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PEOPLE’S
Volume 1.
PEOPLE'S FRIEND.
PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING
BY
A. B. S. MOSELEY,
ROME, GA.
HIIHSORIPTIOX,
One year in advance ------- $2.0
ADVERTISING,
luOne ■Mjnare, firM Insertion - - - - sl.
insertion, each - M
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Vert wwentr.
LO, THE POOR INDIAN.
BY JOAQUIN MILLER.
1 have not been, shall not be under
stood;
I have not wit, nor will, to well explain,
But that which men call good find not
good.
The lands the savage held shall hold
again,
The gold the savage spurned in proud
disdain
For centuries; go, take them all; build
high
Your gilded temples; strive and strike
and strain
And crowd and controvert and curse and
lie
In church and state, in town, and citadel
and—die.
And who shall grow the nobler from it
all?
The mute and unsung savage loved as
true—
He lelt, as grateful felt, God’s blessings
fall
Abggt his lodge and tawny babes as you
In e«o>p/en,' Moulwn, Chri»ti»n uiunk or
jew.
The sea, the great white, braided
bounding sea,
Is laughing in your face; the arching
blue
Remains to God ; the mountains still are
free,
A refuge for the few remaining tribes
and me.
Your cities! from the first hand of God
Has been against them; sword and flood
and flame.
The earthquake's march, and pestilence
have trod
To undisccrning dust the verv name
Os antique capitals, and still the same
Had destiny besets the battle fields
Os mammon and the harlot’s house of
shame.
Lo! mau with monuments and lifted
shields
Against his city’s fate. A flame! his city
yields.
A M A N ’ S W ILL;
OR
A WOMAN S RIGHT.
<«•»>
BY MARGIE P. MuSELEY.
CHAPTER IV.
'1 wo weeks had passed since May
Ethridge had left the loving Uncle's
roof and protection. She was working
day and night - with brain and hand
for that support which, unfortunately,
is as necessary for one sox as the other,
but which is so much more difficult
for one to make than for tin* other.
“ 1 wenty-tive dollars a month and
board,” said May in a reverv, as she
laid her pen aside, and placed her
hand to her head. “Precious little for
so much work;” and with her other
hand she gathcnsl a pile of manuscript
and rolled it into a bundle for the
printer. “I cant see how I'm to i»vt
along with that little, when there is so
much suffering around me. and so
many calls made upon me. I’ve paid
dearly for the whistle’ this time, and
no mistake; but as 1 lune paid, 1 wul
use it. Right is right, and wrong is
w rung, and uh eouse.it nee tells me 1
have dime any duty, and if I die a mar
tyr to truth and right. 1 will not vivid
Rome, Georgia, Saturday, April 26, 1873.
principle to brute force or sophistry!”
The beautiful eyes brightened, the
cheeks kindled and May forgot her
headache. Seizing her pencil, she
wrote for several minutes with a rapid
ity that w r as astounding. She was in
terrupted by a knock at the door, and
in reply to her “come in,” a pretty,
delicate little girl made her appearance
upon the door sill, and stood irresolute.
She eyed the occupant of the room
furtively, glanced at the floor and
ceiling, and seemed about to forsake
her mission for a flood of tears, but
May smiled kindly and said, “Come in
my dear, I think we can do it, what
ever it is—can’t you tell me!” The
child seemed reassured; looked more
steadily at her companion, and advan
cing, delivered a note. May broke the
seal and read as follows:
“Dear Miss Ethridge:
“I have never seen
you, but I know you—know your heart,
and I feel I shall not appeal to you in
vain, when I ask you to procure me
some employment by which I may sup
port my worse than orphan children.
For eight long years I have struggled
with poverty, drunkenness, and a de
spair, which only a drunkard’s wife
can know, and to-day life seems utterly
hopeless. I cannot much longer fight
starvation from my door, for my health
is gone, and as I once bore the proud
name of Ethridge, I cannot beg. Ido
not ask alms; I ask only for work that
will help me pay for bread for my
children. I have done most menial
labor, for I could get no other, on ac
count of the low grade to which a
drunkhrd sinks his wife, but now I
cannot do that. Pray use your exten
sive influence to procure me that which
if I fail to get, my children will starve,
and I shall never cease to pray for
you.
Nettie Graham.
1 City, Tuesday Evening.
The sweet face of May Ethridge was
pale and rigid; the lips tightly clasped;
the hands cold and tremulous; and
rnising her eves to liaaveft nhc eX
tlaiuied, How Umg, l’atne«Thow long
shall this injustice rest upon the earth ?
They cry to me for help—-I am power
less—l cry to thee! Open some way
j by which I may assist those whom
' the world has left to the tender mer
cies of the wicked!” The words were
murmured almost inaudibly, but the
little child knew them to be a prayer
und quietly knelt where she stood, and
covered her face with her hands.—
When May turned and beheld her, she
bent down, removed the little hands
and kissed the pale face, upon which
her own tears were falling. Then ris
ing she took a purse from a trunk in
the room, threw on her hat ami vail,
1 and said, “Come, my child, let us go
j and see the lady who sent me this
note.”
The little girl dropped her head and
was silent, refusing to move.
“Will you not go with me?” said
May.
The child stammered—glided to the
wall, put her head against it and burst
into tears.
This was strange! May thought
rapidly, while she silently contemplat
ed the wretched litile figure. Then
approaching her she said,
“\V hat is it my dear: win' don’t you
want me to go?”
“Oh, she sobbed. “You must not!
Papa i-s s-o bad ! Mamma is so poor
and ragged, it would make her so
shamed to see a fine lady like you
look at her poor p-o-o-r mamma,”
and the little* head sank again, and
the tears flowed freely. May did not
.speak—she could not. Tenderly she
I kissed the little girl, and going to the
| trunk, she took out every kind of gar
ment m t iled m a lady’s wardrobe and
j made them into a bundle, and called a
' servant: then she rolled something in
| a paper, handed it to the child and
I said,
“lake this to your mamna my dear,
show the senant where to take the
j bundle, and tell your mamma I will
comt 1 and s- e hi r to-morrow.”
It was a simple message; but with
I the :tc< onipanvmg gilt it told much to
I the heart of the worse than widowed
mother.
When May was again alone she
I raDud her eyes an i < l.i- j ,1 her hands,
and saitl f iv ntly: “Father. I thank
thee for tin misfortune which has rob
j bed me of i..\ wca '.h, ami brought me
to see ami ft cl for the sufferings of
others. Oh, aid me, Father, that I
may help them ! ”
Then she went out iu the city, and
visited every place where she thought
“woman’s work” might be procured.
She received various answers —all of
the same import, viz: that “there were
always ten applicants to one position
suited to woman’s capacity,” and all
placed the prices so low th#t the re
muneration would not feed, much less
clothe the worker. Towards night
she turned homeward with a heavy
heart, Her money was near! exhaust
ed. She could get along, but how
with the poor women to
think she could do anythwg by her
influence ? Her heart bled for them,
for she recognized as only p woman can
the miseries of dependence, and pov
erty, when attached to • drunkenness 1
She visited her charity oiyects on her
return, and when she h:\» taken a
part, of the misery of each, |he was too
unhappy for hope, or prayd”, or tears,
and throwing herself on in
the quiet of her own room, she cover
ed her face with her Lunds and
thought and thought, amU'-mffered, as
the philanthropic suffer —Baking the
woes of others her own !
While thus engaged, a servant en
tered and handed her a note. It was
from the gentleman who had given her
employment, and ran thus:
City, 4 O'Cloek, P. Jf.
Miss Ethridge:
I have juab received the
enclosed letter, which I send you—if
the statements be true I can no longer
employ you.
Respectfully,
Charles Coleman.
With eager fingers May opened the
“letter” and read it. She was white to
the lipsjjy the time she read the first
page, and no words can express the
young girl’s outraged feelings, when
she read the last. Those who have
read the bitter reproach, anif violent
reprobation with which modern editors
attack anything to which they are op-.,
posed, and ngainst \U. 'AThey think
tiiink to carry the popvw.Yrmind, may
have some faint idea of the style of
that “letter;” but of the statements
which it contained, and the insinua
tions it gave, no one can form a con
ception, nor can I present them to my
readers, forbid. Suffice it, that we tell
the substance which was a violent at
tack upon the character of May Eth
ridge; it charged upon that pure, sw'eet
girl, all the crimes which are known
to the “isms” and charged her with
advocoting the same.
Had a thunderbolt bursts! at her
feet, she could not have been more as
tonished, ami yet in benumbed stupor
she sat silent. At last last she was
aroused by the boy saving respectful
ly*
“Shall I take an anwer, ma’am ?’*
“Yes, if you please,” said she recol
lecting herself.
She reached for her pencil and pa
per.
City, 5 delock, P. M.
Mr. Coleman:
Sir:
The statements are
false.
May Ethridge.
May did not sleep that night. She
read and re-read the letter. It warn
Uncle Ethridge's hand-writing. He
was determined to rum her, or have
his will over her; she saw this, and
deliberated a long time, whether it
were better to submit to his injustice
ami sue for pardon, or to go on brave
iy struggling against his persecutions.
Her conscience told her she was right;
she owned property ami had a right
to use it; she owuetl herself and hud a
right to dispose of herself as she saw
tit, at least, she thought it just that
slit* shuiud not be conqielled to marry
Colonel Johnson unless she saw fit to
do so; and tins she knew would be the
result if she returned to the Ethridge
mansion. After a night of wakeiul
Hess, she determined to resign her po
sition, and go to teaching, under un
essunied n une, ami with this de
termination she arose the next duv
witii a heavy he r . She visited
her poor people; said nothing to
her fashionable triends; sold
a splendid diamond ring, ami
the mxt day, left the city, not, how
ever, until she had explained to L< r
employer, her Uncle's iniu-i all I UUl’e
lent persecution of hersof. ami the
realms th ere r‘< >r. She could only es-
F RI E N I).
cape it, by concealing her whereabouts;
and although Mr. Coleman offered to
double her salary, she refused to re
main. When he saw he failed to in
duce her to stay he could not settle
himself to business. His heart hurt
him. He felt vaguely, that he had
done wrong, to send May the letter—
wrong to notice the attack of a cow
ardly man, upon a true woman, for
none but a coward, would assail the
the character of a virtuous woman;
and this Mr. Coleman knew and ev
ery other true man knows. He tried
to get rid of the feeling, in vain! It
grew more and more, ami by the time
of May’s departure, he felt as much
condemned as though he had not as
sisted, he had not done his duty—-had
not proven the truth of the letters as
sertions, before h< gave it to her. He
felt like he had connived ot a slander
er’s base work, because he had been a
silent observer, and he felt this sorely,
for he was an honorable man.
X: * * # ‘h
Twelve months had passed since we
saw’ May Ethridge leave the first place,
where she had procured employment,
and wence, she was driven by an Un
cle’s tyrrany. She had letters all the
while from Nettie Clayton her ‘dearest
friend.’ Twice she had been compell
ed to leave her occupation of teaching,
with those months, and now we find
her employed as a little sewing girl,
living upon the fruits of her own la
bor. She had just come home from
a day’s labor, and found a letter di
rected to ‘Miss May Ellis,’ for an as
sumed name w’as her only refuge from
Uncle Ethridge ‘loving protection.’
She seized it and read as follows:
At Home, May 12, 1870.
My Little Darling:
1 am delighted at the idea of seeing
you again, come home, come immedi
ately, for you are now’ your own mis
tress! That old tyrant will not annoy
done any more, for your loving ad
mirer Col. Johnson has sent hini on a
long journey, to a distant country,
where he mav sputter ami broil, and
I cough and curite to Ids hearts content,
yet, hurt nobody. Sometimes I feel
like it is a good thing that there is a
place where mean people can be as
mean as they please, yet not trouble
the good. The city was ‘shocked’
yesterday by the intelligence that Col.
j Johnson (who as you know’ has been
1 living with Col. Ethridge since your
departure) had killed the old man in a
j drunken broil. They had, to all ap
pearanvex lived amicably, but it seems
! not; that it was only the friendship
!of drunkenness, in w hich there is no
I dependence to be placed. After mak
i ing many people believe you, both pen
nyless ami abandoned, these two men
■ sat quietly down, to enjoy your mon
ey, (as I always believed) and as is
I now proven to be a fact.
The servants say they lived joyfully
! for a time, drinking ami carousing, to
their hearts content, but Col. Johnson
who spent a day or two of every week
out of the city, drew too heavily upon
the purse of Unde Ethridge. That the
latter said had already been ‘taken by
the gallant Col.’ That he would die
before he would give more,’ ami that
j his wily companion threatened to ‘tell
how he nad cheated’ you, if he did not.
■ Thus he got the money, from time to
time, until the old man had no more.
Then came the last demand —it could
not be met—both parties were heavily
1 intoxicated, anti after an hour of the
' ‘most abusive altercation,’ Col. John
| son fell upon the old man, ami liteially
, beat him to death. It is horrible, but
; when when I think how he did you,
jit seems like a retribution from heav
en ! Do comt* back my little darling
lam living to see you, anti every
I body is pitying you, since it came out
how you have been treated. 1 hey
. can believe me, now, but they would
I not do it before! Strange, how peo
ple do love slander, ami how ready
luey are to help put down a woman .' ;
Ums would be eumemptible world it |
it were not .so pitiful! Conic home
Uiy poor little persecuted darling, 1
1 have wept ami prayetl tor you, anil
now 1 uni to see sou, I cannot express
iny happiness! Col. Johnson has ts-
, capetl, out you wilt now tali heir to the I
Etnriuge mansion and property; so j
co.a< numediuteiv and have 11 settled ;
u , !
Yoiu - loving friend,
Nfttie ChirroN. i
| I'- s. |
Number 18
I saw Maj. Duprey yesterday, he
has changed sadly. Had just return
ed from that strange absence, I tlidk
not speak to him.
N. C.
May was surprised, shocked, n6t
glad, she had received only injustice
from her Uncle, but death had come
as her avenger, and she felt no joy
over the fate of her worst enemy. She
was glad of being free, of having am
opportunity to shew her city that her
name was untarnished, by telling it
ichy she left, but she was not glad of
the ill fate of her accuser. She hadl :
suffered too much, not to ft el for
the sufferings of others; and though
her heart w r as guileless, and earnest
when she went out from her home,
determined to do what was right, anti
not to suffer the birthright of freedom
to be snatched from her, without ai>
effort on her part, to prevent it, still
she returned a wiser, a happier, a tru
er woman! She had gone through
the furnace, of affliction, and had como
out purified, chastened, elevated. She
was not afraid of the world now’ —not
afraid of the slaneerous tongues of
base and bitter men, and as she had
maintained her right, as a to
manage her own property —to receive
the same justice and recognition, from
the law’, which has accorded to the
man who had robbed her; so she
would do again; for she knew the
right: but was w illing to suffer wrong,
rather than say one word to bind the
chains of injustice upon others.
She returned to the honse of her
childhood; and when her story w r a» ‘
known she wras the ‘threei days won
der,’ admiration and pity of the city.
All heatrs sent out to her, and it was
an ovation to the woman, who had
suffered so much, for daring to assert
that she had a right to her own prop- ■‘~
erty.
Maj. Duprey’s story .also was told,
and when it was knowm that he had
spent all these months in a cave, the
prisoner of the man wdio had killed
Col. Ethridge—‘public indignation
tuow AJLO I>oujxcln,’—; tlio lin<3
flown, ond our observations have
shown us, that as long as a man hag
money, it matters little how unprinci
pled he is, he hns she apparent respect
of his own son; but just let him be un
der the ban of public censure, let him
fall publicly, and each runs up hastily,
to ‘give him a kiok,’ byway of show
ing his own outraged virtue! Thus it
was with Col. Johnson. They abused
and belabored the poor scape-goat,
until May cried, for pity’s sake, have
some mercy on the eering.
Mr. Forsithe was nevor heard of
again, nor w’as Col. Johnson brought
to justice. Instead of taking posses- '
sion of the Ethridge mansion; May
found mortgages covering that, and
all other property in the vacinity
which had been hers. These mort
gages were held by the most reliable
men of the town, and the issue of it
all, was that May found herself with
out a dollar. Uncle Ethridge did
have his “will,” and May had that jus
tice meted her, which is common
enough around us, and t>f which we
know more instances than we ever care
to record !
Do you ask what become of May?
Well, she is now Mrs. Duprey, resides
in one of the North western cities, and
is rapidly winning fame as a journal
ist. Nettie Clayton is also marrid,
and boards with May, and she says .
‘ifthere ever was a woman w ho spoiled
a husband, that woman was May Eth
ridge.
Nettie Clayton, theMrunkard’s wife,
who had worn the name of Ethridge,
was moved to the city win re her ben
efactress liv:d, und just to please Mrs.
Duprey, the drunkard became a tem
plar in the lodge of which May Du
prey was the Vice Templar.
The Cleveland and Pittsburgh
Railroad is mentioned as one of
those lines which provide racks
in the cars for the Dibit's furnish
ed by the American Bible Society
to be read by the passengers. Wo
have something more to say of
this raiiro al. she abovt; named
road allows mi light or vicious lit
crature sold on its cars; nor does
it allow its employees to use pro
fam* language, nor indulge in al
coholic drinks.