Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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BILL ANTHONY, MARINE. Captain Sigsbee was writing a letter to his wife in the cabin when the explosion occurred on the Maine. All the lights were instantly extinguished. Sigsbee was thrown out and ran into William Anthony, a marine, who, despite the shrieks, groans, flames and bursting shells, stood at “attention,” gravely sainted and said in an even voice: “Sir, I have to inform you that the ship has been blown up and is sinking.” . Then he waited for orders. The next day Anthony said to Sylvester Scovel when spoken to about his conduct: “Oh, that’s nothing; any Yankee marine would do it.” Anthony has served the United States in the army aud navy for twenty- iour years. When above the awful din rose the sailors’ voices shrieking “Help! help! For God’s sake help us, ere we sink into the sea 1” When the light from bursting shells showed the decks with blood were reeking, At “attention” stood Bill Anthony, with courage bold and free. Straight and cool as on parade, from the danger never shrinking, The orderly saluted as in steady tones he said: “I have, sir, to inform you that the ship’s blown up and sinking-” Then waited for his orders while the shells crashed overhead. In the fury of a charge, when the cannon roar and thunder, And men are drunk with fighting, acts of bravery are seen, But to stand still pt “attention” while his ship was rent asunder Was the kind of cdurage shown by Bill Anthony, marine. In the roster of the heroes who have striven for Old Glory, High on the roll of honor give Bill Anthony a place; And when our theme is courage let us not forget the story Of his standing at “attention” when death stared him in the face. —JI. A. Jennings, in New York World. THE GOST OF A LIFE. BY MRS- BURCKHARDT. 'caff' T is very unfortun ate. I really don’t know how it cau have happened. Nos. 20 and 22 are both engaged. If you would step into the drawing room a moment I will in quire. ” The manager of the SeaclilT Hotel Tabbed his hands together, and amiled ingratiatingly at the couple before him; Mr. Thompson, stout, prosperous and middle-aged; Anne, slender, blonde and lovely, with “bride” written large all over her at tire, from the picture hat, the fawn traveling cloak lined with white satin, and the watch bracelet set in tur quoises, down to her new patent leather shoes. “Will you go upstairs and wait, my dear?” he said, turning to her. “Oh, no! this will do,” she said, indifferently; and pushing open the door of the writing room, she walked in. Away from her husband’s eyes she ■drew her breath hard, her gray eyes had the look of a child rudely awak ened, she clasped her hands together with a gesture of nervous dread. A man, the solitary occupant of the toom, turned his head at the soft rus tle of her silk-lined skirts, and as their eyes met both uttered a cry. “Charlie! You here?” “Anne! My Ood, is it you? Fm not too late!—say I’m not!” he cried. “I was married this morning. We —we are on our honeymoon; bat-what has that to do with you?” said she, al most fiercely. “You—you broke off our engagement. I would have been true to you in spite of everyone.” “Then there has been foul play! I was sure of it. Look, Anne, I had such faith in you that, when there was no answer to my letters, I knew they must be tampering with you. And then came the news of your en gagement—my sister wrote to me; she always was jealous of you—and I got leave somehow. It was the Colonel who managed it for me, and I have traveled day and night to be in time. I haven’t slept or eaten since; and I meet you here, married.” He was close to her now, his hand some face flushed and quivering, his strong hands clenched in a masculine impatience of suffering. Anno shrank away from him, white and trembling. She could hear her husband’s voice speaking to a waiter outside. “Anne, haven’t you a word for mo? Tell me why you have done this hid eous thing! Was it his money?” he demanded. “His No, bo; I never heard from you. I was so lonely and miserable,” she faltered. “Oh! Char lie, Charlie! What shall we do?” She held out her hands to him with a little gesture of appeal, but he did not take them. He was beginning to see that it had been better for them both if they had never met again. “I don’t know—God help ns!” he said brokenly. “To meet you like this! Is he—does your husband ?” The door swung open—Mr. Thomp son was entering. It was such a stale device by which they had been parted that it seems al most impossible Anne conld have been taken in by it! But, after all. a well-brought-up girl does not lightly suspect her mother of such an extreme measure as suppressing letters from an ineligible lover; and Mrs. Carruth- ers’ daughters were eminently well brought up, so, when Charlie Caere’s letters suddenly ceased, she began to believe that the popular opinion as to his inconstancy was wall founded. She suffered a good deal under the belief; her wrists grew so slender that her bangles were too big; the roses faded out of her cheeks, and the once ready smile came and went infre quently, and Mrs. Carruthers was genuinely sorry for her child. She supuorted herself, however, by the re flection'that it was all for Anne’s ulti mate good. Mr. Thompson was obviously only too ready to marry her, and endow her with his twenty thousand a year, his big country house, his moor in Scot land, and his share in the business of Thompson, Goodrich & Co.; and Mrs. Carrnthers was snre that Anne would be happier in the long run as his wife than to a young man with nothing bat his pay and good looks. Mr. Thomp son was forty-five, rather bald; but personal experience had taught her that after a few years a husband’s banking account is of infinitely more importance than his looks, so she felt justified on high moral grounds in pntting a stop to one engagement, and doing her best to bring on another. At first Anne resolutely avoided Mr. Thompson; but by degrees the kindli ness of his manner and the sense that other women would gladly have had his attentions gratified her; and then a feeble longing to be revenged on Charlie, to show him she was not wear ing the willow for his sake, grew upon her. Moreover, she was of an affec tionate nature, and the disgrace in which she had felt herself with her mother during the time she had held herself bound to Charlie had weighed on her heavily, and she turned eagerly to the approval which graciousness to Mr. Thompson brought her. So it is not to be wonderet less than a year after Charlie lid gone West with his regiment, Ami found herself awaking on the day of 4? wed ding to Mr. Thompson. She lay on her little white b^i look ing dreamily around the ro.tn. Ut tered with all the paraphernalia of j packing. Her goiug-away dr«fs was j stretched across two chairs, huge trank, gaping open, gave a glinpse of dainty cambric and lace, and across the passage she knew her ridding gown was displayed on the spa 6 room bed; but her imagination reflsed to realize that she was indeed going to be married, though the previous night she had seen the drawing room blocked up with costly presen *, such ar Mr. Thompson’s wife was I kely to have, and the dining room already laid for the breakfast. Smart dothes, diamonds, and excitement aro some times very effectual in drugging the mind, and for the past week Ai.|ie bad refused to let herself think, to she was not going to gtve way to it sow. She sprang out of bed and dressed herself quickly. There was something she wanted to do before her mother came to her, so when she had put on her plain white dressing gown:he un locked a trumpery rosewood df-sk aud took out a packet of letters, a bunch of faded violets and a’photograph. She slipped the last two into an en velope and went swiftly downstairs; for, it being June, there was only the kitchen fire available. The cook had just gone out to the side door for the milk, so there was no one to witness her holocaust. She did not feel any pain over it, only a desire to get it done before her mother came, and she even laughed a little as she heard the cook boasting to the milkman of the number and value of the wedding presents. The morning seemed to pass with her like a dream, in whioh her sh,vre was only imaginary. Her mother’s kisses, the crowd in the chnrch, ths service, the wedding breakfast with its endless speeches, the fussy oflicious- nesp of the bridesmaids who helped to array her in her traveling gown, the smiling farewells and good wishes, were all indifferent to her; but when at last she and Mr. Thompson were in the carriage that was to take them to the train, and he laid his hand on her arm, she suddenly awoke to reali ties. “At last I’ve got my dear little wife to myself,” he said; and passing his arm around her, turned her face up to his with one plump hand and laid his lips on hers for the first time. “Don’t Don’t! You mustn’t!”cried Anne. Her words seemed to fall over each other in her haste; her heart was beating like some caged wild thing. “Did I frighten you, my darling? Come, you musu’t be so shy of your husbaud,” he said, smiling at her in dulgently. “I—I don’t like being kissed. I— am tired,” faltered Anne. She suddenly seemed to have be come aware that she belonged to this man. His short blunt fingers, on one of which -was a big signet ring, his double chin, the big creases on his cheek when he smiled tilled her with repulsion. “Are yon tired, dearest? Does your head ache?” he said, kindly so licitous at once. “Yes, it does, rather,” said she, catching at the immemorial excuse of womenkind. She shut her eyes and leaned back in the corner while he fussed over her with smelling salts andean-de-cologne. They had engaged rooms at the sea side resort, but there had been some mistake about them, aud it was while he was talking to the mauager that Anne went into the writing room to wait. “Oh, yes, that will do quite as well!” said Mr. Thompson, coming briskly in and speaking over his shoul der to a waiter. “Anne, my dear, it is all right now. We have three rooms on the first floor; they are tak ing up our things. Why, my dear, what is the matter?” “I have made a mistake,” said Anne, hardly knowing what she said. “This—this is Charlie Dacre.” Mr, Thompson had heard a sketchy outline of his wife’s previous love af fairs from Mrs. Carrnthers. “Boy and girl affair”—“mere fancy”— “quite unworthy young man”—the phrases seemed to ring in his brain now. A dull flush rose slowly to his face; he laid his hand on Anne’s arm. “I have heard of Mr. Dacre,” he said coldly; “I think you had better come with me.” “You have stolen her from me! You know best yourself by what means!” said the younger man savagely. The situation was insupportable; a primitive emotion was out of place in the commonplace room, with its writ ing tables littered with directories and hotel stationery. “I gained my wife by no means of which I need be ashamed,” said Mr. Thompson, with a certain dignity. “But it was all a mistake. He wrote, only I never had his letters. He was coming back to me,” said Anne, helplessly. “I don’t understand; perhaps lam dense. You mean to say you only marriad me, believing Mr. Dacre was false?” began the elder man, con fusedly. The door swung again, a busy traveler bnstled in, bag in hand. drew a chair noisily up to a table, and began to write Mr. Thompson beckoned impera tively to Anne. “Come! T must speak to you,” he said, sharply. He held the door open for her, and. she obeyed him mechanically, leaving her lover standing by the mantel-piece, powerless to stop her. Mr. Thompson led the way up the first flight of stairs, a waiter threw open a door, and Anne found herself alone with her husband. “Now, perhaps, you will explain. ■This man, what is he doing here? By what right does he address you?” he said. There was a tone of sharpness in his voice. “He did not know I should be here. He was coming home from the West to stop my marrying you. He thought he would be in time,” said Anne, al most in the voice of a chidden child. “But he is too late! You are my wife now. No one cau take you from me.” The remembrance of the hand some yonng face below moved him to a touch of brutality. “But I can’t live with you now' Don’t you see? I can’t, oh, I can’t!” cried Anne. “You are my wife. You are bound to live with me. You thought it possi ble half an hour ago. Nothing has changed since then.” •■But I didn’t know, then! Ithonght he had left off caring for me. My mother knew. It was she who made me marry you,” panted she. All her delicate color had faded, even her lips were white, her eyes were full of terror. “Oh, won’t you be kind to me and let me go?” “To your lover?” “No, no! I will never see him again if you will ouly let me go.” “But don’t you know I love you? Yes, as dearly as you love that man downstairs. Haven’t you a little pity for me?” Anne looked at him dully. His round, florid face had not paled; he looked us prosperous as ever. Love her? Love was young, aud strong, and comely, with ardent looks and melting tones. Her heart could not recognize him under this guise. “I am sorry. It is not my fault. We have loved each other so long. Oh, if you will only be kind enough and let me go!” She came up close to him in her earnestness. Her hat had fallen off, he could see the little tendrils of hair curling round her tiny ears, the depth of her eyes darkened by coming tears. “You ask too much,” he said, with sudden anger; “I love yon, you are my wife, and very beautiful.” He had both her hands in his now, and was drawing her nearer. Anne did not speak, only looked at him with a white face of terrified repulsion. He could see the pulse in her throat beating furiously. “You would not be the first wife who had lived down a fancy for an other man, and has been happy with her husband," he said slowly,and then the girl broke down into a storm of wild^ hysterical weeping, cowering away from him with bent head. “My poor child! my dear little girl! You are quite overdone,” she heard his voice saying in quite a changed tone. “Come and sit down and let us think what is for the best. ” She suffered him to lead her to a couch, and sat down,burying her head in the pillows. Mr. Thompson was not accustomed to women, and her long-drawn sobs, and the pitious heave of her shoulders went to his very heart. “You ask me to let you go, Anne; but what would you do then? Would you go to your mother?” “Oh, no, no!” “I thought not. And as you bear my name, in common fairness to myself, I could not let you go out alone in the world.” She said something incoherent be tween ber sobs of wishing she were dead. “For God’s sake, child, don’t treat me as an enemy!” he said bitterly. “Listen! You must share my home, there’s no help for that; but in all other respects I will leave you utterly free; only I ask you for your own sake not to see that man again.” Through her own distress the sense of his generosity reached Anne’s soul. “You are very kind to me,” she said faintly. “I will think it out. I will pee whether I can think of anything better; but you must give me time,” he said. “I will let you know to-morrow. Per haps you would like to go to your room now; the waiter might be coming up with the dinner.” Anne complied, thankful to be alone, and sent word by the maid that she did not want any dinner, so the bridegroom dined alone under the watchful eye of the waiter,who formed his own conclusions on the situation. Anne was lying on her bed, worn out with the emotions of the day, when, about nine o’clock, she heard a rap at the door, and her husband’s voice asking if he might speak to her. She got up and went to him, look ing at him with eyes full of appre hension. “I am going out for a stroll and smoke, and I thought I would just eome to see how you were.” “Oh, I am better, thank you,” said Anne, quickly. He paused, looking at her with an expression she could not interpret. Stoutness, a bald head, and a florid complexion cut one off from much comprehension by one’s fellows. “Well, good night then,” he said awkwardly. “Good night,” said Anne. He hold out his hand, and she laid hers in it. He could feel the nervous 1 twitch in her slender fingers. | “1 am going to think it over, you know. Good night,” he said on-je again, aud turned away. He lighted a cigar, and. strolling along the shore, proceeded to think it over. What ooffclusions ho came to can never be certainly known, but the following paragraph appeared iu the evening paper: "Fatal accident to a bridegroom — A most i lamentable occurrence took ! place at Narragansett last night. Mr. | Richard Thompson, senior partner in 1 the well-known firm of Thompson, I Goodrich A Co., and who had just j started on his wedding trip, was washed ashore a few hours after ho had left his hotel for a stroll. His body was discovered by some fisher men, aud was easily identified by the papers in his pockets.” It was nearly a year later before his bride-widow married Charlie Dacre. His voice and looks, when he had bidden her farewell at the door of her room, haunted her. It was absurd to suppose that a well-to-do merchant could carry love to such a height as to lay down his life to make a woman who did not love him happy, and yet —no! she dared not let herself believe it. Such a love would have demanded a life-long fidelity to its mere memory. So she married the man she loved, with whom she was happy enough; but the memory of her brief honey moou never quite faded from her mind. —St. Louis Star. WORDS OF WISDOM. A life spent worthily should bo measured by deeds, not years. The man most in need of mercy, is the one who will have no mercy on himself. No man can be provident of his time who is not prudent in the choice of his company. Doing is the great thing. For if, resolutely, people do what is right,, in time they come to like doing it. There is no greater aid in securing enrichment and fertilization of one’s whole nature than intimate association with superior men and women. Life is continually weighing us in very sensitive scales and telling every one of us precisely what bis real weight is to the last grain of dust. How does a man become wiser as be grows older but by looking back upon the past, aud by learning from the mistakes that he has made in his earlier years Every attempt to make others happy, every sin left behind, every temptation trampled under foot, every step forward in the cause of what is good is a step nearer heaven. God does not take away onr gifts arbitrarily. He gives them to ba used, and if they are not used, they dwindle, they vanish; the. power goes, the will becomes like an unused muscle—paralyzed, useless. The greatest aud noblest work in the world and an effect of the greatest prudence and cure, is to rear and build up a man and to form ami fashion him to piety, justice, temper ance and all kinds of honest and worthy actions. Like alone acts upon like. There fore, do not amend by reasoning, but by example. Approach feeling by feeling; do not hope to excite love ex cept by love. Be what you wish others to become. Let yourself, and not your words, preach. That groat mystery of Time, wera there no other, the illimitable, silent, never-resting thing called time, roll ing, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing ocean-tide on whieh we aud all the universe swim like exhal ations, like apparitions, which are and then are not; this is forever very literally a miracle—a thing to strike us dumb, for we have no word to speak about it. Coal Treasures in Africa. In his new book on Bouth Africa Captain Younghusband dilates on the coal treasures of that country: “In one colliery, not l^ilf a dozen miles from the gold mines, I have seen a seam of coal seventy feet in thickness. This coal, though of a low quality, suffices for the purpose of the gold mines, and there is a sufficient qnan- .- tity of it to outlast far the lives of all the gold mines. Besides these coal . deposits near the gold fields and those others by the Vaal Biver, which fur-,, nish coal for the railway system far down into the Cape Colony, there are literally hundreds, perhaps even • thousand, square miles of coal in the Middelberg and Ermclo districts lying between Fretoria and Delagoa Bay. In the midst of these coal beds is the outcrop of iron ore; aud running through them is the lately constructed railway to Delagoa Bay.”—New York Post. • A ProfeMlonal Habit. In 1000 cates of the morphine habit, collected from all parts of the world, the medical profession oonstitutod 4 for- < ty per cent, of the number.