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lewis m. (iriisT. propi-u-tor. j %\\ |nkj)cui)cnf Jfnnulu gtcfospaper: ,|or tjje |)romotiott of % political, Social, Agricultural anb Commercial Interests of %. Son% j TERMS?$2.50 A YEAR, I2i ADVANCE. "VOL. 32. YORKYILLE, S C., THURSDAY, APRIL 8, 1886. ISTO. 14. j&u Original Jtotg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. I*Y L. I>. OZMOND. CHAPTER VI. Mr. Clarence Daly continued for about a month to pursue his harmless but eccentric course, growing a little more nervous, a little more odd, day by day. At the end of that time he was stricken down by an at- j tack of brain fever. The good people at the farm sent immediately for the nearest physician. This Esculapius looked very solemn over the case, which he pronounced an extremely critical "one, implying that no trifling medical skill would be required to bring the patient safelv throuerh it. Fortunately he had efficient help at hand, to second his ministrations. Mrs. Baker and her eldest daughter devoted" themselves to the task of nursing their guest with the utmost earnestness, and never left him night or day alone until the turning point of his illness was reached and past, and his recovery ensured. Reduced though he was, his naturally strong constitution battled successfully against the disease. And once out of danger, his convalescence became rapid. Soon after his restoration to the consciousness of his own identity and of things in general, the little girl Nannie oue day brought some nourishment into his room, with the remark, "Mr. Daly, mother told me to fetch this to you." He took no notice of her, and thinking, as he was looking in another direction, that he had not heard her, she repeated what she had said, slightly varying the form of her sentence. "Mr. Daly, mother told me to fetch your broth, and here it is." He turned a little towards her, with a rather puzzled look. "What was it you said, my dear?" "I said here was your broth, sir." "Yes, but what was it you called me?" "Why, I called you by your name," replied the child, surprised. "I said 'Mr. Daly.'" "Daly?Daly," he murmured, as if trying to recall the name, the perplexed look still remainingon his face. "Well, Nannie, put the broth there, please. Thank you." Nannie went off and reported to her mother that Mr. Daly had forgotten his own name. "But he hasn't forgotten mine. Isn't that funny?" she added. "I should think he would remember his own the easiest." Mrs. Baker did not pay much attention to her remarks; but afterwards, going into the patient's room, her own experience verified Nannie's opinion, when on addressing him in the usual manner, she found that he did not seem to recognize the appellation ! She consulted her husband, and it was agreed between them that for the present they would not, in speaking to the patient, use his naraeat all. Mrs. Bakersaid "shereckoned this last sickness had made a new twist in hisliead." But, strangely enough, the former twists seemed to have got straightened out. He " xi I. ^ was far more collected in nis ideas man ucfore, and had lost the nervous apprehensive manner which had characterized him. Forgetting their caution, his name happened again to be used, once or twice, by the family ; and the mystery which seemingly attended it was cleared up in a most unexpected manner. "My dear madam," he said to Mrs. Baker, "please let me say to you that you are laboring under a mistake. I am not named Daly, as you all appear to suppose." "Why, you told us that was your name, I'm sure," replied the good housewife, t thrown out of her usual placid equanimity by this surprising statement. "Did I?" Well, my mind must have been confused. Tell me, did I say or do any remarkable things when I first came here?" "Oh, well, not so remarkable," said Mrs. Baker, not quite prepared for a denial, yet reluctant to hurt her questioner's feelings . by admitting that every one had thought him decidedly "queer." "I am afraid I did. I know I was not well. I had had a painful shock?" He stopped, contracting his brows, while a slight shiver passed through him. "Betternot think any moreabout it now," said Mrs. Baker hastily, fearing the effect of such a reminiscence. "It might upset you?make you sick again, you know." "No, I think not. I am pretty strong again, you see." He held out histhin hand. "Do you notice how steady it has become? No, it won't hurt me to talk. In fact it will ease my mind. I want to tell you what happened to me in San Francisco. It is a strange story, I assure you. It was at the hospital there, where they took me when I fell ill. You see, it was a sudden attack I had on the street; a fit of some sort? I don't know what they called it. I had never had anything like it before. Well, they took me to this hospital, and there I was unconscious for a couple of days; and at the end of that time they thought I was UeiUl." JL auj>{;wac UIVJ luvutjM. , for they brought a coffin and laid me out in it." "Oh, laws!" cried his listener, horrified. "They did. And while I was lying in this coffin?the lid not yet being put on?I came partly to myself. I knew where I was, and what was going on around me; but I hadn't the power to open my eyes nor to speak. It wasn't a pleasant situation, I can tell you. You have heard of people, while in a trance, being able to comprehend their situation, yet not able to move, any more than if they were dead?" "Yes, I've heard of such things; but I'm thankful to say I've never seen a case like that." "Well, that was the thing that had now happened to me, and I had the pleasant prospect of being buried alive. I think I lived through ages of torture, in those few hours during which I lay spell-bound?at least, I suppose it was hours, but it may have been only a half hour or so; I can't tell now. Anyhow, I was thankful they hadn't screwed me down right away, as they might easily have done under the circumstances." "Oh! you make my ffesh creep," said Mrs. Baker. "Listen! While I lay there, two men came in. One of them said, 'This is the subject I told you of.' Said the other, 'Are you sure Drummond's going to get hold of him?" And then came into my mind a new and horrible apprehension. Some instinct told me that these were medical students who were talking; and that 'getting hold' of me meant nothing more nor less than that some of them were contemplating dissecting my body?dissecting it, perhaps, while I was alive! Which was the worst fate, that or being suffocated by a premature burial? I could not decide." Mrs. Baker threw her apron over her head, and rocked herself to and fro. "Do I harrow your feelings too greatly by my story ?" asked the patient. "It's terrible," she replied, "but I want to hear the rest of it." "Well, I'll make it brief. I iuferred.from some conversation which followed between these men, that the Drummond to whom they had alluded was in some way their enemy, or had incurred their dislike, and that they wanted to spite him ; that he had planned getting hold of my body, secretly, ? i it - i- i. 1 as he supposed, alter Duriai, anu umt had found out his design and meant to frustrate it. They said that they had bribed 'Smith'?some employee at the hospital, I suppose?and that he had given them charge of my body. Presently they lifted me out ! of my horrible bed. What was coming next? I knew not; but with the change of position I experienced a slight, very slight relaxation of the rigid contraction which held me fast, a faint sensation of returning vitality, as though the stagnant blood was beginning once more to stir in my veins. Still I could give no sign. They laid me J carelessly upon a table. 'Now,' said one, 'we must take the coffin in the next room I and fix it. Lock the doors; he'll be safe till j we come back.' I heard them go out and turn the key in the lock. Quivers of agony, [ of vain longing, thrilled my brain and my body. I made a superhuman effort, and opened my eyes. I was alone, and it was likely that I would remain so for a short time, at least. I mightcry out and give the alarm, or it seemed to me if I tried I could do so; but I did not wish to try?I wished to escape, to get secretly away from that dreadful place. There was a high, narrow window in the room. I struggled to a sitting posture, feeling my strength gradually increase, and succeeded, after some vain attempts, in slipping noiselessly down to the floor and creeping to the window. I looked out and found that a narrow street was below, clambered up, let myself over the ledge, - - -* -r-ll T K.i 4 lost my grasp ana ion. j. was nun, uuu nm stunned. Nobody saw me. Providence must have aided me, I am sure, for it was really wonderful that I was not discovered. I was fortunately completely dressed, except that I had no hat?and would you believe it??there, hanging on a nail just inside of a little gateway, was an old felt hat, whose owner was probably not far off. I took it down, put it on, and got away as fast as I could. At last I was free?but I think my brain was disordered, or became so soon afterward. The pressure which my nerves had endured had been so intense that the reaction overcame me. For two days I walked continually. My only wish was to get as far away from the city as possible. For the first time in my life, I begged for food; and people, seeing that I looked respectable, gave me willingly. I suppose they thought I was some queer character out on a tramp." "And you had no money with you?" "Not a cent." "How on earth did you manage to get this far?" "I walked mostly and one or two wagons gave me a lift. Once a milkman stopped in the road, seeing that I looked dusty and worn, asked me to ride, carried me to his little farm, housed and fed me for two days, and sent me on my way with a pocketful of bread and apples. Nobody was rude or unkind. As I said before, I'm sure Providence took special care of me." "Well, its wonderful?wonderful," said Mrs. Baker. "I can hardly believe it. It's just like a story out of a fairy-tale book, or one of those things that Mr. Poe wrote." She looked as if she was troubled at her > "i- ' .? ?1.1 ?1 1,^1^ knlnn own lucreuuiuy, yei cuuiu uut nci|< ui-mg incredulous. But when the story was repeated in the family circle, young Joseph, starting up, declared that here was the explanation of what had been such a puzzle to his two student friends and himself?the empty coffin which they had unearthed at Lone Mountain cemetery, that dreary November night; and putting all the facts together, there could be no doubt that it was indeed so. Joseph was very much excited over the discovery. He would have written straightway to his companions of that midnight expedition, telling them the whole story, but that the quondam Mr. Daly begged him as a favor to keep it quiet for the present. For a new idea had come into this man's head; he did not wish the fact of his existence to be revealed to anybody, except one or two men of business to whom he would be compelled to present himself. Least of all did he desire his curious adventure to be circulated over the land through the medium of the newspapers. And to the Baker family he did not even announce his true name. He had his own reasons for wishing to remain incognito. As soon as his strength permitted, ho bade adieu to the ranch where he had been so kindly treated, and where, it must be admitted, his departure caused no regret, but rather a feeling of relief. For Mrs. Baker owned that it made her feel "all unset" to live under the same roof with a man who hud escaped out of a coffin, and who might even now be a lunatic for all she knew. However, they parted very kindly from him; and acknowledged him to be a real "gentleman" when, some weeks later, there came to the ranch a package containing a handsome shawl for Mrs. Baker, presents for each member of the family, and a hundred dollar bill, which as an accompanying note stated, could never repay their friendly hospitality, but might help to convince them how thoroughly it was appreciated. In San Francisco his business was soon accomplished. He had an astonishing, but satisfactory interview with his bankers in that city; wound up his affairs with all possible dispatch, and accomplished his preparations for departure, without the knowledge of any but the chosen few whom he took into his confidence. lie had had enough of the Pacific coast, to which he did not desire ever to return ; but before leaving, he had the curiosity to hunt up his own grave at Lone Mountain, and read the inscription engraved upon the stone. It was a cheerful, sunny day. lie went out quite early in the morning, while the dew glistened yet on the grass and flowers, and the birds had not finished their morning songs. A man who was taking care of the grounds directed him, in answer to his inquiry, to the spot he was ?ee!"'ng. He happened to know it, because only the day before he had been sent to attend to a new plot in that vicinity, and had read the name. Amos Barton stood beside the green mound which wa.f supposed to cover his earthly remains, and something like a mist crept into his eyes. i "Suppose," he thought, "I were really lying under here now would, it be best ior me?for anybody else in the world?" A gread sadness filled his heart, which was not wont to soften under inere sentimental fancies. His remembrance flew to Susie, his little wife, whom he so truly loved, and lingered about her tenderly, yet with a yearning pain. If she were standing in this place now, as he was, and reading his name, and the date of his death, not doubting but that the record was true, how would she feel about it? Would she be very, very grieved, or would the tears she might shed?and she was so gentle and kind, he thought that she would weep?spring less from a sense of personal loss than from a remorseful pity for his fate, knowing that he had died, as he had lived, unloved? He sat down and reflected, with bowed head. He was not without discernment, this plain, quiet man, and had found out long ago?or guessed at, praying it might ? ...L.iL!?...:rAurt,ii,AnA/ikA ODiy De a guess?wuut Ilia \> ne imu uwpcu iic might never know. Ilis deep tenderness for her, undemonstrative, yet growing day by day, made him forgive her short comings and blame himself alone for the result of their marriage. He knew her to be innocent and good, without one thought of guile. Was she to be reproached if she had mistaken her duty and obeying its dictates according to her belief, done him the heaviest wrong it was in her power to inflict upon him? "It was all my fault?all my fault." He said this to himself again and again. "I knew they were in trouble. I could have helped them out of it?I could have been generous?why did I demand a reward ?" And then he remembered how old Dean had hinted at his willingness to give him his daughter, almost before any advance on his own part had been made. And it was some comfort to recall the fact that he himself had really supposed the girl to be quite heart free, quite untrammeled, though he had afterwards found out by chance that in this he was mistaken. He put aside the thought then of his wrongs, and dwelt on his own misdoing. "It was all my fault," he kept on saying; and then arose the question, "How can I expiate this fault." [to he continued.] BPJ A Hopeless Minority.?Among the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher's many accomplishments, not the least is his ability as a story teller. To much amused listeners he recently told this one about a New York drummer. A typical "knight of the grip sack" was detained at a small town in western New York awhile ago where a revival meeting was in progress. He had met a party of convivial friends during his stay there, and had what is popularly known as "a load on." Nevertheless he drifted into the revival meeting and took a seat well up in front. It was rather close in the church and the warm air was conducive for sleep. The drummer yielded to the drowsy god onrl nffor nnrlrlinor u little sank into a nro ....... ...... 0 - | found slumber and slept through the minister's rather long and dry discourse. The audience sang a hymn and the drummer slept on. Then the evangelist began his address, and wound up his fervid appeal with this request: "Will all of you who want lo go to heaven please rise?" Every one in the church except the sleepy drummerarose. When the evangelist asked them to be seated one of the brothers in the same pew as the sleeping drummer accidentally brushed against him as he sat down. The drummer rubbed his eyes, and partially awake heard the last portion of the evangelist's request, which was: "Now I want all of you Avho want to go to hell stand up." The drummer struggled a little, leaned I forward unsteadily and rose from his seat in a dazed sort of a way. A sort of suppressed laugh he heard from some of the younger people, and an expression of horror he noticed on the faces of some of the older ones. Steadying himself against the rail he looked at the evangelist an instant and then said: "Well, parson, 1 don't know just exactly what we're voting on, but you and I seem to be in a hopeless minority."?New York Timer. Keeping a Good Name.?Folly has I hardly another form so objectionable as that ! of carelessness, real or apparent, about one's j reputation. When a young man behaves as j if he were willing to be believed "fast," he i mnv hp miiltlpss <?f jmv rp;il disnnsition to '"%V vw O' * ? 1 wards dissipation, but he cannot complain if the more desirable of his associates gradj ually withdraw themselves from intimacy with him. When a young lady, no matter | how innocent of anything worse than a dej termination to amuse herself at all hazards, i condescends to flirt with gentlemen, or to i indulge in boisterous behaviour in public ! places with other girls, she must not be surr prised if, before long, she becomes aware of i less heartiness in the greetings of the ac| quaintances whose society she prizes most, j receives fewer invitations from anybody, ! and at last perceives with painful clearness, j that she is actually, even if undemonstratively avoided, except by them whom she now does not wish to meet. Parents are often to blame for not guarding their children more carefully from uni desirable companions, and from forming ! classes and dangerous social habits, but in , many cases their remonstrances are in vain, : and they have the grief of witnessing the i evil which they cannot help. Young men and women must be allowed to decide many i tilings for themselves, even if they choose i wrongly. If they will not heed good adj vice, they must be taught by bitter experience; and the saddest fact connected with the subject, is that it is so hard to recover ; one's credit, even after one has seen the ! great blunder which has been made, and is ; heartily in earnest to correct it. It is no : easy matter for a young man to live down I a bad reputation, and it is far more difficult l for a young woman. Time and patience ; and earnest endeavor usually will do it, however, although memories of it and allui sions to it may rise up to plague one occa! sionally for many years. + - Balkan C'avk Bwkllkks.?Inhabited leave dwellings are found in the Balkan j Peninsula, and also in such a cultivated I tilnee as Saxonv. The.v are in the neigh , r v . _ borhood of llalberstadt, quite close to the ! village of Langenstein. Here in asand! stone hill about a dozen caves have been dug which are used as dwellings. They I have different rooms, light and dark, as I well a. chimneys, windows and doors, and i are said to be very dry and habitable. The j writer of the account, a physician, says that he found the inhabitants quite comfortable, and that some of them had lived there for more than **0 years without suffering from any evil effect to their health. i JrtlistcUanrous Reading. HARD FACTS ABOUT FIGHTING. < THE OBSERVATIONS OF A PRACTICAL SOL- | BIER VS. THE POETRY OF WAR-GENER- , AL OFFICERS WHO GET THE GLORY , WHILE THE PRIVATES BO THE WORK. [Frank Wilkison in the New York Sun.] < As we, year by year, grow away from the ] war, and the number of men who carried < a rifle or swung a sponge staff among the , -- n iL. i. ^ A guns grows SIIlUllKr, me tuuutiy is huuul-u with mythical accounts of this or that officer's wonderful display of courage on such and such fields, and the rising generation is called upon to admire the gallantry of the warlike commanders of their ancestors. I protest against the further manufacture i or sham military reputation. I know, and all soldiers know, that the greater portion of the stories now current must be false. An officer dies and at once the newspapers and magazines are filled with accounts of his bravery and,of the valorous deeds he performed, and how he saved the Union on such a battlefield. We are solemnly told that his presence inspired his troops, just ready to break or already in flight, and theyi nerved bv a glance of his blazing eyes, re-formed, and rushed madly on the foe and snatched victory from defeat. This is rot, unmitigated rot. The distinguishing characteristics of the American volunteer were his independence of thought, his want of reverence for those in authority, and his ability to take care of himself in battle and to correctly judge of its tide. He had no respect for any general whom he did not believe to possess the qualifications essential to a great commander. Therefore none of our general officers inspired him at all. When the volunteer fought on the offensive he lought well and steadily as long as he thought there was a prospect of success. On the defensive he would fight to the death if he knew that it was essential to the safety of the army to < hold the position he occupied. He would assault earth-works, it mattered not how ; strong they were, savagely, and carry them j if it was possible. But, having once seen ( the work at close range, and having thor- ( oughly felt of its defenders and realized ( that the line could not be carried, he would , not again make a determined assault. i In one instance, at Cold Springs Harbor, j in 18G4, the army of the Potomac openly < refused to make a second assault on works j they had been tip to in the morning. The privates had seen the Confederate works; their general officers of whom we hear so much in these days, had not, and the privates considered themselves just as well qualified to judge of their capacity to carry earthworks by assault as any general ofiicer, it mattered not how high his rank, who had not seen the works, and who evinced no burning desire to inspect their strength at close range. It is true that the troops who refused to renew the assault at Cold Ilarbor cheerfully sprang to the assault at Petersburg a few days later, but they had not seen the latter works and they had a sufficient confidence in General Grant's ability as a commander to believe that he would not have ordered an assault unless there had been some prospect of success?and that is where they fooled themselves. None of our generals could have forced their troops to make another determined assault on the Confederate lines at Petersburg. At present we hear of how such and such generals led their men to desperate charges. These heroes are picutured to the youth of our land as going into action on horseback, waving sword in hand,and far in advance of thechargingline. Ihaveseenmanyeharges delivered by both Union and Confederate troops. I have seen our men with blanched faces and set jaws, and their eyes blazing with battle light, stream past the guns I served on, and run full speed at earthworks, behind which Lee's veteran infantry lurked, and most always get whipped. Then 1 have seen the lines in gray charge Union earthworks or battle lines, and I have seen them melt away before the heat of our fire; but I never saw the recklessly brave general officers we hear so much about at j present lead any troops into action. I have j seen them closely followed by their brigade j officers, but I never saw them lead. In j truth, what business would an officer have j in front of his men when they were in ac-1 tion? He would be in the line of their) fire and would surely be killed. All privates have seen division and corps | and army headquarters, and none ever saw j them pitched among the troops in a place i of danger. No one ever heard of a general j officer being killed in camp. We are told j that these gallant men habitually rode the battle line or line of trenches, and that they i smiled at humming bullets and laughed j solid shot and bursting shells to scorn. It | is true that brigade commanders were on j the battle line. Division commanders were j conspicuous by their absence, and the presence of a division commander among his troops was so unusal that it attracted the attention of the soldiers, and was always remarked upon. What business has an officer commanding from ten to forty thousand men to be in the heat and smoke of a battle? He cannot direct the troops if he is on the battle line. lie could not see how the fight was going. Brigade commanders could not find him. Of course if his troops were charging, or if they were advancing | he could be with them. j We are told of general officers, grievously j wounded, waving aside their aids and j, lightly dismissing their medical attendants, I and saying in effect : "Let the battle pro- j ceed. I cannot abandon my troops. We ! j must save the Union." Pah ! Much they, j 4 under these circumstances, thought of the j ^ Union or of their troops. The truth is, ( that they, one and all, got themselves lug- , ged off the field- as quickly as possible, c and they were exceedingly glad to get to " the rear and into an ambulance and be | driven to a place of safety and a surgeon. ( To havea rille ball weighing an ounce driv- ^ en home in the groin, or shatter the thigh i bone, or mash the knee joint to splinters, or j smasii the bones of the arm, or to have a ( solid shot or a ragged chunk of a shell lop off an arm or a leg, knocks the tight out of a man. He wants to go home at once. It was possible for general officers to go home, 1 and they went. At least I never saw, nor t did any of my comrades see, general officers t swathed in bloody clothes fighting their c divisions or corps. c ffpnpral nffipprs. corns and armv com- J manders, these are pictured as speaking r words of encouragement to their wavering c troops, which, clearly heard above the aw- t ful roar of a pitched battle, caused the men i to nerve themselves for supreme efforts, j 1 and they won the tight. These childish | ? tales are probably a rehash of the mythical \ a military legends of the Napoleonic era. r The great Corsican statesman and military 1 gonitis was ever represented as talking to ' f in army of from .'{0,000 to 300,000 men. I Then, too, "Wellington is said to have bla-! ted "Up guards, and at them" to his troops i nn the field of Waterloo. The noise of bat-; tie is terrific, and one human voice could not make itself heard for any great distance. Suppose a battle is in progress, fhe infantry is tiring. The artillery is in iction. Solid shot and three inch bolts fly screaming through the air. Shells are bursting. The hum of bullets is loud and steady. The men are cheering. The wounded shriek as they fall. The dying groan. A.nd we are asked to believe that a general officer spoke .to his men in the midst of this leafening uproar, and inspired them. He :ould speak, and speak, and if his voice did nnt hnvn tlio r?t" f'lffv f<1flrhnrn<? llP might as well whistle into his boot for all the inspiration his troops could draw from him. COMMANDER JAMES J., WAD DELL. On March 10th, there died at Annapolis, Md., James J. Waddell, whose life forms a page in the history of our nation. He died if congestion of the brain. Captain Wadlell was born in North Carolina, in 1824, and intered the Navy in 1838. In 1849, he gradjated at the Naval Academy, having, in the meantime, served at Vera Cruz, against :he Mexicans. lie served in the United States Navy until the war began, when he resigned, to go into the Confederate Navy. At the age of fourteen, when a midshipman, he was insulted by a senior officer, whom he challenged, and a duel was fought it Norfolk, Ya., in which Midshipman Waddell received a wound in the thigh which caused him to limp ever after. When tie entered the Confederate service he was ?iven command of the well known Shenanloali, and with his vessel went into the Pacific Ocean, entered the Arctic Seas, and destroyed hundreds of thousands of dollars of commerce. The war had been over nine months when he heard of it from an English vessel. Most of his men begged him to run the vessel ashore and let each man look out for himself. This Captain Waddell refused to do, but set sail for Liverpool, where he irrived in due time, running the gauntlet if the United States Navy for twenty thousand miles. He had made a narrow escape, for an American war steamer was close at his heels. Captain Waddell did not dare to return to the United States for a longperiod, is public sentiment was very much against him, the received opinion being that he continued the war on unprotected whaling vessels. He overhauled them in the high latitudes in May, 18G">, and began his work of Jestruction among them. During the monthsof May, June and July, he pursued :hc whalers as far as 07? north latitude, eap:uring and destroying in all twenty-eight of :hem. At one time he caught thirteen together and destroyed them all. Several of lis captures he bonded and provisioned, sending them to port with the prisoners ;aptured and paroled, from the vessels destroyed. Captain Waddell asserted that in learly every instance the officers of these vessels claimed that the war was ended ; but is they could not prove the fact, and proessed to have no later tidings than he had, le could not rely on theii assertions. After he destruction of the whalers, the Shenanloa/i returned Southward, and when off' san Francisco, on the 2nd of August, I860, ell in with the British bark Jlaracota, from vhose master Waddell said he received the irst authentic news of the fall of the Con"ederacy. He at once shaped his course for Liverpool. The Shenandoah was at sea, unler his command, fourteen months, during ill of which time she had been in but one >ort?Milbourne. For a continuous period )f eight months her anchors remained unlisturbed at her bows, their lashings not iven being removed. This, he claimed, is - 1 lie longest continuous cruising on h-luiu. During this time the Shenandoah sailedo,01)0 itatute miles, and visited every ocean on ;he globe, except the Antarctic. She *was ;he only ship, the Captain boasted, that carded the Confederate Hag around the globe. The Shenandoah was built at Glasgow, in ISO."!, and was called the Sea A'inr/. In Sepember, 1801, she was sold to Richard Wright, of Liverpool, and thus passed into ;he hands of the Confederacy. She cleared it London for Horn bay, ostensibly as a merchant vessel. On the same day that she left London, another vessel, the Laurel, left Liverpool, with armament suits, Confederate jfficers, and several men enlisted in the Confederate service. At Madeira, the two vessels met; the Laurel iitted out the Sea ICiuf/, which then became the Shenandoah. \fter her surrender she was turned over to he United States Government, and subsequently sold to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Yfter the war, Captain "Waddell was made commander of the Pacific mail steamship, San Franeiseo. On one of her trips the vessel struck a rock, not down on the chart, ind sank. The Captain behaved in the coolest and bravest manner, and landed his rew and passengers on a neighboring coast, vhence they were safely taken. Captain Waddell was exonerated from all blame. For some time previous to his death lie was commander of the State Fishery Force of Maryland. Tiik Last Russian Serf Set Free.? The Russian papersannounce theemancipaion of the last Russian serfs. It appears hat the peasants on the estates of the foreign convents in Transcaucasia were until piite recently the serfs of the dioceses of ferusalem and Constantinople. This ablormal situation has attracted the attention if the authorities, and since last summer he enfranchisement of these serfs has been n progress in the governments of Tifiis and vutais. The Brotherhood of the Holy iepulchre possesses more than (>,0(10 serfs, lid the patriarch 01 Constantinople, as repesenting the convent of Iversky, on Mount Vthos, has about ">00 tnore.?London {Eng.) rimes. WONDERFUL FEAT OF A BLACKSMITH. MAKING 100 HORSESHOES IN TWO HOURS ANI) TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES. An unusual feat of skili and endurance was performed in Detroit, March 12, by Martin J. Dunn, a blacksmith and horseshoer. Mr. Dunn for a purse of $100 set out to surpass the record of John P. Silk, of Cincinnati, who in December, 1877, turned out 100 horseshoes in two hours, thirty- j three minutes and thirty seconds. In preparation for the work Dunn had 100 bars of iron each cut the right length for a horseshoe piled up near the first forge. i ne nres were lignieu in uiree iurges, wun a helper at each. The bars of iron were heated somewhat at the first forge, passed on and heated more at the second forge, and at the third and last forge brought to the right temperature for the hammer. ! When this stage was reached the bar was ! placed upon the anvil, seized by the tongs j in the hands of Mr. Dunn and subjected to the ringing strokes of his hammer and the sledge wielded by his striker, Jay Snover. j The striker must be credited with a degree j of skill, hardly leas than that of his principal ! and with an equal amount of endurance. The mode of operation was to complete the shoe one-half the way round at each heat. ! The hundred shoes were thus half -turn-! ed, creased and nail-holes punched?the half side completely formed?which finished the first round, so to speak. The last round Mr. Dunn occupied himself in shaping and perfecting the remaining half of each horse-shoe, and when the last blow , had been struck on the hundredth shoe his ! task was completed. -While the helpers were getting the three fires hot and distributing the iron, J. B. Wilkinson and Joseph E. Greusel were appointed time-keepers. Everything being in readiness Mr. Dunn stepped up to the anvil with a broad smile on his face, and waited for the word, it should be said that not engaged in any warming up he consequently was not at the beginning in condition tn pyprt his best nmvers. Horsemen understand perfectly the advantage which such a preliminary gives in a race. Mr. Dunn received the word at twenty-three minutes to 7 and immediately his blows began to fall thick upon the anvil, which gave forth one continuous ring throughout the trial. Fifteen half shoes were made in j the first ten minntes, both men steaming through their thin woolen shirts like a trotter in June. Fifty shoes were made in the ; first hour and twelve minutes. Three shoes 1 had dropped to the floor and some time was j lost in picking them up. The spectators ' looked on with intensest interest. An idea , of the rapidity with which the shoes were | made may be gained from the fact that five ; shoes lay on the floor red hot while the ' sixth shoe was receiving the last stroke on j the anvil. At times when Dunn made a ! spurt it was hard to tell whether a machine i or human being was at work, so fast were ! the strokes of the hammer. As the one > hundredth shoe was thrown on the floor ; completed, the watches stopped at exactly ' four minutes past 1). Martin J. Dunn had j accomplished the wonderful feat of turning ! 100 horseshoes correctly shaped, creased,1 nail-holes punched, properly completed, ev-! ery one of which will stand examination, j in the remarkable time of two hours and twenty-seven minutes, beating the record of John P. Silk by six minutes and one- i half. Mr. Dunn is 35 years of age, well propor- i tioned, weighing 185 pounds, modest and j with no desire for notoriety. He was ap- j parently none the worse for the long-con- j tinued struggle, and explained afterward I that he could lower his record if necessary, i TTic frinnrlapmirrrntnlntPfl him most heartilv : and expressed their opinion that no one in ! in the world can excel him as a shoe-smith, j By the scale of the Blacksmith's Union, six dozen, or seventy-two shoes, is consid- j ered a day's labor. Mr. Dunn accomplished I the work of over a day and a half in two ! hours and twenty-seven minutes. What Tripe Is.?Occasionally you see I a man order tripe, but he always looks I hard, as though he hated himself and ev- j erybody else. lie tries to look as though j he enjoyed it, but he does not. Tripe is indigestible, and looks like an India-rubber ! apron. When it is pickled it looks like dirty clothes put to soak, and when it is cook- j ing it looks as though the cook was boiling | a dish-cloth. On the table it looks like j glue and tastes like a piece of oil-silk urn- j brella cover. A stomach that is not lined i with corrugated iron would be turned wrong I side out by the smell of tripe.- A man eating at a hotel table looks like an Arctic explorer dining on his boots or eating pieces of frozen dog. You cannot look at a man eating tripe but he will blush, and look as though lie wanted to apologize and convince you he is taking it to tone up his system. A woman never eats tripe. There is not money enough in the world to hire a woman to take a cornerof a sheet of tripe in her teeth and try to pull off a piece. Those who eat tripe are men who have had their stomachs play mean tricks on them, and they eat tripe to get even with their stomachs, and then they go and take a Turkish bath and sweat it out of the system. Tripe is an article handed down from a former generation of butchers, who sold all the meat and kept the tripe for themselves and the dogs, but the dogs of the present day will not eat tripe. You throw a piece of tripe down in front of a dog and see if he does not put his tail between his legs and go off and hate you. Tripe may have a value, but it is not as a food. It may be good to fill in a burglar-proof safe, with the cement and chilled steel, or it might answer to use as a breastplate in the time of war, or it would be good to use for bumpers between cars, or it would make a good face for the weight of a pile-driver, but when you come to smuggle it into the stomach you do very wrong. Tripe! Bah! A piece of Turkish towel cooked in axle-grease would be pie compared with tripe.?Bill Xye. Evils ok Solitude.?Said a physician, noted for his skill in curing nerve diseases: "There is a certain healthy, helpful influence which naturally comes from human beings to each other. One of my patients drained all which her friends had to give years ago. We need occasionally a fresh moral and mental atmosphere, just as much as fresh material air to breathe." Another physician, visiting in a country house where the mother,a delicate, affectionate, self-sacrificing woman, who lived but for her hus- < band and children, lay ill, with no disease 1 apparently, but extreme weakness and wea- j riness, ordered her to go to the city alone; i spend a month in absolute idleness, mixing I as often as possible with crowds of people i who were interested and excited, at church, at concerts, even in public meetings. The ] patient, a shy, diffident woman, obeyed, 1 and came home with new color in her cheeks < and new life in her heart. "I once asked," 1 said a well-known lawyer, "the famous backwoods preacher, Bascom, what was the secret of his power, as an orator ; how he contrived to sway large numbers of men to his will. 'First,' he answered, 'I bring them close to me and to each other. Leave no empty benches between you and your audience. The electric spark will not pass across a gap from one man to another.' " These ideas may seem fanciful to some of our practical readers ; but there is a solid basis of truth under them all. Physicians usually bring all their skill to bear in curing the ailments of the body, and neglect the mind, which effects every part of the body. There is a human magnetism which all are aDt to overlook in our materia medica. Hardworking women in the lonely farms or or isolated villages of this country often find themselves growing irritable and nervous. They do not need tonics or moral discipline. They need friction with unfamiliar minds, new ideas, novel scenes, just as their lungs, after using up all the oxygen in a close room, need the air of out doors. Young girls are too apt, voluntarily, to force themselves into this state, disappointed in natural longings for a congenial companion, they resolve to live alone, and shut themselves into their own souls. The resources are not sufficient to keep off famine. "Only a God or a brute can dwell in solitude," says the wise old German. SHOUT AM) TO THE POINT. A good story is told of a famous preacher of Northampton, England?a town of many grogshops?one Dr. Dod, a man of small stature but of large wit. The story goes that Dr. Dod was met one day upon the highroad by some bachanals and com II ?1 I il.? 4^ ?,U ,.1,1 jJtrut'U uy iiiuiu iu [Jirut'ii itsctiuuu uiiuii uiu stump from a text of their own choosing. They gave him "Malt" as his text and bade him proceed. "Beloved," said he, "lam a little man, come at short warning to deliver a briet discourse upon as small subject to a thin congregation and from an unworthy pulpit. My text is 'Malt,' which cannot be divded into either words or sylables, it being but one. I must therefore reduce it to letters? M-A-L-T. "M is moral, A is allegorical, L is literal and T is theological. The moral is set forth to teach you drunkards good manners; therefore: M, my masters; A, all of you ; L, listen ; T, to my text. "The allegorical is when one thing is spoken and another intended. The thing expressed is 'Malt,' which you bachanals make: M, your meat; A, your apparel; L, your liberty; and T, your text. The literal is according to the letter: M, much ; A, ale; L, little; T, thrift. "The theological is according to the effect it produces, which I find consists of two kinds. First, respects this life; second that which is to come. The effects it produces in this world are, in some, M, murder; in others, A, adultery; in all, L, licentious lives; in many, T, treason. The effects consequent in the world to come are M, misery ; A, anguish; L, lamentation; T, torment. And now beloved, first, by way of exhortation: M, my masters ; A, all of you; L, leave off; T, tippling. Or, secondly, by way of commination, M, my masters; A, all of you; L, look for; T, torment. "Now, to wind up the whole and draw * to a close, take with you the character of a drunkard. A drunkard is the annoyance of modesty, the spoil of civility, his own shame, his wife's sorrow, his children's curse, and his neighbor's scoff; the alehouse man's benefactor, the devil's drudge, a walking swill-bowl, the picture of a beast, and monster of a man." With this the little man got down from his unworthy pulpit and left the drunk ards in amazement. Maud S.?The society columns of a Cincinnati paper not long since contained the following: "Miss Maud Stone entertained a number of her young friends at her father's elegant home in the East End one night lastweek." I think I hear you say: "Well, I don't see anything strange in a notice like that." There is not, only the young lady mentioned is the one the fastest trotter in the world was named for. Her father had purchased a young filly from a gentleman named Bugher for $.%0. Not long after he took a friend out to Chester Park to look at some racing stock. The filly was in the "infield," and as they walked towards the stables Capt. Stone said : "There is a filly I bought the other day and I think she has a turn of speed." His friend looked her over, and, liking her points, remarked: "Start her up and let's see how she moves." Taking off his silk hat, the captain rattled it with his hand and the fine young animal started off at a three-minute clip. "Why, she's a natural trotter," was the comment. "She is, indeed," replied the captain, with a commendable pride in his purchase. "I wish I knew a good name for her," he added. "Why not call her after one of your children ?" asked the friend. "I had not thought of that," was the reply as they walked away. The friend thought no more of the filly for about two weeks, when he met Capt. Stone coming out of the postoffice. "Hello," said he; "I have acted on your suggestion, and have just posted the letter claiming the name for my filly. I am going to call her after my daughter Maud." "Maud Stone will be a pretty name," responded the friend. "Oh! I'll not call her the full name," replied the captain with a blush. "You see. she'll mature before my daughter, and I wouldn't like to see her full name on a race card, so I have called her Maud S." After the lilly made her great record at Lexington she was sold to W. II. Vanderbilt for $21,000. He never knew how to handle her, and was never able to get her speed out of her. Capt. Stone tried to buy her back and offered $100,000 for her, but the Vanderbilts would not let him have her.?Philadelphia News. Toracco and its Virtues.?In spite of all that has been said against it by fervid anti-tobacconists, pure tobacco is an excellent remedial agent; but it must be absolutely pure. No poisonous decoctions must eat into its substance or change its nature. Used in a proper way, to relieve neuralgic pains, or applied in various affections under the advice of a skilled physician, it is a valuable medicine. Care, however, is to be taken that the patient is not nicotized. Tobacco also acts, when pure, as among the best of sedatives; and the Indian weed, in spite of the diatribes against it, forms a valuable addition to the pharmacopre. It has the authority of great names. Milton solaced himself on going to bed, with a pipe and a jlassof water. Sir Isaac Newton smoked. Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," pronounces the weed "a soverign remedy to all diseases?a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken and medicinalv used."