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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.”