About Columbus daily enquirer. (Columbus, Ga.) 1874-1877 | View Entire Issue (March 11, 1877)
ICOLUMBUS SUNDAY ENQUIRER: SUNDAY, MARCH 11, 1877. NO. 60 3? «; f •Tli ■ days ure terrible long an’ si An' she’» growiu’ wuss in each: 1 now silo’s jest B-sli pin’ Clmr away out uv o lr reach, very * iglil wlien i kias liar, Tryin’ hard not to cry, I Flu) says in a way that kills me— i better in inornin’—bye!’ She can’t get through the night, parson Pol w nt you to come an’ pray, n 1 talk with mother a little— You'll know -eat what ti say; I Not that th- baby nee's it, Not tlrat’we make any complaint ! That God seems to thiuk lie's needin’ The smile uv the little saint.” I walked along with tlio Corporal To the door of his humble home. To which the silent messenger Before me had also come; And, if he bud beeu a titled prince, 1 would not have been honored more Thau I was with his heartfelt wel.ome To his lowly cottage door. • Night falls aga’n in the cottage; They move in silence and dread Around the room where the baby Lies panting upon her bed. •'lines baby know papi, darling?’, And she moves Her little face With answer that shows rhe knows him; But scarce a visible trace. Of Iter wonderful infautile beauty Bemtiitis as it was before The unseen, sileut m ssenger ilad waited ut tbeir door. “Papa—kiss—baby I I’s—so—tired?” The man hows low his lace, And two swolleuhands are lifted In baby’s last embrace. And into her fa*here’s grizzled beard The little red fingers cling, W bile her boaky, whisphered tenderness, Tears from a rock would wring. "Baby—is—so—sicA—papa— But—don’t—want—you—to—cry;” The little hands fall ou the coverlet— “Be— tntter—:u—uiornin’—bye!” And night around baby is falling. Settling down dark and dense; Do s God need their darling in Heaven That He must carry her lienee? I prayed, with tears in my voice, As the Corporal solemn y knelt, With grief such as never before I His great warm heart had felt. i O 'rivolous men and women! i Do you know that round you and nigh, i Alike from the humble and haughty, 1 Goeth up evermore the cry. ■ “My child, my precious, my darling! How can I let you die?” Oh! hear ye the white lips whisper: “Be—better—in—uiornin’—bye!” [Written for the Sunday Enquirer.] through the Gap. A New Serial in Four Parts. BY NET.I, TEIiIi. CHAPTER I. ejiefora the completion of the Alabama Chattanooga Railroad, there was a of about (seventy miles through tho juutaiuR, connected by a stage line. Daleville, tho northern terminus of the load, was a charming place, and I had bten spending a few weeks there in deli' ©ions repose, when I received urgent let- Ur* from friends to join them without dftlav. They had established themselves f«r the heated term in a picturesquely tftuated mountain village, just getting into repute for its beautiful scenery, and ■nlubrions waters, on the railroad beyond the gap. I was not much disposed for action and seriously hesitated whether to leave my present quarters where I had in a dreamy, restful spirit dawdled away the long summer days in absolute ease and in dolence. ■ From this sweet and misty state those letters aroused me. We were only a hun dred miles apart, but to reach them I ahould have to go several hundred around rail, unless I made up my mind to ndertake the direct route through the fountains by means of the stage ttach. Rut so lazy and averse to change las I. that I verily believe I should have ratinued during the season in Daleville not Mr. Denton, whom I had long lown, together with his wife, proposed ly joining them and for once experience lie trials and tribulations of that mode of aval. Our ideas of what our ancestors ace suffered by staging, would be thor- aghly tested by like sensations, and our aowledge of human nature, enlarged by le close contact of different minds and arsons, each displaying their little pecu- iar traits and dispositions as “cabined, bribbed,confined" we jolted along o'er the jfcude mountain roads. H The weather had been for some time aprecedentedly dry and warm, and on ae sultry August morning that we were ||o start I bad risen at 2 o’clock, to get all lings in readiness by the time the coach lied for me at 3. a. m.; but a few min- 88 before that hour, Mr. Denton came rith the distressing and perplexing news iat his wife had been unexpectedly tak en ill during the night and would not be able to travel in several days. Here was disappointment truly, and serious de- emma. Mr. Denton said, “Yon will certainly ot attempt the trip alone or at least un- r rotected. Better await the recovery of y wife. Let me see, to-day is Monday, ell, I think by Fiiday she will be strong □ough to go.” “I think I had best try it anyhow. 1 am all ready,” I said. “Let me insist on your delaying for a few days. I believe you’ll find my sug gestions wisest in the end.” “Ah! but, sir, yon don’t know me so well as I know myself, and I much fear if this impulse to move is once evapora ted or destroyed by accident, I may not have another soon. Besides the nnceiN tainty attending tho health of Mrs. Den ton is another reason why I should not postpone the journey.” As I was getting into the coach, he said: “If you will go, I suppose I had better accompany you to the hotel where the mails and other passengers will be taken on, ami it may be possible I shall find some one going through whom I know and under whose charge I can place i you.” The rattling old trap with its six horses soon drew up with a great flourish before the hotel, and I anxiously surveyed the crowd of men that hurried out to get on. Mr. Denton jumped out and eagerly scan ned their faces as they stood round the coach, then said to me: “This is unfortunate indeed. You seem to be the only lady going, and these men are all strangers to me. Do con clude and stay over a few days. I really thiuk it advisable under the circumstan ces.” “No, no,” said I, “it is too late, now, and I’ll not back out after starling.” “Well, then, I’ll speak to t^e driver, whom I know to be a steady, reliable fel low, to look after your comfort, and if you like wilt beg one of these 'gentlemen to see that you are cared for.” “Thank you very much, but I don’t think that is necessary; if they ere gen tlemen they will certainly respect my presence, if not, nothing you could say would influence them.” I know not how it was, but my mind terribly misgave me, and I was sorely tempted to give out the trip altogether, more especially wheu I made tho unpleas ant discovery that I was the sole repre*. seutative of my sex aboard. But more courageous thoughts prevailed, and more over further deliberation was now out of the question, for we started off' at a great rate. I had noticed, just before leaving, a youth hurrying up, who said a few words to our driver. The latter replied, “All right—at your father’s, did you say?” “Yes,” answered the boy, “they are ready and waiting.” In tho suburbs of the sleeping town we stopped before a pretty little white cottage, embowered in vines and shrub bery, and with sweet flowers Ailing the soft summer air with their fragrance. Im mediately the front door opened, and a flood of light flashed out into the dark ness, lighting up the approach of several figures to the gate—one, a matronly look ing lady, was supporting a slender, girl ish figure,that was clinging closely to her. A fine, portly gentleman, carrying shawls and satchels, walked a little behind them. 1 heard the driver say, “Good morning, ma'am, morning Miss Lucy; howdy do, Mr. liartwoll—going through to-day!” “Yes,” replied tho gentleman, Lucy and I aro going. I suppose you can give us seats?” “Oh, yes, sir; plenty of room.” What a feeling of relief it was to me to know this girl was going. I gladly made room by ray side for her. The gentleman,disposing of bis burden of tra veling paraphernalia offered to assist her in but waving him off and clasping the lady in her arms, in tones nearly stifled by sobs, she said, “Good-bye, my mother —good bye; it is bitter to leave yon, but the die is cast.” Then, without aid, she hastily climed in and took the place by me. I was closely observing the two persons stiil standing outside. They seemed earnest ly conversing in whispers. At length, after a cordial hand-shaking, they parted —the lady going slowly towards tho house and the gentleman taking the seat oppo site mine. We were now a numerous party—eight inside, with six on top—so I heard our driver say. Soon we started again, and then each one settled down, immersed in thought, or else trying to catch snatches of sleep. As dawn began to show itself, and the fiery orb of day to shed his flamiDg beams upon us, I had a distinct view of my vis a vis, whom I had heard called Hartwell. He had one of the kindest, most assuring faces I ever saw—benevolence and phi- lanthrophy spoke in every feature. Some- 1 what past the meridian of life, with hair and beard showing traces of age; and judging from appearances, I should have said he was considerably past fifty. I oould see nothing much of his compan ion. She kept her face closely covered in a thick brown veil that effectually screen ed her, but the little ungloved hand, ly ing white and dimpled on her dark-gray dress, together with her slight girlish form, and #ne long golden tress of hair, that escaped from beneath her hat—all proclaimed her exceeding voutbfulness. Of the others in the coach I remember but little, with two exceptions. One a pert, self-satisfied youngster, fresh from college, who made himself ridiculous by his masterly efforts to display his recent ly acquired learning, and to find an at tentive listener to his unsettled, specula tive religious opinions. I took it as a matter of course, when I heard where he had been educated, that he should be infected with such notions, and that nothing good or worthy could be expect ed from him until he had run the gaunt let of divers infidel doctrines which usu- sally attack 6uch fellows of his mental calibre. “Don't you think,” he said, looking at Mr. Hartwell, “don’t you think that Dar- wi n. Huxley and Tyndall are now the greatest men alive? And is'nt it fine fun the way they have exploded the antiqua ted science of old Moses?” “The trio you mention are great sci entists,” replied Mr. Hartwell, “but they have not and cannot hurt Moses.” “Weil, allow me to differ with you, and ask if you believe the old Jew’s ac count of the creation?” “God’s revealed account you mean?” No I don't. I mean just what I say. I’ll admit the Bible contains the grandest, most perfect civil and moral code of any book that was ever written, and for that reason ought to bo studied, but when those old prophets and patriarchs com menced tinkering with scientific and met aphysical questions they made a botch of it.” “Ah! yes, to be sure you think so now, but wait until you get well, you will begin to think differently. Religion, and an implicit trust in God’s Word is a good thing to live with but far better to die with.” “You say wait until I get well! I am not aware of being sick.” “Oh, yes, you are, but perhaps you don’t know, young man, that it is of men tal infirmity I am alluding to.” The young fellow stared haughtily at him for a minute, then said: “If yon’ll have the goodness to attend, I’ll soon convince you, sir, that my wits are as sound as yours.” “Let me beg you to spare yourself that trouble. My impressions are usually very fixed and hard to change.” . “Well, give me leave to try, and I’ll soon prove I know more than you think I do. Where have you lived all your life if you never heard that—” But he never got any further, for read ing the good-natured contempt so plainly expressed on the pleasant face of the old gentleman, he stopped, shook his head ruefully, and subsided into silence. The other exception I spoke of was a plain, substantial farmer-looking man, who had listened attentively to the fore going conversation—alternately watching each speaker, and never losing a word. Now he raised himself up with a kind of jerking motion removed from his mouth the disgusting quid of tobacco he had been miunbiing, and said, in a loud, cracked voice— “For my part no man that don’t believe every single word in the Bible shan t ever put foot into my house. ” “I suppose,” remarked the yonng dis putant, recovering from his momentary embarrassment, “I suppose you will stand in the door and inquire his creed before admitting him; you've got to know that much ere yon let him budge an inch.” The man I suspect knew not much more of creeds than he did of Sanscrit, but answered, “You're right; I m bound to know bis creed before he knows my feed, ha! ha! But, young man, ’thout jo king bout creeding and feeding, if yon was to come over into Chnc-a-luc Valley, where I used to live, you would fi^l a man to gob you ’bout them Scripture questions to your heart’s content. He was always disputing, fust ’bout one thing, then ’nother in the holy book, but that did not prevent his being the best fanner I ever saw.” “I should judge that to be your occu pation,” said Mr. Hartwell.” “You judge right, sir, and I always make it a rule to try to get some re-rotal- rotaliation for every seed I put into the ground.” After the utterance of this amazing speech, he glanced triumphantly around upon us all. The young collegian gave me a comical look, and I noticed the merry twitching of his moustaches, but Mr. Hartwell merely raised his brow a little, and said, with great gravity: “That rule, if strictly adhered to, would improve the state of all tillers of the soil.” “Yes, sir, that’s true as the gospel. Look at me now. Why thirty years ago I was a poor plough boy, bare-footed,and at one time mighty nigh bare of briches too, but now I’ve got a fine plantation, bootiful house in town, with large emi nences all around it, and my children are going to a highfalutin’ ’cademy, where they can get a classaxel education, as their teacher calls it. I know the value of learning if I haven't got none myself. Never wont to school a day in my life— no, sir, not a day, and what I know I’ve picked up by obsalion.” The two last ludicrous mistakes of the illiterate old countryman, was too much for the mercurial youth, and he tittered outright. I could scarcely keep my own countenance, and turned to see what ef fect it had on the girl. I should have thought she was asleep, so still she sat, had not her deep drawn sighs and low moans told me she was not only awake but evidently suffering. As we had left Daleville so early I had eaten no breakfast, and now, as time wore on, I felt hungry, and, opening my lunch box, asked the girl to join me, offering her, as I spoke, some fine fresh figs. But still keeping her face well con cealed, she only shook her head. Mr. Hartwell and some others accepted my offer, and he, leaning across to the girl said, “My dear, won't yon eat something? Let me peel for you one of these luscious figs—your favorite fruit, I believe.” But again she merely shook her head, sighing dismally as she did so. For him neither did she seem to have any words. Father and daughter, I thought, but what ails her? It does not seem possible that any sudden fit of spleen or displeasure could produce such consequences, it must bo downright physical pain to bring those long-drawn sighs and half-suppress ed moans. As the burning sun got up higher, seeming to parch and blister every object exposed to his pitiless rays, I could hear the outsiders grumbling and complaining and now and then giving vent to their ex asperated feelings by sharp oaths,as their situation became more intolerable. The dust was almost suffocating, filling eyes and nose with disagreeable particles, and causing all our clothing to assume the gray tints of ashes. Mr. Hartwell appeared the only cheer ful one of the party—the rest had com pletely wilted, but be was so genial and entertaining, telling anecdotes in such a droll, inimitable manner, that in spite of dust, heat, and many discomforts, I was very much diverted. I remember his saying— “I once knew an old fellow that lived near the city of O. He was a dairyman and stone deaf. His son Jack did the marketing, but one day Jack was too sick to attend to his part of the business, and the old man had to go to town in his stead. After visiting all his regular 'cus tomers he had a few quarts of milk left and thought to sell it. As he was driving down Main street, a little Jew, about five feet four inches high standing in front of his store, with his ear trumpet in his hand, for he too was deaf as a post. The old man halted, enquiring, “want any milkto-day?” The Jew placing his trumpet in position, bowed his heftd. The old man crawled out of his cart, milk can in hand, rushed up to Israel and asked— how much you want—a quart?” The Jew asking “is it good, rich and very cheap?” bowed his head, with trumpet at his ear, to get the answer. Now the dai ryman had never before seen a trumpet, nor so much as ever heard of one, and taking it for some new-fangled contri vance to hold milk, began pouring it in. Soon as the fluid reached his ear, Jewry jerked it away in a hurry, sloshing it all over the face and clothes of the astonish ed old man, who cried, “Good lordy! see this creeter spilling all his good milk!’’ The Jew, ia a towering passion, yelled and danced, and finally bethought him to resent with blows so heinous a practi cal joke, as he considered it, but some by-standers, who had greatly enjoyed the scene interfered and explained matters to the two brothers in misfortune.” Thus he would amuse us through the dreary hours, as we jolted on and on. The gentlemen generally got out at stage stands where we changed horses, to stretch their weary limbs, but the girl and I kept our seats, cramped and wretched. Once, while we were alone, I discover ed her crying bitterly. “What is the matter?” I asked; “can I be of any service to yon?” For answer a fresh burst of sobs. “Are you suffering? Do let me do something for you—only tell me what disturbs you.” TheD, in feeble, rather fretful tones I thought, she at last fouud voice to say— “No, ma’am, I wish for nothing, neither can you help me. Please let me alone.” And I did, for I could make nothing of her. Mr. Hartwell was very assiduous iu his attentions to his companion and myself— handing us water at every opportunity, and trying, in such a pleasant, thought ful way to make us more comfortable. The girl, however, had always refused to drink; but once, when he gave me a brimming cup of ice-cold water, I with out a word, raised her vail, and putting it to her lips, said authoritatively: “Drink; it will refresh you. ’ She swallowed it eagerly, theu taking her handkerchief, I thoroughly saturated it and bade her bathe her face, asking at the same time that she wonld permit me remove the heavy dark vail that she so persistently kept wound around her head and neck. I knew it must be very disagreeable, and that she would feel better without it. But no, she would not hear of such a thing, and held on to it as if she thought I might attempt it no lens volens. Tho gentleman who was with her went around to the side of the coach where she was and spoke to her. “Lucy,” I heard him say, and there was such a mixture of pride and affection in his tones. “Lucy, my love, dry your tears and cheer up; you don’t know how you grieve me by such conduct.” “I can’t help it,” she answered. “Ah! little one, it is too late now to fret. Come, give me a sweet smile—just one; there's a darling.” But that she never gave him. “Well, if you won’t smile for me, pro mise to try and control your feelings. Every on9 in the coach is staring at you, and I overheard two fellows questioning the driver about you. Pray don't make your grief so conspicuous. I am sure you don’t want to 9xcite all this comment and wonder.” “Oh! it’s needless to try, and—and I don’t believe I can.” “Yes, you do—or rather you ought to. If not for your own sake, at least for mine, compose yourself and be more tranquil.” “It is impossible.” “Not impossible, darling. I am sure you have strength of will sufficient to overcome it if you would but exert it. I don’t want to see those prGtty bright eyes all red and swollen with constant weep ing when we reach our destination.” “They will never be bright again.” “Oh, yes they will, pet; never fear.” Here the driver called out “ready” and mounted his box. Mr. Hartwell drew the girl towards him, said something in a whisper, then, with the other passengers, resumed his seat, and we were off again. “How he humors her,” I thought. Of course I had many conjectures about the pair, and the causes of such unaccounta ble sorrow. Sometimes she sat as still and lifeless as a statue for more than an honr; theu her tears wonld flow again, and I could see the convulsive throes that agitated her. Towards noon I again had recourse to fruit (of which I had some v^ry choice with me) and lunch. Y'ou see I am an old traveler, and never fail to take my three meals regularly when I have an op portunity. Now I said to the girl: ’“Will you have a sandwich?” “No.” “Try a peaob, then—they are extra nice?” “I don’t want any, thank you.” Perhaps I did wrong to press her after the last rebuff, but I bad begun to regard her as a spoilt child, fretting over noth ing-more especially when I contrasted her with her bright, cheerful companion. It is wonderful how he ex erted himself to charm away our fatigue, and I could «ot help admiring his many fine qualities, stranger though he was. I think it was shortly after two o’clock we stopped at a little purling, pebbly brook that issued from a large mountain spring, a few hundred yards above. The gentlemen all got out and off, and hurried to cool and refresh themselves by laving hands and faces in the grateful water. The driver was engaged in watering his steeds. Mr. Hartwell, after waiting on hisMompaniou and myself, went into a small one-room hut, situated immediate ly ou the roadside. I saw standing in the door of it a woman, no longer young; her dross of homespun checks, so short and scant that her large bare feet and ankles were shamefully exposed; her arms were also uncovered, and in her mouth she had an old pipe, whose offensive odor was most unpleasantly wafted toward us. Mr. Hartwell emerged again in a moment af ter entering, and seated himself on the low doorstep. Two or three other men had grouped themselves around him and were carrying on a very animated con versation with each other and the woman’ Looking at them, I saw Mr. H. suddenly clap his hand to his breast; his face in stantly assuming a ghastly hue, and he appeared writhing in the most intense agony. Those around him, startled and confused by the instantaneous change from perfect health to this terrible illness, laid hold of him to prevent his falling, and,speechless and shivering in the pangs of death, they bore him into the honse. One of the men, pale and agitated rush- ed out to the coach, eagerly inquiring if there was any stimulant to be had. There was none. “Is there a doctor aboard?—be quick, somebody, and tell me! I believe the old gentleman is dying.” “Ob, Lord, have mercy’” exclaimed the driver, “Mr. Hartwell is dying!” and leaving his tired horses ran towards the hat. The girl heard the sorrowful words and springing out, hastened, I closely follow ing her, to where they had carried the old man. When I got in I found him lyifig on a poor bed in a corner of the shanty. Sev eral persons were doing what they could for him, but unfortuuately we had no physician with ns, though I much doubt if the most skillful could have helped him now for he was pronounced dead soon after I entered. The young girl had’ thown herself on him and was screaming wildly. “Sava him! do save him! Oh, my God, why will you let him die? Pray do some thing for him! Oh, cruel—cruel—” then a faint gurgling sound, and the poor oreaturo had become insensible. “The^best thing for her,” said the far mer. There was but one bed in this misera- ‘ble place, and we tenderly laid her on it, the living and the dead side by side. Several voices were now asking— “Who is he and where does he live?” “I know him well,” replied the driver. “His name is Hartwell, and he lives a good distance below Daleville, near Ben- ton, and is reputed one of the richest men of his county.” “Who is the lady with him?—some near connection, I suppose, from the way she takes on.” “She is Miss Lucy Burns, and no kin to him that ever I heard,though her fath er and Mr. Hartwell have always been great friends.” “This is a very sad affair. I never was in the presence of death before,” said the young collegian to me. “Terrible, indeed,” I replied trem blingly, feeling so faint I could scarcely keep my position near the girl, as I chaf ed her little cold hands and temples. How beautiful she was, now that I had a fair view of her waxen face, surrounded with waviDg bands of golden hair. The young man beut over her for a few seconds, then flushed his great black eyes ou rue and said, “What name did the man cali her?” “Burns,” 1 answered—“Lucy Burns, I thiDk.” “Thank you,” he gravely said. Then taking out his tablets he wrote a few words. “Gan you tell me where she lives?” “Daleville—though I’m not certain, you had better ask the driver.” The latter now [came up and said, “Is the young lady recovering?” “Slowly regaining consciousness, “I replied. “I bis will be an awful blow to her and her family, for they all thought a sight of him.” “Has be no family of his own?” “No ma'am; he was never married,and I didn’t know that he was in Daleville un til I was told to call for him this morn ing—guess he came up yesterday.” “Does the young lady reside there?’ enquired the youth?” “Yes, bred and born there.” There was now an earnest consultation what should be done with the corpse. “It ought to be sent to his friends,” said one. “By all means. But what is to be done with it in the meantime? I wonder if the woman of the house would permit it to remain here until to-morrow,” said an other. “That we must find out.” The driver, as an old acquaintance un dertook to arrrange the matter with her. At first she utterly refused and spoke very roughly. “No, you needn't say another word. I can't have that dead man in my house—so you had better move him out pretty quick.” “Now, Mrs. Dobbins, where are we to take him? We can’t have him on the coach, you know, and there is no other house in many miles of here.” “I don't know and don’t care, bnt you can’t leave him with me.” “See here: let him stay until to-mor row morning, and I promise to send coffin and hearse from the next town just as soon as I.get there.” “The next town! why that is Camden, and it is twenty-five miles from here.” “Yes, I know, bnt I’ll contrive to have the hearse arrive early, by nine o’clock may be.” “I’m a lone widow—nobody with me but my daughter, and that one room is all I have got, so you’d as well dry up and move that corpse.” “My good woman, how can you act unreasonably? You'll be well paid for your trouble—the man has left plenty o: gold behind him.” Ah, he struck the right chord that time Money is the lever that moves the world, Greatly mollified at the mention of gold, Mrs. Dobbins assumed a pleasanter manner and said: “Well, then, he can stay, but I don like it a bit, and you must have him off my bed, for it is the only one I’ve got.” A bier was hastily improvised by using a couple of stout planks, supported at both ends by two low wooden stools, for of chairs there was not one to be seen The corps was placed upon it, and the woman gave an old torn, faded quilt to spread over him. His watch, purse and other valuables were secured and handed over to poor Lucy, who was now sensible of all that was transpiring around her. Many of the passengers were impatient to get away from the melancholy place. They had done all they could and were anxious to resume their journey. Smoothing away the silky masses of hair from the suffering girl’s brow where the blue veins showed all their fairy like tracery beneath the soft white skin, I gently asked what she intended to do. “Will you go on with us or remain here and return to Daleville to morrow by the coach?” “Home—home!” she wailed, “l only want to get home.” “Will yon stay then?” “Ah! I do not know what to do. Is it asking too much that you would stop with me? I can’t stay here alone!” Her hands were hot and feverish; her face so pale and wan, and her whole ap pearance pictured so plainly her utter wretchedness and despondency, that my feelings were overcome with pity, as I gazed upon her. So young and helpless, I doubt if she was sixteen, and I could not find it in my heart to refuse her, when holding me tightly by the hand, she raised her pleading eyes and begged so piteously that I would not leave her in her trouble. “Don't let that disturb you,” I said, “I will cheerfully stay with you.’ Such a look of gratitude as she gave me as I turned away to give some direc tions about my baggage. “Shall I order yours returned with mine to-morrow, Miss Burns? ‘‘If you please,” she faltered. [to be continued.] [For the Sunday Enauirer.J Major William Flournoy. In an article of last Sunday’s issue, headed “Murder of an Actor,” from the “Autobiography of Sol. Smith,” some in justice was done to the memory of the man whose name stands above, as he was the William F alluded to. This is but natural, as the author could but have the bitterest feelings against him whose hand was red with his brother’s blood. The article in question was well written, and read by those who had ever heard of the affair, with considerable interest. The writer of this, in his boyhood, was told many incidents connected with it, and it is a source of regret to him that many of them have escaped his memory, and that he has been unable to glean any additional particulars. But what he does recollect will give, in the hope that it may do some justice to one who for forty years has slept in his grave. William Flournoy is remembered by many of our older citizens as a wild, reckless, handsome young man. Not bad at heart, but with a strong passion, which, when aroused, was deadly. “He was feared by his enemies, loved by his friends.” He did kill Lem. Smith, a pop ular young actor, in Miliedgeville, but the true circumstances of the case differ somewhat from those told by his brother. The cause of the difficulty was that which from time immemorial, has sent so many men into an untimely grave—a woman. Bad blood, on her account, had existed between these two; hot words passed; mu tual threats were out. They were both men of courage, wild with jealousy and anger, rife for slaughter. Their meeting could but result one way—in the taking of life. Smith was killed. If he was murdered, the jury, who had tfle facts and evidence before them, and were the proper judges of the case, did not consid er it such. Flournoy was acquitted. Af ter the trial he retired to his plantation in Barbour county, Ala., on the Hatche- chubbee creek, and lived there until 1836. Dissipated he was, both before and after the killing of Smith. An ab ject and miserable wretch—as he is call ed by Smith's brother—he never was. A proud and haughty spirit, he bowed to none and never humbled himself in the dust. Remorse he may have felt. None but a brute can be utter.y regardless of the taking of human life, and brute this man was not, though his passions led him so utterly astray. But it was not such remorse as to despoil him of his courage, or totally embitter his life, because he thought himself justifiable and was in the sight of law. Gentlemen now in this city who knew him well, and slept in the same bed with him often, will substantiate this fact, lte- remorse of conscience is a thing general ly kept deep hid in the heart, and a proud man shrinks from showing the feelings of bis soul. The writer of this has often been closely associated with men whose hands were dipped in human gore, but be never noticed that this in any way Iron bled their sleep. It was as tranquil as that of those who had no such memory as that at least on their conscience Some morbid minds may be different. In gen eral the mind of man is not. I met, a day or two since, an old darky whom I asked if he ever saw Bill Flour noy? “Yes, sir, many a time,” was his reply, “in this town. Saw him only a short time before his death.” “What kind of a looking man was he?” “dandsome man as ever I see, sir.” “Ever look cast down or dejected?” “Never see him look that way, sir. Al ways held himself np proud-like.” “Drink mnch whiskey?” “Never noticed it, sir. If he did, he carried it muoh better than some gentle men I see.” And uncle Wiley glided off with a chuckle, leaving his auditor wondering if his concluding remark was personal or general. % But to return. In 1836 the Greek Iudians showed signs of an intention to commence an onslaught on the cittizens of this section, which was then the frontier. Old Fort Mitchell, ten miles below here on the Mobile and Girard Railroad, was af that time garrisoned by a detachment of U. S. soldiers. Regulars and troops of the State of Georgia were being hurried down to reinforce the garrison and to commence offensive operations agaiust the hostiles. William Flournoy was of fered a Major’s commission by General Jessup, who, if I am not mistaken, com manded the forces at Fort Mitchell. Flournoy was then at his plantation in Alabama, amongst the Greeks, who were on friendly terms with him. They fear ed him and gave him a wide berth. He was known amongst them as “that devil Bill Flournoy.” He accepted the ap pointment by letter, stating the day on which he would report at the Fort, and sent it to General Jessup, or the officer commanding, by Uchee Bill, an Indian boy who lived with him, and whom he mnch trusted. Bill had no more sense of honor than his red brother of the present day, or the immortal eight of the high and migh ty Commission who so recently opened up the eyes of the unterrified (?) Democ racy, and instead of delivering the let ter at Fort Mitchell, carried it to the Chiefs of the Creeks, where, being an ed ucated gentlemen, he opened and read it to them. Its contents excited theiranger and murderous passionB to the utmost verge, and they determined on revenge. Several days before the time appointed for Flournoy to report himself at the Fort ready for duty, he being then at his plan tation forty or fifty miles from here (which shows that Smith could not have seen him on the night that he died, for he didn't die at night nor had he been in town for several days preceding), the Chiefs held a council which resulted in their sending a party of eight or ten ri fles to lay in wait for him. On the ex pected day he came mounted, it is said, on a fine beautiful white horse—a most soldierly figure. Waiting until the doom ed man was in a few paces of them, the savages Bprang from their covert into the road, and half of the firing party poured into his body the contents of their deadly rifles. He reeled in his sad dle but did not fall—recovered himself and reached for his dragoon pistols— game to the last. Before he could draw, the remainder of the party fired and he fell from his saddle to the earth—dead. His was the first blood shed. War im mediately broke out, closed only by the surrender of the entire Creek nation and their removal to the Indian Territory. Major Flournoy when he was killed was only twenty-five or six years old. After be was shot down his body was dragged to one side of the road, on the bank of the creek, and there left. The firing party after being joined by a larger party of Creeks, proceeded to Flournoy’s resi dence in full war paint. They gutttd it of everything, and obtained large sup plies of powder and ball, and took off with them all of his negroes, and kept them until the end of the war. From some of these same negroes the writer learned most of the particulars herein recited, long since. If any of them were still here a mnch more readable article would have been produced. The Indiana after reaohing his planta tion sent a negro with an ox-cart after Flournoy’s body, with instructions to convey it on to Columbas—a bloody re minder that the hatchet was dug up, and that the strife had commenced. His mortal remains were interred near the well in the old part of the cemetery. Years since I saw this inscription in rude letters of ink on the fenoe announcing his grave:—“Maj. William Flournoy.” Let him rest in peace. He was a brave and a most unfortunate man. After the surrender of the Creeks the braves who composed the party who shot Flournoy were tried for murder, con demned and hung at Crawford. Tbu3 in all this tragedy there was blood for blood. J. A pretty fashion now much in vogue is to have the sleeves of a combination dress of silk and crape made of the two mate rials, the heavy materiul forming the un der part and the thin for the upper por tion, thus showing only the best part of the arm. 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