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lewis m. grist, proprietor.| g>i> Jndcpcndtnt Tamils JPAuspapcr: cdfor the flromotioit of the fpolitieat, JSodai, ^jjriMnral and (|ommerriat Jntercsts of the Jiouth. j TERMS?$2.00 A YEAR IN ADVANCE. VOL. 35. 7 YOEKVILLE, S. C., WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1889. NO. 41. TAKENj Copyright by J. P. Lippincott Compan, Special Arrangement through tl CHAPTER IIL QSH ^HURL0 young man in a man in the city who was not in \ )r the same condisay that all were v^S^Qt as hard hit as our ^ young friend, but several of them thought they were?which amounted to - - -* i?:? I the same thing ror tue oma oemy. xn? : is not to be wondered at, either. Helen j Knowlton was a woman of remarkable attractions. Aside from her gifts as a singer (and she was now at the zenith of her powers), she was a clever woman, a student of books and of men, and with sentiment enough to enable her to interpret poetic characters most successfully. While not, perhaps, what would be called a beauty, she was strikingly handsome. According to classic ideas, her features were not perfect; yet bno seldom sees finer eyes or a straighter nose, or a handsomer mouth than hers when she was talking or laughing. Some people thought her mouth too large, but Bush never liked a small mouth in man or woman; a large mouth with glistening teeth always attracted him. Her eyes were brown, with jet black lashes and brows, the former so thick and long that when he looked into her eyes he thought of fire burning its way through shrubbery. Her hair was brown, and grew in waving lines around her brow, and the Una that marked its Growth at the back of her neck was as clearly defined as though it had been drawn with a penciL This may seem a small matter to speak of, but it is a great beauty in a woman. Her figure was exceedingly well proportioned, and she dressed with the most exquisite taste. With all these physical attractions, she had an unusually bright mind.' She was constantly adding to her j to re of knowledge, and what she knew she knew thoroughly. If she had not b^en a prima donna, she would have distinguished herself in some other walk in life. As to her character it was peculiar. When Rush came to know her intimately he told her she was the most singular combination of baby and woman he had ever met, and so she was. She lived in the world, but she was not a woman of the world. She could not say one thing and mean another, and her friends used to tell her that was an accomplishment a prima donna, of all persons, should possess. She was credulous, yet suspicious; she was practical to a fault, yet sentimental; she seemed cold in her nature, yet she unconsciously hungered for lovo. She made friends easily and took no pains to keep them, yet somehow or other they stuck by her. She was at this time just a little spoiled and with reason. The town was at her feet There wasn't a man, woman or child who would not have beten proud to do her a favor. Ladies vied with one another in entertaining her at their houses, young men fought for an introduction and old men toasted her at their clubs. I believe that if she had chosen to have Union club ir#n pull her carriage instead of horses they would have humored her whim. Everything new that came out in the way of bric-a-brac, jewelry or books was sent to her on the instant by some known or unknown admirer. Artists painted her in their pictures and poets lauded her in their lyrics. She had had so much of this adoration that she took it almost as a thing of course; yet she was pleased by every new attention, and never tired even of the flowers that were showered upon her. Guarded like a hot house plant herself, the breath of scandal had never blown towards her. You could not look at her and believe that she was otherwise than pure, and the veriest old roue would have found himself awed by her innocence. Yet she was no prude. She was fond of the society of men and enjoyed a good time as much as any one, but she was possessed by a very strong idea of what a woman should and should /1/% TTft* rv/vji+iAn if riA/VAoonw I for her to be particularly careful, and, although she was 25 years old, she had never entertained a man alone in a room in her life. Foreigners, with their ideas of women on the stage, could not understand her, but none the less they joined with her countrymen in burning incense to her. Helen Knowlton's parents had died when she was a baby, leaving her in charge of an aunt, Miss Rebecca Sandford, her mother's sister, who was known to half of Helen's friends and the whole musical profession as "Aunt Rebecca." This good lady was a dragon of virtue. She looked upon her niece as a child and treated her as such; and, as it was kindly treatment, it had the effect of keeping her young, so that at 25 she was as fresh and youthful in her ideas as most girls of 18. Aunt Rebecca never let "that child" know any of the business details of her profession. The good lady stood between her niece and the managers. She read the contracts; Helen signed them. It was a shrewd manager who could get the better of her in a bargain, and the managers knew it and respected he,r cleverness. There were, naturally, a great many visitors to the little Gothic cottage in West Twentieth street, where the prima donna made her home; but they all had to pass the eyo of Aunt Rebecca before they could seo her niece, and even then the matron seated herself in the room, let the visitor be man, woman or child, and never left till he or she had gone. Slio did not always take part in the conversation, but would often busy herself ..with a French novel (Aunt Rebecca was very partial to Georges Sand) and let the young people talk of their own ? iff airs. it must lhj uuuiesseu mat sne rattier pverdiil the guardianship at times; but if any very intimate friend suggested this she would say: "I don't want to give wagging tongues a chance. If any gossiping creature says such and such a thing ocourred at such a time I can reply: 'My friend, you lie, for I was there.'" Aunt Rebecca used sharp language at times; but, as she said, "What is the use of beating around the bush? You might as well eat the devil as drink his broth." Never having known anything different, Helen was well satisfied with her aunt's guardianship, and never questioned it. Sometimes 6he would say to her young friends, as they started out for a walk in Fifth avenue, "I envy you your freedom to come and go as you please, but I suppose while I am a public singer I must accept the situation and give up the usual amusements of young women of my age." So she would go back to her room and superintend the making of a costume with so much interest that she would forget all about the ordinary pleasures of life, and bo wholly wrapped up in the dry details of her profession. She studied hard j every day, and exercised and ate as carefully as ap oarsman in training for a race. Properly speaking, she had never had any childhood, as she had begun her studies when very young and bad been singing since she was in her teens. She liked the life of a singer and she didn't like it. The act of singing was of itself a pleasure, and there was nothing in tho world so exciting to her as a large and enthusiastic audience. "If an audience only knew how much better music it gets from an artist when it gives her something in return," Bho !Y SIEGE. y, Philadelphia, Pa., and Published by tie American Press Association. | used to say, "I think it would always show a sympathetic spirit," She had little to complain of on the score of coldness in her audiences. In New York she was always treated as though she were the particular favorite of every auditor, and the applause when she came upon the stage only ceased that they might hear her 6ing. It is not surprising that a woman of this sort should have had many admirers. It was said in society that 6he could [ marry any man she wanted?that they all would only be too happy to bestow their hands and fortunes upon her, from Uncle Lightfoot Myers to that much courted young man, Mr. West Hastings. Aunt Rebecca smiled at the attentions of Uncle Lightfoot, but she was more severe upon w est Hastings,-> tnougu iu? latter was of a suitable age, bad an in* come of eighty thousand dollars a year, and was considered a most desirable parti altogether. He was looked upon as a confirmed bachelor until he met Helen Knowlton, to whom he begao, paying devoted attentions very early in their .acquaintance. Hastings was a man of the world, a member of half a dozen clubs, and lived more like a European than cfo most Americans. He had inherited his money, and had never done a day's work in his life, which was so much the worse for him; but he was not so good-for-nothing as are many of his countrymen similarly gifted by fortune. It was said that he patronized the ballet in the persons of its premieres; but, however this may be, you oould never find a woman in society who would believe it, for there was nothing in his manner to betoken that he was not a man of the most exquisite refinement If it had been Livingston Dash, or Charlie Vernon, or any one of half a dozen other well known club men, who had been so accused, the accusation might have been believed. When Archie Tillinghast told his cousin Bessie Archer that he had seen West Hastings' coupe, with the blinds up, driving away from the stage door of Niblo's Garden during the run of "The Black Crook," she left the room in indignation, and would hardly speak to him the rest of the evening, though he was her escort to the Charity ball. When it became generally known that Hastings was paying marked attentions to Helen W 11 AL IJ 4.L- L .1.. IVGOWIUJU UlO WUULBU b<11U WUUU bilU would do .well to accept him; that a marriage with him would be a brilliant close for a brilliant career; but some of the men who knew him best Bhook their heads and 6aid that, while West Hastings was a "good fellow," he was hardly calculated to make a good husband; that he would get tired of the best woman in the world if he was married to her, and they wanted to see Helen Knowlton married to a man who would make her happy to the end of her days. That Hastings was interested in Miss Knowlton is not surprising. She was the most feted woman in New York, and she was the one woman whose head was not turned by his attentions. He had been used to a different sort of woman on the stage. Here was a prima donna who was as much of a lady and as pure a woman as his own sister. He began by pouring the ordinary compliments of a man of the world into her ear (he had to do it in Italian, for Aunt Rebecca was always on hand); but he soon saw that it bored her, and that she was only interested when he talked sense. He had traveled far and wide, had heard the native music of many countries, and could bo very interesting if he chose. That she listened to him best when he appeared to the best advantage pleased him. Indeed, 6he pleased him altogether, for she gave liim a new sensation, and if there was anything in this world that Hastings honestly loved, it was a new sensation. He was beginning to think that he was in loyo with Helen Knowlton; and so he was, to a certain extent. He thought her cold, but ho also thought her the most interesting person he had ever met; and then he liked to be considered the favored suitor of the most popular prima donna in the country. It pleased him that the men at the club called him a "lucky dog," and he enjoyed hearing it whispered, "That is West Hastings with Miss Knowlton." "I believe I'll marry that girl," he would sometimes Bay to himself, never taking into consideration the fact that "that girl" might refuse to marry him. Then he would think of his luxurious bachelor quarters, of his perfect freedom from all domestic ties, and he would conclude to wait awhile longer before making a formal offer of marriage, believing that he could occupy the field as long as he cared to. Helen Knowlton liked West Hastings very much. He was attentive and amusing, and he didn't ask her to marry him. I think that if he had put the question seriously she would have refused him. She was In love with her art. Music was the only thing that realized her ideaL She looked upon men, the little she saw of them, as pleasant companions, that was alL Music had satisfied her longings up to this time, and Aunt Rebecca had instilled into her mind the idea that men were a delusion and a snare; that her art was the only thing upon which she could rely. umi. _ i n .% "ine more you ao ior men, tne more you may do," said that wise woman; "but the more you do for art, the more art will do for you. Don't tell mel I haven't lived all these years among men for nothing. They can't take me in, and they never could." I don't think the man ever lived wio could have been induced to take Misa Rebecca Sanford in, for he would have known that if he did so he would have to give the reins into her hands and resign the driver's box forever. Aunt Rebecca didn't intend that her niece should marry, at least for many a long day, and her influence was very strong. She wouldn't say: "You mus'n't know So and So," or try any of the usual means of keeping a girl from falling in love; but 6he would with her witty tongue put a man in so ridiculous a light that Helen could never think of him again without laughing. Aunt Rebecca was very clever in her way, and she was more than a match for her niece. If she had once given Helen a chance to fall seriously in love the girl's attachment would have been too strong to be shaken by her shafts of ridicule. But she did not When she thought West Hastings was becoming a little too attentive she asked Helen if she had noticed how he picked all the truffles out of the pate and put them on his own plate and selected the delicate bits of the celery for himself. Helen had not noticed this, but she Bupposed that if her aunt said so it must be true. Aunt Rebecca was always ready with an anecdote against Hastings, which she told with a good natured laugh that entirely diverted suspicion. No one knew why she was so opposed to Helen's marrying, except that she wanted her to make even more of a career and add still more to her bank account. And 6he really did not believe that a woman was any happier for being married. "Marriage is a lottery, where all the tickets are blanks," she would say; and she got her niece to be very much of her opinion. I In the case of West Hastings, Aunt Rebecca's plan was to impress Helen with I the idea that he was a selfish old bachelor i (ho was only 30), and every little thing he did that might be regarded as selfish she magnified. He was a selfish man, there is no doubt about that. Most wealthy bachelors are. They have had few or none of the experiences that are supposed to sweeten a man's disposition. Hastings had everything in the world that he wanted, and he was never crossed in any of his pleasures. It piqued him a little that Helen Knowlton did not seem to be more Impressed by his attentions, but ho never for a moment dreamed that he would bo unsuccessful in a serious suit of that young woman. At the time Rush Hurlstone saw him escorting Miss Knowlton to her carriage at the stage door of the Academy of Music more than onehalf of society thought that he was engaged to be married to her, though neither of the persons most interested had heard the rumor. Aunt Rebecca took a wise course in the Hastings affair. From the day Helen first met him at Bessie Archer's "coming out" ball she showed a greater liking for him than for any man 6he had met before, and the astuto Miss Sandford said to herself, "To break this off 1 must bo diplomatic. It never does to oppose young people openly in matters of this sort. Let him come to see her. I will 6top him from going too far if I can, and if I can't I 6hall accept the situation gracefully (he has eighty thousand dollars a year) and consider myself shelved for wvef r\f m*r /ioro Pnf T /Inn'f nvA. VUWICOV V4 MJJ.J UUiJO. WUK * UVM v | pose to let liim. go too far. I don't see j myself shelved at my time of life." I Aunt Rebecca enjoyed the business de- ( tails of the operatic profession as much j as her niece did the artistic part. To j outwit HmgP" was as exciting to { her as a game of chess is to some people, j and she loved to plan a winter's cam- ^ paign. No traveling was too hard for ? her, not even a "jump" from Boston to ] Chicago. She could make herself as j happy in a car as in a drawing room, j Her mind was on the gallop all the time, and it could work as well in one place as ; in another; indeed, she contended that { the motion of a train only stimulated her ( thoughts. Helen was naturally of an ( active disposition, but she had grown ( passive under her aunt's dominating influence, and did not assert herself as much as she should have done. Once in a great while she would rebel, but it was a mere flash in the pan. Few people who did j not know Helen Knowlton can imagine such a person, and there is no doubt that f she was an exception to the rule of womanhood. , Just at the time of which I write, she was absorbed in the study of her new ( part, and the thousand and one things j that had to bo attended to before the , eventful night on which the new opera j was to bo produced. Every one#in New York who had a picture or a book relat- j ing in any way to Helen of Troy sent it to her, and all took a personal interest in the presentation of the opera. The ' night was drawing near. The Saturday j matinee was postponed that she might j get more rest and study, and there was { to be a full dres3 rehearsal on Sunday, to which the critics of tho press and a favored few were to bo invited. Monday j night was the great night, and you may imagine that she was more or less nervous in anticipation. Uncle Lightfoot , ? * ? - ^ _ IJ l _J_ M J Myers sent ner a sen or goia uanus ror her hair, with his best wishes for her success, and West Hastings 6ent her a beautifully wrought golden girdle, with the inscription, "And, like another Helen, fired another Troy," engraved on the inside. It seemed as though every one in New York wanted to have some part in the production of the opera beyond the mere buying of seats. In that they were generous enough, for everything in the house was bought vp the day the box office opened. Monday came. There was a flurry of spring snow in the morning, but by afternoon it was bright and clear. Helen did not get up until 12 o'clock. She ate the lightest sort of breakfast, and at 4 had a heartier meal. All day long she was not allowed to speak?which was no deprivation, as she (lid not feel like it, being too much excited for words. At 7 o'clock the carriage was at the door, and 6he was driven to the Academy with Aunt Rebecca and her maid. For the next hour everything was confusion in the dressing room at the foot of the little stairway. Stitches that had dropped had to be caught up, a tight 6leevo had to be let out, and all the thousand and one details that crowd into the last moments of a great occasion had to be attended to. As the prima donna stood in front of the long mirror, maid and costumer busily at work upon her skirts, she would open her mouth and run a scale to see if her voice was in condition, while the narrow wall trembled with her song. When the finishing touches had been put to her toilet the manaeer came in to see I how she looked. "Beautiful, my child! Hon Dieul how exquisite! Superb!" And c he kissed both of her hands enthusiastically and retired. Then came the leader of the orchestra, with a similar ec- * stasy of admiration and the announce- B ment that it was time for him to begin; that the ballet had been danced and the 5 men were tuning up for the opera. Was she ready? "Yes; begin at once. I am 1 nervous as a witch, but nothing is gained 1 by delay." The house was packed; there was not ^ a square inch of standing room in the place by half past 8. Even the boxes r were filled, the usually tardy occupants v being as anxious as the family circle to welcome the prima donna when she J came upon the stage in her new role. c And they did welcome her. They gave ^ her three cheers, and would have added ^ a "tiger" if any one had suggested it 6 But where was Rush Hurlstoneall this 1 time? He was not far away. Being 1 unable to buy a seat?they had been sold I before he came to New York, and B the speculators' prices were beyond his 1 means?he acted UDon the suercrestion of f his friend of the ballet and accepted the * stage manager's offer to don a Grecian * dress and go on the stage as a Trojan B warrior. You would have supposed that c ho was going to sing the leading tenor role, he was so exceedingly nervous on I this occasion. But it was not the thought c of facing an audience that unstrung his G nerves; he knew well enough that he ? would not bo seen, or, if seen, recognized; it was the fact that ho would be taking a part, no matter how small, in the same performance with Helen Knowlton, and that he would be within touching distance of her garments perhaps a dozen times in the evening. It was a great occasion, and the new opera was a complete success. Helen never sang more beautifully. In the great aria just before her flight with Paris she brought the house to its feet by her dramatic singing and acting. Uncle Lightfoot Myers leaned out of his box at an angle that imperiled his life, and waved his opera hat, shouting "Braval" until ho was hoarse. West Hastings, who occupied a proscenium Kav wJfVi Vifa otafor MVa Diplr fVrictvnlrl UVA W IVU UAOOAWW-*) AJJL * U> l/IUU U4WK VIV4| stood up and applauded with an elegance [ that was remarked by every one in the 1 house; and Mrs. Dick not only threw 1 the bouquet that lay on the railing of * her bos, but unpinned the bunch of roses at her oorsage and threw them at ' the prima donna's feet. Mra Vande- 1 water Tod, who occupied the next box, J not to be outdone in enthusiasm, took a ' large diamond star from her hair, and, pinning it to a bouquet, threw it with excited fingers at the singer; but it fell short of its mark, and, striking the venerable bass viol player on his bald head, bounced into the orchestra. The house roared with good natured laughter as the old man, after feeling his head to see that the skull was not cracked, picked up the bouquet with its precious addition and handed it to the smiling prima donna, while the family circle shouted and the boxes waved their handkerchiefs.. The ushers were worn out carrying "floral tributes" down the aisle; and, altogether, 6uch a night had never been known. The most excited person in the house was Rush Hurlstone. By a lucky chance he was standing in the wings in all the dignity of his Trojan armor when Helen made a sudden exit. Coming from the brilliantly lighted 6tage into , the dark behind the scenes she struck | het foot against a carelessly laid gas pipe j and almost pitched into his arms. Ho put out his hand and sho caught hold of it quickly. The thing did not take half a minute. "Grazie," said 6he, lightly, thinking of course that ho was ono of the regular Italian chorus. Then she passed an to her dressing room followed by her maid bearing her train, and her aunt, who had just thrown a wrap across her shoulders. Rush blushed scarlet under his warrior's beard. Ho was afraid the men standing around would hear the thumping of his heart against his tin irmor. When no ono was looking he raised the back of the liand she had touched to his lips and kissed it, and then he wondered how ho could have been such a fool. When the opera was over, Rush thought it no more than polite for him to accompany Mme. Cella and her daughter home; but when he went to look for them he found that they had gono as soon as the lancing was finished. He was not sorry, for now he could linger around the place md perhaps see Helen again. As he stood by the door leading into the auditorium, he saw half the wealth and fashion of the city pass through on its way ;o the prima donna's dressing room to iongratulato her upon her great success. He could catch an occasional glimpse of ier. standine thero in her classic robeB, i veritable Helen, giving her beautiful land to this one and a gracious word to ;he other. Rusli felt like throwing him>elf at her feet, or (like another Paris) learing her off In his arms. lie watched :he men as they talked and laughed with ler, until he was beside himself with jealousy. He recognized West Hastings it once, having seen him at the stage ioor the week before, and felt certain lhat the confidence of his manner in adiressing the prima' donna was the assurance of proprietorship. Uncle Lightfoot Myers came rushing in, his gray aair matted on his brow, and the perspiration running down his florid cheeks. "I deserve a kiss, ray dear, for what rve done for you to-night," he exclaimed. "Two pairs of gloves split into shreds, my collar wilted, and my voice ill gone shouting 'Braval' Come, now, ivhere is my reward?" "Your reward is in the consciousness if having done a good deed." answered the singer, gayly, giving him her hand, ivhich he kissed with old fashioned galantry. "Ah, Uncle Ligbtfoot," said Mrs. Dick Oriswold, "you are too young a nan to bo claiming an old man's irivileges." "Nonsensel nonsense!" said Uncle LIghtfoot, straightening his necktie and ooking as pleased as Punch. "I'm old snough to be Helen's father." He was really old enough to be her grandfather; but it would have been a :ruel person who could tell him so. Men and women came crowding in md out of the prima donna's room, but Hush noticed that West Hastings stood lis ground and showed no signs of gong. and he also noticed that he stooped lown now and then and whispered some vords in the singer's ear which seemed " o give hor a good deal of pleasure, for the would raise her eyes to his with a ook that Rush would have died for. 3e didn't know then that a woman, larticularly a prima donna, may look iverything and mean nothing. Finally here was a lull in the gay chatter, and he manager entered the room, followed iy a somewhat seedy looking*young nan with keen bright eyes and a well haped head. He whispered something n Italian to Miss Knowlton. An exiression of annoyance passed over her iice, but she was exceedingly polite vhen the manager introduced Mr. Graly, of The Dawn, who begged that he night ask her a few questions. The young man was evidently embarassed at meeting so many outsiders in he room, and the prima donna, though ho was annoyed at the interview, was nost gracious in her manner, particu arly as she detected the ends or west lastings' mustache turning scornfully ipward. and feared that the reporter also night notice his sneer. Aunt Rebecca vould have taken the interviewer under ler protection at once, but she was strikng for bigger game. She had the muical critic of The Daily Trumpet by the ar, and was calling his critical attention o the remarkable fioriture added by her liece to the grand aria. Rush recognized n the reporter one of the men he had een at the office of The Dawn, and ho istened attentively to learn how the irocess of "interviewing" was carried on. "How were you pleased with your reeption, Miss Knowlton?" the reporter nquired. "I was delighted; nothing could have een more cordial or more gratifying," he answered. "Is the music of the opera pleasing to ingr "Thoroughly so. It does not strain ho voice, yet it displays its best qualiies." "What impressed you most in the perormance?" "I can tell you what impressed me the aost. Helen," exclaimed Mrs. Dick Grisvold, bursting in upon the interview. 'It was in the scene with Tartalli, when ou took the poor old thing's hand and nado her come down to the footlights. !he hadn't done anything, to be sure, >ut your manner in insisting upon her haring the applause with you was beauiful. It almost made me cry; for alhough I never heard Tartalli in her irime 1 know she used to bo a favorite inger. and 1 always feel the liveliest >ity for favorites who have outlived their K>pularity but who still havo to keep beore the public to earn their bread and >utter. Put that in your paper, ray dear lt<t r?A n {?/?!_ 111 aiiu J vu ? in ?ia?u a citai uiiu^ mvi~ lent," rattled on the vivacious Mrs. Dick. The rejwrter thanked her and the >rima donna also, and bowed himself >ut of the room, the manager following it his elbow. "The poor fellow didn't ;et much material for an interview here," thought Rush. "He'll have to nake his excuses to the city editor tolight." Tho talking was resumed in the Iressing room, but only in the shape of jood nights. West Hastings said somehing to Uncle Lightfoot in an underone, and tho old beau put Mrs. Grisvolil's arm through his. "I'll take you iome, Mrs. Dick; and, if it isn't too late, '11 stop and have a rubber with that lazy Dick of yours, who, I'll wager, is toastng his toes and reading the stock market reports before tho fire." "I'll gladly accept yqur Invitation, Uncle Lightfoot, and we'll leave West to 3elen's tender mercies. Will, you take jood care of him, Helen, and keep him )ut of mischief?" said Mrs. Dick. "If that be possible," replied the prima lonna, smiling. "But in tho mean time ! shall have to ask him to takoa seat in he green room while 1 get ready for tho street" At this all tho visitors retired, and tush hurried off to a room somowhero ip among the "flies," where lie trans'ormed liiniself from a warrior of Troy nto a peaceful citizen of New York. CHAPTER IV. I '' r 6 ' / c, his operatthe amusement -- |b^ column of Tho ^f gSl^- M .x Dawn t0 seo what l'/I f f? tho learned critic iLrtl t^iat PaPer had I ? to say about Miss ilf/JC Knowlton's perflQ formance. It was *! a most flattering criticism; even ho could not have asked for anything better. When liis eyo reached the lastline^however, ho wasas tonished to catch the sub-head, "After i the Opera: SVhat the Prima Donna Thinks i iif her New Role," followed by a stout column of solid typo describing the scene in j the dressing room, the Trojan soldier < (Rush himself) who stood guard at her door, the appearance of the prima donna among her friends* with her three lines i of conversation elaborated into a hundred, and what Mrs. Dick Griswold had < said worked up into a most dramatic and pathetio Incident Altogether it was as lively a piece of reportorial ingenuity as Rush had ever met with. He cut it carefully out, and filed it away with tho criticism of the opera; and ho bought every other New York paper that day and read what it had to say, preserving the critiques for a scrap book that he intended devoting exclusively to notices of his new idoL Things were not as promising at the office of Tho Dawn as Rush had antici pated from his first interview witn tne city editor. His funds got lower and lower and still no work came. But he fully determined to brave it out, for he knew his mother could not afford to send him any money from her limited income. He had plenty of clothes and he had paid his lodging a month in advance, but the rerdy money for his meals was slowly dii&f pearing. He had given up the seventy-flve cent dinners at the Italian restaurant and was trying what fifteen cents would do in Wooster street. Five cents served him for many a breakfast At last he found himself reduced to ten cents, and still no "assignment." There was but one thing to do, he could pawn his watch. He didn't have to walk far along Chatham street , before he came to the establishment of , an accommodating Semite, who lent him ( $10 on his timepiece?unfortunately an , old fashioned one. In the mean time he had called upon Leoni and had been { urged by her and both of her parents to , share their savory Italian dinner. He ( could smell the odor of the spaghetti as he declined, but he did so because he could not bear to accept when he needed , the food so sorely. The watch money was soon eaten, and he was about to be- j gin on his gold sleeve buttons, when he ] thought he would call on Mr. Spar at , his house and talk over the situation with him out of business hours. j He selected Sunday afternoon, and started out on a walk to the Spars' resi- ( aence, in. Ninety-third street, with just ] five cents in his pocket. Hunger got the , better of his pride, and ho bo timed his , visit as to arrive just at the dinner hour, 0 o'clock, as the good man had once told , him to do when he offered his liospitali- , ty in a general way. The long walk had , acted a3 a tonic, and Rush was nearly j famished when he reached the house. He found Mr. Spar at home and de- J lighted to see him. They had a very j pleasant chat, but Rush could not quite : make up his mind to tell him just how hard up he was. Perhaps ho would feel ] more confiding after dinner over a bottle of wine. He heard the clock strike 6, half past 0 and finally 7, when his kind host remarked: "I'm sorry you didn't como out to dinner. Wo always dine at 4 o'clock on i Sundays, to let the servant have a good evening out. She needs the rest, poor thing, and we dine 6o heartily tliat we don't get hungry again until the next morning." (Rush really feared that Mr. Spar would see him change color.) "But my wife will bo delighted to get you up a little supper; for it must bo after your dinner hour." Rush wouldn't listen to sucn n proposition. Thanking his host, ho soon bade him farewell, and went out into the 1 street. His state of mind was not enviable. Ho was the possessor of Gvo cents, and ho was just four miles from his J lodgings. Should ho in his weak state ] walk home and spend the five cents for 1 something to eat, or should he ride home 1 and go without food? The cravings of his stomach answered the question, and, 1 finding a German bake shop open, ho 1 bought a five cent loaf of bread. Then he walked over to Central park. Select- ' ing a secluded scat, he ate half of the 1 loaf, put the other half in his pocket for the next day, and walked wearily back 1 to West Eleventh street. < Ho mado up his mind that night, as he ' tossed excitedly from one sido of his bed 1 to the other, that ho had fooled away time ' enough in trying to get a position on The ( Dawn, and that he would try his hand 1 at something else if he did not get an as- 1 signment the next morning. He started listlessly down town, and his landlady, as she passed him on the steps, shook her ' head, and said to herself: 1 "That young man is not getting enough 1 to eat. I've suspected something ever 1 since ho stopped his coffee and rolls. If 1 it was want of money he need only have ' told me he was a little short. I'd trust < that face for any amount. Poor young gentleman I ho doesn't look like the same < person he did six weeks ago." i Rush was just about in front of the 1 Astor house when some one 6lapped him on the back and called him by name, 1 and, looking around, he saw hi9 old collego friend Archie Tillinghast. Archie Tillinghast was in a class ahead of Rush j Hurlstone, and had graduated since Rush ( left Harvard. They had not Deen particularly intimate at college, but Rush had always liked Archie, because he was 1 gentle in his manners and because the other students were rather inclined to 1 poko fun at him. They called him a 1 "cad," and jeered him for reading Do Musset when they wanted him to play 1 football; and they moreover thought that ho was too much of a dandy for 1 every day use. Archie Tillinghast was 1 not brilliant, but ho got along in his ] studies much better than some of his brighter companions, probably becauso 1 his tastes wero more studious and he 1 was industrious. Ho belonged to an old and wealthy family, and was somewhat 1 inclined to look down upon the "un- ' washed." He would rather sit alone in 1 his room than associate with men whom he considered coarse; so in revenge they called him a "cad." If Archie had been his dearest friend ' Rush could not have been more delighted to see him than ho was just at this ! moment. He nearly shook his eye glasses off in his heartiness. 1 "My dear boy," said Archie, "I never i was more pleased in my life. But how ( is it that you are in New York without 1 letting me know?" 1 "I was waiting to get established, and +V?ar. T Tvioonf +/-> Vllint VfHT tin." I lU^U 4k * ' 1 * - - ? V W **??? J ? ?J-. "And aren't you established yet?" "Well, not exactly," said Rush, with a 1 faint blush. Archie noticed a slight embarrassment ! in his friend's manner and determined 1 to find out what the trouble was?if j there was any. Rush at the same time remembered that Archie was a man of 1 wealth, or at least that his father was, and hesitated to talk over his affairs with ] him lest he should think he wanted to I borimv money. "This is luck indeed," said Archie, taking ids friend's arm and walking | along with him. "It is not often that I am down town so early in the morning, ' but this is pay day at The Trumpet office, and I hadn't a cent to bless myself with. 1 What's tho matter? You look aston- j ished?" "I was astonished for a moment," roplied Rush; "but I suppose you are joking. I thought you were a bloated ' bondholder, Archie." "Sol was, dear boy," said Archie, with a sigh; "but I am so no longer. My father died?rascally executors?tho old story?mother, the girls and I loft penniless; but tho worst is over. Come have breakfast with mo at Mouquin's. We'll have deviled kidneys and a bottle of wine, and I'll tell you what little there is ! to tell. It may amuse you. Then we'll talk over old times and tho present? . that is, if you are not otherwise engaged." "Unfortunately, no; I'm quite the gen- ] tleman of leisure. My time's my own." Rush would never havo suspected from his appearance that Archie Tillinghast was not as rich as ever. He was fault- [ lessly attired. Careful examination later on sliowed a little wear In his clones that had come from hard and con^knt brushing, but their fit was perfect and gave him the appearance of being better dressed than he really was. "You certainly look as much the man of wealth as ever," said Rush, regarding Archie's city style with admiration. "All, my boy, I've made the study of economy a fine art. I can wear a coat about as long as any man you ever 6arw, but it looks well to the end, because? I don't mind telling you the secret?it fits me. I have a jewel of a tailor, who makes my clothes from a fashion book that I furnish him. You smile. You will smile more when I tell you what the book is?Punch. Du Maurier's men dress like gentlemen, not like tailors' dummies. My clothes are the envy of the club. They think I get them direct from Poole. If I were not a journalist I should bo a tailor. The art of dress is a great art. Thick of the pleasure of creating a well dressed manl But here we are at Mouquin'a. I see they have my table ready for me. I breakfast here every Tuesday morning." Archie entered the room with the dignity of a lord mayor at the great banquet of the year. As they seated themselves at the table, he said to the waiter: "The same breakfast, Louis?only enough for two; and don't let the cook burn those kidneys. I am very particular, you know; and they were a little too brown last week. Now, dear boy," turning to Rush, "tell me something about yourself." "You have whetted my curiosity to hear your own story. Archie Tillinghast as a workingman is something I never dreamt of. You spoke of journalism, so that is your profession, is it, and you are 011 The Trumpet? What do you do?" "What don't I do, you might ask with greater propriety. Well, I do little odds and ends of everything; but my great day is Sunday. A page of the Sunday paper is given over to my pen." "A page! you must be making a fortune, Archie." "I'm not a 'space man,' dear boy; it is the salaried men?the small salaried man, I should say?who fill two columns a day, and a page on Sunday." "But what department gets a page to itself?" "The one that least deserves it?society. You know that I am connected by blood or marriage with half the society i eople of New York, and, notwithstanding the loss of my money, I am invited everywhere. Young men are scarce, and well connected young men are at a premium, and I am invited none the less because I write the society notes for The Trumpet. Time was when an American gentleman seriously objected to having his balls and routs described in the newspapers; but it is done so much nowadays that his wife is afraid they will be called nobodies if their name is not 6een in print in connection with the winter's festivities. I am in great demand from Murray Hill to Mackerelville; they all want me. What it is to be popular!?eh, old fellow?" By this time the breakfast was served. There were moro than kidneys, and it was a most delightful repast; but Rush was not in a condition to do justice to it. Ho had eaten so little for a week past, and such plain food, that even the rich aroma of tho kidneys, with their wine sauce, was almost moro than he could digest. "Where's your appetite, old man? You're not eating anything. Perhaps you had a late breakfast and are not hungry." "On the contrary," said Rush, who was beginning to feel as though he were going to be ill, and that he need have no more pride in tho matter, "I have had no breakfast, and I am very hungry? too hungry, in fact, to eat." And he then made a clean breast of it, and told Archie just how ho was situated. To say that amiable young man was shocked would bo doing injustico to his kind heart. He was genuinely distressed at his friend's condition; but before ho entered into particulars ho ordered a bowl of bouillon, which was easier of digestion than the deviled kidneys, and ho mado Hush eat it and then drink a glass of brandy and soda. Then, when ho had got him into better condition, he began by scolding him for not looking up his friends, after which they discussed the situation calmly. "I made up my mind to give The Dawn ono more trial," said Rush, "and then, if thero was no work for mo there, to try some other paper or break stones en the highway; but I certainly would not go back to Farmsted and sponge on my mother. If a cliance does not occur tiere sooner it will later, and I'm young snough to wait for it.'" "Thero is always the chanco, but it is devilish slow in coming sometimes. Now if you are not too proud I'll put you in the way of a job t.iat will bring you in fifteen or twenty dollars a week, and need not Interfere with your work on The Dawn, if you get any. I'm not too proud to increase my limited income by the same means, but I tell you frankly, dear boy, I would not care to have it known among the rich and great with wnom i noonou out ot uusim?? uuuis. Can you write poetry?" "Hardly that; but I can make rhymes," said Rush, wondering what bomb his friend was about to burst "So much the better. A poet would scorn to engage in this business, but it is the fortune of the rhymester. Now, I am paid $20 a week by the wealthy proprietor of the Damascene soap to write rhymes in praise of his wares. I do the New York morning papers; and lie told me the other day that if I could get up a new batch for the evening papers he would like to have one, or, if I had not the time, perhaps I could suggest some one with a poetic talent who would take the job. He didn't know much about poets himself?thought they were a rum lot?and he would be obliged to me if I would bag a Byron for him. You're just the man. No one need know it, and it will keep your stomach from getting in 3uch a condition again as it was in when I found you. You need not be particular about being original; you can work over vour Tennvson or vour Longfellow; only jet In tho word Damascene, and your duty's done. Meet me at the culb to-morrow with a batch of verses. We'll dine together; and in the mean time I'll see old Pennypacker and have a check ready for you, from which I will deduct $5 that I'm going to give you now." "No, Archie, old man, 6aid Rush, pushing away his hand, and with difficulty speaking for the lump in his throat. "Wait till I'vo earned it. Your kindness has completely upset me, but I can't take your money. I'll gladly try my hand at the soap verses and take my pay when they'ro written; but not till then." "Nonsense! What is a friend for if not to help one when ho needs it? I shall really feel hurt, Rush, if you refuse me. I wouldn't treat you as formally. It's only $5, and you will have earned it bofore midnight I'll lay a wager. Come, old man, don't inako me feel that I am asking you to do something dishonorable. Much more than a paltry ?5 has passed between us at college." "Yes, to bo sure there has, but neither of us needed it as much then as wo do now. It is much easier to borrow money for tomfoolery than for food. But I'll do as I would bo done by; I'll tako your $5, Archie, and try to think that it is old times. I feel that this is tho turning point, and I can't thank you enough." "Don't mention it, dear boy. I'm sorry you tako a triflo so seriously. It all comes of tho condition of your stomach. [ think you can venture on eating a fairly hearty dinner to-night and a good breakfast to-morrow. And then you i must dino with me at tho club to-morrow j night at half past 0 sharp, for I have three receptions and a wedding on hand. By the way, put on your dress coat, for I 3hall tako you to one of the receptions with nio at my unole Archer's. I want you to "know my cousin, Bessie Archer. She's an awfully jolly girL I'll tell them I'm going "to. taring you. They will be delighted, for they've often heard me speak of you. Come, cheer up, man; you look CO per cent, better already. 'So long,' and don't forget to-morrow night, 'Powwow' club, Fifth avenue and Nineteenth street." Archie put out his hand, and Rush took it with a grip that drove the rings on liis friend's fingers into the flesh; but the latter was too polite to wince. Before he could quite man himself to confront the people in the waiting room of The Dawn office, Rush walked rapidly down Broadway as far as Trinity church, where he stood for a moment looking through the iron railings of the fence into the grass grown church yard. The clock in the church tower struck 8, which reminded him that the city editor would not bo long at his desk: so, with his mind fixed upon the business in hand, the strain on his nerves relaxed, and he walked up the street and ran up the winding iron stairs at the office as lightly as on that hopeful first day which now seemed so long ago. 5e had hardly put his foot on the threshold of the waiting room door when the old messenger stepped up to him and said, "Just in time, sir. Mr. Musgrave sent out hero for you only five minutes ago, sir, and I told him this was the first day you had missed in threo weeks. I'll go at once and tell him you are here, sir"?which ho did, returning with tho message that Mr. Musgrave would liko to seo him. "It never rains but it pours," thought Rush, as ho walked eagerly to the little room. "Ah, Mr. Hurlstone, how are you? Sorry not to have been able to do anything for you before, but we have been pretty well filled up. Just at this moment, however, we are short handed, and I want to work up a particular case at once. Do you know where tho Academy of Music is?" Rush looked at Mr. Musgrave to see whether ho was joking; but he was busily writing, and not even looking at him. "In Irving place, I believe." "Quite right. Irving place and Fourteenth street I have been informed that there is a strike in the orchestra. I want you to go up there and see Mr. Maxmann and get what he has to say about it, and then see some of the orchestra and get their 6tory. 'What the Bass Drum Says,' 'How it Strikes the Cymbals'?good head lines, eh?" Then, laying his pen down, ramming his hands into the depths of his pockets, and taking aim at Rush with one eye, he said. "Do you know Miss Knowlton?" Rush felt that he started, and knew by the tingling in his cheeks that he blushed. Luckily, Mr. Musgrave was thinking his own thoughts, and, although his right eye was staring hard at the young man before him, his mind was upon some* thing else. "I must have an interview with Miss Knowlton on this strike; it would be immense. I'll give you an open letter from Tho Dawn, Mr. Hurlstone, and 6he cannot refuse: you're a persuasive young man, too, 1 fancy, and you must your prettiest." Seizing a J/j wrote in a quick, flowing hand: "Will Miss Kj.owlton do Mr. John Gasper Plumir.ctt the honor of giving his represeafasife, Mr. R. Hurlstone, the bearer, her views on the recent strike among the musicians in Mr. Maxmann's orchestra for publication in The Dawn?" "There! I guess that will do it," said Mr. Musgrave, running his eye rapidly over the note. "Now see how successful you will be with your first assignment Go to tho Academy first. You are more likely to find Miss Knowlton in later in tho day. Good luck to you!" Rush stood a moment in tho corridor and read Mr. Musgrave's noto carefully over, word by word. "I don't think I shall ever forget this day," said ho to himself as the glass door clicked behind him. TO 11F. CONTINUED NEXT WEEK. AN AUTUMN REVERIE. For the Yorkvillc Enquirer. Autumn is certainly the most pleasant season of the vear in this section of country. It is neither cold nor hot. It is that happy medium which abolishes all unpleasant extremes, and combines all the desirable conditions?emblematic of ease and contentment. All inanimate nature, robed in its variegated tints of dress, declares that autumn stands in an intermediate position?on the dividing line, from which point can be seen the verdant youth and the waning old age of each successive year. This season in nature fitly represents the pivotal period in man's life; the autumn of his three-score years and ten; the point when he can look back and seethe flight of the radiant, hopeful half of his part in the general allotment to life's lease. At this point, the silvery threads, like the seared leaflet in nature, intrude their unwelcome entrance to stay?and indicate to us that it is noon in the eventful cycle of our terrestrial existence. Here nature commences to ripen for that inevitable change, and to cast shadows prophetic of the winter of death. So here man, rich in experience gained from the varied and chequered scenes of life, commences to show the sombre hues of the climax of maturity. Then fading and failing beleaguer his footsteps to the gate of Death, when he almost regrets that he ever lived. The poet treats the subject epigrammatically thus: "At thirty man suspects himself a fool, Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan, At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve In all the magnanimity of thought, Resolves and re-resolves, then dies the same." GENERAL HARNEY'S PROWESS. An old soldier who served under General Harney in the Seminole war says of him that he was the biggest, strongest, most powerful soldier who has worn a uniform since Frederick the Great. lie was a giant in stature, a Hercules in strength. Ilis powers of strength were phenomenal. In the Seminole war lie once went without food for four days and nights, and at the end of that time took Billy Bowlegs, whom he had caught in the swamps, by the nape of the neck, and threw him ten feet. The savage had an old bayonet pointed at his heart at the time. Another time, when surrounded bv Indians, he cleaved his way through them with a sword, and when their nrrows had him weakened and almost helpless by loss of blood, he made a final rush,* and, seizing one savage, hurled him against another with such force that both were disabled. That same night he swam three miles, trudged nine miles through a swamp, and finally reached an outpost in safety. Indians were always afraid of l-Iarney. He could shoot an arrow better than they. He was a dead shot with a rifle, and when it came to physical violence?something that an Indian has no taste for?he could throw their mightiest athletes about like so many rubber balls. It was no trick at all for him to knock a truculent savage down with one hand, and with the other mate, lift him clear of the ground, and dance his legs over his fallen comrade. The Indians up about Fort Snelling, when Ilarney was a cantain at that post, used to call him "Thunder Bull"?who roared like thunder and was stronger than a buffalo. The old general was, even in 1861, when he retired from service, the finest-looking man in the army. He was six feet four inches, and built like an athlete. There is a transcendent power in example. We reform others unconsciously, when we walk uprightly. JttiscfUantouiS fading. j CAROLINA'S IRON CENTRE. Staff Correspondence New* and Courier. " j Blacksbubg, Septeml>er 28.?In ] an interview with Mr. Joseph Black, * a man noted for his knowledge of 1 this immediate country and his pub- < lie spirit, I learned several important 1 facts, and by permission of Mr. Black ' X send them to the News and Courier. 1 He is sure of the great future of ' Blacksburg, and says it will com- ( mence to be a city in the very near future. Mr. Black has many statis- 1 tics concerning the mineial wealth of ' the country in and around Blacksburg, and equally as many new ideas as to the development of the country. Sneakiner of the numerous indien- ! tions of the possibilities for Blacks- i burg, Mr. Black said: 1 "Mr. A. B. Clarke, president of the Old Dominion Iron works, of Richmond, Va., spent several days in and around our town, examining the iron ores, and expressed himself pleased as to the quality and quantity of these ores, some of them running as high as 68 per cent. "A meeting will be held in Richmond, Va., on next Monday, the 30th instant, for the purpose of considering Mr. Clarke's proposition to build iron works at this place, the capital being already subscribed for this purpose. The works will require 800 tons per day of iron ore, and this Col. Black is satisfied he can furnish from lode No. 2, in what is known as the Black Wilson belt of ores. This immense and inexhaustible bed of ores can furnish all the demands made upon it lor tne next age. "Col. White, president of the Pennsylvania steel works, expresses himself to the effect that Blacksburg would at an early day far surpass Birmingham as an iron centre; that this place had iron ores in much greater quantities, and that its quality was as fine as there was in the world, and that, as soon as railroad facilities were afforded by the completion of the Three C's road into the coal regions of Virginia? immense iron works would be built here and utilize these fine ores in the manufacture of steel. Stock is being taken for the purpose of erecting a foundry and machine shop." The main shops of the Three C's are located here, and this will be an advantage. A sash, door and blind factory is being built here, and a land and investment company has been organized here, composed of Dr. Jonn G. Black, and Messrs. John F. Jones, M. It. Reese and J. J. Whisnant. They have bought the lands on Whitaker Mountain, and the eastern slope, which they are now laying out in streets. The entire property will be put on the market and sold. They have also stock in the springs known as the Love Springs, near here, that has the identical analysis of the Hot Springs of Arkansas. The sum of $1,000 is made up and offered as a premium to any one who will build nere a forty-room hotel with first-class accommodations. E. P. M'K. THE NEGRO PROBLEM. A few weeks ago, in an interview, Senator Hampton declared himself in favor of colonizing the negroes of the South, but formulated no plan for carrying the scheme into effect. The interview received a wide publication and evoked considerable comment. Referring to the publication, the senator remarked the other day to a Washington correspondent: "My position in regard to the colonization of the negroes has been misinterpreted by numbers of people T nw-t i n fnvrni* nf \V I1U limits, lllill X mil 111 mtvi ui using force to get them out of the country. In consequence of this misinterpretation I have recently received scores of letters, most of them anonymous, of an exceedingly abusive and denunciatory character. I never said a word about forcing the negroes away. There is no doubt in my mind though, that it would be better for the South, better for the negro and better for the whole country if the darkies could be put by themselves. General Grant favored something of this kind when he advnpjitprl thp nnrohase of some of the western islands. For myself I would favor a bill giving governmental aid to the removal and settlement of those willing to emigrate. Then the negroes would have an opportunity of seeing what they could do for themselves in the way of self-government." The State press has discussed the scheme, and the prevailing sentiment of those papers that have spoken on the subject coincides with the views of Senator Hampton. Public opinion seems to favor the deportation of the negroes, and supplying their places on Southern farms with white labor. The Greenville News discourses on the subject thus: We would lose $50,000 to $75,000 which is probably a full estimate of the total amount of taxes paid by colored people; the cultivation of 1 1 1L r*s\r\ some lanu, tut; piuuutuun ui iuuic cotton, for a time. We would have about $175,000 of the amount now used for colored public schools for the use of white schools, nearly doubling the present terms and adding much to the facilities and comforts of teachers and scholars. We would have in the penitentiary about 100 convicts instead of 800. Our criminal courts, would sit on an average of from a day to a day and a half, ninetenths of their time being now occupied by trying colored persons. Our jails would have about one-fifth of the inmates they now have, nineteenj twentieths of the prisoners now fed and kept at the cost of the tax-payers being colored. The lunatic asyI lum would have one-half its present population and would cost one-half of what it now costs. The county poor houses would contain one-half, or less, of their present population. The trial justices would have about a case a month, on an average. These calculations are from the actual figures. What we would gain in the way of keeping white people who are'now crowded out by colored competition, the improvement of lands by intelligent and careful cultivation and the incoming of white mechan ics and farmers" are matters of estimation. The Walhalla Courier doubts the practicability of the scheme in the following words: Much has been said recently by ' certain politicians and newspapers about the colonization of the negroes, and many advocate this scheme as the long-looked-for and coveted solution of the vexed negro problem. We have read and listened attentively , to the plans of colonization as presented by Mr. Wm. P. Calhoun, of Abbeville, Senator Hampton and others, who, by one fell stroke, would remove the negroes to some distant clime, and there establish them in a 1 government exclusively their own. ' Well, if they could only practice what they preach, the scheme might be worthy of some consideration: but why spend so much time ana < thought in advocating a scheme which is practically impossible, and < hence only a wild delusion ? i To which the Newberry Observer answers: Who says the scheme is impossible or impracticable? Nobody expects it to be carried out by < "one fell stroke," or a dozen such I strokes. It would take many strokes and much patient working and wait- i ing. Why cannot the United States colonize the negroes as well as it canput Indians on reservations to themselves ?" If this country belongs to < the whites as against the Indians, it seems it would belong to them as against the negroes also. No one can deny that the negro is a con stant and increasing menace to the progress and welfare of the South. This question, so troublesome now, will grow more troublesome as the years go by. We owe something to posterity ; and if the question can be settled by colonizing the negroes?in Cuba or elsewhere?the government mght to begin without delay. It is folly to say it cannot be done, for it can; and it can be done cheaper and easier by beginning now than after a [lelay of twenty-five, fifty or a hundred years. The Pickens Sentinel favors the scheme, in the consummation of which our people would be all the better: The press of the State is trying to work itself into a ferment on the subject of probable wholesale emigration of the negro. We can see no cause for alarm, even if the mtyority of the negroes should seek homes in the west and southwest. We can well spare several hundred thousand and will be all the better for their going. If the entire race should move, their places would soon be filled with a better class of workingmen and women. The drawback of this part of the United States has always been the negro. The laboring class of people when seeking homes have always gone to parts where they will not have to equalize themselves with the dusky brother. The Southern people have always been inclined to look down on tne common white laborer as one that was not any higher in the social scale than the former slave. And for this reason the white working men have gone to parts where a person that earns his living by honest toil is the peer of anyone and is on a social equality with those who are more fortunate in the possession of wealth. Let the negro go if he wishes, and let the white man come and take his place. The Anderson Journal says: There are'those who claim that the negro is the best and cheapest laborer for the South, but without admitting the truth of this proposition, we may remind those that it is not a question of labor, but one of higher ana grander propositions reaching up into the very domain of the science of gov- a ernment, and numbers of colored laborers cannot compensate us for an excess of colored citizens and voters. The problem is before us, and let us bring to bear upon its proper solution the highest wisdom of which we are capable, having due regard to the rights and best interests, present and future, of both races. THE FIRST FUCHSIA IN ENGLAND. Mr. Lee, a nurseryman of Hammersmith, in 1789, was first to obtain and increase this plant for sale, and the traditional account of his good fortune in the matter may interest some of those who now admire the fuchsia as a popular garden flower. A hundred years ago the vineyard ?niwAm? rwAwlArft no> u nriQin nrfrm Wflfl UUXOC1J ^OXU^U iiWl AXV!MOAUg wu fTMM as renowned for its rare collection of exotics as it had been at a still earlier date for its flourishing vineyard and the good wine made and sold on the premises. One day a visitor fond of giants called and was shown all the oral treasures of the place by the proprietor himself. "An, Air. Lee." saia the visitor at parting, "I saw a wonderful plant flowering in a cottage window at Wapping the other day, with drooping crimson flowers and buds like coral eardrops2 and I have seen nothing so beautiful in your green house to-day." The great nurseryman was a little piqued at the idea of anything in a window being compared with his choicest hot house rarities, and curiosity prompted him to make inquiries, the result being that he drove down to Wapping next day, and there, sure enough, in the window of an humble dwelling was the flrst fuchsia he had ever seen. Half beside himself with exultation of such a beautiful discovery, he soon introduced himself to the owner of the plant, who told him that her Jack the sailor had brought it home with him on his return from South America nnrl that, noor as she was. noth ing would induce her to part with the plant, or, as she called it, -"her keepsake." After some persuasion, however, Mr. Lee induced her to let him take away the plant, and in return he emptied his pockets of all the money he had about him (several guineas), at the same time promising that a plant should be returned to her after he had succeeded in increasing it from cuttings or slips. And so from the cottage at Wapping the first fuchsia was brought to the aristocratic side of London, and the story spread, and the highest and fairest women in England drove to the great nursery at Hammersmith to see the prize.?[Good Words. What and When to Drink.? If a man must drink, writes a physician in the Philadelphia Press, the best thing he can take with his meals is a little claret or light Khine wine; and if he wants something a little stronger, pure Scotch whisky is the best tning he can have. The h^bit of taking a drink early in the morning?I mean by drink a cocktail or stimulant of that kind commonly called an eye-openener?is one of the worst things that can possibly be done. The effect of alcohol is to inflame the stomach, and it will do this even when diluted with food or anything else, and will do so a great deal more when taken on an empty stomach early in the morning. Men should not maintain their strength "t1 ?* ofl tVI 11 Uir'JUgllOUL Uic way uy uuvmg ouiuulants. To keep up by means of alcohol is very bad, and by-and-by the system will break down entirely under it. The best drink that a man can possibly take is milk. Milk, though, is hardly a drink. One can live longer on it than on any one thing. Milk is more nearly a perfect food than anything. It contains more elements that go to build up the system than any other article. Early in the morning the best drink to: take is water. That is, if one must drink; but if he can get along without drinking, so much the better. Some drink hot water, some cold, and some hot and cold milk. All of these are good in their way. Apoplexy.?A blood vessel of the brain has lost some of its elastic strength; food is abundant: digestion is good; blood is made in abundance, but little is worked olf by exercise; the tension on every artery and vein is at a maximum rate; the even circuitous flow is temporarily impeded at some point, throwing a dangerous pressure on another; the vessel which mis xosi lis ems uc sireijgtii gives way, blood is poured out, a clot is formed which, by its pressure on the brain, produces complete unconsciousness. This is the apoplectic stroke. It will be perceived that tlxere are two leading conditions upon which the production of the stroke depends?a lessened strength in the vessel and an increased tension on it.?[Hall's Health Journal. jgy* Sleep is much modified by habit. Thus, an old artilleryman often enjoys tranquil repose while the cannon are thundering around him; an engineer has been known to fall asleep within a boiler while his fellows were beating it on the outside with their ponderous hammers, and the repose of a miller is nowise incommoded by the noise of his mill. Sound ceases to be a stimulus to such men, and what would have proved an inexpressible annoyance to others is by them altogether unheeded. It is common for soldiers to sleep on horseback, and coachmen on their coaches. During the battle of the Nile some boys were so exhausted that they fell asleep on the deck amid the deafening thunder of that dreadful engagement.