions, "but we don't want anything to-day." The female sniffed ominously. "Oh!" said she, "1 ain't a book agent." "No?" said Mr. Davenant, still on the : letter to Aunt Tessie. "I'm Tryphosa!" i "I beg your pardon," said Davenant, dropping his pen. "You remarked " t "I'm Tryphosa,?Hunt Barry's darter. < You expected me, didn't you?" i "He must have married very young in- ; deed," said Mr. Davenant to himself, as he : surveyed this extraordinary person who i could not have been under forty. "Or perhaps it's a stepdaughter after all. A guard- ] ian! I think it is I that will need the I guardian, if this women comes into the! house." All these reflections flashed, lightning- i like, through his mind as he hurriedly rose i to his feet. "Oh, yes," he .said, "we expected you. But?you are not in black ?" "Hain't got my mournin' yit," said Tryphosa. "Rome wasn't built in a day, you know!" "Colonel Barry's death was very sudden," politely remarked Mr. Davenant as his iuick eye took in the dusty leather boots, soiled cotton gloves and green gingham imbrellaof the fair orphan girl. "Wal, yes, I s'pose it was," said Tryphosa. "But we can't none of us expect to live brever. I'll go up stairs to my room ii you'll tell me where it is. I do b'lieve I've swallowed my peck o' dust to-day, ridin' on she top of that everlastin' old stage-coach. [ don't see what folks wantto live in a place ike this for, at the very end of creation with lothin' on earth but salt water to look at." Mr. Davenant rang for his housemiad tc jonduct the strange guest to her room, murnuring something gracious about her cup ol sea, and a little repose being comfortable ifter a journey, and then sunk back, appaled, into his chair. "Battledores and shuttlecocks! Dolls?" vas all that he could gasp. "What will Percy say ? Though pemaps she will make ne marry her in spite of fate! Women can io anything, I'veneaM! Perhaps it would De the safest plan for me to go to Norway with the yatcntingparty after all." Just at that moment a light carriage drove ip to the door, with Captain Percy trotting reside it, on horseback. "I've brought her, Davenant!" he whispered, radiantly. "I met her at the depot, baking inquiries for Eagle's Eyrie Cottage! rhe sweetest little jewel in the world. Old ?hnn. T envv vou !" "\Vhat do you mean ?" demanded Davelant. "Miss Barry. Your ward !" "Are you crazy ?" said Davenant. "She ias come. She's up stairs now. You have picked up some imposter !" "I'll stake my life on her truth and innocence," vehemently declared Percy, as springing from his horse, he flung open the carriage door. A beautiful young girl of sventeen, with eyes like limpid pools of wine, silky black tiair that curled all over her head, anei cheeks just tinted with the softest shade o: carmine stepped gracefully out, and extended a slim, black-gloved hand to Mr. Davenant. "My father's cherished friend!" she said softly. "Oh, how can I thank you for the noble generosity which is willing to receive [lis orphaned child!" Davenant felt like one in a dream. "Yoi ire " lie began?and then paused abruptly. "I am Tryphosa !" "Delighted to welcome you, I am sure,' said Mr. Davenant, sinking deeper anc leeper into perplexity. "But who is the respectable lady who arrived here half ar lour ago, and called herself Tryphosa ?" "It's Aunt Tryphosa," crieel the brunette neauty. "Oh, what will you think of us, Mr. Davenant? I was in hopes that 1 should anticipate her arrival?but she ha* - '* '1 iVk/"v aama mo nnrl \tri11 nAl lUVttJ'S Jlitu LUC UllC Ul 111C) uuu n u? iivri *ive it up, even now! She wanted to telegraph from Rockland this morning, but 1 Durned the telegram. I came by boat, yoi know, and she by stage! If it will not inconvenience you too much, Mr. Davenant please?please let Aunt Tryphosa stay! Because she is fond of me?and I shall be getting a situation or something, very, verj soon, and then we can maintain ourselves!" "I will do whatever you ask me to." saic Bert Davenant, utterly vanquished by the pleading magnetism in the deep, liquid eyes And just then Aunt Tryphosa came down stairs, her false curls brushed out, her handkerchief scented, and wearing a pair o stiff shoes which cracked like a windmill ir i gale, and a new series of greetings anc introductions ensued. "Took me for your ward, did ye?" saic Aunt Tryphosa. laughing heartily. "Well 1 hadn't no idea of deceivin' you. I be Hunt Barry's darter?but Tryphosa's fath sr and gran'ther both had the same name :lon't you see?" >. Captain Percy postponed his trip to Can ida indefinitely. It was a great deal pleas inter to stay and excursionize around th< rock-bound shores of Mount Desert witl Bert and his lovely ward?Aunt Tryphose invariably accompanying the party with s life-preserver, a bottle of camphor, and f pair of blue spectacles. But it was he wht proposed to pretty Tryphosa, after all?nol Bert Davenant?when the season was ovei and they were all returning to the city. And so our hero abdicated his rights o ^uradianship, not without relief. "Perhaps it is just as well," said he "This business of special guardian was turn ing my hair gray." And Aunt Tryphosa accompanied hei niece as house-keeper, friend, and genera factotum. "We can't be parted, me and Little Try phosa," she said. "Not if she was marriec i dozen times over!"?Shirley Browne. THE DISAPPOINTED HEIR, An expert in physiognomy would hav< found no difficulty in classifying the tw< men, Richard Hanley and John Lalor, a; they sat eyeing each other suspiciously, and from time to time, glanced furtively abou as though distrusting the very walls. Th< first he would have told you, was unmis takably a villain of the higher class as th< latter was of she lower. "Now that the thing's done," said Lalor in his coarse, brutal way, "isn't it abou time I got something on account?" "You must remember," replied the other UI haven't received the money yet. Ther< are certain legal forms?" "Legal fiddlesticks! Murder, consider ing the risk run, ought to be a cash job L'ome, I must have at least a hundred dol lars, Dick?a mere trifle you must own, t< a man just come intosuch a fortune." "You forget the difficulties still remain ing. As yet it is only a case of 'mysterioui [lisppearance.' How am I, let alone others to ne assured that Mark Pennington i: [lead ?" "Haven't you my word for it ?" brok< aut Lalor, bringing down his fist; "and bj Jove no man shall dispute that!" "T don't dispute it; but for Heaven's sak< speak lower. I only meant?" "Besides," pursued Lalor, not heeding tin apology, "if you want proof, there it is." Hanley inspected a costly gold watcl which the other took from his pocket anc laid on the table. "Ho you roooea as wen as? "Murdered hiin," added Lalor,-supplying the word at which Hanley baulked. "Win not make the most a of bad job ?" "What did you do with the?" Agair Hanley hesitated. "The body ?" suggested Lalor. "Threv it into the bay. The tide has carried it fa; enough by this time." For some minutes Richard Hanley wa: silent, seeming buried in reflection. "Well," interrupted the coarser ruffian "what about the hundred I've asked for?' "I have no money at present," was th< answer, given quietly. "Come here to-mor row night, and I'll see what can be done.' "See that you have it then," growled La lor. "If you and I quarrel it won't be wel for one of us !" When John Lalor had gone, carrying with him the watch. Richard Hanley's fact was a study. The look of malicious cun ning it wore was simply diabolical. "I must get rid of that man," he mutter lhI, "or submit to incessant blackmailing." That very night a secret communicatior set the police on John Lalor's track. Ili: character was such that it needed but a wore to do this. He was caught and searched and 011 his person was found a watch bear ing the name and identified as the property of Mark Pennington, a young gentleman o wealth, whose mysterious disappearance had excited much attention within the past few days. Of course Lalor was held on suspicion which ripened into conviction when it wa* innounceel shortly after that Mark Penning toil's body had been found floating in the water, gashed with wounds which left lie doubt that his death had been the result of I foul play. j s By the recent death of an unmarried : d . brother, a year or two his senior, Mr. Pen- a nington had fallen heir to a large fortune, t He might now have made bold to avow his f i love for Sylvia Melroth, the rich merchant's s daughter; but an estrangement had grown e up between them because Mark fancied that i Richard Hanley's attentions were preferred fc in that quarter to his own. And with the f i double purpose of seeking relief from the ' sorrow caused by his brother's death, and s i distraction from the pangs of jealousy, he s i was on the eve of departing on a foreign t , tour at the time of his sudden disappearance, r i Richard Hanley had the entree to society, r for he was by no means accounted such a a villain a* we have introduced him to the i reader. It would, as already intimated, 1 have required an expert in physiognomy to t f penetrate the disguise of his smooth hypo. nrifinal f-ifp TTp wns Murk Penninetoil's t second cousin and nearestsurviving relative; and when the news of Mark's murder came t ' out, many were the congratulations shower- < I ed upon Mr. Hanley, apropos of the great i wealth to which he would succeed by his t kinsman's death. I He became a favorite, now, with Mr. Mel' roth, to whom he opened his mind on the A subject of Sylvia. But when Mr. Melroth ? s broached the n atter to his daughter, she * ; gave way to a shower of tears?partly, no . doubt, through sorrow for poor Mark's mem- j ory, and partly from indignation at Richard J , Hanley's assurance?for she had always as * ! cordially liked the one as she had despised 1 i the other. c. After many evasions and prevarications, j John Lalor came out with a story so strange , and improbable that it removed from the J minds of all the last shred of doubt as to his i guilt. j s It was that he had been instigated by r Richard Hanley to remove the only obstacle ' between himself and a rich estate, by the T , crime of murder. This crime he protested i ! he had not committed ; but instead had seized and overpowered the man he had un- f -1 i-~ 1 o av i^nKKi i ueruiKeii IUwnuin, iuu??ing ^ : him, he had afterwards dragged to a place \ 1 of secret confinement, from which he had j f purposed releasing his prisoner as soon as he had secured the promised reward from his employer, by convincing the latter that ( he had performed his agreement. } , But when asked to reconcile this account ( i with the discovery of the body, Lalor could , i say nothing; and a search of the place in j which he alleged he had concealed his vie- t i tim, revealed nothing to corroborate his in- j credible statement. As for the part of it j implicating Hanley, that was set down to , sheer depravity. ; ?-?1 : i > ^isccllanrDus fading.! ) A PROPHECY THAT WAS FULFILLED. j ! An old woman who passed in the country 1 L for a sorceress, once dwelt in a humble cab- j ' J? -" 4-l.n a? Q+ Oavman Ono nvnn. < j. 111 111 W1C ll/icat \JL Ul/? u^xiuaii* v/uv vtv/u- ^ ing, while the rain fell in torrents, she ' heard a knocking at her door, which, hastiL ly opening, she saw a cavalier, who craved 1 hospitality. Putting his horse in a shed close at hand, she bade him enter, and by the light of a smoky lamp observed that her guest was a young gentleman. His person bespoke , youth; his dress was that of a man of rank. . The old woman asked the youth if he [ would have something to eat. 5 A stomach of sixteen years is like a heart of the same age, eager and easily pleased. 1 The young man assented, and a bit of cheese I and half a loaf of bread were brought from 1 the cupboard, all the provisions the old wo} man had. 1 "I have not much," she said to him. . "This is all I have to offer a chance visitor after paying taxes and the excise on salt, I without taking into account the neighbori ing country people, who called me a sorceress and disciple of the devil, in order that ' they may steal with an easy conscience the products of my small garden." " "By my soul!" said the stranger, "if I j were King of France, I would suppress J these imposts and thus benefit the people." t "God hear you," responded the old woL man. At these words the young man approach} ed table to partake of his frugal supper, l but at the same instant another rap yft the r door arrested his attention. The old women opened it, and saw anf other cavalier drenched with rain, who also asked shelter, which was granted him, and who, having entered, she saw that he, { ' too. was a vouner man end a noble. i "What.'"you" here, Henry?" said the 1 r newcomer. ' <, j "Yes, Henry," said the other. 1 Each called the other Henry, and the old woman learned from their conversation 1 j that they belonged to a numerous party of i huntsmen led by King Charles IX, and i which the storm had dispersed. 1 "Old woman," said the second comer, s "hast thou not something more to give ?" ] "Nothing," replied she. i "Then said he, "we will divide this." ) The first Henry made a wry face, but 1 observing the resolute eye and sinewy pres- i . ence of the other said, in a voice of chagrin, < "Divide it, then," and there was behind i the words this thought, which he did not ' venture to express: "Divide, but deal < fairly." 1 They seated themselves opposite each : other, and already one had cut the bread i with his dagger when a third knock was < heard at the door. The rencounter was 1 singular; this was another young man, 1 another nobleman, another Henry. The - old woman looked on in grim surprise, i . The first wished to conceal the bread and < iv _ 1 1~ ~,.A U 4-UA i cneese, ine seconu rupmifu it uu tic uiuic j ) and laid his sword beside it; the third i Henry smiled. ; "You do not wish, then," said he, "to 5 share your supper with me. I am very , tired and equally hungry." i "The supper by rights belongs to the first comer," said the first Ilenry. i "The supper, said the second, "belongs 7 to the one who can best defend it." The third Henry colored with anger and J said fiercely: "Perhaps it belongs to the one who conj quers it." These words were hardly spoken when 1 the first Henry drew his poignard, the 1 other two their swords. As they were about to come to blows, a fourth knock was heard and a fourth young man?a fourth ? nobleman?a fourth Henry, was introduced. r At the sight of drawn swords, he drew his own, placed himself on the side of the i most feeble and attacked with force. The old woman in dismay concealed herself, for r the clashing swords seemed determined to r strike whatever came within their reach. Soon the lamp fell, went out, and each s struck in the dark. The noise of the swords lasted some time, gradually sub, sided, and finally ceased altogether. ' Then the old woman ventured to leave i her hiding place, relit the lamp, and saw - the four young men stretched on the floor, ' each wounded. .She examined them; fa- 1 - tigue rather than loss of blood, had sus- > 1 pended animosities, and raising them- > selves, one after another, ashamed of hav- t r ing fought over so trifling a matter, they f i laughed, and the first Henry said : r "Come, let us renew good feeling by par- i taking of this supper together." f But when they looked for the supper, it c was found on the floor, trampled under foot t 1 and mixed with blood, which, simple as it s 5 was, they regretted. t I Glancing to the other side of the cabin, \ , they found everything bore the marks of t - their violence, and the old woman seated in i r i the corner, fixed her reddish-colored eyes t f| upon them. I 5 j "Why do you look at us thus fixedly ?" r fc said the first Henry, whom this glance r troubled. t , "I see your destinies written on your fore- j; > heads," she replied. i: The second llenry rudely commanded her i i to reveal to them what she saw, while the c > others only laughed. She answered : j "As you are all four united in this cabin,! t o you will all four be united in the same j i lestiny; as you have trampled under foot' ] nd mixed with blood the bread that hospi- ir tility offered you, so you will trample under j ] oot and mix with blood the power you will ] ? hare; as you have devastated and impov- j 1 rished this cabin, so you will devastate and j i mpoverish France; as you have all four j 1 ieen wounded in the dark, so you will all j 1 our perish by treason ancla violent death." i < The four young noblemen laughed deri- 1 ively at this prediction, as they flung her j! omegold and prepared to leave the cabin, >ut the sequel testified to her prophetic >ower. These four nobles were the four heoes of the league, two as its chiefs and two . is its enemies. Henry of Conde, poisoned by his servants. j Ienry of Guise, assassinated by the forty- ( ive. Henry of Valois (Henry III.), assassinaed by Jacques Clement. Henry of Bourbon (Henry IV.) assassinaed by Ravaillac.?From the French of Fredric Soiilie. OX THE TRAIL. To properly understand the country in vhich the Indians range, and its difficulties, ays an army officer, suppose a case as folows: An outrage has been committed. Troops, accompanied by scouts, start, say welve hours late, in pursuit of the perperators. They march on the trail twentybur hours and "strike" water for the first ime where the Indians have camped, and >n leaving have fouled the spring, throwing n old hides and filth of all kinds, so no wa;er is to be had. The stock is allowed to fraze for a few hours, and then with scouts n front trailing, the pursuit is resumed, [t is no Broadway promenade or a pleasant ide on a New England macadamized road. The hostiles have chosen the roughest part )f the Mountain range, always in a position vhere they can see and observe the sur'ounding country for miles. The trail runs lp and down rises of more than forty-five legrees angle and through passes and cannons where ten determined men with jreach-loaders could defy a hundred. Lucky s the officer in command that he has no Anglo-Saxon foe to contend with. . This foe s cowardly and will not fight unless he has ivery advantage on his side and the troops lone. Had the Apaches, on more than one jccasion, had the necessary pluck, massacres ,vould have occurred that would have astonshed the country. Many an officer of the sixth and Ninth cavalry would only have a*v?Ka??a/1 Kit < ?? nKiKinm' nnfJon nf JCCU ICJliClllUClCU VJ 4111 UI/UUUJIJ MWU'V bur lines, ending with "killed in an affair tvith hostile Indians." The trail now probably leaves the moun:ains and runs across an alkali plain of great ength to another range of mountains. If ;he troops reach this plain in daylight it ,vould be folly to go on, as every man and inimal could now be seen by the outposts md runners that the Apaches generally eave behind and on either flank of their parties. It is now thirty-six miles without .vater, and still a march of many miles to each a known spring. The troops halt, lorses are unsaddled, mules unpacked, and nen and stock kept out of sight in the footlills of the mountains. At sunset the march is resumed, the Inlians trailing in the dark almost as well as iy daylight by use of touch. Picture a long ine of Indians, silent as death, in single lie. Ciosely behind them come the caval y, and behind them the pack truin. The inly sounds heard are the steps of the animals on the rocks or hard earth, the muffled Inkle of the bell on the bell horse of the lack train, accompanied by the occasional jrack of a packer as some mule shows a tenlency to leave the column. Xo smoking or alking is allowed. Suddenly the Indians lalt, the trail is lost, the line breaks, spreads )ut like u fan and in the dim stariignt men ire .seen on their hands and knees feeling :he ground. After a time some Indian will rise, perhaps away off to the right, and a soft "Hisli!" is heard. The trail is found ind the command runs forward in the new lirection. It is all nightwork, and the men nive been almost without sleep for forty3ight hours. It is a long time since the stock have been watered and the strain is jeginning to tell on both man and beast. At daybreak the mountains have not been eached toward which the tmil runs, and ;he command hunt a depression in the plain >vhere they can rest unseen. Signs of liard iding on the part of the Indians have b&en :ound in a number of killed and abandoned ponies. In the matter of a mount they have j very advantage over the troops. If a pony jives out he is at once killed or abandoned, md another stolen to replace him at the irst opportunity. Should a trooper's horse jive out he has to dismount and lead him, tie cannot steal. Toward evening ascoutruns in and reports 1 i. t.?: r+ water, ms renueu cmueuii piuui. ?u is off the trail about ten miles, but it is now sixty hours since water has been had, and :he animals must have it. The trail is ibandoned at sunset, and the command pushes as hard as tired men and leg-weary in i ma Is can for the point where water is reported. On arriving the water is found :o be in a water hole, and strongly impregnated with alkali. Halt! The men tumble iff their horses without command; a guard is put on the hole to keep out the mules, whose bump of self-interest is more hugely leveloped than that of any other animal, liuman or otherwise, that exists, and they ilways break for water, to the detriment of ill, if not restrained. The men and scouts irink what they want, canteens are refilled, the horses are then watered, and after them the mules. And now take a look at the young officer in command. He wears a flannel shirt, a iirty, hard-looking canvas coat, and a dirty pair of soldier's trousers. His head gear is i coat that has seen better days. ILis men ire attired similarly, but their arms are hrio-hf ?inri in p-ond order. Loss of sleep, I"'b"v """ ? o- - . joupled with anxiety, make him look haggard and worn. He knows that no thanks ire to be given him if successful for risking liis life, save perhaps an empty complimentary order which is only known to the army, incl ten chances to one he will not get that. If killed, his immediate friends are the only people that will mourn his loss. No promodon awaits him, thanks to the present retirement laws. His captain is probably old or fat, or cannot ride, and the other troop officer is on a "soft detail" in the east. He is doing :he work of three officers, and this scout may, like many others, result in two or :hree hundred miles of hard marching, with terrible privations and no result. He is carrying his life and those of his command in his hand, but he does not shrink from the task. Renewed and invigorated by the tvater, ho signals the command to mount, ind the force sweeps forward to renew the pursuit. The story of the march is the same scarcity of water, the trail leading in a direction to bring about this result, and avoidng any possible chance of being approached .vithout the pursuers being discovered long jefore they can come witnin srnung uis:ance. On the other hand suppose that by good or tune and night marching the Indians are so closely pursued that they cannot escape vithout a tight. The trail leads to water, 1 he commanding points around which are brtified with breastworks built of stone. ()n ush the scouts, who are leading. The trail s "hob" now, and they cast aside all superluous clothing and spring forward like cats 1 >ver the rough ground in nature's garb, with < he exception of a breech clout and mocca- . ins. Wildly excited, they scatter all over he hills endeavoring to find shelter from 1 vhich to deliver their fire with effect. The < roops have their horses in a safe place and i nove forward iu extended skirmish lines, 1 rying in some way to flank the hostiles. < t is a fight now to the death. Officers and 1 nen know that if wounded, and the com- < nand is repulsed, a horrible death awaits 1 hem. Probably two days without water, < naybe three, they are fighting for that as . nuch as anything else. The scouts are fight- < ng for plunder and pay, the troopers be- 1 ause it is their duty. The hostiles in im- : iregnable positions, unapproachable except . hrough narrow passes, pour in a fire so hot md searching that in a few minutes every Indian and soldier is behind some shelter, fhe tight lasts all day, or until a flanking tarty, after long and wearisome marching, ?ets near them, then the Indians withdraw .heir stock and squaw s, the former freshly vatered. The troops find the water fouled tpon its capture, and have to wait until :ne spring is cleared and refilled before the exhausted stock is watered, and by this time :he hostiles are miles away, probably in Mexico. WHY FARMERS DOS'T PROSPER. Not long ago I found a brother farmer in i very bad way. He said that it had actulily come to it that a man could not make a !*? *?-> /I/M1M fvt r O n/I if ll n Living 1U.1 llllllg 111 tlll^ WUllU J ? CV1114. iJL J1V, L'ould find anybody to give his land to, he was going to hunt new grounds. I was sorry for him, for he did look powerfully longfaced. Says I: "Have you tried to make a living farming?" "Have I tried !" he said, with a look that indicated that I was a fool. "I have worked myself and folks nearly to death, and we have been getting poorer every year." "That is strange," says I; "some people do make a living right here in this country. I have not found it hard to do." After taking a long look at me, he said : "I carried my last cotton to market the other day, and when I went to so uare up I was left in debt for meat and bread last year, and now I have got everything to buy this year. Them merchants just take all a poor farmer can make, and then they ain't satisfied. We all work hard and have nothing, and we are always in debt. This is no country for a white man." As he said this his voice trembled and he shook. It made me real sorry; for he is a good, hard working man. Said I: "How do you manage, Zeke Pitkin? Do you make a good garden and have plenty of vegetables in their season ?" Looking down at his feet, he replied : "Do you reckon 1 have nothing to do but paddle in a garden ? I tell you it is all I can do to work my crop." "Well," says I, "you have been on the same place fifteen years?reckon you have lots of fruit of different sorts to eat in summer and fall and put up for winter." "I reckon J ain't. I need my land for my crop." "Do you raise plenty of irisn and sweet potatoes to do you? "Plenty, while they last, and that ain't long." "Do you keep cows to give you milk and butter?" "Sometimes." "Does your wife raise many chickens and turkeys, and such like?" "How can she when she has to help with the crop ?" "Do you make plenty of corn, oats and hay for your own use ?" "Of course I don't, when I am obliged to plant a full crop of cotton to pay my debts and buy something to eat." Several fellows sitting around said: "That's what's the matter with Sallie." Says I, "Friends I want to tell you what is the matter with Sallie, and Mary, and Jane, and Tom, and Bob, and Zeke here, and all the rest of you. You say you can't make a living, and the truth is, you are not trying to make a living. You are trying to make money by raising cotton to buy a living with, and there is 110 reason in that. Now, listen to me a little, for your own good. You and your's work the year round to make cotton and then you get your meat from one thousand miles away, corn, llour, hay and so on come the same way. L lie Yankees sen tneir grass at a gooa price, and we work ourselves to death to killgrass. If you will do as I tell you, inside of three years every one of you will be easy." Several of them spoke right up and said, "Let us hear it." "Very well," says I. "Go home, and to-night get your wives and children all around you and tell them just how you have been doing, and how it has worked. Then say, 'I propose to turn over u new leaf. First we will not spend one cent we can help, not a cent for tobacco, whiskey nor clothes more than is necessary. We will get cows enough to give us plenty of milk and butter, and we will attend to ihem, and we will get some sows and pigs and look after them. There will be a good garden and plenty of chickens raised. We will plant plenty of potatoes, corn, and whatever is to live on. In short we will go in for making a living first, and something to sell next.' You will find all will agree to it. Then just stick to that for three years, and my word for it, you will never say again that a living can't be made in this country. Now if you doubt it come to see me, and I will show you that it can be done."?Obed Farmer in Baptist Record. above a iwakenu xemi'jsst.? me writer was one of a half dozen persons who took refuge last Sunday evening in a little observatory on Lookout Mountain Point during the fearful storm. Entranced with the scenery east of the mountain and part of the time shut off by the wooded summit from a glance at the west, a hideous storm-cloud had gathered unobserved by us, and was rushing its frightful proportions toward our place of refuge. It was rolling 011 with awful rapidity. We could not retrace our footsteps and escape. Our only hope for shelter was in the observatory. We entered. Just think of it? Six persons seeking safety from a storm in a small 19x20 frame house which stands right 011 the verge of a preciEice two hundred feet high. O, heaven, ow I shuddered and shrank down, with horror when I glanced at the coming tornado through one window, then crossed the room to another and looked down, down, down through the tops of the trees to the foot of that mighty precipice and contemplated being overturned by the raging elements. The thunder pealed terrific blast after blast, until the huge rocks beneath us seemed to quiver at the grating sound. In another moment the cloud swept over the mountain beyond and the valley beneath, then around the brow of Lookout below our refuge, like a vast, unpent ocean. The forests Lowed before it. The rumbling, crashing, roaring din sounded like an avalanche of worlds. For awhile we were literally above the storm but the clouds at length gushed around the observatory, filling our room full of dense vapors through a broken window, and death to our entire party Tim 11.5lmwlnrl 11 hnut SCCUICU lllUVliam^* Xiiv niiiviiivii 1UV4MWVHV us and lashed our frail refuge with brush, huge limbs, sticks and other things which A it hurled up from the west side of tne moun- jAB tain. Gale after gale struck the building and harder and harder each dashed until the cracking timbers seemed to portend our early plunging, house and all, two thousand feet down through the mighty, convulsed WM ocean of cloud and air. The fierce, raging storm gradually ceased ;rM a id just at sunset, though the rain still poured, we started down to the city. For a ^Bj half mile along the mountain top we drove V through clouds which seemed to us to be fairly melting into sheets of water. ^ Ancient Wakfare.?In the days of hand-to-hand lighting, when missile weapons were employed by a comparatively small portion of tne combatants, the vanquished were generally almost annihilated, and the victors suffered enormously. At Cannte, 40,000 Romans out of 80,000 were killed. At Hastings, the Normans, though the victors, . - , ? -?aa 1 _ J. OA AAA lost 10,090 out oi 6u,uuu, ana at crecy, ov,uuu Frenchmen out of 100,000 were, it is asserted, killed, without reckoning the wounded. When the Hint-lock reigned the average of the proportion of the killed and wounded in ten battles, beginning with Zorndorf, in 1758, and ending with Waterloo, was from one-fourth to one-fifth of the troops present on both sides. The heaviest loss was at Zorndorf, where .'12,916 men out of 82,000 were killed or wounded. It was also very heavy at Eylau, being 55,000 casualties out of 160,01X1 men. In the campaign in Italy, in 1859, rifles were used on both sides, and we find that the proportion of casualties to combatants was at Magenta and Solferino one-eleventh. In the I ranco-Prussian war of 1870-71, when both sides were armed with hreech-loading rifles, the average proportion of killed and wounded at Worth, Spichelen, Mars-le-Tour, Gravelotte, and Sedan was one-ninth, the heaviest loss being at Marsle-Tour, where it was one-sixth, and the smallest at Sedan, where it waaone-twelfth. A thenaeum.