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ATLANTA GA., SATURDAY, MARCH 20, 1875. Old Bachelors. We acknowledge to a liking, not exactly for the institution of old bachelors, but for many species who compose the genus of what are called the “unfortunates.” Doubtless, marri age and home love and home ties are great softeners of the shell of selfishness, which is prone to gather over the heart of humanity, especially over those hearts that are never pressed so close to another's as to seem as though Give us, nether, as friend or companion, one of Dinah's sort—sweet-voiced, pleasant-faced, gentle, atfectionate and faithful: whose health is her chief beauty, whose cheerfulness her principal charm.—one of those creatures “ Not too bright or good For human nature's daily food— For gentie chidings, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love kisses, tears and smiles.” One. too, who, like the night jasmines, will be sweeter when the shadows fall; who will “look tiflisu nnut-Mti. sy*sy- MARY E. BRYAN, ... Editress. The Elements of Strangeness in Poetry. “There is no exquisite beauty,” says Bacon Lord Verulam, “without some strangeness in the proportion.” This we have all felt in our contemplation of that embodiment of the spirit of beauty—the human face. Are not the faces whose beaut}' affects us most profoundly and lastingly, those which are distinguished by some peculiarity either in feature or expression— something in eye or brow or mouth that is to tally unlike the common type of beauty ? Poetry is the offspring of beauty, and though more complex in its nature and more rare in its manifestations, it is yet, to some extent, gov erned by the same laws that apply to its origna- tor. Quaintness is therefore one of the neces sary attributes. It may possess other character istics, as strength and sweetness, but these belong to prose as well, and it is by a certain subtle strangeness, indescribable as the perfume of a flower, that poetry is most effectually dis tinguished from prose. There are few who com- i prebend this, because they have never analyzed the poetic principle, or are unable to discrimi nate between the true and the counterfeit, the gold and the glitter. There are many who im agine that elegance of expression and melody of rythm and measure are all that is requisite to constitute poetry; and there are men who had quite as soon hear the tripling tunes played by a music-box as to listen to the tiring music that throbs and speaks beneath the inspired fin gers of Haydn or Mozart. Melody is indeed an attribute of poetry, but not its principle one. Nor do merely beautiful or sublime thoughts, elegantly versified, consti tute poetry. There must be some strangeness in the conception—some thought or fancy deli cate and quaintly beautiful as the frost work wrought in the night by the magic of cold— something which, when handled by prosaic rea son, evaporates as rapidly as those icy crystals dissolve when blown upon by the human breath. The thoughts that wander through the fairy land of poesy are not like other thoughts. They prophesy like sibyls—they talk like children; there is a strangeness in their very mirth, and their tears and sighs are sad as kisses on the lips of the dead, or weird as the voices of winds that walk the waves at midnight. They speak a lan guage of their own—a language that cannot be translated into prose. A faculty of weaving sweet and sentimental thoughts into verse is often mistaken for the poetic gift, and many have received homage as poets, who had no claim whatever to that high and glorious title. Like all exquisitely beautiful things, poetic genius is exceedingly rare, but its counterfeit may be met with in the pages of every newspaper in which a reinil baker wraps a penny loaf. But the discriminating eye and the refined taste, whether innate or cultivated, can readily distinguish between the false and the real the paste-stones and the true diamonds. To illustrate this difference, let two be taken— one with only fine talent, knowledge of compo sition as an art, and considerable rhyming fac ulty, and the other with true poetic genius—and let them describe the same scene ; say that most hackneyed one on which all who are poets, or who have imagined themselves to be so, have written—“A Moonlight Night.” The writer of latent will describe accurately, and with sweetness or enthusiasm, the scene as it appears to him, in common with all mankind. He will utter such liquidly-sounding platitudes as— ••The young moon's silvery vail falls low Upon the sleeping earth," with the usual allusion to “dew-bowed flowers,’’ “dreaming birds,” etc.; while the genius looks out with deep eyes upon the same scene, and his more ideal vision sees moonlight, shrub and star in aspects invisible to eyes upon which the spell of poetry has not been laid. None but a poet could have written this description of moonlight: •‘.It midnight in the month of June, 1 stand beueath the mystic moon. An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And softly dripping, drop by drop. Upon the quiet mountain-top. Steals drowsily aud musically Into the universal valley.” Again: give the two, the writer of verses and the writer of poetry, a “tempest” for their theme— that subject upon which all versifiers have made their first essays: for new-fledged poets, unlike feathered bipeds, first try their wings in the stormiest weather. A writer of “ beautiful verses" will give us some musical thoughts on the terror and sublimity of the scene, picture the cloud rising black with tempest, the rolling thunder and flashing lightning all of which, though very magnificent, will not be poetry, and will fail in painting on the mind the distinct impression conveyed by this single stroke from the pencil of genius: •• There rose in the East A cloud with the forehead and horns of a beast. That quick to the zenith mounts higher aud higher. With feet that are thunder and eyes that are fire.” This is a true poetic image, full of (plaint and graceful beauty, like the fancies of a child. And this delicacy and keenness of perception, which is the secret of the strangeness discernible in poetry, does not confine itself to nature and material objects alone, but extends to the emo tions, thoughts and sentiments of that inner realm—the world of the soul and the heart. , As old proverb: “To neglect open-air exer- JvSbqse is an invitation to death.” “With one pulse beating.” The man who has never had the kindly affec tions of his nature called forth by the ties of family, is very apt to centre his thoughts and feelings around his own especial self, and to lose that sympathy with his fellow-men which is the basis of all true and elevated happiness. But there are men who have never married, and whose hearts are yet as warm as though they had been kept so by pillowing upon them little heads, with curls like those that, threaded with silver, lie on their own temples. We have all seen such men—men with broad, catholic benevolence; men who seemed to regard the whole world as their family; who were tenderly respectful and chivalrous to women; who patted the heads and gave sugar-plums to all little bare foot children; helped flaxen-haired girls with their compositions and assisted sun-browned boys to puzzle out the problems in algebra. Such men are called “uncle”by the little folks, and “that dear, good soul” by the women. Their marriage would be a public misfortune. Then there are men who, with the determina tion to attain eminence, devote themselves to severe literary or professional studies; and others who, with the earnest purpose to do good to mankind at large, have thrown aside all hin drances of a personid nature; and yet another class — grave, pale men like Bulwer’s Audley, Edgerton, who, with Queen Elizabeth, have “no spouse but their country,” and whose public duties would leave but a small margin of time for them to devote to household amenities or family cares. Such men are wise in remaining unmarried, though loving wives look after them as they pass, with tears in their gentle eyes, and a feeling of pity for the man who has no soft cheek to lay itself to his; no small hand to part the hair from his thought-weary brow, or pre pare those little delicacies which can only be thought of by a tender wife, and no little one to nestle in his bosom and prattle his cares away. Still, such men are wise to remain “old bachelors,” for public duties and private happi ness, love and ambition, are not harmonizing principles, and no fetters are so strong and diffi cult to break as the white arms of affection. There are a great many bachelors in the world at present—more, it is said, in proportion to the population, than in former times. We meet them everywhere—in the streets, in the cars, riding through their farms, behind the desks of counting-rooms, with pens behind their ears; and seated among the “dust and ruins” of their offices, whose scattered books and papers would give a tidy housekeeper the St. Yitus’ dance. We recognize them immediately by those unmistakable, but hardly describable signs, which distinguish a married from a single man. We know them by the spruce figure; the slightly bald temples, the clean shirt-bosom minus the one button whose loss is remedied by a dexterously inserted pin. We know them by their bow aDd bland smile—their just percept ible scowl when a baby screams near them, or shows symptoms of wishing to cultivate a more intimate acquaintance; by a certain fidgetiness in their movements, and by the pains they are at to conceal the unhemmed edges of their pocket handkerchiefs. Why they are more nu merous now than formerly, has been explained in many different ways. It is thought that the extravagant habits of ladies have a tendency to frighten men from marriage; and, indeed, the modern candidates for wedlock—those pyramids of silk, cambric, steel and gold, finished by a cobweb of lace on the apex costing, itself, enough to buy thirty bushels of corn—are rather suffi cient scare-scrows in the field of matrimony. A Human Heartsease. “Dinah,”—says good Mrs. Poyser, the most original and best drawn character of “ Adam Bede”—“ Dinah is one of them things as looks the brightest on a rainy day and loves you the best when you’re most in need on't. ” And just such “things” are the dearest and sweetest treasures earth has in its possession— just such sunny-hearted, unselfish, loving, help ful,, sympathizing natures, with no brilliancy of intellect, no gifts of genius; but what is better, perhaps, than these—a calm, clear, well-balanced mind, and a cheerful, contented spirit. En dowed with but little of the classic regularity of features, or the voluptuous beauty that artists and poets have sung, but having a face made lovely by the heart that beams through it—a smile that is the sweetest in the world because we know it to be sincere; eyes that, whatever be their color, are always lighted up by kindness; a hand, brown it may be with working for oth ers, but still ever ready to soothe with the magic of its loving touch, and to perform offices of friendship or charity: and a foot that may not be counterpart of Cinderella's, but which has yet music in its elastic step for the many who love to listen to its coming. Just such a “thing” as Dinah is the one to love and to be loved, not violently and passion ately, but reasonably, deeply and lastingly. They make sunshine for themselves and for others wherever they go; they are the violets blooming along life's pathway, overshadowed at first, perhaps, by gaudier flowers, but sure to be prized at last, and prized the longest. Beauty and intellect are splendid things to admire, but they are too often accompanied by qualities that render their possessors undesira ble as intimate friends or life-companions. Beauty, ever since the days of Narcissus, has been prone to forget the existence of everything else in contemplation of its own charms, and genius is notoriously addicted to elevating its nose above sublunary things, and ignoring the “small, sweet charities” of life. the best on a rainy day. and love us best when we are most in need of it.’’ [For The Sunny South.] Little Master Frank. BY L. L. V. A glorious boy is our little Frank ! With eyes that make yon think the conception of “black diamonds ” not altogether a fancy; with limbs rounded into a symmetry which the sculptor would vainly strive to imitate; with locks curl ing over his fair brow like threads of gold, he presents almost a model of childish beauty. Upon his cheeks the sun has thrown his rosy fingers and left tints such as none save Nature’s own pallette ever furnished. His delicately- chiseled lips are rarely unrelieved by a smile save when a clear, ringing laugh—sweeter far than note of lute or harp—breaks upon the air. No bright landscape, no gorgeous sunset, no sweet-scented flower, nor sun. nor moon, nor ! sky. nor ocean can impart to our heart such rap turous pleasure as the sight of this lovely boy. j We love to contemplate him as the type and embodiment of childish beauty—that form of beauty which we most adore. We love indeed to look upon woman in the pride and glory of her full-bloom loveliness. We love to look upon man in the majestic dignity of well-developed muscle. We like to look upon old age when a long life of ills meekly borne and duties faith- j fully performed have impressed upon the form j marks of moral beauty. But none of these im- j press the heart like a beautiful child. The scene i in the manger where the new-born babe lies sleeping on its mother's breast has always taken a livelier hold on the imagination than the man treading the midnight billows and stilling the angry storm, or than even the God shaking cre ation with his dying groan. Dear little Frank ! How sweet are the lisp- , ings of your little tongue ! How amusing your tricks of innocent mirth ! That face so soft and smooth is as yet unmarred by the ugliness of sin and unshadowed by any sorrow. No discord as yet interrupts the rich melody of that laugh. We sigh as we think that these things shall ever be. We grieve to think that face shall ever seem less innocent than now. We are pained to think that sorrow and care shall ever stamp wrinkles on that fair face and brow. Imagination goes on unchecked wings to trace thy coming destiny. Often have we studied that face to discern, if may be, what prophecy has been written there. The eyes and brow bespeak intellect, and lips and nose and hands all announce a character firm and resolute in carrying out resolves. Will these predictions prove true ? Shall this little boy become a great man ? Shall he in the field or the cabinet, the study or the counting-house wield a wide-spread influence? We will not predict such a destiny, nor will we pray for it; for greatness affords no immunity from misery, and the most exalted are often the most wicked. We would wish thee good, whether humble or great; we would wish thee happy, whether un known or distinguished. Further than this, we will not speculate either with hope or fear as to what thou mayest become. AVe know that thou art now innocent and beautiful, and praying for the best, we trust thy future to the will of Heaven. FASHION NOTES. NEW SHADES IN SILKS AND SATINS. The spring novelties in silks and dress goods are unusually attractive. The prevailing styles are plaids and quadrille patterns in neutral tints, color on color, or shades of two colors carefully blended and fading into each other. Gray and blue are the favored colors in the silk fabrics, or shades of cream and tea-color blended with blue in the plaids. The plaid silks resemble those of thirty years ago; the plaids being mostly from one to two inches square, in broken quadrille patterns. New names have been found for them, such as Lusignan. Natte and Nyzam. These silks are very soft in fabric, some being fine woven and lustrous as faille, others loose woven in large bunches of warp and woof, giving a can vas effect. The black silk grenadines are brought out in plaids also, and in stripes of watered silk and grenadine, the stripes so wide that three com pose the whole width of the material—a silk stripe hall a yard wide in the middle and two grenadine stripes a qtiarter of a yard in width on each side. Mexicaine is the name given a new silk grena dine fabric woven in neat thread to form quad rilles. The Mexicaines are mostly ecru colored and white. Black grenadines with flower and arabesque designs are beaded with jet. The white or colored grenadines for evening wear are ended with white satin and crystal beads that glitter like pearls and* diamonds. The silk tus sores appear in stripe and basket patterns in light shades of ecru. The debeges are shown in stripes, diagonals and plaids. The camel's-hair fabrics for early spring are also in plaids of two shades of gray or brown. But perhaps the most elegant and original production of the manufacturers of camel’s-hair goods are rough-surfaced fabrics in shades of solid gray, shot with irregular lines of black in the warp that appear in knots and fade to nothingness on either side. They are called shot camel's-hair goods. NEW FASHIONS IN BONNETS AND HATS. The fashion for large and ample head-gear with full trimmings is a fixed fact. The crowns i of the hats and bonnets of this spring will cover the whole of the top of the head. The brims are i wide in front but taper to nothing in the back, or are turned up or cut away to make a place for the eatagan or coil of hair. Chip, white, black j and gray, and as soft as felt is the material of j the coming hat. There are no bonnets proper j to be seen. They are all hats, trimmed some thing like an old-fashioned bonnet of twenty-five ; years ago, with a profusion of soft, brocaded, wide ribbon, feathers and flowers. The brims j are lined with lovely shades of silk. pink. blue. : cream color and white. Face trimmings of flow ers appear under the looped brims. There are no strings, but bows and streamers in the back. My washerwoman is a genius. She can mix up more linen with more promiscuousness than any other washerwoman on record. Sometimes I sally around town with a collar belonging to Governor Smith, the coroner's best shirt, and blow my nose on a medical student's handker chief. I invariably receive a choice collection of indelible autographs weekly. She evidently takes me for a walking autograph album. Guess I have had as many as six different names on the linen that surrounds my oblong person, and there wasn't one of my own name, neither. When I expostulate and tell her of these little misadven tures. she regards it as a good joke, and sends me another choice collection next week. B. Ridges. THE POET TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE. BY MARY E. BRYAN. Oh! would I were a spirit, love—a thing of air and light, As viewless as the summer breeze, as sunshine free and bright. I’d stay forever at thy side, in sadness or in mirth; The air thou breath'st should be to me the sweetest home on earth; My breath should stir the wavy tress that on thy forehead lies; My glance should search the mysteries of thy unfathom'd eyes, And learn whence the strange sadness comes that shades at times their beam, And, like the shadows on the lake, but makes them lovelier seem; I’d charm away each harmful thing; I’d watch thee in thy sleep, And pray the holy ones in heaven to send them slumbers deep; Aud then I'd nearer steal to thee and breathe upon thy cheek The love so hopeless and so sad—the love I may not speak. A spirit surely might not err, and ’twould not then be wrong To tell the love I dare not breathe except in sigh or song. Alas! alas! my heart has lost its early hopes of fame, Since o’er the “spirit of its dream” this wild delirium came. There is no music half so sweet as is thy lightest tone,— There is no sunshine under heaven, save thy dear glance alone; Aud were—as for the bards of old—a garland ’twined for me, I would not prize the laurel crown unless bestowed by thee. I wander forth where summer trees are full of light and song, To seek the sprite that once was dear — the Muse I’ve wooed so long; But all the loveliest things of earth but of thy beauty speak,— I hear thy voice in every breeze that plays upon my cheek. And when to woo some holier thought I turn to the far skies, I gaze upon its glorious stars and—think of thy dark eyes; And in yet graver moods than these, alas! it is the same— I kneel and clasp my hands to pray, and murmur but thy name. Oh! it is sad to have the soul bow at an earthly shrine, And on it pour in hopelessness all life’s rich wasted wine; To know that God's own glorious earth would be a dreary place, If it were not for the dear smile upon one human face. EXTRACT FROM A POETIC ADDRESS Before the Agricultural Convention at Thomasville. DELIVERED BY TOL. J. A. STEWART The record of the past is only history in a circle. Peace makes plently, aud plenty begets pride; aud pride, becom ing ambitious aud quarrelsome, begets peace. This is history in a circle. It is history repeating itself; and until man learns the art of securing perpetual peace, this circle will never be broken. LESSONS FROM HISTORY. Prior to our late great trouble, Everythiug seemed moving well; Every plow aud hoe made made money, Aud our pride began to swell. We had years and years been peaceful, And our peace had made us rich, - Made us proud, ambitious, quarrelsome; Then came dying iu the ditch,— Dying, dying, fighting—dying In the valley, on the plain; Homes deserted—children starving— Fathers fallen—brothers slain. And when thus the ranks were thinning, Homes in ruins, fields laid waste, Men were busy seizing, robbing, Slacking not their greed or haste, Eager in the darkest hours, Safe removed from plain or ditch— Speculating, robbing, thieving— Growing, growing, growing rich— Feeding, fattening on the plunder Which the war placed in their way, Were the greedy sharks and vampires, Watching, seeking for the prey. Thus it was in proud Old England, In the wars that long prevailed,— Chiefs grew rich by war and plunder, And then had their wealth entailed. Wealth in incomes, wealth in acres, Were entailed amongst the few; And the men that fought the battles Found starvation oft in view. Thus it is in our country, In the strife that here prevails: Wealth ill-gotten seeking safety In exemptions and entails— In mobilier thefts and swindles— In back-salary greed and sway— In the presidential sanctions Of their own increase of pay. If a people give adhesion To Ambition’s venal crew*, Then will agriculture languish, And the wealth be owned by few’. ******* When a tyrant holds dominion And claims all of wealth aud land, Then oppression leaves its traces Deeply marked on every haud. Then will labor unrequited, Cheerless, nerveless, turn the soil, Till abundance, disappearing, Points to sure and just recoil. Homeless, landless, blighted people— Serfs of kings, whom kings destroy— Make the earth to yield its treasures But for others to enjoy. Then a country goes to ruin; Then destruction comes in haste, And in time the thrones of tyrants Sink themselves to rot and waste. When a few are selfish, greedy— Craving, grasping, seizing all— Then it is a question only, When a country reaps the fall. It may flourish for a season, And it may proud cities boast, Yet injustice past enduring Wastes her strength, and all is lost. PALMYRA OF THE DESERT. Sad and dreary, lone Palmyra, On whose ruins greatness falls, Has her history plainly written In her silent, crumbling walls— In the desert which surrounds her— In the waste of dreary plains— In the lifeless, voiceless silence Which o’er Ruin’s vastness reigns. There, where mournful silence lingers, Festive shouts of joy arose; And where, by her prostrate pillars, Once sprang forth the fragrant rose, There once flourished countless blessings— Commerce, power, grandeur, wealth; And those walls, which now so desert, Once re-echoed life and health. She had riches of all nations: Gold of Ophir—tin of Thule— Cashmere’s tissues—Tyre’s purple— Lydia’s fabrics, rich and full— Amber of the Baltic regions— Sweet perfumes and ’Rabia's pearls,— Useful things and things of beauty. Like a paradise of worlds. Happy mortals, mixing, mingling. Soul with soul aud breath with breath, Long returned to dust aud ashes In the solitude of death! What has caused this desolation, Once so great aud now so low, May be pondered o’er with profit— May forewarn us of our woe— May enlighten us of causes— May enable us to scan What obscures a brighter pathway To a higher state of man. SYRIA. Land of Syria now so wasted, Numbered cities by the score; And with village, town aud hamlet, Hills and dales were dotted o’er. Everywhere were soil and tillage; Everywhere abundance flowed; Everywhere a bounteous Heaven Blessings rich aud full bestowed,— Blessings equal in their bearing— Laws impartial, judgments just, Shielding all alike from rapine— All alike from greed or lust. Then the poor had full protection, Men of rapine were restrained; Then was labor full requited, And rich blessings were retained. Justice, then, esteemed and practiced, Equal rights and equal share Of the kindly gifts of nature Iu profusion showered there. But w'hen peace of years made plenty, And was filled all hearts’ desire, Then came schisms and disorder, Like a great, consuming fire. In the midst of glare and glamour, In the grandeur of the throne, Princes lost to sense of justice Claimed all riches as their own. Appetites, all pampered, craving, Grew unbridled in demand, Till industry, unprotected, Ceased to cultivate the laud. Thus was blasted fertile regions— Thus were cities overthrown— Thus Palmyra of the desert Sauk to ruin sad and lone. Thus we see the fate of peoples Where injustice long prevails; Thus we see the desolations Which the pride of wealth entails. Thus we learn from crumbling ruins; Fragments scattered o’er the plain, What it is ambition costs us— What the price of greed and gain. Thus a lesson for the future May we clearly, strongly draw— That a country’s good in common Finds its strength in equal law. Here follow business maxims and remarks on the evils of commerce, concluding the poem with a brief ADDRESS TO THE LADIES. Cheered and strengthened by your presence, Ladies, just one word with you: Iu the struggle now upon us, You may find much work to do. Fathers, brothers, husbands, striving To regain their loss by war, Look to you for strength and solace In the midst of debt and care. Will you help us with your patience ? Will you help reduce the waste; Will you dress in simple garments— Cheap, though comely, neat and chaste? Will you let us dress in homespun? Will you mend the rents and wear? Will you let no pride in dressing Multiply our toil and care ? This appeal is scarcely needed; Your good sense will pave the way, In the words of cheer and comfort, For a brighter, better day. And we promise on our honor, On the love we bear for you, To leave off expensive habits, And a mutual good pursue. Mutual aid and mutual solace, In the burdens to be borne, Gives to life its choicest pleasures, Joyous as the gilded morn. Life is real, life is joyous, If our option be for good; Life is ever worth the living, If no evil be pursued. Life is fleeting, life is onward; But its choicest gifts are free, As the fruits that hang inviting On the cultivated tree. Life can be as pure as streamlets Gushing from the woodland hill— Streams meandering through the meadows— Streams that turn the village mill. Life can be like waters flowing, Day and night and night and day— Pure as waters leaping, dancing On their journey to the sea— Pure as streams that never weary Tumbling down the craggy steep, Kissing pebble, kissing lilies, On their journey to the deep. Life, to those who know its value, Is a gift as bright aud free As the sparkling crystal waters On their journey to the sea. I guess Sniffles will be less gallant and more discreet after the little incident of last week. You know how muddy it was. Well, Snif. was hurrying home when he espied a lady with one foot stuck hard and fast in the mud, and of course volunteered to extricate the imprisoned member. The neatest way to do this was to take hold of it and pull. This he did, but he did not notice another lady to whom he owed a support transfixed with horror at the near cor ner. This lady observed closely the actions of her lord and master, and when Snif. reached home she was ready for him. She used up two broom-handles, a coffee-mill and a flat-iron in the discharge of her duty, and wore her tongue to a frazzle. Snif. swears by all that is righteous that he wouldn't pull another lady out of the mud if she was stuck up to her armpits. B. Rid