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????????1 11111 11111 f| IIHH II Mm-WTfll LEWIS M. wrist, Proprietor, j %\\ Jnlttptnbtnf Jfmniljt fjWosjraptr: for % promotion of % folitical, Social, $jriatltaral an* Commercial Jnlcrcsts of iljc Soul ]terms-.?2.so a year, in advance. VOL. 80. YQRKVILLE, S C., THURSDAY, DECEMBER 18, 1884. NO. 51. JWcctd fofttjt. SOMETIME. Sometimes, in my life's oarlv morning. Sweet dreams of the future there.came: Dreams of a future immortal, Of a life full of glory and fame. But the sweet dreams of childhood are over And awakened by thoughts moresublime My laurels I'll reap at Death's river, As I cross its dark water sometime. Sometimes, when my soul is weary, . And burdened with care and woe, I wander alone by the streamlet, And list to its musical tlow ; And I fancy the voice of an angel Blends with its musical chime, Awaking my soul from itsslumber With its notes ot the sweet sometime. Sometimes I think of a loved one Who has passed from mortal sight. Borne away in the arms of the angels, Away to'tho mansions of light; Up the'golden stair, unfettered. His world-weary feet may climb ; I, too, shall mount it beside him. In the distant, yet near, sometime. ?!tc Seller. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. "No, gentlemen, I am not superstitious," said the old doctor, setting down his punch1glass with considerable emphasis. "I am a plain, practical man, and I never had but one event in my life which gave me the slightest touch of the supernatural. All my long professional career has been as readable as a piece of newspaper. I have traced everything to a cause, and understood effects without any effort at imagination." "But once you had a thrill of real superstition, did you ? Do tell us about it! After all the stories we have been 'giving ourselves away' with, I should think you might end up the night with a startler." The speaker was a young fellow, full of fun and his new diploma, which gave his entree to this pleasant coterie which met semi-occasionally "compare notes" and quaff good punch. "Well, I have no objections," looking with indulgent eyes into the bright, earnest face before him, "but more than ever you must remember our motto!" and he raised a bottle of champagne from the table, on which was prominently displayed the word "Muram." All settled comfortably into their chairs and prepared to listen. The "old doctor" was the "president of the association." His years, his skill, his benevolence, his unspotted record, had won the love and respect of all who knew him. Professional envy was impossible toward him, for, having made an ample fortune, he had for the last ten years chiefly visited the poor, whose additions to his purse and detraction from the income of others was "hardly worth mentioning." As he sat with his feet resting on the fender of his opeD fire, his strong, good face, ruddy with the blaze and with his excellent health and a moderate potation of the delicious beverage, he looked like a man whose virtues had indeed been their own reward, in the rounding out of a true and beautiful life. He began in a musing tone: "One night I was about to retire?doctors don't have a chance often, you know?when somebody knocked. There was not any bell, for I was then practicing in a far western town, just redeemed from savagery as it were. A rough-looking man came in, and pulling off his hat, shuffled from one foot to the other, and while I looked at him in a little surprise, he burst out, "You're a doctor, ain't ye ? Wal, I'm in a peck o' trouble. It's the leetle gal, yer see! She's sick and eenamostdyin' I'm afraid. But I ain't stay by her, by George ! I can't, no how. She's all alone, and nobody known on't. Fact is, hev to git up and git. We hev been a wanderin' around like lost sheep till we struck that litle cabin, and we held on thar till now, but 1 hev got to get; yes, I hev, right off. Carnt you go to her and* help her somehow? I don't know what's the matter of her; she's a been a pinin' and a pinin'. Oh! God, what kin 1 do, what kin I do?" The poor fellow burst out crying and sobbed like a child. " 'Of course I will go instantly,' I said; and had even then put on my overcoat. 'Where is the cabin ?' " "He started up from the seat where he had half fallen and said, "It's seven miles straight on beyond the last end o' Farmerton. The road is as straight as a line. It's a ? cabin with some rails piled high up against the side, with red curtings. It's about eight miles out!' " " 'I know,' said I briefly, 'I have been by there and have seen a pretty young girl at tl.e window.'" " 'That's her,' he said, brightening up. k 'Yes,she's her mother all over, bless her!' H 'Wont you do your level best for her, docm tor ?' he appealed with gesture, face and A tone; 'I wouldn't leave?but?I must.' "When are you coming back?" I quesjg? tinned, while we waited for my horse to be H brought around. W "Never, never ! I can't, and she knows "He pulled an old-fashioned leather wallet out of his pocket and showed me the whole contents. There was $120. lie took one hundred and gave to me, saying: "Thar, I want ye to take this. Ye see I only keep enough to get off with. If she lives, I'll let her know where she can jine me; I'll write you where, and all about it? and if she don't live'?and hiseyes streamed again with tears?'give my leetle gal a decent burial and keep the rest of it for your trouble. Oh, 1 will see her grave at least before 1 die. Mebbe when I'm an old man they will forgit." "My sympathies were fully aroused. 'My poor fellow,' I said, 'why do you not contide in me? I will guard your secret as my own! Why do you fly from your sick daughter, never to come back ? I promise to follow your directions to the letter; but 1 wish you would trust me, as man to man ! It is my duty to keep strictly to myself every confidence reposed in me. I)o not go away with some terrible burden upon you. Let me help you if I ran !' "You carnt, you earn't; nobody kin ! But yes! I'll tell the truth if 1 die for't, and then I'll go. I'm a backwoodsman down in Maine. That is, I was. My little gal, she cum up into the woods one day to bring me a few little goodies from home. Me an' another chap were off, some, from the gang, an' while I went up to the cabin to put by my things, this Dan Wallace, he up an' insulted my daughter the worst kind ! She cried out an' I come a-runnin' to whar she stood, the tears a-rollin' down her cheeks. I never said nothin' but pitched in and I stuck as I knew how to, too. He fell like a log, and in a minute I saw why he didn't rise. lie was dead. I'd killed him ! The awed tone had a sort of savage satisfoftifin in if vot tln> t vviilo pvis nnil in telligent forehead indicated a nobler feeling. Someway I grasped his hand. " 'So we run. We got away somehow, 'and we have been a-gittin' away ever since! We never got anywhere that we didn't have to leave in a little while. I'd a saved up quite a sum a loggin'?this is the end on't,' and he pointed to the money he had laid before me, 'and now I've news that they are on my track again. This time, doctor, she can't go. I don't know where I'm a-goin' or anything about it. She understands. We have parted !" and a great sob again shook his brawny breast, 'and if she dies?she says she's a-goin'to?there's nothin' in the cabin?I built it and own it? let it go?1 shall never come back to it? here's paper with my real name?you'll know what to do, you're eddicated. God bless you. I trust you. I must git! (Joodbye!'*and opening the door he was off like a shot. "I too, was off like a shot. My marc Nance just flew. The moon was bright as day, and when we got on the straight road I fell into a strange train of thought. The situation was weird. Here I was, going to attend on a young girl all alone in the house, whose father, a murderer, was flying! gi for his life?whose names were unknown to ; op me, for I had instantly locked the paper ho pf gave me in my writing desk, and it was eh nearly midnight! I cannot toll you what dc it was, whether a premonition or a natural ur ! excitement over the sudden interview, but, ed gentlemen, I felt queerly and I confess it." tli The doctor paused and sipped his wine. di "I drove up to the little cabin," he soon | resumed, "and went in. A low tire gave a | soft, warm glow to the room. The bed was la ; a low cot, and on it reposed the form of the fir young girl. 1 was amazed at her beauty. Oi I Her face was spiritual in the extreme. She j was somewhat emanciated, but only suffi- dr cientlyso to give her an almost unearthly ar ! loveliness. It was as if the spirit, instead of blood, throbbed through every vein. I I She slightly turned her head as I entered,! | and said in a low voice, "Doctor?" I anI swered, "Yes, dear child I came as quickly | th as I could. Your father? 'Yes, he told you : to | all. I heard him. I went with him. I ! I shall never see him on earth again.' 1 | "I thought the speech singular, but fani cied she might be slightly wandering. Her a ' pulse had hardly a perceptible beat. As I m i took, her band, it seemed almost to melt a | out of mine. I said to myself, 'I should ! almost think her a materialized spirit, if jn there could be such a thing. She is the th least human of any being I ever touched.' i I proposed a simple remedy which I knew tli to be almost useless, for I said she cannot af live more than an hour, and soothing her with some comforting words she smiled and closed her eyes. th "Death had set his mark upon her fea- fij tures?but oh, the immortal beauty of ex- ju pression which accompanied his unmistak able sign! The very tones of her voice were to like music?faint, ethereal and soft as a cj summer breeze. She opened her eyes at in- h< tervals, and the great blue orbs, full of glory 0I 1 had never before seen in any eye, seemed j,, j to pulsate with a light gained from some ! ti< i celestial fire. sc " 'Poor father was not to blame,' she mur- j mured softly. 'Mother and I have long ago C{1 won his pardon.' "'Your mother! is she living?" th " 'Oh, yes in heaven,' she answered, gentj ly. 'We* asked the Lord to pardon him long ago, and when he joins me to-night he ai will be crowned with it, because he has so bi repented and suffered." e> " 'Join you to-night!" I said, with a sort of tremor passing over me; 'my dear child, n{ what can you mean ?" b< " 'He is going with me, dear, dear father. m Yes, when we go we shall go together! His going will be quick, mine slow, but together, w dear father, I?I,?' d( "She ceased, and putting out her arms as rpj if to embrace him she so loved, she sank bact. I knew that she would never speak n( again. The ominous sound, so well known C(] to us, faintly made itself heard. I knelt by jn her side, and, bowing my head in prayer, e d < ah Aid nAoc f/M* nncc. A I I prayeu wnii gicai citiucamcOT iui ingsoul?for the 'father'somewhere out in the night, speeding away from her loved sj form forever. I held her hand in mine, so and as I raised my head I felt it seem to th melt out of my grasp. I looked hastily at fl( her face and saw something like a faint mist instead of the human lineaments. 1 sprang 11( to my feet and gazed in fascinated horror ar on the pillow, and there, before my eyes, (j. the last trace of the golden hair, the lovely cn eyes, the exquisite head, faded from my th vision ! I caught the coverlid and dragged it away from the cot?the form was gone! ar She had melted into air! j,( ' I could not believe my own senses. Like w a schoolboy I pinched myself to see if I ju were awake. When I came to the full con- a(j ehjsion that she was really and actually ce gone, 1 sank into a chair, faint and horrorstricken, the drops of sweat standing out all 0], over my body. Where had she gone? It c0 was simply appalling. Hut soon the consequences of this disappearance, as it must iSa affect myself, came up foremost in my prac- ju tied mind. If called upon to show the be body, what could I say? If her father should come back and demand to see his m daughter, what excuse could I give; what ()f answer could I make? Would any one j believe the truth? Could I say the girl died and in dying was translated and dis- av appeared from the earth ? My situation j0 was literally horrible. All of a sudden 1 cis remembered what the man had said: 'If she dies, there's nothing in the cabin. I ar built itand own it. Letitgo. I shall never jj, come back to it.' Instantly my resolution hi was taken. I went outside and glanced w across the prairie. For two miles in any direction there was absolute silence. 1 look- jK eti at my watch. It was 1.1 "> The girl had W( died at 1 o'clock, precisely. st< "1 again went inside. I examined that ja little cabin in every nook and corner. I climbed the rude steps into the loft; opened th an old trunk, which contained the simple ai] wardrobe of the young girl; I looked into to the little closet, with its poor array of utensils ; I satisfied myself that the value of every article in the place would not amount to se $20, and then, actually folding up the bed- to I ding, piece by piece, until 1 left the cot bare, I piled them in the centre of the room, ca covered them with a heap of shavings and jK tiikintr a broom I swent all the fire there was in the fire-place out on to the pile, shut (0 ancl locked the door, and rode away, liy Ut the time 1 had driven a mile down the road I looked back and saw the glare of the burn- sj, ing cabin red against the sky. The light all snow all over the prairie would prevent th any possible damage. My heart gave a |,| hound. I shook myself and returned from ()| I I'll known into the Known ! I was a seri- m | ously practical physician again. "1 slept soundly after I once got into my j bed. The only daily paper published in j1( i the place lay on my breakfast table when I c.j, ! went down stairs in the morning. On the r(. j fourth page an 'Hxtra' caught my eye, and I read the following: * ju Struck by the Midnight Express. Instantly pjKilled?The bo.ly of an Unknown Man Found ^ Lying on the Track. i ' 'I'iie driver of the Owl express, which passed Farnierton at I o'clock, suddenly slowed up and stopped, last night, to find that an unknown man ag i had been struck and thrown twenty feet. The sli 1 body is at the station-house waiting for identi- dr lieation. "Why did I leave my breakfast and walk ! rapidly to the station-house? What was the pr j unknown tome? Such accidents were al- jj| ; ways happening! Hut the words 41 o'clock' s., ; had struck my imagination with a strange 0(] j thrill. Jlcr words, 'Father will go with ro i me,' rang in my ears. lie lb re 1 went into ,.() I the room I was convinced in my own mind ar : of what I shouldsee. I lifted the sheet from I at the face with a feeling of unspeakable awe. i' Yes. It was the 'backwoodsman from sj, ; Maine.' Ilis features were placid, a singu- ! lar smile seeming to light it up with a ! |? look of infinite satisfaction. ; se "1 instantly recognized my responsibility, j is. ! Had I not *100 of this man's money? I j w| I could not 'bury his leetle gal,' but I could j bury him. Turning away I said, '(Jontle- ! m men, this man is one whom 1 have occa- j m i sionally employed. I know his history, j He lias' no relatives. He has done me con- j lu j siderable service, and I will therefore take | lo charge of his remains. "What was his lo name?" asked some one. '.John Weaver,' ai I said, giving the first name that Hashed j through my head. 'Some chaps have been of here this morning looking at him,' remark- Hi od a corner lounger who seemed to be in tii U.? Ofnm'ufiiiffiniiiiit irnilinr 'TIll'V V( lilt" in mm w? \ v.\v.in. niviiv r | .* * come on the early train this morning. They i looked him over putty sharp anil one said, fa 'That's him, yes, that's him," and then the es other one said, "well, he's got away for tli good this time,' and kinder laughed and at went otf. They went east hy the next ae; commodation.' 'Very well,' 1 said, 'it is tli | evident they had nothing to do with him, gt so 1 will assume all expenses.' in "I was well known, and nobody thought of of disputing inc. So the the next day I saw fo the man was properly buried, and I think be J I never heard a more fervent or more ten- bi | cler prayer than was offered by our young I cler'/yman at the funeral. Meantime I sini- lo ! pl> iiad not looked at the paper he had st : given me. Someway I did not like to do g; so. It seemed like prying into his affairs, d< closed over and sealed by death. But ai after he had been buried and night had von me an hour to myself, I concluded to to ion the paper and find out who these peo- clo e were who had made so mysterious a; hai apter in my life. Unlocking the writing i vn isk, I unfolded the paper and gazed at it j It t itil it dropped from my hand and flutter-| ( into the fire. As it burnt and curled in j tin e blaze the words stood out black and i ( stinct against the light. . i aft "My name is John Weaver." ' qu "Gentlemen, in the cemetery of the now j bei rge town of Farmerton, you can any day lit id a stone which I caused to bo set up. 1 a it appears these lines: lo\ " 'In memory of John Weaver and his j ha lughter. Died at 1 o'clock, A. M., Janu- Ja yl4, 18?! ' Jlf WHAT HAD HE LEFT HER. I ou __ j go "Papa, I would thank you for a check for ! ' ree hundred pounds, before you go down 11 s; wn this morning. 1 thi "Why do you want so much, Anthine?{ 1 thought I gave you enough, yesterday." j dh "True, papa; but Madame Fontaine gives j i"j wedding reception for her daughter Clara j ixt Wednesday evening, and I must have j yy dress suitable for the occasion." j ^ J "Certainly, my dear; your father delights j 4 i nothing so much as in seeing you enjoy j er< le rich blessings that have been given us. | V love to see you look a very queen among | "A ie rest. I was sadly disturbed yesterday | ternoon." i "Why, papa?" j hi.1 And stately Anthine Elleston leaned over ' ie velvet easy chair, and drew her white ; nU igers caressingly through the silky white ! lir of the father she loved so well. "Because, just as I was leaving my office ; w' i step into the carriage, a little black-eyed j ' lild, with such a famished face, put out j f?l jr thin hand and begged for a penny? I en lly one, because her papa was sick and j un angry. I was tired, and cold, and impa-1 ex ent and I knew I had nothing less than a I tei ivereign in my pocket, so I told the child i cot had nothing for her, and hurried into the I i'J1 irriage, and told John to drive on. hii "But I caught the disappointed look on wc iat child's face, and it has haunted me sif ,rer since." "My dear father you are too sensitive bh joutsuch things. You are in no way to in ame. You cannot be expected to give to . ' :ery little beggar-fluid you meet." hi "I know that, Thenia," that was his pet tal ime for his elegant daughter; "but I have f?< ?en thinking that, as Heaven has given ?n uch to us, He will expect much from us." j11 h "We do all we can, I am sure; and I i v? ould think no more about this little inci-1 Ai nit. The child will get along well enough, i no hey all manage to live in someway." I aff So the matter rested ; neither the father ! Hi ir daughter forgetting it, either when the ! yo stly dress was bought, or later still, when j .vo the elegantly appointed boudoir, Anthine sa.< Ileston stood before the long pier-glass, j fsn nt reflected back her stately form in all its j >v; icen-like beauty, arrayed in the sea-green | be Ik, whose folds, as she moved,seemed like he many silver-tipped waves, half hid It ough they were by the very costly lace >unces. ' i ' Diamonds and rubies sparkled on her fair i to jck, were clasped on each shapely arm, ; tin id shone amid the satin-like coils of her j ] irk hair, that was wound in the form of a I he ronet round her head, and a gem larger hii an the rest sparkled above her forehead. 1 She was a beautiful woman ; she knew it fef id gloried in it. Her father was proud of ' ;r, and she strove to please him ; but that Ti hich steeled her heart, and made her so oai lughty and reserved?so heartless, as her ! ar; Imirers said?was the fearful blow she re-1 ived when only eighteen. ' all On that eighteenth birthnight the grand I ' d mansion was thrown open to a goodly j in mpany, and Anthine, in her fair young wc auty, with the orange flowers on her brow | 1 t waiting, with her bridal robes around D< ?r, for him who had chosen her to walk | side him down life's pathway. Paul Wellington was a noble fellcav? j l.Vi anly, truthful, and upright in every action j his life; even then, though only twenty- ' en ,*e, a lawyer of some note. j tei But on this bridal night, with guests ' waiting, and the bride as beautiful and J wii vingas a bride could be, no bridegroom ; ba limed the bride. | py A telegram to his distant home was sent, j wc id the answer came at once that Paul Weligton, on the day he expected to start for an s wedding, sailed in a steamer for India, ; ithout any explanation whatever. ja It was a fearful blow to poor Anthine, but j 1111 ;r pride came to her rescue, and when she in I ent out again she was, as we find her now, a\\ itely, and far more beautiful than in lov- j g girlhood. gr< It is seven years since that night, when he at act of her lover, who seemed so noble flu id good to her, sent the dullness of death an her heart. i-s It was past understanding, and after a time ha e ceased trying to comprehend it, and ! J aled her heart to mankind, clinging only | an her father, who idolized her. | ny Paul Wellington came back from India, en me once to Anthine, and begged to see j tin *r, but she refused to meet him. | Ja Then he sent her a letter, entreating her j read his explanation, but she returned it' lopened. i ^<0 He became distinguished in his profes-! in, and occasionally they met in society,! vc* id thoucrh Anthine could not help noticing | e sad expression on his face, siie invaria- j ti(j y avoided meeting his glances, and when ( tin iliged to speak to him, she did so with as i sp( ueh coolness as etiquette would allow. I tio To-night she knows that Paul Welling- i)r< n is to he an honored guest at her friend's j se( mso, and almost unconsciously she has j in) osen her <lress to suit his tastes, as she | fro meinliered it so long ago. j do! Now she fastens her gloves, and picks up j wl r jeweled bouquet-holder, in a half rev-j em ie perhaps, of a time when she was bride-' jn< pectant, as happy for a little time as the ! wi ide she was going to greet. ! see "Oh, will happiness ever come to me 1 of ;ain?" she murmurs softly to herself, as tin e sinks on the carriage cushions and is t*oi iven rapidly away. j jnj The parlors were crowded, the music was I <i f Tfect, the guests the gayest, the bride and tin idegroomthe handsomest, the wholescene nu <e some fairy picture, but somehow, in ce.ite of the admiration universally accord- is < 1 her, as she moved up and down tin; long po oin, looking every inch a queen in her noi yal beauty, her heart was strangely sad, fai id it was a positive relief when a maid in ca| tendance brought her a sealed note. mt JJreaking the seal in the dressing-room, | to e read : ' pu "In nicniory of one who loved, 'not wisely. 1 ? it too well,' eonie to your dying cousin. I p]j ml iiiv little girl to conduct von, late though it j jjj. You won't refuse me, Anihine; you cannot * !, lien I am dying. IIoi.mks." It was till very strange, hut Anthine, tble-hearted as ever, never hesitated a mo-1 i J (-nt. : ;;;.1 That cousin James had been the bane of |. r life. A gay frolicsome fellow, whose ve Jor jokes was unbounded, and whose ; * ve for Anthine was a mixture of teasing | j id adoration. . j "" A long time ago lie declared Ids intention (|tl going to seek his fortune and a wife, and is note Anthine holds in lier hand is the j.j( 'st they have heard of him all these long *a is. < i >) It took but a moment to send for her ;l , ther, and give their adieux to their host- ju,' s, and finding the little girl waiting at e gate, and then direct their drive to the Idress the little girl gave them. tin Hut it was a sudden change, to go from iu>. le grand mansion, with its beautiful m( 'omuls and gaslight, and music and feast- jnt g, only a few streets hack, intosuch depths tin 'misery and filth and wickedness as they t)(. und themselves, when the carriage stopped sm ?foreatumblc-down-lookingbuilding, with ()f oken windows and rickety steps. Kven Anthine's step faltered as they folwed the step of the little girl up broken of airways, down dark passages, until the in irret was reached at last, hearing at every sill ior the vilest oaths, and often Screams ve id blows. ha Anthine had often visited the poor, and Sir the sick and needy had often brought V; thes and delicacies, hut such misery she aj [1 read of, but thought it a stretch of a ~ ?'id writer's imagination?now she knew to be real. j 'J )pening a door that hung by one hinge, I >y entered the room of death. J )ne tallow candle lighted the room, but US) er the darkness of the hall, it seemed ! ite bright, and showed plainly the straw :1 in the corner, on which lay gasping the ! ??. tie girl's father. . It seemed impossible that the faded sal-1 ?" v face and attenuated form could ever j ' ve been the dashing and fun-loving mes. y/ Oh, Thenia, I knew you would come! ",1 ielt.vou must," said lie feebly, as he held en t a thin hand to each of them. "God is on od, when J least deserve it." cri Tut, tut, boy; why haven't you sent to Pr ?nay, come to us, i nstead of sufferi ng 1 i ke ^V? is," spoke out good Mr. Eileston. r?l 'Oh, uncle, I could not, until life was in spaired of, come to those I have so deeply er: ured!" Pr 'Ilush, hush, James; you were wild, but cr* u never hurt inland it is folly to talk so. j*1* )u must go home with us now." Pv 'Uncle?An thine, your kindness overpow5 me. Don't you see?can't you see that ou on dying? and, oh, 1 must tell you while 2 lasts." JJ2 'Tell us what, James?" asked Anthine *tly, as she put her cool soft hand over kv * fevered forehead. ef' 'Thenia, do you remember your wedding ?ht, seven years ago? And did you ever inder why Paul never came to you ?" ?P 'Yes, yes, indeed. Tell me, do'you know co ly?" and unconsciously she drew nearer, p* 'Oh, Thenia, it was some of my accursed Pr ly. 1 loved you and hated Paul, and was viousof him for having won what I was y worthy of. And the morning before he pected to start for you, he received a let- Pe telling him you were married to your usin, James Holmes, and were to start n' unodiately on your bridal-tour, bidding m forget you and seek some one more J.' irthy. To that letter your name was ^ ;ned, Thenia, and it was posted here, y1 >u know Paul's proud heart, how such a J.n iw was death to him. and how he sailed the first vessel that left the harbor. or1 'I thought to win you then, Thenia, but, t'1 your proud eyes I saw no hope of ever rp dng Paul's place, so I went away and ind a soft-voiced little girl who loved me ly too well, and only lived long enough ;er 1 called her wife to give me a little p"1 lvet-cheeked baby whom we christened 1,1 ithine after you; and then, with that in- ^ cent baby looking into my eyes, I wrote "*( ain to Paul and confessed my wickedness. ^ rectly with new hope became to you, but t'1 u refused tosee him. lie wrote to you, but tNVi u returned his letter unopened, and with a -1 idened heart he began anew, striving for "c ne and honor, that you might know he {1C is incapable of the base act of which you lieved him guilty. When he sought me could not find me until a few days ago. !,r was very wicked, Thenia, but oh, forgive !n j!" pleaded the dying man. j 111 'It was wicked, James, but we are taught i llP forgive," spoke up the clear, pure voice ra r>ugh her eyes were full of tears. !1(: L'oor James Holmes was weeping, too, as 1,1 gathered his little girl closer, but he was m ling, as they could see. P11 Suddenly his eyes brightened and he said ; J1'* ibly: c;j 'There is his step on the stairs now. oil lank heaven ! he has not come too late. I j s" ii see the hands clasped that I once sep- i a 1 ited." ! A moment more and Paul Wellington, in j m his noble manhood, stood before them, j ^ Jne clasp of the sick man's hand, one look j Anthine's eyes, and the estranged ones i t(> >re weeping in each other's arms. 011 Jut of the darkness has come light, i l'1 mceforth when they wept they would ! *? >ep together. j Mr. Klleston grasped Paul's hand warm, and they turned to him whose troubled >k still told that life's care was not yet !U1 ded. He was pointing to his little daugh-1 Jn j In 'She shall be cherished and cared for," j is Paul's solemn answer, as he put his w tid on her curly head, while her little j l)r es looked from one to another in childish j or mder. j (,J' All care was over. He had sinned much, I d much had been forgiven. j |u The film of death had gathered now, but!111 settled peace came over his face, as his j11,1 cle prayed that heaven would be merci-1 jlc , and then his soul was borne from earth j '()1 ay. r(f Months after this when the little one had Dwn accustomed to her new home and ai1 r new relatives, there was a joyous but iet wedding. Anthine is as queen-like | '\l d beautiful as ever, but her greatest joy I M1 in her own home with her father, and i sband and children. j Her little namesake is tenderly cherished, j an tl little pleading voices that say, "A pen- ,'v ?only one," are never turned away ^t lpty-handed, for the little dark-eved child 'lil it haunted Mr. Elleston so was poor n(; ines' little Anthine. j" mjt on Ax India.v Wkddixd ix Florida.? xvj w Creek is the unromantic name of a i fa< ry romantically situated run on the edge I tli tlie Everglades, and there is where amhi- j us settlers have failed to disturb the soli- (r'jj le with which nature has surrounded the ^(J] it. The tall grass growing in every direc-: [*, n, is gently swayed by alight summer MC1 icze, while the sunshine has succeeded in jj, lucing from shadowy retreats the tinny uibitants. Beautifully plumed birds, in the feathery throats of which issue a luge of music, greet you on every hand, .. die huge aligators bask with perfect se- J'.1' rity in the warm sunshine, never dream- j 11 r of the time when their scaly carcasses , 11 contribute to the amusement of n sight- a!? ing public. Here is where the survivors ; ol a once powerful people come together for i l,li > purpose of holding their annual green- J 11 dance. This is the only occasion dur- jt'1' C the year that approaches anything like | ro' ormai gathering, and it is at this meeting ; as it the local love affairs of the different | ,!K mbers of the tribe are brought to a sue- | ')l? isful termination. On these occasions it | '^<) L'listomary to allow the maiden a fair op- j ,11( rtunity to escape from the matrimonial. ''' rise if she desires. The girl is allowed a ^'ol r start of her lover, and if he succeeds in as during her before the goal is reached she ar< ist become his bride. It is almost useless 1'? say that the maid generally eludes her sel rsuer if she does not desire to wed him. str \t the last green corn dance, .limmic (Jo- Hu er, a son of Tuscanooga, was united in tai irriage with Winona or Laughing Wa-1 lA" ', a coy maiden of eighteen summers, and > y* i daughter of Chief Miceo, an old brave! *j11 on whose head the suns of sixty summers | y' ve fallen. Lnusrhini? Water is the owner ! a pretty pair of tiny feet, neatfy encased \<)l' moccasins, surmounted l?y well turned | kles, the synietry of which has not been : icealed by long skirts of ilowintr robes ; I Jr.v ighingeyes hidden by long lashes, full,! ind cheeks, which have never been intra- , ' ced to cosmetics ; and a head of luxuriant, ick hair that would make an average I [ ksonville girl green with envy, and a Up'1 nplete set of pearly teeth. The groom j /y peared in full evening dress, consisting of ls jayly-colored shawl wound around tlie i ad, and a shirt.?(Jaiiicsri/tc Adrocafc. i : ofl & Kvery jot of knowledge gained after j 1?' i hours of daily labor is capital which will j h'( trample interest in the way of advance- sit flit. If such studies are diligently and ! < "?! elligently pursued, the present will be J tin i all-absorbing topic and the future may J<1( left out of mind with almost perfect as- j '11 ance that it will be well able to take care 'n itself. ? i i ,\ < \if Nature has left every man a capacity j rot being agreeable, though not of shining let company ; and there are a hundred men i -1,1 liciently qualified for both, who, by a rot ry few faults that they might correct in ! wl If an hour, are not so much as tolerable.? i < ii iff. 1 fee tjisfdliincous Reading.! rilKILIJNM INCIDENT OF THE WAR. [From General lle.au regard's History.] It was during the attempt to regain the : of the Weldon road by the Federals on ! 2 21st of August, 1S(M, that General Hand, of South Carolina, distinguished himfin a personal encounter with a Federal icer. )wing to inaccurate reports of ins scouts moral A. P. Hill, who commanded the nfedcrate forces against Warren's oxpetion, mistook the exact position of the emy's line on the left, and, through Genii Malione, who labored under the same ror, Ilagood's brigade was ordered to ess the rear tlank of the Federals. He is to be supported by five brigades of ! - 1 iinone s division, supposed 10 uu un-emi^ front. The brigade drove the skirmish5 front their rifle pits, hut found itself in esence of si strongly intrenched line, twded with men and artillery, extending tht and left as far as could he seen. The e brigades of Mahone were not there, tneral Hagood saw at once what si perils strait he was in, and stopping himself outed again and again to the command to It; but the crash and rattle of twelve or teen pieces of artillery and probably twen-five hundred rifles, which had now openon them at close range, drowned his voice, d the fury of the battle was upon his men. oving forward with the steady tramp of e double-quick, and dressing upon their lors, these devoted men, intent only on rrying the position before them, neither oke their alignment until it was broken ' the irregular impact upon the enemy's Drks, nor stopped to fire their guns till eir rush to obtain the parapet was relied. When General Hagood saw his men thus siting upon certain destruction, and his Forts to stop them unavailing, he felt that they were to perish he should share their te; and with Molony and Martin and derly Stoney, he followed the advancgline. In fifty yards Lieutenant Martin II, shot in the knee; a few steps farther i and Captain Molony fell, shot through e head, and Ilagood and Stoney alone ached the works?the latter shot in the oulder but not disabled. The 2oth and st regiments being on the left from the lique direction of the advance, first struck e works; and while they staggered to get the other three regiments swept on. hen they reached the ditch there was tm seventy-five to one hundred yards inrval between the two divisions into which e brigade had broken. General Hagood i ,ts with Major Wilds, commanding the | st, who was cheering on his men to re- j iwed assault (success now being their only j >pe of safety), when looking to the right, j ! saw a mounted Federal officer among e men on the left of the portion of the igade to the right with a regimental color Ins nanus, anu a coniusion aim parieyg immediately upon him that betokened iproaching surrender. The tight was still ging at Ilagood's right and left; there was > cessation on the part of his men except the square just around this officer, and me whatever that was perceptible on the irt of the enemy. They had pushed out jm the right and left a line behind the irolinians to cut off their retreat, and this fieer (Captain Daly of General Custer's iff) had galloped out of a sally-port, seized L'olor from the hands of its bearer, and manded a surrender. Some officers and en surrendered, but were not carried in; hers refused, but just around him ceased ;hting. General 1 lagood Called to the men shoot him and fall back in retreat. They ther did not hear him, or, bewildered by e surrender of part of their number, failed obey. Jt was a critical moment, and denuded instant and decided action. In a \v minutes the disposition to surrender mild have spread and the whole brigade ive been lost. Making his way across the tcrvening space, exposed to a regular fire file from the enemy's line scarce thirty trds off, and calling to his men to fall back, liich they did not do, General 1 lagood apoached the officer and demanded the cols, and that he should go back within his ni lines, telling him he was free to do so. e commenced arguing the hopelessness of rther struggle, and pointed out the line Ilagood's rear. Ilagood cut him short I id demanded a categorical reply?yes or >. Daly was a man of tine presence, with ng, flowing beard, and sat with loosened in upon a noble looking bay that stood ith head and tail erect, and Hashing eye id distended nostrils, quivering in every nb with excitement, but not moving in s tracks. In reply to this abrupt demand e rider raised his head proudly, and desively answered, No! Upon the word moral I lagood shot him through the body, (1 as he reeled from the saddle upon one le sprang into it from the other, Orderly oney seizing the flag from his falling mds. There was no thought of surrender iw; the yell from the brigade following e act and ringing out above the noise of ttle told their commander that they were ce more in hand, and would go now lierever ordered. Shouting to them to .'Oabout, Jingootl leu incm ilia run against e line in his roar, Stoney holding aloft front the recaptured Hag. The line moltbefore the charge; hut the lire was teric, after breaking through it, till the shelr of the valley of the branch was reached. [><>m its margin a fragment from a schrap- j 1 shell tore open the loins of the horse ' ngood rod. THE SHEHEUAX ROCK. Erratic boulders is a geological term to i ilea te large rocks found on the surface of e ground at a distance from the place of eir origin. Some of these displaced rocks e knorwn to exist at a distance of hundreds | miles from their former location?like I my that are found in this State and on 1 >ng Island and in Massachusetts. The eory of the geologists is that these great L*ks, which are in many instances as large a small cottage, were carried on moving issess of ice during that indefinite and j csterioiis time called the glacial period, me of them were so deposited by the Iting or breaking ice as to leave them to is day curiously balanced on the point of ntaet on which they rest. These, known "rocking stones" and "balanced rocks," e, in some instances, so nicely poised that, j ndorousas they are, some of them can be isibly rocked with some exertion of ongth by the hand, while it would reire a much greater force to overthrow em. Of these balanced rocks there are /eraI examples, not only abroad, but in iw England. A notable one exists in J incsborough, in Berkshire county, Massa-1 usetts. Connecticut is well sprinkled with ' 3 ice-borne boulders, though we believe! r State has few or no rocking stones. < )ne the largest of the boulders?and it is might to be the biggest one in the conn-j ,*?is in this State, in the New London kvn of Montville, on the west side of the lames river, hetween Norwich and New tndoii. This big rock has just been photoiphed. It is locally known as the Shehen rock, and is-lo feet high and 7h feet long. ' the best engineering estimates its weight 1(1,(11)1) tons. That is a pretty solid load, en for a traveling iceberg to carry. Ages j rain and frost have told on it by splitting ' big fragments?one of which is sixty feet lg and has an average thickness of twelve t?its estimated weight, 1,200 tons, conlerahly exceeding that of the entire rock , lied the "Pierre si Martin," the largest of! 3 granite boulders among the limestone! Igesof the .Jura Mountains in Switzerland, le next largest rock of the glacial deposits ! New Kngland is said to lie at the foot ofj nouniain in Nottingham, in southeastern )w Hampshire; it is called the Churchill k, and is 02 feet long, 40 feet wide and ">() t high; but its weight is believed to be 100 tons less than that of the Montville k. The erratic granite boulder, out of deli was hewn the statue of Peter the eat, at St. Petersburg, was 12 feet long, 27 >t broad, and 21 feet high. It is said the famous Plymouth Itock, on which the Pil- j griins landed, is an erratic boulder of syen- j ite, that was moved by the ice from Roxbury in Boston. Indeed, the New England coast | is plentifully strewn with these large rocky j visitors from the North, and a good many, no doubt, lie submerged in the waters of Long Island Sound and of other sounds and | bays to the eastward as far as Cape Cod, forming no inconsiderable portions of the hidden dangers to navigation alongtheNew j England coast.?Connecticut paper. i The Texas Edex.?1Traveling on the old McKenzie trail, 011 the third day we stopped to lunch and water our horses at the flow- ] out of the Blanco (or White) River, which 1 flows through Blanco Canon for forty miles, 1 and which, it should be remembered, is the ( only fresh water fork of the Brazos. We , had halted at the great gate of the Texas ( l.Vlnn whnro flio nnintor would have stood l entranced, pencil and brush being all too i tame to put in lines or color the grand land- ' scape where earth and brush and hill and 1 cloud and sky mingled into an indescriba- i ble picture. The sun was shining brightly I adown the valley and upon the mountain 1 bluffs, looming lip hundreds of feet above the limpid stream flowing through the cen- j tre of the canon. The grass, which was tinged with the autumn brown in the open < valley, appeared in green plats and patches, in the hollows and under the shadows of the canon bluffs. Myradsof flowers, blooming and withered, cropped out from the hillock, ' rock-base and open prairie. Hare among i them was the Texas star, a five-leaved flow- i er, which heads to the north?a veritable flower magnet. Rare it is, and growing still i rarer, as the rude hoof of horseand cattle continue to trample it out. The hardy flowering cactus is everywhere. Nature makes a big effort in the spreading mouth of Blanco Canon. This canon is about forty-five miles long and widens from its source like a wedge, until at its mouth there are fifteen or sixteen miles of plain and bluish and rich grasses. As we cross the crystal stream flowing over limestone and gussum beds we follow the trail up the bluff, where the fossil sea-shells crop out on every bare surface, and there, stretching away to the far distance, we see and for the first time realize the extent of the ranges known as the "Staked Plains." In the wonderfully clear sunlight we see herds of cattle feeding, and away towards a hill range some startled antelopes are scampering off in alarm. This trail up the steep bluff over which we have just come has been beaten into a smooth path by the countless feet of buffalo and Indians for centuries. Here, where the savage in his primitive brutality once hunted the noble game, we now see cattle ??>/li'f.fnMl\A/1 in fn?i*nnf ici'uiuj; uiiuisiuiucu in inv; ^nuii iluipi, \jj the Kentucky Cattle-Raising' Company. The buffalo have departed hut in their place have come short-horn cattle, showing the peaceful marriage between the wild cattle of the West with the thoroughbreds of the Bluegrass of Kentucky.?Letter to the Louisvide Courier Journal. 4 Louisiana Forests.?The scenery of this land where it is still in its wild state is weird and funeral, but on the banks of the large surrounding wilderness and on the glassy waters of the narrow and tortuous bayous that move among its shadows, in the last hours of day those scenes are often illuminated with extraordinary splendor. From the boughs of the dark, broad-spreading live oak and phantom-like arms of lofty cypresses, the long, motionless pendants of pale gray moss point down to their inverted images in the unrufHed waters beneath them. Nothing breaks the wide-spread silence. The light of the declining sun at one moment brightens the tops of the cypresses, at another glows like a furnace behind their black branches, oras the voyager reaches a western turn of the bayou, swings round and broadens down in dazzling crimson and purple upon the mirror ofthestream. Now and then from out some hazy shadow a heron, white or blue, takes flight, an alligator crosses the bayou, and broad fields of corn, of cane and of rice open outat frequent intervals on either side of the bayou, pushing back the dark pall-like curtain of the moss-draped swamp and presenting to the passing eye the neat and often imposing residence of the planter, the white double row of field-hands'cabins, the tall red chimney and broad gray roof of the sugar house, and beside it the huge, square, red-brick bagasse burner, into which during the grinding season the residuum of crushed sugar cane passes unceasing day and night, and is consumed with the smoke and glare of a conflagration. Kven where the forests close in upon the banks of the stream there is a wild and solemn beauty in the shifting ; scene, which appeals to the imagination with special strength, when the cooling lights or the warmer glows of evening impart the colors of the atmosphere to the stream sending out long tinted bars of widening ripple or on some high fire blackened limb till a flock of roosting vultures, sil- i houetted on the sky, linger with half-opened, unwilling wing and flap away by ones and twos until the tree is bare. Should the traveler descry lirst as a mote intensely black in the fnidst of the brilliancy that i overspreads the water and by and by re- < vealing itself in true outline and proportion us !i small canoe containing two men ( whoso weight seems about to engulf it and by whose paddle-strokes it is impelled with such evenness and speed that a long, glassy wave gleams continually at either side a full inch higher than the edge of the boat, he will have before him a picture of nature and human life that might have been seen at any time since the French fathers of the Louisiana Creoles colonized the Delta."? ('Sen. IF. Cable. | Kkckkatiox.?There is a homely saying among the fishermen "that those who will not mend their nets will soon be unable to catch lish and one is seldom found so improvident as to let a hole grow larger and larger until the net is useless. The nearest j approach to absolute rest is sleep, and of this every man, woman and child should have an abundance, proportioned to his constitu- i tion and occupation ; but there is a relative i rest, quite as important, and more neglected j by most busy men and women, this rest is ; recreation. The "I haven't time" excuse, ; although as popular as ever, is sadly thread- ( bare. A man owning property can afford to j invest a thousand dollars though he with- ; draw it from active business, if he is sure < that the money will double itself. We all i have twenty-lour hours every day to invest, i and if one hour withdrawn from business < can be better invested, is it not a wise thing i to doit'.' Relaxation, however, to be profit- ; able, must be whole-hearted. It is not rest j \ for the business man to bring his affairs and ! < worries home with him. It is not rest for j' the student to brood over theories and form- j j ulas when he walks, neither is it rest to take | ( one's fear and anxieties toour friend's table. ; i If we have no heart to throw off these bur-1 i 1 ' -./*??..4. ; ! i.? ~r I 1 dens, we snouiu mane me euort in ?i?uuui ourselves. We have been bound toourcares as the convict is to liis ball and chain, and it is time to master circumstances, instead of being tljeir slaves. Mental slaves are more dependent upon the physical condition than we are inclined to think. Irritability means overstrained nerves; the "blues" and "black butterflies" are other names of indigestion and a poor circulation. Recreation, it is to be remembered, is neither disipation, nor yet absence of activity. Complete change of thought is relaxation ; and llooil is quoted, by a recent writer, as saying that the Quaker always enjoys life, for he makes a pleasure of his business and a business of his pleasure. figgrMan must work. That is certain as the sun. Rut he may work grudgingly, or he may work gratefully ; he may work as a man, or he may work as a machine. He cannot always choose his work, but he can do it in a generous temper and with an uplooking heart. There is no work so rude that he may not exalt it; there is no work so impassive that he may not breathe a soul into it; there is no work so dull that he may not enliven i{.?Henry (tiler.. ' 1 W - 1 EX-EllIi->gSg EUGENIE. i lie ex-hrnpres* i-o^en;e js another one >f those crownless pei.^ug Up0n whom we mve a right to look with ^ { Sh lassed through Paris the u.?er ,in(j 'P?nt moaofhet time while!h 'f louse of Dr. John Evans. 1 lie ,v<lts ler dentist when she lived at St. Cfi^i an,'i 11 the Tuilories; he saved her life Wi..n lowling mob of crazy communists wt\ . seeking it; it was he who brought her safey to the channel coast and bargained with i British tar for her safe conveyance to the protecting shores of old England, and he las remained her friend ever since. People before whom she once played so prominent a role have almost forgotten her. Tilled dames and men of high degree, who iwed everything to her during the empire, now pass her by on the other side of the way when she re-appears in Paris in her widi?! rrnf tlio hsinrlsnmfi wo man now she once was; her hair is gray ind her form begins to bend. I have no wish to say anything against a woman, and least of all, against one who has had so many great griefs, but it does seem to me that the ex-Empress would do well to avoid these frequent and useless visits to Parisvisits for which there is not the shadow of nn excuse, and which are not at all in keeping with the dignity of a dethroned sovereign. What an abyss lies between the past and present of this woman who fifteen short years hgo was the mistress of France! Two days ago I saw her driving down the # Champs Elysees in a modestcoupe, unnoticed and ignored by the passing crowd; fifteen *' * years ago she never appeared in public except when escorted with imperial pomp, escorted by richly dressed chamberlains, guarded by numerous police, and cheered by the admiring throng. Then when her cortege entered the palace enclosure the guards turned out to pay her imperial honors. Now, in the same palace, or what is left of it, the Crown jewels, which then adorned her brow are being exhibited to the public prior to passing under the auctioneer's hammer. What strange memories must fill the mind of this woman whenever she re-visits Paris?memories of her first interview with Louis Napoleon, under the watchful eye of a long headed mother whom history has carefully consigned to oblivion ; of the splendors of the wedding ceremony at Notre Dame, and the mocking smile with which the Prince Napoleon, a glass screwed into his right eye, handed the wax taper to her and his cousin ; of the reconstruction of the old imperial court, of the gorgeous festivals, of political journeys, among them the one to assist at the openma of the Xnpy. mnjil. which was for her and for the empire a veritable apotheosis, and at which all the crowned heads of Europe paid her the homage due to her beauty. Good Rules fob Winter.?The following rules, published in the Farm and Fireside, are worth heeding by those who believe that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure : Never lean with the back upon anything that is cold. Never begin a journey until the break fast is eaten. Never take warm drinks and then immediately go out in the cold. Keep the back, especially between the shoulder blades, well covered; also, the chest well protected. In sleeping in a cold room establish the habit of breathing through the nose, and never with the mouth open. Never go to bed with cold or damp feet. Never omit regular bathing, for unless the skin is in active condition the cold will close the pores and favor congestion or other diseases. After exercise of any kind never ride in an open carriage or near the window ofa car for a moment ; it is dangerous to health, and even to life. When hoarse, speak as little as possible until the hoarseness is recovered from, else the voice may be permanently lost or difficulties of the throat be produced. Merely warm the back by a fire, and never continue keeping the back exposed to heat after it has been comfortably warm. To do otherwise is debilitating. When going from a warm atmosphere to a cooler one keep the mouth closed, so that the air may be warmed by its passage through the nose ere it reaches the lungs. Never stand still in cold weather, especially after having taken a slight degree or exercise, and always avoid standing on ice or snow, or where the person is exposed to a cold wind. The Dense Fogs of London.?Strangers visiting London who ascend the monuments and steeples of that city toward midday and after, for the purpose of looking abroad over the vast and teeming city, generally find that they have had only their labor for their pains, for the vast cloud of smoke has by that time assumed such consistency that it either completely hides or dims the view % r>f tlin tmnnrairi'l henenth tllPin. Those who are posted in the matter do not try the experiment. But when a real London fog is "on" nothing at all can be done in that city in the way of outside sight-seeing. The streets and stores are lighted up with gas at midday. The police grope their way about with lanterns strapped to their belts. The coaches and cabs light up. Pedestrians feel their way about the streets at the risk of their lives. The accidental death rate of that city is greatly increased. During one of these dense, acrid fogs which settled down upon the city this winter a London paper ?aid that it was "quite possible judging from past experience that to-day's fog may cost us as many lives as Te-el-Kebir," and that the fogs of December may be fatal to as many subjects of the Queen as the whole of the Egyptian campaign. In such fogs as these traffic on the Thames is entirely suspended, travelers on the parks lose their way, conductors of omnibuses walk in front of their horses with lanterns, all the railway trains are delayed, and fog signals are heard exploding in all parts of the city. Ax Eaki.y Wuitixg-Pafkk.?Many? centuries before Christ, Numa left writings upon the papyrus, whence our name, paper, is derived. This plant, which was revered is sacred by the old Egyptians, grows ibundantly in shallow streams and marshes in upper Egypt and Syria. Bruce found it growing in the river Jordan, and noticed i curious fact, that it always presented the harp angular side of its pear-shaped stem to the swift current. The stem is eight or ten feet high, two inches in diameter, and rowned with a fringe of hair-like leaves, which circle a blossom of slender spikelets. Beneath the brown sheath which envelopes he root-stalk of this dark-brown plant lie )ther sheaths which are very transparent, riiese, when split into thin leaves and dried 11 the sun, were glued together, and form>d the roll of papyrus, on which many of heancient writings have come to us. This -*< ? Iwxtli HnvJlilonn/1 rlnrnKlo .Qrtrkrn. tiens from Pompeii can be seen in the musejni at Naples. In the fifth century papyrus iaper, of which many varieties existed, ,vas manufactured at Alexandria, and rankMi high in the commerce of nations. Its ise continued until about seven or eight jenturies ago.?Charles E. Jio/fon. Tin-: Pkksidextial Election* Day.? The States did not always vote on the same , lay for President. In the campaign of 1844, vhich ended in Clay's defeat by Polk, iwelve of the twenty-six States voted on the irst Monday in November, three on the irst Tuesday, three on the second Monday, md others at different times, New Jersey aking two days for the business, beginning vith the first Tuesday, Pennsylvania the irst Friday and Ohio the last Friday, and south Carolina not choosing her electors mtil the Legislature met, about the first of December. The only requirement then was hat the electors should be chosen within lie thirty-four days preceding the first Wedlesday in December; but early in 1845 the >resent law was passed, which provides hat all electors shall be chosen on the Tueslay next after the first Monday in November .?Brooklyn I 'nion.