Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, June 25, 1885, Image 1
# '
lewis m:. grist, proprietor, j % fitbtjpbtnf JmiIij fttfospaptr: Jfor % promotion of % ^olilical, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial interests of % Soutfj. |terms--$2.50 a year, in advance.
VOL. 31. " YORKVILLE, S. P., THURSDAY, JUNE 357~1885. . IsTO. 36.
?he MIrr.
A BEAUTIFUL FWDT"
An Earlier Kate Bender?Her Terrible Butcheries,
and Vanity.
It is seldom that a woman resorts to the
knife when she makes up her mind to remove
from this scene of strife some being
whose existence is obnoxious to her welfare,
but Miss Sarah Malcolm added to the
strange crime (for one of her sex) of burglary
that of murder by wholesale.
Sarah Malcolm was born in the County of
Durham, England, in 1611, her parents being
people in the middle ranks of life.
Her mother was an Irish woman, and possessing
some property in Dublin, removed
there when Sarah was a child. She was
sent to school, and was most tenderly
brought up. She was nol: allowed to do
any work, and her beauty, as she grew to
womanhood, filled them with hopes ol her
making a match far superior to her own
station.
Both her parents died when she was about
seventeen, and this threw her upon her own
resources, for they had lost almost all they
possessed in a small inn. Being her own
mistress,-she was fired with a desire to go
to the great city of London, to try if her
fa'ce would make her fortune.
A friend of hers, one Mary Tracy, had
gone to London some time before, and had
not failed to give a glowing account of its '
wonders and possibilities to Sarah.
Mary had obtained a place at the "Black
Horse Ale-house," and by her endeavors,
Sarah was also given a place, and there she
made the acquaintance of two brothers
named Alexander.
The two ladies and gentlemen made one
party of all their pleasurings, and later on
in crime.
Tiring of the ale-house, Sarah tried domestic
service, and went out as parlor maid
in several private families, who afterward
testified to her honesty and good conduct
while with them. Sarah had an ambition
which after a time she was able to gratify.
She wished to become one of the laundresses
in the Temple. The rooms in the Temple
were occupied by law students and
young lawyers, generally wealthy men who
devoted much of their time to sowing wild
oats.
The Temple laundresses were noted for
their beauty and youth, and Sarah finally
became one of these, taking especial charge
of the linen of Mr. John Kerrel, a young
limb of the law, and very well off. I
Before becominga Temple laundress, with
its emoluments and renown, Miss Malcolm
had been waiting-maid to a Mrs. Lydia
Duncomb.
She was old, infirm, and rich. There lived
with her as a friend and companion, an old,
decrepit woman named Elizabeth Harrison,
and Sarah was succeeded by a young, strong
and pretty girl, Ann Price. Sarah used
often to drop in and see Mrs. Duncomb after
she left her place, and was sometimes per
3 A- ? * -*-l_ ~ ftkrt Imam
muteu mj sicep mere, wiist^ucutij' otic Mien
the house well, and had the confidence of its
inmates.
The 4th of February, 1733, fell on a Sunday.
Mrs. Ann Love had been invited to
dine withdier friend, Mrs. Lydia Duncomb,
on that day, and went to her apartment and
knocked exactly at 1 o'clock. Receiving no
answer, she became alarmed, and going
down to the lady who lived on the floor underneath,
asked if she had seen any of the
family above. Mrs. Oliphant replied that
she had not. Going up stairs again, she met
fearah*Malcolm coming down, and said to
her:
"Sarah, prithee go and fetch the smith to
open the door."
Sarah replied she would go with all speed,
and went, but returned without the smith.
On this, Mrs. Oliphantsaid she could get out
of her window and walk along the roof to
Mrs. Duncomb's window, break a pane of
glass and get in, which she did, opening
Mrs. Duncomb's window, and admitting
Mrs. Love and Sarah Malcolm,
i The first room they entered was that of
Ann Price. She was lying in bed, her hair
hanging loose and falling over her eyes, her
throat cut from ear to ear, her hands clinched
and wallowing in her own blood.
Her chin was fixed down, as if with a design
to hide the cut in the throat. She had
evidently struggled hard for her life.
In the next room, Elizabeth Harrison lay
dead in her bed, strangled, and her throat
scratched and bruised.
The last body was that of Mrs. Duncomb,
in another room.
There was a little crease around her neck,
as if made by a string being tied tightly
aruunu.
Sarah Malcolm seemed as horrified assurprised
at the discovery of these mangled
bodies, and when a doctor came in, and lifting
up the chin of Ann Price let it fall, she
uttered a suppressed shriek; with this exception
her behavior was not different from
that of the women who were with her.
Mrs. Duncomb kept her money in a chest
in her room. This was found broken open,
and rifled of everything except a few papers.
It had held a large amount of money, some
articles of silverware, and underclothing not
in use, and a very peculiar silver tankard.
Mr. John Kerrel had been out of towi> for
a few days, but returned on the 4th of February.
As he was going to his rooms in the
Temple, he saw people standing about and
talking excitedly. On inquiring what had
happened, he was told that three womenMrs.
Duncomb, Miss Harrison, and their
servant, Ann Price?had been murdered
during the night. Much surprised, he went
into his bed chamber, and found there Sarah
Malcolm. He relates in his deposition that
he said to her:
"Are you here at this time in the morning?
You knew Mrs. Duncomb. Have
you heard of anybody that is taken up for
murder?"
"No." said she, "but a gentleman who
had chambers under her has been absent
two or three days, and he is suspected."
"Said I, 'Nobody that was acquainted
with Mrs. Duncomb shall stay here until the
murderer is found out, and, therefore, take
up your things and get away.'
"Meanwhile, Mr. Gehagan, whose rooms
are on the same floor, opposite mine, and
who had come in with me, had gone down
to call the watch; but he could not find the
door readily, and came up again. I went
down to call two watchmen, and brought
them up, and I found her turning over
some linen in my drawers, and I asked her
who it belonged to. She said it was her
own. The next thing I took notice of was
a bundle lying on the ground. I asked
what it was. She said it was her gown.
'And what's in it?' said I. 'Why, soiled
linen,' said she. So I did not offer to open
it. I searched further, and missed several
things of my own, and found other things
that did not belong to me, and then I charged
the watch with her and bade them take
her away and take care of her.
"When she was gone, I found another
bundle, wherupon we resolved to make a
thorough search. We found some more
linen, (afterward proved to be Mrs. Duncomb's)
and a pint silver tankard, with a
bloody handle."
The bundle belonging to Sarah was wet
and bloody ; it contained an apron and other
garments.
The watchman's testimony is singular,
showing the manner of arrests in London
in olden times. Richard Hughs deposed:
"As I was upon my watch in the temple, at
half past 1 o'clock, ! heard Mr. Kerrell call
'Watch !' My brother watchman went, and
then called me." Here follows similar evidence
to that given by Kerrel. Hughs continued
: "As we were not charged with her
before a constable, we thought we had no
occasion to keep her in custody, so we discharged
her. She said it was late, and she
lived as far as Shoreditch, and therefore
had rather sit up in the watch house than
go home. 'No,' said I, 'go about your business,
and be here again at 10 o'clock.' She
said she would come again at 10 o'clock, and
so went away. But soon after she was
gone, Mr. Kerrel came down with a tankard
and some clean linen, and very angry
he was that we had let her go. I went
after her, and found her at the Temple
gate. I told her Mr. Kerrel wanted to
speak with her, and that I might get her
along the more easily, I said that he was not
as angry as he was before, and so I brought
her with me. He showed her the tankard,
and she said it was her mother's. He asked
her how it came bloody. She said she had
pricked her finger."
Sarah was imprisoned in Newgate. As
she entered she exclaimed, "I am a dead
woman!" She was conveyed to the old
Condemned Hole. It no longer exists in the
prison. One of the keepers?Johnson?was
sent to search her, the delicate attention of
a lady's services for such an office not being
considered necessary.
Rolled up in her hair, he found a bag of
money, which she confessed was the murdered
woman's, and offered to give it to
him if he would keep her secret.
With due regard to her personal appearance,
Johnson says, "after I had taken the
money away, she put a piece of mattress in
| her hair, that it might appear in the same
bulk as before.
Sarah charered the two Alexanders and
Mary Tracy with the murder, admitting
that she had connived at the robbery. A
prisoner being then allowed to defend himself,
and even to question and interrupt the
witnesses as they were giving their testimony,
she availed herself of the privilege
and defended herself with great ingenuity,
and even eloquence. When she was confronted
with the people whose arrest she
had caused, she said firmly and with seeming
innocence, "These are the persons who
committed the murder. See Mary, what
you have brought me to. It is through you
and the two Alexanders that I am brought
to this shame, and must die for it. You all
promised me you would do no murder, but
to my great surprise I find the contrary."
All that she could ever be induced to tell
about the transaction was as follows:
"The robbery was contrived by Mary
Tracy and myself, ray own vicious inclinanations
agreeing with hers. I told her I
could not pretend to do it myself, for I
should be found out. 'No,' said she, there
are the two Alexanders who will help us.'
I met them all in Cheapside, and we agreed.
"On Saturday, I went between 7 and 8 in
the evening, to see Elizabeth Harrison.
She was very bad. I staid a little while
with her, and went down stairs. Mary
Tracy and the two Alexanders came about
ten. She would have gone about the robbery
then, but I said it was too soon.
"Between ten and eleven she said, 'We
can do it now.' I went up stairs and they
followed me.
"I met the young maid on the stairs with
a blue mug; she was going for some milk to
make a sack posset. She asked me who
were those that came after me. I told her
some people going into the rooms below, i
* - """" "o oKo Karl imno T cairl tn Afflrv I
/va auun ao out jkiu A
Tracy, 'Now do you and Tom Alexander go
on. I know the door is leftajar because the
old maid is ill, and can't get up to let the
young maid in when she comes hack.' Upon
that, James Alexander, by my order,
went in and hid himself under the bed, and
as I was going down, I met the young maid
coming up. She asked if I had spoken to
Mrs. Betty; I told her no, and then went to
Mr. Kerrel's rooms and stirred up the fire.
I staid about a quarter of an hour, and
when I came back, I saw Mary Tracy and
Tom Alexander sitting on Mrs. Duncomb's
stairs, and I sat down with them. It was
a very stormy night; there was hardly anybody
stirring abroad, and the watchmen
kept close except when they cried the hour.
At 2 o'clock a gentleman came and called
the watch to light his candle.
"Soon after this, I heard Mrs. Duncomb's
door open. James Alexander came out and
* !- > rri?0/??T
SH1U, 'iNOWlS Hie Lime. xucu luoij na^
and Tom Alexander went in, but I staid
upon the stairs to watch ; I had told them
where Mrs. Duncomb's box stood. They
came out between four and five, and one of
them called to me softly, and said, 4Hip!
how shall I shut the door?' "Tis a spring
lock,' says I; 'pull it to and it will be fast,'
and so one of them did. They would have
shared the money and the goods upon the
stairs, but I told them we had better go
down; so we went under the arch in Fig
Tree Court, where there was a lamp. I
asked them how much they had got. They
said they had found fifty guineas, and some
silver in the maid's purse, about ?100 in the
chest of drawers, besides the silver tankard,
and the money in the box, and several other
things, so that in all they had the value
of about ?300 in money and goods. They
told me that they had been forced to gag
the people. They gave me the tankard
and what was in it, and some linen for my
share, and they had a silver spoon and a
ring and the rest of the money among
themselves. They advised me to be cunning,
and plant the money and goods under
ground, and not to be seen flush.
Notwithstanding the circumstantiality of
this confession, the two Alexanders and
Mary Tracy were acquited, and Sarah Malcolm
was found guity of the murder of Mrs.
Duncomb, having been indicted severally
for the murder of the three women and for
robbery. She was condemned to death.
Human nature does not change, though
the seasons do, and the centuries are rolled
up in the wrinkled scroll of Time. Then,
as now, it was the fashion to slobber over
the most hardened wretches.
As soon as her guilt was fully established,
ministers came to offer her religious consolation,
and to wrest or coax the truth from |
her. while fashionable ladies flocked to see
her, to load her with flowers, fruits and
other gifts. They sympathized with her,
instead of being horrified at her crimes.
The criminal classes, and the members of the
prize ring, gazed with admiration at the
young girl who, unaided, slew three women,
strangling two and cutting the throat
of the strong one, who had battled bravely
for her life. It was no small feat of strength
to break open the box of plate and money,
and all so quietly, and swiftly that not a
sound was heard in the house.
So Sarah became the heroine of the hour,
but would make no further confession,
though urged by crowds of high-born damsels
to do so.
On Sunday, as some people were in her
cell, she fell into a grievous agony, which
lasted for sometime, with all imaginable
signs of terror and fright. One of the keepers
coming in said, "What has happened,
Sarah, to put you into this disorder?" She
pretenled that it was occasioned by her being
told at chapel that she was to be hanged
in Fleet Street among all her acquantances,
which gave her inexpressible pain. The
keeper replied, "That is not the truth ; when
the death-warrant came down, I acquainted
you that you were to die there, so it is not
probable that that should surprise you so
much now."
The chronicle concludes with a picture of
strange customs in the beginning of the
eighteenth century.
When the bellman came into Newgate to
give notice to the prisoners who were to die
on Monday, somebody called to Sarah Malcolm
and bid her mind what he said.
"She, looking out of her window, answered
she did; and as soon as he had done, she
said: "D'ye hear, Mr. Bellman ? Call for
a pint of wine, and I'll throw you a shilling
to pay for it," which she accordingly did.
Notwithstanding all her unswerving declarations
of innocence, and constant assertions
that the true murderers would be found out
when she had been laid in her grave, she
spent the last night of her life in prayer with
a fellow prisoner, who was to be hanged the
day after herself.
She mounted the scaffold with a firm step
and fearless mein, perishing in the twentysecond
year of her age. She is described as
a perfect model of beauty, and for her final
taking-off, had dressed herself so carefully,
that she never missed a hole in lacing up
her shoes.
Any truth, faithfully faced, is strength
in itself.
miscellaneous fading.
THE BLUE BLOODS OF EUROPE.
FAMILY AFFAIRS OF THE OUELFHS AND
THEIR KINSMEN.
The long continued quarrel between
Queen Victoria and her son-in-law, Louis
IV, Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt, because
of the latter's morganatic marriage
to Mme. Kolomine, has, it is said, been
amicably ended. The Duke, who before
the discovery of the Kolomine affair, was
believed to be a suitor for the hand of
Princess Beatrice, whom according to report
he was to marry as soon as Parliament
passed the deceased wife's sister bill, will
now according to a recent announcementsoon
be married to Princess Hilda, of
Hamault-Dessau.
The marriage of the Princess Beatrice to
Prince Henry of Battenburg will not, after
all, be such a "quiet" affair as it was at first
intended. In fact, the Queen seems to have
made up her mind to marry off her last
daughter with a great deal of pomp and
ceremony. She has issued orders to largely
increase the invitations to the wedding, and
the bridal cake, which is to be something
quite extraordinary in the confectioners'
art, will weigh two hundred and fifty
pounds. No member of the royal family of
Germany is to be invited to the Princess
Beatrice's wedding.
From .Brussels it is reported concerning
the Empress Charlotta, the unfortunate
widow of Maximillian of Mexico, that a
marvellous improvement is noticeable in
her mental condition. The Empress entered
her 4Gth year Thursday last, and the
physicians who have been attending her
nave observed recently that her health has
grown to be excellent, and that the malady
which for years has oppressed her brain has
been gradually disappearing.
Eugenia has stopped the annual pension
of 24,000 francs which had been settled on
Prince Victor. The reason was stated to be
the riotous and vicious character of the life
the young man was leading. Victor, however,
has strong friends. A syndicate of
these, when they learned of his loss, at once
organized and settled upon him a new pension
of 48,000 francs per annum. This syndicate
is headed by the Due De Padua,
and a condition has been imposed upon
Prince Victor to the effect that he must
live prudently and virtuously.
Victor being now practically independent
is quite bold. He refuses to be reconciled
to his father unless Plonplon shall bind himself
to repay to Victor's friends all the moneys
they have thus far advanced to him.
The ex-Empress and the Princesse Clothilde
and Mathilae are, it is reported, engaged
in conspiracy to supplant Victor as a pretender
to the Bonapartist succession by his
brother. Prince Louis. The latter however
refuses it is said to be a party to this conspiracy.
A COUSIN OF QUEEN VICTORIA DYING IN
OBSCURITY.
A few days ago, says London Truth, there
died in Preston, at an ordinary cottage
house in a street on the northern side of the
town, a woman of royal descent?a second
cousin of Queen Victoria, it is distinctly asserted?and,
so far as the town is concerned,
che wpnt. rlnwn to the crave. at the ace of
eighty-five, "unhonored and unsung." The
only mourner at the graveside was her son,
whose life has been of a most checkered description.
For particular reasons we purposely
suppress names; if references were
plainly made the living might be injured in
material prospects. This personage true to
the vow she nad made, gave no general cue
to her character or lineage. So well was
this vow kept that only a limited favored
number were able to penetrate the secret.
Descended from a royal stock of peculiarly
historic renown, the woman referred to
passed her youthful days in the vicinity of
Balmoral Castle. A braw Scotch laddie,
well educated, but with no fine ancestry to
boast of, wooed and won the maiden. They
were married, but the marriage was not approved
of in certain high quarters and the
wedded couple afterwards took their departure
and located themselves in aneighboring
Scottish town. * * * Great secrecy was
observed as to the family, character and associations
of the deceased, and it was only
three days ago we ascertained, through a
special channel, that she had lived and died
at Preston. A short time before her death,
she, with her son, went specially to London
and stayed there fora week, certain arrangements
being made during their sojourn in
the metropolis. In her last illness she called
her son to her bedside, gave him good counsel
and advised him to be content with his
present station in life, as any departure
from it might be attended with inconvenience
to his happiness. During her life
lime inere were irom nine 10 nine cuminunications
passing between London and .Scotland
and the deceased, which inclines us to
think that the so-called error of her marriage
was viewed in a by no means very
harsh light, and the events which subsequently
took place strongly confirm this
view. The deceased was a ripe scholar, a
good linguist, possessed a well-balanced
mind and left behind her many things bearing
upon her royal descent. These, we understand,
are about to be, if they have not
already been, sent to a certain quarter. A
voluminous correspondence has been committed
to the flames by order of certain authorities,
and a diary kept by husband and
wife has shared the same cruel fate. Many
of the books bore marginal notes in ink,
and these, too have been subjected to the
same fiery ordeal. In accordance with instructions
officially given, all manuscripts
and letters have been destroyed, while some
articles have been sent off to London and
Scotland.
Wonders of the Great Canon.?What
words are to be used, unaided by pencil or
brush, when one seeks to describe what the
canon of the Colorado river really is? Its
magnitude, its solemnity, the awful depth,
the rushing waters, the towering cliffs, all
speak to us, but we cannot speak of them.
Man is dwarfed by nature, abashed by her
grandeur, silenced by the exhibition of her
powers. Imagine the scene. A yellowhued
stream, rushing like a gust of angered
wind along a rock-strewn bed and between
a line of dark-hued cliffs. Look upward a
thousand feet, and rocks look angrily down:
gaze up another thousand feet, another, and
still another, and there are the same darkbrowed
monsters glaring down upon you
and unon the river. Look un aerain. and
now gaze for G,000 feet into the air toward
the heavens, and you can still see roughedged
rocks, all outlined against the sky,
over a mile in height away, throwing up
pinnacles and towers, and domes and isolated
peaks chipped and scarred, and dark,
massive, and irregular. The light of day is
dimmed, the place is full of loud, hoarse
roars, the air is chilled, and the river lashed
into foaming fury, leaps madly along its
course. Here are shadows that Rembrandt
would have gloried in; here Dore might
have copied nature and added to his fame.
Here is the road to Dante's somber halls.
One stands within the very bowels of the
earth, with all light and brightness lost to
view. He sees the work ol ages, the result
of a mighty power. The earth is cleft in
twain; it is as though a mountain, tall and
strong, had been halved by some sharpened
sword. Six thousand feet of stony depth !
Six thousand feet beneath the light of day!
There are no pleasant smiles of nature to be
seen. No flowers grow, no shrubs appear,
no birds are visible. Dark are the towering
walls, and darker still the shadows, while
the towers take on most uncouth shapes,
and the river runs out of blackness to us
and into darkness from us, a puny monster
in comparison with its prison, a wayward
child held in stern rebuke.
From the tops of the cliffs which form the
Colorado's canon, the river winding at their
base is like a strand of gold. But it needs
strong nerve to look from the great height
into the depths below. Drop a stone and
the splash it would make upon striking the
water could not bo seen. Even the noise the
river makes is not audible and the stream
seems to flow noiselessly along its dark and
rugged course. Turning from gazing into
canon, and looking about the country, the
deep rent is seen.stretching far away to the
east and west, white in the distance are tall
trees and rocks, and bare, brown hills. One
question why the canon was made and how?
whether worn by the river, or formed by
volcanic action. But whatever the cause, it
is a strange freak of nature, rivaling, with
its grandeur, all other sights, inviting comparisons,
but challenging competition. All
other canons of the wild Southwest, where
. l-lf-Ll ...3 3 _ J 1 3 ? 1
rivers aengni iu wiuu in uaraeueu piuces,
sink into insignificance when compared
with this of the Rio Colorado.
JACOB'S WELL.
This is one of the spots in Palestine whereof
all tradition concurs as to its identity.
This makes it venerable. And now we are
looking down in the well at which Joseph
so often watered the flock of his father,
Jacob. The top has been partly archea
over, covering a little space around what
we would call the "curb of the well." The
dragoman gave me his strong arm, and let
me over this upper and outer rim, and
down a few feet tb. a point where I got a
nearer view of the depth below. Explorers
who have measured it have found it over
a hundred feet deep, but a part of this has
been filled up by stones cast into it.
Rut how came Jacob to dig such a well ?
is a question often asked. He was close
to the Vale of Shechem, which is full of
streams. What need of boring a hundred
feet through the solid rock to find what a
mile or two distant was running away in
exhaustless abundance? The answer is,
that neighbors are not always friends: that
the inhabitants of the towns and shepherds
of the plains had little to do with each other,
and even might be in open feud. In
Christ's time "the Jews had no dealings
with Samaritans," and seventeen hundred
years before the progenitor of the Hebrew
race may have been to them a stranger and
an alien. The people of the Shechem might
be friendly to-aay and enemies to-morrow;
and though they might have water flowing
through their city tney might at any moment
shut it off from him. With all his
flocks and herds he could not be dependent
on such an uncertain supply. And so he
dug his well, "and drank thereof himself,
and his children, and his cattle." The woman
of Samaria, who came here to draw
water had probably been out out on the
plain tending the flocks, and at the sixth
hour?noon?had no other spring to go to
but Jacob's well.
But the chief interest of this spot is, that
one greater than Jacob or Joseph has been
here. On this very ground, sitting where
we now sit, our Saviour sat and talked with
that woman of Samaria, revealing to her as
tonished eyes tnat in tne worsnip 01 uoa
the place matters little; that "neither in
this mountain," looking up toGrezira which
rose above him, "nor yet at Jerusalem,"
shall men "worship the father;" for that
"God is a Spirit, and they that worship
him must worship in spirit and in truth."?
H. M. Field, D. I).
DANIEL M. FOX.
The United States Mint at Philadelphia
is the most important mint in the country,
besides, being the oldest. There are branch
mints at New Orleans and Carson City, but
all of the most important work is done in
Philadelphia. The dies from which the
coins are struck are made there and then
duplicates are sent to the other mints. The
position of Superintendent of the mint
therefore is one of vast importance and responsibility.
Daniel M. Fox, who was appointed
on June 9th, 1885, by President
Cleveland, to the position, is a Philadelphian
and was born June 16th, 1819. The
family comes of old revolutionary stock and
his maternal grandfather served under
Washington, and at Yorktown witnessed
the surrender of Cornwallis. After a liberal
education young Fox entered the office of
Jacob F. Haeckley to study conveyancing,
and after remaining there for five years
started in business for himself. He soon
became the head of one the of most substantial
conveyancing firms in Philadelphia.
The purchase of all the property on the
south side of Filbert street from the Schuylkill
to Broad street was entrusted to his
firm by the Pennsylvania Railroad. This
vast undertaking was most successfully accomplished
notwithstanding the difficulties
the various property owners put in the way.
In 1869 Mr. Fox became Mayor of the city
after having been defeated in 1861 and 1865,
for the same office. Previous to this he had
served two terms in councils and had been
a director of Girard College. During his
term as Mayor the old Vounteer Fire Department
was done away with to be succeeded
by the paid system. The turbu'
~ 2M iL a /\1 H ^ T /\1 II ? f A A*? Oltof fltYl
itfllt flfllitMl l ill II1C UlU V uiuiucci fljoiciir
resisted the change, which almost led to a
riot, but the cool courage of the mayor prevented
this. In politics Mr. Fox has always
been a consistent Democrat.
The Sabbath Evening.?There is no
season of the day or year which gives me
such pure and exquisite pleasure as that of
a summer's Sabbath evening, when the
heart has been soothed and the spirit elevated
by recent acts of devotion; and when
every mountain and valley, forest and river,
a holy tranquility reposes, as if inanimate
nature were conscious of the sanctity
of the day of rest. To an observer of feeling
and imagination, the contemplation of
nature is a source of continual enjoyment;
the budding spring inspires him with hope;
the full blown summer fills him with joy ;
the decaying autumn speaks to liirn of his
own decay, Tike the soothing voice of a parent
that invites him to repose after the labors
of the day; and the desolating winter
gives imitation of his death, when like the
faded flowers, his body shall be withering
in the dust, and his spirit, like the birds of
passage that follow the genial seasons in
their jonrney round the globe, shall have
winged his way to a better and happier
region. But a summer's Sabbath evening
is the season of the most exalted enjoyment
it. i? then that there seems to be an
inanimate communion between earth and
heaven, and we feel as if partakers of the
pleasures of both worlds; it is then that
these confines seem to meet, and we ieel as
if by one step we could pass from time into
eternity.?John Knox.
igr I)o you ever stop to think what a tireless
letter a good newspaper is ? Week after
week, year alter year, it goes on, telling
of marriages, births, deaths, the coming ana
going of the people, the business successes
or failures, accidents, improvements, meetings,
revivals, socials?in fact, events of all
kinds. All is grist that comes to the hopper
of a good newspaper. If you should undertake
to write a letter to an absent friend and
tell half the news found in your local paper,
we think you would give up in despair.
PARTTNG OP LEE AND HIS GENERALS, i
The final parting was in front of Lee's i
mansion in Richmond, two days after Appomattox.
Lee's house is an ordinary square ]
brick, standing alone on Franklin street,
one square from the Capitol. All the other i
houses on the square are connected. Upon 1
the afternoon of the second day after the
surrender, people were surprised to see come
riding up the street from the south a company
of Confederate horsemen. They were
unarmed. Their gray uniforms were worn,
soiled, and often tattered, their trappings old
and patched. They wore slouched hats, and 1
here and there was a feather remaining of
the once smart and jaunty drooping plume
of the Confederate cavalrymen, They were
bronzed and browned and bearded. They
sat erect and came on with the splendid
horsemanship for which they were noted.
Upon the collars of some of the gray jackets
could still be seen the faded and tarnished
gilt stars, the emblems of the wearers'|rank.
In front of them rode Lee. His two
hands held the looselv swinging reins and
rested on the pommel* His head was bent
and his eyes were looking straight ahead
from under his downcast brow, but they
seemed to see nothincr.
As the troops cantered up to his old home
his horse stopped at the gate, and he arroused
himself suddenly, as from a dream,
and cast his eyes upon the familiar windows
and then around over the group of
gallant soldiers who had followed his lortunes
for four bloody years and gone down
' in defeat under his banner.
The end of all had come at last. He
threw himself from his horse, and all his
companions followed his action. They stood
hat in hand, with an arm through the bridle
rein, while Lee went from man to man,
grasping each hand ; looking intently into
each face as though he would press it upon
his memory forever. Then he turned and
walked through the gate and up the steps
to his door. As a servant opened the door
he paused with his left foot on the veranda,
his right upon the last step, and looked
back for the last time. Not a word had
been spoken, not a good-by uttered. There
was no sound heard but that of sobs as
these unkempt and grizzled heroes of a hundred
battles leaned their heads against the
shoulders of their horses and wept.
Lee gave one look, and broke down at
last. His hands were over his eyes and his
frame shook with sobs, as he turned quickly
and disappeared into his lonely house.
With the closing of the door behind him
ended forever the dreams of the Southern
Confederacy.?Cincinnati Com.-Guzelte.
Crossties.?The report made by F. B.
Hough, of the Department of Agriculture,
on the "Durability of Crosstie Timbers,"
is important both to the railroads and to the
owners of woodlands. The crossties needed
for railroad construction are a heavy draft
upon our forests. In France and England
the country does not raise sufficient timber
to furhish ties, and they have to be imported
from abroad; and in Mexico and
South America, notwithstanding the great
forests many ties were similarly imported.
In this country, on the other hand, weareexporting
them; but the time will soon come
when the demand will test the supply. It
requires 17,000,000 acres or 26,500 square
miles of forest to furnish the present demand
of the railroads, and at the rate of
progress in building new lines 30,000 square
miles of forests will have to be set aside for
this purpose within a decade.
The principal timbers employed for railroad
purposes are the following, given in
the order of their use : Oak, pine, chestnut,
hemlock, cedar, tamarack, cypress, elm,
ash, cherry, black walnut, fir, spruce,
beech, locust, redwood, maple, butternut,
coffeenut, mulberry and mesquite.
The oak lasts seven and a half years as a
cross tie, and costs 41 cents per tie. lted
oak, however, lasts only five years and
black oak four and a half. Southern pine
is good for six and a half-years, and costs
37 cents; white pine has the same durability,
but costs less?31 cents.
Cedar shows the greatest average durability
of twelve years, with a cost of 34 cents,
Kt,t ?< is tnn unft trv Knar hsavir frniorhtoorn
and is consequently not much used in railroad
building.
California redwood is also very durable
and lasts eleven years, but this, it must be
remembered, is in the dry climate of California,
where all kinds of timber last well.
Cypress makes a good crosstie, lasting
nearly nine years, where white and black
ash rot in four years. Finally, all hewed
woods are much more lasting than when
sawed.
The present price paid for crossties in the
United States?an average of 35 cents?is
phenomenally low in comparison with
other countries, and is due to the fact that
so many of our railroads traverse well wooded
districts. It is inevitable that with the
destruction of our forests their price will
rise, and that our railroads of the future
will find crossties among the most expensive
articles of construction.
John Andre.?What American school
child is not familiar with the melancholy
fate of this unfortunate man? "Born in
London, 1751, hung as a spy at Tappan,
Rockland county, N. Y., October 2, 1789."
Thus history chronicles him. Disappointed
in a love affair, he entered the English
army, and was taken prisoner by General
Montgomery, in Canada, during the Revolutionary
war. Afterwards he became aidde-camp
to General Clinton, in which capacity
he engaged in a secret correspondence
with General Benedict Arnold tor the purpose
of securing a betrayal of the American
cause. Arnold held command at West
Point, on the Hudson river, the "most important
post in the United States, and the
key of communication between the eastern
and southern States." To surrender this
post into the hands of General Clinton,
whose headquarters were in New York, required
a personal interview between Andre
and Arnold. This was arranged for.
Returning from this secret meeting, and 1
bearing a permit from General Arnold to |
pass "the lines," Andre, to insure his greater
protection, disguised himself as a citizen,
but was arrested within a mile of Tarrytown
by three American soldiers. Searching
his person they found within his sockstraitorous
communications from Arnold, be,
traying the American cause. Refusing Andre's
offers of money for freedom, these
patriots, John Paudling, David Williams,
and Isaac Van Wert, conveyed him to Tappan,
the American headquarters. Here he 1
was tried as a spy by a board of officers and
condemned to death. His request to be
shot, was denied him, and he was hung as i
a spy in full Rritish uniform, in the pres- i
ence of a vast concourse of people, both
civil and military. He called on the multitude
to witness that he died as a brave
man. His death was lamented even by (
Washington himself, but for his crime in .
that dark day of American struggling, there <
| was no expiation short of death. In 1821 i
| his remains were removed to England and i
I infprrpd in Westminster abbev. I 1
Cauhgt in a Chimney.?The London (
Standard tells this little love story: A re- ,
markable incident is reported from Arling- ]
ford, a town in county Kilkenny. The oc- j
cupants of a house were alarmed by hearing J
cries issuing from the chimney, and eventu- (
ally a young man was extricated from it j
when on the point of suffocation. He confessd
that having been forbidden to make
his addresses to the daughter of the house, ,
he determined to get into her bed-room by {
means of the chimney. Mounting to the j
roof, he entered the chimney, but his pro- j
gress was presently obstructed by some
pieces of timber, and a fall of soot almost
suffocated him. lie cried out, and so aroused
the occupants of the house.
Amount of Exercise Required.?Dr. >
Parker has calculated that the amount of I
exercise a man in health should take regularly
is equal to walking nine miles a day
upon level ground. The amount of walk- i
ingdone in walking about the house and i
other domestic duties, may probably be put \
down as three miles, which will leave only t
I
a walk of six miles per diem on level
ground. If the ground is hilly, this will
be still more reduced, so that it certainly i
does not seem an excessive amount to advise.
The proper quantity must, however, vary
greatly with circumstances. Females, for ;
example, will not take as much as men. In ! 0
winter more may betaken than in summer, g
In youth, when the body is undergoing its 1 p
most active development, care must be ta- j ?
ken that every muscle is exercised in its i ?
turn. Hence the free use of gymnastics, j
games and sports at this age is most benefi- j ?
cial. In advanced life this power and incli-; J1
nation for exercise both fail, but even then 1
every effort should be made to prevail upon ?
the individual to take some amount of exer- 1
cise, and to postpone the evil day when he 0
will become completely bed-ridden. Such
an amount of exercise is in all cases neces- [
sary as will keep the muscles in good health t
and enable them to meet the physical re- I
quirements of the rest of the body. ^
Help One Another.?This little sen- ?
tence should be written on every heart? ^
stamped on every memory. It should be
the golden rule of practice, not only in every j
household, but throughout the world. By *
helping one another we not only remove the
thorns from the pathway and anxiety from J
the mind, but we feel a sense of pleasure in \
our hearts, knowing we are doing a duty to | "
a fellow creature. A helping hand or an !
encouraging word is no less to us, yet it is a i
benefit to others. Who has needed the encouragement
and aid of a kind friend? ?
How soothing when perplexed with some
task that is both difficult and burdensome. [
to feel a gentle hand on the shoulder, and J
to hear a kind voice whispering, "Do not c
be discouraged; I see your troubles, let me ?
help you." What strength is inspired, [
hope created; what sweet gratitude is felt *
and the great difficulty dissolves as dew be- =
fore the sun! f
Yes, let us help one another, by endeav- ^
oring to strengthen and encourage the weak, ?
and lifting the burden and care from the \
weary ana oppressed, that life may glide
smoothly on, and the fount of bitterness
yield sweet waters; and He whose willing .
hand is ever ready to aid us, will reward [
our humble endeavors, and every good deed ?
will be "bread upon the waters, to return jj
after many days," if not to us at least to t
those we love. ^
y
A Humiliating Punishment.?At the j
commencement of the campaign of 1864 a
Gen. Meade hesitated at one time about ^
advancing, but Gen. Grant positively or- l
dered him to move forward. This was al- J
luded to in a letter sent to a Philadelphia c
newspaper by Edward Cropsey, a native s
of Cincinnati, who had been reputably con- t
nected with several leading newspapers.
He said in his article: "History will record, r
but newspapers cannot, that on one event- s
ful night during the present compaign, t
Grant's presence saved the army and the j
nation too; not that Gen. Meade was on the \
point of committing a great blunder un- t
wittingly, but his devotion to his country ]
made him loathe to risk her last army on g
what he deemed a chance. Grant assumed ^
the responsibility, and we are still on to ?
Richmond." r
When the newspaper containing this par- r
agraph reached the army of the Potomac, j
Gen. Meade issued an order that Mr. Crop-1;
l. i._ .1 1~,1 i.i u 4-u^ I
sey ue urresieu, purauuu uuuugu wic jiucs
of the army with a placard marked "Libeler
of the Press," and then be put without
the lines and not be permitted to return.
This humiliating punishment was carried
out in the most offensive manner possible,
and Mr. Cropsey, after having been escorted
through the camp on horseback, bearing
the offensive label, was sent back to Washington.?^//.
Perly Poore.
A Family Secret.?Farmer Derben
kept a large flock of good geese. His fences
were good, and his geese rarely escaped from
the pasture where they were confined. His
neighbor, Farmer Cole, also kept a flock of
geese; but his fences were not carefully repaired,
and his geese often strayed into his
neighbor's grain fields. Last summer this
annoyance became intolerable to Farmer
Derben, and he resolved to make an end of
it. Meeting Farmer Cole one day in the
road, he told him of the annoyance, and
added:
"I now give you fair warning that if I
again find your geese trespassing on my
land I will kill them."
A few days after, as Fanner Derben was
sitting at dinner, he chanced to look out the
window, and there on his very lawn, he
beheld a flock of geese enjoying themselves.
Not waiting to get his hat, he seized his
cane, and rushing into the midst of the
flock, he laid about him with such vigor
that several geese were killed and several
more wounded, when his little daughter,
bounding up to her irate parent's side,
screamed in his ear:
"Po thoco nrti nnr crpp<*P !"
This story is kept as a family secret. J
t
Phenomena of Gray Hair.?Many e
persons begin to show gray hairs while they r
are yet in their twenties, and some while \
in their teens. This does not by any means I
argue a premature decay of the constitu- f
tion. It is purely a local phenomenon, and f
may co-exist with unusual bodily vigor, c
Many feeble persons and others who have c
suffered extremely both mentally and phys- s
ically do not blanch a hair until past mid- t
die life; while others, without assignable t
cause, lose their capillary coloring matter f
rapidly when about forty years of age. t
Race has a marked influence. The trav- t
eler, Dr. Orbigny, says that in many years F
he spent in South America, he never saw c
a bald Indian, and scarcely ever saw a gray s
haired one. The negroes turn more slowly I
than the whites. c
i
56f Keeping the head perfectly clean, says t
a writer in the Salem (Mass.) Gazette, is a F
great aid to health. A distinguished physi- j
cian, who has spent much of his time at '
quarantine, said that a person whose head I j*
was thoroughly washed every day rarely j '
ever took contagious diseases, but when the j11
hair was allowed to become dirty and mat- { r
ted it was hardly possible to escape infec-1 ?
tion. Many persons find speedy relief for , f
nervous headache by washing the head !1
thoroughly in weak soda water. We have j*
known cases almost wholly cured in ten l)
minutes by this simple remedy. A friend 1 ?
finds it the greatest relief in case of "rose
cold," the cold symptoms entirely leaving : 4
the eyes after one thorough washing of the | c
hair. The head should be thoroughly dried i ?
afterward, and draughts of air should be 1
avoided for a little while. i J
Bible Chronology.?One of the stand- i ?
ing difficulties of Bible chronology has been f
cleared up in a very remarkable manner, j "
Amid the ruins of the Chaldean Record ;
Office, which formed part of the Temple, a j
number of tablets were found. On exami-1 J"j
nation it was discovered that they were i
the contracts of mercantile firms extending I *
5ver generations. It was found that every j
locument was dated and bore the month, I
/ear and day of each reigning sovereign.! ?
By this strange order of destiny a com- j S
fiete chronology has been formulated of the ; J
tings from Nebuchadnezzar to Darius Ily- j jr
laspes, hitherto a most perplexing period ; [!
:o Jlible critics. j ^
+ . j ^
4?"- Extremes are dangerous; a middle es- ^
ate is safest, as a middle temper of the sea, j fr
)etween a still calm and a violent tempest, j 0
s most helpful to convey the mariner to his ! ^
rnven. I ti
i h
S&r A happiness that is quite undisturbed ;
)ecomes tiresome; we must have ups and I v
lowns; the difficulties which are mingled e<
vith love awaken passion and increase1 tl
ileasure. I w
afctT Let us never forget that every station tl
n life is necessary; that each deserves our tc
espect; that not the station itself, but the st
,vorthy fulfilment of its duties, does honor to d
i man. P
JOHN VANDERLYN.
jus fruitless love for tueobosia
burr.
When the American Historical Novel
omes into fashion I know of an unmarked
rave up the Hudson which will tempt
ilgrimages from the novelist. It is the
rave of one of the most unique figures in
he history of this Nation's first hundred
ears. John Vanderlyn, a country lad born
n 1776, who rose to honors, knew many of
he choicest joys of the world, was the friend
f rulers on two continents, and finally dyng
the victim of a broken heart at the age
f seventy-six, lies buried there.
It is a strange story that of John Vanderyn's
career. A boy in the street, with a
>it of charcoal and something akin to im>udence,
he sketches on a blacksmith's door
. caricature of a visitor to the little village
if Kingston. That visitor was Aaron Burr,
md he saw the picture?saw it, smiled,
nrl asked ouestions about its perpetrator.
>Vhen Aaron Burr went back *to Viis lawiffice
in New York he took the lad with him.
ie bought him books, directed his studies,
md finally placed him as a pupil under
Jilbert Stuart, who, In Philadelphia was
inishing his famous portrait of Washingon.
Studies in Paris and Rome followid.
The charcoal sketcher of a country town
vas developing into a wonderful painter.
In a competition at Paris, where all the
.rtists of Europe were striving for honors,
ie places a cold, rough, harsh picture?cold,
ough, and harsh at least in contrast?with
he gaudy colorings which all the rest of
he world hangs up. "Marius on the Ruins
if Carthage," he called it. The old R^man
lero was represented sitting alone, sorrowul
yet defiant, amid the wreck of former
;lory. Napoleon walked through the art
;allery. When he faced the picture he
lalted, came to a dead standstill, and in
dmiration was mute for minutes. "Give
he medal to that," he commanded. John
Vanderlyn was famous. And all the Fates
ushed forward to make him glad.
Aaron Burr was proud. He was grateful,
oo, for fortune had dealt unkindly with
dm meantime. He had striven for the_
'residency of his country and had lost.
?he killing of Hamilton made him an exile.
Jenerous interest it was that he received
ipon the money he had given Vanderlyn,
vho was now a hero in Europe's aristocratc
circles. The artist shared all his honors
,nd all his gold with his old-time benefacor,
the man who had become to one hemis>here
the very personification of evil, and
*et who in earlier days, with no selfish aim
ir hope, had taken from an humble place a
trange lad to spend money and affection
ipon.
Biographical dictionaries and art histoies
tell enough about Vanderlyn's profesional
achievements. His "Ariadne" is fanous
the world over. His panel in the
S'ational Capitol of "The Landing of Coumbus"
was done in answer to his country's
irgent request. All this everybody knows.
: have learned something widely different,
omething far more interesting, for as the
vorld goes love far outstrips professional
ichievments. John Vanderlyn never mar ied.
Why, has never been told in print,
rhe few relatives who survive?descendants
)f a brother?talk sometimes of a romance
n his strange career. One of them has
alked to me, and I have listened with deep
nterest,
John Vanderlyn loved Theodosia Burr?
\aron Burr's only child?and Theodosia
3urr loved John Vanderlyn. Reared at
susceptible ages in the same house, love
vas not unnatural in a brotherly and sis
erly fashion; so far the great politician was
pleased. A letter from Paris that fell into
lis hands, through the confidence of his
laughter, showed him that the young artist
.vas dividing his time between sights in the
Louvre ana thoughts in New York. In
;hi9 letter John Vanderlyn poured out the
itory of his strong affection and asked the
rirl to promise that some day, when place
md fortune should be won, she would be
lis wife.
Aaron Burr first smiled, then scoffed, and
Inally, in anger issued orders. Theodosia
ibeyed. A dutiful girl she was; for in dong
her father's will she did it knowing that
here was more than a light reason in his
lirection. He told her plainly of other
ilans arranged for her; plans which sacriiced
all of her own future to that of the
jarent whom she worshipped. Politics was
it the bottom. This was before the historic
ontest in Congress between Jefferson and
3urr for the Presidency. Aaron Burr needed
friends, close and influential. Through
he gift of a daughter's hand he would win
vhat strategy might otherwise take from
lim. He would marry her to a connection
>f a powerful political family of the State ;
ind influences at Albany hitherto lacking
night be depended upon. There was wilingness
with the lover?more willingness
han perception. A slighting word was spo:en
of John Vanderlyn?"A pauper" was
he phrase the courting lover used. He us;d
it but once. The blood of Aaron Burr
nounted to the cheeks of the daughter and
vith an air that was bitter as bitter might
>e she dismissed him. A scene oetween
ather and daughter, a storm with all the
laming pyrotecnics that the Burr spirit
ould muster, came quickly. A Lieutenant
if the discarded lover's family showed
peedy resentment of the slight. Even had
he spirited girl relented, it would have
ieen too late. Love had given way to warare.
Aaron Burr smiled another of his
>iting smiles and from upbraiding came
o flattery for the honest part which she had
flayed. But not one word would he hear
if Vanderlyn as a suitor. The painter,
till working hard, not yet recognized, had
leard from his sweetheart's pen the story
if a father's interference, and tne motive for
t; and he had heard, too, that above all
hings on earth she treasured the penniless
>ai titer's love.
A sharp letter came from Paris to Burr;
>ut the cool headed politician essayed no
mswer. The next letter that John Vanderyn
had from the Burr household was brief
,nd free from any ardor; it was but a forual
announcement of the betrothal of Theolosia
Burr to the brilliant young South
Carolinian, Joseph Allston. She wedded
n order to secure Southern influence for her
ather. Allston was an honorable man;
,nd perhaps before the sea had swallowd
them up in 1810, she had learned to
Dve him. He was worthy of her affection ;
o him there was no knowledge that a wife
ame in by barter and by sale. He never
uspected that it was for votes to aggrandze
Aaron Burr that Aaron Burr's daugher
said to him Yea when he asked her to his
mme. And there was no further knowldge
given to Vanderlyn either. Theodo
ia Burr was too loyal to herself to declare
love that was wrong in the world's
ating.
So came it that John Vanderlyn fell into
ynicism. So it was that he chose to beieve
ere long that the hand had gone
,'here the heart had led ; and he exonerasd
Aaron Burr of all part in his fate.
V'hen Burr, accused of high treason, needd
a triendand protector, Vanderlyn stretchd
out his whole fortune as a free-will of.
tt r 1 1: j ^ ^ 11 i.u?
inng. jrie won mine uuu uveu iu mi me
lory of it for years, trying to forget what
icher thing he had hoped for and lost,
riving no thought for to-morrow, he driftd
on painting now and then, as the whim
ictated or as his purse demanded. And
'hen the end came it found him penniless,
iendless, forlorn. When iu the mean room
f a hotel in his native town, they found
im one morning in 1852, clutched by death,
lere were whispers that by his own will
ad a period been put to his career.
And now out in the bleak cemetery on
^iltwyck Heights a little mound, unmark1
and overgrown with briers, faces us as
le world's tribute to a man whose genius
-ould have dazzled mankind had not the
ladowof a hopeless love fell upon it. When
ie story of John Vanderlyn's life is fully
)ld, American history will have been
rengthened. Had he never loved Theoosia
Burr, Aaron Burr might have been
resident of the United States.