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lewis m. grist, proprietor. J An U itbejjenbcnf J^miln ftefospajicr: jfor Ijif promotion of 1{)C ^political, Social, ?,?rintlfitra[ anb Commercial Hitfcrcsfs of lljc Soatlj. |terms--$2.50 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 30. YOEKYILLE, S C., THTJfRSDAY, JANUARY 3, 1884. ^O. 1. |In Original ftfltg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. CELESTINE. THE STORY OF A MISTAKE. CHAPTER I. "Sarah Mathewson, have you heard the news?" "News? No. I've heard none." "Do you want to hear it?" "Shouldn't wonder if I did. News is scarce now-a-days." "I'll give you ten guesses and bet you don't guess right." "Oh, sho! Mary Ann, why do you bother one so? You know well enough I ain't nn hatter at cuessin' than a old blind horse. Can't you say your say out and be done with It?" "Say, are you in a hurry ?" "Course I am. Ain't I always in a hurry? It's nothing but drive, drive with me from raortrin' till night. And here you keep me waitin' to learn this fine news of yours. I hope it'll pay wheul do learn it." "Well, I'll tell you, if you want to hear it so bad. It's just this?Mr. Warren's going to be married." "Mr. Warren! Oh, pho. You're jokin'." "Not much, ma'am. Well, if you're astonished at that, I'll tell you something that'll astonish you still more. Mr. Warren is married, already." "Sakes alive! Mary Ann; are you crazy?" # "Just as much in my sober senses as ever, Sarah. It's gospel truth, though you mayn't believe it. But I ain't surprised at your disbelief. When Miss Latimer told me, . you could have knocked me down with a feather, I was that taken back. 'Mr. Warren !' says I, 'Miss Latimer, it can't be true.' Says she, 'It is true, Miss Lundy, sure as you are standing there, for I've got the news direct." "Oh, Miss Latimer told you, did she?" "Yes, and I guess she ought to know." Well she ought, if any body does. Let's set down here in the shade, Mary Ann, and you tell me all about it." And Mrs. Mathewson, apparently forgetoUa wao in o Vtiif??*\r rlonncit/ifl hPf uug uiai sue ?ao Jin a uu&ij) uvpvu*?.v%? **w. selfcomfortably on a bench, placed for the convenience of weary pedestrians beneath the branches of a straggling tree at a street corner, and prepared to be enlighted. Mrs. Lundy, however, a brisk, lithe little woman, preferred to remain standing. "Oh, land! there ain't anything more to tell, as far as I know. Miss Latimer was 1. awful shut up about it, or else he hadn't told her much. She just got a letter from him last night, saying he was married and going to hring his wife home, and to have things ready for them; and that's about all of the matter." "And when are they coming?" "Oh, in a day or so, I guess. He'll be here by Sunday." "That's good; then we'll see her at church. Say, did you hear who she was?" "Some French name, Miss Latimer mentioned?I can't recollect it, I'm sure." "A French icornan, too! Well, well, well!" "Mind you, Sarah, I don't say she is a Frenchwoman," said Mrs. Lundy rather severely, "and don't you go saying I did. I only remarked that her name sounded foreign?" "French, you said." "Well, sounded French. I ain't a French scholar, nor a scholar of any other foreign languf^gesr and so much the better, as far as my opmion goes; so I won't be certain even about her name. But be it French or be it Portughee, or whatever else, it don't follow that sne ain't American born, does it ?" "Of course not," rejoined Mrs. Mathewson, meekly. "Then we won't be sure whether she's native or foreign, till we know more about it. All I can say is, that if Mr. Warren has gone and married a foreigner, he's got less sense than I thought he had." "So I say too," answered Mrs. Mathewson. "I've no opinion of foreigners, more especially French." "I think they arc a nasty set," said the emphatic Mrs. Lundy. "And they are all Roman Catholics." "Well, Mr. Warren surely wouldn't marry a Catholic, and he a Protestant minister!" "Nobody knows what a man'll do if he once gets taken in. Protestant or Catholic, it would be all the same. But I can't stop here talking any longer?I've got ray ironing waiting for me at home, and nobody to look after any thing?so good-bye." "Good-bye," reflectively answered Mrs. Mathewson, as she picked herself and her big market-basket up, and prepared to depart. Mrs. Mathewson kept a boarding-house, where, for a moderate amount, clean beds and good plain food could be obtained by those whose means did not permit them to seek the more aristocratic shelter of the "Independence Hotel." Mrs. Lundy took in washing, and had a mortal antipathy to the Chinese, who had lately begun to infest Sandville, and whose "dirty little wash-houses," as she termed their laundries, had been the means of depriving her of some of her customers, who found they could get their washing more cheaply done by celestial hands. Miss .Latimer, a respectable spinster who had for many years presided over the Rev. Silas Warren's bachelor establishment, shared Mrs. Lundy's anti-Chinese sentiments, and would not, on any account, have deprived the latter of her patronage. It was during the process of sorting and counting the week's clothes in the Rectory kitchen, that the information concerning Mr. Warren's late astounding feat had been communicated and received. Mr. Silas Warren was already N)n the shady side of forty, and up to this time had been regarded as a confirmed old bachelor. He was a grave, austere man, of such retiring habits that few of his parishioners felt on intimate or confidential terms with him, though all could testify to his kindness and unselfishness, and many to acts of special benevolence when special cases called for his aid. Miss Latimer, who best knew him, pronounced him a saint, and none cared to controvert her statement. But Miss Latimer's opinion of his saintliness had received a shock ; her faith in him was greatly shaken?unavoidably shaken? by tlTe peculiarity of his present conduct. Reflecting upon it, her reflections even caused her to shed tears; but she wiped them away in order to read and re-read the unsatisfactory letter which she already knew by heart. Unsatisfactory it was, because so brief and so bare of explanation. This was all it said. "My dear Miss Latimer: "I desire to communicate to you a piece of information which, no doubt, will cause you some surprise. I was married this morning to a voung lady with whom I have become acquainted since my arrival at this place, Miss Celestine Beaupre. She is very beautiful and accomplished Will you be kind enough to prepare the south room for her use, and see that everything i-s in order, at once, as we may leave here any day. I trust to you to arrange things suitably for'her reception. We shall be in Sandville by tho end of the week, perhaps sooner. I hope everything in the parish is going on well. With kiiid regards, I remain "Sincerely yours "Silas X. Warren." Every time Miss Latimer perused this letter-Kir note, as it might rather be called? she shook her head, and sighed dolorously ; not once, but several times. Every time she set about her usual occupations, she began to cry, because shecould not help thinking about Mr. Warren and his new wife, and it was a sore subject to meditate upon, especially the last half of it. What was she like ? Would she be pleased with her?Miss iAitimer?or would she object to her old-fashioned ways? Miss Latimer knew she was old-fashioned, and prided herself on it. Mr. Warren was old-fashioned, too. Would the young wife attempt to reform him ? No doubt she would ; and then trouble would ensue. Miss Latimer felt that * j she could never stand by and see him "put ! upon." She would not allow herself to be I put upon, either. No doubt Mr. Warren j would be inclined to side with his wife, i though he had known her only a fortnight, ! and had known Miss Latimer fifteen years. And she must be a foreigner, judging from her name?a real French name, Miss Latimer was sure, from the prefix de. She did not share Mrs. Lundy's violent hatred of all foreigners?the French were certainly not as bad as the Chinese?but she did not put confidence in them. Americans, or good honest English, were certainly preferable. Her own mother had been English, and she, therefore, could say nothing against them. But the French!?and the worst part of the affair wa3 that this lady was a stranger?she must be an entire stranger to him. How could he venture upon marrying a person of whom he knew nothing, or next to nothing ? He must have been inveigled into it, some way. Such imprudence was inexplicable; committed by a man of Mr. Warren's prurient narpfill hnhita it, w?S simnlv astound V.V...V, V-.V. , .. ... itig. The more Miss Latimer reflected upon it, the more mystified and unhappy she became. Nevertheless, there was work to be done, and she did it; for she was not the woman to shirk her duty. There was the south room to be got ready?the south room, which had been shut up, as a sort of sacrea retreat, ever since Mr. Warren and herself had occupied the house. And now this interloper was to use it! The furniture, without spot or scratch, must be rubbed over; fresh curtains must be hung up, and immaculate, snowy drapery, redolent of lavender, piled upon the bed. Miss Latimer sighed over the work, but it was faithfully done. She wished her labor could have have been expended in a better cause. The room2 when its arrangement was completed, was, in her eyes, a perfect bower of beauty. Then the best parlor had to be carefully swept and dusted, "though she'll hardly go so far as tfc*?5t to keep this open, except Scompa^V" thought Miss Latimer, as set the chairs in martial array against slate colored walls, placed the books on the center table at right angles, and fondly handled the china ornaments on the mantle piece. The best parlor was even more sacred in her eyes than the south room. But what availed the sanctity of either? Both were shortly to be invaded, and she was powerless to resist the invason. On Friday morning she received a telegram. "Expect us at 4..30 this afternoon." The crisis was at hand ard she braced her nerves to meet it with becoming firmness. In the first place, a good dinner must be cooked. She would broil a pair of chickens. Mr. Warren was fond of chicken?whether or not the new wife was fond of the same, she neither knew nor cared. She would also make a pudding, though pudding was usually reserved for a Sunday luxury. It was well, perhaps for her peace of mind that she had these preparations to occupy her during the early part of the day. As four o'clock approached she began to be conscious of a nervous sensation; but she knew that it would not do to give way to her feelings now. On the contrary, she must summon all her dignity and self possession to her aid. Any display of weakness would give the new comer an undue advantage over her. She attired herself in her best black silk gown and muslin neck-hankerchief; gave a final glance at the dinner table, which was set out with the blue and white china, and looked very grand; then took her seat in a willow rocking-chair near the front window, whence a view of the street, for a considerable distance, could be obtained. If Miss Latimer could have put into words the idea she had conceived of the general style and appearance of Mr. Warren's bride, this would have been the description they conveyed: A dashing person, young but entirely self possessed, with a snowy figure, a bold manner, a handsome face, a fine dress, and a general air of carrying all before her. The conception made her shrink but it had fixed itself in her mind and she could not get rid of it. It seemed to her that only this sort of vnnnir Inrlv could have found couraire to besiege the bachelor fortress; for oddly enough, it did not once occur to her imagination that Mr. Warren might possibly have taken the initiative. She could not help regarding him as a helpless victim entangled in a snare. Four o'clock struck; and fifteen minutes later she heard the distant shriek of the railway train which was to bring the travelers. "In another quarter of an hour," she remarked to herself, "they will be here." And precisely at half past four a carriage drove up the street, and stopped in front of the ministers's little white gate. Miss Latimer, with a beating heart, open- J ed the door and advanced to tne iron: sieps. From the vehicle alighted first Mr. Warren, who then proceeded to hand out a slight figure dressed in the deepest black, with a long crape veil concealing her face. The greetings were over directly. Mr. Warren, a little hurriedly, shook hands with his housekeeper and presented "Mrs. Warren," who silently held out a gloved hand, then in an undertone asked that his wife might beshown her room. With a curious feeling of surprise, and perhaps a little disappointment at the overthrow of her preconceived ideas, Miss Latimer instantly led the way, the bride following still shrouded in her veil; nor did she remove it until after the door was closed and she found herself alone. Such is the perverseness of the human mind, that the housekeeper, though she had before dwelt with repugnance upon the picture she had inwardly drawn of a lively and fashionable foreign-looking being, was vexed to find Mr. \\ arren's choice the absolute reverse of her anticipations. "A gay and festive-looking bride, truly!" was her serene comment. "All swathed in black, and not even able to hold up her head or say a word ! Much joy she'll bring j into the house, judging from her looks. 1 feel already as if 1 had just come from a funeral." After what seemed an unreasonable delay, during which Miss Latimer fidgetted in the fear of the dinner being spoiled, Mrs. Warren appeared, for the first time affording to eurious eves a view of her face. "Not even pretty," was the housekeeper's decision ; yet somehow her heart softened at the sight of the pale delicate features and soft dark eyes bearing the traces of recent tears. 8he looked very weary and i very sad; but her manner was gentle and courteous, and it was a relief to lind that she spoke without a foreign accent. To Miss Latimer's disappointment, the dini ner was scarcely done justice to, the bride ' having no appetite, and Mr. Warren a ppearj ing too anxious in his consideration for her to think much of his own needs. Even j the pudding was sent away almost unI tasted?a proceeding which caused indig; nation again to get the upper hand of symj pathy, for by the next day it would be i unfit for use, and Miss Latimer hated to see : good things wasted. i A few words spoken to her privately by j the minister, later in the evening, soothed her ruffled feelings, and enlisted herkindlier | sentiments in the stranger's behalf. "I have no doubt, Miss Latimer," he I said, "that my marriage is a great surprise to you, and perhaps, considering that there was no previous notice of it, it may have I caused you something of a shock. But j though 1 have known my wife a compara! tively short time, I know her sufficiently i well to be thoroughly aware of her merits, i and to be convinced of the wisdom of my j choice. You perceive that she is in deep j mourning. -She lost her father, her only ! living relative, two weeks ago, and is still ! overwhelmed by her loss, as is quite natural. Previously to that event I had been greatly attracted by her, and what I saw of her afterwards confirmed the impression she had made upon me, so that I had no hesitation in asking her to marry me. Under the circumstances, it was imperative that our engagement should be a short one; hence the impossibility of my giving you p notice. I need not ask you to be very gen- r< tie and considerate of her feelings. She has w need of all your sympathy, especially while tl her surroundings here are so new and snrange. 11 As to your usual duties, you need fear no h interference on her part, for she will gladly leave the direction of household matters to h your judgment." v "And I am sure, sir, I will do all I can to tl make her happy and comfortable," replied Miss Latimer, greatly mollified, for Mr. k Warren's little speech had taken quite a t< load off of her mind. Since she had no in- si terference to dread, and no fine-lady airs to n resent, she was disposed to live with the s< minister's wife on the most friendly terms. "She's iust as nice as can be," she remark- 1< ed confidentially to a friend, soon after- tl wards, "and never disputes my judgment, h But she's queer, too, in some of her notions, sj Would you believe it ? She no sooner set T foot in the best parlor than she went to work ft to put everything topsy-turvey?moved out the chairs, helter skelter, all over the r< room, set the things on the table crooked, fc and carried away the big red and white a traaaa frrvm tho mnnfAlnirv>p vvhf>rP t.'hev've I D V UOVU A A. Vill VIIV AAJVIta n .... v A always stood, and put them Lord knows tl where, out of sight. Then she says to me, d 'I suppose I may bring my sewing in here ?' k so innocent and child-like, that I hadn't the tl heart to object." I h il CHAPTER II. I Perhaps the very best account of Ihe circumstances which had led to Mr. Warren's o sudden marriage may be found in his wife's n diary, written soon after her arrival at her h new home. "V Sandville, Cal., Aug. 30th, 18?. Little \ did I think, when I closed this journal last, n Where and amid what surroundings I would d open it again! So much has happened since I made the o last entry in these pages, that I scarcely c know how to begin my new record! So y wonderful is the change in my whole life, a that I seem to have lost my own identity, v and I sometimes ask myself, am I really the tl girl who, a few weeks back, was the happy b Celestine de Beaupre, with scarcely a care v save that of my dear father's failing h ealth ? tl Alas! that care is 110 longer mine. It is one month to-day since my precious father s was taken from me, suddenly and almost y without warning. At least, I had no foreshadowing of the event, though I have n since thought that to him it was not unex-1 b pected. I have recalled certain words wnicn n he uttered at various times within the last t few days of his life, which seem to indicate d that he did not expect to live much longer. S' Among other things, he said to me only the d evening before he died? a "Celestine, my child, there is one thought s which haunts me continually, and causes me c much disturbance; and I think the time has f< come for me to speak to you of my earnest b desire in regard to it. I nave thought that h a profession such as yours, is a dangerous, 9 very dangerous one for an unprotected girl, g and only my continual presence and watch- p fulness, which have been your safeguards, a have reconciled me to allowing you to pur- tl sue it. I wish you now to make me a sol- a emn promise that if I am taken from you, e you will at once abandon it and seek some ti other employment." o I laughed?so little apprehension did I h feel of losing him! h "Dear Papa," I said, kissing him, 'I will b promise anything you like; but why speak n of sneh a thinff now? As lone* as I have g I you with me 1 need make no change, nor think of making any." b "No, dear?not while I am with you," he a rejoined; and then he sighed. "But I must o have your promise," "he added presently, o "Seriously, you must give it to me, Celes- t< tine, whether you ever have to fulfil it or e not. It will make my mind easier." ti I was so accustomed to humor him in his 1; little fancies, that I easily granted his wish, p I gave him my faithful promise, as he de- " manded ; then left him, thinking no more fi of the matter. a At daylight the next morning I was sum- s< moned to his dying bed. By six o'clock he I had breathed his last. * * * His last fl word to me was'Remember!' * * * v Anyuxt 31.S/. I could write no more yes- a terday ; the recollection of that dreadful r< scene overcame me. g In a previous entry of my journal, I have 1' mentioned Mr. Warren, among other visitors at Cedar Springs. On learning my be- tl reavement he came to me at once. * * * a His behavior was admirably kind. With- e, out intruding needlessly upon my grief, he a showed so much sympathy that I could not b help feeling him to be a true friend. He f< took upon himself the whole direction of n the funeral?1 myself was incapame 01 ?i- n recti ng anything^ almost of thinking, for I ft was stunned?and performed the ceremony ; ft and when it was over he talked to me a c< long while, and so beautifully, lie told me I many things I had not thought of before, tl and I felt that all he said was right and true, h though it could not heal my wound. He h was with me a great deal. I soon began to I feel as if I had known him for years. tl At last, one evening, when he had made n me go out, a little way with him, to get some fresh air, which he said I needed, he ii said that he wished to tell me what would e surprise me, he knew, and perhaps even of- h fend me very much, though he hoped not. n "Offend me," I repeated. "Oh ! no, Mr. 11 Warren, you could not offend me by any- "S thing you might say." b "Would it not offend you, then," he said, c taking my hand, "if you knew that I, being 11 almost a stranger to you, were presuniptu- n ous enough to cherish the tenderest love for h you?even to hope that you might return si it?" ' a I looked at him. I was stricken dumb. "Because," he went on, pressing my hand A to his breast and speaking with vehemence, t< "I do love you, Celestine. I have loved you v ever since we met. If you will marry me, ti I will love you faithfully always; I will v spend my life in trying to make you happy. s< It is true that I am much older than you h are, but none the less will I make every joy ri and every sorrow of yours my own, and my tl longer experience of the world will make si me the fitter guide and protector of your t< youth. Oh! child, you might roam the f< wide earth overand find no truer heartthan h I mine ; and I?where could I find your si equal?" /< I think those were his very words. I I know every syllable he uttered impressed sl itself clearly and distinctly upon me, though n I felt as if I were listening to them in a n dream. I had not, for an instant, imagined 11 such a feeling on his part. I did not in the ^ least know how I ought to respond to it. I ti certainly was not conscious of loving him? A then. But I had a sort of idea that it was h imperative upon me to do as he wished. My 11 predominant feeling toward him was grat- b T 1 1_. i.:.., i,;0 h nuue. x mm uevpiy graieiui w mui ??.?* -kindness; and I felt instinctively, also, that tl I could trust him fully. No one could look i' in his face and not feel that. 1 believed him ^ when he said that his happiness depended ; on iny decision. And then I was, nut for h him, so utterly alone! It flashed over me that iny dearest father would have chosen such a lot for me?that of becoming the wife I. of a good, true man who would spend his! a life in caring for my happiness. j u I asked him for a little delay?a little ! I chance to think. He granted it instantly; i it and I went hack to the house and up to my ft room, to try and steady my whirling brain. | h My thoughts were all in confusion, and it j fi was hours before 1 could arrange them in i r< anything like order. It was no use recall-1 h ing the past. I had the future to look for- j (J ward to?the present to decide upon. Sup- i li nose I refused Mr. Warren, what alternative | a lay before me? A life of uncertainty, of j b toil, doubtless of poverty; for what resource J a had I but the profession which I had sol- i ii emnlv promised to abandon? Again, 11 tl felt that to marry him simply to ward off: d an evil, would be doing him a grievous I ft wrong. I knew him to be worthy of my t< love. Could I give it to him? I question- a ed, or tried to question my heart. I believ- it ed that I would learn to love him in time, tl Then suddenly came the thought of my v ast life. Would he, knowing what my ca?er had been, be willing to have me for his rife '? I decided to tell him the truth, and len, if I found that the knowledge of it lade no difference, I would agree to do as e wished. September 3rd. I was interrupted when I ad got so far in my account of past events. I nil take up the thread of my story again? le story of the turning point of my life. When I saw Mr. Warren on the day folnving his proposal, I was fully prepared to ill him, as I had decided, what my profeson was, or rather had been. I even comlenced to give him some account of myilf, when he stopped me. "Celestine," he said, "I entreat you to >nve all that, for the present. If you knew ie overwhelming anxiety and suspense I ave endured since last evening, you would pare me the pain of farther uncertainty, ell me, child, at once?what is to be my on lie i'\ As he looked earnestly upon me, and I sad that in his eyes which I could not misike?a love deeper than I had dreamed of? love that I had scarcely believed him enable of?that grave, quiet man !?I felt for le first time a ?*rill-*it my heart?the awning of a sudden new emotion. Yes, I new at that instant that I did love him? iat to lose him would give me actual pain, put aside all thought of the confession I ad meditated?haa he not himself stopped ; ??and putting my hand in his, I tola nim would be his wife. "Then," he said, "we must be married at nee. You will have no scruples about that, ly child ? You see I cannot leave you ere, lonely as you are?and why should I ? 'ou have no one to consult, neither have I. Ve are both alone, but for each other. Let ly home become yours without needless elay." Well, he talked it over, and urged it upn me; and the end of it was, I felt like a hild in his hands. His will was so strong, et he was so tender through it all, I Duld not resist him. And three days afterwards, we were married, very quietly, in he landlady's little parlor, with her husand and herself and one other per* n as witnesses. That was on a Tuesday, and on he following Friday we came home. Homer?yes, it is really my home now. till I have not learned to feel at home in it et. I suppose I shall, in time; First, I must describe the outward apearance of the place. Sandville is a little are town, appropriately named. There are iw trees here, and hugesand-hills surround he settlement, which consists of a few long rearv looking streets with rows of prim, quare houses mostly painted brown, with usty gardens in front. Two of the streets re planted with eucalyptus trees along the idewalks, otherwise there is no verdure exept in the private gardens, and they are arlorn-looking as a rule. So much for the eauties of Sandville. As to the Rectory, it 3 a house much like the rest. It has six quare rooms, a front and back porch, and a ood sized yard enclosed by a paling-fence, icket fence, I believe it is called. There re a few shrubs and flowers in front, but hey have a neglected look. I shall try nd take them in hand. I have leisure nough, as I do not have the housekeeping o attend to. That department is presided ver by an elderly lady who has been ousekeeper and a sort of compaion to my lusband for a long time. She is peculiar, ut kind, and. seems well disposed toward rie now, though I fancied she did not reard my coming with much favor. When I entered the house I was struck y a deplorable stiffness and formality in 11 its arrangements, and a melancholy sort f shut-up air, in all but one or two of the Dinmonly-used means. I have been trying j remedy these evils?for to me they are vils. I love bright and cheerful and picaresque surroundings; ugliness absolutely hurts me. I do not aire for luxury, but rettiness of some sort I must have. The best parlor," as Miss Latimer calls it, is jrnished with mahogany and hair-cloth, nd papered with a hideous shade of gray; j to counterbalance these disadvantages have put just a gay rug or two on the oor, hung crimson lambrequins at the windows, moved a little rocking-chair and straw work-stand there out of my own Dom, and keep flowers, of any sort I can et, always on the table. So it looks less ke a prison than it did at first. Hut oh, the dreariness of the first two or hree days! I may as well confess it?I was bsolutely sick witn desolation. I cried my ves nearlv blind whenever I was alone? nd vet it\vent to my heart to see my husand's sad, troubled face whenever he >und me in distress. And lie is good to le?so very, very good. For his sake I ave tried hard to overcome my sad, lonely ielings. Yet at the thought of my dear ither, and of my past life?so strangely ontrasted with this?they often oppress me. am beginning to feel better, however. I hink, by degrees, as I get to be more at ome, 1 shall grow contented and even appy here. Silas is truly devoted to me. t seems so odd to me to call him by his rst name, hut it is his wish, and I try to aspect his wishes in everything. My past, now, seems like a dream. Looklg hack upon it, recalling the gayety and xeitement and insouciance of it all. I feel ow happy 1 was, how entirely it suited le. I never minded the work?never. To le it was no hardship, but a vivid delight. I 'et, perhaps, in all respects it may not have een a wholesome life. This idea never ocurred to me until lately, 14ut I am getting ew ideas. Silas teaches me things I used ot to think about. I begin to feel that I ave been, in some ways, very ignorant. I hall try and learn of him, for he is as wise I s he is kind. J September 4th. I cannot overcome the ieling that I ought to have insisted upon illing my husband all about myself, before j ,'e ever married. It is true that I could not nd an opportunity, or at any rate, that it ould have been very difficult for me to do 3. After my first attempt, there was such aste and confusion over my sudden mariage, so much to occupy my every moment, tiat I was in a constant twirl. I could arcely even think. I seemed all through, 3 be acting in obedience tosome irresistible >rce, without any volition of my own. I ad never, in my life before, felt so helpless, 3 carried along by circumstances?by my (te. And now, since I have been his wife, am really afraid to tell him. lie is so trict in his views, that it really frightens le to think what the result of my confession light be. I do not think he would despise le?he loves me too well for that; but he ould certainly despise my former occupaon. it would hurt him to know that I had filowed it?and 1 should be ashamed to ave him know it. No, I cannot tell him ow. It could do no good. It might put a arrier between us, and make us both unappy. True, I am unhappy, as it is, in le thought of my concealment?in the feellg that I have deceived him against my ill; but why should I distress him useless/ ? After all, I am innocent of any real of nce. I shall try and put these thoughts side. September bfh. I cannot put them aside! .ast evening my husband took me in his rms, and poured out his heart to me more nreservedly than he had ever done before, le is not a man, usually, of many words? , is by actions that he expresses what he ?els. "But he talked to me of himself; he lid open his whole life to me; his career om boyhood, his early thoughts and aspiitions, the motives which had prompted im to devote himself to the ministry?and iK t "rvklA lm u'flc f TTo crava im Hi'il- I II ; 1IUW IIUUl^ 1?V> "tw gwt V v.|y " ant worldly prospects, offending a rich reltive who would have made him his heir, ecause he felt called to enter God's service; nd yet he did not speak of this complainlgly, or boastingly of the sacrifice: but in lie simplest way, as if he had only done his uty, and deserved no credit for it at all. I ?lt so common, so unworthy, as I listened ^ him. Then he spoke of his love for me? nd, Oh ! I know, 1 feel how deep, how true ; is. I do not think he has kept back one liought from me; and I felt guiltily, all the ,*hile I listened to him, that I, in return, withheld my confidence from him, though C he deserved it all. But it is too late now? too late! I cannot, must not tell hirn the __ truth. Why should he ever find it out ? I ~ do not believe he ever will. I have not the j J courage to lower myself, by such a confes-j sion, in his regard. But I 'suffer continual- j ly from the consciousness that I have deceived him?that my life is a continual deception. He believes me to be otherwise than lam. He does not dream what I have ^ been. This thought keeps me awake at jn night?it intrudes upon my happiest mo- jn ments. Oh ! if I could goto sleep and wake ea up knowing that the confession was made ltl and myself forgiven ! Then, I think, I j should really be happy. st, September 11///?Silas has asked me if I j' would mind associating myself with him in ar some of his parish work, and I have gladly ju consented to do so. It is a relief to me to ^ find occupation?to feel that I am learning C(; to do some good. lie has taken me to see ar some poor people, and I have begun to visit one or two families regularly, and to care :n I -11- r? -1/1 1X1 especially ior une uiu umiu wuumu huu id r., grateful to me for offering to read daily to a,. her. She likes better to listen to the Bible jy than to anything else. I have asked Miss Latimer to show me how to make some nice little things, such as sick people like, jn so that.I can prepare them sometimes my- q self if she is busy and not able to attend to ' them. ' "I guess you'd better leave all the cook- ^ ery to me," she remarked when I made the a, request. "You don't seem to be used to fe such things." w "I have never tried; but I can learn," I g? answered. "I like to be useful." "She said no more, but gave me the di- m rectione I had begged for; and I think she p was surprised to find that I did learn, more readily than she expected. Henceforth I am to be allowed to assist her whenever [j, she makes any dessert; though we don't a have any dessert very often. By degrees 'rc T +V? i n lr ohn will lof mo holn hpr in nthpr .1 housekeeping matters. Hitherto I have 0[ rather dreaded intrenching on her prov- uj ince?I was afraid she might think I wished to interfere. [to be continued.] to ?itt0raphical ?tjrattmcnt. ? DR. MAR^VALKER. H The recent discharge of Dr. Mary Walker, P( from the Pension office, at Washington, "j calls to mind the life and character of a woman who, in certain directions, has had a monopoly of eccentricity. She has striv- e en untiringly to induce her sex to adopt the attire of males, so far as practicable, for the advancement of comfort and health. hi Her career has been a checkered one, and tl her notoriety has not been enviable, for her cl determination to study and practice modi- A cine met with great opposition, in the C( years when lady M. Ds. were much more of a rarity than they are to-day, and placed d< her in an antagonistic position toward the sterner sex ; while her adoption of trousers, tl stiff brimmed hats, and coat-like garments n> roused the indignation of her less strong $1 minded sisters. T Her early life was spent at Oswego, X. Y., tt and her own statements lead to the infer- ei enee that, even as a child, a great portion ei of her happiness depended upon thebrevitv (-( of her skirts. bi Later in life, she became a student at the Medical Lyceum, and upon graduation, en- 111 l'A^nlnni?iuitw?n of Imr nrn. I cl It'It'U llpwil llir lU^UUU v/1 Jivii |/iu fession; claiming, however, that .she was a 111 physician for women and children only. w During our civil war she distinguished P( herself by her efficient service in attending hi the sick and wounded soldiers, often ex- y pending her own money for the traveling w expenses necessary to keep up with the P1 army. to She was awarded a modal for her services, w and had Lincoln lived, he would have, undouhtedly, bestowed upon her a position of pj trust, as a recompense for her earnest and ti praiseworthy labors. h< In 18(?t?, she visited Europe, hoping that th her reformatory ideas would meet with ci more encouragement. She appeared upon tli the platform in St. James flail, dressed in a black silk tunic, reaching a little below the 01 knees, and fitting the figure closely, like a tli man's frock coat: black cloth trowsers; her 1,1 hair in curls, and a bunch of flowers at her th throat. er i ?ii th i'lie audience was a large oik?, ami guuieietl together by curiosity rather than symthy. It was a most disgustingly ill behaved w audience, Dr. Walker's remarks being inaudible more than half the time, because of the noisy ridicule and boisterous laughter. iJ Iler tigure is slight, frail and childlike, 911 and she would hardly be selected as a wo- in man to stand alone against the world and r.? the verdict of mankind, with harness on Cl1 and sword in hand, ever ready to tight for 1}E her convictions. jri In conversation she is agreeable and en- ta tertaining, though better liked among men nc than among women. re Those of her own sex, to whom she is j well known, speak of her in the highest terms of praise, and insist that her motives J" are misunderstood, and that her efforts are ta against the unhealthiness of tight lacing, T French heeled boots and cumbersome skirts, 1. and not prompted by a desire for a share in X! the governing of the country. The reason for her discharge has not been [e made known, but it cannot have been for _ incompetency, for those who have had deal- a. ings with her, say that she was a most efti- P1 cient and valuable clerk. Her motives are n( pure, and her desire is for the physical and Pr moral development of her sex. These alone ",l entitle her to more respect and less ridicule Wi than has thus far been her share. en in Curing a Bad Memory.?Your memo- so ry is bad perhaps, but I can tell you two se- of crets that will cure the worst memory. ()ne isto read a subject when strongly interested, ec The other not only to read, but think, hf When you have read a paragraph or page, di stop, close the book, and try to.remcmber tl( the ideas 011 that page and not only recall ag them vaguely in your mind, but put them ta in words and speak them out. Faithfully of follow these two rules and you have the ed golden keys of knowledge. Besides inat- to tentive reading, there are other things in- ly jurious to memory. One is the habit of lo skimming over newspapers, all in a confused jumble, never to be thought of again, lit thus diligently cultivating a habit of careless pc reading hard to break. Another is the read- wl ing of trash novels. Nothing is so fatal to w< reading with profit as the habit of running ej through story after story and forgetting be them as soon as read. I know a gray haired yc woman, a life-long lover of books, who sad- er ly declares that her mind has been ruined eij by such reading.?St. Nicholas, tri tops flf pocal pstonj. j tEMINISCENCES OF YORIfV j BY Dr. MAURICE A. MOORE. INTRODUCTION. "Dear to my heart are the scenes of my ildhoodand I find incalculable pleasure going back to early years spent in York, which District I was born and lived the rliest and best part of my life; and though any years have rolled over my head since found a home out of her bounds, the "old imninercrround" is very pleasant and good- j still to me; and many localities, families id anecdotes, belonging to them, which ilstrate the first settlements and settlers of e District, are fast fading from the knowlIge of the living, as a new generation ises; and though of interest as landmarks all whoclaim to be of York, will be buried oblivion (as much belonging to herhisto has already,) if some one does not stoop id rescue the bits, not yet engulfed entireby the passage of time, and string them gether. Shall this be? When I think of her devotion to Liberty the Revolution; even her aborigines?the itawbas?true Whigs; the good anddistinlished sous of her soil?men claiming her 'er lovingly and proudly as their mother, ough often far removed from her limits; id lastly, the long list in the roll of t'onderate dead, I am moved to step forward ith the little remaining strength of threeore-ten-(four) down Lethe, as far as I am )le, and take upon myself, according to my can ability, the task of chronicling the vst of York. I do not intend to attempt a history with ecise dates and all things in order?such an idertaki ng belongs to a younger son-rather record of individuals, manners, customs? miniscences of an old man who recalls the ly when there was but one glazed house itside thecounty town limits,young ladies ayed on spinning-wheels instead of pian;; many people believed in witches, and irn-shuckings were fashionable instead of urnaments. York was mostly settled by Scotch-Irish ri?v> DdnnuiiK'imla wlm fi ref- fnnnrl n ro?<t ig place there from the old countrv; but ter a few years came farther South for a irmanent home, and gave to their new setgment the name of the one they had left in ennsylvauia. When the war of the llevotion came, to the never-to-be-forgotten mor of the Scotch-Irish of York and Chesr Districts, South Carolina, be it said, they ere true as steel to the Whig principles hicli they early espoused. No "Bloody ;out" arose in their section, a Tory was a arc bird" and an annat/iema maranatha to s neighbors and his relatives. On the soil ' York, Houck was defeated and Fergun killed. To Lacy, one of her sons, was ven the honor of beginning the attack at ing's Mountain. He and his men belong1 to the good old stock. They fought with ie tenacity of the old Covenanters, their re-fathers, and marched and bivouacked ith the gay spirits and good-humored entrance of their Irish ancestry. Indeed, iose settlers were a happy mixture of the ,nny Scotch care, with a spice of Irish huor and heartiness?a decided iniproveent on the stern fanaticism of the one, and isy pliancy and want of thrift of the other. 1 religion they were Presbyterians to a lit?good conscientious men, "true and st in all their dealings always punctual tendants at the meeting house, looking up i their pastor with the faith?devotion, allost?ot a Komanist to his Padre. Yet it as a venial sin to get groggy at the Court nuse sales-day; or get so exhilarated at the ills election days, as to have several small ?hts; and at a wedding, the best of men ould dance a jig, hornpipe or reel, and 2ome home with a drap too much in the e." THE CATAWBA INDIANS. The aborigines of York were the Catawis, who, as late as the year 17G0, numbered iree thousand warriors. They ail had the mracteristic bravery of the red-men of merica, but were ever kindly disposition1 to the whites, and from the earliestsettlelents, dwelt in amity with him. Sad, in?ed. is the eontemDlation of their present ate. A miserable remnant hangs around le waters of the river that bears their ime, though the fish, once their prey ancl jort, have nearly all left its broad stream, he woodman's axe has long since felled leir broad hunting grounds, and the labor's' gee-haw to his plodding plough-horse hoes through the hills that once resoundl with the high hunting cry of the C'atawi, to the bounding stag or fainting hind. The women engage in a rude pottery, iaking pans and pipes, which they exmnge in the neighborhood for provisions id old clothes. The men, still too proud to ork, live on in worthless dignity upon the ior pittance paid by the State for their 'oad fertile lands. It is forty or forty-five +h urhof aohitity lioarfra Jiuo ugi; 4i.ii umib e may well imagine), they acceded to the oposition of the State to sell their lands ' South Carolina, and they wont to Hayood, North Carolina, to join the Chero?es, give up their individuality as a peoe, and be blotted out from among the na6ns ; but North Carolina refused them a :>me, and they came back to the haunts of leir forefathers, a living monument to the ipidity of the whites, which must excite le sympathy of every generous heart. Their numbers were reduced to less than le-half, not long after the Revolution, by ie small-pox. The tradition J heard in y boyhood was, that it was introduced irough the avarice of some white men, to rnble them to get more easy possession of ie rich lands of the Indians. Be this as it ay, the fatality of the disease among them as awful. The treatment of all diseases as the same with the Indian doctors, and each and all they gave a corn-sweat, he mode of administering this was to boil irs ofcorn, slip shucked, take them steamg out of the pot, and pack them closely und the patient, and as soon as it proiced a profuse sweat, they were taken up id thrown into the river, and It was more equently a dead than a live body that was ken out of the water. Experience was > teacher to the Catawba physician ; for I member being told by an eye-witness, a liable man who had lived among them at e time, that he had seen twenty-five a ty, during the prevalence of the scourge, ken out of the river dead. Ilagler was the name of their last king, remember being told, by the same indidual referred to above, of the mode of s burial. The grave was ten feet wide, n deep, and ten long, and in it, with his >dy, was put his handsome-mounted ritle, fino nnwvlurfl'lsit. frnlfl Iliul silver niOllOVS. "IIV I'w ** ^ "***"? o pes, tobacco, etc. Jn fact, the grave was >arly filled with valuables, the personal operty of the dead king. There was a iard of sixteen warriors appointed to keep ntch over it a moon, (or four weeks) and me Virginia gamblers, who had been presit at the interment, got rum enough to ake the guard drunk, succeeded in doing , and rifled the grave of all it contained real value. llagler died childless. One sister remaini wlm had married Gen. Newriver, and id an only child. Both husband and wife ed soon after the King, leaving their Jiti daughter, Sally, an orphan at the early e of five years. This little princess was ken by Thomas Spratt, the intimate friend her father, to his own home, reared and ucated with the same advantages given his own daughters, and under his kindsheltering roof, knowing no pangs of nely orphanage. Sally Newriver, as the last of the royal le of the Catawba race, is an interesting trsonage. I remember seeing her once lien a little boy. She was then an old oman, and save the keen, piercing black e, had no vestage remaining of the high auty it was said she possessed in her nith. She remained with her foster fath, Thomas Spratt, till she attained her yhteenth year, when she went to her ibeand demanded her rights of royalty. Seated on a jet-black Indian pony, with six of the most attractive maidens of her people as attendants, she rode with grace and dignity of mien to the principal town, near King's Bottom. The Catawbas came out en masse to receive her, greeted her presence with loud acclamations of joy, gazed on her with pride and admiration, fitted up a new wigwam for her residence, gave her princely rents, paid every respect to her person and wishes, but never gave her the title of ijueen. 111 tne nevoiuuonary struggle mey imbibed the prejudices of their white compeers to monarchy, and would not have a crowned head over them. From this time forth, Sally Newriver's home was with her nation, but frequent and long visits did she make to the haunts of her girlhood, and the dear friends of her early orphanage. She never married, for the small-pox, which had been so dire a visitation to the Indians, had left her the sole scion of the royal stock, and she could not mate beneath her. Revered by the Indians, loved by the whites, she lived to a ripe old age, aright noble woman, meet representative of the royalty of the tribe, which sunk with her into the grave. Soon after the Revolutionary war?perhaps two or three years?a white man named Adam Caruth, induced four of them to accompany him to England and make their appearance in the theatres as specimens of "live Injuns," promising, of course, part of the emoluments to the actors. They drew large houses, showing themselves in their paints, decked with feathers, armed with tomahawks and bows and arrows, shooting at a target to show their skill, dancing their war dance, singing their green-corn songs, and showing off all their native accomplishments. This was an entirelv new feature in London amusements, and they made a large amount of money. Traveling for some months through the British Isles, they returned to London, and there the contractor, Caruth, pocketed the earnings and returned to America, leaving the Catawbas alone and destitute in that vast city. Their case, after a little, came to the ears of some charitable and wealthy individuals, who gave them their passage home; but three days after they sailed, three of them, seasick, weary and disheartened, jumped overboard and drowned themselves. The only survivor, Peter Harris, got back safely, and long afterward told me the history of the voyage, the ill fate of his companions, and villainy and bad faith of Caruth. I have known but little of "the nation" for the last twenty years; but 1 can, up to that time, speak of their chief characteristics?and one, that of honesty, was so marked, that in these times of peculation in high places, I wish to hold up as an example to our officials, the poor savage, who umiiWl onf nf fruit, on a trap nut, nf an Pnclo sure, but never, even a peach or an apple, no matter how luscious to the eye, would he take, until <ifter he had asked and obtained permission to do so. For years, the law among themselves was their own, and no white officer of justice thought of interfering among them. What was between themselves, was among themselves. It was in later times that a man named Sam''Scott, killed a woman named Cantey, (both C'atawbas). He ran away to the C'herokees, for fear of retribution, and remained some six or eight years, but he could not, be satisfied, and returned to the C'atawbas, armed fully, always on his guard for fear of being killed, and especially avoided liquor. For a year he remained sober, but going to Columbia with some others of his tribe, he lost his caution and got drunk. On becoming sober and finding he had been unharmed, he was much relieved from his fears, and after he returned to "the nation," would now and then indulge; but the "avenger of blood" was not sleeping, for one day, when Scott was lying drunk by the road-side, a party of several Indians came by, among them a girl of fourteen, the daughter of the murdered woman. She gathered a large rock and hurled it at his head, breaking his skull. The others drew him to one side of a wigwam, and there he breathed for several days, the Indians feeling no sympathy for sufferings they deemed, merited, and admiring the spirit that inspired the deed, he died and was buried, and the whole matter was ended. I was told, not many years ago, by one who had preached to them himself, that though the C'atawbas all understood the Ene-lish laneruae-e. and missionaries of all denominations had faithfully preached the Word among them, not one, up to that time, had ever professed conversion and become connected with a Christian clnirch. [to be continued.] Friday our Lucky Day.?Friday, for our country, has been one of the most brilliant in the calendar?a regular red-letter day. It marks great events all along the centuries of American history. Columbus set sail from Europe, first saw land oflf the Western Continent, and touched the shores of Spain on his triumphal return, all on a Friday. It was on a Friday that the Mayflower first reached New England, and on another she first landed on Plymouth Rock. It was on a Friday, in the cabin of this vessel, that the first written constitution in this country?the new idea of government?was signed. It was on Friday that Henry VII. of England gave John Cabot his commission to proceed 011 a voyage of discovery to the North American continent. Bunker Hill was taken and Yorktown surrendered on Friday. Washington was born on Friday. It was 011 Friday that John Adams moved, and Richard Lee seconded, a resolution that the United Colonies were, and of right ought to ho, iree ana inaepenaeni. Self-Made.?1"Do you see that old man near the frog pond, on the common?" {'Thirty-two years ago that old man came to Boston, with one suspender and a sore toe. He also had a basket of apples which a farmer in Lexington had given him. He peddled the apples on Washington street and netted eighteen cents the tirst day. How much do you suppose he's worth now ?" "Oh, a million and a half," said one. "Two millions, cried another. "Six millions ?hroe hundred thousand," was the estimate of a third. "I give it up," remarked No. 4. "How much is he worth ?" "Not an infernal cent, and he still owes for the basket.''?Boston Globe. fiSP1 The New Orleans Exposition promises to assume much larger proportions than was at tirst contemplated. A building was originally projected for a million square font nf exhibition snnce. but over three hull dred thousand feet of that space have already been applied for. This lias caused the directors to decide to double the capital stock of the enterprise, making it $1,000,0()i) instead of ?500,000. This will secure a more liberal provision for exhibitors, whose applications are rabidly coming in. Origin of China's Claim.?Li ITung Chung, Chinese statesman, gives this account of the origin of China's claim to suzerainty over Anam : "The Emperor I Tsu, of the Sung dynasty, with an axe made of precious stone" marked the southern sky as the boundary line of his dominions, and exclamined: 'Heyond this, nothing belongs to me.'?Chicago Times. #ks?" St. Louis will put forth strong efforts to induce the Democratic National Committee to select that city as the place for holding the Democratic Convention. The hotel men, who claim that they can take care of an almost unlimited number of guests during convention week, are offering to "come down" nancisomeiy in am 01 me enterprise*. 51$"* Vennor says that the mildness of these early winter days is a verification of his prophecies. He now predicts a summer warmth in mid-winter, but that we shall catch it hot?that is cold and heavy?along in March and April. ? ? HhT A Chicago fancy ^oods store has adopted the practice of giving a free oyster stew to every one who buys a dollar's wortnof goods.