Newspaper Page Text
ATLANTA, GA., OCTOBER 20, 1880.
SELF-CONDEMNED.
Out of all the ’wildering maze
Of.in. >!iy»—
Days remembered, days forgot—
That are not,
One remains distinctive still,
Aye, and will
Until death’s benign decree
Sets me free.
In blue skies no brighter sun
Ever shone
Than that noon; no breeze more bland
Ever fanned
Brows of men, or sucked perfumes
Os earth’s blooms—
Would my last breath had been drawn
Ere its dawn!
Hidden like an ambushed foe,
Crouching low,
While his prey, all unaware,
Nears the snare.
So that day, my stealthy fate
Lay in wait,
Leaped upon me and overcame,
To my shame.
Serves not what the beast of sin
May have been;
Evermore my life it spoils,
In its toils;
Bruised and crushed, my feeble will
Struggles still,
To the noxious jungle brought
Os my thought.
Comes relief to sore disease
By degrees
Loneliness of souls immured
Is endured —
That hath limits to it set;
But not yet
Hath been, nor in life shall be,
Help for me.
HONOR IN THE PRINTING OFFICE.
There is one species of secrecy—that rela
ting to the careful supervision of confidential
public documents, books printed for secret so
cieties, and the authorship of articles or pam
phlets, as already referred to, which has been
most honorably maintained. When treaties
are prematurely published in newspapers the
copy is obtained from some leaky or venal
official, and not from any of the printers who
set up or work off the original. A case of this
kind occurred a year or two ago, wherein a
convention between this country and another
power was revealed to one of the evening news
papers. In the Foreign Office, at Whitehall,
there is a regular staff of printers always at
work, and if these men liked they might let
out secrets of the most momentous kind, any
one of which would, perhaps, in these days of
journalistic competition, be worth a few hun
dred pounds. But such a dereliction of duty
has never yet occurred ; it was a clerk, and not
a compositor, who b.trayed his trust.
Most honorable of the profession is the story
of Harding, the printer, who bravely bore im
prisonment rather than reveal the authorship
of the celebrated “Drapier” letters. The prin
ter sat in his cell calmly refusing the entreaties
of his friends to divulge the name of the writer,
Dean Swift, a church magnate, and a great
wit, who dressed himself in the guise of a low
Irish peasant, and sat by, listening to the
noble refusal and the tender importunities,
only anxious that no word or glance from the
unfortunate printer should reveal the secret.
Swift was bent solely upon securing his own
safety at the expense of the printer ; he cow
ered before the legal danger which Harding
boldly confronted. The world has unequally
allotted the meed of lame to the two combat
ants. The wit and the printer both fought the
battle for the liberty of the press, uutil the
sense of an outraged community released the
typographer from the peril so nobly encoun
tered.
There is also an allegiance which printers
pay to their chief, in not divulging important
intelligence. In some cases a compositor is
necessarily intrusted with an item of news
which would be negotiable immediately, and
worth pounds to him. Seldom or ever is there
a betrayal of trust in this way. The examina
tion papers, printed so extensively in London,
are of the most tremendous importance to cer
tain classes, who would pay almost any sum
to obtain even the roughest proof the night
before. An instance of this kind occurred
quite recently. A printer was “ got at,” and
promised a considerable amount of money for
a rough proof. What was his course of action ?
He simply informed the authorities, and the
tempter was punished. It was another and a
creditable example of how well and honorably
kept are the secrets of the printing office. ‘
OUE VISITORS
Can spend a most enjoyable hour at the beau
tiful Diamond, Jewelry and Silverware em
porium of Messrs. J. P. Stevens & co., No. 34
Whitehall street. There can be seen gems
from all quarters of the world, and the most
beautiful specimens of the Silversmiths’ art in
the decorated ware now so popular.
Messrs. Stevens & Co.’s Watch Factory, run
ning by steam power, now in full operation, is
also a curiosity. —the like of which cannot be
seen elsewhere in the South. Our visitors
should not miss this place.
A Hawk Steals a Hat.
A few days ago, as a son of Mr. Nich
olas Norrish, of Nassagaweya, was pass
ing through the woods on his farm, he
noticed a hawk hovering around near
him. Thinking nothing about the mat
ter, he walked on, when all at once, and
before he had time to make any defense,
the bird dived down and caught his hat
in its claws and carried it aloft When
the bird got about the height of the trees
t let the hat drop.— Montreal Witness.
' "v.
■k, . ' c v
/. Im
J.P.SIMS&CI.
MANUFACTURERS OF
FINE WATCHES & JEWELRY
Wholesale and Retail Headquarters for
Diamonds,
Solid Silver
-AND-
Plated Ware,
Clocks, Bronzes &c o
BRIDAL PRESENTS
And Presentation Goods of all kinds.
Great Barcias Offered ia Watches.
J.F. STEVENS & CO.,
Factory and Salesrooms 34 Whitehall St.
—THE —
Military Jewel.
For the State Championsionship, made and
presented by J. P. Stevens & Co.,
and the
GATE CITY GUARDJ’JEWEL
Made by the same House, are on exhi
bition in the windows of
/
J. P. STEVENS & CO,
34 Whitehall St., Atlanta, Ga.
“ST. LEON’S TOAST.”
The feast is o’er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine
Before each eager guest;
And silence fills the crowded hull,
As deep ns when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.
Then up rose the noble host,
Ami smiling cried : “A toast. a toast .
To all our ladies fair I
Here, before all, I pledge the name
Os Staunton’s proud and beauteous dame—
The Lady Grundamere.”
Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word ;
And every enp was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,
Till Stanley’s voice was heard.
“Enough, enough,” he smiling said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
“ That all may have their due,
Now each in turn may play his part
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight and true.”
Xffhen one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one’s name;
And each as hand on high he raised,
His lady’s grace and beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.
’Tis now St. Leon’s turn to rise ;
On him are fixed those countless eyes ;
A gallant knight is he ;
Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in lady’s bower and hall—
The flower of chivalry.
St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high ;
“ I drink to one,” he said,
“ Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven in this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead.
“To one whose love for me will last
When lighter passions long have past—
So holy’t is and true;
To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you.”
Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon the sword,
With fury-flashing eye;
And Stanley said : “ We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high.”
“St Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly to another ;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that name the reverence due,
And gently said : “ My mother I”
7 *THE PABIS CATACOMBS.
AN AftBKIOAN ACTRESS* STARTLING AD
VENTURE IN THEIR LABYRINTHS.
Miss Bessie Darling, an American
actress, has had a curious and almost
fatal adventure in the catacombs of
Paris. These catacombs contain, in
numberless galleries extending under
nearly half of the city, the bones of
nearly three millions of people. On
each side of these weird avenues, from
the floor to the ceiling, are piled bones
and skulls. The bones of the arms,
legs and thighs, are piled in tiers along
the walls, their uniformity being re
lieved by three rows of skulls and
cross-bones, arranged in fantastic pat
terns, and at intervals cut out of the
gypsum of the caverns underlying
Paris, are little chambers or altars.
At ten o’clock one morning a few
weeks ago, Miss Darling, who was one
of a party of thirty, descended the
steep staircase of ninety steps leading
to the catacombs, and, preceded by
guides, entered the galleries whose tor
tuous windings and ramifications have
all the perplexities of a labyrinth.
Miss Darling, with the independence
of an American girl, quitted her party
and set out to explore the underground
horrors alone. Among so many she
was not missed. A little of this sight
seeing satisfied her companions, and
they returned to the light and their
dinners. In the meanwhile Miss Dar
ling was hurrying through one gallery
after another. Unfortunately she had
not provided herself with a supply of
candles, and when tfig one she carried
was burned out and she was left in
utter darkness, she began to realize
the horrors of the situation. It was
then, so the story runs, she “did what
every other woman would have done
under the eircu instances—she fainted
away.” How long she remained in
sensible she does not know; but when
she came to herself she made through
out the remainder of the day and
through the night the galleries echo
with her shrieks for help. Fortunate
ly for her, at ten o’clock the next
morning a workman passing through
the next gallery, heard her cries and
hurried to the rescue. He found her
in one of those galleries that have no
thoroughfare and are simply side pas
sages, and two yards from the spot
where he found her was the mouth of
an exhausted shaft down which she
had only escaped falling by the sud
deaness with which she fainted and
pertinacity with which she remained
on the spot where she fell. When, at
the end of eighteen hours, she was
brought, to the light she tainted again.
But all’s well that ends well; although
for a short time her situation appeared
to bo ciitical. There is a moral in
this true story which it behooves ad
venturous women to heed. In foreign
travel, whether among the Alps, or
the Roman or French catacombs, or
in strange cities, whore the dangerous
classes abound, too much independence
of companionship is perilous; apart
from the conventionalism abroad,
which is apt to look askance at young
women wandering alone.
MRS. GRUNDY.
“ What will Mrs. Grundy say?” has
passed into an adage, and acts fre
quently as a restraint upon those whose
buoyancy and light-heartedness might
lead them to forget or ignore the con
ventionalities of life. To Morton’s
clever comedy, “ Speed the Plow,” we
are indebted for the saying. The first
scene of the first act opens with a
view of a farm-house, where Farmer
Ashfield is discovered at a table with
his jug and pipe, holding the following
colloquy with his wife, who figures in
a rigidness, with a basket under her
arm :
Ashfield—“ Well, dame, welcome
whoam. What news does thee bring
from the market ?”
Dame —“Whatnews.husband? What
I always told you ; that Farmer Grun
dy’s wheat brought five shillings a
quarter more than ours did.”
Ashfield—“ All the bettor for he.”
Dame—“ Ah! the sun seems to
shine on purpose for he.”
Ashfield—“ Come, come, missus, as
thee has not the grace to thank God
for prosperous times, don’t thee grum
ble when they be unkindly a bit.”
Dame —“And I assure you, Dame
Grundy’s butter was quite the crack
of the market.”
Ashfield—“Be quiet, woolye ? Al
ways ding dinging Dame Grundy in
my ears. What will Mrs. Grundy say ?
What will Mrs. Grundy think? Canst
thou be quiet an’ let ur alone, and be
have thyself, pratty ?”
QUEER SIGNATURES.
SOME CURIOUS FACTS FROM ANCIENT
AND MID.'EVAL HISTORY.
Boston Globe.
The practice of signing as a mode
of giving formal assent to written con
tracts or charters, is probably as old
as, and in one sense we may say older
than the art of handwriting. Among
all people the art of authenticating a
document was accomplished by the
most illiterate persons, either by affix
ing a stamp with the signet ring they
carried, or by imitating the process of
signing by some other and rude de
vice. Conspicuous among these more
rustic manoeuvres was that which
Gibbon mentions as adopted by Theo
doric, the great Ostrogoth, King of
Italy. He had a gold plate made in
which the first few letters of his name
were cut in the Greek character; and
when a paper had to be signed by him
the plate was laid upon it, and His
Majesty, passing the pen along the
paper in the interstices of the metal,
traced by these means the royal sig
nature, which he could never remem
ber in any other way. A still more
barbarous and ungainly device was
invented, or at least practiced by the
Turkish Sultans of Iconium, when that
tow T n was their capital. They simply
dipped their hand in the bowl of ink
presented to them, and laying it flat
upon the paper or papyrus, left the in
delible impress of it in a gigantic and
most conspicuous shape. A somewhat
similar habit is reported from India,
where landowners in the Mahratta
country are, or were until lately, ac
customed to dip their thumb in the
sandal dye, and by pressing it on the
the paper, leave their sign-manual, or,
as in this case perhaps it should be
called, their sign-digital. This was in
the case of rajahs or zemindars, who
could not write their own name; but
it is said that in another part of India
a Brahmin who was highly educated
resorted to a practice very like that of
the Iconian Sultans whenever it was
his intention to make a very generous
and comprehensive grant, the charac
ter of which he thought would be well
typified by the mark of the open
hand. The origin of the “ mark ”
with which illiterates now sign is en
veloped in some doubt; but it would be
quite wrong to suppose that the cross
they now use was employed in very
early times. On the contrary, it is
said that for many centuries after the
dark ages those who could not afford
to wear a ring or keep a signet, used
to make some special or peculiar mark,
such as an arrow-head, in which it
was supposed, and perhaps rightly,
that their autograph could be recog
nized. It is well known to any bibli
ophile that William Shakspeare spelt
his own name in several different ways.
In France, Malsterbos spelt his in at
least five different ways at different
times. Baphrol signed most usually
in Latin, but sometimes in Italian.
Napoleon altered the spelling both of
his Christian and his surname, So
Mary Queen of Scots, whose English
was most feeble, signed indifferently
as “ Mary,” “ Marie ” and “ Maryo.”
A number of persons have dropped
the conclusion of their names and
sign with the first syllable, either
making a sort of illegible scratch to
represent the other letters, or simply
omitting them altogether, as did Theo
doric.
HE WANTED*THE DOOTOE.
One night last week a jolly old
i German farmer rode to Chestnut Hill
• from Whitemarsh after a physician
i for his wife, who was very sick. He
' dismounted from his horse in front of
1 a saloon just as the boys inside had
p begun to make merry over the first
keg of beer. He approached and
looked cautiously around the screen.
’ The foaming glasses were held high
L above the heads of the revelers, as
one pronounced a toast appropriate
t to the occasion.
The silent watcher licked his lips
and wished his errand had been one
> not requiring so much dispatch. He
was turning reluctantly away, when
» the crowd saw him.
I “Hallo!” they shouted, “there’s
■ Fritz. Bring him in!”
He was laid hold upon and hauled
’ up to the bar, all the while protest
: ing.
“ Poys, I was in a quick hurry.
Ole vooman sick like der tuyval. I
vos come mit der toctor, sooner as
lightnin’l”
“ Well, you can take some beer
while you’re here, and kill two birds
with one stone,” was the reply.
“Yaas, I kill von chicken mit a
couple of stones, und der ole vooman
die mitout der toctor. I ton’t forget
myself of it, eh?”
“Oh, she won’t die. You don’t
s get beer often, and you’ve got the
ole woman all the time. Fill ’em up
1 again.”
“ Yaas, I got her all der time, but
’ exposen’ she go dade, I don’t got her
1 any more somedimes. It’s better to
go mit der toctor, seldom right away. ”
But he didn’t go. As one glass
f after another was forced upon him by
the reckless crowd, the object of his
J errand was floated further and further
, from his vision, until it was carried
. out of his mind altogether and his
f voice, untinged with anxiety, joined
i in the drinking songs, and arose
» above all others.
1 Thus he was found by his son, late
1 that night. The boy grasped him
' by the sleeve, and said :
’ “Fader, come home.”
, Fritz turned, and at the sight of
his boy a great fear arose in his mind,
. swept away the fumes of the beer
j and brought him to a sense of the
j situation. In an awe-struck tone he
asked :
t “Yawcub, how you was come
_ here? Vas somedings der matter?”
“ Yaw,” replied the boy.
‘ “Veil, spoke up about it. Vas
t der ole vooman—was your mudder—
- is she dade ? I can sthand dem best.
I Don’t keep your fader in expense,
L poy. Sphid it out. Vas ve a couple
of orphanses, Yawcub ?”
’ “Nein,” answered the boy, “you
vas anuder. A leedle baby coom mit
der house.”
3 Fritz was overcome for a moment,
3 but finally stammered out:
, “Vos dot so ! I expose it was
3 not so soon already. Veil—veil, in
i der middle of life, we don’t know
j vot’s to turn next up. Men
Fill up der glasses.
t The boy ventured to ask the old
man why he had not seen the doctor.
“Vy did she want a toctor? Pet
s ter she told me so. I got him pooty
a quick. Navare mind, I safe more as
s ten dollar toctor bill on dat baby.
. Dot vos a good child. Fill up der
1 glasses. Whoo ray for dat little buck
1 baby! Ve von’t go home till yester
day.”
Fritz got home at last, and was in
Chestnut Hill again after a couple of
8 days after some medicine. The boys
a couldn’t get him back again, though
he said to them :
s “You bate I ten to my peesness
0 now.”