Newspaper Page Text
4
REV. A. J. RYAN, Editor
AUGUSTA, GA, OCTOBER 24,1868.
THANKSGIVING PROCLAMATION.
The President of the Northern States,
plus the Southern Satrapies, has issued
a Proclamation, appointing Thursday,
November 26th, as a Day of Thanks
giving. It is the usual annual compli
. ment paid by Government to the
Almighty. It smacks of Religion, and is
a yearly profession of the Piety of the
“best Government the world ever saw.”
We are of opinion that more attention
will be, on that day, given to Thanks
giving dinners than to Thanksgiving
prayers. But, of course, our people have
their own peculiar tastes. Many a pulpit
will, on that day, ring with praise, not of
God, but of our Government. It is the linost
day of the year, and best fitted, for giving
three-fourths of sermons to Politics, and
one-fourth to Religion. It is a capital
day for political Preachers. Already they
are preparing the sermons which are to
regale the ears of their Christian audiences.
It will be a prime day, too, to contrast the
saints of the North—the advanced
Christian people of New England—with
the ruffians of the South.
The President gives us a list of the
benefits for which we are to bo thankful;
but, the benefits he enumerates are all
material. So it is--our grand material
ism covers from sight our fearful moral
condition. Better appoint a day of fast
ing and humiliation—a day of sack-cloth
and ashes—in which our people may do
penance for their crimes, and cry to
Heaven for mercy. Better appoint a day
in wlficb the whole Nation will abase
itself before Almighty God, and plead for
pardon for the crimes which fill the land.
But our People have not yet learned “to
do penance.” The time will come—God
knows when—and the lesson, such a
lesson as the God of Justice has taught to
proud Nations before, and will teach
again.
THE LATE ELECTIONS.
The result of the late elections means
the election of Grant in November.
Well, if the people want him, let them
have him. They need a master ; he may
make one hard enough to suit them.
Vox Populi , Vox Dei —so the papers
say. Our condition, in the South, cannot
be much worse; and past sorrows have
made us strong to bear wrongs. We wait
in patience, we bide our time, we trust
in God—and not all the woes and wrongs
of the Past, Present, or Future, can
shake our abiding Faith that we shall yet
recover every Right, the success of which
was staked in war, and lost. How we
shall recover them, we are not prophet
enough to say. It may be best that the
extreme point of Democracy should be
reached, that temporary Despotism should
come; then Anarchy; then, out of the
chaos shall arise, the brighter for the
darkness that so long enshrouded it,
the Star of the Southern Confederacy.
It may shine on us while we live, or it
may shino over our graves in the next, or
next, generation; but, shine it will, when
the clouds around it are riven, whether
stormily or peacefully, God only knows.
And so, in one sense, Grant’s election,
though a present disadvantage, may be a
future blessing. The party electing him,
not knowing what moderation is, will
pu|h things farther and farther towards
the edge of the precipice. That reached,
the People, unless they are mad, will
retrace their steps. If they are mad,
and will continue so, and grow worse, the
sooner this Government is swept over
the precipice, and dashed to pieces at the
bottom, the better. We cannot4>e made
to believe in the permanency of this
Government. It has no pledge, or pro
mise of immortality. We still less can
be made to believe that the Union will he
lasting. Where political parties are as
radically divided as are ours, to say
nothing of other causes of disruption,
it is an impossibility that a union should
last. Half a Continent may be an
Empire, but half a Continent cannot be
a self-governing Republic, unless the
people composing it are of a high order
of intelligence and conscience. Hence,
we believe that the People of this Country
shall yet, by peaceful measures, or by
war, divide into separate Governments.
Grant’s election will be another link in
the chain of events reaching towards such
a result. When that day comes, our
course as a People in the Past, and our
fidelity to defeated Principles in the
Present, shall be grandly vindicated.
So let Grant be elected—it is a step
nearer to the end—it -is going into a
deeper darkness; but it is a coming nearer
unto the day.
SPEECH OF HON. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
John Quincy Adams, by invitation,
delivered, in Columbia, South Carolina,
a Speech, which has been widely copied
in Southern papers. It is a very singu
lar Speech. We read it twice, in order
to master its meaning. Not that it was
too profound to be comprehended after
one perusal; but, like all emanations
from Massachusetts, there was not very
much in it to understand; and, what
there was in it, seemed to admit of a
double meaning. In fact, the sentences
seemed to cancel one another. A portion
of them seemed to mean one thing—an
other portion seemed to admit of a totally
different signification; and, we are at a
loss to say whether or not the Speaker
understood what he was saying. We,
certainly, could not say, from the perusal
of the Speech, whether John Quincy
Adams is a Radical, or a Democrat. If
our friends in Carolina wanted new lights
on political subjects, they selected a very
poor light bearer. He tries hard to
excuse, and, at times, to justify, the
Northern people in their clearly iniqui
tous course towards the South. He.
asserts, but fails to prove, that we our
selves gave them cause and occasion for
their suspicions, and misapprehensions of
our motives and our conduct. Why did
he not say, at once, that a Nation of
hypocrites cannot understand truth,
fidelity to promises, and honesty of in
tention ? Malice cannot, or will not,
comprehend Candor. The man who
deals in lying can never understand or
trust the man of truth and of honor.
We are sorry that John Quiucy Adams,
of Massachusetts, was invited by our
friends of South Carolina to come all the
way from his Northern home, in order to
deliver a Speech which means nothing.
YANKEE HATReToF THE IRISH.
“But one of these things wo may con
sider pretty certain, either—which we
scarcely believe —the Southerners will
become used to Negro Suffrage, as we
have become used to Irish Suffrage ; or, if
the two races prove incapable of subsisting
together under their new relations, the
weaker will go tire wall, emigrate, die oft',
or be got rid of somehow
This gem of a sentence closes an article
in last week’s issue of the “Round Tabled
The Round Table pretends to be very
fastidious in the use of the English lan
guage. That it is only a pretence, the
above bunglesome sentence testifies.
The want of. elegance of diction is, how
ever, the least objectionable feature in the
extract. Here, again, in the first lite
rary journal published in New York,
crops out Yankee hatred of the Irish. A
blow on the cheek of the coward who
writes such a sentiment is the best
answer and the best criticism. The mean
miscreant who penned it, would, we are
sure, be afraid to utter it in the presence
of the Irish whom he affects to despise.
If any class of men has found a lower
level than the Negroes, it is the Yankee.
During the war here, Yankees prated of
Irish bravery and Irish prowess—how
they deluded them—sent them to the
front—and remained, stealing and plun-
©I I'M Mraßfci
A DISTINCTION WITH A DIFFERENCE.
“The Junta has seized the Jesuit’s pro
perty in Spain, and abolished the Order.”
The Army of Queen Isabella has risen
in revolt against her, and inaugurated a
Revolution in Spain. Tims far, the
Revolution has been a success; and,
therefore, no matter how wrong it is, no
matter what the acts which accompanied
it, because a success, it is right. So
judge the men of our days, who measure
all things by the standards of success or
failure. The Revolutionists are applauded
the world over, though the world very
well knows that it has been, so far, only
a rising of the Military, every one of
whom, by rebelling against their Queen,
breaks a soldier’s oath, and commits a
flagrant act of perjury. We have not
heard much that is definite in regard to
the sentiments of the People of Spain ;
and what we have heard is, at best,
doubtful, as all news comes to us from the
Revolutionary party. We suppose that,
in Spain, as well as here, the People must
yield to the Army, and the Civil Law
must go down before the f supremacy of
Military Proclamations. It is quite
amusing to read all our papers have to
say on the subject of the Spanish Revolu
tion, when we remember how little the
writers know about the affairs of Spain.
It is, however, the forte of our writers to
write most, and longest, and most elabo
rately, just about matters of which they
know least.
Queen Isabella is held up to the world
as a woman of no virtue by those who
know nothing of her, and who presume to
possess such respect for the oharacter of
woman. But Isabella is a Catholic, and
the Spanish Nation is Catholic, and to
be Catholic is to be calumniated.
Wo have remarked that nearly all the
papers of the North lustily applaud the
Revolution, and hail the day now dawn
ing upon a people crushed beneath the
wrongs of royalty. Why will not these
papers give a passing notice to our
wrongs ? Why will they not expend
some of their charities of expression upon
us ? If the People of Spain have the
right to Revolution, and if they be ap
proved in exercising it, why not we?
What wrongs do they suffer ? W hich of
these flippant writers have studied their
wrongs ? But Revolution i3 right every
where, anywhere, among any people; but,
unfortunately, we are excluded from the
universal privilege. The Queen dethroned,
the Junta established, and resting on
bayonets, they are to have a free, consti
tutional Government—free as our own—
and, bless the mark! as Constitutional;
an European imitation of the “best Gov-
dering in the way, while the brave Irish
were gallantly baring their breasts to the
storms of battle. None better than the
Irish, in days of danger—none worse,
when danger is over. Such is \ ankee
gratitude. We hope, if there ever comes
another war, the Irish will remember
this.
It is very true, that Southerners will
never become used to Negro Suffrage.
It may be forced on them ; they may be
obliged, by pressure of power, to endure
it; but, it may as well be known, that
the moment they can free themselves
from the vile thing, they will do it. It is
true, too, that the Negroes, unless they
identify their interests, or subordinate
them to those of their late masters, who
are now their only friends, will be got
rid of somehow. Indeed, they are, like
their inferiors in New England, ridding
us of themselves. The increase of popu
lation among them, thanks to the new
ideas brought to them from New Eng
land, is growing beautifully less. Not
for nothing, did schoolmister and school
marm come down among them.
“The Yankees came down like a wolf
oil the fold”—only, without the honesty of
the wolf, thcy # put on sheep’s clothing.
Very strange statistics come to us from
New England, which show how fast the
Puritans are ridding the world of their
presence. It is well they have the Irish
among them—otherwise, they would die
out. But, bye and bye, the Yankees
will be got rid of somehow.
eminent the world ever saw.” So,
Seward, the Serpentine, hurries to recog
nize the new 7 -born thing, aud to stand iis
God-father; and we expect that it will
prove worthy of its Sponsor. Certainly,
the new Government of Spain has begun
well. One of its first official acts is to
seize the Jesuit’s property, and to abolish
their Order. The first right of freedom,
new-found, it exercises, is the right to
rob—a right, certainly, attended with a
great many advantages. Mark, the
People have not done this ; the Military
Junta have done it. But, of course, they
are Revolutionists—they have succeeded
—they can do what they please, and,
whatever they do, is right; and, espe
cially right, when their action strikes at
the Jesuits. But God is just ; wiien the
present Revolutionary Government is a
dream of the past, the black soutan of the
self-sacrificing Jesuit will be respected in
the streets of Madrid.
For the Banner of the South.
ONE OF MANY,
i.
I was weary with the mysteries of life
—I was burdened with the mysteries ot
death. Through the days and the nights
of many years I had labored hard as
mind ever labored to solve them. But,
my labor was in vain. How could I—
myself a mystery —unravel the myste
ries that hang about me ? I questioned
men—they laughed. I studied Nature—
but Nature baffled me. I pored over
books—they bewildered me. I went
down into the solitudes of my own spirit
—but I was lost as in a desert. At times,
doubt—doubt of all things, of men, of
God, of Earth, and Heaven —cold and
cheerless, and stormy as a winter’s wild
midnight—would sweep down upon my
soul, and, out of the darkness, like a
sheeted ghost, Despair would creep and
glare, with hollow eyes, upon me. And a
great Fear would chili my very being.
At times I was brave —-1 feared nothing.
I could mock the darkness and the
storm. Terror had no terror for me.
Life was a trifle—Death was a toy I
played with. But such hours were few ;
such feelings were the evanescent foam
on the deep, dark billow. Sometimes, I
thought of my Mother, and I prayed; and
I listened and I waited for an answer, in
vain; and I looked up to the Heavens,
where my dead mother told me, long
ago,* God" dwelt; and I would ask, with
a great, nameless terror in my heart, “Is
there a God ?” and I heard men, who
believed in Him, cursing His name —if it
was His name—down in the streets. I
never, in wildest moment, blasphemed
His name; for, my Mother had loved it,
and my Mother was dead. But, I did
curse the world, and men, with curses
black and bitter as ever fell from mortal
lips ; for the world had deceived me,
and men I had trusted, but they betrayed.
Far into many a midnight I watched and
wept, for the tumult of thought in my
soul banished sleep from my eyes; but,
my tears were bitter, because they were
vain. Every thought of mine was a
question without an answer. I wauted
what the tired child wants when it creeps
to its mother’s side and nestles in her lap
after a long holiday —rest; I wanted
what the weary wave wants, when, tossed
on the deep, it steals to the shore to sleep
—rest; I wanted what I read graven on
the tombstones where the dead are laid
down and left—rest; I wanted what my
mother said that long-gone, yet never
gone, summer evening, when I leaned
over her white face, and the poor, pale
lips half opened,, and barely whispered, “I
go to Rest.” I pined for what I heard
the Priest pray for, when, with beautiful,
sad face, he stood over her coffin-lid, and,
with gentle voice, murmured, “ May she
rest in peace ” Ah! Mother! over the
dreary reach of the desolate years that
have tramped across thy child’s heart till
they have made it as hard as a stony
street, I call your name, in holiest love,
to-night, and I weep that I, who nestled
on your bosom, was not laid beside you
in your grave ?
Could you come back, Mother, you
would not know your child, to-night; or,
if you knew, would you love him as of
yore ? For he is changed, from the fair
and innocent one he was in the rosy
hours when he had your lips to caress
and your hands to bless him. There are
wrinkles on his brow, and every wrinkle
has a history; there are furrows on his
cheeks where yet linger the sweetness
of your kisses, Mother, and every furrow
has a tale of sorrow, which, had it lips, it
might toll. And the soul which you left,
Mother, white as a lily’s leaf, is a dark,
stained thing. But, who knows—he said
it—the robed Priest w 7 ho walked, with a
silver censer in his baud, around her cof
fined clay—and a voice as sweet as his
could scarcely utter a falsehood— who
knows—it may be true —I heard hi m
say, as he lifted his hand towards the
heavens : “ dead Mothers, there, watch,
like guardian angels, over the orphans
they leave on earth.” And who knows,
—stranger things are true—she may be
beside and now looking, not on the lines
which I am writing here, but on the lines
which the hands of troubled years have
written on my brow.
But, I dream —and I wave the beautiful
dream away.
So, I was weary—and each day made
me wearied still; and the nights brought
heavy burdens, and laid them on my soul,
and I waited for the night of death
Better lie down and rest in its darkness,
starless though it be, in doubt whether it
has a to-morrow wherein I wake again,
than to be burdened with the burdens of
life. So I thought.
And, one evening—no matter how
long ago—as I was walking through the
streets of a beautiful city —no matter
where —it was Sunday, and the streets
were still; twilight and shadows gathered
where I, a shadow, walked. I passed a
Church —the doors were closed, but the
muffled music of many voices reached
inv ear. 1 paused awhile to listen—
what human heart is there that music
does not sadden ?—and the low, soft mel
ody went into my very soul, and filled it
with that sadness which is all the sadder
because so undefinable. I went to the
closed door, pushed it gently 7 open, and
entered. Many a year had passed since
I had stood in a house of prayer. Still
and moveless as the shadows in a forest,
knelt the worshippers there—their faces
turned towards a marble altar, bright with
the glow of many tapers and beautiful
with flowers.
Through the stained windows shone
the light of the dying day, on many a
picture of Angel and of Saint, aud on
many a sacred device. And a strange
ly solemn chant, from many voices min
gled in perfect accord, floated like a mu
sic from Heaven, through the silence of
the holy place. An old hymn, in an old
language, which came out of the heart ot
some unknown Saint a thousand years
ago—that is what I heard. No wonder
it had such power- —the memories ot cen
turies were in the chant—and, under the
spell of the music, I knelt, and 1 thong!'.':
of my Mother, and I looked towards iLe
beautiful altar, and, I knew not why, tears
trickled down the furrows of my cheeks.
There was a lull in the music, and the
hush of the voices made the holy place
seem holier; suddenly, a voice, clear, rich,
pure, broke on the stillness ; I listened,
and caught the words—“ 0 ! salutans
Hoslia .”
For the Banner of the South.
“ Bat veniam corvis, vexat censitra colum'uas.”
In this advanced and progressive age
in which we live, much has been said,
and much industry has been shown by
various writers, in numerous books and
magazine articles, in displaying for man’s
contempt, the weaknesses and frailties
of Woman. Nqw, Ido not object to evil
being- attacked boldly and persistently,
wherever and whenever it makes its ap
pearance, but, cannot the proper dis
tinction be made, and the evils which
men, in their wisdom, perceive on the
surface, be separated from the good
which, all acknowledge, dwells with the
weaker sex ? No man ever yet desired to
be a woman. I do not know whether
women wish they were men. I expect,
when they perceive the failures and tin:
shams that many of the “lords of cr<
tiou” are, they have a secret conscious
ness that they could “fight the bat:!
of life” more successfully.
Man, however, say what he will, is
always conscious of being nearer to
“Heavenly things,” or, to use a men
universal phrase, to “higher aspira
tions,” when his hopes and fears are in
some way united with some true woman.
If they are the movers to follies, thy
again are the inciters to noble den;
Their mission on earth is no doubt a
well, if not better performed, than t* u
of the “sterner sex;” at any rate, there
will never be any means of ascertain
ing this latter proposition, for most
man’s victories and successes are achie
in the sight of the world, while woman >
are but rarely known.
While I am not in favor of extend in
to them the suffrage, for the re as 1
perhaps, that I would not bring them
contact with such an “ unclean thing
yet 1 would extend to them that deter
enee and respect which is their due, a
endeavor to show the rising generati a
that the feeling of Chivalry, which
deemed Europe from barbarism dun
the middle ages, is not altogether
parted from the laud. Yes, teach
coming man that all women are enti
to our respect, or, at least, to consider;
tion, for this, if for 110 other reason : g 1
our mother's account. Let man bear
mind, always, that, if he has the dun