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VOL. 25. YOEKVILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, APRIL 24, 1879. N"0. 17. - * i I Jta Original iron). Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE BARSTOWS. I BY VTCTOB VERNON. ' ??? i CHAPTER XVII. i THE CURTAIN FALLS. Four years have passed away. Time, with its magic of healing, has cured , some wounds and spread oblivion over others. After the rapid sequence of events which wrought such j * ? iinAn tho nrinnino] cnanges, sweeping uunu u^u , r? personages in this history with a suddenness and violence that seemed to take away their breath, a period of dead, unchanging calm ensued. Mr. Courtaine. accepting as inevitable the fate which had come in the way of his daughter's happiness, softened the calamity, or tried to soften it, as best he could, to both the young people whose prospects in life were thus rudely marred. To Wilfred he extended the continuation of his friendship and esteem, leaving no means untried to prove to him how sincere was his sympathy, how deep his regret, and using every effort to advauce him in his profession, which, (after a short period of inaction and lethargy,) he took up again, and, having been admitted to the bar, pursued with an energy worthy of the most complete success. He absorbed himself in his work; he read day and night; he allowed himself no rest, no time for thought. He made Fame his object, and never flagged upon her track. Steadily he was approaching her ; nearer and nearer became his advance to the desired goal. Already he had made his mark, and people began to talk of him in the highest terms. Ralph being dead, he had consented to keep his father's name. Some whispers of his story had been scattered abroad. But they were fragmentary and undefined. No one outside his immediate circle of friends ever learned its true details As to Daisy, her father, after trying various means of rousing her into her former cheerfulness at home, fell upon the expedient of sending her, with her mother, abroad. Business prevented his accompanying them ; but they went under excellent care, and with every appliance for their comfort and for the gratification of their wishes and taste. Daisy never complained, never gave way, apparently, to lamentations or tears. She even seem pleased at all that was done for her, and tried to take an interest in everything new that she saw; but the effort was evident. Her old light-hearted manner was changed to a subdued demeanor quite foreign to her; her pleasure in life was gone. Mrs. Courtaine wrote that she was well?she gave no cause fof anxiety. But she did not seem to ?*1./. in.,?nan ao mn/->K <ta thpv had honed. eiijuy tiicjuuiucj uo utuvu ? %, ... They weut from London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, from Berlin to Rome. They traveled through Italy, through Switzerland, through Germany, through France, then back again to Eogland, then- through the Highlands of Scotland. They visited friends in several places; they went everywhere, saw everything, did all that travelers are expected to do. But Daisy 8 spirits never rose ; she wasstill subdued, spiritless, dull; she was gentle, yielding, always amiable, but never glad?never gay. Her mother, naturally rather frivolous, and a fashionist of long standing in worldly society, at first believed that excitement, change, was the only panacea needed to make her well, or rather make her like herself again ; but finding after long trial that this did not succeed, she began to grow a little anxious, and to watch her with a new, hitherto unfelt solicitude. She began to imagine?or perhaps it was not imagination? that Daisy's cheek was paler, its outline less round than formerly; her step was certainly less elastic; her appetite often flagged ; there was a deeper trouble here than she had realized. She consulted a physician?one of the best in London. Sir John Philips thought a winter in Italv would be of inestimable "" ? - - > benefit; also, he would advise a little quiet. Miss Courtaine did not look robust, and perhaps the fatigue of traveling had been too constant for her strength. Back to Italy they went, and took up their abode in the Palazzo di , one of the most charming residences on the A mo. Here, with a few select acquaintances for society, they passed the winter in quiet and seclusion. Surrounded by books, works of art, having an entree into the best circles in Florence, with carriages placed at their disposal, and every facility for enjoying the neighboring country, there seemed to* be nothing wanting that could minister to their gratification. Daisy was better satisfied here .than while rushing about. Repose suited her. Still, she was pervaded by an ever-increasing longing, a ceaseless regret. The Past, and the Past alone, was what she cared for. Perhaps it would have done her good to open her heart to her mother?to shed some natural tears upon her breast. But this sort of confidence j had never existed between them. Mrs. Cour- j taine, though loving her daughter, had always been too much occupied with the world to enter much into domestic interests and joys. Now her feeling began to be different. The world no longer seemed all important; something was lacking in the elements which had hitherto constituted its charm. She ?-il kaM on viotir irtAPAQcfirl grew resness, nci v*jua , uvi ...... Daisy was conscious of her solicitude, and wondered a little at it. Was she, then, ill? She did not feel so ; yet she was.certaiuly not strong. There was a languor, a depression about her of which she was aware, and which she could not shake off. Instead of lessening, it increased. That winter, delightful as it was, or ought to have been, seemed to do her more harm than good. Her thoughts began to turn yearningly towards home. Hitherto she had rather shunned the idea of returning. "Mamma," she asked one day, "how much longer are we to stay abroad ?" "Why do you ask, Daisy ; are you anxious to go home ?" "I believe I am; I have been thinking a good deal about it lately." "But we ean't well go back at this season, dear; the summer in New York is so hot? unless you care to go to the springs as we used to do." Daisy reflected. "It would not be very warm now, would it? It is only April, you know. Somehow I am tired of these foreign scenes, and foreign ways. I think I could resl better in our own home." "We were going to the Tremayues in June, you know. Have you forgotten that ?" "I don't want to go to the Treroayues; I don't want to visit any more," said Daisy wearily. "I just want to be in peace." "Daisy," said her mother, looking earnestly at her, "are you quite well, dear? Does nothing ail you ? Tell me, truly and sincerely, how you feel." "I don't know, myself, exactly how I feel," was the low reply. "I don't care much about anything; that is all. I am not really ill, I suppose." The upshot of it was that Mre. Courtaine wrote at once to her husband, telling him exactly what Daisy said, and adding that she felt rather uneasy about her; she seemed to be losing strength. Mr. Courtaine, on the receipt of this letter, hesitated not a moment. His keenest anxiety was awakened by it It was a revelation to him of a state of affairs of which he had not suspected the existence until now. Wilfred chanced to be in his office when he read it. He was not often there now, but had called to consult him on some business, and seeing the foreign letter, made a pretext to linger? he was always yearning, hungering for news from abroad. The old lawyer's involuntary exclamation of dismay made him start. "No bad news, I hope, sir?" he asked, turning pale. "Bad news! The worst?my Daisy, my darling is ill. I know she is, from the way her mother writes. Good God! Why didn't she tell me before. I'll start for Europe right off?on the next steamer. She wants to come home. I'll leave everything in your hands, Wilfred. I can trust you to attend to my Kooineco until T pptiirn I'll iuat make a brief UUOlM^iN vaaa wit * > wvm. ?> j inventory of ray papers; you know all about ray locks and keys. You'll take the office iu charge. Is that this morning's paper at your elbow? Do run your eye over it and see when the next steamer sails." Trembling, oppressed by a dread to which he could not give utterance, Wilfred obeyed ; but a mist in his eyes made the closely printed columns before him seem blurred and indistinct. It was hard to find what he wanted. Half impatiently, Mr. Courtaine came and took the paper out of his hands. "Can'tyou find it? Isn't it there? Here, don't you see?City of Paris, April 20th, at noon. That's to morrow. I'll go on her; it gives me plenty of time. Why on earth, did ray wife not write before? Pining for homepoor child?poor little love. Of course she shall come, if she wants to." Wilfred's throat felt dry and parched. At last he managed to utter a question?"Was Miss Courtaine very ill 7" "I'm sure I don't know?women write so unsatisfactorily. Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Courtaine, with a sudden recollection of the importance which his news doubtless possessed for his hearer?a circumstance which had, in his first moments of alarm and anxiety, escaped his memory. "Bless my soul! how pale you look?here, drink a little wine, it will do you good. Perhaps I am unnecessarily frightened ; it may be nothing serious after all." Wilfred put aside the wiue with a shaking hand. "I do not require it, thank you, sir. Pray command me in any way that you like. I am at your service tor the rest of the day, and as much longer as you please." Mr. Courtaine looked kindly at the young ^an. He pitied him from his heart. From his heart, too, he admired him for the way in which he had borne his trial. Many, he knew, would have plunged into reckless dissipation. Others would have thrown up work, and gone elsewhere to escape from prying eyes and gossiping tongues. But he had stayed at his post and kept on in the path of duty, conquering difficulties?above all, conquering himself. Whatever his secret sufferings had been, they were patent to no man. Neither had be grown morbid or morose. Serious he was, and often silent, but gentlemanly, courteous and obliging as ever. Mr. Courtaine had often sighed over the fate which had denied him so exemplary a son-iu-law ; but beyond this his thoughts did not go. It never occurred to him that it was possible for him to revoke the hard decree. Now, however, for the first time, an idea of this sort flashed through his mind. What if, after all, he should give his consent to his marrying Daisy ? Might it not be better for them both ? Might not Daisy's failing health be owing, iu some measure, to vain regrets, secret pining, which she had never otherwise betrayed ? But he checked the budding inspiration with a "Preposterous?what would her mother say ?"?for to his wife's opinion he had ever bowed. He was especially kind to Wilfred during the remainder of the time that they were together. And until the steamer sailed they wereseldom apart, for there were many instructions to be given and t received. At the last, as he bid him goodbye, Wilfred could not refrain from one parting request. | "Will you write to me, sir?just a line?to tell me how she is ?" "Yes?my boy?yes. Good-bye, and God bless you, till we meet again." And then came the silence, the necessary suspense, which Wilfred was doomed to bear, and which were far more of a trial than the hardest work he could have been called upon to perform. As to Mr. Courtaine, the good steamer which bore him across the broad Atlantic, swiftly though she moved, seemed to plough the water with wheels of lead. Its throbbing pulses beat all too slow to satisfy his impatient longing to clasp his sick girl once more in his arms. At last, however, the voyage was made. The rest of his journey i was soon accomplished, and early on a pleasj ant morning of May he stopped in front of j the Palazzo di?, having walked there from ' ? rvtxKf A P O rv* llo I r loreuee, a uislumuc utuj ui ?* umv< ' Daisy had brought a book out on the marble portico; but she was not reading. She sat with her elbow on the arm of her chair, and ! her cheek resting listlessly on her hand, j Her eyes were down, and her father, pausing suddenly as he caught sight of her, .had an ; opportunity to inspect her appearance before she was aware that any one was near. His j heart had bounded with relief, with joy, to find that she was at least well enough to be up and dressed. But as he looked, he began to detect a change from what she had fornierj ly been. Her fresh color was gone; and besides the wanness of cheek and lips, there was , a wistful drooping of the once smiling feaj tures, a shadow of touching sadness pervad' ing the whole sweet face, a languor and j despondency in her attitude, that went to his | heart. His eyes filled as he looked ; but sudI denly she raised her head and caught sight of him, her book fell to the ground, and flying to meet him she flung her arms about his neck, clinging to him and crying "Papa! papa !" as she kissed him again and again with almost hysterical delight. "My darling! and how do I find you ?" he asked as he returned her caresses.. "Mamma wrote you were not well; are you better now?" "Oh ! yes?I am pretty well. Hare you come to take me home, dear papa ?" "If you wish it, my dearest, certainly." "Right off? To-morrow, can we start ?" He assured her that they would leave as soon as practicable. And then they went in to find Mrs. Courtaine. All that evening Daisy seemed brighter and better than usual. Her father's arrival had cheered her wonderfully, and he, for his part, began to think he had been needlessly alarmed. But in thenight, after they were all in bed, the parents were aroused by a faint, appealing cry from the room where Daisy slept, and her father hurried in to find" her flushed and ill, tossing and moaning on her pillow. I She was so weak?so much weaker than any one knew?that the excitement of her father's arrival had proved too great for her. She had a high fever, which steadily increased for some hours, and by morning she was delirious. Mr. Courtaine and his wife were terribly alarmed. A physician had been summoned immediately, and did not hesitate to pronounce the case a serious oue. Many anxious days followed?days of terrible agony and suspense to the parents, who now realized fully for the first time, how entirely their hearts were wrapped up in this one child. And iu those hours of feverish wandering, broken words often escaped her, of significant import, revealing to the stricken listeners the existence of feeliugs which she had all along so carefully concealed?telling her love, her grief for her destroyed hopes, in brief pathetic sentences, which the very unconciousness of her self betrayal made doubly sad to hear. And the two who had held her happiness in their hands, and cast it away, meaning to act I n'orVitlv and nnt. mififtsinp the evil thev were - *b "J ' o a doing, looked nt one another with eyes that said, "We never dreamed of this." And long, perhaps, before either spoke of them, thoughts were awakened in the mind of each of the , means by which the past might be atoned for? if only their darling's life were spared. And it was spared. Slowly, very slowly, after a time, skill and careful nursing, under God's providence, prevailed, and she began to come up, with feeble steps, from the Valley of the Shadow of Death. But she was terribly shaken by her illness, and it would be many weeks, perhaps months, before she could travel again ; so that all idea of returning home before the Fall had to be given up. Mr. Courtaine had not failed to fulfill his promise of writing to Wilfred, and from time to time, bad sent him brief tidings of Daisy's welfare. Sparing him, however, the extreme apprehension which her condition had caused in her attendants' minds. One evening the father and daughter were alone, Mrs. Courtaine, at Daisy's request, having gone out to refresh herself by a short walk. The invalid lay on a couch, propped up by large pillows, amid whose downy depths her slight, attenuated form looked slighter, and her pale face smaller and thinner than ever. "Papa," she asked, after a silence, during I which her gaze had been wandering wistfully over the prospect visible from the open window, "will it be very, very long, before we can start for home ?" "You are very anxious to go home, Daisy, dear. Are you hot comfortable here ?" "Oh ! yes, quite comfortable. But it seems so very long since we have been away." The father looked at her closely. "Is there any one at home, whom you want particularly to see ?" She turned her lovely eyes upon him. Something in his expression made a faint flush rise to her face, and quickened the pulses of her heart "Tell me the truth, my own pet," said her father, bending forward and encircling her with his arm. "Have no reserve with me? my only wish in life now is to see you happy. I have made a mistake?I feel it now?and will rectify it, God knows how gladly, if you still would have it so." She looked at him still, wonderingly, doubtfully, the pale rose deepening on her cheek, and a visable tremor stirring the folds of white drapery that lay on her bosom. "Tell me what you mean," she half whispered, putting her frail little fingers into his otrnnrr warm hnnH ........ He was afraid to agitate her by evading her question. He yearned besides, to set her doubts at rest, and Bay the words that should make her happy. "If there is one hope which you have cherished in your heart, my preciobs?a hope which you were forced, from certain opposing causes, to abandon, some time ago?a hope concerning yourself and another person who used to be very dear to you?and if that hope is ready to be renewed, anxious to be fulBlled?it shall be granted now, at one word, one sigu from you. Do you understand me?" She nodded slightly, and hid her fuce on his breast. "Is that other person I spoke of dear to you still ?" To this there was no answer. "Because," he continued, "I have goodjreason to know that you have never lost your place in his regard. He cares for you i j; .1 1 as mucn as ever?uiu you kuuw mux: "Papa!" "Did you think he had forgotten you, litI tie one ? Ah ! uo, he could not forget?he ! could never forget; but he is good and hono* j rable, and would not try secretly to break : down the barrier which fate had raised bej tweeu you. Daisy, I know him to be worthy j of you; I know him to be worthy of the highest esteem. I am willing to give you to him now, though he has not asked me. Shall I write and tell him so ?" "No?no," she faltered, clinging more closely to him. "Did you not say just now?" "That he had not asked me for you ?" "Yes." "How could he? He did all the asking once that was necessary ; and he believes himself to be still under a ban. Don't fear that I shall compromise you, daughter; I love you too well for that. But if you think you would like to see him again?if a visit from him row would do you any good?I'll write to him to take holiday and come." Daisy was crying, now ; silent happy tears, that eased her overcharged heart more than any words could have done. And the next mail carried a letter home to Wilfred, signifying that something pleasant was in store for him if he could make the time to come across the Atlantic and fiud it?which, in a bewilderment of doubt, and expectation, and exquisite hopes which he hardly dared to indulge in, he very promptly did. And now, re united after long years of parting and! pain, behold our lovers once more supremely happy?happier, probably, than they would have been if no obstacles had ever come in their way to prove the truth of the old adge, relative to the course of love, which we have alluded to once before. These obstacles were now surmounted ; the rough places were made smooth; and under the influence of her new joy?Wilfred's presence proving the best medicine which had yet been employed for her benefit?Daisy's strength returned with marvelous rapidity, promising a speedy and entire renewal of her former health. It was, indeed, only happinaoa wliioK Ko^ KppiT to make her quite well again. , Daisy was content to leave all provision for the future in her father's hands, and very kind hands they proved to be. Wilfred, grown suddenly as bold as in former days, finding all things favorable, begged that the wedding might take place now. Surely the engagement had been long enough. Could he not carry his bride home as soon as she was fit to travel again ? It was a presumptuous idea, no doubt?butsoraehow the suggestion was not repelled. In August, Daisy, looking almost as strong, and certainly quite as pretty, as of yore, was led to the altar, the ceremony being performed in a charming little Protestant chapel attached to the quarters of the British Legation in Rome, and then the whole party embarked for their native land, the new-married couple not intending to encounter the dust and heat of New York, but rather to take up their abode, for the present, in a lovely re treat on the Hudson, which Madame d'Arcy had, some time since, purchased, and continued to inhabit during a portion of each year. This important consummation being reached, there remains little more to be told. Of course, two such people as Wilfred and Daisy could not fail to be happy in their union. And the past clouds which had, for a time, darkened the horizon of their lives, only served to make the sunshine afterwards seem more bright. Fanny?Mrs. Baretow?had lived with .her mother ever since Ralph's death. She was very quiet, very gentle, very subdued; a good Christian woman, who won people's hearts as soon as they grew to know her well. As my story opens with her marriage, which proved to be the precursor of so many singular events, it is well to bestow upon her our parting words. And it is pleasant to know that, surrounded by many kind and affectionate hearts, her closing years are likely to be happier than those of her earlier and more eventful life. [the end.] fjpscrUaitMuis Reading. For the Yorkvllle Enquirer. FEMALE EDUCATION. "Should the standard of education in female institutions of learning be raised to that of the male ?" has frequently been a subject of discussion. The susceptibility of the extent of woman's culture is generally regarded as an unsettled question, whilst limitless development and attainment has been accorded co man. It has been argued that whilst the former may reach a higher standard of elegant acquirements, it is reserved for the latter alone to develop genius in comprehending and civilizing. The truth is, in our country, advanced as civilization now is, woman has conceded to her, only, her exalted social, moral and religious spheres ; but, intellectually, she is underrated. The supposition that she would fail to make a good "domestic," were she trained in the higher schools of science, is the basis upon whicb her education is provided. It is feared that too much mental development and acquisition of knowledge from books, would disqualify her for the drudgeries of the homestead. To be the loving, obedient and industrious wife?more properly house wife?of some man who has the sublime talent for raking and scraping together dollars and cents, she should not have too much education. Really, in our day, education is so superficial and mental application so rare, that the "Lords of Creation" cannot generally look a well educated woman in the face and say, "We are the scholars ; we are the thinkers; we are the lights in a benighted land !" Even some of those who are appointed to educate us, would do this at the expense of their reputation for common veracity. What are the standards of education in most of our female colleges, and with what exactness are they enforced ? We study logic without knowing what a syllogism is; Latin without reaching Virgil ; French without being able either to read it or speak it. We hear tell of geometry and trigonometry, but as to the calculus, we presume that belongs to | Paradise! Ofteu, when the time comes for a young lady to graduate, she finds herself absolutely incapable of preparing a passable thesis in the English language. Why is this the case ? Is it because we neglect our opportunities for study ? Or, is it because we are not compelled to reach a higher standard of study, which, in our graduation, would place us alongside the other sex in theirs ? And, indeed, this would ko O r5ic(-irvrrlliallpfl bonnT. fof the eduCB | uut ut c* uioviugutwwv^ ? ; j tion of young men in our country?at least, J in our State?is superficial enough. In male colleges, do you look for Bacons and Newtons? I tell you, in our female colleges, under golden curls, rosy cheeks and bright eyes, are to be found De Staels, Hemans, Brownj ings, Augusta Evanses and George Eliots, if | they were only developed. The fair daughters of many a seminary in our land would ascend the rugged slopes of the mountain of science, or reach the dizzy heights of Parnassus were they permitted the chance. A School Girl. 4?* An Overton county, Tennessee, man was killed in a singular fashion the other day. He stole a pig, killed it, tied it about his neck with a rope, and started for home. After going some distance he became weary, placed the pig on a stump without removing the rope from his neck, and fell asleep. The pig slipped over the opposite side of the stump, and the mau was strangled to death. FAITHFUL UNTIL DEATH. A touching story is narrated in connection with the execution of Walter Watson, at Highland, Indiana, on Friday last for the murder of Ezra Corapton. The parties had quarreled about the charge of a quarter dollar for some soap made by Compton, who was a storekeeper. The wife of Watson, to whom he had been but a year married, endeavored to restrain him from the quarrel, but her entreaties failed. A week before the execution Mrs. Watson visited the Governor, with her babe in her arms, and made a stroug personal appeal for mercy, but that official declined to interfere because the sentence had been confirmed by the Supreme Court. The faithful wife was a daily visitor to her husband's cell, and joined him in fervent prayers for forgiveness. During the last night, most of the time she sat on nis knee breathing words of love and encouragement, or at hia feet, caressing his hand. He was truly a penitent, and expressed himself as having made peace with God. As the time approached for the execution, she was for a moment overcome, and fell on her husband's neck in uncontrollable anguish, but suddenly she raised her flaxen bead and assisted in arraying hitn for his doom. She had contributed a neck-tie and a pair of slippers, and put them on him with a fierce determination that overmastered her agony. She combed his hair, and seeing all was ready, said she would go with him. All present remonstrated with her, in which the minister joined. Her reply was a rebuke that few women would have ventured. "I should not have expected this from a minister. When I was married I promised to cleave to my husband for better or for worse. I promised this to a minister, and I am going to keep my word as far as God will let me." On reaching the gallows, the pair soon to be sundered mounted the steps hand in hand. They were seated side by side over the fatal trap. She again took bis hand and sobbed with her little head resting upon his shoulder, while the minister made the closing prayers. M eanwhile the culprit eat in his chair unmoved. A heart-broken wife was sobbing on his Iwsom, strong men sobbed, but the man about to be hanged seemed an uninterested spectator of the absorbing scene of which he was the central figure. For fully five minutes he sat there without the least peceptible twitch of a muscle. There was no bravado in this composure; it was the calmness of resignation. At the close of the religious exercises the two stood up, and for the last time she embraced her husband, kissed him passionately, and, with "Good-bye, Walter,'" stepped back and fell back into the arms of the good Christian ladies who were there to receive her. The last words of the unhappy man were a fervent prayer for mercy and for heavenly aid to his poor wife. At the sheriff's house she saw the remains of the husband in his coffin, and kissing his lips and arranging the hair, turned away with a look of woe and said, "I can cry no more; I have no more tears; God have mercy on me and my little baby." An hour later the coffin was in an eastbound train, accompanied by the wife. At Richland, a bleak .station seven miles from this point, it was deposited on the barren ground, and as the train moved on only one other person beside the widow was in charge. The face that broken hearted woman turned up to the occupants of the passing train, most of whom had seen the hanging, will hauut many in their dreams. A CRUEL FATE. GENERAL 8LOCUM ON THE MURDER OF MRS. 8URATT. General H. W. Slocura, one of the most distinguished brigade, division, corps and grand division commanders of the war, recently delivered a lecture in Brooklyn on events of the great struggle, during the course of which he expressed the opinion, always held by the Union, that Mrs. Suratt was a murdered woman. He said : I am going to speak to you one word about the execution of Mrs. Suratt at the close of the war, for I think some good lessons can be learned from the story of her trial and death. I believe any people, situated as we were, ought to be cautioned against placing implicit confidence in evidence given at a time of high excitement. I could stand here to night and relate to you fitly incidents that would serve to caution everybody against taking evidence against others when the people were all in a state of intense excitement. There never was a day, there never was an hour, that I did not believe Mrs. Suratt uroa no iiinnr>f?nt a wnmnn no them is 111 this hall. [Applause.] She was the keeper of a boarding house in Washington. She boarded Wilkes Booth and half a dozen other rebel sympathizers, and she had a son, John H. Suratt. Wilkes Booth was guilty of shooting Mr. Lincoln, aod this poor woman was brought to trial in connection with Wilkes Booth,' and through the excitement of the times her neck was brought to the halter. Her daughter, a young girl of 18 or 19 years of age, on the morning of the execution, went to the President's room and begged permission to say a few words to him on behalf of her mother, and a United States Senator from our own State, who acted as door tender, repulsed her saying, "No, no; you cannot go in." Worse than that, meaner than that, the poor girl three or four years afterward married a clerk in the Treasury DeEartraent. No charges were made against ira, but because this clerk had married the daughter of Mrs. Suratt, he was discharged. Let us brag of our achievements, but at the same time let us learn to look at our faults and errors squarely in the face and acknowledge them when we have cause to. ?0 -The murder of Mrs. Suratt was the most cruel and cowardly act ever committed in any civilized country. It is a curious and suggestive fact that all who were chiefly responsible for the execution of that innocent woman have felt the unseen hand of the Great Avenger. Stanton, Secretary of War, who was, perhaps, the worst of the number, committed suicide in a flt of remorse, although the fact was sought to be concealed. Preston King, the Senator from New York, who repulsed Annie Suratt from the President's door, in like manner ended his own life by deliberately jumping from a ferry boat in the North River, at New York, and drowning himself. Andrew Johnson, who signed the death warrant and despotically suspended the writ of habeas corpus that had been granted by the court, was stricken suddenly with death upon his return to the Senate after he had left the Presidency. Judge Advocate Holt, who had conducted the prosecution, long ago disappeared from public view, and whether dead or anve, nooouy knows and nobody cares. And John A. Bingham, who assisted Holt, was driven from Congress in disgrace as one of the Credit Mobilier bribe takers, and sought refuge in Japan, where, we believe he now is.?Rochester (N. Y.) Union. This Crucifixion.?"Christ died on Friday, April 3, A. D., 33, on which day there was an eclipse of the inoon.if the calculations of Professor Lutterback are to be relied upon, as it would seem they are. The matter has before this attracted attention. A year or so ago Professor Brahus of Leipsic announced definitely that there was such an eclipse. The well known German astronomer Professor Lutterback, took the matter in hand, and in a published letter to Professor Brahus, written early last summer, says: "I take the liberty of communicating to you that I had it exactly calculated after La land's tabulated statements of the variations of the orbit of the moon. - The eclipse began at 1 o'clock and 16 minutes, Paris rime, or 3 o'clock 57 minutes and 6 seconds, Jerusalem j time. I "Greatest phase, 4 o'clock, 3 minutes and 4 seconds, Paris time, or 6 o'clock, 19 minutes and 6 seconds, Jerusalem time, End of the eclipse, 6 o'clock, 29 minutes and 3 seconds, Paris time, or 8 o'clock, 41 minutesand 3 seconds, Jerusalem time ; the shadow covering 59 of the moon. As the moon arose at 6 o'clock and 6 minutes in Jerusalem, she rose already eclipsed over the horizon. Finally let me add that the 3rd of April, of the year 33, was a Friday." APYICE TO OLDMEN BY A BOY. I can not pick up a newspaper without "Advice to Boys" stares me in the face. Old men write it, I s'pose. Nobody else is capable of giving any advice to boys; oif conrse not! They know all about us, they do, 'cause they've been there. Advice is a goodthing to have, no doubt, and no family should be without it; bat a feller don't want io be crammed with it all the time to the exclusion of all other diet. i i j- ? j -j_: , ii_ now, oia men neeu auviue uuctuuuiiwijr, but in looking through the newspapers, I don't see as they get it. So I thought JL would just write a little Advice to Old Men myself, if I am not presuming too much, (as Aunt Chloe says) and I presume I am. In the first place, you old chaps ought to get over telling bow ;nuch smarter boys were when you were young, than boys are now. You believe it yourself, of course, 'cause you've told it so many times, but we boys can't see it. We have a notion that boys are boys pretty much (except some that are girls) the world over, and one generation don't lay over another to any alarming extent. Only let you tell it, and you could out* jump, out-run, out-wrestle, out anything else the rising generation of to-day when you "was a boy." Grandfather, who has got the gout, and half a dozen different kinds of rheuma ism, is always saying that, f- heard him singing the other day, "I would I were a boy again." I would he were. If I couldn't beat him running, and flop him on his back, side-holt, I don't want a cent. I wouldn't go so far as as to say, "Parents obey your children," but I would suggest to fathers that they give us boys a hearing occasionally on matters in which we are the ones most interested. Don't make us go and slide down hill when we want to skate; and don't try to make preachers of us when we prefer to run a saw mill. This is 6gurative, but I guess you know what I mean. After giving us boys advice about our conduct, and how to behave, you old men ought to be careful how you get to relating your boyish scrapes to each other and laughing over them before we are out of earshot. The other day grandfather read me a long lecture about the rights of property, temperance, and Sabbath breaking. That night an old crony of hj^'n came to niaif l\im on/1 tlifiv Uo/1 a /vlaaa nf nllrW'fl tft. JOIU mill) OUU IIUCJ UUrVi M g*UWU W4 ow gether. They thought I was asleep on the sofa, and the way they run on about the fun they had when they were boys together! THey told all about robbing Captain Lyman's melo?. patch, and it turned out that it was on Sunday night, too! When I went to bed they were taking their third glass of Eunch, and I don't know how many they ad after that I know grandfather's rheumatism was a great deal worse the next day, and he complained about his liver. Old men ought to be careful about taking too much punch. I have noticed old men hate to give up that they can't stand as much as they used to, or as younger men can. They get mad if a feller like me hints that they can't. But what's the use of fooling yourselves? We've all got to play out some.day, and when a man feels he is losing his grip, why not come down gracefully and acknowledge the corn ? Now, in the above remarks, I don't mean any disrespect. I like old men in their place, but don't want so much of their advice. ' ' /~v? il rrv? Lrive tne Doys a CQance.? I/Mnnwit jlwico. GEN. GRANT ANITTHE PRESIDENCY* A Washington letter says: "The statement is made that a gentleman in the party now traveling with Gen. Grant, writes here that Gen. Grant will not again be a candidate for President under any circumstances. It is very well for Gen. Grant to make this declaration and to have it sent here for publication. If when the time comes for making the nomination the skies look propitious, he will of course take" the nomination, if he can get it, If the outlook is gloomy, he can fall back on the delaration now made, and refuse with the utmost grace. The signs thicken that there was a deep-laid scheme concocted as soon as Gen. Graut left this country, to work up a sentiment which would demand his renomination for President at the hands of the Republican Convention in 1880, The man who originated this scheme and the men who are now most actively at work poshing it, are of the same class who blockaded all the avenues of the White House during Gen. Grant's administration, and who did so much to make that administration odious in the eyes of the country. These men do not doubt, nor does any one here doubt, that with Grant back in the White House, their influence would be as overshadowing as before. In deed so little prudence and discretion Uave some of them that they are even now, at this long period in advance, chuckling over their anticipated return to the luxury of power and plunder. But the very fact-that Gen. Grant is already providing a loop-hole by which he can crawl out if there is not a certainty of success, shows that he, at least, has retained some of the horse sense with which he has always been credited. As far off as he is, he is no doubt able to see what some of his henchmen at home are too blind to see, that all the hurrah which has been gotten up over his repominption is simply the work of a few politicians, and that it has not found any lodging place in the hearts of the people. The shrewder politicians among the Republicans who are not prejudiced by personal interest in nor personal infatuation for Grant, have no difficulty in perceiving this, and they have no hesitation in expressing the opinion that unless a great chaDge in public sentiment occurs, Grant will really be the weakest man that the ' 1 i A? republicans couiu nuuiiuaiu. maucis stand now, Secretary Sherman is looked upon by the most sagacious members of his party as the most available man to run for the Presidency in 1880. If next year, when ths time for the meeting of the nominating conventions approaches, resumption is still a fixed fact, as there seems now no possible reason to doubt will be the case, Secretary Sherman's connection with it, from the initial steps to final success, will naturally, make him the strongest man of his party, and with him as a candidate, the purse strings of the money power would be opened much wider than for Grant or for any other Republican candidate." Whittington's Cat.?Dick Wbittington, the notable Lord Mayor of London, is the hero of a famous old legend, in which he is represented as a poor orphan boy from the country who went to London, where after undergoing many hardships, he attracted the notice and compassion of a rich merchant, who gave him a situation in his family as an assistant to the cook. Here he led a miserable life, abused by the cook and sleeping in the garret, which was overrun with rats and mice. At length, having obtained a penny, he purchas ed a cat.'"His master soon afterward, being about to send a ship to sea, gave all the servants permission to send a venture in her. Dick had nothing to risk bat his cat, and he seut her. The ship was driven to the coast of Barbary, where the master and chief mate were invited to court. At an entertainment given them by the king, rata and mice swarmed over the tables and disputed with the guests possession of the banquet The captain thereupon sent for Dick's cat, which being produced, made a terrible havoc among the vermin, and was gladly purchased by the king at a verv high price, With the money thus acquired Dick began business, married his former master's daughter, and became Lord Mayor of London. This tradition has, probably, no foundation m fact, tbongh there was a Richard Whittington, who Was thrice Mayor of London in the reign of Henry V. THE TRADE*IN FALSE HAIR. False hair having come to be recognized as a necessity of the modern female existence, it may be of interest to learn how this constantly-increasing want is supplied. Live hair, bought "On foot" (to use the technical term of the trade) constitutes but a very small per nantaaa nf thn at/v?lr - in TnArkftt ns there are few women who are willing to part with their locks for money, and tboee who have superfluous locks to spare, grow fewer every year. When second-hand tresses were needed merely to furnish wigs for a few elderly ladies, agents found no difficulty in securing a sufficiency among the peasant maids of Auvergne and Brittany. , The present demand, however, greatly exceeds the supply* and it is asserted tnat Paris a one uses more than all the available crop in France, and that Marseilles (the great centre of traffic in hair) deals with Spain, the Orient, and the two Sicilies, for forty tons a year of dark hair, of which she makes upward of 65,000 chignons annually. Under the name of "dead hair" are classed the "comings," which thrifty servant-girls save up and sell, the clippings of barber-shops, faded curls, worn-out switches, etc. The scavengers of every city, both at home and abroad, wuTnfl nnfhinor atmrt. nf .? ailtfoi* niwnn nmnncr the refuse so much as a snarl of combings, however dirty, as it will find ready sale. Such findings are afterward washed wi th braq and potash, carded, sifted, classed and sorted, and then made into the cheap front curls, puffs, and chignons that abound in the market. Much of this enters into the cheaper grades of the 350,000 "pieces" annually made in Francs, of which enormous trade England is said to be the best customer, and Americ^Hjipost as g?0(b . Late reports oh the commerce of Swatow, China, show that a large export trade in "dead" bair, gathered in the stalls of barbers, sprang up ih 1873, during which year 18,800 pounds were exported to Europe. In 1875 the exports of this reftise arose to 134,000 pounds, with a commercial value of $25,000. It is an undoubted feet, that pauper corpses are often despoiled of their hair'to meet this same demand of an increasing commerce. Those, then, who sport other than their natural locks, can never he sure whether these are redolent of the sepulchre, the gutter, or the servant's comb.?Scientific American. . 1, j t )?; A Gentleman.?The first mark of a gentleman is proper regard for the feelings of oth, era, and a man's own good, breeding is the best security against other people's ill manners. Good breeding is the result of much, good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for. the sake of others. c Gentility is neither in birth, wealth, manner nor fashion, but in the mind. A high sense of honor, a determination never to take a mean advantage of another, an adherence , to the truth, delicacy- and politeness toWards those with whom we have dealings, are the essebtial characteristics of a gentleman. The Son of God remained for thirty-three years amongst as that he might build up in himself and in his own life a perfect specimen of the true man, a model that every maH should form himself on until the end of time; standin<r hefore us as the ffreat original, the errand roan, the man who in his life, showed of how much grandness and sanctity a man was capable. God created man in his own image and likeness. The likeness is principally in the soul of roan, and the only standard by which a gentleman can be judged is the divine standard. . ?; Being poor is not of itself a disqualification for being a gentleman. To bea gentleman is to be elevated above others in sentiment rather than situation, and the poor man with an enlarged, pure, christianized mind may be ^ happier, too, than his rich neighbor. Let the former only look at nature with an enlightened mind that can see and adore the Creator in His works, can consider them as demonstrations of His power, His wisdom, His goodness and His truth, and this man is greater ip hjs poverty and happier lhan the other jp his riches. The one is but little higher than the beast, the other but little lower than the angels.?Mobile New. *' : Can Broad River be made Navigable? We are glad to know that some of our neighbors about Black's Station, in York county, are agitating this question. For fifty years past engineers have been talking over this matter, and it was considered practicable even before the recent improvements in shallow draught steamboats; , Froih Cohfmbia up to the crossing of the Aii>Line Road, about fourfifths of the channel would carry boats drawing three feet during average water. There are a few ahpftls in the way, hut there are canals cut long ago around most of these. They would need a little deepening and widening, The expense up to Smith's Ford, between Union and York counties, would he comparativeI A V?/\*?/\ 4- V. ? ? 4- T7?/v?,l la a nKaaI ly ilttlC. aliuvc lliitb xuiu ta a miuai vi unv aggregating about six miles in length. Sere at these shoals is the finest water power in the State. Just above them lie the inexhaustible beds of iron and lime. Five counties would be wonderfully benefitted by the opening up of this river. The wonderful water powers which are now worthless, because inaccessable, would be sought after, because they could be purchased for very little. The vast beds of magnetic iron ore in Spartanburg and Union ? counties could then be utilized. The United States contains no ore superior to this. There are one hundred thousand aores of land in Union, York and Spartanburg counties alone, within a few miles of the river, .which is now waiting for settlers. If Broad river were cleared out, and boats put on it, they would come. We hope aur Representatives in Congress will look after this interest which is of so much importance to the central part of our State, from Charleston to its Northern limit. Spartanbicry Spartan. S6y The wane in the circus business is noted in the New York Mail, and the whereabouts and occupation of many once famous therein are given. Dr. Spaulding is living on his money in Saugerties, N. Y. Yankee Robinson is an actor in Western theatres. Ben Maginley, Tony Pastor and Prank Pastor, formerly clowns, are also on the theatrical stage. Andrew Haight, once of the Great Eastern Circus, is keeping hotel in Chicago. Of other proprietors, Joseph Cushing is farming in New Hampshire, J. M. Nixon is. managing a theatre in Chicago, Montgomery Queen is interested in Brooklyn,' W. J. Metchear keeps a hotel in Providence, George K. Goodwin runs two theatres and a dollar store in Philadelphia, Eaton and Daniel Stone are farming in New Jersey, R. E. J. Milos owns a Cincinnati theatre, Burr Robbins is lecturing in the West on temperance, and the Cooper, of Cooper & Bailey, keeps a horse -n^rtrin Philadelphia. Dan Kice, after many ups and downs, is building a floating theatre to run on the Mississippi. Barnum, Forepaugh, Robinson and Lent are abput the only old proprietors in the business.