Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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4 THE LETJGEK: GAFFNEY, 8. 0., NOVEMBER 25 1897 r EVENING SOLACE. •Tho humnn hi'art lirn hi Men tror.surcs In secret kept, in silence tv ahxl— Tlie thoughts, the hopes, thodicaius, the pleas ures. Whose charms were hrok<-n if revealed. And days may pass in pay contusion And nights in r isy riot fly, While, lost in tame's or wealth's illusion, Tho memory of tho past may die. £ut there are hours of lonely musing, Such ns in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, Tho heart’s best feelings gather home. Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe, And thoughts that once wrung groans of an guish Now cause but some mild tears to flow. And feelings once as strong as passions Flout softly Pack, a faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations The tale of others’ suffering seem. Oh, when the heart is frostily bleeding, How longs it tor that time to be When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie! And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade ami loneliness, And, while the sky grows dim and dim mar Feel no untold and strange distress, Only a deeper impulse given By a lonely hour and darkened room To some sulemu thoughts that soar to heaven, Seeking a life and a world to jonie. —Charlotte Bronte. ! PAKTHER EYES. A man and a woman—natnre had done the grouping—hi\t on a rustic feat in the late afternoon. The man was ■ middle aged, slender, swarthy, with i the expression of a poet and tho com- j plexiuu of a piralo—a man at whom j ono would look again. The woman was | young, blond, graceful, with some- | thing in her figure and movements sug gesting the word “lithe. ” She was hah- ; fted in a gray gown with odd brown , markings in the texture. She may have j been beautiful. One could not readily | say, for her eyes denied attention to all ' else. They were gray green, long and i narrow’, with an expression defying | analysis. Cue could only know that they were disquieting. Cleopatra may have had such eyes. Tho man and tho woman talked. “Yes,” said the woman, “I lovo you, God knows. But marry you, no! I can not, will not!" “Irene, you have said that many times, yet always have denied mo a reason. I’ve a right to know, to under stand, to feel and prove my fortitude if I have it. Give me a reason. ” “For loving you?” Tho woman was smiling through her tears and her pallor. That did not stir any sense of humor in the man. “No, there is no reason for that. A reason for not marrying me—I’ve a right to know. I must know. 1 will i know. ” He had risen and was standing before her with clinched hands, on his face a frown—it might have been called a scowl. He looked as if bo might attempt to learn by strangling her. She smiled no more—merely sat looking up into his faco with a fixed, set regard that was utterly without emotion or senti ment. Yet it had something in it that Jatacd his resentment and made him shiver. i “Yon orodetennined to have my rea son?” sko asked in a tone that was en tirely mechanical—a tone tnat might havo been her look made audible. “If you please—if I’m cot asking too much.’’ Apparently this lord of creation was yielding some part of his dominion over his cocreatmo. “Very well, you shall know. I am insane. ” • •••••• In a little log house containing a sin gle room sparely and rudely furnished, crouching on the floor against one of the walls, was a woman, clasping to her breastachild. Outside a dense, unbroken forest extended for many miles in every direction. This was at night and tho room was black dark. No human eyo could havo discerned tho woman and tho child. Yet they were observed, narrow ly. vigilantly, with never a momentary slackening of attention, and that is tho pivotal foot upon which this narrative turns. Charles Marlowe was of the class, now extinct in this country, of wood men pioneers—men who found their most acceptable surroundings in sylvan solitudes that stretched along the east ern slopo of tho Mississippi valley, from the great lakes to tho gulf of Mexico. For more than 200 years these men pushed ever westward, generation after generation, with rillo and ax, reclaim ing from nat iro and her savage chil dren hero and there an isolated acreage for tho plow, no sooner reclaimed than surreut. rju to their less venturesome but more thrifty successors. At last they burst through the edge of tho for est into tho opeu country and vanished as if they had fallen over a cliff. Tho woodman pioneer is no more. Tho pio neer of tho plains—he whoso easy task it was to subdue for oocujMincy two- thirds of the country in a single goner- ntiou—is another and inferior creation. With Charles Marlowe in the wilder ness, sharing the dangers, hardships and privations of that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife and child, to whom, in the manner of bis class, in which the domestic virtues were a religion, he was passionately attached. The woman was still young enough to be comely, new enough to the awful isolation of her lot to be cbcertul. By withholding tho large capacity for happiness which the simple satisfactions of the forest life could not have filled heaven had dealt honorably with her. In her light household tasks, her child, her husband and her few foolish books she found -•buudant provision for her needs One innruiug in midsummer Marlowv took down his rillo from the w m a hooks on the wall and signified his in- tenths! of getting gam& > “We’ve meat enough,” said the wife. “Please don’t go out today. 1 dreamed last night, oh, such a dreadful thing! X cannot recollect it, but I'm almost sure that it will ooiue to pans if yon go hunting." It is painful to confess that Marlowt received this solemn statement with lesf of gravity than was duo to the mysteri ous nature of tho calamity foreshadowed. In truth he laughed. “Try to remember,” ho said. “May- bo you dreamed that baby had lost th( power of speech. ’ ’ Tho conjecture was obviously sug gested by tho fact that baby, clinging to tho fringe of his hunting coat witi all her ten pudgy thumbs, was at tlial moment uttering her sense of tho situa tion in a series of exultant googoos in spired by sight of her father's raccooE skin cap. The woman yielded. Lacking the gift of humor, she could not bold out agaiusl his kindly badinage. So, with a kist for the mother and a kiss for the child, ho left the house and closed the dooi upon his happiness forever. At nightfall he hud not returned. The woman prepared supper and wait ed. Then she put baby to bed and sang softly to her until she slept. By thk time the fire on the hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had burned out, and the room was lighted by a single candle. This she afterward placed in the open window as a sign and welcome to the hunter if he should approach from that side. 8he had thoughtfully closed and barred tbe door against such wild animals as might prefer it to an open window. Of the habits of beasts of prey in entering a bouse painvited she was not advised, though frith true female prevision she may have consid ered the possibility of their entrance by way of the chimney. As the night wore on sho became not ; less anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested her arms upon the bed by tho child and her head upon tho arms The caudle in the window burned down to tho socket, sputtered and flared a mo ment and went out unobserved, for the woman slept, and sleeping she dreamed. In her dreams she sat beside tho cradle of a second child. The first was dead. The father was dead. The homo in tho forest was lost and the dwelling in which she lived was unfamiliar. There were heavy oaken doors, always closed, and outside the windows, fastened into tho thick stone walls, were iron bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision against Indiana All this she noted with an infinite self pity, but without sur prise—an emotion unknown in dreams. The child in the cradle was invisible under its coverlet, which something im pelled her to remove. She did so, dis closing tho face of a wild animal In the shock of this dreadful revelation the dreamer awoke, trembling in the dark ness of her cabin in the wood. As a sense of her actual surrounding^ came slowly back to her she felt for the child that was not a dream and assured herself by its breathing that all was well with it, nor could she forbear to pass a hand lightly over its face. Then, moved by some impulse for which sho probably could not have accounted, sho rose and took tho sleeping babe in hot arms, holding it close against her breast The head of the child’s cot was against the wall to which tho woman now turned her back as sho stood. Lifting her eyes, she saw two bright objects starring the Gnrkreea with a reddish green glow. She took them to bo two coals on tho hearth, but with her ro- turning sense of direction came tho dis quieting consciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, more over were too high, being nearly at the level of her eyes—of her own eyes, for these were the eyes of a panther. Tbe beast was at the open window directly opposite and not five paces away. Nothing but those terrible eyes were visible, but in tho dreadful tumult of her feelings as the situation disclosed itself to her understanding she some how knew that the animal was stand ing on its hind feet, supporting itself with its paws on the window ledge. That signified a malign interest, not tho mere gratification of an indolent curiosity. The consciousness of tbe at titude was an added horror, accentuat ing the menace of those awful eyes, in whose steadfast fire her strength and courage were alike consumed. Under their silent questioning she shuddered and turned sick. Her knees failed her, and by degrees, instinctively striving to avoid a sudden movement that might bring tbe beast upon her, she sank to the tioor, crouched against tbe wall and tried to shield the babe with her trem bling body without withdrawing her gaze from the luminous orbs that were killing her. No thought of her husband come to her in her agony, no hope or suggestion of rescue or escape. Her ca pacity for thought and feeling hud nar rowed to the dimensions of a single emotion—fear of the animal’s spring, of the impact of its bot’y, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel of its teeth in her throat, the mangling of her babe. ; Motionless now and in absolute silence, I she awaited her doom, tho moments ! growing to hoars, to years, to agos, and still those devilish eyes maintained their watch. Returning to bis cabin late at night with a deer on his shonldur, Charles Marlowe tried the door. It did not : yield. Ho knocked. There was no an swer. He laid down his doer and went round to the window. As be turned the angle of the building he fancied be heard a sound as of stealthy footfalls and a rustling in tbe undergrowth of thu forest, bat they were too slight for certainty even to his (iructiood ear. Approaching the window, and, to his surprise, finding it open, be threw bis leg over the sill and entered. All was darkness and silence He groped his way to the fireplace, struck a match and lit a candle. Then he looked about Cowering on the floor against a wall Iras his wife, clasping his child. As he sprung toward her sue broke into laugh- U”, long, loud and mechanical, devoid of frltducM and devoid of muse—tho laughter that is not out of keeping with the clai king of a chain Hardly know ing what he did, be extended bis anna bhe laid the babe in them. It wae dead —passed to death In its mother's em brace That Is what occurred during a might in a forest, but uot all of it did Irene Marlowe relate to Jcuner Brading; not all of it was known to her. When cho hud concluded, the sun was below the horizon and tho long summer twilight bad begun to deepen in the hollows of tho laud. For somo moments Brading was silent, expecting tho narrative to bo carried forward to some definitive connection with tho conversation intro ducing it, but tho narrator was as silent as he, her face averted, her hands clasp ing and unclasping themselves us they lay in her lap, with a singular sugges tion of nn activity independent of her will. “It is a sad, a terrible story,” said Brading at last, “but 1 do not «u- demand. You call Charles Marlowe father; that I know. That ho is old be fore his time, broken by some great sor row, I have seon or thought I saw. But, pardon me, you said that you— that you”— “That I am incane,” said the girl without a movement of head or body. “But, Irene, you say—please, dear, do not look away from me—you say that tho child was dead, not demented.’’ “Yes, that one. I am the second. I was born three months after that night, my mother being mercifully permitted to lay down her life in giving me mine.” Brading was again silent. Ho was a trifle dazed and could not at once think of the right thing to say Her face was still turned away. In his embarrass ment ho reached impuLiveiy toward ths hands that lay closing and unclos ing in her lap, but something—ho could not have said what—restrained him. He then remembered vaguely that he had never altogether cared to take her hand. “Is it likely,” sho resumed, “that a person born under such circum stances is like others—is what you call sane?” Brading did not reply. He was pro- occupied with a new thought that was taking shape in his mind—what a scien tist w’ould have called a hypothesis, a detective a theory. It might throw an added light, albeit a lurid one, upon such doubt of her sanity as her own as sertion hud not dispclh'd. The country was still new and out side thu villages sparsely populated. The professional hunter was still a fa miliar figure, and among his trophies were heads and pelts of the larger kinds of game. Tales variously credible of noctural meetings with savage animals in lonely roads were sometimes current, passed through the customary stages of growth and decay and were forgotten. A recent addition to these popular apoc rypha, originating apparently by spon taneous generation in several house holds, was of a panther which had frightened some of their members by looking in at w’indows by night. Tho yarn had caused its little ripple of ex citement, had even attained to the dis tinction of a place in the local newspa per, bat Brading had given it no atten tion. Its likeness to the story to which he had just listened now impressed him as perhaps more than accidental. Was it not possible that tho one story had suggested the other—that, finding con genial conditions in a morbid mind and a fertile fancy, it had grown to the tragic tale that he bad hoard? Brading recalled certain circnm- stances of the girl’s history and disposi tion, of which, with lovo’s incuriosity, ho bad hitherto been heedless, such as her solitary lifo with her father, at whose house no one apparently was an acceptable visitor, and her strange fear of the night, by which those who knew her best acconuted for her never being seen after dark. Surely in such a mind imagination once kindled might barn with a lawless flame, penetrating and enveloping the entire structure. That she was mad, though the conviction gave him the aoutest pain, he could no longer doubt She had only mistaken an effect of her mental disorder for its cause, bringing iuto imaginary relation with her own personality the vagaries of the local mythmakera. With some vague intention of testing his new “the ory” and no very definite notion of how to set about it, he said gravley, but with hesitation: “Irene, dear, tell me—I beg yon will not take offense, but tell me”— “1 have told yon, ” she interrupted, speaking with a passionate earnestness that he had not known her to show, “1 have already told yon that wo cannot marry. Is anything else worth saying?” Before he could stop her she had sprung from her seat and witbont an other word or look was gliding away among the trees toward her father’s honxe. Brading had risen to detain her. Ho stood watching her in silence nntil sho hud vanished in tho gloom. Sudden ly ho started as if he bud been shot. His face took on an expression of umo/en ont and alarm. In one of the black shadows into which she Lad disappeared be had caught a quick, brief glimpse of gloam ing eyes. For an instant be was dazed and irresolute; then pulling a pistol from his pocket bedashed iuto the wood after her. shooting: “Irene, Irene, look outl Tbe panther, the panther 1” In a moment ho had passed through the fringe of forest into opeu grooud and saw the girl s gray skirt vanishing into her father’s door. No panther was visible. 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Jenner Brading, attorney at law, lived in a cottage at the edge of the town. Directly behind the dwelling was the forest Brading s bedroom was at the rear of the honse, with a single window facing the forest One night he was awakened by a noise at that window. He oonld hardly have said what it was Ilka With a little thrill of tbe nerves he sat up In bed and laid hold of the revolver which, with a forethought most commendable in one addicted to the habit of sleeping j cn the ground floor with an open win dow, be bad put under his pillow. Tbe I room was In absolute darkness, bat be ing unterrified he knew where to direct his eyes, and there he held them, await ing In silence what farther might oc cur He oonld now dimly discern tho aperture—a square of lighter black. Suddenly thaoe appeared at Its lowsv I i I edge two gleaming eyes that burned with a malignant luster inexpressibly horrible. Brading’s heart gave a great jump, theu seemed to stand still. A chill passed along his spine and through his hair. He felt tbe blood forsake his cheeks. Ho could not have cried out— not to save his lifo, but being a man of courage he would not, to save his life, have done so if he could. Some trepida tion his coward body might feel, but bis spirit was of sterner stuff. Slowly the glowing eyes roso with a steady motion that seemed an approach, and slowly rose Brading’s right hand, hold ing the pistol. Ho fired! Blinded by the flash and stunned by the report, Brading nevertheless heard, or fancied that ho heard, the wild, high scream of the panther, so human in sound, so devilish in suggestion. Leap ing from the bed, he hastily clothed himself, and, pistol in hand, sprang from the door, meeting two or three men who came running up from tho road. A brief explanation was followed by a cautious search at the rear of the house. The grass was wet with dew. Beneath the window it had been trod den and partly leveled for a wide space, from which a devious trail, visible in the light of a lantern, led away into the bushes. One of the men stumbled and fell upon his hands, which as he roso and rubbed them together were slippery. On examination they were seen to be red with blood. An encounter unarmed with a wound ed panther was uot agreeable to their taste. All but Brading turned back. He, with lantern and pistol, pushed courageously forward into the wood. Passing through a difficult undergrowth, he came into a small opening, and there his courage had its reward, for there he found tho body cf his victim. But it was no panther. What it was is told, even to this day, upon a weather stain ed headstone in tbe village churchyard, and for many years was attested daily at the graveside by the bent figure and sorrow seamed face of old man Mar lowe, to whose soul and to the soul of his strange, unhappy child, peace—peace and reparation.—Ambrose Bierce in San Francisco Examiner. Yellow Fever. Yellow fever now belongs to the western hemisphere, from which also it should be extirpated, as can bo done, if the proper kind of international pub- lio opinion be brought to bear upon the subject. While the disease is uot indig enous to tils United States, being al ways an importation, its visits are nev ertheless so regular that since the be ginning of the century there have been only nine years in which it has uot ap peared here. Its natural breeding grouud is furnished by the heat, mois ture and filth of tropical seaports. These conditions are found in certain cities of the Spanish main, which, lacking prop er sanitary regulations, have become perpetual foci of infection, and Havana is the worst of them. There the disease prevails during the entire year, a steady supply of fuel for its virulent flames, as it were, being furnished by tho new comers. The natives generally are im mune to it, having nsnally had the mal ady in a mild form in childhood. For ns the position is a simple one— since wo havo such neighbors, we must either bring about a reform in their sane itary conditions and practices or con tinue to run the risk of on annual inva sion of this terrible disease. Thirty-fiv- of the visits of yellow fever to this coun try since 1800 ore known definitely to have been from Cuba, and of these 23 have been clearly traced to the port of Havana. Europe's protection against Cuba in this particular lies in her re moteness. A disease which larks in a vessel starting across the ocean has time to develop and manifest itself so clearly that the quarantine officials on tho oth er side can discover it on the vessel's ar rival, bat with Caba hardly six hours from Key West, there will always be a percentage of danger, however stringent the quarantine regulations may be, if the conditions remain as they are, un less indeed we assume a policy of abso lute nonintercourso with the island dur ing the summer months.—Dr. Walter Wyman in Forum. Sandy’s Narrow Escape. “An boo’s the guid wife, Sandy?” ■aid one fanner to another, as they met in the market place and exchanged snuffboxes. “Did ye no hear that she’s dead un buried?’’ said Sandy solemnly. “Dear me!” exclaimed his friend sympathetically. “Sorely it must Lave been very sodden?’’ “Aye, it was sudden,” returned San dy. “Ye see, when she turned ill we had na time to send for tbe doctor, sue 1 gied her a bit pouther that i had ly ing in my drawer for a year or twa, an that X had got frao the dor tor rnysel’, bnt hadna ta'en. What the pontber was I dinna verra weel ken, hut sho died soon after. It’s a Bair loss to me, I cun assure ye, bnt it’s something to be thonkfn’ for 1 uidua tuk' tho pouther rnysel*. ”—Spare Momenta. Two Projors. Bishop Leslie, “the fighting bishop,” before a battle in Ireland thus prayed: “O God, for our unworthiness we are not fit to claim thy help, but if we are bud, our enemies are worse, and if thou seest not meet to help as, we pray thee help them not, bnt stand thon neuter this day and leave it to the arm of flesh. ” The United Service Magazine com pares with this the supplication which an officer offered before one of the but tles for Hungarian independence in 1840: “1 will not ask thee, Lrtrd, to help ns, and 1 know thon wilt not help the Austrians, but if thon wilt sit on yonder hill then shall- nor he nnhomed of thy children. ” Health of Ploate. XI Is Impossible for plants to thrive unless they have plenty of earth. There most be ample room in the pot or tub fogi |be expansion and sustenance oi ths WOOmm SOME 01)1) EPITAPHS. A PECULIAR SYMPOSIUM CONTRIB UTED BY NOTED WOMEN. Oncer Inscriptions Found on Tombstones. The Quaint Collection Formed u Fea ture of a Literary Clnb’s Annual Meet- Ins. A symposium of queer epitaphs con tributed by noted women of tho United States, was an interesting feature of tbe annual meeting of a local literary clab of Bucyrus, O. The idea was suggested , by a quaint inscription uu a tombstone in a local cemetery, and it was deter mined that each member of the club should secure from some noted woman of tho country the most unique epitaph that had ever come under her notice. ! Tbe result was interesting in the ex treme. The following are among those secured: Mrs. Cleveland submits an epitaph which is said to bo carved upon a stone in the nature of a matrimonial adver- , tisement. Here is tho inscription: “tiacred to the memory of James H. | Random, who died Aug. 6, 1800. His widow, who mourns as ono who can bo j comforted, aged only 24 and possessing every qualification of a good wife, lives in this village. ’’ Mrs. Sherman confines herself to her ; own locality and sends an inscription which can bo found in an old Mansfield cemetery. It is as follows: Under this nod «md under these trees Liiith tho pod of Solomon Pohmo. Ho is not in this hole, but only his pod. He has shelled out his soul and went up to his God. * Mrs. Brice gives two, which properly go together. Tho first was tho iuscrip- ! tion over the remains of tho first wife of a Californian and reads: Tho Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord I The grave of a second wife was em- | bellished with the other inscription, equally appropriate: I called upon tho Lord, and he heard me and delivered me out of all my troubles. Mrs. Harrison gives this quotation from a western monument: “This yore is sakrd to the mem’ry of Bill Henry Shraken, who come to his death by beiu shot with a Colts revolv ers—one of tho old kind, brass mount ed, and of such is tho kingdom of hevin. ’ ’ Mrs. Foraker thinks the accompany ing is about as curious as any she has ever heard: Her* lie I and my two daughters, Brought here by drinking aedlita water*. If we had stuck to epeom salts, We wouldn't be laying in these here vaults. This rather peculiar selection comes from a Massachusetts cemetery and is furnished by Mrs. Grant: Hero lies the boat of slaves now turning into dual. Cssar, the Ethiopian, craves a place among tha just. His faithful soul has fled to realms of heavenly light. And by the blood that Jesus shed la changed from black to white. January ho quitted the stage In the 77th year of his ugc, 1780. Mrs. McKinley quotes the only ora tion over the remains of Tom Paine, the infidel, written by himself and deliver ed at his request: Poor Tom Paine, here ho lies! Nobody laughs, and nobody, cries Where his soul is and how it fares Nobody knows, and nobody cures. Mrs. Alger contributes n cariosity, bnt fails to say whether it is to bo found in a Michigan burying ground or some place more remote: Here, fast asleep and full six feet deop And seventy summers ripe, George Thomas lie* and hopes to rise And smoko anotbsr pipe. The following, however, does come from a Michigan cemetery at La Pointe and is furnished by Mrs. Stevenson: “This stone was erected to the mem ory of J D , who was shot as a mark of esteem by his sorviving rela tives.” Mrs. Reed quotes tho lines of Shakes peare engraved on the stone above his remains: Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear To dig ths dust inclosed here. Bleat be the man who spares these stones And cursed be thu man that moves my bones! 1 Mrs. Bryan’s contribution comes from a little graveyard near Pittsfield, Moss.: When you, my friends, are paosing by. And this informs you where I lie, iiemomber you ere long must have, Liko mo, n mansion in the grave. Also three infants, two sons and a daughter. Chicago is represented by Mrs. Pot ter Palmer, whose selection is as fol lows: Here lit s, returned to elay, M.-is Arabella Young, Who, on thu 1st of May, Began to hold her tongue. Mrs. Hanna quotes from a tomb in Pennsylvania. The inscription reads: rtucred to the memory of Charley and Varley. Sons of loving parents who died in infancy. In addition to tho above there were a number of others which came in with out signatures attached. Among the lat ter were the following: The writer has seen with her own j eyes the following inscription, which appears on a stone in a little cemetery | in Cornwall, England: Here lies eutoomed one Roger Morton, Whose sudden death was early brought on. Trying one day his corns to mow off, The rssor slipped and cut his too off. Tho toe, or what it grew to. Thu inflammation quickly flew to. Tlie iwrts they took to mortifying, And poor, dear Roger took to dyeing. Wall Considered. “So you wish to leave to get married, Mary? 1 hope yon havo given the mat ter serious consideration. ’’ “Oh, X have, sir,” was the earnest reply. “I've been to two fortone tellers and a clairvoyant and looked in a sign book and dreamed on a lock of bis hair | 1 and been to one of those aaterologers ' 1 and to a tueejam, and they all tell ms < to go ahead, sir. I ain't one to marry reckless like, sir.”—Loudon Tit-Bits. One Spley Saggestloa. “Any spicy features In the new playP ’ “Well,’’ the lady answered, “John had hie month full of cloves. ’ ’—Kansas City Journal. QUARTERMASTER ICO. . An OflOerr From sllchlgan V/h<»ir.w»uM Fatuous Durian the Wnrj ‘Sirvicc in the a:r.iy, ” rpmarkf'd tha veteruu, “certainly tended to develop caarartcrifticn, end if n soldier posicss- e<l peculiarities they wero bound to come out. Every regiment had among its members one or more wbo became known to everybody, who were distia- guishod by a nickname, and to a certain extent were privileged characters. Some of these even achieved fame, and their doings and sayings were repented throughout tho army. Among tho most noted of thc.se in Buell’s com:maud w;is a regimental quartermaster fromMichi- gan. Un reporting at Louisville I was ordered to take charge of a steamboat loading with stores and ammunition for Nashville. Nearly all tho captains and pilots on thn southwestern rivers were believed to sympathize with the Hoees- sionists, and it was presumed that these 1 gentlemen would uot give Way to grief if the boats they were running, loaded with government supplies, should bo captured at some convenient landing by rebels. Hence tbe precaution of running the boats under the direction of a Union officer with a guard on their decks. “On going aboard the boat to which I had been assigned I was halted at the gmigway stairs by an undersized man 1 whose hair was several degrees beyond ! auburn and whose accent savored of Tipperary with the salutation: “ ‘Who in thunder are you?’ “I produced the document from head quarters, which ho read over carefully | and with a profound bow handed hack, remarking: “ ‘You’re all right and can go where yon like. I’ve be< u taking charge of this j craft because she needed a head, but I resign. There’s a devil of a let of our fellows aboard. I’m Quartermaster Igo.’ “This was my introduction to the quartermaster. On the arrival of his | regiment at Louisville ho had, or imag ined he hod, business with the quarter master of the departmeut and at once proceeded to tho largo building occu pied by that officer. Brushing aside an J interposing orderly and pushing open a gate, he marched on through the sacred inclosure until stopped by a dignified and indignant gentleman, who curtly informed him that he mast remain out side the railing. “ ‘Who in thunder are yon?’ demand ed Igo. “‘lam Colonel Swords, department quartermaster. ’ “Igo coolly glanced over him from, head to heel and then asked: “ ‘Don’t the government pay you?’ “’Why, certainly, of course,’ an swered the surprised West Pointer. “ ‘Then why in thunder don’t yon wear brass buttons and things on your shoulders so a fellow would know yon are the high cockalorum? How am I to tell whether you are Colonel Swords or Tom, Dick or the devil?’ With this ho turned and indignantly marched oat “Soon after ho encountered the colo nel in a public place and at once ^ac costed him about business. He wasnm- mediately checked with the remark: “ ‘Sir, when you havo business with me yon will pleaso call at my office. ’ “Later, when everything was being hurried for an immediate departure of tho army, Colonel Swords, who was riding out to tho camp, met Igo riding into the city. “‘One moment, quartermaster,’ said the colonel, bringing his horse to a stand. “‘Sir,’ said Igo, ‘when you havo business with me yon will please call at my office. ’ “In thoaatnmnof 1862 our regiment relieved a detachment of troops posted at a crossroads several miles from head quarters, at Murfreesboro, Tenn. One evening wo received orders to return immediately to town, and while pack-* 1 ing up a soldier found a box of papers and reported the find. Investigation showed them to be Quartermaster Igo’s regimental accounts, and instructions were given to take them along and de liver them to him tho first opportunity. This occurred at Murfreesboro, and the box of papers was returned. On receiv ing them Igo broke out: “‘Well, this beats thunder. I’ve been losing these papers all over the state of Tennessee, and some blamed fool invariably finds them and brings them back. How aro my accounts with the government ever to be settled if I can’t certify that tho papers are lost?’ “It was reported afterward that the government had imperatively called up on Igo to settle up, and in answer he had boxed up all his papers and for warded them to Washington with a let ter stating that these wero all tho docn- menu, and as the departmeut had plen ty of clerks they could settle tlie ac counts at their leisure to suit them selves.”—New York Sun. Bajrlelgh’e Way to Strengthen Negative*. Lord Rayleigh has published a novel and ingenious way of intensifying weak photographic pictures, not by chemical bnt by physical means. It is well known that a weak positive transparency shows much greater contrasts of light and ■hade when held in front of a white sheet of paper than when held up to the light This is due to the fact that through the transparent parts the white paper is seen with little loss of bril liancy, while the more opaque parts act as it were, twice over, once when the light passes through to the paper | and once when it is refine ted back to the eye. Lord Rayleigh's method, based on this fact is to back a weak negative with a fiat polished reflector and to copy it in the camera by means of tho usual condensing lens, with tho light I placed as mneb in a lino with the copy- ! ing lens as possible. The positive thus obtained can be need to make a still frr- i ther intensified negative in the same manner. To get rid of the effect of false light reflected by the optical surfaces it is necessary either to give a slight slope to tbe oondunsiug lens, or, if this is not used, to attach a prism of glass to the face of the negative to be oople^.—Pall Mall Gazette.