North Georgia times. (Spring Place, Ga.) 1879-1891, July 11, 1889, Image 1
NORTH GEORGIA TIMES. r “ ’’'OAKtka, 8. B. Lore Me. I wander through the blooming woods Where no unhallowed thought intrudes And song and sunshine fall in floods; * I hear among the budding trees Contentment sighing in the breeze, And even the winds reprove me, For crying out ’mid scenes like these, “Love me I Love me I Love met” I mingle with, yet walk apart, The crowds that throng the busy mart, And silent bear my breaking heart, And live—Oh, life! with pain replete, So sweetly sad, so sadly sweet, With only one hope to move me, These echoing heart throbs still repeat, “Love me! Love me! Love me!” The pinions of the day are furled And night enshrouds the sleeping world, But still, like restless billows hurled Upon the shore; my spirit flies, From star to star with weary eyes Through the pitying skies above me And in its hopeless anguish cries, “Love me! Love me! Love me!" — M. M. Folsom <n Atlanta Constitution. i The Story of a Picture. BY H. E. CLAMP. It is about 10 o’clock p. m., the hour when life in its lightest and most frivol¬ ous form is on parade in tho upper part of the city’s great artery of traffic— Broadway. Among tho crowd of busy talkers, thoughtless idlers and devotees of pleas¬ ure, walking at a leisurely pace and with a thoughtful air, comes a man Whose genius has already made his name a household word in many lands. It is Geoffrey Vail, the artist The hand¬ some, scholarly faco, with its delicate whito complexion, its large, soft, black eyes and sweeping black mustache which fringes his sensitive mouth, his graceful carriage and the plain but fault¬ less style of his attire, stamps him easily as a man of superior type even to those who do not recognize in the lone indi¬ vidual the well-known figure of metro¬ politan life. Above the jargon of sounds in tho streets rise occasionally from a side street tho tones of a piano-organ, ac¬ companied by the voice of a person singing some Italian songs. The artist pauses for a moment to listen to the un¬ usually pathetic ring of this voice, and as he approaches it is struck by the ap¬ pearance of the singer. It is a young girl, about sixteen years of age, with a Madonna-like face touched with a look of most exquisite sorrow. Is it possible that the coarse-looking Italian yonder can have any connection with this lovely child? It is not of this the artist thinks as he lingers,throwing coins into the old man’s hat. It is of how that lovely face would look on canvas I Suddenly the girl sees his ardent gaze and her eyes droop to the ground, while a color like the first blush of sun¬ rise mantles her cheek. The artist is yet more charmed, although he diverts his gaze, still following the couple from street to street. Finally the organ is closed up and the two performers prepare to go home. Goeffrey Vail approaches the Italian as he is about to go and touches him upon the shoulder. “Is it your daughter?” he asks, point¬ ing to the girl. The man nods his head. “I am an artist and would like to paint her picture, ” said Geoffrey. The man shook his head in disap¬ proval. “If you will allow her to come to my studio every day for a month I will pay you liberally.” “How much?” asked the man,gruffly. “One hundred dollars,” answered the artist after a moment’s reflection. “She would earn me more than that with the organ.” “Then we will say two hundred.” The man’s greed was satisfied, and he consented to the terms. “When shall she commence!” “Tomorrow, if it suits you," said the artist. “Yeiy well,” answered tho man, and Geoffrey handed him his card. Geoffrey turned homewards, pleased with his discovery. For a long time ho had meditated painting a series of pictures representing the emotions. “Here is my ‘Angel of Sorrow’ ideal¬ ized already,” he said to himself as ho pursued his way through the still crowded thoroughfare home. The pretty Italian found Geoffrey Vail in his studio awaiting her visit on the following day. Tho strong light in the studio, where the curtains were purposely drawn back, revealed to the artist that he had not been deceived with regard to her SPRING PLACE. GA.. THURSDAY. JULY 11, 1889. appearance, The face was delicate, re fined and indescribably sad. She had evidently put on her best clothes—a dress of some soft black stuff and a shawl of the same sable hue wrapped round her head and shoulders. “You have posed as a model before?” asked Geoffrey, noting tho artistic ef¬ fort of this simple costume. “No,” said thc-girl, “never before.” “What is your name?” asked the artist. “Consuelo.” “Consuelo,” repeated the artist, “and you look inconsolable. ” The girl did not understand his re¬ mark, but her large dark eyes were turned upon him wonderingly. “Well, Consuelo, we must make the best of our time,” said the artist. “Como, I will arrange you as I wish you to sit,” and ho placed a chair for her, arranging with some care her attitude and drapery. “You not feel timid, do you?” asked Geoffrey, kindly. “Oh, no,” answered the girl, looking at him with wonder again. It was in¬ conceivable to her that she should feel timid in his presence. Tho grave, gentle face of the artist had won her confidence completely. Ac¬ customed to rough looks and sometimes blows, tho child seemed in the atmos¬ phere of this elegant studio to breathe the air of paradise. But the look of sorrow did not leave her face; it was too deeply imprinted there. Geoffroy was soon busy with his pen¬ cil. An artist, his soul was in his art. To him the animate beauty was only a stepping-stone to tho inanimate, every¬ thing lovely created that it might be copied on the canvas and immortalized. Consuelo’s sitting was not a long one. Ho thought it best not to tire her too much the first day, and at tho end of the third hour rose from his easel, and thanking her, dismissed her till the morrow. - “You will come again, won’t you?” said Geoffrey. The girl’s look answered him. For the first time that she could re member Consuelo went to her miserable home happy. A now vista had been opened to her. She had caught a glimpse of another world with which she seemed to feel some strange kin¬ ship. The last sitting came. Artist and model wero to part. Geoffrey, who had grown familiar with the child, took her hand in his own when he bado her adieu. Sudden¬ ly Consuelo burst into tears. The artist himself felt unexpectly and strangely moved. Even to him the parting seemed painful. Why? Blind egotist I unknown to himself ho had learned to love. Only at this crisis did the truth dimly dawn upon him. But why these tears of hers? Strange infat¬ uation 1 Then the child must love him also. She had turned away to weep. “Consuelo,” ho said gravely, “come here. ” Consuelo came at his bidding. “Look at me straight in the face.” “I cannot,” she sobbed. “Consuelo, why do you weep?" The face could be doubted no longer except by the blind. Geoffrey folded her tenderly in his arms, unresisted. Tho lovely head rested upon his bosom. His lips were pressed to the blushing cheek. “Consuelo, would you like to stay here always—to be my wife?” he said rather nervously, half frightened him¬ self. The girl looked at him and seemed’ to make somo sudden resolve. Withdrawing herself from his em¬ brace she wiped her eyes, and then without another word or look fled from the studio. “She is frightened, but I must follow her,” said the aTtist. How soon she had become infinitely precious to him 1 He hastened to the door, but no trace of Consuelo could be seen. He paused to reflect. He did not know even her ad¬ dress. The Italian had already called for his money. How should he find her? What strange impulse had eaused her to turn and fly so suddenly. It was inexplicable, but he must find a key to the mystery. How? Would she not re¬ turn to hor old avocation, accompany¬ ing the organ? If he searched the streets for a few days, he would soon meet her again. ( But days, weeks and months rolled by, and no trace of Consuelo or the Italian rewarded his anxious search. So his passion died away into a vague and hopeless regret Nothing remained of Consuelo but tho blending of her beauty with his own dreams in tho picture. So he devoted himslf with re¬ newed ardor to his favorite pursuits. The “Angel of Sorrow’’ was completed; extravagant oilers were made for it, but the picture was not for salo. Money could not buy it. It was hung in the artist’s own studio —his greatest achievement—and mauy wondered as they gazed upon the sor¬ rowful face whence came tho inspiration for it. Five years had gone by since his brief lovo dream had had its sudden birth and tragic finale. His gentle face had grown gentler, and perhaps a tinge of sadness had crept in between the handsome lines; but he had little to complain of so far as suc¬ cess was concerned. Ho is busy in his studio when some callers are announced. They are foreigners, evidently, from their names. Geoffrey glancos carelessly at the card, and, not recognizing the names, is about to excuse himself, but suddenly changes his mind. His visitors are shown into tho studio. A gentleman, refined and distinguish¬ ed in appearance, and a lady some years his junior. A white veil partly secludes the lady’s face. Geoffrey bows politely, and advances to meet them as they arc announced. The gentleman, speaking in French, apologized for their intrusion and asks permission to look at some of the artist’s work, and the lady, who has observed the artist’s favorito picture, leads her companion towards it. After viewing it for some minutes and exchanging re¬ marks of admiration in their own tongue, the gentleman, turning to Geof¬ frey, asks him if the picture cau be purchased. “On no consideration,” replied the artist. “It is reserved at a prico which even tho most extravagant would never care to go to.” “Which means that you do not wish to sell it,” replied his visitor. Tho artist bowed in acquiescence. “And did you ever see a faco which suggested such beauty?” asked his visi itor, adding “Pardon me, but I have a purpose in inquiring.” “I have seen one,” replied tho artist, “with which this creation of mine could but feebly compare.” As he said this his eye caught the face of tho lady who had removed her veil. “Consuelo 1” cried tho artist, forget¬ ting his visitors for a moment." But they wero smiling at him pleas¬ antly. “Pardon me,” ho said. “Somo fan¬ cied resemblance compelled me to utter that name.” Tho lady approached nearer to him. “Do you not remember me, then?” she said, softly. The artist looked puzzled and per¬ plexed. “Surely it is Consuelo; but, pardon mo, you have changed your name.” And he glanced significantly at her com¬ panion. “Ah! and you are no more the Angel of Sorrow; you might now pose for tho Angel of Joy.” Consuelo seemed to enjoy his per¬ plexity. “And have not you found a true Consuelo also?” she a9kcd laugh¬ ingly. The artist shook hi s head sadly. “Papa, this is Mr. Vail,” said Con¬ suelo, turning to her companion, who offered his hand to Geoffrey with a pleas¬ ant smile. “You aro wondering what it all means,” said Consuelo, also smiling; but it is a long story; papa will tell you while I look at some pictures round the studio, and if you wish to repeat the question you asked so long ago, which I never answered, repeat it to him-” Tho story was briefly told. Consuelo had been kidnapped from her home in Italy and- shipped to New York. After many years she had been traced and returned to her parents. She had fled from Geoffrey’s presenco because ashamed of her humble origin and parentage, believing the padrono to be her father, and had been rescued immediately afterwards. In Italy she had been educated, pre¬ viously exacting from her father a promise that as soon as her education was completed ho would bring her to New York. Such a story could have but one so qucl—a happy marriage, It was assuredly a happy one, and soon after it Geoff re ft commenced the twin picture —{NfW York llereury. THE SLAVE MARCH. Terrible Trials of Captives in the African Coast Trade. A Blow in the Head Ends the Troubles of the Weak. “Yes, I have seen the terrible slave march,” said Mr. II. F. Moir, who for many years has traveled abroad, spend ing.moro or less time in Africa. Ho was speaking of tlio sufferings of those cap¬ tives who carry great burdens across the deserts in the African coast trade. Mr. Moir is a resident of New York Slate, and last night in the lobby at the Grand Hotel entertained a few friends with a recital of some of his adventures. “When tho slaves are captured, ” ho said, “they are taken to tho headquar¬ ters of the east coast traders. There a yoke is placed about their neck, and is allowed to remain night aud day with¬ out being once taken off. Tko constant rubbing upon the neck chafes the skin, and gradually ugly wounds begin to fester under tho burning African sun¬ shine. Tho men who appear tho strongest, and whoso escape is feared, have their hands tied, nnd sometimes their feet, in such' fashion that walking becomes a torture to them, and on their necks aro placed the terri¬ ble goree or taming-sticks. The yoke is 8 young tree with forked branches. It i9 generally about five or six foot long, nnd from three to four inches in dinme tc^. One which I examined not long ago was about twenty-eight pounds in wiiight, but I am told that refractory slaves are often placed in yokei weigh¬ ing fifty pounds or more. Through each prong of the fork is a hole bored for the reception of an iron pin, which, after the neck of the slnvo has been placed in tlio fork, is made secure by a blacksmith. Tho opposite end i3 lashed to the corre¬ sponding end of another yoke, in tho fork of which anothor slave is held, aud thus the poor creatures have to march, carrying besides this intolerable weight, a load of provisions or ivory slung across tho center of the polo. Other slaves aro in gangs of about a dozen each, with an iron collar lot into a iron chain. “Aro males alone of these captives?” asked an Enquirer reporter, who was one of the party. “No, indeed,” said Mr. Moir. “Wo¬ men slaves are plentiful. A man with any spirit can scarcely trust himself to look at the starting of one of tho cara¬ vans. I accompanied one which con¬ tained many women. They are .all fas¬ tened to chains or thick bark ropes. Very many of the women in tho caravan to which I refer, in addition to their heavy weight of grain or ivory, carried their little brown babie3. The double weight was almost too much, and still they strugglo wearily on knowing too well that when they showed signs of fatigue, not the slaver’s ivory, but tho living child, would be torn from them and thrown aside to die. One poor old woman I could not help noticing. Sho was carrying a baby boy who should have been walking, but whose thin, weak legs had evidently given way; she was tottering already; it was the supreme effort of a mother’s love—and all in vain, for the child, easily recognizable, was brought into camp a couple of hours later by one of our hunters, who had found him on the path. We had him cared for, but his poor mother would never know. During three days' journey out from Liendwe death freed many of the cap¬ tives. It was well for them; still we could not help shuddering as in the darkness we heard the howl of the hye¬ nas along the track, and realized only too fully the reason why. The attach riient of tho children to their mothers and the mothers’ determination not to be parted from their children;” contin¬ ued the traveler, “combine to carry them along with tho slave caravan—that is, so long as their poor little legs can bear them.” “How can the slaves keep up under their burdens?’’ was asked. “They do not do it long,” Was the answer. “They march all day, and at night, when they stop, a few handfuls of raw ‘sorgho’ are distributed among theij, and this is all their food. As soon as any begin to fail, their conductors approach those who appear to be most exhausted and deal them a terrible blow on the hape of tho neck. A single cry, and the victims fall to the ground in the convulsions of death. Terror for a time inspires the weakest with new strength, but each time one breaks' down the ter- Vol. IX. New Series. NO. 23. riblo scene is repeated. A friend of mine told mo that once when traveling in Central Africa he was obliged to at¬ tach himself to an Arab slave gang, and that tho drivers deliberately cut the throats of those who could not inarch. I have also been informed," said Mr. Moir, “that in Central Africa these slave-drivers have been kee-. n to cut off an arm or any limb with one blow from (heir swords .”—Cincinnati Enquirer. How the President Spends His Day. The President divides his timo so as to have ample opportunity for rest, re¬ creation and work. Ho generally rises about 7 o’clock in tho morning and breakfasts with his family at 8.30 o’clock. He usually leaves the building by the south door and indulges in a stroll of half an hour about tho grounds south of tho mansion. Ho then returns to his office and by 9.30 o’clock is en gaged in looking over papers and ar¬ ranging his work for the day. At 11 o’clock Senators and Representatives be¬ gin to arrive and they are received with tlio utmost courtesy, patience and con sideration. At 1 o’clock the President, except on cabinet days, descends to the east room, where ho always finds hundreds of per¬ sons, men and women, who are stran¬ gers in the city, waiting to pay thei r respects. After dispersing this crowd with many pleasant remarks, he takes his luncheon and then returns to his of¬ fice, where he begins the real work of tho day, undisturbed by callers, except by special appointments, as these three hours are devoted to audionces granted to cabinet ministers to submit the busi¬ ness of their departments and rcceivo directions. At 5 o’clock be usually takes a long walk in tho northwestern section of the city, or a drivo with Mrs. Harrison and the ladies of his family. At 7.30 o’clock tho President joins Mrs. Harrison and the ladies at dinner in the family dining- room. Frequently he invites some friend or official whom he desires to meet in tho loss respected and more leisurely surrounding# of informal hospitality, Later in tho evening tho President passes his time with his family, or receives visitors who are entitlod to call socially .—Pittsburg Commercial Oazette. The Dakota “Rustler.” Tho Dakota “rustler” is tho direct product of the blizzard. Ho moves with a quick, resistless force. He does not rest for sloep or food. Ho knows no weariness of the flesh. Ho lias no doubts or fears. Ho believes, and he is an in spirer of faith. Ho will build a hotel of 300 rooms on a street-motor railway on tho blank prairie and wait for a town to grow up around it. Tho town always comes, if he be a gonuino rustler. You can’t tell by his looks, nor by the cut of his clothes. His grammar is often addled, and ho makes a bib of his nap¬ kin at table. But when ho turns himself loose upon a project with money in it the project projects. It looms. It yawns. He keeps it ever in the way of your eyes, and before you know it you begin to see rainbows around it. He cares nothing for money after it is made. Ask, and it is given you. Tell him a tale of woe, and out comes his purse. He would moulder in a week behind a desk or in a counting-room. He is always on the lope. Today, he is getting options on corner lots in Pierre; tomorrow, he is building mills at Yank¬ ton. Then he is off to St. Paul bull¬ dozing “Jim" Hill for more railroads, or off to New York placing the stock of a new loan and trust company. He is interested in everything. He lets no enterprise escape him. They’ll all pay, he says, or all “bust." There is no middle lino out there. Diagnosing Disease by the Hair. A Pittsburg doctor says ho can diag¬ nose ailments by examining a single hair of tho pationt. Two young men as a joke, took him a hair from a bay horse. Tho doctor wrote a prescription and said his fee was $25 as the caso was pre¬ carious. They were staggered but paid the foe, and after they got out laughed all the way to tho apothecary’s, The latter took the prescription and read in amazement: “One bushel of oats, four quarts of water, stir well, and give three times a day—and turn the animal out to grass.” Then the jokers stopped laugh¬ ing.— Chicago Herald. His Complexion Confused Her. Aggie—Oh, Mrs. Smith, who was that Chinaman you were walking with today? Mrs. S.—Chinaman? Ohl It was my husband; he’s just had tho jaundice. The Two Poets. *T would not weight,” one poet said, “Tho wing of Fancy soaring high Up the blue dome of boundless sky; Or part tho downy plumage spread Above her breast, oven by a strand Of silken service, wrapping there. To send across the summer 1 md, Such messages through tho golden air As humbler pinions deign to boar. “My realm is Beauty’s large domnin; My service, Art, for Art s pure sa!«\ Thai does not ask, and will not take, The low rewards of use or gain— That owns no duty in a song— No Epic call that sliall avail To urge the right, or chide tho wrong, Or hearten hope when hope would fail— I sing as sings the nightingale." “If through my verso,” anothor sang, “A throb is felt, whoso human beat Reveals a purpose, strong nnd sweet* To anodyne some deadly pang, Or help some halting soul to reach Firm foothold on tho path that leads Stamvard, through what my verso may teach, Or heal the hurt that inward bio. ds, Or spur some life to loftier deeds— “I loave content the rarer height Of Art to such eiliereal souls As Beauty’s liner air infolds In atmospheres too keen of light For earth-born vision. While they soar, Let mo keep warm within my broast Tho heart throb—and I ask no more!” Men praised tiio Poet; for tho rest, God loved the lowlier singer best. —Margaret J. Preston. HUMOROUS. Cut flowers—Wall flowers. A husbandman is not always a hus¬ band: A rule of three—For one to take his departure. The guillotine block is one of tbs French polling places. Tho dude is a great stickler for the correct thing in caucs. A swallow may not make a summer, but a frog makes a spring. Tho long and tho short of it—The measurements both ways. Thero is no reason in tho world why a “baby show” shouldn’t bo a howling success. It is strange that in throwing up our hands to a highwayman we throw down our arms. Thero aro different ways of showing wrath; the tea-kettle sings sweetest when it is hottest. Tho young idea may sometimes be best taught to shoot by putting it through a course of sprouts. Mrs. Quarterest—What is your atti¬ tude toward Wagner’s art, professor. Professor Balder—Hands over my ears. Some men are born great, somo achieve greatness, and some have had fathers who relieved them of all responsi¬ bility. Oldmanson—Have you a telephone, Biggs? Biggs—No, I am not on speak¬ ing terms with the company, Their rates are too high. Miggs: “I hear a policeman was killed yesterday in tho discharge of his duty.” Bliggs: “He probably didn’t know it was loaded.” Returned traveler; “Mr. Richman could draw his check for a million when I left. How much money has he by this time?” Citizen: “He hasn’t any.” “Eh? Wha— Did he fail?” “No; he died. ” A Human Almanac. Brown county, 111., has a prodigy is the shape of a ten-year-old boy with a talent for days and dates. Roy Oden weller, son of S. P. Odenweller of In¬ dustry township, is the infant wonder. Give him any date in any month of this year, last year or next year, and ho can at once tell you the day of the week upon which it falls or has fallen. For example, ask him on what day of the week will Octobor 17, 1889, fall, and he will promptly answer “Thursday, If ‘ which is correct. And so of any date last year or the year to come. How he arrives at the solution he does not know. Numerous gentlemen of undoubted ver¬ acity have ;peatodly tested his strange power. The little follow is a bright youngster, but does not oxhibit any un¬ usual precocity beyond this peculiar gift. He says that beyond the three years—the current, tho last and the next—he cannot give correct answers. Next year he will lose all power over 1888 (with which he is now conversant), and his mind will grasp that df 1891, of which he now knows nothing. He has no rule or method, nor does he know how he arrives at the true answer, but it is certain that he is correct when answering .—Chicago * Tribune.