Newspaper Page Text
A Family Companion, Devoted to Literature, Miscellany, News, Agriculture, Markets, &c.
Vol. XII. WEDNESDAY MORNING, APRIL 12, 1876. No. 15.
EVERY WEDNESDAY XOONXLNG2
At -Newberry.% S. C.
BY THOSt P9 GRKNEKERt
Editor and Proprietor.
Terms, $2.50 per aftnum,
invariably in Advance.
Z? The paper Is stopped at the expiration Of
tme for which it is paid.
97 The N. mark denotes expiration of sub
MY ANGEL MOTHER.,
In the land beyond the river,
Under the skies forever fair,
Dwells my sainted angel mother
Watching for my'eoming there.
One day o'er the silent waters
.At the setting of the san.
Went her with the mystic boatman,
*And her earthly life was done.
Much I miss her at the twilight,
When the shadows veil the skies,
For she used to sing at evening
Many tender melodies.
I baye stood in old cathedrals
Where a hundred singers sung,
But their voices never thrilled me
- Like her voice, when I was young.
She would take her time-worn Bible,
When the lamps were all alight,
And from that God's word she read us
Truth's to guide our steps aright,
And she whispered us of Heaven,
Where the many mansions are;
And while she was here among us
Heaven seemed not so very far.
Oh, I know the angels met her,
When the boatman rowed her o'er,
And. they sang a song of welcome
p.- When her feet touched Heaven's shore.
scream, but she thought of the ser
vants and restrained herself. White
as death, she put the note back in
the book, locked the desk, and
dropped the great chan of keys
into the box. Then she sat in her
rocking chair, and sivayed herself
backward and forward, and asked
herself what she could do. What,
indeed ! Fifteen years she had
been married, and all that while
she had been so happy. And now
trouble, worse than death, had
come. There was no explaining
this away. Her husband - had no
sisters, no mother, no female friend
or relative who could write such a
No, there was no explanation but
this dreadful one-he had been
mak:ng love to some one. Perhaps
he even had two wives. When men
began to be bad, no one could tell
where they would stop.
When her husband came home
he had no suspicion of the discov
I ery she had made. He looked at
her much as usual, and he spoke
"What's the matter, Em ? The
children are not threatened with
the small pox ?"
"If they we.re dead with it,
William, and I too, I should be
glad," said the wife. "I had rather
be dead, than feel as I feel to
"My dear, 1 never saw you this
way before," he said. "Are you
ill ? I'm afraid you are."
He came to her side and bent
over her. She repulsed him. Then
he, astonished and angry, stood
looking at her.
"What am I to understand from
this ?" he said.
"You know, William," she ans
wered. "Look into your heart and
ask yourself. Ah! William, I have
been a true wife to you, and a good
mother to your children for fifteen
years, and now you turn from me
to some younger and prettier wo
man. You see I know all, William.
That note excited my suspicion
this morning. I know women don't
reason things out like men ; they
know truth by instinct. I opened
your desk, and read the note you
had hidden inside the book of
poems, and I don't know who she
is, and I don't care ; but you love
Still the husband stood looking
at his wife, the strangest look. He
did not reproach her, nor did he
answer her .by any word. After
awhile he said softly, and quite to
"The little pink note in the book !
Well! to be sure! Yes, yes! and
she is jealous."
"Jealous!I" cried poor Mrs. Craw
ford. "That's a light word to me,
and you use it lightly. It's no
thing that you have been so false to
me that you-"
"Emma," said the man, interrupt
ing, "you make your accusations
very coolly. Why do you declare
that I have been false to you'?"
A little rayv of hope shot into the
"At least you must have made
love to a woman, before she could
write so to you."
He shook his head softly.
"Yes, I confess that," he said.
"This is more-than I can bear,"
sobbed the wife. "I am an idiot to
talk to you; but you must know my
resolution. We must part. Papa
will take me home. I will go to
him with my children, and you-you
can go to her, whoever she is. I
wili not share the heart that once
was all my own."
"I don't think you were right to
open my desk as you did," he said,
"bat since you have found the let
ter, I'll make a clean breast of it.
Love is something that comes and
goes at will. I love that woman,
and she, poor girl, loves me. I
suppose, if you feel anxious to go
to your father, I must let you go.
I'll write to the old gentleman and
explain. Good-night, Emma."
Next day a carriage stopped at
the door, and a white haired old
farmer stepped from it. It was Em
ma's father. Mr. Crawford had
been as good as his word, and had
written to him.
"Oh! father," cried the wretched
woman, as she clung to his arm,
"this is a sad, sad ending of all my
"Yes Emma," es id t nM l man,
"Crawford has told me all. It is
very dreadful, but you can't regret
leaving him-a man that gets love
letters from other women, Emma."
Her mother took her in her arms
at the door; that was something;
but after all she could not forget
her lo n g, long wifehood. That
night Mrs. Crawford lay awake
and not likely to sleep.
"Awake, daughter ?" said a voice.
She answered:-"Yes, father, and
likely to be."
Then the door opened and the
old man came in.
"I came to bring you this. Your
husband gave me this to give you.
It's about that woman that wrote
hat note, and I'd read it to-night,
if 1 were you. I'll set the candle
ver here. Might as well get over
t at once. Good-night."
The same queer look that she
had seen in their faces startled Em
na Crav/ford again; but it passed
from her mind as she took up
bhe thick letter that had been laid
pon her pillow, and breaking the
seal, found within two small pink
otes-one numbered "one," and
bhe other numbered "two," in black
lead-pencil; and another in he r
"MY DAR Emu-I think that
y this time you will have growi
mxious to know more about the
voman that wrote to me. She's a
very nice little soul, though trou
Dled with jealousy,andImarried her
ifteen years ago. I lived very near
ler during courting days and we
wvrote not much to each other. I
2ad two little notes only. Those I
Kept. The one numbered 'two,' was
,vritten on her return from a short
visit. The other numbered 'one'while
he was absent. The number 'two, is
he one you read. I cane aross it
:.hatmorning you spied me reading
it. I should have told you, had you
iot been so cross. But when I was
;oft with the memory of old court
ng days, you snapped at me. Em
na, my dear, you have forgotten
toar own little notes; but if instinct
ad only prompted you to look at
he dates, it would have been better.
[nstinct always guides a woman,
ou know. Perhaps, on the whole
you'll not care to stay always with
our parents but some day forgive
~roar husband, and return to him.
Fours, as ever. WraA
"Father do you think he can ev.
3r forgive and take me back ?"
aid Mrs. Crawford to her father,
the next morning, "I have been
such an idiot !"
"I don't know,I'm sure, my dear,"
said the old man; and then he open.
d the parlor door, and some one
tanding within it stretched out
his arms, and Emma Crawford rush
d into them.
Her first fit of jealousy was over,
and it was her last.
A man who shows no defect is a
fool or a hypocrite whom we should
mistrust. There are defects so
bound to the fine qualities that
they announce them-defects which
it is well not to correct. Cheerful
ness is always to be kept up, if a
man is out of pain ; but mirth to a
prudent man should always be acci
Time-the vehicle that carries
everything into nothing. We talk
of spending our time as if it were
so. much interest of a perpetual
annuity; whereas we are all living
upon our capital; and he who wastes
a single day throws away that
which can never be recovered.
A man will see when there is a
house full of children one or two
of the oldest restricted, and the
youngest ruined by indulgence; but
in the midst some that are, as it
wre, forgotten, who many times
nevertheless prove the best.
Four children, aged thirteen, sev
en, five and two years, respectively,
came to the station house in Wil
liamsburgh, N. Y., and said that
their father had driven them from
home and threatened to cut their
throats if they returned.
What person who aims at a mark
all day will not sometimes hit it ?
We sleep every night, and there are
few on which we do not dream; can
we wonder, then, that what we
THE WORST FOES OF TRUE
Some religionists are always in
dread of the progress of scientific
skepticism. They fear lest such
men as Darwin, Huxley, Tindall,
and Spencer may undermine the
very foundations of religious be
lief, and leave mankind without
a God, a Bible, a soul or a hope of
immortality. 0 t h'e r religionists
dread the influence of the subtle
speculations of those modern phil
osophers who turn facts into fig
ures of speech, ecclesiastical rites
into symbols of thought, and sa
cred personages into mythological
shows; and hence they are appre
hensive over the spread of the
works of such men as Renan and
Strauss. Other religionists look
with dread upon the coarser forms
of materalism and infidelity, such
as are supposed to exist among cer
tain portions of the so-called work
ing classes. Many clergymen are
so much exercised over the power
and pretensions of these enemies
that they consider it their most
important duty to wage relentless
war upon them from their pul
pits. They thunder against them,
argue against them, quote Scrip
ture against them, and, as Hudi
bras says, "prove their doctrine or
thodox by apostolic blows and
Now we hold that the greatest
danger and injury to religion in
these times. are not frQm scientific
skepticism,or speculative mysticism,
or subteranean materialism b u t
from the men who profess to believe
in refigion,- bt do- not7rautiue
it. We mean those men who nom
inally accept the Scriptures, but,
instead of conforming their lives
thereto, follow in the wicked ways
of the world; those men who be
long to the Church while they re
main in partnership with the devil;
those men whose lips are sweetened
with piety while their hands are
foul with wrong doing ; those men
men who pretend to believe in
the awful sanctions and penalties
of the Divine law, yet, in reality,
scorn them as though they were
shams ; those men whose god is
their belly, and whose glory is in
their shame, who are like unto
whited sepulchres which indeed ap
pear beautiful outward but are with
in full of dead men's bones and
It is such people as these, of
whom there are so many nowadays,
that are the worst foes of religion,
the most formidable obstacle to its
progress, and the most successful
propagators of unbelief. The un
regenerate look at them, and say if
this be your religion, it is a fraud ;
the woim is spread under thee, and
the worms cover thee. The scoffers
jeer at them; the heavy villains
smile at them; and even those who
live in debauchery despise the thin
veneer with which they try to cover
themselves. There is nothitsg to
be wondered at in all this. Sup.
pose men followed t he eaurse
of these religionists in other de
partments of life. Suppose the
misers in the commu.nity praised
generosity, o r t h e drunkards
praised sobriety, or the thieves hon
esty, or the liars truthfulness, or
the corruptionists purity - they
would certainly be called pretenders;
and though people would still be
bound to maintain their faith in
these virtues, t h e r e are many
whose respect for them would be
weakened by such eulogists. Ex
ample is more powerful than profes
sion ; and when a man professes
belief in a doctrine which he dbes
not practice, he is but a stumbling
block in the path of wayfarers.
The life must be adjusted to the
faith, if the latter is to be a power
in the world.
There are in this city, perhaps, a
hundred thousand church members
more or less. Now, suppose these
hundred thousand men and wo
men practised in their daily lives
the great truths to which they have
sworn allegiance. Suppose they
illustrated by their actions the
beauty and glory of their nominal
belief. Suppose they were distin
guished from the unregenerate
world in all their ways. Suppose
they could be pointed out as
children of the light, radically
diversed from the children of dark
ness. Suppose that religion, in
stead of being put to shame in
the house of its friends, were
the governing force therein. Sup
pose these things we say, and then
do you not know that there would
be a visible transformation in the
community? Would not wicked
ness be turned back; would not ir
religion hide itself ; would not the
devil be dumbfounded? Nay, sup
pose there were but ten thousand of
the professors of religion in this city
who properly exemplified it, and
surely this is not asking too much.
We desire, then, in this war
against the powers of hell, to rouse
up the religious professors. We
desire that they should realize what
it is they profess ; that they should
illustrate it by their practice; that
they should show it, not by cant
and flummery but as an actuality,
and a controlling powei-. If this
cannot be done, then, alas! for the
pretenses of so-called religion.
[I. Y. Sun.
PREPARATIONS FOR DIN
There are the decent proprieties,
moreover which belong essentially
to the well-ordered home dinner,
which not only heighten its pleas
ures, but render it more healthful.
There is the preliminary refresh
ment of the toilet, not only securing
cleanliness, but compelling delay be
fore sitting down to the table, and
thus preventing that dangerous
practice of eating and drinking
when fevered with the heat and ag
itated with the flurry of excitement
and exercise. There is no part of
the toilet before dinner nrare im
portant than cleansing the teeth
and thoroughly rinsing the mouth
-operations which are hardly prac
ticable in the "down-town feed,"
but which' no nice person would
fail to m%ke a preliminary of his
deliberate domestic meal.
The cigar, if permissible at any
time, should never be smoked with
in the two hours preceding any
solid meal. If it is, it will not only
deaden the appetite, but pervert
the taste and weaken digestion; and
yet it is no uncommon practice to
take a cigar at the very moment of
staring out for dinner. When this
meal is dispatched in the restau
rant, the last puffhas hardly passed
away, and the taste of the fetid
remnant is still clinging to the
mouth, while the first morsels of
food are being swallowed. Nico
tine has-never been commended, so
far as is known, either as an appeti
zer or a dondiment, but is univer
sally believed to - be a nauseous
poison. Should the dinner be eat
en at home, the cigar will be
thrown away, at least by most de
corous persons, at the door-step,
and there will be some chance of
its vile smack passing off in the
course of the anteprandial purifi
All provocatives of the appetite
in the form of "bitters," absinthe,
and glasses of sherry are hurtful
to digestion, and especially danger
ous to morals, for nothing is more
conducive to habits of intoxication.
Strong spirituous or vinous drinks
are probably hardly ever safe, but
they are certainly never so when
taken into an empty stomach, and
especially at the moment just as it
is ready for a hearty meal, and its
powers of adoption are at their
Dressing, for dinner, as that pro
cess is generally understood by our
dressy dames, is by no means a pre
paration favorable to the enjoyment
of a hearty meal and its good
digestion. The constraints of the
fashionable costume, with its con
stricted waist and multiple pressure
upon the very organs the free ser
vice of which is imperiously de
manded on the occasion, are hardly
consistent with the full reception of
the necessary food or an easy dis
poition of it.--Dr. ROBERT ToiEs,
in Harper's Magazine for April.
Chilliness of the body dampens
the spirits, sours the temper, and
renders the whole man unlovely.
We rise to fortune by many sue
cessive steps ; we descend by only
THE MAN WHO LIED.
There is a class of men who love
to sit round the stove of a country
grocery of a winter's evening and
exchange lies. M. Quad, the wag
of the Detroit Free Press, hits off
this class in the following story:
One evening when the winter
blasts moaned sadly across the
street corners, and the captains of
the ferry boats wore anxious looks,
seven or eight vessel owners and
'laid up' lake captains sat around a
cheerful base burner in a saloon near
the river. After the usual amount
of growling about the weather one
of them told a story. There might
have been one ounce of truth in it,
but the crowd felt certain that the
one ounce was offset by twenty-four
pounds of the 'awfulest kind' of ly
ing. Therefore a second man told
a story to beat it, and then a
third man beat the second. When
the fourth man started out he
'Gentlemen, I have also seen
tough times. When I was .sailing
the schooner Fortune forty years
ago two of us were swept overboard
it a storm on Lake Erie one
black night. A hatch cover went
with us, and it so happened that
we both clutched it. It was not
large enough to support two. I
was captain, he a sailor. I had a
family-he had none. I shouted
to him to quit his hold, and when
he would not, I reached over,clutch
- 'is throat, and held on till his
fingers loosed, and he went to the
bottom of the lake! It was twenty
miles off Point Betsey, and with a
shrill wild shriek, which yet lingers
in my ears, the poor wretch went
to his death! May the Lord for
give me !'
With his chair tilted against the
wall, a lanky sunflowerish chap had
been nodding his head right and
left as if sleeping. As the captain's
narrative was concluded the stran
ger rose up and solemnly said:
'I am that man !'
The crowd looked at him in as
tonishment, and he continued:
"I landed on Point Betsey next
morning in time for breakfast, and
I swore a solemn oath that I'd lick
you for chokeing me if I had to
live a hundred years to do it!'
'You can't be the man,' replied
the captain, looking suspiciously at
the fellow's big fists ; 'it was forty
'I know it was, and for forty years
I've been aching to lick you out of
The. captain had lied, but he
didn't want to own it, and he
'That sailors name was Richard
'Kerect!' bowed the stranger,
'that's my name!l'
"But he was taller than you.'
'Being in the water so long
that night I shrunk just a foot!'
was the cool rejoinder.
'Well, I know you can't be the
man,' said the captain.
'I am the man, and now I am go
ing to maul you to pulp i No man
can choke me and then go and brag
He sailed in and upset the captain,
but was then set upon by the whole
crowd. He got into the eye of the
wind and hung there for a time,
but presently he paid off a little,
got the wind on his quarter, and
went at it to lick ten times his
weight in old liars. He was a very
ambitious man, and those who could
get out of doors got out, and those
who couldn't offered him a gallon
of whiskey to come to anchor. He
furled his sails on this understand
ing, and as he set his glass down for
a third drink, he wiped his bleed
ing ear and then remarked:
'When a man tries to sacrifice
me in order to save himself he
don't know who he is fooling with !'
He was the biggest liar of them
all, but he made the most out of
It is remarkable how virtuous
and generously disposed L.very one
is at a play. We uniformly applaud
what is right and condemn what is
wrong, when it costs us nothing but
The excesses of youth are drafts
upon our old age, payable, with in
ttrest, abont thirty years afte date.
The damp air came chilly up from
the river late yesterday afternoon.
Around the bend at the Wyomissing,
near the cave at the mill on the op
posite side of the Schuylkill, an aged
colored man was sitting on a stone,
eating an 'evening' meal that bad
no doubt been 'begged from -a
neighboring farm h o us e . The
stranger was a type of the real,
genuine Southern slave. His hair
was gray, his form, rather bent, his
little eyes encamped in a cluster of
wrinkles; his nose broad and an
expression of honesty, kindness of
heart, geniality that could not be
hid, but that burst resplendent
through a cloud of sorrow that
seemed to mantle him from his
old black hat to the well worn
boots on his feet.
'My name is Henry, sah, Uncle
Henry dey used to call me when I
was livin' whar I was raised,' was the
reply he made to the reporter's ques
'Dat was down in Georgia, sah, a
long time ago. rm been gittin
around de Norf since de war, but
rse gwine to try to go along home
agin, if I can before dese bones
wear out and dere's nuffin left o'
'Want to get back South again,
'Yes, sah. It kind o' creeps in
my bones to go home again. I call
it home, but it's a long way
off Was born thirty miles below
Savannah, and belonged to Col
onel Higgins, Colonel Archibald
Higgins, of the Pine Hill planta
tion. Ever been dar?'
Uncle Henry was told 'no.'
'rm been to many places in God's
garden, sah, but now, in my old
years, I dun no airy a place like de
old home down dar. When Gene
ral Sherman done gone away from
Atlanta massa was killed, and the
niggers was freed. I cum Norf wid
my son, but he's dead, sah, and
dar's no mo room for me heah. rve
got children livin' down dar some'
ers, least dey was livin' when we
'Can you sing 'Way down upon
the Suwanee River,' Uncle Henry ?'
The old man's eyes fairly sparkled
and glistened in tears as he repli
'Dat good old toon, how could I
ever forgit it? No indeedy, not me
forgit! Dat was writ years ago, sah,
but when I sing it now, away from
old home, I 'magine it was write
fo' me right now. 0, I tell you
massa, dares plenty niggers in de
world singing dat old toon what's
jes' like dis here old uncle, got no
home, and wishin' dey was back
again wid massa and missis. Swa
nee Ribber far, far away-.' And
the aged traveller wiped away tears
with his coat sleeve as his memory
ran back in the years that are pas.t,
to the happy days he spent among
the sugar-cane and the cotton and
the rice fields in the sunny land of
Georgia. It was a sad picture and
one not met with often. He spoke
of many other good old songs the
darkies used to sing, and would
have continued his sdory further had
not the shades of evening suggest
ed a departure. Uncle Henry was
'helped' along, but whither he drift
ed or whether he will ever reach
'dat good old home' he spoke of,
is hard to tell.
'Good-by, sah,de Lord bless you's
all,' were the last words he said as
our carriage left him far back in
the twilight.-Reading (Pa) Eagle.
Many persons wish for death
when it,is far off; but theinclination
vanishes when the boat upsets or
the locomotive runs off ther track,
or the measles sets in.
Any work, no matter how humble,
that a man honors by efficient labor
will be found important enough to
secure respect for himself and cred
it for his name.
Upon men of small understand
ing nothing makes so deep an im
pression as what they do not un
All orators are dumb when beau
Little -metimes use
Advertisements inserted at the rat of U.004
per square-one inch-forfirst iuserdw, and
75c. for each subsequent insertion, Double
column advertisements teuper cent on aboTe.
Notices of meetings, obituaries and trftits3
of respect, same rawe per square as ordInary
Special notices in local cohum 15 cents
Advertisements not marked wfth the num
ber of insertions wil be kept In -tMl forbid
and charged acrigy
Special contats made With lapg advero
tisers, with liberal deductions on above rates
Done with Neatness and Dispatek
ORIGIN OF ",HE HAS AN AXZ
We - owe most of our commIon7
sayings and pithy proverbs to Dr.
Franklin than many of usthinkor
know. We say of one who flatters
or serves us for the sake of some
secret, selfish gain or favor, "He
has an axe togrind." In -the doo
tors "Memoirs" is . the following
story (much after the M=ner of the
"whistle" story,) which explaims
the origin of the phrase:
Franklin says: When. I was a
little boy, I remember, one cold
winter morning, I was accosted by
a smiling man with an axe on his
" My pretty boy," said he, "baa
your father a grindstone?1"
I-Tes, sirlf aid L
"You are a fine little fellow,"'said
he. "Will you let me grind an
axe on it?"
Pleased with the compliment -of
"a fine little fellow," "0, yes, sir," I
answered; 'it is do wn in the