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The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, May 06, 1869, Image 1

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Farm, Garden, and Household,
CONDUCTED BY PUTNAM SIMONTON.
«#-dur friends who may have communications, oh*
bcrvations, facts, suggestion,0, or anything of interest,
pertaining to this department, are requested to commn
mcatt* the same to Dr. Putnam Simonton, Searsport, who ,
'-.ill prepare the same for publication, if <>t sufficient im
portance.
i xnenDii ib,'vi.vo.
Last week we spoke of sonic of the advan
tages of underdraining: tills week, how.
where, &.c
How to drain—at what depth, what mated-1
uls, &c., are questions of much debate, Some |
experience, and more thinking and reading, ,
have revealed to us some truths on this sub
wet. One Is that a few deep drains are better |
than a great many shallow ones, for the reason
Lhat, if laid below the frost line, as they always ,
should be, If possible, freezing cannot injure j
.tud close them up, as it often does shallow
ones; and that the draining benefits extend
ver an area directly proportional to the depth. |
For all drains must have a certain amount of I
fall to deliver the water; and the artificial
drain Is only to iorm an outlet to the millions j
of natural ones already in the soil, In the form j
ui the countless pores or cells, all communi
cating with one another,-just as ihe spaces
in a pile of rocks or pebbles are continuous
passages through which water will pass to
any depth with free exit from the bottom.
Hence the deeper the artificial drain, the great
er the fall to the myriad natural ones, and so
the greater the surface they will draiu. With
out pretending to be mathematically exact, it
-. safe to say that nnedrain four feet deep will
wuefit us much surface as four drains one foot
deep; thus With the same amount of digging !
ii both cases ! here is a saving of the raateri
ils of three drains. Many object to deep
drains, fearing the surface water will not reach
them, especially In compact soils like clay:
(nit provide for its escape at the bottom, and
we will warrant good draining at any depth—
five, ten or a hundred feet; down in torrents
trough the larger pores, and up again through
:u: minute ones by capillary attraction, as ex
. lined last week. For drained soil is the
•rt oi the world, with two circulation:—the
fid, impure blood passing away through the
• ourse veins to he utili/ d elsewhere in springs j
and rivers: the life-giving juices ascending in)
the more d : ate tubes or arteries to give veg- j
<*uo!c growui.
Drain materials. These are many; tiles,
bricks, ston % wood. Where tiles are to be
.mid readily, they are no doubt the best thing.
But with most people who will, or might to
drain, the cost of tiles Is .1 fatal fact. Hence
lor the million, stone or wood must be the ma
terial. To stoue, while it is the cheapest,
'here Is this great objection;—unless laid en
• 11 oIy below frost, and with great care, a single
■irk getting displaced will close it up am! ren
ler it. perfectly valueless. Our garden, spoken
ut last week, had drains laid deeply and care
mlly with stone; but every few years they
would close up from that cause. A dozen years
ago, we took up the ston.1 and laid It with
three round poles, four to six inches in diam
eter ; two for the sides—one to drop in between
them, about a fourth part of its size, for a cov
ring,—tilling lu solid behind the side pieces
prevent spreading, and carefully chinking all
1 oles where dirt might enter. From that day
■ ■ this It has been in perfect condition; and
:ipy neighbors who have tried this method, on
ii. »■ nnmeiitlatiou, will bear ample testimo
ny, both as to Its cheapness and excellence.
Uid it matters but Utile what the wood is; for
we have seen those perishable kinds—spruce
and fir- taken from old cellar drains, where
hey had lain forty years, sounder than when
bin d there, because petrified, seemingly, In
.eli underground home. Vet where as con
cnient, cedai and hacmetack may be the best:
but let none delay tills useful work for the
want of them,—for any of the common woods
will last tor generations. Nor is straight tim
ber essential; for where crooks occur, saw In
to them at those places and they become
straight. I
B'/ev. to drain is essential. In 1 lie first place, I
‘ I
then, as health, life, comfort and decency are !
t-as high above all others, let It be done ;
.round the- dwelling and all the buildings. For.
as we have several times shown in these col
umns, nothing conduces so much to sickness
and death us the stagnant, putrid waters
around the homestead, besides all the discom
'it's of such a nuisance. Beginning at some
i■1 w spot In the street or other good outlet, dig
up, four or live feet deep, if' lie* ground will
permit, into the door yard, or oilier wet place,
is your main, into which similar drains can
• ntcr from all the wet places round about. Af
ter this Improvement, instead of "ihe con
loumled old place” which you have been try
ig In vain to sell, it will be a delight to you
When this shall have been done, as we trust
1 will be tills very year, lucre aie the wet
e'livv gardens, and elsewhere spungy places,
keeping, by their How, the Helds wet, and ren
dering their cultivation so late and so imper
> et as to be profitless. And then how many
'dgh bogs and meadows and sloping swales do
we see everywhere, tcrliie as tin* most, famous
prairies, with the rich deposits of countless
•ges; as worthless now as were those prairies
1 lore nature drained off fWr useless waters.
Ami vvIiimi, by these means, your prairies
shall have become dry land, put In the plow
deeply as the sward c.111 be handsomely turn
ed; and into the seams of every other furrow
put sugar beet seed, and thin the plants to a
loot in tlie row. For, under just such circum
stances we iiave known them to be, at maturi
ty, nine inches in diameter; so that at a fool
apart they would lap by some inches, produc
ing a vast amount to the acre. At present
these can be converted with great profit into
milk anil butter; at present—for we want to
’-‘•11 all who have a spot of land, that heH root
•uyar-makinj is rapidly oil its sweet way
through the world; is already an interest of
great magnitude in some of the old countries,
and In a year or two, at most, will be here at
our doors. Let 11s see then that we are not
ihe foolish virgins with no oil in our lamps
when the bridegroom cometh; but have them
trimmed and burning by having the ground
duly prepared, and by all the helps which prac
tice, science and the arts can bestow, to learn
its best modes of culture.
THE POTATO-UN OHIUi\'4)|, IM.
POHT1XCE.
Like tobacco anil maize or Indian corn, the
potato is an American production. The civil
ized world first had knowledge of it through
Columbus, who found it in use among the na
tives of Cuba, 1494 ; aud the early discoverers
of South America found it growing wild there.
Its introduction and use among European na
tions was very slow, and was. attended with
much opposition, by the French especially; and
It was not till a time of great scarcity, during
their revolution—some 70 years ago—had forc
ed It upon them, that its culture and use be
came general. Now it is almost universally
cultivated, has added millions to the popula- 1
tion of Europe, and has there rendered almost
nnknown those famines which formerly were
so frequent and so distressing.
In this country, the extent to which this root
is cultivated would appear amazing, if fully
known; out-rivaling king Cotton in his palmi
est days. As some approach to the amount,
the Department of Agriculture, at Washington,
reports ns the production of I860—Maine, five
million three hundred and live thousand and
forty-five bushels, (5,305,045) being the third
potato State In the Union—the great State of1
New York producing about six times, and
Pennsylvania three times as much. In all the !
States, 107,200,070 bushels.
In our own county (Waldo) it lias come to
be the great staple production; and add to the
amount cosunmed by the people the countless
bushels sent from our shores, the sum would
be astonishing. This city alone lias exported
of the last crop probably not fewer than CO,000
bushels—one dealer, 20,000.
And in an interest of so much magnitude
and importance, it behooves ail, both producers 1
and consumers, to foster and enlarge this pro
duction by obtaining a larger knowledge of the
facts, means and conditions which apply to it.
That tills information is very essential is seen
in the tact that scarcely any two persons will
recommend the same kind of potato for culti-1
ration. Desiring, before the planting season,
to lay before our readers some reliable Infor
mation on this subject, we have taken pains to
learn the views of many cultivators of this root,
as to the best kinds, Ac. One of large experi
ence says tlie Seliee Early is just the thing—
excellent for the table, productive, and free
from rot •. another, in the same neighborhood
perhaps, says the Sebec Is worthless—yields j
poorly, rots badly, and is watery and good for
notiiing when sound. And we find the same ;
contradictions in the other varieties.
Now we have no doubt all these opposite !
opinions are reasonable and true; some differ
ence in the soil, dressing and mode of culture, j
making all the difference. How important then i
that these conditions should be widely known, :
if we would guard against serious loss, and
still more develop, as we ought, this great in
terest. Hence, while we are endeavoring to'
collect valuable lacts on this point by consult
ing all the farmers we meet, we trust that many i
who may see these remarks , will not fail to j
send us, in writing, by the first of May, their
experience in these things. The best kind of
potatoes as to flavor, its productiveness, free
dom from disease, and market value; kind of
soil, higher low, wet or dry; what kind of
dressing and how used: the method of cultiva
tion, Ac. Also as to corn, peas, beans and all
the eatables which you cultivate.
In this way alone can the farm and thenar
den take their true places among the most prof-j
Stable and desirable callings of men. In the i
professions, the arts, mercantile pursuits, or;
in all the sciences,—the, members of them all
not only feel a just pride but And their true in- j
terest, in imparting for the good of the whole 1
whatever information they may possess. Let
Agriculture awake, though late, and turn at j
once into this only true path ot improvement 1
and profit.
» l’l.VV V WAV OS' EATIXt.
Everything, equally in the vegetable and an
imal kingdom, is endowed with the life prtnci-:
pie, and to live and grow, must have food and
drink. Among ail animals, the mouth,—among
all vegetables, the rootlets—the minute ends of I
the roots—are the organs for that purpose, j
But as we pass around, we notice that a great
majority of the people feed their vegetable
creatures just as they would their stock if they
left tiie crib empty and placed ail the food at
the other end of the stall. In applying dressing
to fruit trees they place it at the trunk. Just
as well put the hay at the horses heels, and ex
pect him to eat and grow. If the tree is large,
ail its thousand mouths are a rod or two away
from its trunk; there is the crib end of the
stall, and there the food must be placed.
All plants growing naturally—such as have ;
not been excessively pruned—will show at a
glane, cisely riiere their rootlets or mouths
are. For, as everything in nature exists on
the principle oi balancing, so the roots, having
a top to balance, will spread out, as a general
rule, as far under the surface as the branches
do above it. If an entire tree could be stood
above ground, where all its parts could he seen,
it would much resemble a pair of cart-wheels
on their axle, set on end ; the lower wheel, the
roots ; the upper one, the top, or branches ; the
axle connecting them, the trunk.
Tiles facts are highly important to be borne
in mind in setting out trees,—on which subject1
we shall speak in an early No.—to have a
plenty of good soil at the ends of the roots, !
and abundant room for their extension.
t ISI l.Y (d 15 X
I lie corn-planting season will soon be upon
us, ami no time should be lost in the prepara- \
iion o( the ground ; and in this previous prep- i
aration lies tlie secret of success. The soil j
should be ploughed, cross-ploughed, harrowed !
ami cross-harrowed, until the ground is redue- 1
ed to the finest possible tilth, and the surface !
made as mellow as an ash bank; blit in plant
iug, “make haste slowly,” should be our motto, 1
and yet a departure from thU maxim is a futal <
and common errbr. Wait until the ground is \
mar,a, and then your grain will sprout at once,
and grow oti' without a check until it reaches
maturity. Many farmers, impatient to be done
with their planting, are content with a hurried
plowing, and then commit the seed to a bed so
cold as to destroy its vitality before it can
sprout; or If it does come up, it is with such
irregularity as to require replanting, and the
plants, feeble, spindling and yellow, like dedi
cate, sickly infants, rarely reach a vigorous
maturity. We remember an old gentleman in
Maryland, the most successful corn-grower in
his county, who was generally ten days behind
his neighbors in getting his seed in. While
were striving to finish, the old fellow was
giving his corn land an extra working, which
theirs never got. Ills crop invariably matured
as soon as theirs; and instead of being obliged,
as they were, to do more or loss replanting, he
had, on the contrary, to thin out his crop. The
ground being warm, the seed never rotted ; nor
did the crows and blackbirds annoy him, for
he took cart; to give them their share upon the
surface of the ground, and thus relieve them
from the temptation to dig his planted grain.
No directions of general application can be
given for the selection of seed corn, because
of variations in soil and climate, and because,
in spite ol the most careful selection, the corn
will gradually, by hybridizing and othercauses,
assimilate itself to that cultivated in the same
neighborhood. The fact is, that though grains
and vegetables may be bred to run into excess,
as well as animals, in particular points and
qualities, climate will not, after all, be forced
to adopt what any curious experimentalist may
choose to transplant from one region to anoth
er. [Turf, Field and Farm.
I
AT TWILIGHT
The sunset darkens in the West,
The sea gulls haunt the bay,
And far and high the swallows fly,
To watch the dying day.
Now where is she that once with me
The rippling waves would list?
And O for the song I loved so long.
And the darling lips I kist!
Yon twinkling sail may whiter gleam
Than falcon’s snowy wing.
Her glances far the evening-star
Beyond the waves may fling;
Float on, ah float, enchanted boat,
Bear true hearts o’er the main,
But I shall guide thy helm no more,
Nor whisper love again !
The Secret of the Two Plaster Oasts.
Years before the accession of her Maj
esty, Queen Victoria, ami yet at not so re
mote a date as to be utterly beyond the pe
riod to which our middle-aged readers ex
tend, it happened that two English geutle
men sat at the table on a summer's evening,
after dinner, quietly sipping their wine, and
engaged in desultory conversation. They
were both men known to fame. One of
them was a sculptor whose statues adorned
the palaces of princes, and whose chiselled
busts were the pride of half the nobility of
his nation ; the other was no less renowned
as an anatomist and surgeon. The age ol
the anatomist might have been guessed at
fifty, but the guess would have erred on the
side of youth by at least ten years. That
of the sculptor could scarcely be more than
five-aud-thirty. A bust of the anatomist,
so admirably executed as to present, al
though in stone, the perfect similitude of
life and flesh, stood upon a pedestal oppo
site the table at which sat the pair, and at
once explained at least one connecting link
of companionship between them. The an
atomist was exhibiting for the criticism of
bis friend, a rare gem which he had just
drawn from his cabinet; it was a crucifix,
magnificently carved in ivory, and incased
in a setting of pure gold.
‘‘The carving, my dear sir,” observed
Mr. Fiddyes, the sculptor, “is, indeed, as
you say, exquisite. The muscles are ad
mirably made out, the flesh well modeled,
wonderfully so for the size and material :
and yet—by-the-by, on this point you must
know more than I,—the more I think upon
the matter, the more l regard the artistic
conception as utterly false and wrong.”
i on speak in a riddle,” replied Dr. Car
nell ; “but pray go on and explain.”
■‘It is a fancy I first had in my student
days,” replied Fiddyes. “Conventionality,
not to say a proper and becoming reverence,
prevents people by no means ignorant from
considering the point. But once think up
cm it, and you, at least of ail men, must at
ouce perceive bow utterly impossible it
must be lor a victim nailed upon a cross by
bauds and feet, to preserve the position in
variably displayed in figures of the cruci
fixion. Those who thus portray it, fail in
what should be their most awful aud agon
izing effect. Think for one moment, and
imagine, if you can, what would be the al
titude of a man, living or dead, under this
frightful torture.”
“You startle me,” returned the great
surgeon, “uot only by the truth of your
remarks, but by their obviousness. It is
strange, indeed, that such a matter should
have so long been overlooked. The more
1 think upon it, the more the hare idea of
actual crucifixion seems to horrify me,
though heaven knows I am accustomed to
scenes of suffering. How would you rep
resent such a terrible agony?”
“Indeed, I can’t tell,” replied the sculpt
or: “to guess would be almost vain. The
fearful strain upon the muscles, their utter
helplessness and inactivity, the frightful
swellings, the effect of weight upon the
racked and tortured sinews, appall me too
much even for speculation.”
“But this,” replied the surgeon, “one
might think a matter of importance, not
only to art, but, higher still, to religion it
self.”
“Maybe so,” returned the sculptor. “But
perhaps the appeal to the senses through a
true representation might be too horrible
for either the one or the other."
“Still,” persisted the surgeon, “I should
like—say for curiosity, though I am weak
enough to believe in my motive as a high
er one—to ascertain the effect from actual
observation.”
“So should I, could it he done, and, of
course, without pain to the object, which,
as a condition, seems to present, at the out
set. an impossibility.”
“Perhaps not,” mused the anatomist ; “I
thiuk 1 have a notion. Stay, we may con
trive this matter. I will tell you my plan,
and it will be stange indeed if we too can
not manage to carry it out.”
The discourse, here, owing to the rapt
attention of both speakers, assumed a low
and earnest tone, but had, perhaps, better
be narrated by a relation of events to which
it gave rise. Suffice it to say the sovereign
was more than once mentioned during its
progress, and in a manner which plainly
told that two speakers each possessed suffi
cient influence to obtain the assistauce of
royally, and that such assistance would be
required iu their schemes.
The shades of evening deepened while
the two were still conversing; and, leaving
this scene, let us cast one hurred glimpse at
another, taking place contemporaneously.
Between Pimlico and Chelsea, and across
a canal the bed of which has since been
used for the railway terminating at Victo
ria station, thete was, at the time of which
we speak, a rude timber footway, long since
replaced by a more substantial and conven
ient erection, but was known as the wood
en bridge. It was named, shortly ufter
ward, Cutthroat, linage, and lor this reason.
While Mr. Fiddyes and Dr. Carnell were
discoursing over their wine, as we have al
ready seen, one Peter Starke, a drunken
pensioner, was murdering his wife upon the
spot wo have last mentioned. The coinci
dence was curious.
In those days the punishment of crimi
nals followed closely upon their conviction.
The Chelsea prisoner whom we have men
tioned was found guilty on Friday, and sen
tenced to die on the following Monday. He
was a sad scoundrel, impenitent to the last,
glorying in the deeds of slaughter which lie
had witnessed and acted duriu" the scries
of campaigns which had just euded previ
ously at Waterloo. He was a tall, well
built fellow enough, of middle age, for his
class was not then, as now, composed chief
ly cf veterans, but comprised many young
men, just sufficiently disabled to be unfit for
service. Peter Starke, although but slight
ly wounded had nearly completed his term
of service, and had obtained his pension
and presentment to Chelsea hospital. With
his life we have little to do, save as re
gards its elose. which we shall shortly en
deavor to describe far more vcrnciously
and at some greater length thau set forth in
the brief account which satisfied the public
of his own day, and which as embodied in
the columns of the few journals then ap
pearing, ran thus:
“Ou Monday last, Peter Starke was ex
ecuted at Newgate, for the murder at the
wooden bridge, Chelsea, with four others
for various offences. After he had been j
hanging for a few minutes a respite arrived ;1
but although he was promptly cut down,
life was pronounced to he extinct. His
body was buried within the prison walls.”
Thus far for history. But the concise
ness of history far more frequently embed
ies falsehood than truth. Perhaps the fol- *
lowing narration may approach more near-1
ly to the facts :
A room wituin tne prison nau been, up* j
on that special occasion, aud by high au
thority, allotted to the use of l)r. Caruell
and Mr. Fiddyes, the famous sculptor, for \
the purpose of certain investigations con
nected with art aud science. Iu that room i
Mr. Fiddyes, while wretched Peter Starke
was yet swinging between heaven and earth,
was busily engaged iu arranging a variety
of implements and materials, consisting of
a large quantity of plaster of Paris, two
large pails of water, some tubs, and other
necessaries of the molder’s art. The room
contained a large deal table, aud a wooden
cross,—not neatly planed aud squared at
the angles, hut of thick, narrow, riulely
sawu oaken plank, fixed hv heavy nails.
And while Mr. Fiddyes was thus occupi
ed, the executioner entered, bearing upon
his shoulders the body of the wretched Pe
ter, which he filing heavily upon the table.
“You are sure lie is dead?” asked Mr.
Fiddyes.
“Dead as a herring,” replied the othei ;
“aud just as limp as if he had only fainted.”
“Then go to work at once,” replied the
sculptor, as turning his hack upon the hang
man, lie resumed his occupation.
The “work” was soon done. Peter was
stripped and uailed upon the timber, which
was instantly propped against the wall.
“As fine a one as ever 1 saw,” exclaimed
the executioner, as he regarded the defunct
murderer with an expression of admiration,
as if in his own handiwork, in having ab
ruptly demolished such a magnificent ani
mal. “Drops a good bit for’ard, though.
Shall I tie him up round the waist, sir?”
“Certainly not, returned the sculptor.
“Just rub him well over with this oil, espe
cially his head, aud then you can go. T)r.
Carnell will settle with you.”
“All right, sir.”
The fellow did as ordered, aud retired
without another word, leaving this strau»e
| couple—the living and the dead—in that
dismal chamber.
Mr. Fiddyes was a man of strong nerve
in such matters. He had been too much ac
customed to taking posthumous casts to
trouble himself with h'<v sentiment of re
pugnance at his approaching task of taking
what is called a “piece mold” from a body.
He emptied a number of bags of the white,
powdery plaster of Paris into one of tho
larger vessels, poured into it a pail of wa
ter, aud was carefully stirring up the mass,
when a sound of dripping arrested his ear.
Drip, drip.
“There’s something leaking,” he mutter
ed, as he took up a second pail and emptied
it, again stirring the composition.
Drip, drip, drip.
“It’s strange,” he soliloquized, half aloud.
, “There’s so more water, and yet-”
The sound was heard again.
He gazed at the ceiling; there was no
sign of damp. He turned his eyes to the
body, and something suddenly caused him
a violent siart. The murderer was bleed
log.
Tiie sculptor, spite of his command over
himself, turned pale, At that moment the
head of Starke moved,—clearly moved. It
raised itself convulsively for a single mo
ment ; its eyes rolled, and it gave vent to a
subdued moan of intense agony. Mr.
Fiddyes fell fainting on the floor, as Dr.
Caruell entered. It needed but a glance to
tell the doctor what had happened, even had
not Veter just then given vent to another
low cry. The surgeon’s measures were
taken. Locking the door, he bore a chair
to the wall which supported tlie body of
the malefactor, lie drew from his pocket,
a ease of glittering instruments, and with
one of these, so small and delicate that it
scarcely seemed larger than a needle, he
rapidly, but dexterously and firmly, touched
Veter just at the back of the neck. There
was no wound larger than the head of a
pin, and ye! the head fell instantly, as though
the heart had been pierced. The doctor
had divided the spinal cord, and Veter
Starke was dead indeed.
A few minutes sufficed to recall the
sculptor to his senses. He at first gazed
wildly upon the still suspended body, so
painfully recalled to life by the rough vene
section of the hangman, and the subsequent
friction of anointing his body to prevent the
adhesion of the plaster.
“You need not fear now,” said Dr. Car
uell ; “I assure you he is dead.”
“But he wan alive, surely !”
“Only for a moment, and even that,
scarcely to be called life ; mere muscular
contraction.”
The sculptor resumed his labor. The
body was girt at various circumferences
with fine twine, to be afterwards withdrawn
through a thick coating of plaster, so as to
separate the various pieces of the mould,
which was at last completed; and, after
this, Dr. Carnell skillfully flayed the body,
to enable a second mould to be taken of
the entire figure, showing every muscle of
the outer layer.
The two moulds were thus taken. It is
difficult to conceive more ghastly appear
ances than they presented. For sculptor’s
work they were utterly useless; for uo
artist, except the most daring of realists,
would have ventured to indicate the horrors
which they presented. Fiddyes refused to
receive them.
Dr. Carnell, hard aud cruel as he was,
for kindness’s sake iu his profession, was a
gentle, geuial father of a family of daught
ers. lie received the casts, aud at once
consigned them to a garret, to which he
forbade access. His youngest daughter,
one unfortunate day, during her father’s
absence, was impelled by feminine curios
ity—perhaps a little increased by the pro
hibition—to enter the mysterious chamber.
Whether she imagined in the palled fig
ure upon the cross a celestial rebuke for
her disobedieuce, or whether she was over
come by the mere mortal horror of one or
both of those casts, can now never be
known ; but this is true, she became a ma
niac.
The writer of this has more than once
seen, as, no doubt, have many others, the
plaster effigies of Peter Starke, after their
removal from Dr. Carnell’s to a famous stu
dio near Regent’s Park. It was there that
he heard whispered the strange story of
their origin. Sculptor and surgeon are now
both long since dead, and it is no longer
necessary to keep the secret of the two
plaster casts.
Tho Texan Duel,
“Put down that knife or the consequence
be upon your own head. Put it down, I
say !” and the hand of the speaker slowly
and deliberately raised a revolver.
It was a very anxious moment for the
lookerson. One of the combatants was a
brawny ruffian, upon whose face was stamp
ed all the evil passions of the human race.
Black haired, black bearded, black eyed and
strong enough was he to have felled an ox
with a single blow of las fist. The other
was a pale, slender, intellectual looking
young man, boy almost, with light curls and
complexion and blue eyes.
The scene was in the little town of Wash
ington, on the Brazos river in Texas, and
the time midnight.
“Do you know who yer talking to, boy?”
was the coarse and uneducated answer of
Luke Benton, than w’hom no gambler in the
i vicinity was more detested and feared.
A man to whom (and not without reason)
was imputed every crime—even that of
murder ; who was an unfailing shot with
the pistol and rifle and unmatched in skill
with that strictly border weapon—the bowie
knife. A short residence in that locality
and given him a reputation as a duellist, for
the long grass of the Tempas covered the
forms of two who had fallen by his hand.
Where he came from no one knew, and he
was particularly reticent about his former
life. Still it was whispered—behind his
back, for no one was foolhardy enough to
! say it to his face—that he was one of the
very few who escaped from the terrible
justice of “Natchez under the hill,” when
the outraged citizeus awoke in their wrath
and took .speedy vengeance in their own
hands. Be that as it might, he had already
earned a name sufficiently bad to need no
additions even where the great majority of
crimes wene looked upon lightly—making
Texas iu its infancy the paradise of scound
rels.
On the other, his hoy antagonist even
less was known. It was but two days since
his arrival, and he had come on horseback
and alone. Of his business he had nothing
to say, but his suave manner and quiet,
gentlemanly deportment had already made
him friends among the better portion of the
sparse population.
Very much to their surprise, therefore,
was it that they had seen him enter into a
contest at cards with the professional game
ster Bouton, confident that he would either
he cheated or bullied out of his money, in
case he should be successful, which was
almost beyond the range of possibility.
But for two hours the game had been pro
gressing, the gambler getting more angry
at every deal, and the youth keeping per
fectly cool and breathing taunting words,
as if his object was still further to provoke
him. If it was his purpose to do so, he
was more than successful, for Benton had
suddenly sprung to his feet and drawn his
i knife with oaths upon his lips and murder
flashing from his eyes.
“Put down that knife," again repeated
| the young man, Mark Whiteman, as he had
I given all to understand was his name. “Put
it down. No one but a coward and a cheat
| would attempt to use such fatal arguments
in a simple game of chance.”
“Er cheat—coward !” thundered Benton,
with all his wrath aroused. “By heaven,
| I’ll make yer eat yer words.”
j “For fear you do not fully understand, 1
! will repeat them.”
“Yer dare not!” was hissed from the
| more than tightly compressed lips.
“Coward ! cheat! I dare say anything to
I one like you.”
“Coward er gin !” and his knife flashed
; still more wildly around.
In vain the others interfered. They cared
| little for the professional and brutal gamester
s but they did tor young Whiteman, aud could
: not but be surprised at the almost sublimity
: his coolness and bravery, even though
he was courting his own death.
Something in the manner of the young
man, too. appeared to deeply impress his
antagonist, who had never before restrain
I ed his hand from a swift vengeance. The
delicate frame trembled not; the sweet,
almost girlish expression upon those mobile
lips remained unaltered; the cheeks were
unblanched, and the mild, blue eyes never
swerved from their steady gaze upon the
fiery black ones. It appeared as if the
serpent and the bird had changed places,
and the fierce charmer became the charmed.
“Pshaw!” at length continued Luke
Bolton, “I am a fool to take any notice of
er boy that I could crush between my thumb
and lingers. Take yer money, ef yer such
er sneak ; go back ermong the women and
never dare ter show yer face ermong men
ergaiu.’’
“I care nothing lor the money, was still
the calm response. “It’s nothing to me.”
“What do yer want then?”
“To prove that you are a coward at
heart.”
“No man ever lived that dared ter say
such er thing.”
“Simply because you murdered them,
Luke Bouton.”
“Murdered? But, no, I’ll not fight er
boy.”
“Because you dare not. But you shall
have no excuse,” and Mark AArhiteman spat
full in the face of the blood-stained gamb
ler.
In an instant all was confusion. Benton
sprang forward with liis knife upraised, and
would have cut down his insulter with
a blow. But others did the same. They
realized that blood must be shed, but they
insisted upon “fair play.” Even in the
horrible code of Texas duelling they de
manded that the rules of honor ( ?) should
be strictly adhered to.
“If you must fight,” said an old ranger,
“and I sco ne way to avoid it now, it shall
be all open and above board. It’s your
choice, llentou. Pick your weapon and
stand up and fight it out like men.
“Pistols then—ten paces—word !” was
the gruff answer.
“Are you satisfied?” was asked of White
man.
“i'es—perfectly. Let him take his re
volver—I have mine. We will commence
[firing at the word and continue to advance
; and do so until one or both falls.”
A few steps from the house brought
[them to a spot where the green grass and
.bright flowers had more than once been
[stained in such encounters. The men were
; placed—the weapons prepared and the fatal
| word was about to he given when Whiteman
; called the Ranger (who was acting as his
second) and. taking Ids hand within his
; own, whispered :
: “\ou appear to he a true-hearted man
and I wish to ask a favor of you.”
“Speak on. Anything I can do shall he
done. Just say the word and I’ll take your
: place.
j “No, not that. But it’ 1 should chance
' to fall, promise that you will see me buried
as f am. Do not let my dress be disturbed
in the least. Roll me up in a blanket and
let no one pry around me after I am dead,
i Will you promise me that ?”
| “It is a strange thing to ask, but I’ll do
1 it.”
| “Then I am ready.”
i “Yes, I’ll do it,” repeated the Ranger, as
he slowly retreated, muttering to himself,
j “and if you do fall I’ll send a bullet through
. the skull of him that kills you, and may
the good Lord forgive me if it is murder.”
! “Now, Luke Benton,” continued White
' man, “I am ready. Yet one word,” and he
. | stepped to his side and handed him a minia
ture. “If 1 die look at this."
| “I’ll do it now and with trembling
fingers he undid the clasp—then let it drop
i from his hands as if it had been a serpent,
exclaiming, “No I’ll not fight you. Take
him awray, some one—take him away, for
God’s sake.”
“Not fight ! then you will (lie like a dog
and Whiteman raised his weapon and mo
tioned for the word to be given.
It was some time, however, before his
request was complied with. The sinewy
fame of the gambler trembled like a dry leaf
in the autumn wind ; all the color had left
his face ; his lips were like ashes ; his pistol
was pointed downwards and shook in his
hands. At length he succeeded, by a mighty
eft'ort, in calming himself. He braced his
nerves—glared wildly around, and with all
the calmness of despair, stood upon his
guard.
“Are you ready—both ready'” was ask
ed.
“Yes,” came simultaneously from two
pair of lips.
“One—two—three—fire 1"
The report of the pistols out the last word
in twain. The seconds rushed forward and
lifted the men up again, for both had fallen.
One, however, would never breath more.
Luke Benton had fought his last duel—had
gone to his final account with his heart bul
let cleft. Whiteman, too, was dangerously
wounded. With his breath bubbling forth
through blood he called tlie Ranger to him
and asked him for the miniature. It was
given him—the fair face of a young man.
He covered it with bloody lingers—whis
pered, “Bury it witli me,” and lie to, had
ceased to live.
With tearful eyes that form was prepar
ed tor the grave, the Ranger insisting that
his promise to the dead should he fulfilled
to the letter But all saw sufficient to sat
isfy them that he who called himself White
man was a young woman. And years later
they found a clue to the mystery. It was
a wife who had tlieu revenged the murder
of her husband—murdered for saving her
from dishonor! From a bloody grave in
the ehapparel, she had gone to join him she
had loved so well in the land that lies be
yond the dark river.
Was her last act one of sin? Ft is not
for us to judge of such a tiling. We know
nothing of the maddened heart and insane
brain—know nothing of the long days and
longer nights of suffering—nothing of how
we would act under such circumstances.
Better leave judgment*to Him who can
read both the mind and the heart, and
whose will directed the avenging bullet.
None other is without sin, aud who will
dare to cast the first stone?
Letter from a Southern "Filliliuster.”
[ A correspondent of the Savannah Advertiser,
writing “In the Field, near Bayaino, Cuba,
April G,” says
The armed and unarmed patriots spting up
from the ground as did Marion’s men in days
I gone by upon the Pedee, and their success is
inevitable. The arrival of Hamilton's Brigade
! at Port Naranjo was an event. They came in
' detached companies, and only since they have
taken the field has any appreciation oi their
' strength of numbers or their strength in arms
been had. From their arrival they went to
WGrfc. in earnist—a large number were mount
ed within twelve hours of their arrival and
i away, scouting the country as though to the
manor born, Hamilton is uot yet with them—
i he may be in Cuba ere this reaches you, though.
Old familiar faces are here, though last seen
at Shiloh or at the Wilderness pressing through
the smoke of battle, am! these veterans of the
great Rebellion make short, work and speedy of
the thiu skinned Andalusians. Von can readily
imagine what chance a conscript Spaniard,
fresh from a voyage, reduced by the horrors of
; an aggravated sea sickness, and green to the
: war, has with these powder burned tigers.
I Some of them have recently been seen in and
: around Bayamo, Mayart and Bitciry, and where
; ever they have been seen will long lie remem
i bored. Thornton is at Palma Doria to-day—
! to-morrow about Villa del Colire ever ready.
Broughton is invalided with a wound received
within twelve hours after landing. Van Horn, j
who says he Is an original Alabama Rebel,
: leaves me to day for La Guanaja and the viciui- j
ty of Gen. Quesada's command.
Little ot this is of interest to you who listen
; for stirring news, for great battles whereon ;
you can indite many words; for changes and
assaults, upon which to build long blaca head I
lines; but to us these little skirmishes, temper- i
ed as they are by the most bloodylhirsty spirit
upon the part of the Spaniards, and by tiie des
perate, soul-nerved resolution oil the part of
the Liberals—these things to us are not void of \
1 excitement nor danger. It is not permitted |
i me to go into details—suffice it to say that each |
day adds to our force, strength, unanimity and
j prospects. Each day brings to the ports we !
hold men, munitions, stores, money and hope.
The issue is no longer doubtful.
Blockade running continues to increase. If
the hatches could be lifted oil', half the vessels I
i in the Gulf to-day would show something con- \
traband of war. We are working rapidly!
against the day when the grand cordon will be
I placed around us, which fire and iron alone can !
remove. Now is the time for the adventurous '
either in persons or purse, to come forward.
Fortune and fame come easily in such days as
these.
The prospects is cheering to every Cuban—
to every lover of liberty. We have gotten be
yond the stage when al! desire to bo generals.
We 1) ave reached the stage when all are willing
to work in whatever sphere they may be placed,
and to work whole-hearted when that time Is
reached, as you will know success is no longer
problematical. We are eating the country up,
inch by inch—overcoming prejudice—creating
patriots, not only by moral suasion, bat by or
thodox blows, ami win we must.
Letter from the West.
Correspondence ol'tlie Jounisl.
Omaha City. Xeb., April la.ispfl.
Mr. Editor Leaving Dixon, 111., the Omaha
Express, (which in consequence of the rapid in
crease ol Western emigration, has added five ov
six passenger coaches to its usually heavy train)
arrived at the Mississippi in two hours. At this
point the river is three-fourths ol a mile in width,
and the train is thirteen minutes crossing the main
bridge. Beneath the bridge the river is quite rur
bulent and rapid, hut from the ear windows its
broad surface seemed calm and unruffled as a forest
lake. Studded with numerous islands, which arc
mirrored on its bosom with all their rueged vesture
of tree, shrub and boulder, it flows majestically ou
through a section of country vast in resource, un
equaled in fertility, literally the garden of the
world.
Reaching ihe Iowa shore a change iu the atmos
phere is at cnce apparent. The snow, which In
northern Illinois lay in many places four inches in
depth, is here no longer visible. The verdure of
spring begins to manifest itself; the broad expanse
of brown prairie gras? is relieved by llcqueat plat
of green', and cultivation is in its advanced stages.
Throughout Eastern Iowa, the land is rolling
and the most eligible for agricultural purposes; in
the central part of the State it is flat, irriguous
and less arable, and in the Western portion hilly
nud almost moun tainous. The high lands are cov
ered with buffalo grass, and afford superior pastur
age. These vast tracts of laud, unsurpassed for
richness and vegetation, so eminently qualified for
culture and tillage, cannot remain long as they arc,
almost untouched. The West, replete as it is with
everything requisite and desirable for the designs
of husbandry, is destined to become the farming
region of the world. Central and Western low a
are extensively timbered, hut in the former u
speies of granite rock, (in western parlance, “hard
head " predominates.
I tie habitation of the farmer is constructed on
j the most provident and frugal principles, usual!..
. consisting of a small, isolated building, which every
waft of wind threatens to demolish; but oftimes
j the more secure but less pretentious mud hut,
i which nestles peacefully beneath some little bluff,
! its wreath of smoke ascending gracefully upon the
placid air, and its cheerful faces peering forth to
| see the “iron horse” hiss by, the only connecting
[ link with the world!
| Oxen are used here to break the new land, three
yoke being used upon cue plow. Prarie fires are
kindled to burn the decayed stubble and give a new
start to vegetation. On every side they are slowly
| burning, creeping along the track, and tilling the
air with smoke and cinders. Cattle and horses
browse upon the incipient buffalo grass, but slieep
are almost unknown.
A few miles west of Boone, commences a range
j of lofty bluffs, or sand hills, beneath which the
road winds to Council Bluff's. The scenery here Is
; sublime. Vast trees whose scabrous trunks are
j clothed with the moss of ages, grow from the hill
! side, and threaten every moment to crush the rush
ing train, while streams of water gush down the
rugged sides, and flocks ofbirds sail grandly from
peak to peak. Reaching Council Bluffs you find
yourself iu a city of eight or ten thousand inhabi
tants, situated four miles from the. Missouri river
and Omaha. In many respects it is superior to the
- hitler city, especially in its society. Tliencc cross
ing the foaming turbid Missouri by ferry, you are
fairly in Nebraska.
Ten years ago but one temporary sbantee mark
ed the spot where now stands the city of Cmaha
At this time it was a mere trading post, whence
the adjacent tribes of Indians, the Ornnhas, Pot
towatomies, Oto s. Punchas, Pawnees, and Kick
apoos brought their furs and rude articles of mech
anism, to exchange for trinkets and “firewater."
The eminent A. ,1. Poppletou, attorney for the
Union Pacific Railroad, fourteen years ago lived in
a cave near the cite of the present city, carrying on
' traffic with the Indians
Omaha at the present time contains eighteen
thousand inhabitants, of whom a moiety are Sean
danavians. Its population has increased many
hundred per cent within two years. The mush
room like rapidity with which it has grown, has
been little conducive to its commercial interests,
lor it contains more inhabitants than it possesses
means to support. To the Union Puciflc Railroad
it owes its rapid advancement, and upou that is it
dependent for its sustenation.
The default ot that company m paying its em
! ployees, lias been exceedingly detrimental to the
present business prosperity of the place. Mon ay
readily commands twenty-five per cent, but there
. is none in circulation. Property is rapidly depre
ciating in value. A crash is inevitable ifthe Rail
road delays payment two weeks longer
Two hundred and fifty persons arrive daily from,
tne East, in search of employment, the return
trains bring nearly empty, but where they go to
remain is inexplicable, fur cities west enjoy no
] immunity, from the general stagnation. Not many
Indians remain in the city, except a lew hall
breeds expatriated from their trbes. Occasionally
however, some ilinerair bund of braves pause here
a lew hours from their almost ceaseless pert-griua
tions to view the wonders of the “pale face" town'
To day I saw two Pawnee warriors fresh from
the West, who were oil the War-path, belonging
to an expedition of that tribe for the extermination
i of ihe Sioux, their inveterate enemies. They stood
upon the pier silently watching the removal of tin
cargo of a Missouri steamer, ami among the mov
iug mass of human beings who jostled and hurried
unheedingly by them, they presented a wierd and
fantastic spectacle, with their tall war feather*
floating in the breeze. They were nearly nude
with only blankets ot piebald colors thrown about
i them in “careless abandon.” anti short skiu leg
gings and n occasins, to protect them from the cold
chill wind which has boon blowing all day. Theij
j countenances were plentifully besmeared with
ochre and Vermillion, and their beads shaved close
ly with the exception of the “scalp lock.1’
.Several negroes who were at work upon lb.
deck of the steamer seemed to b'- objects ofgreat
curiosity lothem and the goodnatured“yah,yah.'
of the formei, provoked them to such merriment
as an Indian docs not often indulge in.
Of the agricultural character of the state of .\Y
I braska 1 will say briefly, that the lands along the
line ot the Union Pacific Railroad for two hundred
miles west of the Missouri river, have a fertility
almost unequalled in all the rich productive field
of the West. These are situated in the valleys ot
| the Platte, Elkhorn. Loop Fork and Papillioii
1 rivers. Owing to the looseness of the soil, the
farmer need not sutler from drought or excessive
J rains, as in dry weather evaporation draws moist
ure to the surface, and the loose friable soil absorbs
excessive water in rainy seasons.
Oats produce from sixty to one hundred bushels.
It is said the wheat of Nebraska commands in the
st. Louis markets ten cents above any other wheat.
The average crop is twenty-six bushels to the acre"
and forty are not uneommon. Apples and peaches
promise success.
The native trees are cottonwood, a light poroub,
yellowish white wood, the red and white elm. the
black jaek, red and burr oak, black walnut, huckle
berry, hickory, willow and cedar. The buffalo
grass will remain sweet and juicy under the snow
all winter and is very nutritious. Coal is found m
abundance. These facts I have obtained partly
from personal observation and from the most reli
able sources. Many have written me from the
East for information upon this subject, and for ad
vice in reference to coming to Nebraska.
I do not wish to counsel, but I know of no better
point in the west, and certainly no state affords
better natural facilities for farming. A. H. n.

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