The watchman and southron. (Sumter, S.C.) 1881-1930, October 31, 1882, Image 1
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Oct 17 3t
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_/E,SEA-SBORE PLACE in
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Also my plac**in toe edge of Sumter7 con
UiQing 30 acres, with 6-room dwelling, and
Also asmaH facm in the country.
* N. G. OSTEEN,
Sumter, S. C.
Ml i
omtmm battdtg
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OTL&rlNGTON, COLUMBIA AND
- August a r. r.
CONDENSED SCHEDULE.
_. TRAINS GOING SOUTH.
Dat?d \ No. 48, i No. 40
Sept. 24, T882. - J Daily. | Daily.
Leave Wilmiogton .......,
Ar're'Flemington
Ar've Marion.......
Ar've Florence.?
Ar've Soiuter...;..
Ar've Columbia? ..7...,
10 10 pm
11 51 ?
1 28 am
2 20 ?4
4 35 ?
6 40 ?
jit.10 pm
12 17 "
2 02 am
2 -17 "
.TRAINS GOING NORTH.
No. 43,
No. 47,
Daily. } Dairy."
Leave Columbia_
Ar've Sumter ......
AyT'erFibrenee..
Ar've Marion . ...
Ar've Flemington.
Ar've Wilmington, w.
roop^m
1 46 "
3 48 ?
5 15 <;
10 00 pin
12 05 "
1 32 am
2 38 ?
4 54 "
6 20 "
Train No. 43 (tops at all Stations.
No*. 48 and 47 stops only at Brinkley's,
Wbiteville, Flemington, Fair Bl?ff, MarioD,
Florence, Timmonsville, Sumter, Camden Junc
tion and Eastover.
Passengers ior Columbia and ail points on
C. A G. R. R., C, C A. A. R. R. Stations,
Aiken Junction, and all points beyond, should
takoSTo. 48 Night Express.
Separate Pullman Sleepers for Charleston
and for Augusta on trains 48 and 47.
All trains run solid between Charleston and
Wilmington.
THR0C6H FREIGHT train.
Daily, except Sundays.
Leave Florence^., .... .~~...-12 00 % m
Leave Sumter^ %s:" JL.v?.... 4 05 a m
Arrive at Colum?a..^'^. .............. 7 25 a oi
Leave Columbia........M. 6 40 p ui
Leave Sumter...........~ - 10 10 p m
Arrive. at,AFlorenc?......._.. 12 50 a m
LOCA^yREijSHT-^(DaiIy<except Sunday.)
Leave Florence......... . ..ilj6 00 a m
Leave "Sumter...........11 00 a m
Arrive at Columbia ...... 3 0 0 p m
Leave Columbia.~~.-.. 8 00 a m
Leave Sumter...-~^.....wv:~..~i?*l 00 P m
Arrive at Florence. ... 6 00 p m
JOHN F. DIVINE. General Sup't.
north-eastern rTOOT
superintendent's office,
O fNORTH EASTERN.- RAILROAD CO.
" Charleston, S. C, Oct. 11, 1882.
On and after this date the following Sche
dule will be run, Sundays ijcluded :
Leave Charleston." ' Arrive Florence.
7 50 a. m.12 30 p. m.
8 30 p. k.-1 20 a. m.
5 00 p. m?.Arr. Lane's 7 50 p. m.
Leave Florence. , Arrive Charleston.
2 40 a> k.;.'....Jfc..........6 50 a. m.
2 00 p. m.6 45 p 51.
Leave Lanes.
6 15 a. m.;..8 50 a. m.
TraiwleaVfpgJ'lorence at *2. 40 ?. m. will
stop foYNr?jrpaSsengers. '
CS2TTBAL KAIL?.0AD SCH3LULE.
%| ^J^BAYS EXCEPTED.
Leave Charleston...5 00 p m
" LaDes..~.7 52 p m
Arrive at Sumter.;.9 30-p-m
Leave Sumter..? .4 35 a m
" LaneY......................... 6 15 am
Arrive at "Charleston. 8 50 a m
P. L. CLEAPOR, J. F. DIVINE,
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ESTARLKHEDi 1844. -
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Sep 26, ~ '_lm
WILL^SUPPLIES, Ac, Ac.
Consisting in part of ^
INDIA RUBBER AND LEATHER
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Lace Leather, Oilers, Wrenches,
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Furnished at Manufacturers' Prices
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COLUMBIA, S. C.
Sept 12 3m
COUNTY CLAIMS.
OFFICE OF
COUNTY COMMISSIONERS
SUMTER COUNTY.
SUMTER, S. C, Oct. 3,1882.
THE BOARD OF COUNTY COMMISSION
ejs of Sumter County, will hold their
annual meeting on November 8tb, 1882. All
persons holding claimsagainst Sumter County
fortheSscal years of A.D., 1881 and 1882,
are requested to present same for examination
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they will be debarred payment.
By order of Board,
T. V. WALSH.
Clerk Bd. Co. Comr's.
Sumter County.
Spirit of the Times and Advance, copy.
Oct. 3?4t
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Sept 12
DESTINY.
Encircled by the cooling clond-land drifts,
A tiny spring I know, scarce two hands
wide,
VTbere green and fair the lofty monntain lifts
Its forest banners high in conscious pride.
Two baby brooklets, oozing from this fount,
Moved by a band unseen, in kindness
pressed,
Flow winding down on either side the mount
And reach, by paths remote, ihe self-same
rest.
Two children ptay upon the village green,
Their chubby handsfcre clasped, they kiss
and go ;
Then all their lives an ocean rolls between?
At last they meet where churchyard daisies
grow.
As rivers course, through weary winding
ways
Forever onward, onward, to the sea,
So course tby feet and mine, through all our
days,
Beneath the guiding star of destiny.
Aye up and down, through all life's mazy
folds,
As sweep and sway and rule the tides the
sea,
A Band unseen so sweeps and sways and
holds
And roles the hearts and lives of yon and
me.
WHY I Ail LEAVING ENGLAND.
: 'Look, Flukely?there she is?the
great heiress of to-dajf? the two
hundred-thousand-pounder !* My com
panion, Bryce Daubeny of tne ?th
Lancers, spoke in a quick, excited
whisper, bowing as he did so, with a
flush on his cheek; to a graceful daik
eyed woman, who rode slowly past
where we lounged- against the railings
of the Row, .with the A pril sunlight
touching into bronze the magnificent
coils of her soft hair and setting forth
the perfect symmetry of her shapely
blue-habited figure. 'What do you
think of her ? All the men are mad
aboufher.'
For the first time for years an at
tentive ear might have detected a
tone of keen, suppressed interest in
the languid, well-bred voice of him
who wastnown to his brother-officers
as 'the cool of the day/
'Do you mean the lady who has
just gone past?the lady who bowed j
to you V I stammered, while the j
fashionable crowd around me seemed
to sway and surge before my? eyes,
and I felt faint and unstrung, .as
though I had received a sodden blow;.
It was six years since the eyes
which "had just glanced at me with
perfect indifference had met mine,
and they had not been indifferent.
'Yes, that is Miss D'Eyncourt?j
Gertrude D'Eyncourt, the brightest
star in London society. Splendid,
isn't she V
*But she is no heiress.'
- Daubeny faugh ed-tbe pleasant laugh
of superior knowledge.
'Perhaps you think so ; but, in my
eyes, six'fig?res are very neat?and
that is her mark at the present time.
However, she was not alwaj's an j
heiress?you are quite right there.
Come this way, and Til tell you all
abont it; the stor> is rather interest
ing ;' and, slipping his well-gloved
fingers through my arm, Bryce Dau
beny led me - along, ithe promenade
pertaining to the Lady's Mile. It is
sevenjears since 'she - came out?
seveu years ! By Jove, that should
cover a good part of a woman:s his
tory ! 1 would not count time agaiust j
her so ruthlessly if the years had i
treated her unkindly & but any one
who saw her at her deluf- will admit
that she is ten times more glorious
now. She was the eldest of three,
and she came out alone?and a pretty
fair sensation she made, I can tell i
you ; for, though sbe had uot a farth
ing in the world, she was well con
nected, and they had enough to dress
and live decently on. Their father,
the General, was dead ; but the moth
er, the three girls, and a small boy,
Geoffrey, the youngest, lived in a j
very presentable house in Brook j
Street, and contrived to know only j
the best-people. By "the bye, Geoff
is in the Guards now. He is nine- j
teen, and' is one of the handsomest |
fellows in London. He has a face j
just like the girl's a most musical
voice, and the sweetest eyes, and is j
the m?Vt infernal young scamp I ever I
knew;. <His sister makes him aj
splendid allowance ; he lives in a last j
set, hasn't a hair on his chin, looks
like a cherub, and has all the women
mad about him. I'll introduce him to |
you, if you like. But I'm digressing. !
Where was I ? Oh, at Brook Street!
Well, the whole of them lived in
Brook Street, and Gertie was the
success of her season. Her beauty,
ber wit, her vivacity, her style,.were
talked of everywhere, and bhe might
have mairied anybody; but 6he
laughed at all suitors, held them all
aloof, yet kept them faithful, and was
free herself. At the end of the sea
son the family went abroad?to Men
tone, or Nice, or Switzerland, or
Rome?I don't know where ; and j
the second season was well begun be-!
fore they returned. Those whom |
Gertie had impressed before were i
eager to see her again, and asked her J
constantly among themselves. But
she was slow in coming back. Don't j
start, man?nothing dreadful had
happened. Gertie D'Eyncourt re- j
turned, and those who worshiped her j
were as many and as ardent as before;
they were other admirers however, j
for the woman bearing her features j
and looking at you with her eyes was j
another woman. Nobody quite knew i
what was wrong, but there was some
thing missing, something which hurt
the hearts of those who had loved her.
I don't pretend to guess at what had
occurred ; but my own surmise is that
abroad she had learned to love soqje
one who must nave proved an in-1
fernal scoundrel, and so deprived her I
of the power of caring for any one or i
anything for many a day. You see,
in the unconventional life one lives I
abroad, any one who constituted him- j
self their friend would have opportu-1
nities of rendering himself important j
and invaluable, such as he could
never find at home.?
'Let I fl
'By all means/ he agreea^iHsTW
commonly Lot. We will sit down
and rest, Why, yotT have -iai-oed
quite white man, like a girl! Well,
Gertie had as many offers in her se
cond season as in her first, but from
quite a different order of men?from
the old stagers, you know, who pre
fer style to 'go.' I tried my own
luck, and got kicked of course, but in
a way that, though it wrung my heart,
rather soothed ray pride. I don't
know how she managed it; but I
know I left her presence thinking bet
ter both of her and myself than I
had ever thought before. Her sisters
came out the nest season and got
married?well married, too ; for tbe
mother was a perfect chaperon, and
the girls were right at all points.
Gertie's years mounted up from
nineteen to twenty-three, aud her
most faithful followers, though they
never dropped off, gave np hope of
ever reaching her. Nobody quite
knew what she meant to do, but all
saw that she did not mean to marry.
It is three years ago now since she
met old Brummagem of Bengal. 'He
was as wealthy as a nabob, yellow as
a guinea, and fiery as a red pepper.
Gertie took to him, rode his horses,
accepted his presents, showed herself
at his entertainments, and made us
all think less of her fortune-hunting.
Bat 3heiet uobody's sneers affect her ;
she continued kind to the old fellow,
and kept us in hourly expectation of |
a marriage",, till he died; then the
truth came out. He had been fool
enough to want to marry her, bnt-she j
bad refused him; and for this favor j
he was so grateful that he left her all
he had in the world. She had made |
him happy by her friendship and kind
ness, so he said, and she had not
humiliated him for his felly in daring
to love her ; so be left her his two !
hundred thousand pounds as an ade
quate mark of his esteem, and his
blessing. The girl behaved uncom
monly well. She wore mourning for
the old fellow, as was becoming, and
applied to lawyers to hunt up heirs
at-law. When they succeeded in
finding only remote cousins, 6he set
tled on these relatives what they
thought enough, aud quietly accepted
tbe remainder. She now lives in one
of the best houses in Prince's Gate;
with a chaperon, for the mother died
a year ago. She put her brother into
the Guards, that he might be near
her. That is all there is to be^ said
about the most facinating woman in
town. But you are dreaming, Flukely.
I can't be a very lively narrator I'm
afraid/ ':" ' '
I roused myself with an effort.. I
had heard all he had said ; but I saw
nothing of the realities around me.
Instead, Gertrude D'Eyncourt's.
eyes looked into mine, moist with
passion and pain, us I had last seen
them, in the moonlightf by* the -Lake
of Lucerne.
'I wonder whether I could meet
your heiress V I said, after a pause.
'We must have many muturalfriends.
Could you not contrive to bring us
together ? I should like to know
her.'
'Oh, that will be managed: easily
enough! She goes everywhere.
But it is quite useless for you to en
ter the lists ; they are crowde.d al
ready, even were you not handicap
ped ;' and Daubeny laughed.
'1 should like to meet Miss D'Eyn
court?that 1*6 all I said,' I answered
indifferently.
'Oh, of course! But we all know
what that means where the is con
cerned ! Take my advice, Flukely,
aud don't put yourself in the way of
needless pain and humiliirtiori. You
know a widower with two children
could scarcely be attractive to any
woman j and Miss D'Eyncourt's tem
perament is aparticularly delicate one.
Beside^, you are not at all the 6tyle of
a man she affects.'
'I feel extremely grateful for your
care of me ; but it is quite needless,
I assure you. If you don't wish to
introduce me to your friend, I shall
trouble some one else?that is all.'
'You tnest not get lofty. I allow
no one to be lofty but myself I have
uttered my note of warning ; you can
now take your own way.. She will be
at the Carringtou's ball to-morrow
night; will you come V
'I am not invited.'
'3ut you know Leo, and you can
reckon on being welcome. I shall
call for you at ten.'
*****
'There she is with Stanhope! Bon't
they make a splendid pair V
1 smiled at the necessity my frieud
was under of pointing her out tome.
As if that were needful! As if I
should not know her masked among a
million ! *
* Watch them : they are the best
dancers in town.'
'It was he who was riding with her
yesterday.' *
'Yes, it is a case, and no mistake;
J and she encourages him shamefully if
j she does not mean anything.'
I They were gliding down. Lady
I Carrington'8 ballroom, to the measure
of the 'Blue Danube,' she a white
j robed pearl-decked queen, who lis
j tened with down-drnpped eyelids and
j smiling tremulous lips, to the words
; that were being -whispered to her
! under the mustache so needlessly
i closu to her pink ear.
j He was the colonel in Geoffrey's
J regiment, so I learned, this soldierly,
1 handsome man of thirty five or there
I aloufs, whose eye? vere as true as
I steel and warm as- flame, the
j motion of whose lithe limbs was em
bodied music, the clasp of whose
arm around Gertrude's supple wai6t
told my jealous eyes a volume.
! 'I suppose 6he'll marry V I interro
< gated.
'I don't know ; but we all believe
that Stanhope has the best chance.
If he do6en't win, I shall cease to be
I lieve that she has a heart in her body.
! Just look at him ! There is not his
! like in London ; and that is saying a
j good deal.;. But here is Carringtou.
I'll get you introduced now.'
'No, never mind,' I said in a low
tone ; but Daubeny moved away.
I no longer waited the introduction,
for those large gray eyes bad again
' m t mjge iJQ. u t tex blaik, i n difference,
forsaken. I meant to accept her un
spoken mandate, meant to go away
and leave her in peace, but I found
my friends at my elbow,' and heard
my host's voice say :?
'This way, Flukeley.'
I followed him mechanically across
the floor, and met her and her com
panion in their promenade. Carring
ton stopped them.
'Miss D'Eynconrt, allow me to in
troduce my friend, Major Flukeley.'
I meant to bow,- request the plea
sure of a dance?which she would re
fuse?and then withdraw, never to
intrude on her presence again, for I
was sick at lieart with the crowding
memories lhat surged within me, only
to render me more despicable in my
own eyes.
To my surprise, she extended her
slender, gloved band.
'I thought it was j'ou whom I saw
here to-night, but I could not be quite
sure?seven years changes one so,'
she said in the old maddening musi
cal tones.
'They haven't changed you at any
rate/ I said, huskily. I should know
you anywhere.'
She smiled, and let the implied
compliment pass ?
'My friend Colonel Stanhope?
Major Flukeley,'she said, introducing
us ; and we bowed stiffly and -stared
at each other hostilely.
I felt that I was detaining them,
and I prepared to retire ; but she re
tained me.
'Is Mrs. Flukeley here to-nigbt V
'Mrs. Flukeley is dead,' I answered
curtly.
She paled a little, her beautiful
inoutb growing grave.
'How sad for your poor little chil
dren I 'You have children, have you
not V
'Yes, two boy3.'
'You must come and tell me about
them later in the night. I ana enga
ged just now.'
She bowed, smiled, and passed on,
while for the moment I anathematized
in my heart the two little lads with
ridiculous names who were at school
down in Gloucestershire. . -
Could anything, 1 wondered, make
a man more utterly absurd than to be
questioned about his children by the
woman to whoni he- would, still play
the lover ?
I did see her later in the night. I
admitted a few facts relative to my
Thomas, and my Benjamin.; and,
when that was over, I went .out into
the silent night, execrating my des
tiny and myselfr
No woman would ever be to me
what Gertrude D'Eynconrt had been?
still was. I would barter all the
memories of my past, all the hopes of
my future life, to feel once more the
pressure of those sweet lips on mine,
the clasp of those wnite arms about
my neck. _ Now the lips smiled at me
'indifferently, now the white arms
wore gems to the value of the gold
for which 1 had sold her.
'A truce,' I cried, 'to these mad
dening thoughts I'
I tried to banish them as I hurried
from the scene of revelry?now- a
scene of misery to me ; but they fol
lowed me to my solitary rooms at the
Langham, and would not" be driven
away.
She had loved me, an? she bad let
me go; and now I ground my teeth
and anathematized myself for leaving
her.
The whole of the story of my rela
tionsbip to her was disgraceful to-ine ;
and its worst bitterness at this mo
ment lay in the fact that she thought
too meanly of me now to feel even re
sentful.
I had met her abroad, had loved
her from the first moment I saw her
on the steamer playing between Gene
va and Chillon, had got introduced to
her and her mother by a mutual friend,
and had rendered myself indispensa
ble during their tour, in which I was
permitted to join.
I taught her to love mc/I won her
girlish affection, and then I. flung it
away with the specious lie corned to
break her lfeart and my own. I had
been engaged to another before I met
her?was bound in honor to marry
her. I must give her, Gertrude
D'Eyncourt, up.
1 had been so mean and false and
contemptible that, had my conduct
been known, I should have been shut
out from the society of all houorable
men life long. No explanation could
have explained it away, no falsehood
could ever have glossed it over.
I had sacrificed her on the altar of
Mammon?had married Bessie White
that her money might pay "my debts
and leave my futuie free?had been
perjured lo\ er to one woman and per
jured husbaud to another,, and utterly
unworthy both always.
And now one was dead, and the
other, one of the wealthiest untitled
women in England, was dearer to me
than all the world beside. Yet I
Could never reach her, never clasp
her hand in honest friendship, never
meet the frank glance of her clear
blue eyes fearlessly.
I fell asleep to dream of her
I awoke to lay a hundred plans by
which I might meet her, might speak
to her for a moment. Oh, I was mad
to imagine the past could ever - be
wiped out or ?toned, mad to expose
{ myself to the laughter of men as I did,
mad to thrust myself in her way and
dog her footsteps and hannt her!
But the love of my youth had beome
the passion of my manho&l; and that
it had turned my brain I honestly be
lieve now.
Yet I had something to build on.
She had loved me once ; and did uot
poets tell us love cannot die ? If so,
might I not succeed in reawakening
hers ? Still her very friendless, her i
way of meeting me, rendered her un
approachable. She would discuss the
topics of the day, the plays, the
operas, with me as with a score of
other men ; but anything' beyond
literature or art found her indifferent,
uncomprehending.
She would permit no reference to
the past, till sometimes I was ready
to ask myself whether it was not all
a delusion that I had ever held her to
wy breast, iiad everJriseedherperfect
..
v .-_ ._ -. -- ^ _
Hd ever clasped her slender
| Jgny own as I told her that I
worshiped her.
It was in vain that I secured her
boxes at the opera or the play in the
hope that I might accompany her.
She was either engaged elsewhere or
had accepted another escort. It was
in vain that I haunted her doorstep ;
she was always 'not at home' when I
called. It was in vain that I consti
tuted myself her shadow in the Row.
Of what good was it to be a shadow
where there was a lortunale attendant
cavalier ?
'Give it up, Flukely,7 Daubeny
counseled good-humoredly. 'You are
only hurting yourself by tilting
against a dead-wall. Why, men who
beat you at every point have no
chance with her; besides, I believe
she is engaged to Stanhope/
'If so, why has not the Morning
News told us so V I answered, dog
gedty, and held on my way.
'You are looking ill, she said, as
she met me at the Academy, opposite
to the favorile Millias of that year.
'Is there anything the matter with
you?' ^
'1 think I am about to die/ I an
swered, with a mirtnless laugh.
'Oh, no?oh, you must not! What
would become of your poor little
children thenV she said, with grave!
concern.
'For Heaven's sake, don't mention
my children ! They are well enough.
What does it matter about them ?
You will always talk of them, never
of me. Will you not let me speak to
you once for five minutes before I
leave London V
'If you have anything to say, speak
now.'
'I cannot. This is not the place.
May I call on you to-morrow ? Ah,
do see me, Gertie, for Heaven's
sake!"
Hush, Major Flukeley, you will be
overheard ! Well I will, I will see you
to-morrow.'
'And alone V
'Yes, alone/
I wrung her hand convulsively be
fore I strode away to count the hours
until I should stand in her sweet j
presence.
[coxcl?deo next week [
Paris Letter.
Parts France, Oct. 9, 1882.
i Tbe return of Mr. Stanley to Europe
j from the Stations which be has planted
upon bis mighty river, the Congo or
Livingstone, has given rise to a lively
controversy in the* French journals.
If the American public were not so
much absorbed in political questions, it
is probable that their attention would
be engaged by the efforts being now
made in France to wrong the greatest
living traveller and to filch from tbe
association which he serves the golden
fruit of toils. The fact is that French
politicians and journalists are rather 'on
the rampage' just at present for prestige
and territory, to make up for recent re
buffs and losses. Hence their remarka
ble activity abroad in Cochin China,
Madagascar, aud elsewhere, and their
excitement at home over the Egyptian
Control, and this last affair of M de
Brazza. To cotfple two such questions
as that of the Nile and the Congo may
seem to some absurd; but the day will
come, I believe, when the control of the
navigation and commerce of the central
African river will not be a much smaller
matter than any Egyptain traffic, and
when the splendid and prodigious ser
vice wrought for civilization by Henry
Stanley?first in tracking the won
drous channel from its source, and next
in opening its waters to trade and inter
course?will place bis name amoug the
chief benefactors of maukind.
None were more forward than the
French to acclaim and welcome Stanley
when- his magnificent discovery was.
announced. ^Frenchman are enlight
ened and generous?when their inter
ests are not concerned; and no Paris
journal at that date found any fault with
the explorer's conduct. They praised,
him to the skies for-all he bad achieved,
and afterwards hailed the beneficent
! mission which sent him forth under il
kistriou3 auspices to open the river
fee^had given to the world, by making a
roa?^rn below tbe Congo cataracts to
Stanley^ool, that lake-like enlargement
of the -strMm down to which navigation
is.clear rod easy, from the far inte
rior.- But while Stanley was patiently
toilingat his roads and stations, a
French lieutenant, M. de Brazza, groping
about the country of the Gaboon, found,
or thinks that he found a shorter way to
the Pool by the Ogowe and Alima
rivers. There is, doubtless, such a
path, and de Brazza came by it to a
point opposite tbe chief station of Stan
ley upon the Pool, but he had no appli
ances, followers, or funds to ?Vove the
capabilities of his route ; what he did
was by some hocuspocus with the natives
to obtain what he calls, and what the
French journalists maintain to be, 'a
treaty of occupations/ giving, him in
the name of France, possession of this
very important region of the river.
If ever a noble work should have been
left to its projector and bis enlightened
friends to complete and to profit by, this,
by every rule of equity and chivalry,
was the work. Let, therefore, the
plain truth be told as to the mode in
which M. de Brazza has sought to steal
the credit and the reward of Stanley's
vast labors; and what a miserable pre
tence it is which the French journals
are not ashamed to sustain, because
j they hope for cheap annexations in
I Africa.
De Brazza boasts the possession of a
'treaty' with Makoko, tbe chipf of the
Stanley Pool country, granting, him a
I cession of the land lying between tho
Gue and the Impila. But this was in
reality only an ordinary permission to
build at Mfwa, which De Brazza calls
Ntanio and De Lcsseps Brazzaville.
Mfwa is on the north bank, and consists
of two small villages, inhabited by ivory
buying Bateke, who sell ivory to the
Bacongo and Babwendc. This cession
of privilege is thus no more than has
been made io any !reveller or mission
ary by MakuWs chiefs aud merely
.means, 'you may build houses, make j
gardens as mauy as you please, but we
i will not give our fathers' lands away
to the stranger. It is not the custom of
I the Bateke' This, indeed, has been I
the very laDguage usea Dy ixaucuu, me
great chief of Makoko, to those who
have asked for land. Id return for so
very mild a favor De Brazza gave a
similarly small quid pro quo, viz: a
French flag, four feet long, which was
too short for a loin-oloth, or otherwise
might have breeched a savage, twenty
four cotton handkerchiefs and three
fathoms of a bright striped cloth, with a
dozen glass beads, the value of all be
ing ?2.50. A good idea of the transac
tion will be derived from knowing that
this same Ganchu who brought De
Brazza to Stanley Pool offered to build
another person a grass hut twenty feet
long, ten broad and eight feet high, for
200 brass rods, valued at ?4,25. One
does not purchase kingdoms at this rate!
De Brazza, therefore, perverted leave to
build into cession of territory. I be
lieve he wrote a piece of paper, got
Ganchu and bis friends to touch tbe
pen, ignoraot of what they were doing,
j then left his sergent and two sailors
with a flag as an earnest, that be would
return to build afterwards, distributing
little French tricolors to unsophisticated
villages of Mfwa, as one might dis
tribute coppers or sweet-meats to chil
dren ; slapped tbem all on tbe shoulder
in a jolly mode and amiable temper with
all the world, and thetuwent off. as a
friend, to fraternize with Stanley at
Ndambi Mbongo. The first issue of this
stratagem was that two English mission
aries, coining into tbe region with a
British ensign, were driven out by riot
raised a Nshassa, probably through the
intrigues of De Brazza's representatives.
But when, by and by, Mr. Stanley
himself appeared, the mirth of 'annex
ation and occupation1 seems to have
vanished very quickly. De Brazza's
sergeant cooled down into quietude,
and the chiefs came round the great
traveller, recognizing him as an old
friend, and declaring that be must dwell
witb them and no one else. Mr. Stan
ley has founded stations, built large es
tablishments, surrounded "by a populous
town ; placed vast quantities of stores
and merchandize there, launched bis
steamers and boats o? the waters of tbe
glorious river, and finally invited the
missionaries to come back, returning
this time in peace and safety. De
Brazza's sergeant and two followers im
mediately disappeared from the vi
cinity, and the relics of the bogus?
sovereignty founded by this gentleman
are, we believe, a grass hut in ruins
and a piece of paper, which might be
a treatise upon mid-wifery or conic sec
tions for anything which Makoko's peo
ple know abo^ib.
They Turned a Rule. .
Less than threc?months ago. a wreck
of a man staggered into the office of a
weekly paper in Eastern Michigan and
asked for money to buy whisky.
Strangely enough the publisher was an
old schoolmate. They were boys tor
gether. They were apprentices in the
same town. They worked side by side
as fiuished compositors. One had so
briety and thrift?the other had a good
heart and open hand. Twenty
years made tbe one rich and influen
tial?the other a drunkard who slept
in the gutter as often as in a bed. The
one bad made use of what God had giv
en him, but the other had deliberately
made himself a wreck.
The meeting called up a host of re
collections, and the contrast between
their situations was so great that the old
drunkard was sobered as be realized it. j
He was offered work, but he bad
become too broken. Th? stick and the
role were no longer for him. He was
offered a temporary home but he
looked at his rags and felt his shame
for the first time in months: When
money was handed him he waved it
back and said:
*I shall not want it. I ask, in the
name of olden days and as a fellow
craftstnan, one little favor.'
It shall be granted/
4When you know that I am dead,
then turn a irule for me and give me a
single liue.'
The promise was made ana* the old
wreck floated out again on tbe current
-of life, borne'here and there and feeling
that* ?eath was to be the end. Yester
day alcopy of tbe weekly reached tbe
FrekPress with proof that the editor
had fulfilled his promise. Re had
turned a rule for -ijM^poor wreck, and
had given iiiFa line:
"Died, Septejn*6eV27, 1882, George White.'
That was all, but in that line was
such a sermon as no man on earth
could deliver. For every, word there
was a year of woe and.^degradation.
For every letter there were tears and
heart-aches and promises and failures.
?Detroit Free Press.
Mrs. Keruble vouches for the- fact
that William Makepeace Thackeray, on*
tbe occasion of his first delivery of
lectures on 'The Four Georges," was,
despite his great reputation and un
doubted genius, absolutely unmanned I
by fear of his audience. This accom
plished lady happened to look in at
Willis's Rooms just before the hour fixed |
for Thackeray's reading, and to her
surprise she found the eminent satirist
standing, 'like a forlorn, disconsolate
giant/ in the middle of tbe room,
staring about hirn 'He held my hand
like a scared child.' writes Mrs. Fanny
Kemble, 'crying, 'Oh, don't leave me!
I'm sick at my stomach with fright!'
'But.' said I, itfbackeray, you mustn't
stand here. Your audience are begin
ning to come in ' and so saying, Mrs.
Kemble kindly led him out into the re
tiring room adjoining the lecture hall.
The novelist had left the manuscript of
his lecture on the reading desk, and
Mrs. Kemble volunteered to recover it
for him. and in so doing scattered the
leaves all about the floor. In the'great
cst confusion and distress she took the
wreck of his manuscript back to Thack
eray thinking that she had done some
irreparable injury. Tbe real kindness
of heart of 'Mr. Titmarsh' showed itself
at once. 'My dear soul,' he -said, 'you
Couldn't have done better for " me. I
have just a quarter of an hour to wait
here, and it will take me about that
time to page this again, and it's the
best thing in the world that could have
happened.* 'So I left him,' adds the
daughter of Charles Kemble, 'to give the
j first of that brilliant course of literary
i historical essays with which beenchant
j ed and instructed countless audiences j
I in England and America. 1
xne JLnsappomtea uanaiaaie.
The candidate who got left at the
county convention caD be toldr by
the way he grasps your hand, braces
himself against the gurgling emotion,
and wbisperingly inquires: -
Did you ever hear of a case like
it r
You never did. You tell him that
you never did, and he pulls you into a
doorway and continues:
Poi done with politics forever f *
'No !'
'ies, lam, and with the party,
tooP
'You don't say P
Oh, but I am. This thing ha*
satisfied me that there is no such thing
as honesty in politics, and that a politi
cian has no more word than a dog. I
sold out.'
Possible!' *
Sold oat and lied/ouV ~Tbey used
money to beat me. They lied about
roe. Tbey played the hypocrite and
knave. Here I have- served ?ie party
for nineteen long years and never asked
for an office, and the minute - I decide
to accept the nomination for a little
fifteen cent position they go back to
work and beat me in convention with a
wodden head who doesn't know enough
to mark a barrel of " pork. Cor
ruption?cor-rup-shun?and the whole
ticket will be defeated on account of
it.'
And the best of it is he takes you
for a man who isn't posted. He.
doesn't believe yoa have the. slight
est idea that he packed three or four
caucuses, bought a dozen dele
gates, told three lies to the other
men's one, and was beaten because
his delegates sold out. He .takes you
for an innocent, and be grasps your
hand again at parting and chokingly
says: ? *
'Corruption?vile corruption I. moat
barefaced fraud in American politics1
Can't train with a party upheld by^
the practice of such ^priqplea-?
can't possibly do it.1?Detroit Pre?
Press.
A Remarkable Discovery.
The United States patent office has;
just extended its official wing over cine
of the most remarkable discoveries of the,
preseot century, and one, it is safe to*
to say, which will not only effect a^
revolution in the present method .of.
producing and applying heat, but se
riously undermioe the very structure
upon which the at present generally:
received scientific notion of heat rest*.
The model apparatus patented by Mr,.
Calver, the inventor, consists of ? a
number of small looVjoig,.. glasses ^?r^
ranged in rows upon a frame so fixed
that they can be converged upon any
one point. * ; ' : . :
A working model, of which - he has.
a number, was exhibited to a Wash
ington Post reporter in the yard in*
the rear of his residence. Forty .innoV
cent, guiless-looking fifteen . cent
gilt-framed mirrors, each 3J. inches
by 5J inches, were arranged upon a.
frame propped up like an artist's" ,ea-'"
sei and bearing a striking resemblance
thereto. l^^l
Facing the easel was the fragment
of what was once a barn door
propped up and partly covered w?fi^
worn and faded sheet of zinc
bore umistakable evidence of HaV-5,
iog been burned through in. several^
places. It was but the work of a;
minute to converge the forty mirror*
upon a space 3f inches bj inches'
upon the barn door, and then the re>
velation began. As each mirror cast
its quota of light upon the' common
store the parallelogram * of light' grew
whiter and more dazzling," until at
last it looked like a batch of electrio ?
lights. r-^
But little patience was required, to,
awaits results. In less than tbirty^sec
onds a thin curling puff of smoke gave
evidence of the progress of-the expert^
raent. In a minute the board was
bursting out in flames. The ^focna
was then shifted upon the zinc. In a
few moments it began to turn color,
then shrink as if anxious to get away:
where it was cooler, and then in lese
than three minutes the entire surface
covered by the focus was literally?
melting, drop by drop. To melt lino
requires a temperature of over 700 de
grees Fahrenheit. .
German Carp.
About the middle of August, less thaff
three months ago, Capt, J. C. Boyat
placed in his pond a few specimens of
Carp, which he purchased from Mr.
Joseph Marcbbanks. The fish weref
then between three and four*inches itt
length?the largest not exceeding four
inches. Yesterday Capt. Boyd drew
off the water from his pond and to his
great suprise be found his fish now
measuring from eight to thirteen
inches. The largest specimen meas
ured fourteen iuches in length, between
ten and eleven inches in circumfer
ence its weight being estimated about
three pounds. This would make the
growth of the fish average an inch *
week.?GrecenviUe News.
The African traveller, Henry M.
Stanley, is engaged in establishing
trading stations along a great commer
cial route into Central Africa. He is*
acting for the King of the Belgians,
and he reports four stations ready and
several steamers as plying on the Con
go, a river absolutely unknown a firtr
years ago.
The Boston Journal of Commerce ex-,
presses alarm because Western men are.
buying up the timber regions of the.
South and getting their hands on all the
available lumber resources of that re
gion. This writer claims that New
England ought to look out and secure a
share. Our railroads have gone where
our forests are going. Will our farm
ers follow suit? At the present^rate of
progress, Southern men to the manor
born, will not own much of their patri
mony, fifty years hence.
Mrs. Mary Austin, who lately died:
at Washington, had forty-four male
children, eleven of whom survive. She
was a doctor of medicine and a surgeon,
and sefved through the war with, the,
rank of major. ~ - ; I