The Algona Republican from Algona, Iowa on July 15, 1891 · Page 3
Get access to this page with a Free Trial
Click to view larger version

The Algona Republican from Algona, Iowa · Page 3

Publication:
Location:
Algona, Iowa
Issue Date:
Wednesday, July 15, 1891
Page:
Page 3
Cancel
Start Free Trial

Page 3 article text (OCR)

ttEPUBLIC AN« 1 w&\ other men sat under a tree, amok, •[ ing, the old fellow came ottt with an anofinous cigar in his mouth and A ItA.T.I.OCn., PntolUher*. : IOWA. COMMENCEMENT ESSAYS. I heard the essays. That one on •" The Magna Chnrta and King John," The head girl wrote. She -with the wreath Described Lear's wanderings on the heath Quito prettily. Another one Explained "The Spots upon the Sun." •"The Influence of Browning," and '" The Early Writings of George Sand;" The Transcendental Movement: How It Touches German Letters Now"— All these I sadly listened to. '"What earthly good can these things dot" I asked myself: "Doei old Kinjf John Teach how to sow a patch upon A^coat?—or can the spotted sun ,Say when a roast is rarely done? Do Browning's tangied poems tell 'The way to mend a stocking well?" While I was pondering sadly there, ,A sweet girl rose, and, I do declare, She talked about the homely things From washtubs down to muffln rings 1 .She had ten pages all on pie; .She knew the choicest way to fry An oyster, and how best to bake A good old-fashioned johtiny cake. Next day that girl was asked to share •Tho fortunes of a millionaire; :She now reads Browning's wondrous books, .And leaves the cooking to her cooks. • The girl who wrote on Browning's work Is married to a gentle clerk Whose income's small. No girl have they; : She scrubs and cooks the livelong day, .And sighs, while bending o'er the range, When she reflects upon the change— 'The fall from school sublimities 'To tattered books of recipes. —Jury. 1 "squashed" himself down on a bench. "Boys," said he, breaking into the conversation, "I'm gittin* so I ruther like this here one-boss place. I did think that it would be a little too much for me to stay out here, and I wa'n't keen to come nuther, but Minnie set her heart on it and away we come. My name is Beck.'" No one said anything, and Mr. Beck continued: "I reckon I've done about as much bus'lin' in my time as the most of men. I was a pore boy, but instead of foolln' away my time with books I went to work and ain't sorry for it. I have noticed, in my knockin' round, that money is pretty nigh the boss. It may not be happiness in itself, but without it there ain't very much enjoyment. Larnin' may command the respect of tho few, but money employs the services of the many, and to challenge the complete respect of men you must make 'em serve you." "I don't know but you are right," said one of tho men. "Of course I'm right, and what is the use of people shuttin' their eyes a.gainst the fact, or ruther pretendin' that they do? I know that there's a sort of respectability, or I mout say aristocracy, that money sometimes ain't got, but :MONEY COULD NOT BUY. .But Love Triumphed, and an Man Was Made Happy. Old T A watering place in Virginia there arrived one evening a puffy man of middle age, and his daughter, a rather attractive girl, although there was a self-conscious air about her—an air of suddenly-acquired wealth. Her father's objectionable air was not merely self-conscio u s ness; it was a vulgar inclination to brag. His in trod uc- ••tion into society at the hotel was mot sought by society; it was a clear break on his own part. A number of "i WOULDN'T MABHY HEB FOB THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND!" just wait awhile and money'll git it all right" :,gentlemen and ladies were seated near -the end of a shaded veranda, discuss- •ing a book that had achieved an almost 'instant popularity, when the puffy •newcomer brusquely shoved his way forward and in a loud voice blurted out faSs opinion: "I ain't read the book," said he, "but I'll bet that it don't amount to much. 'There is more humbuggery in this here Vbook business than in most any other .1 know of. Books'll do putty well for •women, but in my opinion a man is •throwing' away his time with 'em. I had a twin brother that took to books ;along back when he was a boy, and, ^although he was a bright feller — as •bright as I was — he never amounted to •much. I had to take up a mortgage on his place for him not inore'n six •months ago. That's about what I •think of books." He leaned back .-against the railing of the ' 'banisters" sand surveyed the party with the satisfaction of a man who has carried his (point and who is thoroughly prepared -ior any subsequent attack. The ladies, -especially the better-natured ones, smiled; the men, with one exception, laughed. The exception was a young lawyer from Nashville. He looked •with the inquiry of disapproval at the intruder, and then quietly remarked: "I had thought of writing a book, a ..charming romance, but through fear that I might possibly compel you to take up another mortgage, I will f ore- .jjo the pleasure of self-enjoyable composition." ; The interloper, no -wise abashed, re'• j>lied: "It's a good step you're takin', I reckon, as the writin' of the book might be more interestin' to you than •the readin' of it would be to anybody else." "Doubtless," retorted the young lawyer, "you are right. Some dull trade- jplodder might attempt to spill it out ;and bruise his alleged mind on unlooked-for, sharp corners." "Young feller, what is your name?" -(the intruder asked; and the young fellow, never afraid to make himself 'known, answered: "I am George Miles, sir." "Ah, l*ah! George Miles. Where do jrou live?" "Nashville, sit." "Ah., hah! I know that town putty -well. I went along with the army :Bome Kittle durin' the war, and bought -up the hides of the cattle that were 'killed lor the soldiers, and made a <pretty gpod thing ou t of it in the Nashville market. I used to know an old .soap bqiler there named Josh Miles. Any ki» to him?" The ladies tittered, and the old fellow looked at them in astonishment, not knowing that ho had uttered a witticism. "I never heard of your friend Miles," .eaid the lawyer, "although he might have made a fair article of soap." "Pity for you then, I reckon, as all men were cleaner for havin' knowed • old Josh." The men laughed, the ladies tittered again, and/ the old fellow, conscious this time, that he must •have said somethinj? to the point, 'bowed his acknowledgment, J'ujsfc then daughter appeared, standing & a, ^ 'What business are you in?" some one asked. "Well, I ain't in any business now— have retired, you might say. I made my money in different sorts of speculation and have got it well invested, drawin' a fust-rate interest. I live in Georgia and am. putty much at home when I'm there, 1 can tell you. My wife has been dead a good while, and about all I've got to look after is the enjoyment of my daughter. Her will is law with me and 1 am. straightforward enough to say right here, or right anywhere, for that matter, that the man who wins her love will be fortunate. There's about two hundred thousand dollars waitin' for him." George Miles looked up quickly and, with a sneer, said: "I wouldn't marry her for three hundred thousand." The old man seized his cane, which he had leaned against the bench, and, springing^to his feet, glared at Miles, who, without changing his position, sat placidly smoking. "Do you mean to insult me, sir?" Beck roared. "Not in the least," Miles answered. "When I want to insult a man I hit him and then insult him afterward. You had, without interruption, expressed your opinion and I merely expressed mine. You introduced your daughter's name in a way not only unnecessary to the force of your former statement concerning the power of money,' but with a narrow-minded vulgarity that was disgusting. If you want to strike me, do so. I have said nothing in belittlement of the young lady—I said that I wouldn't marry her for three hundred thousand, and I wouldn't; not that she is not worthy of me morally, but because our tastes are, doubtless, wholly dissimilar. • Now, if you want to hit me with that stick, all right." "1 won't hit you," Beck replied. "What you say may be right from your standp'int, but no matter what you thought about my daughter you ought to have kept it to yourself. It looks to me like I would have thought a long time before I would have made any such remark — and I would have thought that any true gentleman would have done the same. I am a rough- and-ready sort of a man, and admit that 1 don't always do the proper thing, and if my room is worth more to you than my company, why, I wish you good evenin'." "Oh, no," several of the men cried, but he brusquely hastened away. "George, you ought not to have said that," a friend remarked. "You can't blame him for thinking so much of his daughter, nor for his determination to give her future husband two hundred thousand dollars." "My dear fellow," Miles answered, "I don't blame him for thinking so much of her, and I commend his determination to reward her future husband, but I do despise his vulgar show. He is an old bear, and I want none of him." "I wouldn't ir md marrying the girl," said a young fellow named Hicks; "I could put with the girl's possible bad taste and with the old man's vulgarity. Yonder go the old man and the girl. He is looking this way, and I warrant he is telling her about you, George." "I don't care if he is," Miles replied, "His ill-will and her prejudice can't hurt me." "1 will climb down," said he, bow* ing. "Oh, no," she interposed. "I am afraid jrou might hurt yourself, and then —" "And then what?" he asked. "Nothing, only you might be disfigured if you should chance to fall, and you might afterward consent to marry a girl for less than three hundred thousand dollars." "Ah! your father repeated my remark," he said, slightly coloring. "Yes, or I shouldn't have known of it, as I wasn't eavesdropping." He would have gladly climbed down, but she detained him with this questioning remark: "You place a pretty high estimate upon yourself, don't you?" "Yes, rather," he answered, now determined to be bold. "It is strange that I never heard of you," she said. "I was looking over a sort of encyclopedia of gredtt men just before I came here, and it is singular that your picture was not in it." "The compiler of the book called on me," he replied, "but I refused to become the victim of a cheap print. He wanted my picture, and had intended that it should fill one page and run over on the second, but I refused." "And I suppose," said the girl, "that if he had contemplated putting in your self-importance, he would have counted on filling the entire book." "I don't know, but had he done so, his volume would have been more respectable." "Oh! it must be delightful to be so respectable," she exclaimed, with well- played enthusiasm. "By the way, who was your father?" "His name is Andrew Miles." "What does he do?" "He is a lawyer." "Ah! A strange country this, where the aristocracy is mainly composed of lawyers. What was your grandfather, or did you ever hear of him?" Miles blushed. He had heard in a more or less vague way of one of hi a grandfathers—had heard that he was a cobbler and that he had deserted from the army during the war of 1813. "Oh! don't tax your memory with trying to recall his name. I am. so glad to have met you," she suddenly exclaimed. "I like to see gentleness and consideration joined with greatness. Now, sir, if you feel disposed to climb down you would oblige me by doing so." Miles climbed down and the young lady serenely passed on. OUR RECIPROCITY POLICY. I WAR REMINISCENCES, The season was growing late, and there were but few visitors remaining. Miles continued to linger, partly because it made but little difference where he was, and partly because he didn't want that Miss Beck to think that she had driven him off. He met her every day, and spoke, in reply to her, his little piece of sarcasm. One day while the girl was playing on the piano he strode into the parlor. She ceased playing upon seeing him, and turning, said: "I don't object to mild punishment, but 1 will not torture you with my music." "You are becoming considerate as the days pass by." "Yes, and I am tired of playing, anyway. Isn't it a great pity that father isn't worth four hundred thousand dollars?" "Why so?" "Because he might then be able to marry me off." "Possibly. Some men are not very particular." , "And," said she, "I am convinced that the majority of women are not particular at all." The old man appeared in the door. His face was haggard and a wild look was in his eyes. "Minnie," he falteringly called, "Minnie, come here." She ran to him and Miles heard him say: "I am ruined. That iron company is busted up and I am ruined." A newspaper which came that evening gave an account of the sudden failure of a large iron concern at Birmingham; and old man Beck was mentioned as not only a heavy loser, but as totally bankrupted by the failure. A Forrljni Criticism—The Bitter End of Frcn TriidA — llrazlllnn Trade — An Tn- efenRliip; Smrket—Increase of Labor—The MuKWi,tii|> Cry. A Mfinchcstcr correspondent of the St. James Gazette wr.tes as follows of our reciprocity policy: Tho niToct, of it is that 25 per cent, of the Brazilian (luting are remitted on American good* as compared with those levied on English and other similar goods. Take the case of cotton print. The duty on these is normally 100 per cent., or equal to tho actual value of the goods as Imported. As the duty, however, has to he paid In gold, it is in reality nearly ZOO per cent., or twice the cost of the imported article. Thus, tho American producer of cotton prints will for thB future enjoy in the Brazilian market an advantage over his English competitor equnl to onc-haif the cost of the manifactured article. Kvon with the McKinley tariff the cost of production in America can not be nearly so much in excess of the cost in England. We must, therefore, loolt forward to the gradual loss of our Brazilian marke,ts for cotton goods— which moiins a trade of at least £2.000,000 per nnnum—not because we cannqt beat the world on equaltcrms, but because tho United States are enabled to purchase special advantages by "concessions" to Brazil. Wo have no "concessions" to offer, and we never stipulate for special and exclusive privileges We are endeavoring to fight tho commercial battle or the world on free trade lines, and wish to fight it out on these lines to tho bitter end. But it is tho most unwise and ridiculous policy to shut our eyes to tho fact that this Blaine treaty is a bjow to the success of our free trade system. We have always been taught to believe that our free trade regime gave us a'"pull" in all neutral markets; and so it does, and has done, so long as we receive "most favored nation treatment." If our free trade system does not sacure us "the most favored nation treatment," one of tho reasons for maintaining our free trade system has disappeared. We have treaties or agreements to secure us this amount of fair play with Bolivia, Chili and Mexico; but we can not be sure that those countries will not be bribed by "concessions" to cease to treat our Imports with fair play and equal justice. We know that the attempt will be made, for this Brazilian business is part of a great scheme to establish a customs union of America at the expense of the trade of South America with Europe. And Canada? Our only guarantee against Canada giving United States goods a preference over ours is in the jealousy of certain United States commercial interests of Canadian competition. If England and Europe pass over the conduct of Brazil with polite and futile remonstrances, it seems reasonable that the rest of South America should follow tho example of Brazil. The matter is very serious. If Cobden's confident prediction, that all the world would embrace free-trade, had proved true, there would now be no talk of fighting to the bitter end. England, instead of paying us back the fifteen hundred million dollars she gained from us on balance of trade during free-trade times would not only have kept it all, but would have added to it. We would be a nation of poor producers of raw agricultural products, with a few very rich importers in our seacoast cities, and England would be occupied by the estates of the very rich and the hovels of the very poor. Railroad freights here, as in free-trade times, would be higher than in England and we would have no more chance to sell cotton cloth in Brazil than we now have to sell tin plates there. So far, our protective policy has not injured Great Britain; on the contrary, it has been of decided advantage to that country on the basis of its political economy, for our trade with the United Kingdom in 1890 was within fifty-three million dollars of our total trade with all the world in 1800. But when the principle of .protection is broadened so as to demand reciprocity in the common pursuit of wealth from nations that produce non-competitive commodities— i.e., that those our climate forbids us raising—our protective policy presents a different aspect. Heretofore it offered an increasing market, requiring only increasing sums invested in improved machinery, forbidding only the profits that accrue from famine prices. Now, with its reciprocity annex it goes into non-protective countries to supply a demand that does not increase. The word non-pi'otective is used intentionally, as the Brazilian duties are mostly revenue duties. It was the certainty that reciprocity would prove of advantage to the trade of this country, and increase the amount of labor profitably employed herein, that led our Mugwump contemporaries to first proclaim it as a free trade measure, then oppose it, and lastly to assert that it was of no advantage to this country. THE FIRST BATTLE. virtii" or honor in battling the uncott*- querable odds befdre him.— Detroifc Free l-'ress. ___ HARD H~nF~ON THE FIELD. . It was rather late at night. The Becks were arranging their departure. Miles was sitting in the parlor when Miss Beck entered. Seeing him, she Several days later Miles, whose friends hall left the place, was strolling along the mountain's side, when suddenly, upon turning a sharp point of rock that jutted out over the path, he met Miss Beck. The path was too narrow to admit of his passing the girl, he was* ftljoj^t to ton PLEASE DON'T GIBE ME NOW!" drew back and was about to withdraw, when he bade her stay a moment. "You must excuse me," she said. "I do not care to bear any sarcasm tonight; I don't believe I could stand it. J am very wretched on my father's account. He has been victimized and is now a pauper." "And are you not wretched on you* own account?" he asked. "Please don't gibe me now," she pleaded. He arose, and advancing toward her, said: "One of my grandfathers was shot for desertion and I am no better than he, but i IQYS you—love you—" JJ« caught her i$ $$| arms and she, Cotton Ties and the Tariff. Along with the news of the stagnation in the mills which have always made cotton ties in England to bale the cotton grown in the south, come tidings of unwonted activity in the domestic cotton-tie industry, hitherto grievously retarded by the ridiculously low tariff rate of the law of 1883, and threatened with destruction by the proposed removal of the entire duty in the Mills bill. A writer in the Atlanta Constitution says: I met Colonel Jack King, of Borne, at the Kimball last evening. Mr. King will be remembered as Mr. Williamson's second in the famous Calhoun-Willtamson duel. But he has quit that business now and gone into a more proiitable one. He is making cotton ties up in Borne, and incidentally making a fortune out of them. "I am down before the rate commission," said he, ' to get a bettor rate on cotton ties. We have a factory in Rome, and are turning out 810 bundles of thirty ties each daily. We already have orders for nearly every tie we can make, and could sell twice as many had we the capacity. We can make them cheaper than they can in either Ohio or Pennsylvania. The Me- Jiinl-y bill has helped us out in thin considerably, but our people down here don't like for us to toy that. Anyhow, we are making enough ties to bale hall of the cottqn crop of Georgia and Alabama." Mr. King's company is making money and there Is no reason why other factories of the same kind should not be started in Georgia and Alabama. Both the bagging and the ties for the cotton crop should be made entirely in the ooti ton seetipn. There is money in it for a factory right here in Atlanta. A few more phenomena of this kind ought to wean the southern people from their allegiance to Grover Cleveland, Roger Q. Mills and their free trade policy. Free Trade and Wretchedness. Under its wretched system of free trade the working classes of Great Britain are constantly going from bad to worse in the social scale. All of the great industries of that country by which the working classes are supposed to live ar« being destroyed, and €b.e un- fortuna£$ people are sinking into de- &P°ftdjeSs» fioverty, crime ana wretch' it is irnpossible An Old Roldinr Describes the Varying Kmnlions of a K:iw Kecnilt. If you wore to ask a dozen or more old soldiers to tell you how they felt when going into their first battle, perhaps no two would have precisely the same impressions to relate. To most men going for the first time into the fire of an enemy's guns on the field of battle, it is certainly a trying ordeal, an occasion attended with the most thrilling sensations, feelings full of dread and fear. No other experience in life can fitly compare with it. A volunteer army is composed of varied classes of men. and in the variety, dangers do not always develop the •amc feelings or results. Men who confront death on a battle field from a sense of duty are affected differently from those who under the mere thrill of excitement rush, like the unthinking horse, into peril heedless of cause or result. Then there is another class 6f soldiery, men .who are—they know not why—utterly indifferent to fate, men who are unconsciously devoid of the sense of danger, even if they do not possess that sublime trait of character called valor. Bravery does not always consist of the power or capacity to meet and defy danger, and men arc often cowards when there is really no danger to face and overcome. Such people are like children who are reluctant to go into the dark room even though they are confidently assured there is no enemy there. Shadows frighten many people as well as chickens. Among soldiers there is—as observed in our late war—still another class but little different from those just referred to, men who may be put under the head of "don't cares"—young men who go into battle with about the same feeling with -which they would go into a loot race or swim in deep water. Then there are the men with the pure lofty courage, the valiant and true, who go out coolly and steadily under the fire, even though there is the restrained dread in the innermost heart, even though there may be seen the slight pallor on their cheeks, the unconscious restlessness in the eye and the evident subtle emotion that moves the lip and the limb. Woe to the enemy who stands or cowers under the steel of such a foe. The most trying ordeal in the first battle—and in all battles, for that matter—is in the start; in the getting ready when the hour has come to move on the foe; in the movements preparatory to the action; in the moments of prelude, and before the enemy is in sight; when the drum first beats the loud alarm; when the bugle blast fiercely trills the sudden summons, Soots and Saddles! and the cry spreads like an electric flash through the startled camp the foe is in front, and that the hour of battle is now at hand. Oh! then it is that the heart and the brain of the soldier are pierced with the wild woe of war. Then it is that the courage spirit waxes or wanes. Then it is that valor begins to totter if the sure props are not there. Then it is that the soldier begins to think; and when he begins to think, he often begins to dread; and when he begins to dread, fear soon follows. In the moments between the first bugle blast or drum beat and the vision of the enemy in front, the soldier has time for reflection; and thought has always been a prolific source of fear or reluctance to go into danger. Many tragedies have been the result of men not thinking or reflecting upon consequences. And with the soldier—when there comes the vision of home and wife or child or other loved ones, when the vision of these come and remain between a man and prospective death—he always lingers over the images upon the heart mirrors; and he shrinks from the separation of the grave, even if he does not exhibit cowardice. It is not merely a conscience that makes cowards of us all; but in the workings of the brain otherwise, when men have the time to think, they turn away from the dangers that are in front to the loved that are behind them; and then comes, as I have said, the dread of that something hereafter so keenly felt and acknowledged by Hamlet. But as soon as the soldier gets up under the enemy's fire; as soon as he finds he is being shot at, and the opportunity is given him to return the fire; as soon as he sees the real enemy in his front, and the battle is upon him —then it is that all the trouble and all the dread of battle are over with that soldier who has any of the elements of manhood in him. Then the man naturally wants to return 'the fire; then comes the bending of the energies for the assault upon the foe; then the yearning for the fire and the advance. Once in the din and flame and roar of the conflict there is no time to think of consequences—no time for thoughts of the loved ones far away in the embrace of home; the only consuming passion then is how to- get at the enemy and punish him—and hence the rush and the shout, the incarnation of resolve, that always characterizes the charge, the on to victory or death. Once in the fire and tumult of the struggle, with the battle spirit filling and thrilling every sense; when the soldier hears and sees and feels and smells, tasting even the sulphurous struggle—then it is that he knows no dread, no fear. The mind and heart full of that battle spirit, there is no room for other feelings. The man thus wrought upon has no concern about death, except it is the death of the enemy; to destroy him, to punish that foe, every impulse and energy and other faculty of the whole nature are bent in one supreme, unreasoning, terrific struggle. If you can once get a weak man into the fight, he is no longer a coward. The white liver that quails and carries its possessor from the field before the enemy is in sight changes into that of the lion when the man is {ace to face with the foa ia the struggle for life and •vww* i^MCr* • SW^P*™* jfv '•qP " The ftlin«lo<1 of A SoiM:XtlonA Soldier. We had been held in reserve for nt» long hours while cannon thundered and muskets cracked spitefully all along thd front a mile away. A procession of dead and wounded had filed past us un* til we were fiick with horror. Shot and shell and bullet had fallen upon us b6- hind the woods xintil the dry dead grass bore many a stain of blood. "Attention! Forward—guide right- march!" Our brigade was going in at last, andt there was a look of relief on the face of every officer and man as we got the word. "Guide right—front—forward marchl" As we swung clear of the woods a gtist of wind raised the smoke for a minute, and I saw the plain incur front blue with dead and wounded. Away beyond them was a line of earthworks, and I had one swift glimpse of a thin blue line kneeling behind the cover. "Steady!" Right dress! Double quick—march!" The air is alive with the ping of bullets and the whizz and shriek of shot '' and shell. We bend our heads as il breasting a fierce gale laden with icy pellets. There is a wild cry—a shriek —a groan as men are struck and fall to the earth, but no one heeds them—no one hesitates. It is a hurricane of death, but we feel a -wild exultation in breasting it. Men shout, curse, sing, swing their hats and cheer. We are driving through the smoke- cloud when there is a flash of fire in front. I seem to rise into the air and float hither trad thither and the sensation is so dreamy and so full of rest that I wish it could last forever. It is suddenly broken by the sound of my own. voice. Is it my voice? It sovinds strange and afar off to me. Why should 1 cheer and curse by turns? What has happened? Ah! now I come back to earth again! Above and around me is the smoke— the earth trembles under the artillery —men are lying about and beside me. Where is the brigade? Why did I drop out? I am lying on my back, and I struggle to sit up and look around. I rise to my knees—wave this and that— topple over and struggle up again. There is red, fresh blood on the grass— on my hands—on my face. I taste it on my lips as my parched tongue thrusts itself out in search of moisture. Who is groaning? Who is shrieking? Who is cheering? And why should I laugh and exult? Have we held the line against a grand charge? Did we scatter and decimate the legions hurled against us? Have we won a great victory to be flashed over the country and cause the bells to ring with gladness? Let me think. Give me time to remember how it all happened. Strange that my thoughts should be so confused, and the desire to sleep be so strong upon me'WhenI should be^up and doing. I will shake it off. 1 will spring up and follow after the brigade. Here— * * * # •* • "How do you feel?" My eyes are wide open and I am lying on a cot in a large room. I seo people walking about—other people Aying on cots like my own. "I fell all right. Why?" "You-were hard hit in the fight four days ago, my boy."' '.;• "So there was a battle?" "Yes." . •!.' "And I was wounded?" , "Had your left arm shattered by a piece of shell and we had to amputate it:"—Grand Army Advocate. OUSTER'S VICTORY. Ho-w tho Dashing Soldier First Won Renown. When Gen. Sheridan made his famous raid from Winchester to City Point in the early part of 1805 he had the assist ance of three very able officers. Of these Gen. Wesley Merritt was at that time probably the best known, but Gen. Geo. A. Custer, who commanded the 3d division, subsequently acquired the greatest renown. In fact, it was on this very raid that he won one of his first and most brilliant victories. It happened in this way: Gen. Early, who perhaps was as often and as soundly thrashed as any officer in the war, had been compelled to evacuate Staunton March 1 and fall back towards Waynesborough, thirteen miles away. At Fisherville, eight miles from Staunton, he tried to make a stand the next day, but Gen. Custer and his men, who were in advance, soon drover him back the remaining five miles to Waynesborough. Here Early resolved to give his tirelt-38 pursuer battle, and took up what he thought was a good position on some ridges along South, river. He had five field guns. Custer, coming up, made a careful reconnaissance and then prepared to carry the enemy's position by storm. He placed Gen. Pennington's brigade on the right and Wells' on the left with that of Caphart acting as a reserve. The two for* ward regiments were deployed as skir« mishers and ordered to fire briskly. Al» most at the first volley the whole line of the enemy broke and ran. Ouster's troops rushed in upon thepj and cap; tured eighty-seven officers, 1,165 meni thirteen flags, more than one hundred mules, nearly one hundred wagons and ambulances and the five cannon. Gen Early himself just managed to escape with the loss of all his baggage. 0» this day Gen. Custer and his mep marched thirteen miles U» ft heavy downpour of rain and fought two battles, one of them resulting In the plete rout of the enemy. It cause he had officers and soldiers of I energy and bravery under his comman^ that Gen. Sheridan was able to .7;".' plish such wonderful things.—Chiea^5 News. " : —Matrimonial younglady in possessi in the Colotrne lottery the acquaintance of. youny fej^pan, an ;

Get full access with a Free Trial

Start Free Trial

What members have found on this page