Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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r lewis vi. grist, proprietor, j In Infctptnbtnf Jfamilj ftttospaptr: jfor % promotion of % IJoIitkal, Social, ^jritnlfnral anb Commtrrial Jitfmsls of f|t j5?ut|. Jterms--*2.5<i a fear, IN ADVANCE. VOL. 34. YOEKYILLE. S. C., WEDNESDAY. MAY 2, 1888. NO. 18. ?&e Jtorg ?rile*. THE MAN OF AIMONACID. I am free to confess now that when I first heard of him I took him for a sandier. When I heard that Toledo had been his home for ten whole months?Toledo, which lives only by moonlight, and is the mere corpse of a city in the sunshine?when I heard of a modesty so very retiring, and remembered that England had no extradition treaty with Spain, my only wonder was as to the sum of his spoils. Was he a defaulter for thirty ;housand pounds, or a petty rogue of all irork? "Tenmonths 1 That is a long time!" I aid to Dc ana Mercede?. my informant, and the elder of the two old maids who kept the Casa de Huespedes, in which I found that I had this stranger for a neighbor. "One might see the antiquities even of Toledo in that time." "Truly," she answered; "but then, Don lago is a painter." "Ah, now I understand!" I replied, with a grant increase of cheerfulness. "One might paint Toledo for ten years and not have done, i, too, am a painter." "And no doubt," said the old dame, beaming upon me through her round rimmed speotecles, "Don lago will be known to youF . I took up the visitors' book, in which the sand had not yet dried my autograph. "James Clent," I said, reading the name to which she pointed. "No, I do not know him." Dona Mercedes was puzzled, being scarcely able to understand that two Rngli?hTn?n) even two English artists, might be strangers to one another. But presently she crossed herself. "Don lago is an old Christian," she said softly, and so went off with her book, benevolent still, but conscious, I fear, of a serpent in her Eden. Eden was our boarding house. From a paved alley, the Calle del Arzobispo, you turned into an archway and groped for a door up three stops in the darkest corner. Then you pulled a weight which hung there and by and by the iron studded door opened na nf itself and lo! a tinv courtvartL in which four orange trees in tubs produced an effect of somber gayety. Round this patio, at the level of a first floor, ran a veranda, reached by an uncovered staircase. All the rooms opened on to this veranda. On the right hand side were four little bedrooms. On the side which faced the entrance was the common parlor and on the left the kitchen and the old ladies' room, at a window of which one was always sitting ready to open the outer door with a cord whenever the bell jangled. It was all very plain and primitive, but clean, and looking round my bedroom, which . had whitewashed walls, and a matted floor, and for furniture a bed, a stool, a basin and * a brasero, I found no cause to regret the dingy hotel I had left. "\viien I passed No. 1, on my way to dinner, the door was ajar, and Dona Mercedes was inside with a lamp in her hand. I paused before the door, and she, looking up, saw ma "Ah!" she said proudly, "did I not tell you that Don Iago was a painter? See here!" And she threw her light upon & picture which was resting on an easel before the window. I saw at once that it wasnot badly painted. There was a show of facility about it. And yet it was mediocre, surprising me less by its execution than its subject. Here in Toledo, the grand and bizarre, in th midst of such architectural beauty and grotesquenees as fairly bewildered an artist's eye, my neighbor had not painted a street scene, a. Moorish gateway, or a leafy cloister. He had chosen instead a country landscape almost as commonplace as it was dreary; a gray houseand a gray, sloping olive grove, and round them bleak, wind swept uplands. I was. scarcely more astonished to find that I knew the place. I had passed it the day before in my walk from Torrijoe?walking is a. whim of mine? and is was fully seven miles from Toledo. At the time I said something pretty tc Dona Mercedes, and went on to the parlor. My neighbor was late. I had nearly finished' when he entered. He was a man of S5, perhaps, with a thin, careworn face and lines below the temples. He was about my height, wearing his hair and mustache cut short?ablonde, and English looking. He had probably heard of my arrival, yet he seemed pub out at sight of me?perhaps merely because^ be was late. "I have left the head of the table for you,"1 I said, half rising, politely. "You have been, here some time, I understand." He was breaking his bread into morsels and. eating with a worried air. "Yes; the place suits me," he answered rather curtly. "Yet you like to hear the lark sing as well as the mouse squeak," I replied, smiling. His tone was not encouraging, but I wished to bs agreeable. "If I am not mistaken, I met you yesterday." "Not that I am aware of," he said, with a hasty glance at me, and then devoted himself to his soup with renewed zest. "No? On the pathway?I cannot call it a road?from Torrijos? About 2 o'clock?" He shook his head. "You are mistaken," he answered. "I was not outside the town yesterday." "Then I saw a man very like you!" I rejoined, nettled by his manner. "There is a rained castle, called Almonacid, I believe, about a mile this side of Torrijos. As I was passing it I saw an Englishman, and an artist also, if a portfolio makes an artist, leaveit and make quickly for the village before me. Somehow I missed him among the houses, and was too far from him at any time to see his features distinctly. But he was wearing clothes like yours." "And like yours, too, I presume," he rejoined sharply. He had a way of waiting for you, and taking you up suddenly, of which this waa my first experience. "Just so!" I said, for be was right; we' were dressed alike. "But I am not aware that the mirage occurs in Spain. Perhaps you know Almonacid?" "No," he replied, more equably, as if he' were ashamed of his show of temper. "I have heard of it. But it Is too far for my legs, and I cannot afford horse hire. I sometimes walk out in that direction, but nothalf as far." I made a hasty calculation. Almonacid was nine miles from Toledo. The gray house and Bolitary olive grove were at least seven. So that when my friend said that he had not been half as far as Almonacid, he was notquite truthful, since he must have been to the scene of his picture. But it was no business of mine. H9 was a good looking man, and that which took him to the dreary farm house might well be a love intrigue?a thing dangerous to enter upon in Spain, more dangerous still to meddle with. I changed the subject. I had had a difficulty about my letters. The postmaster had refused to give them to me because I had not my passport with me. Later the office had been closed. ItoldClent this, and he listened, but his thoughts seemed rar away, ana wnen l had done he said, "No doubt you will get them to-morrow," in a perfunctory way, with scarcely a show of sympathy. "I hope I shall," I answered, annoyed that' be made so little of it. "I do not know what I shall do if I fail to get them." "Oh, you will get them," he repeated carelessly. He was wrong, as it turned out. But so was I when I went to bed, vowing I hated him. I did not take into account the change which twenty-four hours may make in our reelings. Just one day later I could not have identified the surly man I have described with my friend James Clenfc?James Clent, who had by that time rescued me from a most unpleasant position, and proved triumphantly that under his rough manner he had a sound heart. It all arose out of the letters. I called at the postoffice next morning and handed in my passport. Ten minutes afterward I issued from the door dazed and bewildered, atmy wits' end what to do. A few paces onward I ran against someone, and, muttering "Perdone usted!" would have passed on without looking up if the man had not seized me by the arm. It was Clent. "What is it, Mr., Lyntonf' he cried good humoredly. "Havesome senorita's eyes shot home? Or?butwhat is it? Can I help you? And he drew me out of the sunshine into the shade of the covered way which runs round the Zocodover, the great square of Toledo. "Some one has intercepted my letters," I stammered. "A Spaniard called for them this morning, presented one of my visiting A cards, and said I was at the Fonda de Li nowhere I did stay one night. All that I can get out of the postmaster is that "he gave up the letters and that all was done in order. Confound his stolidity! One of them contained ?50!" He whistled. "Then there is no time to be lost, Mr. Lynton," he cried. "Let us go first to the Fonda. It is possible that some busybody, knowing you did not get your letters yesterday, has fetched them for you on the chance of getting a peseta for his pains." I gladly assented, and we went together to the hotel. But no one there would confess to knowing anything of my letter. No one had gone for them. As we left the yard I noticed that my companion looked keenly at the waiter, who was not too civil "Do you suspect him?" I asked, when we were outside. "i narajy jchow," oiono aaswweu mumj. "Poesibly you mislaid a card the night you slept there, so that he is one of the people to be suspected. But come, we will go now to the postofflce. I will help you as far as I can." And indeed he did. His knowledge of the language was perfect, and it was wonderful to bear him scolding, questioning and complaining, without end of the wrongs his Influential friend, whose passport he was waving under their official noses, had suffered. But when presently everything had been tried, and for the time tried fruitlessly, we stood in the square and looked somewhat blankly at one another. "I say, Mr. Lynton," he began, "fifty pounds is a large sum to lose.* "I wish it were less," I replied, with an attempt at sprightliness. "It does not cripple you altogether?" "I can afford it, if that is what you mean. But?but it is a little inconvenient at present," I answered. "It puts you in a difficulty for a few days?" "Precisely. I cannot receive another remittance for five days at least. In the meantime I have six?yes, seven pesetas and a half." "Umph! Call it six shillings and threepence," he replied, laughing. "The cathedral vergers will soon ease you of it, even were it more. But look here! we are next door neighbors, and you must let me help you. In a strange country I always keep a few pounds by me; they are at your service." As he spoke he drew from an inner pocket a shabby letter ease and took out a 300 pesta note?the only note, I saw, that the case contained. ''I am afraid," I said, doubtfully, "that I am inconveniencing yon. And besides, you do not know me." "I shall not need the money," he replied, quickly, "and as to my knowing you, I think I do?not you, personally, but your kind." "That is well said!" I exclaimed with hon-rtinpss "nnrl I anoent vour offer on one condition?that if you want the money before Sunday you will tell me so." 44 Why, if I do," he replied, laughing merrily, 44you will have spent half of it." "So I shall," I said, laughing myself, "but I have a watch, and Toledo, no doubt, has a ?let me call it a Mont de Piete," ? "Ciertamente!" he cried gayly, and with a word about meeting at dinner, walked rapidly away, leaving me to my thoughts. I watched him as he threaded his way across the square between laden asses and graceful igirls with pitchers, and comparing his slight upright f?m with the somber Spaniards who strutted up and down, keeping, even on this sunny day, a corner of the capa over the mouth, I felt proud of my countryman. "I do not think," I said penitently to Jock (I have not mentioned Jock before, although he was at that time my constant companion? a collie dog with the long Scotch head and the tendere6t eyes), i4I do not think that I shall be so quick to judge the next man w? meet?and. do not understand. Ah, these hasty judgments, Jock:" and I shook nty head, and Jock his tail. In due course a second remittance came to i hand, and I repaid my friend. By that time some of the wonder I had felt at his solitary life in Toledo?Toledo the somber ? had passed away. He was not altogether solitary, petting myself out of the question. More than once, in the archway or on the veranda, ! I met a priest coming from his room?a ' imall, dark, thin faced man with vivid eyes, ; a Spaniard, of course, who lifted his low : crowned beaver to me and bowed politely. | Once, too, I had a glimpse of a petticoat whisking out Moreover, Clent seemed to ij be doing a better trade than I had judged probable from the specimen of his work i which I had seen. Not that he told me this I himself. He was reserved on the subject, ; neither offering to show me his pictures nor i neoontincr mv nronnsnl t.hnfc wn should do j some work together. But our letters sometimes lay on a slab inside the outer door, and ' I could not avoid seeing that he received sev' eral?dealers' letters, I was sure?from art 1 centers?from Dresden and Munich, for in' stance. Once there was a letter bearing the il postmark of St Petersburg. This seemed || strange in a man of his caliber; in a man who i was not known to me. And, perhaps, besides puzzling me, it a little nettled me also. My name was not altogether unknown. ! Clent himself had said pretty things about ' his acquaintance with it. Yet I had no continental patrons, no market outside Great Britain. If I had fallen in with him at Madrid or Seville I should have known what to think; I should have sot him down as one of those copyists who live by all great galleries. And something upon which I lit one day in ij his room persuaded me for a time that this : was the case, few as were the works in j Toledo that could pay for the labor of copy,! ing. It was a picture, and the only one I | saw at any time in his possession, save the j| jomber landscape of which I have spoken, il I had run short of chrome yellow, and | hearing him go to his room followed to 1 ask him if he could let rae have some. "I ji rappose I cannot get any chrome yellow in jj Toledo?" I began before I was well in the i room, "nor anywhere nearer than Madrid He was kneeling on the floor, but sprang* I op so quickly at the sound of my voice that jj [ hastened to apologize for entering withji Dut knocking. He did not seem, at once, ij to understand me. He had been poring ! over something placed on the ground where it would catch the best light, and his first j aim appeared to be to move so as to hide I' l|i{o fmm mn '1 \A/V? of 10 Jf 7^' kn nrinrl V* rt ?vkl?? I iiviu uiot ii unv la ivi ucuicu iiui oiuj ! ''What do you want?" Even by that light I ould see that his face was pale. I "My dear fellow," I said, not trying to hide my surprise, "I am sorry that I entered without ceremony, and I have told you so. [ came in for nothing in the world but to iisk you if any chrome yellow can be got nearer than Madrid. I was so full of my ,i wants that, seeing the door was unlatched, I ij iid not knock at it." | "Was it unlatched!" he asked, glancing at ne askance. I shrugged my shoulders. "Look for vourjelf," I said curtly. He stepped forward and saw what I had ilready noticed?that the bolt was shot, but j not into the socket. Something like a stifled ;urse escaped him. He turned, muttering that I could only get the material I needed !| in Madrid. j "That is unfortunate. But what have you ! got here?" I asked, advancing a step into the room. "What a capital bit of painting! It is a Ribera, is it not? It must be!" And, forgetting in my eagerness everything save ' that I had before mo a singularly good copy |l of a fine picture, I actually waved him I iside when he would have interposed. "No ! one but Ribera," I cried, stooping over it, |i "could paint those lights and shadows! No ) one! It is a genuine Spagnoletto for a hunI sired!" t un vi 1.- i -? Xb U Uiuau LI \Jill lillil ill tt IAJUU Ul vivid contradiction. I "A copy!" I repeated after him jn wonder. "A copy! Of course it is. So I supposed. ! Etiberas do not grow on every bush, my J friend. I meant that the original was a Ri; bera, and not merely of his school. But now ; you speak of it," and I went down on my 5 knees, "are you so sure that it is a copy? : How bright are these high lights, yet how ' mellow! And see tjie depth of the coloring i here, and the tawny tone over all! By heavens," I said, rising and facing him abruptly, "it is not a copy!" ' "It is!" he cried furiously; "I say it is! Do Riberas grow on every bush, madman?' >i The word and the passion he threw into it r sobered me at once. "I beg your pardon," I | said, "I forgot myself. I am sorry for it. M But the opinion I have uttered is my opinion i'j still. And if I do not make a mistake," I j( went on eyeing him shrewdly, "it is yours, ] too. I fancy, my friend, thai you had just | made the discovery when I came in, and that ' you dared hardly to entertain it. It is no i wonder that such a thing threw you off your j balance." For he was trembling still, and glancing Erom me to the painting and back again in a t iistraught fashion. "Yes," he said at length, I ptting out his words with difficulty, "I thought it possible, just possible, but how very, very improbable I" ' "Yes, very improbable, if, as I suppose, 1 you bought the picture for a copy. But where did you get it?" I asked briskly. I * thought that I was beginning to understand 1 him. i "I bought it from a priest for an old song i it Almonacid" "At Almonacid P 1 He moved uneasily, as if he would have 1 recalled his last word But it was too late, i ind he nodded assent. "Then after all it 1 was you whom I saw that day?" I com- i mented "You had just bought it, I suppose." "Yes, I had a doubt about it then." 1 "It is a strange story, tut strange things happen," I said, watching him narrowly. "It is true." Of course I pretended to believe him, and seeing clearly that he wished mo gone I took myself to my room. In part I did belie\o him, only I thought it strange that an artist of his kidney should be so greatly ashamed of having outwitted an old monk; so greatly shamed as to tell the story of his cleverness In that hang dog fashion. It crossed my mind that I might be wrong in my judgment of the picture. It might be that the 8t. Christopher was only a copy after all, and Clent himself had made it, and was even then when I broke in upon him having it out with his conscience whether he should pass it off for an original or not. That was possible; but to me he had been a friend in need, and it was no business of mine. The next day, the 17th of January, was to be the last of my stay in Toledo. I had all but finished the sketches I required, and if the truth must be told, I longed to be away. The stillness of the place haunted mo. I hated the huge square alcazar which towered over all the Moorish gateways, the hundred silent churches. By noon I had made an end of my work, and hastily putting asido my materials I called Jock and started for a long ramble over the hills, where the alcazar did not bar the sunshine, though it was impossible to get out of sight of it. I did not return until darkness drove me back into the town. Then I saw at once that there was something strange on foot. In the streets was an unwonted bustle, which rather grew than lessened as I approached the middle of the town. Knots of people carrying fagots passed hurriedly or stood together at the street corners. The Zocodover was thronged. I As?in part curious and in part annoyed?I was pushing my way through the crowd, a f clock struck 0, and, set in motion by that ( signal, the bells in every tower burst into , sound. I was brought to a standstill. I had , just time to wonder what it meant, when ( as by magic the bright glare of a hun- j dred fires leaped up above the crowd, and glowing hotly on pillar and gable, flung huge ] shadows on the very steeples, and exposed at , once a hundred silhouettes. I It was a weird yet a beautiful sight. It pleased me to find it repeated in every street , and open space I entered. I spent fully an s hour, tired as I was, in hurrying up and down j to mark the effect of the firelight on. this fa- J cade or that archway. And when at length I tore myself away and went home, I made j quickly for the parlor to talk of what I had f seen. ! "I say, Clent!" I began, "have you been out? What is it? What does it all mean?" . Such a nervous fellow as he was! He , jumped up, dropping his spoon into his plate j with a clatter. "What does what mean?" , he stuttered. , "These bonfires in the streets, to be sure! , The sight is a most singular one! You ought to be out viewing it!" . . He sat down at once. "Oh, the bonfires!" , he said, resuming his meal. "The people , are keeping St. Anthony's eve, that is all. | It is customary here to do it in this way. You know St Anthony is always represented with a fire by his side." j "I thought that it was something of that kind," I answered, following his example. j "Will you come out with me presently and have a look at the town? The sightseers are | orderly enough, though to judge from the , stir at the gendarmerie the occasion is a , special one." , UT? o c+iw fKora2" Via acl'orl nnncina with his spoon half way to his mouth. , "Some civil guards, six or eight I dare say, , and an officer were dismounting at the door as I passed. Apparently they had just , come in." "What! Did you notice what the officer was like?" Clent asked in a curious tone, but , I was busy with my dinner. "Yes," I answered, carelessly, "he had a ] hare lip. I remarked it because he had a ] good look at me as I passed. No? You do , not mean to say that you have done already ?" , He did not ar*wer, and I looked up to learn | the reason. I read something in his pale face , md trembling lips which chilled me. The , nan was suddenly afraid. And not afraid | merely. He was in such terror that the very instinct of concealment had passed from him. ( As his distended eyes met mine he tried to speak, but no sound came. Yet I knew what i he would have said. His lips formed, "Can ] I trust you?" < "Can you trust me?" I repeated, trembling a little myself, and my mouth growing dry; ( 'well, I hope bo, I think so, Clent; I do, in- ] deed. What is it, my good fellow?" for his ( very ears seemed to rise from his head, so intently was he listening for some sound. "Whathave you done? What do you fearf' ] [ whispered, j "Fear'f1 he muttered, with his hand upliftj ed, "death, man! Hush! Come to my room." , | 1 obeyed his gesture as much as his words, , and leaving the parlor we crept silently thither. When we were closeted together he I j stood facing me, and began to speak in breathless haste. "I did you a good turn the j ! other day, Mr. Lynton; help me now. I am a Carlist?a spy! A man sent hero to try the ; fidelity of the troops. Of late I have been suspected. Now I am sure I am betrayed. 1 The punishment is death! In a few minutes i they will be here." "But what?what can I do for your I ex- I claimed in horror. No one seeing the man < j could doubt his danger, or at least his belief ! | in it. "Why do you not escape while there Is timer' I cried impatiently. i "Time! There is no time!" he answered ; with an oath of despair. "The house is 1 j watched. I dare not leave it. But you can i do something for me. You can give me | your passport and change rooms with me. ( I We are much alike. Take my name for a -j ! few hours, nay, a few minutes. It will save ' i j my life?my life, sir! And for you?you i I know our minister! Yes? Then you will be ! in no danger." < "But," I said faintly?the man's distress i was terrible to witness, and it all cam9 so j . abruptly upon me-r"the Spanish police are ! sometimes hasty and"? He flinched as if I ! had struck him. A fresh bit of trembling I seized him. He turned from me with a j I curse and flung himself face downward on , I the bed. j i I had hesitated before. I am not a bold I | man, and I had heard strange tales of sum- j mary justice done by the police. But hero i ' the risk seeined so Jittle; the man's condition ; ; was so pitiable. "Get up!" I said harshly, after a brief j | fight with myself. "I will save you if I can. ; You are an Englishman when all is said and ! : done. But let us lose no time. You know i best what must be done." | He sprang to his feet. At once he had all I his wits about him. In a couple of minutes | I had taken possession of his room, he of j mine. With feverish expressions of gratitude he pocketed the passport I gave him. I He dressed me in his Jong ulster and deer i stalker hat; in which I have no doubt that I j was like enough to him to puss for him in , Spanish eyes. And all this he did with won- j j derful method, as if he had thought out the j details before. It crossed my mind once that t I he had. His last step was to draw from his ' | mattress two long rolls neatly covered with I canvas. "They are papers," he said, pausing j to listen, and looking doubtfully at them the J while. "Lists of men. And men's lives they will cost if they arc found," he added, with j excitement. "Yet I dare not take them with i ine. I dare not I shall get away by your help, but I shall be stopped more than once, | and if these are found on me they will make it all of no use." He was so reluctant, so sincerely reluctant, I as I could see, to leave the papers, despite J the risk he would run if lie took them, yes, I and so very nearly ready to run that risk, ! that I felt for the first time a sense of real | sympathy for him. "Can we not hide them ! somewhere?" I suggested. "No!" he answered bitterly, "they will I leave no stone unturned here." And with hat he thrust the papers back into the mat- I ;ress?my mattress now. C "Why do you not destroy them?" I asked, t "There is no time," he answered sullenly, d rhen, moved by the force of habit, I think, h le sat down on the bed precisely over them, p I wondered?nt his answer first, then at q mother thing. "Why do they not comer1 b t said querulously. "Are you sure that they I intend to come at all?that you have not a nadc a fool of mo for nothing?" c His face grew bright a moment and then 9 [ell again. "No," ho replied; "they set a v watch on this house as soon as they came into the town, and are only waiting now un- v til a time when they may be sure that I am a r.f linmn Ttint. tc nil " T foimd Ollfc nftCT- / ward that ho was perfectly right in this. a So we sat in dreary expectation, waiting in b that little whitewashed room for the clang of musket butts and tramp of feet that should h toll us the crisis was at hand. Tho candle ti ourned dimly, the air was heavy with the o pungent odor that rose from the brasero. My ;ye fell upon his empty easel and the sight carried me back to a time, days before as it ? seemed instead of hours, when I had still regarded him in the light of a problem to be k solved. "And are you an artist?' I asked abruptly. I was glad to break the-silence.. p "Oh, yes," he said with apathy, "I paint a k iittle." * d "And that Spagnoletto?the ,8t. Christo- b; pher? Is it really an original?" p "It is tho original. You were right," he n replied. "It was the gift of a great monas- " rery to the cause." & I whistled. "I think it is a pity," I said, H with a jealous eye to the mattress on which io was sitting. The fancy that that price- 0 less Ribera carelessly rolled up might be receiving with each instant some irremedi- h ible hurt was a dreadful thing to have on b ine's mind. When my traveling clock in the I next room tinkled nine times, I could bear it h 10 longer. "Look her'-I said, rising, "I im going out. If you a.-i right, I shall be r< arrested, and there will be an end of it. I? E lot, I 6hall come back and there will be an ? ;nd of this foolery. Jock! lie there; good ^ log!" I added, pointing to the bed. And I & strode to the door. Of course I was still dis- G juised in Clent's ulster and cap. 0 He leaped up and caught mo by tho arm. & "Por Dios!" ho cried, clinging to me. ' 'You are going to betray mo! You are Eng- 5" lish, and you can give me up!" "Man alive!" I answered furiously, the fellow's distrust showed the black spot in 0 iim so plainly; "if I wish to betray you, I ^ aeed only stay here and tell the civil guards n who you are!" d He shrank back at that; I suppose he b saw its truth, and I went out. passing a iown the gallery and tho stairs to the outer ^ ioor. As I opened this and, meeting the S wind, stepped into the darkness of the en- a xanco, before which the embers of a fire still B jlowed faintly, I confess that I felt nervous n ?very nervous. With each scop that I took ^ [ looked for a challenge or a violent hand u jpon my shoulder; yet I sprang aside when ^ die lightest of touches fell on my sleeve. ^ "It is I, Pablo! Go no further!" hissed a n roice in my ear. "The street is guarded, tenor. I have risked much to save you, but a [ can do no more. If you get through is it Mmonacid?" ? "Si, hombre, si," I whispered. Then clutch- & ng in my turn the stranger as he was gliding v rom me I continued: "But stay, amigo. Tell ^ ne what I can do?" c "I do not know. Have you no safe hiding ^ dace inside?" he answered, cautiously. "Ha! vhat is that?" It was the sound of approach- P ng feet. As soon as this was certain, "Let r ne go!" bo cried, angrily, trying to tear him- " telf from my grasp. "It is like you! You 8 vould destroy me to do yourself no good!" '' I released him. While he fell back into the B larlcness I retreated, cursing my folly the '' vliile, into the archway and tried to efface P nyself against the wall. I was caught in a ' rap. < . R ' The position was not a pleasant one. ' [Vamp! tramp!?the feet came on so steadily " ind surely until half a dozen forms stood be- 0 ;ween me and tho dying fire outside. A whispered word followed, then a flashing " jpen of lanthorns, a momentary starting jack of all parties as a mustached guard dis- p rovered me, and with the ringing out of a 0 fvord of command half a dozen carbines p amo to the present in front of my breast. "Is this our man?" cried tho leader. Ho n lid not wait for an answer, but added, imperiously, "Your name, senorT1 "I am English. Is not that sufficient for " j-ou? Have a care what you are doing," I mswered. ? "Enough; enter. Conduct us to your 0 room," was his order. & I went in. On the veranda, at tho door of P So. 2, stood Clent, holding a candle above n ais head, so that his face was in shadow a while the light fell on us. He was pale, as I >aw a moment later, but he played his part e to admiration. "What is this?" he asked, with the superior air which Englishmen permit themselves abroad. "What does this ? mean?" "Your name, sir!" cried the leader, by way a jf answer. - 0 "My name is Rouse Lvnton, and I am an artist ana an .kngiisnman, ne replied, < haughtily. "Hero is my passport, and I ask | you again what this means?" j P The officer cast a single glance at the paper * md returned it. "It is in order," he said politely. "I have made inquiries and know about you, senor. Do not let me disturb you. We are merely making a capture." "But he, too, is English," put in Clent, i looking at me in well feigned surprise. . t "Ciertamente! but criminal." j (J "Good heavens! I do not believe it; it t ;annot be. Is there nothing," he added, ad- s dressing me with concern, "that I can do for t you! Bend a telegram, or anything of that ]( kind?" (j "Yes," I cried eagerly, "telegraph to the English minister at Madrid." "It shall be done, and at once. Keep up r your heart." ".Spare your pains, sir," interposed the ? lender with a grim smile; "you will do no * *ood. And besides, the office is closed." V f "Then 1 will have it opened," cried Clent f botly, acting the English traveler to the life, wid with u gesture of encouragement he ? rattled noisily away. \ "Your room is No. 1," dictated the officer* j addressing me. "Enter." i g I did so. Jock sprang up, find with his coat . c bristling about his neck, growled ominously , at my companions. I told lnm to lie down. ^ "It is the other Englishman's dog," said one of the guards. jj "Is that so?" replied the officer, glancing y sharply at me. "Then how comes it in this * room i But to work! Search!" * In five minutes their skillful fingers had t overhauled the luggage which was lying V about. They found nothing to the purpose, i "The bed," was the next command. r I do not know what seized upon me then; whether it was sheer longing to give vent to t my excitement that carried me away, or the v memory of CI ant's words, "And men's lives g fVn?\* will /?ncf. " flint", inciiirofl toa witli cram a l spir t that certainly was not in}' own. I can- ( not say. Only I know that when the order c "Now the boil'' was given I sprang between it j ami t he searchers. j . "No!" I shouted, waving them back. 1 "Wait!" ? If I had a dim notion of delaying them and ) gaining time the attempt was as vain as it 1 was foolish. S "Madman!" cried the loader, dropping the r mask, and suddenly lieside himself with c rage; "stand back. Juan, Felipe, do your c duty!" 8 I Hung one from me! another! I had a j ment's awful consciousness of a carbina s leveled at iny chest, of a finger pressing on ? the trigger, of a sheathed sword that struck ? up the weapon a second before it exploded, of the officer shouting in a voice of thunder , above the tumult, "Noaqui! Despues!" and then a strong arm flung me forcibly against f the wall. I saw Jock leap forward, his teeth bared?saw some one fire hastily?saw the dog fall bleeding by the lied. The room grew i thick with smoke. S "Oh, my God!" I cried, aail covered my t face. I was trembling in every limb. Some f one not ungeutly drew the dog aside. In- | stinctivcly I knelt down and tried to stanch ? the blood. Poor Jock! j Presently?in the mear*""" T was aking r no heed of their doings?I heard a cry of sat- c isfaction and looked up. They had discov- jered the two rolls and bending over them as ^ they lay on the bed were unfastening the e wrappers. I went and looked on apathetically. . I waited no longer with any feeling that it concerned me to see the muster rolls, and f loyal autographs, and promises that were to s cost so dearly, of which Clent had spoken. c But what was this? The Spagnoletto! Oh, t yes! I understood how that came to be here. 2 hit those?these pictures which followed! louldit be that all the subscriptions took he form of paintings? Or what was this elicate Moro, fit for a royal gallery, doing ere? And that possible Murillo? That ortrait which might have been by Velas[uez? That San Sebastian that was at least / y a pupil of Caravaggio? My head reeled./ passed my hand over my eyes and looked gain. It was not a delusion. There, tlii anvases lay one on the other, their edge; trangely rough, their corners frayed?eafiases worth a king's ransom. I The other roll was full of odds and enis, alueloes, hut equally strange; picture baaks nd rough pieces of cloth and opened lettar*. Lmotig these last I saw, with scarcely any ddod wonder, envelopes find letters direc ied o myself. "I do not understand," I said feebly, 1< 3kig from one guard to another. They ha< all unied to me to see bow I took their isoveries. "Ho told mo that ho was a Cai nst -A spy sent here to bribe the troops. ' put rhat are these doing here? I do not umerU.J 11 11 L4UIU. - I u\yho told you?and what?" cried,' the iader.11 Jf "Cleat! Clent told me?" and then Ijstoped-dazed and bewildered. Two or fthree mgllfed; the officer, gazing fixedly at me, id not. I met his gaze vacantly; thin my yes wandered to the corner and feliupon oor Jock. A mist passed from my pind, ly brain cleared; I spoke aloud and sharply, Ho has fooled us all!" I said, "you a|?well s me! I am not Clent. I am Rouse Linton, ie artist He told mo" "Who? who? who?" cried the officer* with erce impatience. "Clent, the man whom you want?thd man j No. 1. He told me that he was a Carlist i danger of arrest I gave him my passport; took his room and he mine. What is it he as done?" "Donef cried the man, stamping abotit the x>m in furious rage. "Can you not see? [e is a robber of museums?the captaih of a ang! Done, blockhead of an Englishman? [adre do Dios! did he not kill a civil puard t Valladolid ten months ago? Ho is now a German, now an Englishman. Ho js tiie evil himself, whom, for all that, we had netjd finely but for you! Yet, fool that I wis, feared something when the dog obeyed on." [ 1 I remembered that I had read in the Engsh newspapers of picture robberies in variU8 parts of Spain, in which it was supposed aat a German was engaged. By this light t nderstood it all. The man's terror when I iscovered him gloating over the Spagnoi stto which Had been stolen rrom a monastery) t Seville; his letters from distant dealers;! is studied appeal to my sympathies; his J reedy reluctance, which I had thought pure i nselflshness, to part with his spoils; even the I asual "job" which had marie him master of \ ly ?50! I understood them now. Yes; had \ [lis been all?had Jock not been lying bleedlg in a corner?I would have let the man go. ls it was, I cried out to them, "Quick! I will ill you where you will And him! He will lake for Almonacid. You know the place?") "Did he tell you that also?" asked the officer ; jornfuily. "No," I exclaimed, "I had it from one of is gang in the street?one who took me for im as you did. Almonacid js. their rendezous. You are watching the railway station ere? Yes. Then be sure he will make across ountry for Almonacid, which is only a mile rom Torrijos itation on the other railway." There was sease in my words, and the olire saw it. The ring of scowling faces ound me brightened. A few hasty sentences rere exchanged, and an order was curtly iven* and in two minutes the officer and his allowing trooped down stairs, no doubt to et to horse and start after the fugitives; saving me in charge of a couple of town olice, who good naturedly helped me to do rhat I could for Jock. Jock was not dead, pr going to die, I am glad to say, of that rouOT^although he walk3 Lame to this day, he bullet having cut the tendons at the root f the fore leg. When I found that this was so, I began to e sorry that I had betrayed Clent's trust, hough in fact he had never trusted me. "I rish that I had not spoken so soon," I said to ne of my guards as we sat over the brasero, wondering what was doing at Almonacid. "It is ill work standing behind a kicking lule," he answered dryly. "But second thoughts are best." He considered this; then said briefly: "The ist orange the frost nips." The full meaning of which only came home 3 me next morning. About 10 o'clock the fflcer of police came clattering up the stairs 3 discharge me from custody. He told me olitely that owing to the amends I had rade no notice would be taken of my vain t+flmn! tr\ mictlond instiee. "Vain attempt! Vain? Then you have ! apturedhimf' "No, senor." "No! He has escaped!" I cried in aston- | ihment. "Hardly; he tried," replied the Spaniard, i leeting my eyes with a smile. "He was shot i 1 the scuffle." "Deadf I said faintly. "Yes, senor, quite dead." Then I knew for certain what the words, j To aqui! Despues! ("Not here! After- | rard!") had meant And I shivered. FOOLISH CONTROVERSIES. "Avoid foolish questions." (Titus, ii:0). Our days are few, and are far tetter spent in doing good than in lisputing over matters which are at test of minor importance. The old chool men did a world of mischief ly their incessant discussion of subects of no practical importance; and iur churches suffer much from petty vars over abstruse points and unimlortant questions. After everything ias been said that can be said, neithir party is any the wiser, and thereore, the discussion no more pronotes knowledge than love, and it is oolish to sow in so barren a field. Questions upon points wherein icripture is silent, upon mysteries vhich belong to God alone, upon irophecies of doubtful interpretation nd upon mere mokes of observing eremonials, are all foolish, and wise nen avoid them. Our business is leither to ask nor answer foolish luestions, but to avoid them alto:etjher. And if we observe the aposle's precept, (Titus, 19), tobe careful j o maintain good works, we snail i ind ourselves far too much occupied vith profitable business to take much I nterest in unworthy contentions and i leedless strivings. There are, however, some quesions which are the reverse of foolish, vhich we must not avoid, but fairly ind honestly meet, such as these: 'Do I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ? Am I renewed in the spirit if my mind? Am I walking after i he flesh or the Spirit? Am I growng in grace? Does my conversation .dorn the doctrine of God my Sadour? Am I looking for the comngof the Lord, and watching as a ervant does for his master? What nore can I do for Jesus?" Such in(uiries as these urgently demand mr attention ; and if we have been it all given to caviling, let us now urn our critical abilities to a service o much more profitable. Let us be jeace-makers, and endeavor to lead ithers, both by our prayer and eximple, to "avoid foolish questions." 'Study those thing9 which mate lor j >eace.''?Spurqeon. Beauty of Southern Women.? Vs a rule Southern women have mall and pretty feet. Certainly hey do not spoil them In walking, or in no section of the country is so ittle physical exercise indulged in >y the gentle sex. They, too, are arge of eye and soft of speech. To nake themselves agreeable i9 a anon, and their flattery is seductive )ecause apparently unconscious, rhey are strong not only in family eelings and the ties of kinship, but iave an unbounded pride in their mrlicular State, and an affection so trong for it that if the old issue had lepended on women one doubts that hey ever would have been beaten. Yew York Press. pijsttlfanwras! fading. For the Yorkville Enquirer. ^ REMINISCENCES UP WESTERN YORK. Among the oldest men we knew, living in Western York, was Mr. Thomas Bolin. He lived and died on Guion Moore creek, in the suburbs of the "Nation." Although living at the time, I do not think he was a soldier in the Revolutionary war?he was too young. An uneducated man, and one, too, that had lived somewhat in seclusion, he was unable to give any intelligent account of those stirring times, except such matters as came within his immediate knowledge. He was a different man, in some respects, from Mr. Johnnie Bolin, of whom we spoke in our last chapter. With the exception of a few relatives visiting him, this old gentleman lived almost the life of a hermit. Up to his 92nd year he rode to mill on horseback, a distance of, perhaps, four or five miles. Sometimes he attended elections, but not often. He was industrious, and as long as he was able to carry a hoe, he used it. "Uncle Tom," as we always called him, was like most of those who preceded him in these "Reminiscences," he would take his dram. He had a horse that he said was 33 years old? a good horse for half that age. This horse had a glass eye. One day uncle Tom rode him to Whitesides' mill, on Clark's Fork. He met a wagoner (a horse jockey) at the mill, who bantered him for a swap. He found there was no trade in the old man : and to produce dissatisfaction told him his horse was blind in one eye. The old man said : "You're a fool; did you never thee a horse with a glath eye." He had a faithful old negro by the name of Cain. For this old negro everybody had more than ordinary respect. He was kind to those old people. Tom Barnett said that Cain was the only Bolin of the name he knew that asked a blessing at the table. Perhaps it was so, too. Among the Bolins were some of the largest people in Western York, or anywhere else. Aunt "Ritter" Gilmore (one of uncle Tom's daughter) weighed about 300 pounds. She was the largest woman I ever saw. She married rranK unmore, wno went off and left her, I think, before the war. Frank was, at one time, capI tain of the "Brier Patch" company lof militia. A man of fine sense? Vfull of wit and sarcasm. He was always playing his jokes off on somebody. It was at one time reported that a bear had gotten away from a show that had been in the country, and a great many people were afraid to go to a neighbor's house. One day Frank was passing through the field of one of his neighbors, and seeing the owner come meeting him, he took up a stick and began to beat the grass and weeds out of his way, and kept on at this until the owner came up and asked him what he was looking for. "That bear," was his reply. The owner didn't like this way of making fun of his crop and gave him a raking. But this only made matters worse ; for Fran k reported a frog concert that took plaoeon the same farm, in about this way: Calling a branch byname, that divided the corn from the cotton, he said he was passing along one day, when he heard a bull frog, with a bass voice, in the corn saying, "Corn's lost, corn's lost;" on the other side another, with a fine voice, squeaked?"Cotton too, cotton too, cotton too," when a jay bird came along crying, "Thin it, thin it, thin it, thin it." This joke was handed around for many years, and was instrumental in breaking up the friendship of lifelong friends. j. l. s. CHILDREN ON A BATTLE-FIELD. A writer, formerly a Confederate soldier, tells in the Wide Awake & pathetic story of two children lost on a battle-field, in a sudden assault ol Northern upon Southern troops along a road where the children were passing. They were found, after the battle, "in an old field, whose longneglected furrows were covered with a thick growth of yellow sedge, all wet with melted snow and shining in the soft red rays of the setting sun. The children were in one of the moist, tangled fence-corners. Their little blue home-spun frocks?for they both wore dresses?were all torn and draggled. Their chubby faces were brier-scratched and dirty. Their bare heads were matted with dry leaves and straw. But I reckon every man of us thought that God'.blue sky never looked down upon a prettier picture than they made lying there, fast asleep and clasped closely in each other's arms. "The sergeant stopped with a low chuckle of satisfaction. 'The littleun is asleep for sure!' he said, as he lifted him gently and turned. The next moment he staggered under his light burden and almost fell. A hoarse groan burst from his lips. The little head with its tangled mass of curls rolled heavily to one side; the little arras hung inertly down; the sergeant's hands, where they su pported the tiny neck, were all dabbled in blood. "The stray shot had done its cruel work well. It had plowed across the j small, white throat, and the baby's head was almost severed from the little body. "Ten minutes before we were all ready to toss up for the privilege ol carrying those little chaps home. But now every man of us hung back, dumb, and unnerved. And the servant and Tom turned slowly and tramped away through the falling shadows to lay the living and the dead together in that waiting mother's arms. We followed silently, with uncovered heads. -"More than once that night oup pickets were challenged from the other side, and anxious inquiries made for the little ones. When the answer went back across the hush and the silence of night, we could feel, though we could not see, the look that swept over the faces of our foes. Aud that look made us all akin." She Married Him to Reform Him.?I knew a young lady who had everything which usually constitutes the happiness of those who have not climbed, the golden stairs of matrimonial paradise. Her age was 20; she was a brunette, of graceful figure, with a peculiar animated expression of countenance. Her complexion was rich and warm, her large gray eyes were merry, and her features would pass muster among sculptors. At receptions held in the armory of the Twenty-third Regiment she was always observed with admiring interest, and she had beaux by the score. Well, at length she came to a decision, and I heard of her marriage. I kuew the young man whom she chose and was startled. That was five years ago. A year ago I was riding uptown on a car. The car was crowded and I stood by the front door reading. 1 heard my name pronounced, and looked down, but did qot at first recognize me iace, which was iaintly smiling at me. It was weirdly pale and wrinkled and careworn. I looked puzzled for a few momenta, and then it dawned on. me that this was the wreck of one of the prettiest girls in Brooklyn. I accompanied her as far as the door of her house. It was !a tenement house. "Iwon't invite you in to-day," she said, "my rooms are somewhat disordered," I said nothing, but I understood. It was pitiful to see her try to keep up the pretense of being light-hearted, happy and prosperous. A week ago I heard that her husband was in the lunatic asylum and her baby dead. Now she has gone home to begin life over again. She had married a man to reform him .?Brooklyn Eagle. THE CLEMSON BEQUEST. . The papers furnish additional particulars of the very liberal bequest of Col. Thomas G. Clemson, of "Fort Hill, in Oconee county, for the pur-, pose of founding an Agricultural College. Col. Clemson, who was a native of Pennsylvania, had long been connected with the Southern people by family and other ties. He had for many years been zealously working to accomplish everything in his power for the benefit of the farmers and his countrymen of every avocation in life. He was eminently practical in his efforts to elevate the working men of the country, and the founding of an institution, such as he has done, has been the great work of the last twenty years of his life. Some of the newspapers at a distance seem to take pleasure in heralding forth that Col. Clemson was a recluse, withoutinterest in the affairs of the country. No greater mistake could have been made. Col. Clemson was a man of great industry and eminently practical in the affairs of life. His large accumulations ought to close the mouths of those croakers. There is a slight buzz of expectation in the public mind that the will of Col. Clemson will be contested by his only heir and grand-daughter, Miss Lee, of New York. We do not give this rumor much1 credence from the fact that her grand-father made liberal provision for her in his will, and that her father is a gentleman of high character and very large means. Mr. Lee is also identified with our section of the country by marriage and other links of interest, which will, we are .sure, stay his hand, and cause him to foster and cherish an institution which will reflect great credit and honor upon; his family and benefit and renown upon the country. : Col. llichard W. Simpson, of Pendleton, is the executor of the will of Col. Clemson and there is.no man in the country who will do more, in a proper and honorable way to sustain the will of his friend and the benefactor of our race and country. Col. Clemson appointed the following gentlemen trustees of the institution so liberally endowed by him: Col. R. W. Simpson and D. K. Norris, of Pendleton; M. L. Donaldson, of Greenville; J. E. Bradley, of Abbe...* 11 ? . T? 11 T>st....vn Af DJnl/ona . T vine j xv. xj. ijuwcu, yji x ivncuo ^ u* E. Wannamaker, of Orangeburg; B. R. Tillman, of Edgefield. Fort Hill isaituated in Oconee county and was the homestead of Hon. John C. Calhoun, one of the best and purest men of the country. He was not only a statesman without a peer in the land, but eminently practical in all the affairs of life. When he sought retirement from the affairs of state, at Fort Hill, his greatest pleasure was to seek happiness in the bosom of his family and the comfort of his friends, where too, he could pursue the life of the successful farmer. It is eminently fit and proper that a homestead around which cluster so many highly cherished associations, should be dedicated to the practical education of the youth of the country, and we commend the effort of his friends and family in this direction to the highest consideration of the people of the State that their efforts may be crowned with success.?Koowee Courier. AN AUTHENTIC AND DISCOURAGING EXPLANATION OF THE BEQUEST. To the Editor of the News and Courier: I see so many false statements, misconceptionsand ridiculous exaggerations in the public papers about the will of my father-in-law, the late Mr. Thomas G. Clemson, as to the amount of property belonging to his estate, the terms of his will and the amount that would accrue to the State of South Carolina for the purpose of founding an agricultural college, should Mr. Clemson's win oe valid and the bequest accepted by the State, that I am impelled to make a plain and clear statement of the whole matter, so far as my knowledge extends. In justice to myself, to ray fatherin-law, Mr. Clemson, and as both father and guardian of my daughter, who.is the grand daughter and only surviving descendant and natural heir of Mr. and Mrs. Clemson, and the great granddaughter of the late Hon. John C. Calhoun, I am induced to take this course, for the reason that frequent inquiries are made of me by numerous friends of my daughter and her ancestors in South Carolina, by some of the relatives of Mr. Clemson, who live out of this State, and by frieuds and acquaintances of my own. Most of the information, which I here endeavor to give as correctly as I can, was derived from Mr. R. W. Simpson, who has had charge of Mr. Clemson's affairs as his attorney and legal adviser for several years past, and who is appointed by his will his executor and trustee, and of whom he speaks in the will in the highest terms as his "trusted friend and adviser." If the will is not contested by me, as the guardian of my daughter, there would be left for the purpose of founding an agricultrral college in the State of South Carolina probably as follows: The Fort Hill estate, 825 acres or thereabouts, the farming value of it being about $10,000. Mr. Simpson informed me that the personal property, consisting of stocks, bondsand mortgages and other securities in his hands, was about $27,000. From this sum take the legacies, payable in cash,$18,000, and it leaves $9,000. Mr. Simpson, the executor and trustee under the will, is allowed 5 per cent, on the whole amount of the estate by the will, and also, I am told, 5 percent, by law, making in all 10 per cent, commissions on the whole property. This would amount to say $4,000. Deduct that from the cash assets left of $9,000 and it leaves $5,000. Then deduct lawyers' bills, expense of keeping up the house and many other necessary expenses, and I think most people will agree with me inthinking that there will not be much left on which to found an agricultural college except the825 acres of the Fort Hill plantation, with a few dilapidated and partly ruined buildings? But, even valuing the remainder of the estate at $15,000, an extremely high estimate, the interest on this sum of money at 7 percent, would be $1,050. Not very munificent sums these to found agreat institution, and certainly the most incorruptible and economical statesmen could not reason ably object to the income of the estate, $1,050, being divided into salaries and paid over to the president, professors and a few practical farmers who would also be necessary to carry on the institution. In most of the noted colleges in the United States the presidents get at least eight or ten thousapd dollars per annum, and the professor's' from three to five thousand. Still, some patriotic statesmen might be found to serve their State from the purest motives, without money and without price. i /; In that case, I would suggest that the possible- income of the eBtate should be expended in providing hominy and milk to feed the famishing wives and families of the president and professors. The students, ui iruuraw, uuuiu uthe umir. uwu memo from home with them, and thus would diminish the expenses of the institution. If by public clamoraqd ridiculously exaggerated statements in $he papers the Legislature, thinking and believing that Mr. Clemson's bequest to the State amounts to $100,000, as I have seen it stated, in one of the South Carolina papers, then, and in that case, a law might be suddenly pressed through to add another hundred thousand or two to Mr. Clemson's munificent bequest, "as it is designated in some of the papers," though I hardly think the income of the latter sura would "after all the college buildings were provided" allow a sufficient sum to provide the college officials with a decent subsistence. Yours truly, Seneca, April 24. Gideon Lee. A FAMINE IN GOLD. "Probably nine-tenths of all the gold obtained by man has been taken from placer deposits, and oor American experience has been no exception to the general rule," remarked an experienced mining operator in speaking of the past and future of this valuable product the other evening. "Previous to 1847 our total gold production amounted to $12,000,600, but between 1847 and: 1887 about $1,750,000,000 were "contributed to our stock of gold. Of this, nearly three-fourths came from placere deposits. In 1850-66 we obtained more than $50,000,000 per annum in gold from the placers of California, and almost nothing from gold bearing veins. Now, with an annual production of $30,000,000 about one-half only is from placers. Our own; territory has been so thoroughly explored that no considerable superficial deposits of gold are likely to be discovered, and nearly the same ttylng can be said of the entire world." "Tn t.hp northern PYtonRlon of our western mountain ranges in British Columbia and Alaska there are probably important deposits of gold. It is likely, however, to come from this region in a moderate bdt' perennial stream, and not in a flood. Great difficulty will attend the working of those mines on account of the cold, long winters and the difficulty in transporting supplies. Unless the mines should prove richer than expected, there may be a dearth of gold in the near future. In'the Alleghany belt of mountains, In this country, there are large deposits of gold, but they are difficult ro work. Still, industry and perseverence may make them pay a profit. Mexico may be expected to turn out $1,000,000 a year, but no more. The west coast of South America yields little but silver. "Colombia, Venezuela and Brazil have on the contrary, always been producers of gold. It is estimated that from Brazil alone more than $1,000,000 in gold were obtained during the first 300 years after the advent of the Portuguese. Colombia and Venezuela and now yielding about $4,000,000 each annually, and little more than that can be expected in the future. "Australia produces about $30,000,000 a year, and we cannot hope for more than $5,000,000 annually from Asia. That will cover it all. I don't fear that you and I will ever suffer from a famine of gold, but unless the North American deposits are richer than is expected some one will suffer."?New York Mail and Express. ? Indian Justice.?In the early history of this country, Appalachee was, for a time, the dividing line between the whites and the Cherokees. There was constant trouble between the two races that required friendly adjudication to prevept bloodshed; there was a justice on duty named Tumlin, to whom these issues were generally submitted. He soon got tired of the frivolous complaints of the Indians, and concluded that he would have an Indian justice and bailiff to settle their disputes. He accordingly had one appointed who willingly undertook to dispense justice. Some time afterward, Tumlin met the Indian justice and wanted to know how he was maintaining the dignity of the law; the old Indian replied that he was doing finely, but had tried but one case. "What was your decision?" inquired Tumlin. "I sentenced the plaintiff to receive fifty lashes and the defendant fifty, and made the bailiff pay the cost." "Do you think that was right?" asked the white man. "Ooh !" grunted the savage magistrate, "no more cases to try."? Girtnette} Ga., Herald. A Judge's Sensible Words.? Judge Tuley occupies a position which enables him, almost compels him, to collect statistics as to the cause of divorce. In a recent interview he said: "I would not add to, nor take away any of the causes of divorce now given by the statute. If it were practicable, I would prohibit by law, any newly married couple living with the parents of either within the first five years. When left by themselves their characters sooner assimilate and they much sooner learn that in order to be happy there must be continual ana mutual sen sacnnces and dependence upon each other." There is condensed in the last sentence the result of much experience by a close thinker. A vast amount of unhappiness might have been avoided if every newly married couple, and the parents of each, could have been made to know this before it was too late.?Chicago Times. The Human Bkeath.?Professor Brown-Sequard has recently been making experiments to determine whether the human breath was capable of producing any poisonous effects. Prom the condensed watery vapor of the expired air he obtained a poisonous liquid, which, when injected under the skin of rabbits, produced almost immediate death. He ascertained that this poison was an alkaloid, and not a microbe. The rabbits thus injected died without convulsions, the heart and large olood vessels being engorged with blood. Brown-Sequard considers it fully proved that the expired air, both of man and animals, contains a volatile poisonous principle which is much more deleterious than carbonic acid.