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THE PEOPLE’S FRIEND. Volume 1. PEOPLE’S FRIEND S PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING BY A. B. S. MOSELEY, ROME, GA. sTTnscisii’TioiNr, One year in advance ------- $2.0 advertising, iuOne oqnare, firnl insertion - - - - sl. Lsobfeqii«*nt insertion, each nietiteral contracts made lor six or twelve mouths merits. Ji E ME MB RANCES. BY THOMAS HOOD. I remember, I remember, 'l'hei house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He nevar name a week too boon. Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away 1 I remember, I remember, The roses red and white, The violets and the liily-cups— Those flowers made of light; The lilacs where the robins built, And where my brother set The laburnum, on his birth-day— The true is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was asked to swing, And thought the air would rush as fresh As swallows on the wing ; My spirits flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! 1 remember, I remember, The hr tues duik and high ; I used to think their slender spires Were close against the sky, It was a childish ignorante, — But now ’tin little joy To know I’m further off from heaven Than when I was a boy. A MYSTERY. The river hemmed w.th loaning trees Wound through its meadows green; A low, blue line of mountains showed The open pines between. One sharp, tall peak above them all Clear into sunlight sprang ; I saw the river of my dreams, *1 he mountains that I sang I No clew of memory led me on, But well the ways I knew ; A feeling of familiar things With every footstep grew. Not otherwise above its crag Could lean the blasted pine : Not otherwi-c the maple hold Aloft its red ensign. S > up the long and shnrnWt hills, The mountain road should creep; So green and low the meadow fold Its red-haitel kino asleep. The river wound as it should win I; Their place the monntaius took ; The white, torn fringes of their ckuds Wore no unwonted louk. Yet ne’er before that river’s rim Was pressed by feet of mine, Never before mine eyes had crossed That broken mountain line. A presence, strange at otievaml known Walked with me as my guide; The skirts of some forgotten life *l', wiled uoi.'cless at my tide. Wa« it a dun r» membered dream ? Or ~li.tlnoutfL ’ The secret which the ipo'iisUnn* kept Th ' river never told. But from the vision ere it pa- ed A tomb r hope 1 drew. And, n: a dawn of pure. Tiie thought within me gtew ; That love would temper every change V d '..•♦'ten all surprise. And. mi*’) "th the <lll.o' >i <ar r h, The hills < f i’eaven arise. B A.He, .« .iL'.mLi I' 1 Rome Georgia, Saturday, March. 1, 1873. A BROTHER’S SACRIFICE. Argemorne was of French parentage on her father’s side, but her lady mother was a countess of Englaud, and the heiress of a very large inheritance. Castle St. Elmar was the ancestral home, and for years it was noted for the grandeur of its appoint ments and the unbounded hospitality of its occupants. Here Argemorne’s childhood and early outh were passed, in the enjoyment of very luxury which wealth could purchase, and surrounded by servants and friends to whom the slightest wish of the imperious little beauty was law. Mousier Renaud was one of those “roll ing stones" whose great misfortune lies in the fact of their having been born, for it is to be supposed that if such people had never been thrust into existence nobody could have reasonably expected them to “gather moss.’’ Renaud never made a cent of money in his life, but lie fancied that he hail a great genius for bargain driving, and his wife was too much of a fine lady, and too little of a tradeswoman to see that he got cheated in every bargain that he made, He entered largely in speculations, involving his wife’s property to such an extent that everything had to go to satisfy the rapacious creditors, ;n 1 Castle St. Elmar, with all its untold wealth of rare and beautiful things, the work of centuries to collect, passed into the hands of careless strangers. This terrible blow was too much for the haughty pride of the countess: she died of bra n paralysis in less than a week, and after her death Renaud did the only sensi ble thing he had done for years—plunged into the river, and the next day .was the subject of an interesting post! morfotn and coroner’s inquest. And Argemur.ie, at eighteen, was left an orphan, with only a small annuity and no expectation*. t She was one of the proudest women in England, and her ill-fortuuc galled her sorely, but she was (oo proud to make it manifest by word or deed. All her friends called her cold and soulless, and wondered if aught on earth could touch her heart - — They little knew the passionate warmth of the heart which she ever kept hidden. She found a home, after the death of her parents with a titled cousin, but there was little sympathy between herself and the Hon. Mrs. Montague. Mrs. Montague had been n St. Elmer, and she gave Argemorne a home solely because her family pride could not bear the mortification of seeing a relative in the house of a airanger. Near Montague House was the fine estate of Maltravers Abbey—the scat of old Lord Maltravers. The old Lord had two sons, L mvain and (Jerald. Louvain was the heir to tho title, the Abbey and the bulk of the large estate ; while Gerald, as the younger son bad only tho family name <4 Rossmont, and an income of a thousand pound* a year. Both the young ne-n were noble and hand some, and b >th loved Argemorne Renaud — each in his own way. Both were courtly in bearing, and as de voted to her as even her exacting nature conhl require, but she loved only one of them, and unfortunately for her that one was Gerald, the youtuger s>n. Wi'h all the depth of a strongly impassioned nature , she loved him, but never for a moment did , -he dream of being governed by that love, • f.r with her pride was stronger than love. Th.- lofty old turrets of M.altrarcrs Abbey ■,v< re ton powerful a temptation to be ic.*ist ' tmd for :» lung time -ho had made up her m»nd to IwM-.one Lady Maltiavers. — Her mother had lieen a ] eeress. and from : '*h ;, dl:ooo. Argemorne had been trained to believe that the great end of her i'fe would lie a.comp'i'hed when she w,s wedded to a : man of rank. X,,,i nj-Kcy < the village chureh bells one bright J-.tre mcming whe.i Argemorne was wedded to you: ? T/t-I 'Liltravers atvl went heme to the .Abbey ns hi- honored wife, r r the c:d Lt! was dead and Luu- ' vain was in undisturbed possession, • Ihe festirittcs were great and continuous, out Gerald wa- not to be seen at »»y of the merry luskin*-. lie had taken himscif at he vei Jfi at, he It ■•■ • - a. <• < n tick to stand calmly by ami see this ! girl whom he worshipped n ate the bride : of an t! . r even though that other, was Lis only brother. The night after the bridal, driven forth by some wild unrest, Argemorne threw a shawl over her shoulders, and through the white moonlight went out to walk away the fever in her blood beneath the tall w* trees in Maltravers Park, and Gerald, led back home by some uncontrollable impulse, met her there. A stormy scene ensued, for both were high-spirited, and each one was wed aware of the state of the other’s affections. He accused her of coldness and deceit; he said she had never loved him — she was incapable of Icving anything but her self. He exhausted himself in fierce and bitter reproaches, and she stood befu’e him pale as marble, with folded hands and downcast eyes. She let him finidi and when from sheer exhaustion he wavsilent, she spoke. “Gerald," said she, “Heaven i.<W wit ness, I loved you with my whole I love you still! I shall love you forever ! Better than earth, better than my hopes of Heaven. If to-day my choice rested be tween eternal perdition with you anl Para dise without you, I would chooar*& first! I am your brother s wife, and it is a! sin for me to say this, but for once my tan/iie shall speak the thoughts of my heart! Lord Maltravers," she spoke his unite with a haughty uplifting of the head, remember ing the proud title, “is just and Dobl(> and I will be true to him, but while bej«g iru«‘. I shall never feel for him a tlif * 4 thing warmer than the esteem Lis mu’ y virtues must command from all ' I sb.-JI neterlove him. Centuries of devotion on his part could not win a fragmeutof my love I I married him for his wealth, and because of the position in which he could place me I I married him because he could make me Lady Maltravers!" “And if I had been the elder son,” She stooped toward him wi f bated breath—the fire of passion </ Cfoq* £*uperb eyes and glowing in lier starlet - » “Earth nor Heaven should have kept us apart! Adien forever 1" She tore away the hand he clasped to his heart and fled from him with frantic haste. She knew her danger and she meant to be in deed and word a loyal wife. So she tied from temptation. (Jerald dashed his hand agai«st his head and strode away into the shadows, and forth from the gloomy darkness of a neigh boring hedge into the pale moonlight crept the shuddering figure of Louvain —the hap py bridegroom. In the dim light his face was ghastly, und fixed despair bad settled like a cloud over all his features. He had missed his bride from the revel ers, and from tender anxiety had sought ' her in the patk, and had been unhappy ■ enough to listen to all that passed between his brother and this woman whom he wor- ; shipped. A knot of white ribbon, fallen from her hair, lay on the grass at his feet. He picked it up and pressed it madly to his fevered lips. “She shall be happy." he said quietly. “What is my worthless life against one lit tle hour of her pleasure ? 1 love her. I will make her happy. If she is never to ! give me the place in her heart which 1 seek life is valueless to me. Yes, yes, my pre cious Argem me shall be happy." He went down to the shore of the lake which bordered the park, and whtre were moored the pleasure boats in which he had sj often taken her out sailing. Dark and iuccish slept the waters under a hem of willows—it was onlr a leap forward and it w is d>>nc ’ They found the body after a long search, and there was great lamentation through all the country, for he was a noble gtntleimn and well lietovcd. Six months of mourning elapsed and then the betrothal of L rd (Jerald Malt rave: sand Ladv Maltravers was announced. For once in her life Argemorne was en tirely hnppy. The wish of her life wa* near being fu'filleil, and if she thought of her dead husband, it was with no feeling of ■ regret- The church bells rang a merry peal, ai d the bridal party .-et forth for the church. Lady Maltrnvcrs was in a carriage with hr r bridesmaids; Lord Maltravers followed with hi.- attendants. The road to the church ran past the willow-fringed pond, aud for reason un- khown to any, the horses attached to the carriage of the bride became frightened as they reached the little cove where Louvain’s body had been found. They reared, plung ed forward, and in a moment the carriage was overturned. Argemorne was taken up dead—her white bridal robes stained crimson with her blood—the false “blue blood" which had made her ernsh the love of her heart for her love of pride and station. Lord Malt ravers died two years afterward in z\ustra)ia, and Maltravers Abbey is a ghostly rqin Credulous people say it is haunted, but all good Christians insist that nothing frequents its deserted chambers but bats and lizards. gossip about’great men. An interesting chapter might be written about the weakness of great men. The anecdotes of Archimides will be remembered: he rushed through the streets of Syracuse, alfresco, crying “Eureka! ” and at the taking of the city, fce was killed by a soldier while tracing geometrical lines on the sand. Socrates, when filled with some idea, would stand for hours fixed like a stat ue. It is recorded of him that he stood amid the soldiers in the camp of Poti dea, in rooted abstraction, listening to his “prophetic’’ or “supernatural” voice. Democritus shut himself up for days together in a little apartment in his garden. Dante was subject to fits of abstraction, in which he often forgot himself. One day he found an inter esting book, which he had long sought for, in a druggist’s shop at Sienna, and was reading there till nighi come on. Bude, whom Erasmus cilled the wonder of France, was a thoroughly absent man. One day his domestic broke into his study with the intelli gence that his house was on fire. “Go inform my wife,” said he; “you know I do not interfere in household as- Scaliger only slept for a few hours, and passed whole days without think ing of food. Sully, when his mind was occupied with plans of reform, dis played extraordinary fits of forgetful ness. One day in winter, when on his way to church he observed, “How cold it is to-day!” “Not more cold than usual,” said one of his attendants. “Then I must, have the ague,” said Sullv. “Is it not more probable that you are too scantily dressed?” he was asked. On lifting his tunic the secret was at once discovered; he had forgot ten all his underclothes but his breech es! Mrs. Bray tells a somewhat familiar story of the painter Stothord. When I invited on one occasion to dine with | the poet Rogers, on reaching the house ; in St. James’ Palace, he complained of j cold, and chancing to put his hand to I his neck, he had forgotten to put on ! his cravat, when he hastily returned home to complete his attire. Buffon was very fond of dress. He assumed the air of the grand seigneur, sported jewels and finery, wore rich lace and velvets, and was curled and scented to excess —wearing his hair cn appHottc while at his studies. Pope, : too, was a little dandy in a bag wig and sword; and his crooked figure en veloped in fashionable garments gave him the look of an overdressed mon- I key. Voltaire, also was fond of mga ; nificent attire, and usually dressed in ' an absurd manner. Diderot once traveled from St. Pe i tersburg to Paris in his morning gown i and nigiit cap, and in this guise prom- I enaded the streets and public places ioi the towns on his route. He was often taken for a madman. Mhile i eoiti]M»sing his works he used to walk ! about with rapid strides, and some ' tiHH-s throwing ins v<ig *n the air when he had struck a happy idea. One day a friend found him tn tears. “Good . heavens!’ he exclaimed, “what is the matter?” I am weepiutr. said Diderot “at a story I have just composed!” Young, the poet, composed his “Night Thoughts’ with a skull before him. m which lie would sometimes i place a lighted < andh ; and he occa siouallv sought 1: - «-pul' - hral inspira tion Io waii<l< l ing among the tombs .-.I midnight. Mis. liuddiff courted the horrors witii w hich she tilled her gloomy romances by supping on half raw beef-steaks, plentifully garnished ' with onions. Drvden used to take Number 7 physic before setting himself to com pose a new piece. Kant, the German philosopher, while lecturing had the habit of fixing his attention upon one of his auditors who wore a garment without a button sewed on. Kant, on commencing one lecture, fixed his eye on the usual place. The button was there 1 Fancy the consternation of the philosopher, whose ideas had become associated with that buttonless gar ment. His lecture that day was de testable; he was unhinged by the cir cumstance. Too many authors have been fond of the bottle. Rabelais said, “Eating and drinking are my true sources inspiration. See this bottle! It is my true and only Helicon, my cabalistic fountain, my sole enthusiasm. Drink ing I deliberate; and deliberating I drink.” Ennius, JEschylus and Cato all got their inspiration while drinking. Mezrai always had a large bottle of wine beside him among his books; he drank of it at each page he wrote. He turned the night into day, and never composed except by lamplight, even in the daytime. All his windows were darkened; and it was no unusual thing for him to show a friend to the door with a lamp, though outside it w - as broad daylight. On the contrary, Varillas, the historian, never wrote ex cept at full midday. His ideas, he imagined, grew and declined with the sun’s light. Spanish Society. A Madrid eorrespoudeut of the Phila delphia Press gossips in this manner: The other day I was riding out with a friend on the Prado —the grand boulevard of Madrid —when a Spanish gentleman rode up to the side of his carriage, and, after a few words of refreshing conversa tion, departed by telling my friend to throw him at the feet of his lady. This is consid ered eqivolent to “give my compliments to your wife.” When you take leave of a ladv you should suy, “My lady, I place rnyielf at jour feet.” Shj replies, “I kiss your hand, sir ; may you depart with God and continue well." You reply, “May you remain with God." A gentleman must never shake a lady’s hand —it either disar ranges her mantilla or lacc cuffs, neither must he offer a lady his arm On New Year’s day a gentleman is always expected to bring a present when he calls—better adopt this idea at Philadelphia ! Here is another Spanish custom that would suit our girls still better, although itis rapidly dying out. If a gentleman accompanies a lady out shopping he is always expected to pay the bills. An unmarried Spanish lady has no privileges whatever. She is never suf fered to be alone with a gentleman; her lover must court her on the promenade, or outside of the window, or on horseback. The rest of the contract is managed by the kind-hearted priests, of course to best ad vantage of all sides ; but as soon as she is married, why, then she does as she pleases. On the promenade the gentlemen must singly pass on the outside. Sometimes this is rather a difficult feat to perform on a narrow pavement, such as they have here, with a fear of the Spanish signoras being down upon you. I gioenilly find myself, before I am aware of it, either in the middle of the street or upon the other side. There are no parties given, although the Span iards arc always ready to conic and dine with you and drink all your wine. A Western editor speaks of Paul Mor phy as the inventor of morphine. Dickens is finishing “Edwin Drood" through a New England “inejutu.” i A Chicago German advertises a “base- • inent to let on the third story." An autograph letter of Henry Clay was •o'd in Terre Haute for fifty cents. A butcher's shop for the sale of horse -1 flesh has been opened at Geneva, Switzer- I land. ! Ex-Senator Gwin, otherwise Duke of • Sonora, has sold his silver mine for $1.000,- I tJOt). The California vintage of last year has i produced, it is e.-fcmated, 8,000,000 gallons : of wine. A poet asks: “Where are the dead, the : vanished dead, who trod the earth which ! ik>w we tread?" If wo were to make a random guess, we should say the most of them are buried. A blacksmith cannot only shoe ahorse himself, but he can make a horse-shoe.