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GERARD LIVINGSTON'S CRIME;
OR,
Love’s Probation.
BY
FRA N K L E ROY,
Author of “ The Warning Hand,” “ Wealth
and Misery,” “ Broadway by Gas
light,” etc., etc., etc.
CHAPTER X.
4 SURPRISE.
The little Court was all in commotion.
The speedy arrival of the Dune's niece
was announced; and her coming, her
appearance, and her affairs in general,
were the only topic of conversation.
It appeared as if there was some mys
tery about her. Her relationship with
the Duke was variously stated and,
many different reasons were assigned for
her long absence from his Court. Her
arrival was a matter of great moment.
Ladies were at a premium at W . The
Duke had been a widower for many years.
Karl was his only child. The honors of
his Court had been done by hts sister-in
law—a gray, grave, unpopular woman, of
middle age.
So the arrival of the young Countess
was anticipated with and disrht. She would
give life to the usual dull festivities;
balls and fetes would once again be the
order of the day.
All the resources of the dukedom were
ealled into requisition for the grand ball
which was to be held in her honor on the
day of her arrival. Karl was in a wild
state of excitement. The ordinary amuse
ments of VV did not by any means
suffice to exhaust the young Prince’s ca
pacity for enjoyment. Tins coming of
nis cousin was a veritable godsend to
him.
The eventful day arrived at last. So
did the young CouniVss. There had been
.a grand cru-m at ill: railway -si a ion to re
ceive her, in spite of the Duke’s evident
wish to avoid notice.
His manner regarding his visitor was
strange. Lie was anxious in every way
to do all that could be for her pleasure,
but at the same time studiously avoided
any appearance of state in her reception.
The Countess, his sister-in-law, looked
black as night when the name of her
niece was mentioned in her presence, trlre
took no interest in the preparations. She
refused to go to receive her young vis
tor, and in every way she could, threw
cold water on the pi asure with which
her arrival v s expected.
The private secretary, of course, had
no concern with all these matters. Prince
Karl might work himself to a state of
frenzy regarding the probable appear
ance and disposition of his cousin; to
Gerard the matter was indifferent. Were
she as beautiful as Venus, and amiable as
beautiful, it was nothing to him. It was
not likely she would so much as cast a
glance at the humble secretary. Gerard
thought he had grown philosophically in
different to everything. But though he
sternly* refused himself to leave his work
to go to the railway-station to see the ar
rival, he could not resist appearing at the
ball, according to the Duke’s desire. As
a rule, Gerard eschewed all festivities, —
he had a dim kind of fear of rcognition—
but, for this once, he meant to make an
exception. He was glad of the opportu
nity of seeing the young Countess.
Though he entered the room before the
hour for her appearance, a large com
pany had already assembled. It was
quite a brilliant affair; and, though on a
small scale, the decorations would not
hare disgraced the grandest European
Court. The ladies above all were gor
geous in their attire.
The stranger had been used to the
ball-rooms of Lon lon and Paris, and they
did not wish to be regarded a whit behind
the fashions.
It took a little while for Gerard to ac
custom himself to the glare and noise.
It was long since he had looked on such a
scene—live years, almost.
Soon there was a buzz, and a general
uprising. The H ike 1. I entered, lead
ing his niece, followed by Prince Karl,
with the angry old Countess,
There was quite a murmur of admira
tion as the ducal party passed along.
Gerard, hidden behind a marble pillar,
was watching, lnlf-curious, half-amused.
It was long before he could catch a
glimpse of the new-comer through the
crowd.
Suddenly, he gave a great start. No
one observed him. All were occupied
with gazing. For a few moments, the arm
that had been carelessly flung round the
pillar, tightened its grasp, lie crushed
the gay wreaths of flowers that adorned
it; but what cared he?
A great fain ness had come over him;
the lighted palace had become dark. In
stead of crowds, and music, and decora
tions, he was alone in ad .ik conserva
tory, and the air was heavy with the
perfume of flowers.
Alone? No, he was not alone—the
heroine of this gay scene was with him.
He saw the white fingers gathering up
the folds of the lace shawl, as he had
seen her for the last time.
With a great effort, Gerard conquered
the giddiness that threatened to over
come him. Not for all the world would
he have attracted notice then. He did
not leave the ball-room; a fascination was
upon him. He must look once again—
make sure that he was not the sport of a
delusion; and if not —if it were really she
—he must gaze, and hug his agony closer
to him, and devour it in silence.
Slowly and cautiously he made his way
near to "where she was standing, bowing
and receiving tljjs homage that was paid
her, as if it wereher birthright. Surely
he must, be deceived? Constance Duver
nay, though haughty and capricious to
her admirers, could never have assumed
that royal air—that calm, stately indiffer
ence.
These thoughts passed rapidly through
his mind as, utterly confused and puz
zled, he gazed at the brilliant group.
Five years had done their work; it was
the same face, and yet it was another,
Suddenly, the beautiful girl, hanging
on her uncle’s arm, looked up in answer
to some remark from Prince Karl.
Then he knew now he was not mistaken;
it was she, indeed. That gesture—that
indescribable movement of the graceful
head—he knew it well. A hundred times
he had watched it with rapturous admira
tion. Yes; the Countess and Constance
Duvemav were one and the same.
The discovery was too startling; the
dm and whirl in his poor aching head
was too great, now for him to wonder at
the circumstance. Simply he compre
hended the bare fact.
He still watched; he seemed chained to
the place. He might never again dare to
gaze at her, and so he feasted his full.
At last, there was a movement; the
party broke up. The dance was about to
begin, and with dim, ble.ared eyes, Ger
ard saw Prince Karl lead his cousin off in
triumph.
After that, he saw no more. He suc
ceeded in making his wav out of the
®!je €DgLetll)§rfK €djf.
BY T. L. GANTT.
room. He even "replied coherently to
those of liis acquaintances who addressed
him; though how he did it, he never
knew. When he reached his own cham
ber, it was dark and desolate. The lights
had not been brought as usual. The ex
citement of the Court had spread to the
servants; they were all crowding round
to get a peep into the ba'l-room. No
matter; Gerard was thankful for the
darkness. He would be able to sit and
think in peace; to recall every minute
circumstance belonging to that scene in
the conservatory. She had played a cruel
6 art, and yet he could not hate her for it.
[e was mad ever to have dreamed of win
ning her. How could he have dared to
raise hLs eyes to the queen of the scene
below? It was his mother’s doing—his
fond, foolish mother. If it had not been
for her, he would never have gone to the
Clinton’s; never seen Constance; never
involved himself in those useless debts;
never committed that terrible crime for
fear that his shortcoming should reach
her ears.
Gerard clenched his hands. But soon
milder thoughts arose. If his mother
h 1 erred, it was from excess of love to
h.m; it was wicked to justify himself by
laying his misdeeds up; n her.
Then the bitterness fell on Constance.
She, at least, had no excuse. She had en
couraged and led him on, only for her
own selfish triumph; and yet ‘the time
had been when he could have sworn she
loved him.
As he pondered, words and facts pre
sented themselves with new force.
Ti. ags that he li:.d heard and forgotten,
now came from their hiding-places and
ranged themselves in order. He remem
bered the mystery that had always been
about Constance Duvernay’s parentage—
how, when he had attempted to question,
he had been rebuked. He thought noth
ing of it then—he was too madly in love;
but now they assumed a significance.
Even here, in her ancle’s Court' the fact
was not clearly announced. The rela
tionship—that made her heir to the Duke
through the marriage of a half-sister’s
second husband—was puzzling. Then he
bethought him that the Clintons had
been much in Geimany—had lived there
entirely, indeed, during the early part of
their married life. This mic ht ‘ a count
for. Constance having been given into
their charge; though why her noble
birth should have been concealed was
still a mystery.
So Gerard sat and pondered in the
dark, till the pain that racked his head
obliged him to lie down.
He hung himself, still dressed, upon
the bed, and soon feii into an uneasy
slumber, in which Constance Duvernay
and the young Countess ployed strange
ant ics, of whLii he was a,ways the butt
&ud Vicvhn,
CHAPTER XI.
A STOLEN INTERVIEW.
Gerard woke up the next morning with
the dim consciousness that he had sus
tained some great misfortune. The truth
soon dawned upon him, and then he col
lected all his faculties to decide on the
best plan of action.
He would not dally with his danger—
for danger he considered it. In the whirl
of last night’s emotion he had thought of
nothing but the personal relations be
tween Constance and himself. But now
he bethought him that her recognition
involved discovery. Discovery meant
disgrace. Better a thousand times go of
his own free will, while he was still hon
ored and respected, than prolong by a
few months his engagement, at last to be
dismissed with reproach and scorn. Still
it was annoying. The necessary sum for
restitution was complete, save five hun
dred dollars. If he left the Duke now,
without giving any valid reason, he could
expect no help from hi in in se
curing further employment. He would
probably have to live upon his savings,
and so retard considerably the time when
he could return to New York, a free, un
fettered man.
Nevertheless, he must go. It was bet
ter to endure delay than shame.
So he resolved; but he never went.
First one reason, then another, held him
fast. He knew he deceived himself—he
knew he was trifling with a carefully
formed resolution—and yet he lingered.
For the space of three mouths he con
trived so well, that Constance never saw
him. He saw her frequently. He could
not deny himself the painful pleasure of
gazing on the still loved face when he
was safe himself from observation.
There was no fear of her recognizing
his name, for lie lied always been known
as Mr. Gerard. He signed himself J.
Gerard, and in the faee of his refusal to
go into the details of his personal history,
no one had questioned him more particu
larly about it.
There was no fear of Constance re
marking on that; even if by chance it
should lie mentioned in her presence,how
could she think it likely that the man
who had left home in disgrace would be
at her un-.le’s tour*, hold a ; a confiden
tial post? And h lie only person
likely to spe.'.'.x ot i. , was far too rap
turously in i' l . o ; y .r or think of any
one but him If and Cons ance.
So three months passed, and the time
drew near when Gerard should have
cause to curse himself for his vacilladon.
He was sitting alone one afternoon in
the Duke’s private room. He lind been
writing busily. The Duke and Constance
had gone out riding; aud Gerard, th.uk
ing himself safe enough that day from
the recognition he so much feared, in
stead of retiring to his own apartment i.s
usual when his work was done, sat list
lessly in his chair before the escritoire,
exactly opposite the door of the room.-
It so chanced that Constance met with
• small accident at the beginning of the
ride, and, in spite of her remonstrances,
the Duke insisted on bringing her home.
They came in by a side entrance close to
his private apartments; and so, before
Gerard knew what was happening, or iliat
the Duke had returned, he found him
self face to face with Constance.
In spite of his surprise, he maintained
his composure so well that, for all the re
cognition he showed, Constanee mieht
have thought her eyes deceived her. "
But, nevertheless, she knew him in
stant I}-, and she was not equal to the oc
casion. Whether it was that in her se
cret heart she had always nourished the
remorse that Geiard once told her should
be hers for her cruel conduct towards
him, or that her accident had upset her
nerves, she turned ashy white, as for a
moment she stood looking at him, and
then fell heavily upon the floor. Of
course there was a great commotion. Ser
vants were called, remedies applied, a
doctor sent for; and, finally, Constance
was carried, still senseless, to her room.
Through all the trying scene, Gerard
had maintained his self-command. His
composure was so perfectly unruffled;
his m inner was so politely indifferent
about the invalid; his suggestions were
so eminently practical, especially that in
which he proposed they should take her
at once to her room, that no one could
have imagined he had any share or con
cern in her illness, or that he had ever
seen her before she appeared the star and
queen of her uncle’s Court.
However, in the hours tjiat followed
CRAWFORD, GEORGIA, FRIDAY MORNING, MAY 26, 1876.
when he sat alone, locked in his own
room, he made up for the indifference he
had forced himself to show.
Constance had recognised him; and that
I great emotion —\vhai uiu it mean? Lad
she repented? What if she should be
tray him? What if her first inquiry
should be for him? He knew well enough
that it was the sight of him, and not the
accident, that had caused her swoon.
The anxiety with which he waited to
see what would happen next, baffles des
cription.
The hours crept on; still, there was no
summons for him. There was a grand
dinner that night, and so, according to his
custom, he dined in his room. But to
wards evening he could bear the sus
fiense no longer. He must go out and
earn, if possible, what had passed since
Constance had revived.
He went accordingly, accosting and
chatting on his way with all he thought
likely to have heard anything, if any
thing there was to hear, but he came
back no wiser. In spite of himself, he
felt relieved, though he tried to per
suade himself that the blow only lingered
to descend the heavier. He felt almost
sure that Constance had divined and kept
his secret, and thus she had suffered no
clue as to the real cause of her illness to
escape her.
He was assured of this next day, when
purposely he threw himself in her way,
and she passed on with only the slightest
j of slight inclinations of her head.
So complex are the workings of the hu
man mind, that this act of Constance’s,
which a moment before he would have
said was exactly what he wished, now
caused a rush of angry feelings. She
passed him as if he were a,dog! "No word
or sign that she remembered the day
when her hand lingered in his, and she
had allowed his lips to play with it!
Ah! Constance was changed indeed!
Yes, she was changed, but not as Ger
ard meant. She had changed from a
thoughtless, frivolous, vain girl, to a
thoughtful, loving, yet proud and haugh
ty woman. The loving nature was all her
own; the pride and hauteur she owed to
her energetic teacher, Mrs. Clinton. But
she had never forgotten that scene in the
conservatory, and Gerard’s passionate
love. She had done precisely what Ger
ard hoped she would, though' now he was
angry with her for it. She had recog
nised him, guessed that he would not
' have his secret discovered, and so waited
the opportunity of speaking with him
alone. That opportunity, as both were
| equal]}’ bent upon it, was not long in oc
curring. Gerard was pacing up and down
beneath an avenue of lime trees. Con
stance watched him as he walked to and
fro. Contriving to escape from the de
tested companionship of the Countess, she
went into the garden in quite an opposite
direction from ilie avenue, and yet within
a quarter of an hour found herself face to
face with Gerard—alone.
The first greeting was awkward. In
spite of her present generous conduct,
Gerard could not forget how cruelly she
had used him, nor how wildly he had
loved her. And Constance, though she
had grieved for the past, arid sincerely
wished to * make reparation, remembered
the dark hints she had heard against him
—his sudden disappearance, and now of
his appearing here; unknown, and under
a different name. Her tenderness and
self-reproach urged one line of conduct,
her pride bade her take up another.
And so, slowly, and with strangely halt
ing steps, they drew near to one another.
Constance held out her hand. Gerard
kept his behind him.
“How! Do you refuse to shake hands?”
cried Constance, in a faltering voice.
“Only 1 ill you have heard my history;
then, if you choose to offer, 1 will not re
fuse.”
“You must shake hands before I will
listen,” cried Constance, impetuously.
“Whatever wrong you may have done,
it has not been done to me. I have
wronged you grievously, and repented.
Surely you are generous enough to for
give?”
Thus tempted, what could Gerard do
but yield?
His first impulse was the more honor
able; but the moment he heard Con
st mice’s persuasive voice, he was her slave
again. Whatever she commanded, he
must do; and yet he knew that there
could be no hope for him. If the dis
tance between them had been great be
fore, it was immeasurable now.
But still he took her hand, and clasped
it fast.
“I have nothing to forgive,” he mutter
ed. “It was my own folly; but I was
young; I did not understand. 1 saw the
sun, and covered it. But, there, I ought
not to have taken your hand,” he said, re
linquishing his hold; “I am not fit. Sure
ly, you have heard —you know why I left
New York?” lie added, in a low voice.
“I know no lring—l heard rumors—ex
aggerated, no doubt; and I know that you
disappeared. But that scarcely aston
ished me”
“It would have, if you had known the
cause.” And then, seizing her hand again,
he told her, in a low, agitated voice, the
whole miserable story, hiding nothing,
exrequating m ling; throwing no blame
on any one. He .old her of Captain Al
d 's geuerosß y, and his determination to
rej y.
T had n- irly attained his end.
Com-tam-e likened in sielnce. It was
intensely ; b iultohear this. It would
have bee. more so, if she knew how great
a share she had in hurryinghim on to his
ra i act.
“And vour father,” she asked, —“what
has become of him?”
“I know no bug since the day I left
New York. 1 have never written to them
nor they to me. It was agreed so—that
I should be as dead to them. Yours is
the first fain.liar face that I have seen,
and the sight well-nigh overcame me.”
Constance was silent, but she let him
retain her hand. It was not very wise of
either of ihein to be lingering thus.
Surely they must have known that be
tween the Duke's neice and his private
secretary such familiarity was unbecom
ing'.
Gerard listened entranced while she
tpoke some gen’le words of hope and
consolation. lie listened; while he kept
repeating to himself that he was mad to
stay—that he must fly at once, or fail in
hi honor to the Duke.
Geiard knew, too, how deeply Karl was
in love with Constance; that would be a
marriage fitting in every respect. What
was he, that he should dare to come be
tween them? No; Constance owed him
reparation. He had a right to demand her
silence; but that explanation once oven
he must never see her again.
Whether Constance shared his feelings,
he did not know. He did not wish—he
did not dare to allow himself to think
about it. If she did, so much the worse
for them both.
He did not exactly tell Constance all
this and that he spoke to her for the first
and for the last time; but she seemed tc
di ine it.
He spoke of Karl’s friendship, and her
eyes fell; of the Duke’s gecerosi'.y and
confidence; and, as if rebuked by con
science, she drew her hand from his.
Then he besought her to keep her se
cret, as she had kept it hitherto, and pro
mised that never again, bv word or W>fe
would he offend her He' would go. And
when he came to this point, Constance
raised her eyes with such a look of en
treaty, that Gerard lost the little self
conmand he had.
For one moment he held her passion
ately clasped against his heart; the next,
the breezy silence was broken by the
sound of heavy footsteps. With a little
cry, Constance broke from him, and
walked, swaying and trembling, in the
Opposite direction* while Gerard dived
. **nid some thick bushes that grew be
hind the avenue.
No matter what harm came to him, she
must not be compromised.
[to re continued.]
ORDINANCES
OF THE
CORPORATION OF CRAWFORD.
I. The Board of Commissioners shall
sit on the second Wednesday, at 7 o’clock
p. m., of every month.
j There may he a meeting of the Board
at any time upon the call of the Chair
man or any three of the members, and
i three members shall constitute a quorum
for the transaction of business. All tri
als and other questions before the Board
shall be decided by a majority of the
members present.
11. Any person or persons within said
corporate limits, between the ages of 18
and 50 years, who, upon being suminon
! ed by tiie mar.-hal to aid in suppressing
any allray, breach ot the peace, or other
outrage, shall reluseto do so, or refuse to
aid in arresting any offender against the
laws of this State, or any section ot these
Ordinances, sliail be fined, on conviction
thereof, not more than s2t> and cost.
111. The Marshal, before entering up
on the duties of office, shall be sworn by
: the Chairman of the Board of Commis
j sioners to the faithful performance of
; the duties of the office, and shall receive
as Ins salary a stipulated sum, to be paid
by said Commissioners.
IV. It shall be the duty of the Mar
shal, to be diligent and careful in the
i duties prescribed to him by the various
I sections of these Ordinances, and the Or
dinances which may hereafter be passed
by the Board of Commissioners.
On complaint of any person, under
oath, that the Marshal neglects or refu
| ses to discharge the duties < f his office
j faithfully and vigilantly, it shall be the
; duty of the Clerk to summon the Mar
: slial, in writing, to appear before the
| Board of Commissioners to answer said
| complaint, and, upon conviction, they
! shall adjudge such penalty as they may
deem fit and expedient in the premises,
either a fine or dismission from office, or
both, at their discretion ; and if it shall
appear to the Board of Commissioners
that such complaint is groundless and
frivolous, in this case they shall order
said complainant to pay cost of trial.
V. It shall be the duty of the Marshal
to see that all the Ordinances and Or
ders of the Corporation and Commission
ers are duly executed ; to arrest all per
sons violating any of the Ordinances,
and bring them forthwith before f>'e
Commissioners, to be dealt with accor
dingly.
Vi. If any person shall oppose, resist,
or obstruct the Marshal, or his aids sum
moned as before provided for, in the ar
rest of any offender against these Ordi
nances, or any law of the State, or other
discharge of his duty, such persons so
offending shall, on conviction, pay a fine
not exceeding SSO and cost of trial.
VII. Any person violating any section
of the Ordinances of the Corporation, in
the presence of the Marshal, shall be ar
rested by him, and taken before the
Board of Commissioners; but if such of
fense be not committed in the presence
of the Marshal, then any three Commis
sioners, upon any information which
they mav deem to be trustworthy, may
either direct the Marshal to arresttheof
lender, without warrant, or may instruct
the Clerk to issue a warrant for the ar
rest of such offender, and the Marshal
shall take such person or persons before
the Board of Commissioners, who shall
deal with them as they shall deem right,
under the Ordinances of the Corporation.
VII. When any person or persons
have been convicted of violating any of
the penal Ordinances of the Corporation,
and fail to pay the fine imposed by the
Commissioners, it shall be the duty of
the Board of Commissioners to imprison
the offender in the jail of the county for
not longer than 30 days, or sentence him
or them to work on the public roads,
within the limits of the Corporation, not
exceeding thirty days, under charge of
the Marshal.
The Commissioners have full power
either to fine, imprison, or sen ten e to
work on the roa<o —either one or all—f r
I Li violations of the-.e Ordinances.
IX. An> ;-e. ->t; taking or behaving
in a disorderly n ,inner, or committing
any other contempt m the presence ot
the Commissioners, sitting as a Court,
may be fined in a slim not exceeding
fifty dollars for each offense, or impris
onment in the county jail, or both, at
the discretion of the Commissioners.
X. Any person who sliali, witiiin the
Corporate limits, be guilty of an act of
! public indecency, or of quarreling, or of
| righting, or of using obscene or vulgar
j language, or malicious mischief, or in
I any other wise act in a disorderly man
! ner, shall on conviction, pay a fiue not
| exceeding fifty dollars, in the discretion
j of the Commissioners.
XI. Any person or persons who shall
drive a vehicle, or ride a horse, mule, or
other animal in a disorderly manner
through the street, or who shali drive or
place any buggy, carriage, or wagon on
any sidewalk, so as to obstruct passen
gers, except in loading or unloading
wagons or other vehicles, or in any other
way obstruct sidewalks or streets, shall,
on conviction of such offense, pay a fiue
uot less than cost and sl.
Xf I. All property owners or renters of
property on the public streets iu the :
Corporation, shall keep in good order ;
the sidewalk in rontof their respective j
buildings, and any one who alter notice j
from the Marshal shall fail to comply i
with this Ordinance for five days, with
out good excuse therefor, shall be sum
moned before the Commissioners and be
fin'd $5.
XII. Any person or persons tieing a
horse or hor-es, or other domesticated j
animal, to any snade tree, or on anv side- !
waik, known to be such, or riding upon !
said sidewalks, within the corparate lim- i
its of Crawford, known to be such, shall,
on conviction, pay a fine of sl, Aud any
person or persons tieing a horse or bor
l ses, or other animal, to any enclosure
, within tne corporate limits*, shall, on
complaint of the owuer.of ~.j
to the Board, pay a tine •> . ,
XIV. No imiivid.i.!,
discharge any pist.u, gj .
ire-arms witniu tneo>... . . ; ,
ier the penalty, tor uic a N :, •*;
eit less than $1 and no. m
ind on the second offen-.
$2 nor more than $lO, at n uL,-
of the Commission ;•>, uideas l tie same be
for the purpose oi killing animais lor
food or of a noxious diameter.
XV. Whenever the Marshal shall see
or be informed of any carcass within tiie
corporate limits that annoy any person
or persons, he shall notily the owner of
the dead animal to remove the same
within four hours. On failure or refusal
so to do, the Marshal shall have the car
cass removed and report the offender to
the Commissioners. Upon conviction,
the offender shall he fined not less than
$2 and the expense of removal.
XIV. If any person shall occupy, or
use, in the Corporation, a lot as horse
lot, or for any other purpose, and shall
permit manure or putrid animal or veg
etable matter to accumulate, or any oth
er nuisance upon said lot, so as to be
come offensive to those residing in the
vicinity of the same, they shall be noti
fied thereof by the Marshal or toe Com
missioners, and required to remove me
offensive matter to some place where it
will not be offensive to the citizens oi
said Corporation; and if, alter being so
notified, they siiaii refuse or neglect to
remove the same until alter tne time in
| which they shall be required to do so by
said Marshal or Commissioners, they
shall forfeit and pay, for every day after
the expiration oi said time that they per
i mit the said matter or nuisance to re
i main, a sum not less than $1 or more
| than $5 for each day; Provided, That
in no case shall the said Commissioners
have power to assess a fine exceeding S3O.
XVII. All male inhabitants between
the ages of 16 and 50 years, within the
limits of the town, shall be subject to
work on the public streets, within the
Corporation. Upon lailure to do so, or
furnish an acceptable substitute, after
summons from the Marshal, lie shali ie
fined in a sum not exceeding $2 for each
day, provided he is so summoned ten
hours previous to the time ot working.
XVIII. It shall be the duty of the
Marshal to attend all meetings of the
Board of Commissioners.
XIX. [t shall be the duty of the Mar
shal, on or before the regular session iu
each month, to make a report of the tax
es collected, as weil as all fines or for
feitures which shall be by him collected,
according to the following rates per an
num, viz.:
From owners of real estate, for each
SIOO of its value, not more than 50 cents.
For owners of goods, wares, and mer
chandise taxable under the laws of this
State, for each SIOO value uot more than
50 cents.
XX. No proprietor of any menagerie,
circus show, theatrical performance, or
any other exhibition of like character
performing for the purpose of gain, shall
be permitted to exhibit within the incor
porate limits without written permission
from the Clerk or one of the Commis
sioners, for which he shall pay the sum
of not less than $2.50, nor more than SSO.
XXI. Any proud slut running at large
within the corporate limits, shall be lia
ble to be killed by the Marshal, or by
any citizen.
XXII. The Marshal shall be required
by the Board of Commissioners, to give
bond in the sum of SSOO, for the faiintul
performance of the duties of his office,
and the Treasurer shall be required t >
give bond in the sum of SSOO, immedi
ately alter his election to office.
XXIII. It shall be the duty of the
Clerk to keep a fa*r and legible record
or minute of the proceedings of the Com
missioners’ sessions, and a copy of the
by-laws at all times for their use.
XXIV. No goats shall be required to
run at large within the corporale limits,
and any person allowing his or their
goats to go in the public streets, in vio
lation of this Ordinance, shall pay a fine
of $1 for every such offense.
XXV. No dog shall be allowed to
roam at large in the town, unless the
owner of such dog purchase a collar from
the Marshal at a cost of sl, and compel
said dog to wear it.
EXPLANATION OF ORDINANCES.
First. When no limits are specified,
Ihe corporate limits are intended.
Second. The foregoing Ordinances may
be changed by a three-fourths vote o!
the Board of Commissioners. Until re
pealed, they shall be die Oniln * or.--
the government of the Corporation ot
Crawford.
The above Ordinances and By-Laws
to take effect June Ist, 18,'b.
A. LITTLE, Chairman.
M. H. THOMAS, Clerk.
W. T. WI I'CHER, Treasurer.
J. M. NORTON.
STEPHEN 11. STOKELY. |
Funny figuring on the National Debt,
So much has been said and reported in
the newspapers concerning Proctor
Knott’s famous speech in the House of
Representatives, and tiie latter report
that he stole it entire from an editorial
in the Missouri Caucasian, that we Here
with present the original editorial. It eon- i
tains some funny figuring, and is written
in all the vigor and stinging san u.-on oi
an unreconstructed Cun fade ■ ate :
W’hat is tins hoarse, dis< >• I . • < ■ r
which comes sweeping on t:.e bia- V
increasing,strengthening, -.weding, d>- * -
ening, till the voice of bacchanalian
mirth, tink!ing of Neronian harp and
lute, i- lost amid it' roar: an i >ur e,;.-
catch nothing nut on* long,
note of woe? From‘village and hair. b-:.
and wiidwood—from mountain and va -
ley; from prairie aud and dark toiv.t
glade—from counting-room and work
shop, from farm-house and hovel—from
the tidy home of the mechanic and hus
bandman, and tb humble hut of the ’
fisherman and day laborer—from ewrv
nook and corner of oar broad land it
comes —hear it! the wail of a people
whose head* ar* bowed, whose backs are j
broken, who-. ; u ••• beneath I
such a vast, c.o ii-.- .m - v pplog moun
tain of debt and exactions as earth never
VOL. II—NO. 33.
| beheld, history never recorded, despotic
i madness never dreamed of before!
$3,000,000,000.
Look at it! Wretched vassals of an
upstart Boodocracy, look at it! Toiling
erts oJ worse than Russian task-makers,
*<•<>;< at it! American slaves, groaning
*> j '<e.u!i a bondage more bitter, galling
. > . ntUss, than ev*r cursed Israel in
Lg.pt, iooi: at it. Isei:".d your bonds!
Beiiold the . . n*r, whose insatiate,
gaoui like aiu.v, devours ad the fruits of
your labors—greedily, remorselessly swal
j lowed up, alike, your hard earings, your
liberties, your manhood, your hopes;
aye, your life itself. Whimper no more
over the hapless victims of old world
tyranny. Cease your idiotic sniffling
over Austrian, Turkish or Barbaric
thraldom. Dry up the fountains of sa
line lugubriousness, which have been
wont to gush over the wrongs of the
down-trodden Hibernian, Hungarian
and Pole. Gaze, and gaze astonded,
horrified, indignant, upon the gigantic
evidence of our own enslavement, humil
iation, ruin and shame! Look, look up
on it I
$3,000,000,000!
G.b jawed, circumlocutionary Senators
| may palaver, pooh-pooh, and try to
bamboozle. Plausable, scoundrelistic
Secretaries, in defiance of the ancient
adage, that “figures can’t lie,” may twist
and chip and chistl it down a few mill
ions. But with all the leakage, and swind
lage, and stealage, that’s just what it is!
i N_>t one dollar le-s!
Their own official reports for January
1, put the total debt at $2,470,154,366.
Add $64,618,832 of outstanding Pacific
Railroad bonds, and $1,938,564 of inter
est accrued and not yet paid. And we
have, by their own spread-eagle, stam
ped confession, a total of $2,536,711,752.
Deduct $138,086,572, which the national
bag-holder claims he has in the Treasu
tv, and it lives a balance of $2,398,625,-
190. Now pile on $666,000,000, the ag
gregate debt ot the States in their indi
vidual capacity. And there it stands,
grim, incomputable, hope-banishing, in
dustry-blasting, whole-people-crushing.
Over, rather than under.
THREE THOUSAND MILLIONS DOLLARS !
Five hundred and eleven thousand
dollars for every year since the creation
ol the world—nine thousand, eight hun
dred and twenty-seven dollars for every
week since Adam, newly moulded from
moist clay, was leaned against the wall
ot Paradise, to dry in the afternoon sun
of the wonderous “sixth day”—one
thousand, four hundred dollars for every
day since Eve, fresh blooming from the
hands of the Great Creator, caught the
first glimpse of her innocent loveliness,
flashed back to her delighted eyes from
the mirror-like bosom of Eden’s;
crystal fountain—fifty-eight dollars for :
every hour since the mysterious Spirit ot i
God brooded upon the dark waters of I
chaos—almost a dollar for every
minute since the voice of Omnipotence
thuudered: “Let there be light; and
light was”—almost a dollar for every
minute since the “ morning stars sang
together, and the sons of Jehovah shout
ed for joy over a universe new born.
THREE THOUSAND MILLION DOLLARS.
Seven hundred and eleven thousand,
nine hundred and thirteen dollars, for
every year since Noah set sail with his
huge, floating menagerie, and left the
poor little fishes to be drowned by the
freshet—one million, forty-five thousand
and three hundred dollars for every year
since Judea’s evening sunlight first
glanced, in dazzling splendor from the
golden battlements, minarets and towers
of Solomon’s magnificent Temple—one
million, six hundred and sixty-six thou
sand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars
for every year—one hundred and thirty
eight thousand, eight hundred and
eightv-eight dollars for every month,
iour thou-aod, five hundred and sixty
six dollars {dr every day—since Mount
Moriah shook beneath the mighty tread
of Rome’s victorious legions and that
grand, gilded fabric, at which all earth
had wondered, sank forever, wrapped in
flames, and streaming with the blood of
its own .‘anaticai, Christ-killing priest
hood! One million, one hundred and
two thousand, nine hundred and forty
one dollars for every year—one hundred
and twenty-.-fix dollars for every hour— ]
since blind Homer bezged his bread
through the streets of seven cities, which
afterwards fought for the honor of hav
ing given him birth—three thousand,
three hundred and forty-four dollars for
every day—an hundred and ninety-nine
and 1 a s for every hour—since the captive
Israeli', s hang their addles up to sleep.
<o ! ' t wo. fie irt-broken, to weep
n. .* i w , i.vs of Chaldea—an
hu!i*sr.‘u a \ -.z .c> -six dollars for every
• our * -H" : .tion stood aghast, t’uc
ro .. j . .ad with horror, and
sun. tit->on an i siars sought refuge in fu
neral dark ness t from the awful scene of
Cavalry !
Til .. UoAKH MILLION DOLLARS !
b <-i, nine hundred and
•i-- \ o and, five hundred a*-d
• and n'.ars ~r eveiy year since Coin,
bus discovered this radical-cursed
tinent—twelve miiiion dollars for ev .
year since Heaven, to plague a hem -
phere, permitted die psalm-singing old
Pilgrim pirates and nigger-traders to
land on Plymouth Rock, instead ”o:~ ' -
ting the Rock laud on them— i..
millions for every year since the <■:: r.
old whelps of a bogus Zion, pumoki:
guzzling, pr.i,yer-sniffliug ancestors ol
Sumner, Beecher and Phillips, were burr- •
THE OGLETHORPE ECHO
ADVERTISEMENTS.
First insertion (per inch space) $1 GO*
Each subsequent insertion 75'
A liberal discount allowed those advertising
for a longer period than three months. Cnrii
of lowest contract rates can be had on appli
cation to the Proprietor.
Local Notices 1.5 c. ]x-r line first insertion
and 10c. per line thereafter.
Trihut.'s of Respect. Obituaries, etc., 50c.
per inch. Announcements, $5,- in advance.
ekes md hanging Baptists, mas
> ag the Pequods and distributing
s:n \ blankets among the kinsmen*
ot' is> at,, their friend and benefac
to- rry-seven and a half millions for
evt <r—an hundred and two thous
and . every day—four thousand, two*
bundled and twenty-eight for every
hour seventy-one dollars for every
minute—nearly a dollar and a quarter
for every second, every clock tick—since
the American Union was born. Free
born bondsmen, think of it!
THREE THOUSAND MILLION DOLLARS !
It’s 240,000 miles to the moon. A
one dollar greenback is seven inches
long, 3,000,000,000x7 21,000,000,000
inches, or 331,439 miles. Therefore,-
this accursed section debt, reduced to
one dollar greenbacks, and pasted end
to end, would fling an unbroken bauuer
of American infamy 91,436 miles beyond
the moon! Would, thirteen times and
a quarter, girdle the globe, with old
Chase’s green inky photograps !
The earth is 2-5,000 miles in circum
ference. An old fashioned, silver half
dollar—one of the kind long obsolete—
is an inch and a half in width. $3,000*,-
000,000 reduced to specie half-dollars,
and laid edge to edge, would place a sol
id silver belt six times around our world,
and leave a sixteen thousand mile string
for surplus change!
A twenty dollar gold peice is two
inches and a quarter in diameter. The
debt in the form of twenty dollar coins,
laid touching each, would reach 5,325
miles, or twice around the Atlantic
ocean!
A one dollar greenback has a surface
of twenty-one square inches. In this
form the “National Blessing” would
cover with a counterpane of verdant
treasure rags, 9,921 acres, or fifteen and
a half square miles!
A silver half dollar is one-eight of art
inch in thickness. The monstrous debt,
which Yankee statesmen smilingly assure
us, a more trifle, scarce worth mention
ing, in the shape of half dollars, piled
one upon another, would make a stack
of glistening metal 14,029 miles high!
A silver dollar weighs an ounce. The'
frightful incubus which is paralyzing
the arms and the souls of forty millions
of fallen freeman, in silver dollars,
would weigh 187,500,000 pounds, or
93,750 tons —nearly a hundred thousand
two-horse wagon loads of solid silver.
A dollar in gold weighs one-sixteenth
of an ounce. The debt accumulaited irt
the hellish w r ork of freeing niggers and
e.i-laving white men, would weigh in*
gold dollars 11,718,750 pounds or 5,879£
tons —nearly six thousand wagon loads
of gleaming gold!
Our commerce swept from the seas.-
Every industry crippled. Taxes from
three to four and a half per cent. Prop-* -
erty every day depreciating in value.-
LanOs, houses, stock, everything owned
in the great producing regions of tbr
West fallen thirty per cent, within the*
last twelve months. Wheat sixty to
eighty cents a bushel all over the land.-
Farmers in many places borrowing:
money to pay their taxes. Homes being
mortgaged. Universal bankruptcy star
ing us in the face. Stamps, internal rev
enue assessors, tax gatherers, detective*,-
spies, informers, swarming all over the
land, thicker and viler than all the 10-
cust-s and lice of Egypt. And a debt of
three thousand million dollars in gold
draining the very life blood from our
people’s hearts!
Talk about paying it ofFl Ha! ha!
Build a worm fence around a herd of
comets—store a winter’s supply of snm
mer weather in your coal bin — wheel
moonshine enough, in a hand-barrow,
into your cellar, to have turned Egyptian
darkness into glorious day—dip up thtf
Norwegian maelstrom with one of But-*
ler’s stolen teaspoons—break the burn-*
cane of the Indies to work in harnew*
beside a mouse-colored donkey— stop thtf
mouth of Vesuvius with a champagne
cerk —rock the earthquake to sleep in a
nursery cradle —lasso the royal Bengal
tiger with a spider-web lariat— catch the
spermacetti whale in an old stocking
leg—hive the stars in a nfgger preacher'*
stove-pipe hat— hang the Atlantic ocean
on a grape-vine to dry— put the great
Sahara to soak in a goard— quench hell
with a syringe full of rose water-—un
buckle the bellyband of eternity— and
paste “to let” upon the door-post of tbf
universe—but never, never, never speak,
think, or dream of paying what is be
yond all finite comp nation or compre
hension ! Away with the lunatic wher
whispers it!
GILDING, LOOKING-GLASS
—AND—
PICTURE FRAMES!
O *
Patronize Home Industry.
rnirE only gilding establish-
X MENT in the State- where Gold Frames
can be made from the beginning, and all
kinds of old gilt frames can be regilt and
made equal to new. All work warranted a s
good and as cheap for the same kind as in
any city in the United States. OLD PAINT*
AGS restored and relieved. A large stock
i" CHROMOS always on hand. Send on
y >ur work and satisfaction guaranteed. Look
ing-Glasses, both French and English, fur
nished at Manufacturer’s prices.
.;r<rr" Refers to the Editor of OGLKTltonp*
Echo.
GEORGE C. OATES,
s j.lO-tf 240 Broad st., Augusta, G a
E. A. WILLIAMSON,
Practical Watchniaker A Jeweler
Broad S'tr,FSt y Atkr.n *, Git.
t!1 work done in a saMsfactoay maniie/
and wari anted to give satisfaction.