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THE CHEKWEE ADVANCE.
VOLUME V.
< EXAMINE HOW YOUR HUMOR IS INCLINED, AND WHICH THE RULING PASSION OF YOUR MIND.”
CANTON, GEORGIA"THURSDAY MORNING. FEBRUARY 21, 1884.
NUMBER 8.
THE CHEROKEE ADVANCE.
PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY
-—nv—
BEN. F. PERKY, Editor and Proprietor.
Office iip-»tatr*, cor. W'mI Marietta awl (taias-
Dilite Street* -near Chart /Coast .
omoui. ORGAN CIIKBOKKE COUNTY.
TERMS OF 8UB8CRITTION.
Per Anuiun in Advance 11.00
If puymont is delayed 1-25
MP*Adverti*ing Raton extremely low,
lo an it the times. "®S
Lkoai. advertisements innertod and
c harged for an prescribed by an act of
the General Assembly.
Advertisements will bo run until for
bidden, unless otherwise marked, and
charged for accordingly. All considered
due after first insertion.
All communications intended for pub
lication must bear the name of writer,
not neoessarv for publication, but as a
guarantee of good faith.
Wc shall not in any way l>o rorponslblo
for the opinions of contributors.
No communication will be admitted
into our columns having for its end a
defamation of private character, or ill
any other way of a scurrilous import of
public good.
Correspondence solicited on all points
of general importance—but let them bo
briefly to the i»oiiit.
All Oofnmnulcatious, letters of busi
ness, or money remittances, to receive
prompt sttention, must be addressee 1 to
HEN. F. PERRY, Canton, (Ja.
P. O. Drawer 41).
Professional and Business
Cards.
W. A & G. I. TtASLEY,
Attornoyw at Lrw,
CANTON, GEORGIA.
Will give prompt attention to all busi
ness intrusted to them. Will practice in
all the courts of the county and in the
Hii|>erior Courts of the Rluo Ridge cir
cuit. janB-ly
C. D. MADDOX,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
CANTON, GEORGIA
Refers by permission to John Silvey k
Co., Thos. M. Clarko & Co., Jamos R.
Wylie and Gramliug, Spalding k Co., all
of Atlanta, Gu. jnul-’83-ly
CEO. R. BROWN,
ATTRONEY AT LAW,
Will practice in the Superior Courts
of Cobb, Mil'.on, Forsyth, Pickens and
Dawson counties, and in the Superior
and Justice courts of Cherokee.
Ollice over Jos. M. McAfee’s store
Special attention given to the collec
tion of claims.
Business respectfully solicited.
[jan3-’83 ly.]
u. w. NEWMAN.
JNO. D. ATTAWAY.
NEWMAN & ATTAWAY,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
CANTON, - - - GEORGIA
Will practice in the Superior Courts
«f Cherokee and adjoining counties,
Prompt attention given to all business
placed in their hands. Oflice in the
Court House. [jun3-’83-ly ]
P. P. DuPREE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
CANTON, GEORGIA.
Will practice in ths Blue Ridge eir
cuit and in Cherokee county. Oflic' ii
the Court House with the Orltnary,
Administrations on estates.
g^yCo lections a specialty.'"®®
BEN. F. PERRY,
AGENT —
FIRE AND LIFE INSURANCE CO.
Oflice with Chehokf.e Advance.
L. NEWMAN,
HOUSE & CARRIAGE PAINTER
Paper Hanging and (’alcimining,
Graining and Glazing.
ALL WORK CiUARANTKKD
Can be found a Warlick’s Shop.
[junB-83-ly]
J. M. H ARDIN.
House, Sign, Carriage
—AND—
ORNAMENTAL PAINTER,
Yum ASH MKIIC AllTIST ALSO.
Oriental and Grecian painting. Mezo
Tintin’, Carbo-Tmting, painting in Se-
pei and India Ink.
Twenty-five .per cent sived by apply
ing to me before contracting with others.
Materia) furnished at bottoqyiricea.
Satisfaction yiven <» no charges made.
See or address, J. M. HARDIN,
(jmi3-’83-ly'J Canton, Georgia.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
God bless the little stocking*
All over the lniul to night.
Hung in thu choicest eornora,
In ft glow of crimson light.
The tiny scarlot stocking,
With a hole in the heel and to*,
Worn hy wonderful Journey*
The darling" have had to go.
And heaven pity the children,
Wherever their homo may be,
Who w ake at the first gray dawning,
An empty storking to aoe 1
Left in the faith of childhood
Hanging against the wall,
Just where the dazzling glory
Of Hanta'a light will fall!
Alas, for the lonely mother
Whoso home ia empty and still,
Who has no scarlet stockings
With childish toys to fill 1
Who sits in the swarthy twilight,
With her face against the pane,
And grieves for the little hahy
Whose grave is out in the rain t
Oh, the empty shoes and stocking*,
Forever laid aside,
Oh, the tangled, broken shoe-string
That will nevermore be tied 1
Oh, the little gravos at the mercy
Of the cold December rain 1
Oh, tho fret in their snow-white sandall
That can never trip again !
But happier they who alumbei,
With marhlo at foot and head,
Than the child who iiaa no shelter,
No raiment, nor food, nor bed.
7es I heaven help tho living 1
Children of want and pain,
Knowing no fold nor pasture—
Out to-night in tho rain I
A CENTURY AGO.
An old brown leather-covered book,
tbe leaves yellow, the writing acarcely
legible, from time and decay—evidently
an old, neglected MS. To the fire or
to my private shelf ? Which ?
These were my reflections as I looked
over the papers of my late unole, the
reotor of a Bomeraetshire village.
I liked the look of the hook and de
eided for the shelf; and I had my re
ward, for I found in the crabbed char
actors a simple story, evidently written
toward the close of tbe writer's life.
This story I now trqnscribe into a more
modern style.
"Ha'll be fit for nothing.” said my
father; "an awkward booby who holds
his awl and outs his food with his left
hand."
So said my father, and so, alas I I
felt. 1 was awkward I was fifteen;
thick-set, strong, but terribly clumsy.
I could not make a collar, nor sew a
pair of blinkers, nor stuff a saddle, nor
do anything that I ought to be able to
do. My fingers seemed to have no me-
chnuical feeling, in them, I was awk
ward, and I knew it, and all knew it.
"I don’t know what lie’s fit for,” said
my father to the reotor of the parish.
"I’ve set him to carpentering, and he'H
cut his finger nearly off with an ax;
then he went to the smith, and burnt
his hands till he was laid up for a month.
It's all of no use; he spoils me more
good leather in a week than his earnings
pay for in a month. Why cannot he,
like other Obristians, use liis hands as
the good God meant him to? There,"
look at him now, entting that back strap
for the squire with bis left hand."
1 heard him; the knife slipped, and
the long strip of leather was divided in
a moment and utterly spoiled.
"There now! look at that I A piece
out of the very middle of the skin and
his finger gnshed into the bargain.”
The rector endeavored to soothe my
father's anger, while I bandaged my
finger.
"You’d better let him come up for
that vase, Mr. Walters; I should like a
case to fit it, for it is very fragile, as all
that old Italian glass is; and line it with
the softest leather, pleaso.”
Ami bo I went with the rector to bring
bock the vase, taking two chamois
leathers to bring it in.
Wo reached the house, and I Waited in
tho passage while he went to fetch it.
He camo back with a large vase, tenderly
wrapped in the leathers. Alas 1 At that
moment thero came from the room,
against the dPor of which I was stand
ing, the sound of a voice singing. A
voice that thrilled me through—a voice
I hear now as I write these lines—so
clear, so sweet, so pure, as if an angel
had revealed itself to me.
I trembled, and forgot the precious
burden in my hands; it dropped to the
ground and was shattered to pieces.
How shall I describe tho rector’s
rage ?
She who had the angel-voice—his
niece—.came out and I saw her. I for
got the disaster, and stood speechlessly
gazing at her face.
"Yon awkward scoundrel! look at
your work. Thirty pounds! Fifty
pounds I An invaluable treasure gone
irreparably iD a moment. Why don’t
you speak ? Why did you drop it ?"
"Drop it,” I said, waking up. "Drop
what?” And then it flashed upon me
again, and I stammered out, "She
sang 1”
"And if she did sing, wan there any
occasion to drop my beautiful vase, you
donbly stupid blockhead ? There, go
out of ths-houso, do, lieforo yon do any
further mischief, and tell your fattier to
horsewhip you for a stupid dolt.”
My father heard of my misfortune, and
laid the strap across my shoulders with
out hesitation, for in my yonng days
hoys were boys till eighteen or nineteeu
years old. I boro it patiently, uncom
plainingly.
"What ia he fit for ?” everyone would
ask, and no one could answer, not even
myself.
I wandered about the rectory in the
summer evenings and heard her sing; 1
tried hard to fet the old gardener to let
mo holp him carry the watering-pots,
and when I sueveeded, felt, ns I entered
the rector's garden, that I was entering
a paradise. ' ,
Alas I alas I my awkwardness again
banished me. She met mo one evening
in the garden, as I was coming along the
path, with my cans full of water, and
spoke to me, and said ;
"You're tho boy that broke the vase,
aren’t you ?"
I did not, could not, reply; my
strength forsook me. I dropped my
cans on the ground, where they upset
and flooded away in a moment some
seeds on which the reotor set most,
especial store.
"How awkward, to be sure I” the ex
claimed. "And how angry unole will
be.”
I turned and fled, and from that time
the rectory gate waa oloeed against me.
One Sunday she sang aa I had never
yet heard her, not loudly, but ao ten
derly, so lovingly; I knew the change
hod come—she loved; it thrilled in her
voice; and at the evening service he waa
there. I saw him. A soldier, I knew
by his hearing, with cruel, hard, gray
oyes; and she sang, I knew it. I de
tected a tremble and gratitude in tho
notes. I felt Bho was to sailer, as I had
suffered; not that I sang. I had no
voice. A harsh, gnttnral sound was all
I could give utterance to. I could
whistle like a bird, and often and
haveX lain tag honnju.tbo abode,
tree and Joined the oonoerts in
woods.
One day I was whistling, when I was
tapped on the shoulder by an old man,
the cobbler of the next parish.
"Sam, where did youJearn that?'*
"Learn what?”
"That tune.”
"At chiiroh.”
"You’ve a good ear, Sam
"I’ve nothiug else good, but I can
whistle anything."
"Cun yon whistle me the Morning
Hymn ?”
I did so
"Good; very good. Know anything
of mnsic, Sam ?”
"Nothing.”
"Like to?"
"I’d givu all I have in the world to
i>e able to play anything. My soul’s
r uli of musio. I can’t sing a note, but
I conld play anything if I was taught.”
"So yoh shall, Sam, my l)oy. Come
home with mo. Carry these skins, and
yon shall begin at once."
I went home with him, and found
that he was one of the players in tho
choir of his parish, his instrument being
the violoncello. I took my first lesson,
and from that time commenced a new
life. Evening after evening, and some
times during the day, I wandered over
to his little shop, and while he Bat, stitch,
stitch at tho boots and shoes, I played
over and over again all the musio I
conld get from tho clmrcli.
"You’ve a bountiful fingering, Sam,
my boy, bountiful; and though it does
look a little awkward to see you bowing
away with yonr left, it makes no differ
ence to you. You ought to be a fine
player, Sam.”
I was enthusiastic, but I was poor. 1
wanted an instrument of my own, but
had no money and I earned none—I
oonld earn none.
“Sam, my boy,” said the cobbler, one
day, "yon shall have an instrument, and
yonr father shall buy it for you, or the
whole parish shall cry shame upon
him.”
“But he don’t know a word of this,”
1 said.
"Never mind, Sam, my boy, he shall
tie glad to know of it;” and he told me
his plans.
On Christmas'Day it was customary
for the choirs of neighboring chnrches
to help each other, and it was arranged
that the choir of onr parish should play
und sing on tho next ChristmaB morn
ing at his parish church, and that he
and liis choir should come over to our
parish for the evening service.
“And you, Sam," said he, "shall take
my place in yonr own church; and,
please God, you do as well there us
you've done here, it will bo the proud
est day I shall know, Sam, my boy, and
yonr mother and father will say so,
ioo.”
Tho evening came; and there, in the
dimly-lit gallery, I sat waiting, with my
master beside me.
"Sam, my lmy,” said my master, "it’s
a grunt risk; it's getting very full.
There’s tho squire and my Indy just
come in. Keep yonr eyes on yonr Itook
and feel what you're playing, and think
yon're in the little shop; I’ve brought n
hit of leather to help you,” and he put
n piece of that black leather that has a
jtoculiar acid scent in front of me. The
scent of it revived me; the moraory of
.the mnay hours I had spent there camo
hack to me at once, and I felt as calm ns
if I wcnftudccd there.
She camo at last, and servioa began.
Oh, that night I Shall I ever forgot its
pleasures ?—the wondering looks of the
friends and neighbors who oamo and
omul in me, the despised, awkward,
left-handed saddler’s apprentice, tho
prodigy of whieh they had reard rumors.
Oil, it was glorious? The first fow
strokes of my bow gave me confidence,
and I did well, and knew it, through tho
hymn, through tho olfanta and on to tho
nnthem before tho sermon. This was
to be tho gem of tho oveniug;' it Was
Handel's then now anthem, "I know
that my Redeemer liveth.”
It began—harsh, inharmonious, ont of
tune—I know not why or how; but as it
progressed a apell seemed upon all hut
her and myself; one by one the instru
ments |oased and wore silent; one by
one tbe voices died away and wore loat,
and she and I alone, bound together and
driven on by an irresistible impulse,
went through the anthem; one soul, one
spirit seemed to animate both. Tho
whole congregation listened breathless
as to an angel; and she, self-absorbed
nad like one in a trance, aang, filling
me with a delioioua sense of peaoe and
cxnltation, the like of wkioh I have
K-ver known ainee.
It came to an end at last, and with
the last triumphant note I fell forward
on the desk in a swoon.
When I recovered, I fonnd myself at
home in my own room, with the reotor,
the <Vacter and my parents there, and
te doctor aar-t
v^uld, Moat madam ;aJ
knew he would.”
"Thank God 1” murmured my mother.
'My dear boy, how wo havo feared for
you I”
What a difference l I was courted and
made muoli of. "Genius I” aud "Very
clever I” and "Delightful talent I" snob
were the expressions I now heard, in
stead of "stupid I” "awkward I" and "un
fit for anything I"
My father bought a fine instrument,
and I was tho hero of the village for
months.
It was some days after that Christmas
that I ventured to ask about the rector’s
niece.
"My dear boy,” said my mother;
“tho like was never heard. We saw you
there and wondered what you''wore do
ing; but os soon as we snw you with tho
bow, we kuew yon mnst be the person
there’d been so much talk about; and
then, when tho anthem came, and wo
all left off Binging and they all left off
playing, and only yon and Miss Cecilia
kept on, wo were all in tears, I saw
even the reotor crying; aud, poor girl,
she seemed as if in a dream, and so did
you; it was dreadful for me to see yon
with your eyes fixed on her, watching
her so eagerly. And then to look at
her, staring up at the stained-glass win
dow as if she could see through it, miles
and miles away into the sky, Q, I’m
sure the like never was; and then, when
you fell down, I screamed, and your
father ran up and carried you down and
brought you homo in Farmer Slade’s
four-wheeler.”
After this I had. an invitation to go
up to tho rectory, and there in tho long
winter evenings wo used to sit; and
whilo I played, she sang. Oh, those
happy times! when she loved me, but
only as a dear friend; and I loved
tier as I never loved before or could love
again, I do not know the kind of love 1
Lad for her. I wns but a little older
than she was, but I felt ns n father
might feel to his daughter—a sweet ten
derness and love that made mo pitiful
toward her. I know she loved a man
unworthy of her, and I think, at times,
she felt this herself, and knew I felt it.
I was jierfectly free of the rector’s house
at last, and we used to find in our musio a
means of converse that onr tongues
conld never have known. Ah me—-those
days! Gone I Alas I they are gone.
She left ns at lost, and in a fow years
her motherless child came hack in her
place, and as again I sit in the old rec
tory parlor, years aud years after my
first visit, with her daughter beside
me, singing—but, alas I not with her
mot tier’s voice—all the old memori^
flood back on me, and I feel a grateful,
unlrn joy in tbe openly-shown respect and
affect ion of the daughter of her whom I
loved so silently, so tenderly and so
long.
I nit in the old scat in the church now
and play, and, once in tho year, the old
nnthem; lmt the voice is gone that
full'd the old church with a glory that
day. I feel, ns the sounds swell ont and
tho strings vibrato under my withered
lingers, I am lmt waiting to be near her
under tho old yew-treo outside, and, it
may l>c, nearer to her atill in the longed-
for future.
Roman Killing.
By far tho most startling nud horrible
feature of the criminal records of the
time is the frequency with which women
meet violent deaths and the mystery
wliieh enshrouds nearly every case re
ported, There can ho lmt one reason
able explanation—it is that many wo
men aro very cnroless of tlinir personal
safety. In tho days not. long past,
when nearly all the inhabitants of this
oouutry lived on farms or in small vil
lages, knew nil of their neighbors and
seldom saw a stranger, it was a common
boast that n woman could go any where
alone without fear of molestation. This
cannot now bo said of nH localities.
Where tramps atsmiul, whore towns
grow rapidly nnd had diameters resort
to them, no woman should expose her
self to auy possibility of insult or injury.
Many deaths of women may bo attrib
uted to the recklessness with which
acquaintances nro formed in certain
classes. In the cities, and mnnufncturiiig
towns many women have accepted os
suitors men with whom their acquaint
ance has been very abort and of whose
antecedents they know nothing. With
ont (he ordinary and proper restraints of
home or society, such women are at the
mercy of the men whom they trust,
ltecont events should teach wdtnen in all
E ades of life that, although to npj>onr
nrless and nnauspioions may seem very
pretty, it ia worse thau idiotic.—A r . Y.
Herald
A Wife’s Admiration.
Bir Arthur Wellealey, before he be
came tho Duke of Wellington, married a
charming Irish Lady, Catherine Pakcu
ham.4 They had been long attached to
eaoh other, and the marriage wok plane
juat after he had returned from liis bril
liant career in India. During liis ab-
aenoe of eleven yean alio never wrote fb
him, yot her affection waa constant.
When Lady Wellesley wns presented
to Queen Charlotte, her Majesty said,
"I am happy to seo at my conrt so
bright au example of noustanoy. Bnt
did you really never write 0110 Jotter to
Sir Arthur during liis long absence ?”
"No, never, your Majesty."
"And did you nuver think of him?”
"Yes, your Majesty, very often,"
8I10 was proud of tier husband’s repu
tation, but prouder of the fact that he
merited it. JiiHt before her dentil, she
was visited by friends who found her
lying on a sofa in a room filled with the
magnificent presents of cities, kingdoms
and sovereigns. When the visitors
gazed upon them witli admiration, the
Dutchess exclaimed, witli a weak
voice:
"All tributes to merit I There’s the
vnluo 1 all pure, no ourmption suspected
even 1 That could not lie said of the
Duke of Marlborough 1"—Youth * Com
panion.
Pistols vs. Law.
THE HUMOROUS PAPERS
WHAT WK FIND IN TniN TO
OVKK. /
* LITTI.I UISTABB.
8hs felt he’d claim her aa hi* own,
For wonuoi's wit is quick to sc*
The growth of seeds by Cupid sown
Jnst after tea.
She blushes red when stow aha heats
Tho lew-toned word* he Jnst has aatd,
And trembling on the verge of tears.
(the blushes rad.
And startled at the took aha bears.
For, ere he finished, her soft head
Droops and to his slionldar near*.
Ho hastes to say ’midst host* of fsara
"I love —I love Hint gingerbread
Your dainty little hand prepares!"
Hliu bin-lies red.
— t'UUailelphin Call.
A BIO MIST ARB.
"Ah 1 how de do ?” exclaimed the
hotel clerk delightedly, grasping th«
hand of a straugor and giving it a vigor
ous shako, "I suppose yon will prefer
tho second floor front snite; magnificent
apartments, and cheap, too, only |80 •
day.”
"$80 a what?” gasped the stronger.
"A day. Will yon go np now ?”
"Not so fast, not so fast, yonng man,"
said tho stranger. "Don’t yon think
yonr terms are just a little high ? I ut
a banker, but my income ie only $80,000
a year.”
"Oli I I seo, I see,” said the elerk {
•then a fifth floor $4 room will enit you.
I mistook yon for an editor."—Evening
Call
OATH IT ITT.
Borne weeks ainoe the Committee d
tho Boieuoe of Politioal Economy of the
Lime-Kiln Club were instructed to care
fully investignto the queryj "Why will
a man pay out $4,000 to l* elected |0.n
$8,000 oflice ?” The matter wan taken
in hand and every effort made to
at a satisfactory solution, but the
mitteo now camo forward With the
acknowledgment that it wm too mneh
for them, and they asked to be dis
charged from the further consideration
of the subject.
"Dar’ am aartiu’ tilings whieh kin
neblter be found oht, an’ die am Ann* fll
| 1 ’em," sr.idf the prmMcut. ( "De son-
mitteo am discharged, an’ 'de meeting
will now close in due form. Remember
as you go out dat I am de only pnason
who lining his 11 mbroiler along to keep
off do wet.”
TRKSa QTTBBWOWB.
The editor of a paper has more ques
tions asked him, and gives more answers,
than any man living, tliQiigh some of the
answers may not lie right. For instance,
a correspondent of an Eaetehi paper
■ays ; "I havo a horse that has lately
suffered from periodical dizziness,
Pleaso answer through yonr v»l«abl#
paper and let mo know whet I should do
with 1dm. I’m afraid he wiH get worse
if something is not done soon.” The
editor puts on his glasses, consults th#
authorities on blind staggers in- horses,
and answers as follows: "Onr advice,
based on a perusal of the valuable book,
’Every man hia own horse dootor,’,
would be to take him home and «eU him
to a stranger.” The average homeowner,,
would not need the advice, ee he would
sell the hone too quick, Abd wartABt
him perfectly sound.
The Buffalo Courier correspondent
gives ns the following consoling item :
"Every ruffian in New York carries a
pistol and is always ready to use it. The
law says no one shall carry a
out a permit, bu
ruffian of auy n
a police jndgo f<
would be disci
lot of policy di
lays ago tliri
wild rush 4
where they
Each seem
meu mig]
he did ni
doubt i:
himself
fellow
cal in
FTVS LITTLE STOBJKS,
"Why did yon buy a new hat?" silked
a husband of his wife.
"Because I hat‘to, that’s why.”
"Will you attend both banquets this
evening ?” said the cashier to the paying