Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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In litkroibcirt $owd---?Mti> iff politics, ptrato> Itctiis, gtab, ^ritnltet, Stititcc aft %? BY JAMES A. HOYT. ANDERSON COURT HOUSE, S. C, THURSDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 13, 1860. VOLUME 1.?NUMBER 18. %n Interesting ?>kq. mm wmmt_ &?ws* I II. The next day, and one ov two that suc? ceeded, were spent in riding, driving, walk? ing, or in home amusements, according to the state of the weather. But no matter "what the occupation which took up our time, I continued my assiduities to Lady Maria, the daughter of a poor earl, but the heiress to a distant relative's wealth ^nd estates. Tom was equally attentive, but I am bound to say that hils attentions were not "equally well met. My heart began to beat as I found myself the favorite. Wild "visions of the future began to cross my brain. I wanted a few months of bein<>: ? of age, when I should become my own master and that of a small property I had from my mother. No selfish reflection on the folly of mar? rying on three hundred a year entered my head. That wits precisely my income, be? sides my pay. I thought I could live up? on it; and even so blissful did the prospect seem, that I actually determined, to sell out rather than delay my happiness. I believed in but one thing?my love, ar? dent, devoted and sincere, for Maria. Men, and women too, have the cruel courage to laugh at these early passions, and to cover them with ridicule. It is possible that many, perhaps the majority of youths, are incapable of feeling love en? durable and eternal at so early a period of their career. On this point I am inca? pable of giving an opinion. But this I do know, that in my case it was the one pas? sion of my life. I felt as keenly, as deep? ly, as devotedly as ever mortal man did feel?more keenly, I do believe, than those whose blunted feelings are in after life at? tracted by beauty and grace. Life had no charm,existence no delight save her. Others thought so, too; and. as I was aware of my brother's preference, I brought the affair to an issue. It was Christmas eve. The day was lovely. The snow was hard and crisp and dry. Shakespeare's Hue would truly not have applied, for no "Kain and wind beat dark December."' We had walked out. I, as usual, by the CSerclsc of a little maneuvering, had La? dy Maria on my arm. My brother Tom, who was slower in his movements, was ioVoed to content himself with sister Fan* I suppose he did not wish to appear to watch us; so as we came to Dilcot Lane lie turned to the right as we turned to the left. The paths, met about a mile below. Our path was down a valley, with rows of dark fir-trees on either side?a shelter? ed pleasant place it was in the summer, and not without its attraction in the Win? ter, even if its being free from gusty wind puffs were alone considered. About a quarter of the distance was passed over in silence. I could not talk. Lady Maria tried me once or twice. I answered her in monosyllables. At length she began the conversation in a tone to tender and considerate I could not but respond. "Dear Harry," she said, "are you not well ?" "Well enough in body." "What!" cried Lady Maria, in her joyous tone, "something pressing on your mind ? Can you find no physician ! Can I do anything?" "You and you only," I said very grave She looked at me with a keen and pen? etrating glance, which I shall never for? got. She turned pale as she did so. and beni her eyes upon the ground. "Well, Harry," she said, sadly. "Maria, it is no use my disguising the truth any longer. I love you?I love you with all my heart and soul. Nay, do not interrupt me. From the very first even? ing I came home my senses have left me. I am wild with intense, earnest passsion. Mine is no day's fancy. I have cast my whole soul upon this one issue?you or no? thing. With you this earth would be the most joyous of earth ; without you, a dreary waste. I have not spoken with? out reflection. Maria, I have said that I wish to succeed in life, but I begin to fan? cy that love is worth all ambition. I am willing to leave the army, In a few months I shall be of age; my fortune is small; but if I dared to hope that you? you?could but learn to love me, it would be enough for both. "Harry, is it possible/' said the lovely girl, with beaming eyes, "that you know not of my wealth?of my for? tune '(" "Fortune ?" I gasped, letting go her arm, and looking horror stricken. "Go on," said Maria, kindly; that would make no difference to me." "Dearest, beloved girl of my heart, par? don my presumption. I had lio suspicion ' I ? that you were any other than the portion? less girl I knew a year ago. Had I sus? pected'this " I added, proudly, "I should have crushed the dawning passion within rny heart; 'tis now too late?rich or poor, my heart is irrevocably gone, I should have delayed?I should have hesitated? but I feared my brother might speak first. Ho is somebody?I am nobody." '?Your brother, Harry, would have been rejected," said Lady Maria, dryly; <: and I would not willingry offend 3-ou, but you must let me think this but a burst of bo}* isli passion." I staggered as she spoke. "Jfo! I was a boy when T came here? a happy, merry, careless boy?I am iicw a man, and you have made me so. It re? mains for you to decide whether my man? hood shall be one of glorious happiness, or whether I become a desperate and hope? less wretch, whose career upon earth heaven in its mercy will shorten." "Don't! don't!!" she cried, -don't say such wicked things." "They arc not wicked. Maria. It is even so. Like the gambler I have unwit? tingly placed my .whole existence on the hazard of a die?death or life upon a wo? man's smile. You may try to deceive yourself, but you must believe me. When once a man's eves have fixed themselves in love upon you, it is forever." "Harry Hareourt," said Lady .Maria, quickly, "I would not believe it true lor all the wealth of the Indies." "Why ?" said I. trembling as if with the ague. "Because I can never be yours," she continued with a deep sigh. ??You do not love me,""l gasped. "Harry Harcout, why press me on this painful subject? I tell you plainly that 1 can never?no, never be yours.". "But why ?" "I am engaged to another, and shall be married in a month." "Ah! I suspected it?my brother!" I shrieked. "2*0; to one you do not know, and whose name in 3-our present humor. I would rather not mention." "Heaven have mercy on me ! Is this reality, or some horrid dream! Can it be true ??another's !" "I am very sorry. Harry!" she said in her softest, tenderest tone ; "I should not have come had I suspected-" ".Sorry, sorry," I cried, "sorry, indeed ! Why, 'tis buta boy's heart broken?noth? ing more. But?but?is this engagement irrevocable ?" ??I have been engagod this twelve month," faltered poor .Maria, who really did feel for me. "And you love him ?" file is a man of noble character; a man to respect rather than love. He is much older than I am?and yet I had looked forward with delight to our union as of one wise and discreet, promising great happiness?until just now." "Until just now." 1 repeated. "Yes, Harry?if that is any satisfaction to you?know that I regret my precipi? tancy; I should have seen more of the world ere I tied myself. Dc not mistake me. Your passion takes me by surprise, hut had I been free, gratitude, pride?for you a noble fellow, Harry?would proba? bly have led me to return your generous, your disinterested affection. It is now too late. - My word is irrevocably given, and to talk even of what might have been is a crime. Not another word, Harry, or I leave you. Calm y o ursel Lore very body will be talking about us. I shall leave as soon as possible. Would that I had not come!" I was stunned, overwhelmed and anni? hilated, I felt like some guilty wretch con? demned to die. I knew that hope there was none. Lady Maria'Teinpleton would not have been so hard, but to temper her refusal. Another's! It was fearful to think of?it was maddening, and it nearly drove me mad. When I joined my broth? er and sister I tried to rail}-. It was hut a faint attempt. It was mo consolation for me to know that evening Lady Maria refused him also. I pitied him ; 1 pitied any one who had to endure the torture of her smile, and knew it was anoth? er's. I believe earth has no such other pain as this. How I passed over that Christ? mas eve, and how 1 endured that Christ? mas day,I know not. I heard the siren's voice, but I understood iL not. It was very late, and the merry part}' was about to brc.ik up. I had made my arrangements to start at day-break. "Lady Maria," said I, in as stately a manner as I could assume?it was very unkind and very ungenerous, but I could not hold it?"I come to wish 3*011 good bye. I leave to-morrow morning to join m3T regiment.1' "So soon," she replied, raising her eyes brimful of tears to mine. "Why go ? The Chrismas merry makings arc not over ? and who knows, ere the new year, you may be heart whole or happy! "Never?I must go," I said, coldly. "Harry," she replied, meekly, "do not go. Your father, brothers, sisters, will all blame me. You were to sta}- until Twclth day." ?? '?I cannot endure tins torture?it is too much," I cried. "Harry, Harry, stay for my sake?or rather I will go." "I will not allow it. My departure is irrevocably fixed-." "Infatuated boy!" said she, and turned away to hide her tears. Before a weck I had exchanged into a regiment on the verge of departure to India. I spare the reader my campaigns in In? dia. I arrived there is a desperate mood. I had rejected the advances of the young ladies who accompanied me on my jour? ney. I hated the sight of a woman. I landed a misanthrope?disappointed, and glad to follow a career that promised early death. At the end of this time I was invalided home. I was very ill; wound-; and chole? ra had laid me as low as they well could. During the whole time I never wrote home once, and received no letters. I had 1113' income unspent at my banker's. I determined to die comfortably, so travel? ed overland to Marseilles, and thence to Paris. I felt that I had not many months to live, so took up rn}Tquarters at the Ho? tel des Princes. As an invalid I engaged an apartment on the first floor?expensive, but very comfortable. I was selfish, morbid, valetudinarian, full of fancies and monomanias; a tyrant to my servant, disagreeable to all around me. What cared I? The world and I had no further relation. I was dying. On my arrival in Paris I had some spare cash, but drew on my London agents for more, after advising them of my arrival. I bade them transfer any balance which might be due to my bank in Paris. I re? ceived an answer by return of posls : "The balance due to 3-011 and now in our hands is seventeen thousand and some odd pounds. Are we to transfer the whole amount to your account.or will you draw for whatcveryou require ? We shall feel highly honored by tho latter course, which will show your intention of confin? ing our service." What on earth did the}' mean ? The men must have lost their senses. I turned to the back of the letter?"Sir Henry Harcourf, Bart." ?.My father and brother dead !" I cried involuntarily. I hastened to my bank? ers. "Were you not aware. Sir Henry?" said L-. the banker. "Had not the slightest idea. Excuse me, J will call again." And I hurried back to my hotel in a mood of mind which may be more readily imagined than described. My father and mother died believing me an undutiful son and a bad brother, when 1 was but engrossed in the web of a hopeless pas? sion. I had sisters, a station to keep up. I coldly resolved to many some English ! girl, and in the peace and tranquility of a country life to forget my sorrows. Or 1 would get Fanny and Mary married, and be the good brother and uncle. At all events, I would do something. Strange that I no longer thought of dying. My head, however, was in a great whirl, and I felt rather faint. Hurrying on.I reach? ed my hotel, hastened up stairs, opened the door,and sank upon a sofa. I believe I did not faint, but sleep soon overcame me. It was nearly evening when I awoke, and I saw I was not alone. Two females sat in conversation by the window. It must be my two sisters. I started to my feet. "Sir Henry," said a low voice. I shivered all over. "Lady Maria," I replied, in cold and freezing accents, "this is an honor I little expected, and which I must say I can scarcely apprec iate." "Nay, Sir," said she, a little, and only a little, haughtily, "it is I who have to de? mand an explanation. These arc my apartments. I returned just now, and you may imagine my bewilderment du finding a gentleman fast asleep on my i?o fa?my delight on finding it was you." ??Delight, madam !" I said, for I was firm and collected now; "I can scarcely understand your delight at meeting your victim, and lest you should find an ex? planation of your words difficult, allow me to retire." "Stay one moment." exclaimed Lady Maria. Though pale, she was more beau? tiful than ever; there was a soft melan? choly in her eyes which I dared not min? utely examine. "One moment. Sir Hen? ry. Have you received no letter from Fanny?*' ""Not from one living soul, madam. I did not give my address to any one. I hurried f :om place to place, and never, if I I could help it, visited the same locality ! twice." "Then why have you come here ?" "To d*e!" "To die! You aro as well as ever you ?were in your life." "Madam, from that hour when in your seductive society, I learned the fatal art of love, 1 have never known one moment 's happiness or health. In sickness, in bat? tle on the field, in the tent?I could find no rest. Your image was ever there. I chased the tiger and the wild elephant, in the hope by such savage amusement to blunt try feeling, but in vain. Behold, madam! for once a man who for four years had been dying for love?four years !? During this time what have you been do? ing?" "Waiting for 3'ou.IIarry," said the siren, with her soft eyes full of tears. "Waiting for me. madam!" I cried, in a towering passion ; "are you the?a wid? ow ? Worse?worse?than a wife ?" "I never married; Hairy," she continu? ed, meekly. "Never married!" I gasped. "Never married, infatuated boy! You little knew that young as you were, you had awakened in my bosom, feelings which I dared not avow. I was an affi? anced wife. Still I did not give up all hope. I determined to confess all to him. to explain frankly your oiler and 1113- al? tered sentiments, pledging myself, how? ever, to fulfill my part of the contract if he held me to my vow. I could not even hint this to you, and 3-ct did I not ask 3-011 to wait?I begged you to stay. I hinted what might happen. Do 3-ou not recollect? But you wildly disappear? ed. Had you paused and reflected, wo might have been a steady old married couple!" It was a dream of joy I could not real? ize to nvyself. I sank on my chair half fainting. When I came to, I found Lady -Maria and her aunt, Mrs. Curt, bathing my temples. "But how came I here?in\-our room?" I said after some whispered words. ?Wait," said Lad}- Maria, blushing. "I read in the Morning Post of your arrival at the Hotel des Princes.twy ill. I thought you were hurrying home in answer to a lector of your sister Fanny's, in which I had allowed her to tell you all; so I thought, as you were very ill, the nurse 3-ou wanted was?was?" "Your future wife." said Mrs. Curt, laughing, while Maria Templcton blushed cri rason. "Heaven bless 3-ou," I muttered; and, catching her in my arms, I imprinted on her lips the first kiss of love, though the aunt did frown a little. I need scarcely add that I did not die. I am happ3'?vcr3* happy; perhaps the happier for my trials; 3-ct I often regret the fouryoars of misery I endured through my precipitancy. Still, I have great rea? son to bo grateful that the genuine pas? sion of 1113- life should have terminated so well, and that, unlike so many in this world, 1113- wife should be my first love. Such is Life.?So lately dead! So soon forgotten. 'Tis the way of the world. We flourish awhile. Men take us by the hand, and are anxious about the health of our bodies, and laugh at our jokes, and we really think, like the fly on the wheel, that wo have something to do with the turning of it. Some day we die and are buried. The sun does not stop for our funeral; cveiything goes on as usual; we are not missed in the streets; men laugh at new jokes; one or two hearts feel the wound of affliction; one or two memories still hold our names and forms; but the crowd moves in its daily circle; and in three da3*s the great wave sweeps over our steps and washes out the last vestige of our earthly foot-prints. -? Governor S., of South Carolina, was a splendid lawyer, and could talk a jury out of their seven senses. He was especially notcd for his success in criminal cases, al? most always clearing his client. He was once counsel for a man accused of horso stealing. He made a long, eloquent, and touching speech. The jury retired, but returned in a few moments, and with tears in their eyes, declared "not guilty." An old acquaintance stepped up to the prison? er and said: "Jem. the danger is past; and now, horror bright, didn't you steal that home ?" To which Jem replied : "Well, Tom, I've all along through11 took the horse, but since I've heard the Governor's speech, I don't believe I did." -4? " I say, Mr. Impudence, what are 3-011 doing with your hand in my pocket ?"? " I axes your pardon, mister, but in this here cold vether von scarcely knows vere von puts his hands." Scene in an Arkansas Hotel. A contributor to the Spirit of the Times, thus describes a scene at the An? thony House, in Little Rock, Aarkansas : Late one bitter coldnightin December, some eight or nine years ago, L. came in? to the bar-room, as usual, to take part in whatever was going on. For some rea? son the crowd had dispersed sooner than was customary, and but two or three of | the town folks were there, together with a stranger, who had arrived a half hour or longer before, and who, tired, wet, and muddy, from a long Arkansas stage ride, his legs extended, and shoes off, was con? soling himself with two chairs and a nap, opposite the center of a blazing fire. Any oito who has traveled until ten o'clock in a rough winter night, over an Arkansas road, can appreciate the fruition before that fireplace.' The drowsy examplo of the stranger had its effect on the others, and L., who took a seat in the corner, for lack of con? versation was reduced to the poker for amusement. He poked the fire vigorous? ly for a while, until it got red hot, and be? coming disgusted, was about to drop it and retire when he discovered the great toe of the stranger's foot protruding through a hole in one of his socks. Here was a relief to L. He placed the glo?ing poker within a foot of the melan? choly sleeper's toe, and began slowly to lessen the distance between them; one by one the others, as they caught the joke, began to open their eyes, and being awa? kened, mouths expanded into grins, and grins into suppressed giglcs?and one in? continent fellow's into a broad laugh. Closer and closer the red hot poker near ed toward the unfortunate toe. The heat caused the sleeper restlessly to move his band. L. was about to apply tho poker, when a sound of click! arrested his atten? tion. He looked at the stranger?the latter with one eye open, had been watch? ing his proceedings, and silently brought a pistol to bear upon L. In a voico just audible, he muttered in a tone of great de? termination: 'Most burn it! Burn it! Jest burn it, and I'll be d-d if I don't stir you up with ten thousand hot pokers in two sec? onds ! L. laid down the poker instantly, and remarked "Stranger, let's take a drink?in fact, gentlemen, all of you." L. afterwards said they were the cheap? est drinks he ever bought. - A lady having remarked that awe is the most delicious feeling a wife can hold toward her husband, Fanny Fern thus comments Awe of a man whose whiskers you have trimmed, whose hair you have cut, whose cravat you have tied, whose shirt you have put in the wash, whose boots and shoes you have kicked into the clos? et, whose dressing gown you have worn while combing your hair, who has been down in the kitchen with you at eleven o'clock at night to hunt for a chicken bone, who has hooked your dresses, un? laced your boots, fastened your bracelets, and tied your bonnet; and who! has stood before your looking-glass with thumband finger on proboscis, scratching his chin; whom you have puttered and teased; whom you have seen asleep with his mouth wide open?ridiculous! A Good Character.?A good charac? ter in a young man is what a firm founda? tion is to the architect?whoever proposes to erect a building on it can build with safety; but let a single part of this be de? fective, and he goes on a hazard, amid doubting and distrust, and ten to one the edifice he erects on it will tumble down at last, and mingle all that was built on it in ruins. Without a good character pover? ty is a curse; with it, it is scarcely an evil. All that is bright in the hope of youth, all that is calm and blissful in the sober scene of life, and that is soothing in the vale of | years, centers in and is derived from good character. -? Very Goon.?A minister's wife says: " The first time I took my eldest boy to church, when he was two years and a half old, I managed, with caresses and frowns and candy, to keep him very still till the sermon was hall done. By this time his patience was exhausted, and he climbed to his feet, and stood on these at, looking at the preacher (his father) quite intently. Then, as if he had hit upon a certain relief for his troubles, he pulled me by the chin to attract my attention, and then exclaimed, in a distinct voice. "Mamma, make papa say Amen!" An exchange says a little child had made a stool, no two legs of which were of a length. While in vain trying to make it stand upon the floor, he look? ed in his mother's face and asked, " Docs God see everything?" '; Yes, my child." " Well," replied the son, " I guess he will lauo-h when he sees this stool." Man and Woman.-^TIic following ex? tract is from an address delivered by Prof. Jos. LeConte, at the Lanrensvillc Female College Commencement in July last: "It seems to mo that the essential difference between man and woman in their whole natures, is -perfectly illustra? ted by bodily conformation, and is sum? med up in the two words?Strength and Beauty. The essential characteristic of. man?that which constitutes his man? hood?is strength, bodily, intellectual, and moral (the last two being, of course, by far the most important constituents-of manhood.) while the essential characteris? tic of woman?that which constitutes her womanhood?is Beauty and Grace; Beau? ty of person, of mind, and of character, refinement, modesty, parity?in a word, all that ineffable grace which floats like an aroma about the person of a refined, pure-minded woman, and which, like a halo of glory, shrouds her from vulgar gaze and unholy thoughts. Beauty of person and refinement of mind and heart may and do infinitely adorn and elevate a man, but do not make him man. So if to the essentially womanly characteristics of beauty, grace, refinement/ modesty, purity, and tenderness, there be added something of strength of .intellect, power of will and physical courage, it may dig? nify, but cannot make the woman. No amount of refinement and tenderness can redeem the character of a man in whom the essentially manly characteristic of strength is wanting ; and no amount of strong-mindedodncss can compensate in woman for the want of the true feminine virtues of grace, modesty, and purity." Truth.?Truth is the basis of practical goodness ; without it all virtues are mere representations wanting the reality - and having no foundation, they quickly provo their evanescent nature and disappear as "the morning dew." Whatever brilliant abilities we may pos? sess if the dark spot of falsehood exists in our hearts it defaces their splendor and destroys their efficacy. If Truth be not our guiding spirit we shall stumble upon the "darkmountains," the eloudi of er? ror will surround us, and we shall wander in a Labyrinth) the intricacy of which will increase as we proceed in it. No art can unravel the web that Falsehood weaves which is more tangled than the knot of the Phyrgian king. Falsehood is ever fearful, and shrinks beneath the steadfast piercing eye of Truth. It is ever restless in racking tho invention to form tome fresh subterfuge to escape detection. .Its atmosphere is darkness and mystery; iHuifiSjfiiJP he~~ tray, and leads its-followers int ^ the depths I of misery. I Truth is the spirit of light and beauty, and seeks no disguise; its noble features are always unveiled, and sheds a radiance upon every object within their influence. It is robed in spotless white, and con? scious of its purity, is fearless and un? daunted ; it never fails its votaries, but conducts them through evil report and good report?without spot or blemish, it breathes of heaven and happiness, and is ever in harmony with the Great First Cause. The consciousness of the truth nerves the timid and imparts dignity to their ac? tions. It is an internal principle of hon? or which renders the possessor superior to fear; it is always consistent with it? self and needs no ally. Its influence will remain when the luster, of all that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away. -# Gratitude.?"What the beautiful flow? er is to the earth gratitude is to the heart of man." It is the incense of love, arising from a soul touched by divine goodness and softened by the acts of kindness shown to him by his fellow men. It is the delicious bloom of spirit that would spend itself in thanksgiving to God, ac? knowledging in tenderness from the heart the blessings and favors received. Like the gentle diops of rain and the warm rays of the sun, which fall upon the earth to give nourishment to the plant, and by which means the fields in spring time are clothed with rich verdure, so gratitude gives nourishment to the affections for truth and clothes the character with heav? enly beauty. It makes life sweeter under every circumstance?filling it with scenes of ecstacy and driving away the scenes of grief. Our burdens arc made lighter; our trials more endurable. The ungrateful man never finds a real friend to sympa? thize with him in his hoars of sorrow; while he who is grateful finds all along his pathway those hearts are in sympathy with his own?comforting him in his scenes of gladness. Let us feel the obliga? tion we owe to God and to one another; and let our hearts swell with gratitude to all according to the kindness shown us, and we shall become better fitted for the life which is to come.