The Aberystwith Observer

FARMING IN ARIZONA. Under the heading Life in a Western Territory the Globe has an article by a correspondent, from which we make the following extract Although Arizona is considered to be a purely mining country, yet it has some very rich land which is capable of producing nearly all the cereals, fruits, and vegetables indigenous to the Temperate Zone. The great drawback to the agricultural de- velopment of the country is the paucity of the rainfall, which is confined to seven er eight inches per annum at the most, and, in some plaoes, to less than two inches. This necessitates the con- struction of irrigating canals, but as the population is too limited to build these on a large scale, the farming is confined to the valleys watered by streams. Artesian wells will, no doubt, enable persons to cul- tivate vast tracts which now produce naught but use- less artemisia, purshia, and cactus, but all fears of Indian uprisings must cease before such an enterprise is inaugurated. While gold and silver mines can be had for the trouble of searching for them, compara- tively few people will devote their attention to agricul- ture notwithstanding the fact that two crops a year can be raised in some portions of the territory. There are not more than 45.000 acres in all under cultivation, and a large portion of these belongs to the semi- civilised Indians. Among the products which can be grown here are sugar-cane, oranges, lemons, limes, igs, peaches, apricots, grapes, apples, strawberries, and other fruits wheat, oats, barley, maize, Irish and sweet potatoes, and kindred grains and roots; besides all kinds of vegetables. Everything is grown by irrigation, and from three to five fbodings of the soil are necessary to raise a crop of grain. The best farms are scattered along the Salt River Valley, and they are equal to any in the United States in the abundance and variety of their products. The ranchers commence sowing their grain in October, and finish in November or De- oember, a,nd begin harvesting in the latter part of May and end about the first of July. The land is irrigated by means of canals, the cost of irrigation being about 28. an acre, and the quantity of land cultivated depends entirely on the supply of water. Good farming land, with water privileges, is worth from £1 to zE2 per acre, according to its quality and situation. Farming is decidedly a lucrative business, all the products meeting a ready sale in the towns and bringing high prices, as the greater portion of the food used here is imported from the adjoining States. Stock-raising is also destined to become one of the greatest industries of the territory, as millions of acres are covered with the perennial gramma," or buffalo grass, which affords cattle plenty of food throughout the year, so that there is no necessity to feed or house them. The grazing ranges being open to all who wish to use them, the only expense incident to the business is the purchase of stock, the con- struction of a cabin, and the payment of cowboys, or herders, to attend to the cattle and keep them from straying. Thf herders get eight pounds a month and their be,lrd, whatever mustangs they may require to attend to their duties, and tents for sleeping in, should they prefer them to the open and cloudless ikies. The numerous foothills, or spurs of the high mountains are among the best sheep pastu- rages in the world, as they are always covered with nutritious grasses, quite dry, and have a bracing air .which checks the diseases so common among the OvidazCin lowai and more humid regions, and they are also well adapted for the raising of Cashmere and Aagora. goatb, owing to the equable character of the climate. Although the territory can easily support several hundred thousand animals, the live stock of the region is oonfirsed t ) aboui 1#0, £ 00 horned cattle, 450,000 shtesp, 12,000 horses and mules, 2,000 wool-bearing goats, ad 5.900 hogs. The latter iTm wild, as they find an abiiudanco of food in the rich Alfalfa fields of s'-mo districts, and are killed orJy as they are wanted. Some enterprising persons have already commenced the raising of porkers j, on a large cale, as they get a very high price for the bacon, and they incur no expense exc";t. in the herdmg of the animals. Any person having • a little capital would make a fortune herein a few years, by going into the stock business, as the field is comparatively unlimited, markets are convenient, and the expenses are light. The territory will also be a Me.-ca for tourists ere long, as its canyons, some of which are a mile in depth, are considered the grandest in the world its towering mountain rimges team with game; and its ancient ruins, which tell of a race long sh.ce extinct, it, this portion of the world at least, are unusually interesting.

STAGNANT LABOUR AND EMIGRA- TION. The Standard has published the following letter :— Sir,—-Do people throughout the country still live under the delusion that the streets of London are paved with gold ? Whenever work becomes slack else- where, it almost seems as if the working men packed up straightway and came off to London. Why will they not understand that the metropolis suffers from the same causes which produce suffering in other parts of England and that it has besides to bear the influx of strangers from almost every part of the world, who seem to fancy that to appear in London without a six- pence in their pocket is to make the first step towards attaining a fortune ? Tha simple truth is that there is probably no place in the world in which it is so difficult for a stranger to find work and no man ought to come to London for employment, unless in some way he has obtained a distinct promise of it before he comes. Commercial and agricultural depression have gone on for so long that in London there is a glut of labour which leads to complete stagnation in the labour market. Nor is it only the idle and the drunken who are un- emphtyed. There are many amongst the sober and the industrious who are now hard pressed and want to find a remedy- Now, Si-, if you can do anything to prevent people fooiishly flocmng into London in a vague expectation that they will find work you will do a great public benefit. But it you can help us to find an outlet for our surplus population you will accomplish still greater good. For men who are able to work, it is far better to senrt them where labour is required than to attempt to give them temporary and inadequate relief, and so encourage them to remain at home in idleness and helplessness. The experience of past years, when emigration was largely aided by the benevolence of the public and by the zealous advocacy of the Standard, proves that this ia the most effective and certain remedy. j Canada is near at hand, and seems as willing and able as it was twelve years ago, to welcome any fit persons whom we may be able to send. But if any are to be sent this year, they ought certainly to go within the next month, so that they may get settled before winter. TheComsutteeof the East-End Emigration Fund are anxious not to lose the opportunity of this present season, and will gladly assist tbnse who are waiting to go so soon as funds are obtained, Contributions for this purpose may be sent to Messrs. Barclay, Bevan and Co.. or of Mr. F. N. Charrington, 41, Stepney-green, London, Treasurer of the Fund. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, JOHN F. KITTO. I Stepney Eectory, London, June 23.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, speaking at his Diocesan Conference on Wednesday-, said the power, wealth, and influence of the Salvation Army must be admitted. Outoursts of enthusiasm were not unknown in the Church of Christ; and the question for the Church of England was was whether they should endeavour to influence the exist- ing Army or organise an extensive scheme of their own ef the same character. Ris Grace announced that a Commis- sien had bsen appointed to deal with the subject.

AMONG THE SHOALS; •B, TRACED BY A PORTRAIT Br CYRIL HATHWAY. r" <■* CHAPTER YII. James HicklSw sat alone in his office. It was night, and the air was so still and oppressive that breathing freely was a difficulty. The street was quiet, for it was approaehing the hour of midnight. Alone, the broken-down merchant and speculator aAt, With his hands pressed to his brow, and his eyes glaring at a mass of papers tossed indiscriminately upon the table. Some of the documents were brown with age, and frayed at the edges, and bore traces of having been handled frequently. This was an expression on James Hicklaw's face of hopeless despair, a yearning to quit the place, a marked impression of a great struggle yet to undergo, and with the same fixedness of feature, and woe- begone attitude he had maintained since sundown. A thousand thoughts were whirling in his mind. He was living the past over again, and endeavoured to check off each incident as he was wont to check off the items of a mercantile transaction, but he failed in every instance, and his brain whirled with a chaos which refused to form any definite idea. The clock struck twelve. The sound startled him and throwing the documents into a drawer he locked it, and, rising, paced the room, apparently marking •ach step he took. "I must leave this place," he murmured; "but what escape is there for me-what refuge ? Where shall I hide; and, when hidden what disguise or strategy will avail ? As he spoke he heard a creaking sound beyond the door, followed by a rustling as of somebody feeling the way up the staircase by the wall. He stood still, believing the sound to be the result of fancy, but he heard it again. There was no doubt about it, and backing slowly he grasped his revolver, which lay loaded and ready for immediate use upon the table. He had thought himself alone in the house, but it was evident that it had another occupant; and, facing the door, he held the weapon ready to fire should the intruder prove to be a thief. But it was evident that the stranger had no notion of plunder, for a loud and distinct knock caused Hicklaw to call out involuntarily, "Come in! Scarcely had the sound of his voice died away, when he found himself confronted by Richard De Caux. "How, now?" James Hicklaw cried in alarm. What brings you here ? Who let you in ? I took the liberty of admitting myself," Richard De Caux replied, "lam no burglar by profession, as you may well understand, and yet for once in my life I have come to man's house unasked. Put down that revolver." The young man's veiee was as calm, and yet so imperative, that James Hicklaw obeyed, scarcely knowing what he did. "Sit down," Richard De Caux said. "I desire to speak to you," Again Hicklaw complied without saying a word, and De Caux drawing a chair to the opposite side of the table, sat down, evidently with the view of making himself perfectly at home. Passionless he sat exa- mining Hicklaw keenly, but without any other emo- tion beyond that he seemed to be trying to fix the other with some byegone recollection. "Well," said James Hicklaw at last, "I must confess that you are a strange fellow You find your way into my house at the dead of night; favour me with your commands, and then sit and gaze at me as if I were some natural curiosity." James Hicklaw —— Isaac Matthison ex- claimed De Caux. The gaunt, hollow-cheeked man started, and grasped the edge of the table convul- sively. Isaac Matthison," Richard resumed; the mask has fallen from your face You. knew me when we first met, as surely as I knew you. But in case that you should still pretend to be ignorant of my dentity, I am Richard Clare, the son of the man you wronged long years ago. I am here to unfold a long list of debts which must be settled—a career of crime which must be atoned for-the history of a guilty life which must be listened to—the history of your guilty career. Mine The word was uttered so hollow that it sounded like the eeho of a distant cavern. "From the first moment that you crossed my father's path you were his bane and his curse," Richard continued. The once fair prospects of a hopeful man were set at naught by you. Villain you took advantage of his easy, trusting nature; and, to serve your own ends, allowed him to go to a living death— bore witness against him-when you knew that he was as innocent as you were guilty "This is mere madness," Hicklaw said. "I know nothing of this story. I never saw your father in my life." u Stay," Richard rejoined, I think you will tell me a different story presently, I will tell you my version of it—the version which I have gathered—never rest- ing, but toiling on and on each day nearer the truth." I am compelled to listen to you. Proceed." Such is my intention," Richard said, the blood mounting to his face, and flushing it crimson. From the first hour that you became my father's partner, you Ifd the life of an extravagant man. The business was then a small one, and required attention and strict economy; but while you were so seemingly attentive to business matters you were really engaged in construct- ing the books to your own end, and framing false balance-sheets. At one period, when my father be- lieved that there was a balance of over three thousand j-c-rdB at the bank, there was not sufficient to pay the immeau^o demands. You were sc careful, to apjeious, to obliging, tnV^- .-TTU would trust nobody to go with a cheque, and thus it..« that you paid in and withdrew as you chose. At last ;• crisis was at hand. Bills which were supposed to be banker's hands, but on which you had raised money, .• -;=t be accounted for, and you found that you had run m-^ly to the end for, and you found that you had run m-^ly to the end of your tether-as closely as you have now Have now ?" the other repeated. I "Clare & Matthison at that time dealt iu-*ely with the firm of Towler & Son, who gave bills short dates. In their name a forged bill of two thou- sand pounds was floated in the market with others backed by you, and presumedly by my fa.ther-but, I ask you, were those ignatures in his handwriting J" "How can I think of a transaction I have not the slightest notion of ? j The young man smiled, and leaned over the table so that his listener might catch every word. "We shall see," Richard said. "One day tbe police appeared, and you and my father were taken into cus- tody. Everything in the office was seized even to the very blotting-pads, and on one of these remained traces of the forged signatures. It was my father's blotting-pad yours was new and unsoiled; and you braved the storm with forced bravado, and called Heaven to witness your innocence." "My innocence Ha ha ha This is, indeed, a well-told story." "I am endeavefuring to tell it so well as to leave nothing untold," Richard said; "and when that is over there is another to be narrated, but of a much shorter nature." I hope it will be on a more pleasant subject than this," said he, forcing a laugh. Dog You changed the blotting-pads, and more," Richard cried, "you placed in the drawer of my father's desk, of which you possessed a duplicate key, certain scraps of torn paper which when, put together, formed the practised signatures of the very firms who had repudiated the forged bills-but stay-" He extended his arm, and the man facing him shrank as if expecting a blow. "Hardened and guilty as you were and are, though you bore false witness against my father," Richard went on-" though you left the country as soon as my father had been transported, and you thought the stonr had blown over, an all-seeing Providence would not permit you to follow out your course of'villany. Under your hand you have valuable documents belonging to my father. Speak not!! Utter no lie. I saw you gloating over them this very night, as if the very memory of your wickedness gave you satis- faction." Confounded by the rapid utterance of the young man's vehemence, the man who called himself James Hicklaw could only stare at Richard. He had no reply to make, and could only listen with a grating sound in his throat as he breathed quickly. Those documents, which I will take with me this night, will go far to prove your identity; but my mission is not even then fulfilled," Richard con- tinued. "Kneeling by the side of my dead mother —murdered by you—I »wore to track yop. down, and I have done it. What now should hinder me striking you dead at my feet-perjured wretch- hang-dog! Rising and stretching himself to his full height and trembling with passion, Richard stood looking at the terror-stricken man, who saw death staring at him, and shrank appalled at its awful presence. Cowering, bent down, motionless, and aghast, he stood before the wrath he saw depicted in every feature of the man, who, clutching the loaded revolver, seemed bent on his destruction. Hold he gasped, as an agonised cry sprung to his lips. I am not fit to die. I will tellalL Cease, I beg of yen. Heap no more of your wrongs upon my head to what I now endure and suffer. As you hope for mercy extend it to me, and do not wound me in such an boiuc as this with the recollection of my faults." Mercy Richard cried, starting at the word and the manner of the man's appeal. If my father had prostrated himself at your feet and begged for one word of truth, would such an utterance have found an echo in your heart? Nay, nay. We have met for the last time, Isaac Matthison. Your bad deeds have recoiled upon yourself. Your deom is written." "No, no "the wretched man shrieked, more ap- palled than ever. Yes, written in the undeviating book of Fate." Clasping his hands in terror, he whom we must now call Isaac Matthison, gazed in ghastly horror at the weapon held threateningly to his head. Worker of all the misfortunes our family have suffered," Richard cried, "I here call down the miserable fate you richly deserve. My mother dead -my father released-" Released!" Yes, but with a mind incapable of reason," Richard thundered, "my home, marked as the home of a felon's children-all these horrors you brought about; and such crimes cry out for vengeance. And now, without taking your life, I am revenged, for I can pity you in my heart-pity what I before despised and hated." As he spoke he threw the revolver down upon the table, and stood watching Matthison's face as it worked convulsively, and read the truth of what he had said. Yes," Richard continued, I am nearly satisfied. I have seen you with the fear of death written in your eyes, heard you beg of me for mercy, until I have for- getten the suffering of those you have wronged, and forgive as well as pity." "What shall I do?" Isaac Matthison groaned. How can I make restitution for the past ? "Your only course is an honourable and fearless one," Richard Clare replied. "Return with me to England, and with your own lips confess your wrong in the presence of the man, on whom you have brought so much suffering." Isaac Matthison's face grew white to his very lips, his eyes fixed and glassy, and the grating sound in his throat became painfully audible. "And if I refuse," he said, after a pause, What then?" "Your punishment will be the greater," Richard rejoined." "With my own hands-this very hour— I will drag you to the police. By complying quietly with my request, you will at least escape some part of the disgrace and shame. Here Isaac Matthison is unknown, but James Hicklaw is looked up to, feared, and respected. That is trae," Isaac Matthison said, as he dropped his face upon his outspread hande. "You have pro- mised me mercy. Will not a written confession serve your purpose ? I will leave this place, change my name, and live and die unknown." That will not suffice," Richard replied. I have reason to believe that the sight of you, and the truth from your lips, would revive my father's intellect. You cannot suffer much more than you do now. The fierce fire which is raging in your heart can be only quenched by the atonement I have mentioned." I will do all you ask," Matthison said, raising his face; and by daylight you will find me ready to accompany you where you will." Enough I am quite satisfied," Richard Clare said. Let there be no trifling banish all hope of escape. Flight will be useless, for, as I have tracked you to this hour, so would I track you to the grave. Give me those papers. Quick Giving the wretched man a significant look, Richard Clare turned on his heel and left the room. "And this is the end," Isaac Matthison cried, start- ing up as he heard the street door closed. This, the reaping of my own sowing through many long weary years. Heaven I am justly punished but can I face the man I loaded with chains, and sent to a living death. No no Oh horror. My tongue would re- fuse its office and my hand be paralysed. Death in its worst form would be far preferable Pacing up and down the room like a caged animal, he raved and wept by turns but suddenly the clock reminded him that the hours were passing away, and filling a valise with papers from the drawer, he opened the window and looked into the street. A waggon filled with emigrants and their goods was passing along, and hailing the driver, he asked him whither he and his comrades were bound. "To the diggings, near Bumford's Creek," was the reply. I am going in that direction; and will pay you handsomely for a lift," Isaac Matthison said. "My horse is lame, and unfit for work. Wait ten minutea for me, and I will be down." The waggon waited for him; and as he climbed into it, a rosy gleam of light flashed up from the eastern sky, proclaiming the dawn. "He told me that flight would prove useless," Matthison mut- tered. We shall see." In his hurry to escape he had forgotten to replenish his purse, and had brought very little money with him, but that fact did not make him uneasy. He could work as he had done before, and if fortune favoured him, would leave the colony for South America, and turn his hand to anything. Unmolested and unquestioned, he reached the gold- diggings, lodging in a but owned by a shepherd's widow, and went to work with a will, toiling from early morn till eve; but the past, and the terror of retribution clung i" him, and he became but a shadow of his former self. He knew that he was dying, and endeavoured to turn his thought cc the future f-tate; and one night when the presentiment that the end was near fell upon his heart with more than usual force, Le sat, up writ- ing and examining the papers be had brought with him. Glancing at his own careworn face reflected in a scrap of looking-glass hanging cn the wall, he sud- denly thought of the portrait which Richard Clare had said his father had painted. Afee,ing of remorse froze his blood, and struggling acratne; the sensation of dread which thrilled him through and through be went to the window and drew hack the ragged curtain. Oh horror Outside in tLe full nioonlitht stood Richard Clare unfolding the portrait painted by his father, and by which he had recognised Isaac A- ^hison. Suautnly the young man wheeled round and pre- sented tbt, "tinted face to Matthison's view. and the guilty maD, at- v,. recognised it as a faithful copy of his own features. UDOn the bed, writhing in anguish of body and m'nd The noise brouc-lit the old wo^n to his gide and one quick glance at his lace tol l Let- 'ij'\a.t. WM about to happen. I'on't let him come near me," Matthison n "Let me die in peace. Gather up th'->?e pap* Quick quick 1 Tr^y may be given to Richard Clare after I am gone, but tow—not DDW." The woman did not understand him, and made a movement towards the door to senk assistance but he clutched her arm, and held her back. "It is mselegs, "he said. "Don't leave rnt. Pray for me. God forgive me, for I need it very much. May the punishment I have suffered on earth atone for my erring past. No, no !—keep him back!" He shrieked out these last words as Richard Clare entered the room, and advanced slowly, his arms folded on his breast, and his face calm, but bearing;no trace of anger "Isaac Matthison," Richard said, "I have tra- velled far in order that you should see >he portrait Joy which I tracked you down, and I am here according to mv word. The promise you made me cannot be fulfilled, for vou will presently stand before that Great Judge who knows all our hearts, and has given the hope and comfort that repentance is accepted at the eleventh hour. Here is mv hand. Do not shrink from me. I pity and forgive you from my heart-and, listen. My father is much better. I am going back to him, and he sends this message to yo 1- As I hope to meet my beloved wife in heaven, so do I forgive him and, Richard, take his hand for me, and say that my sufferings are chas-d away in the thought that once more I am able to declare myself to the world as a man without a ttain upon his character. A smile lit up Matthison's face. He did not speak but held the young man's hand, and breathed his last 11- if- There is little more to be told. Before Richard Clare left the colony, Rose Lambert became his wife, and as the settler himself determined en returning to England, a light-hearted group sailed from Mel- bourne. Scarce need we linger over the journey, of the joyous meeting at the end. or of how old Richard Clare re- covered slowly from the hour that the truth was told him, and became almost as hale and hearty as ever. Grace Addision laughed and cried in turns, and ernE braced evervbodv all round, including the elder Mr. Mainwaring, and after the bliss attending such a re-union, Richard Clare called Heioert Main waring aside. You saw me take the portrait a*vay," Richard said, I have brought it back, but it is useless now." So saying he thrust it into the fire, and watched it until it was consumed to ashes. "There vanishes the last shadow of a bad dream," he said. dispelled by the dawn of day which follows the darkest night." íTHE RI L'.J