Newspaper Page Text
JOHN H. SEALS, - Editor and Proprietor.
HRS. MARY E. BRYAN (*) Amoriat« Editor.
A. L. HAMILTON, D.D., - Associate Editor
And Manager of Agencies.
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1876.
Thk money must accompany all orders for this paper,
and it will be discontinued at the expiration of the time,
unless renewed.
Spirit of Our Letters—Thanks to
Our Friends. — Surely “ our Sunny
South ” lias found a place iu the hearts
of our people. The same warm and lib
eral sentiment breathes through the thou
sands of letters which pour upon us from
all directions, and our sincerest thanks go
ioin^urn to each and every one. The
Ic^KA.fng is the language of hundreds
upon hundreds:
"The times are hard, but we cannot
do without The Sunny South. It has
become a necessity in our family. We
do not wish to miss a single number. We
are proud of it.”
So long as we can have such evidences
of appreciation from the people, we can
not despair.
Why Is It I—“ Why is it,” asks Horatius,
“ that no one is content with that lot which rea
son has bid him to choose, or fortune has forced
upon him?” The question is as pertinent and
as unanswered now, as when it was propounded
two thousand years ago. Man answers as fully,
perhaps more fully, the description of being a
discontented animal, as at any time in past ages.
He is not pleased with the age in which he lives,
with the country in which he has been born,
with his lot, as respects wealth or social position,
or with the amount or kind of talent which has
been bestowed upon him. Whenever he, in
sincerity, returns thanks for the blessedness of
his lot, it is when he has been contrasting it
with that of some one more unfortunate. When
he looks up, he becomes dissatisfied, and often
envious. We are apt, indeed, to imagine that
they who have high positions, or great wealth,
are peculiarly happy; nor can any one deny that
these things ought and do contribute to the en_
joyment of life. But we should much mistake
if we supposed that the wealthy and powerful
were the happiest of people. Wealth, in most
of its forms, imposes anxieties which more than
counterbalance the luxuries it affords, and
power can only be retained by ceaseless vigil
ance. Look, will you, over the list of those
who have worn kingly crowns. How many of
them do you think have been happy! How
many of them with whom the plain, simple rus
tic would be wise to exchange places? Alas!
the story of human greatness is very full of
sadness and misery.
Is there then no such thing as happiness on
earth? Well, no; if we mean by happiness a
state of perfect contentment, without a regret
or an apprehension. Still, there is much enjoy
ment of life. Much of this is found where it
would seem least to be expected; and indeed,
much where it would seem to be impossible.
Men cannot reason themselves into being happy,
though they can very easily allow the apprehen
sion of evil to render that a state of misery
which ought to be a state of bliss. One rich
man, mentioned in the Bible, was flattering him
self that he had attained a happy state. “ Soul,
thou hast much goods laid up for many days;
eat, drink, be merry.” But instantly, the skele
ton of death presented itself, and dashed the
cup of enjoyment from his lips. But, though
we may not be happy just when we would, we
may promote our enjoyment greatly by striving
against false imaginings and unreasonable ap
prehensions.
An Oversight.—Our friend O. R., of Mobile,
is assured that the paragraph to which he
alludes as having appeared in our column of
“Religious Intelligence ” was not intended for
publication in this paper, and it was some time
before any of us could believe it had really ap
peared in our columns. But so it did, and was
a gross violation of a rigid rule of this office that
pothing partisan or sectarian, nor anything
i he reflects in the least upon any sect or
‘Dr.-'ed, is to be admitted, The small paragraph
here alluded to was not intended for the printer,
but happened to bo attached to another clipping
and was set up with it, and escaped the scrutiny
of the proof-reader.
This paper has nothing whatever to do with
politics or religion farther than the publication
of such items as may be of general interest as
matters of news.
More of the Ideal.—“The immorality of the
age ” is the Jeremiad all are chanting—the wail
that goes up from press and pulpit, and with
truth, for it is plain to the shallowest observer
that cynical licentiousness and brazen dishon
esty have increased amazingly in the last decade,
until society has become an Augean stable which
will take a greater Hercules than Moody & Co.
to clean. The chief cause of this I believe to be
the want of imagination—the little culture that
is given to this one mental attribute that lifts us
above bestial grossness. Immorality has in
creased in the same ratio as decay of reverence
for poetry and contempt of the ideal. Since the
war, we of the South have taken it as our saving
creed that being now poor, we must become
thoroughly practical. We must throw aside all
nesthetic or sentimental hindrances, and become
a sharp, pushing, money-getting people. To
this end we must pull up from our path every
soft, impracticable flower of feeling or fancy.
We must sneer at poetry, neglect the little graces
and refinements of life, shut OHr eyes to the glo
ries of nature; make our homes places to sleep,
to eat, to carry out economical plans and cogi
tate schemes for earning money; we must not
take time to make friends with our children, to
enter into their natures and draw out all that is
lovely and endearing in their characters, but
seeking to make them sharp on the main-chance,
we must put a curb-rein on their fancies and
shut out the world of generous, loving impulse
and poetic aspiration by clapping to their eyes a
magnifying tube whose only object in range is
the potent dollar.
Work is noble and necessary; bread must be
earned, but we cannot live, in the fullest sense
of life, by bread alone; we crave the wine of
feeling and fancy.
If you pull up the flowers that sweeten life’s
furrow, be sure that weeds will take their place,
for the soil of the heart is fertile, and will pro
duce evil if the germ of good is trampled out.
Sneer down poetry and pure, poetic romance,
with its lofty ideals and its grand, chivalrous
codes; measure everything by narrow, “practi
cal” guages; frown down all generous impulses
and day-dream aspirations, and though yon may
sit in your pew every Sunday, and may insist at
the rod’s point on j our children’s reciting cate
chism with the glibness of a parrot, you will yet
be a demoralizer. For the exuberance of human
nature will have an outlet somewhere. If you
clip its wings so that it cannot soar, it will bur
row. If you shut up your poets, j-ou will turn
to the police gazettes. If you discount the ro
mances and call their lofty codes of honor Quix
otic, and their elevated sentiment sickly moon
shine, we shall be sure to hear of you defaulting
in office, or swindling in business, or guilty of
some low% sensual act—from all of which the
cultivation of the ideal might have saved you. *
THE CENTENNIAL HYMN.
This is the hymn which the poet, Whittier, has written
to be sang st the Centennial:
Our lathers’ God, from out whose band
The centuries fall like grains of sand,
We meet to-day, united, free,
And loyal to our land and Thee—
To thank Thee for the era done,
And trust Thee for the opening one.
Here where of old, by Thy design.
The fathers svMce that word of Thine,
Whose echo is the glad refrain
Of rended holt and falling chain,
To grace our festal time from all
The zones of earth our guests we call.
Be with us while the New World greets
The Old World thronging all its streets,
Unrailiog all the triumphs won
By art and tcl.l beneath the sun;
And unto common good ordain
This rivalship of hand and brain.
Thou who hast here in concord furled
The war-flags of a gathered world,
Beneath our western skies fulfill
The Orient's mission of good will;
And freighted with Love's golden fleece,
Send back the Argonauts of peace.
For art and labor met in truce,
For beauty made the bride of use.
We thank Thee, while withal we crave
The austere virtues strong to save,
The honor proof to place or gold,
The manhood never bought or soldi
Oh! make Thou us, through centuries long,
In peace sferure, in justice strong;
Around our gift of freedom draw
The safeguards of Thv righteous law,
And, cast in some diviner mould,
Let the new cycle shame the old!
“HER tfHlATIETH BIRTH DAY.”
LK ANNIE LOGAN.
Snuff-Dipping 1 Destroys Beauty.—Talk about
the opium eater or whisky drinker; how much
more are they to be pitied than the lady who is
addicted to dipping snuff? We believe there is
more snuff used in Hopkinsville than in any
other place of its size in Kentucky, and its use
is steadily on the increase. Hopkinsville has a
reputation for beautiful women, but how long
that reputation will last ’tis hard to tell. Some
of the prettiest women we knew ten or twelve
years ago are now nothing but faded flowers.
Lips that once looked like ripe cherries, and for
one kiss from which a man would almost give
his right arm, now look more like dried apples
than anything else we can think of. The cheek
once full and rosy is now sunken and colorless.
The chin, which looks longer, now glories in a
bronze-colored stripe, which reaches down to
the throat. —Hopkinsville Democrat.
Science and the Bible.—These able papers,
by Dr. Harrison, now appearing in our columns,
are attracting a great deal of attention. See the
third one on the second page, and in the last
^ paragraph read ambrosial feast instead of flash,
the printer has it.
The Blackberry Crop. — “The blackberry
crop will be a success this year,” we overheard
one grave-looking citizen say to another in a
serious, congratulatory way while the two gazed
out of the car-window the snow of the black
berry blossoms spread, all over hedges and
banks, over hideous sthmps and worm-fences,
which it transformed into things of beauty.
To ns, who have been an absentee from the
Empire State since the advent of hard times, it
seemed comical to hear the blackberry crop dis
cussed so seriously. In the “days when we
went gypseying a long time ago,” we certainly
took an interest in the blackberry yield, bnt
then it was only children and the birds and a
few bare-foot tramps who were at all interested
in the harvest of the berrj -bearing briar. Black
berries were looked down npon, regarded as the
Bohemians of the fruit tribe, and denied a place
at the company dessert or band-around. Even
the negroes, having abundance of “ hog and
hominy,” didn’t “count ” blackberries as “no
more’n children’s trash.” But the day of small
things has come. Blackberries are looking up.
They have risen in the scale of importance.
Other folks beside birds and bare-foot children
take stock in the blackberry crop. Indeed, we
are informed that it is the principal summer de
pendence for food of two-thirds of the negroes
and very many white people of the lower class,
and that the fields and woods are black with
berry-pickers in the leafy months of June and
July.
“ We mnst manage to scuffle along somehow
until blackberry time,” we heard remarked by !
an ebony colored mother of ten round-eyed,
wooly-pated future citizens and voters.
So it has dawned npon us that the blackberry
here is to a certain class what the pecan is to
the freedmen of the West—a labor-saving God
send, a holiday-bringing manna feast.
There in the season
“ Where the sound of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the woods are still,”
one riding through the pecan-groves can see
here and there and everywhere the colored man
and brother reclining like Tityrus sub tegmine—
“pecanis”—not indeed playing upon a calamo
agresti, but performing usually a sonorous solo
through his unconscious nasal organ, while be
side him lie the shells of the nuts he has demol
ished, and over his oblivious head the crows
and squirrels caw and chatter in the nut-laden
boughs.
Who shall say that this indolent enjoyment of
the goods the gods provide ready to hand is not
more suited to the capacity of our newly-con
stituted citizen than our Anglo-Saxon
. . . . . . “ March of mind ?
Than the steamship and the railway and the thoughts
that move mankind ?”
To lie nnder the thin shade of a cocoa palm,
beneath a sky that would broil any other hu
manity, with his dinner swinging near him
from a bread-fruit tree. or dropping down by
him in the milky nuts of the cocoa, with no
thought or aspiration beyond the satisfaction of
the hour, is the highest notion of bliss that en
ters into the Ethiopian conception. *
A LETTER.
What is a letter ? Let affection tell:—
A tongue that speaks for those who absent dwell;
A silent language uttered to the eye,
Which envious distance would in vain deny;
A link to bind where circumstances part;
A nerve of feeling stretched from heart to heart,
Formed to convey, like an electric chain.
The mystic flash—the lightning of the brain—
And thrill at once, through its remotest link.
The throb of passion by—a drop of ink.
Yes, my thirtieth birth-day; an era in my life !
Hereafter I am to be ridiculed by the thought
less. Of course its no fault—or at least, no
wish—of mine, that I do not preside with dig
nity over somebody’s house and heart! I am
popularly supposed to be walking through a
Sahara of existence, singing “Affection’s Dirge,”
after the manner of poor Julia Wills; people
pity me as a “lone, lorn woman,” whose “heart
holds a hidden moan,” whose soul cries out for
some one to love.
I protest against all this waste of pity; old
maids are not the only to-be-pitied members of
society. By pitying friends, we—the spinsters—
are considered de trap in social gatherings; but
its “the best policy ” to tolerate us int be “ biv
ouac of life,” because, you see, we are a kind
of human soothing syrnp, as it were, for crying
evils in the shape of new editions of the genus
homo; as aids-de-camp in the domestic campaigns
waged by our fortunate sisters, the matrons,
against those destroying angels generally de
nominated hired-girls. Now, my dear friends,
don’t get me under the tree of Christian charity,
and gathering around me, as the African women
did around a poor lost traveler, sing the Eng
lish version of their mournful chant: “Let us
pity the old maid, no hnsband has she to grind
her corn.”
I wonder how manj r women bear the names
of their heart's king. I wonder if the face of
“one who loved her and whom she loved, long
ago,” never gets into that portion of “ the stuff
which dreams are made of ” which floats before
some loving wife’s ej’es? Lonely? Because I
have no “ liege lord” to sit opposite to me be
side my glowing fire, and bore me with prosy
remarks about politics, news, trade, his clients,
his patients or haply about the state of his crops ?
because I haven’t half a dozen—more or less—
precious pets to crowd books and papers out of
my bands, to cause my head to throb now, and
my heart to ache hereafter ?
Now listen to me, while I tell you why I am
p.ot a .Inna I am ivbvpe so far as com
panions in k vj„iesh are concerned; but I thiijk
it is a very cYteiTkble kind of loneliness. I iuii
welled in, so to, speak, by “ concrete wisdom/’
as *Tupper has it, on every sir e, encompassed
by ‘the assembled souls of all that men held
wise,” and even with my old-maidish character
istic, I can always find a congenial spirit—care
fully embalmed by the “art perservative of all
arts ”—ready to amuse, interest, instruct, or
console me. If I feel “jolly,” there is the in
imitable Mark Twain, who can extract fun from
everything; only embark with the “Innocents,”
and lo ! I have a fountain of innocent fun bub
bling around me. If I am pensive, there are
the songs of “ the peasant bard of Scotland,”
than whom, some critic has said, no poet was
ever more greatly over-rated, yet,
“ Who fifth heard his son", nor knelt
Before Sts spell with willing knee?”
Then I can commune with sad, mystical Shelly,
“the poet of poets,” with “the grand Napoleon
of the realms «f rhyme,” who “stooped to touch
the loftiest thought,” or with “ the bard of
Erin.” But there is such a host; I love them
all, and find something to admire in them all,
even when I have to “ dive below” to find the
pearls that “ do not on the surface float.”
Who would ask for a companion superior to
Mrs. Browning? Who can touch our hearts like
Tennyson, with his exquisite words—words so
fitlj’ spoken as to seem like “apples of gold in
pictures of silver?” Then I might go on an
“Excursion" with Wordsworth; but I always
get to wondering “ what it is all about ” when I
fall in with him, and agree with Poe that ob
scurity is one of the elements of sublimity.
Then I have Milton to sing to me of Para
dise;’’ Dante u had me to the gates of Pluto
nian region/ the great dreamer, with eyes
forever close, rn this world, to paint for me
what his spiri /vision sees. If I am inclined
to be social, I n join the “ Pickwick Club ” in
their wanderii > s over “ merrie England,” and
go into Mr. Witrdle’s to a Christmas dinner, or
: soar even into the “Johnsonian ethereality,”
! with faithful Bozzy to remind me whom I am
j listening to. Or I can listen to some choice
! conversations^ between impossible couples as
| aithfully reported by their admiring friends,
I the novelists. I do enjoy their eaves-dropping
| by proxy—this listenihg to secrets which are too
great for a few to keep. What woman ever lived
who was no’ eager to “keep a secret?” I, for
one, do not thick it is such a bitter thing “ to
look into happiness through another man’s ejes, ’’
or woman’s either. I would fain see all the
happiness possible to be seen, even if it is re
flected. When Copperfield is so intensely—I
had almost said miserably—happy with his dear
little Dora, I am willing to ride with him on bis
“gallant gray” in the dust; to be barked at by
Dora’s pet; to listen to Mrs. Krupp’s complaints
with patience; to endure the self-satisfaction of
the hopeful Micawbers, in order to be with
David and his pretty “child-wife.” How many
a fireside chat I can listen to! How many flirt
ations, and heart-breakings can I witness through
the eyes of others!
Perhaps I may wish for a change of scenery.
There is Bayard Taylor ready to go with me to
“ the uttermost parts of the earth;” Du Chaillu
and Livingstone to show me the dangers I escape
by going with them through Southern Africa.
There is Grace Greenwood, with her original
opinions, and charming Madame Le Vert, “the
gifted daughter of the South.” Can I not make
the tour of Europe with such charming com-
pagnons de voyage not only instructive but pleas
ant? Would it be lonely to glide through Ven
ice with Buskin ? I am sure I never find it so.
Some one says, “ Good Americans go to Paris
•when they die.” I often take myself on the
wings of Thought into the Louvre, the Luxem
burg, the Bois de Boulogne, Champs Elysees,
and even into Notre Dame, with some friend’s
eyes to see through.
There is Madame De Stael to carry me into
Germany—or into Italy—or, reciting some words
of Corinne or Delphine, make me forget time
and place and listen only to her sad, impas
sioned words as if she were present.
How many friends I have in “La Belle
France”—present in their books—the most en
tertaining of whom is Madame De Sevigne^ with
her interesting, instructive letters.
But my dearest companions are Southerners—
“home folks,” they seem—one of whom is our
pleasant story-writer and poetess—the gem of
The Sonny South.
“ Bryan—hers the words that glisten.
Opal gems of sunlit rain!
So much the woman, you may listen
Heart-beats pulsing in her brain!
She upon her songs has won
Hybla’s honey undistilled;
And from ‘ wine-vats of the sun,’
With bright nectar overrun.
Her urns of eloquence are fllled.”
And that reminds me; this evening father will
bring me a pleasant companion — The Sunny
South, with la creme de la creme of good things—
and I will spend the hours not with “the grand
old masters ”—not with the “ bards sublime ” of
the old world—but with my own countrymen I
will find charming little verses, sadly-sweet
heart-histories, glimpses into the lives of others—
bright or dark—scientific, metaphysical, reli
gious essays, humorous sketches, witty anec
dotes—in short, a perfect “feast of reason and
flow of soul.”
With quiet and warmth and light in the room,
I am musing for a few moments on the pleas
ures of my life—of my lonely life which has
no cares to “ fold their tents like the Arabs, and
silently steal away,” which is not “ filled with
music” from a cradle, but with music “from
out nature’s great heart.” What if I am “a rose
ungathered in due season ?” I have no desire
to “ waste my sweetness ” on any one—but there
is no danger of my turning sour, not even un
der the touching commiseration of my senti
mental sisters.
But I can escape all that, because, though
alone in the sight of man, yet,
“ I have a world—a world that’s all mine own;
A realm that teems with all things rich and rare,
And blooms or perishes, exists or dies.
Is sunlit, shadowed, peaceful or at war,
As I may will.”
OUR SOUTHERN EDITORS.
NO. III.—HORACE CONE, OF THK HOUSTON
(TKXASj “DAILY TELEGRAPH.”
There is sometimes a very quaint and unex
pected pleasure to be derived Irom reading the
writings of an unknown person, and then taxing
the imagination to suggest a satisfactory ideal of , gamuel j Tilden at New York> wiu be the De m-
the author. It is a process similar to that pur- .• ~ T
a u, ocratic nominee for President at St. Louis,
sued by the anatomist, wno takes several dis- ThirH f; „ lwn „ r TiI , Uti „ in Vlfi c1a ,
jointed bones of an animal to him unknown,
PERSONALS.
Dumas has written three hundred novels and
stories.
Lord Lytton, as Viceroy of India, receives a
salary, with “allowances,” of $185,000 in gold a
year.
A Paris special of May 8th says: It is stated
that the ex-Queens Christiana and Isabella will
go to Spain to reside permanently.
Congressman Knott will deliver the annual
address at the commencement of the Southern
Female College, LaGrange, Ga., June 21.
Ole Bull’s wife lives in Madison, YVis., with
her invalid mother, and translates Norse novels,
some of which are about to be published.
Thomas Dodworth, the founder of the New
York musical band that bears his name, died in
a suburb of that city on last Friday, aged
eighty-six.
Not long ago, the newspapers teemed with
accounts of the Khedive ot Egypt s fabulous
wealth. They are now telling of his actual
bankruptcy.
Mr. W. W. Greenbough, who was elected
President of the Boston Public Library recently
for the tenth time, had for bis predecessors Ed
ward Everett and George Ticknor.
Elihu Berritt twenty years ago planted an
acorn from the famous Charter Oak, and now it
is a thrifty young tree in the garden of his sis
ter, Mrs. Williams, at new Britain, Ct.
Rev. J. O. A. Cook will preach the sermon,
and Gen. Alpheus Baker of Eufaula, Ala., will
deliver the address at the commencement of
Andrew Female College in Cuthbert, Ga.
Glendenning, whose ministry in Jersey City
was made notorious by his trial for misconduct,
has been denied admission to the presbytery of
Peoria, 111. The majoritj' against him was large.
Mr. Alexander Agassiz has given the Univer
sity of Michigan twelve specimens of the selacian
fish which his father collected during his deep-
sea dredging expedition off the coast of South
America.
William M. Evarts has retired to his countrj’-
place in Vermont for the purpose of elaborating
his Centennial oration. It is said that this is
almost the first time that Air. Evarts has ever
tried to commit a public address to paper.
The St. Paul Dispatch knows all about it, and
settles it as follows: “First, Governor R. B.
Hayes of Ohio, will be the Republican nominee
for President at Cincinnati. Second, Governor
and from them constructs a perfect sketch of
the skeleton to which the detached bones origi
nally belonged. In a journalistic career that
has been limited, but withal varied, the writer
has found this exercise not only pleasurable but
extremely profitable, in more than one direction.
The approximate accuracy which a discriminat
Third, Governor Tilden will be elected in No
vember.
The Chicago Times says: “Certain Republican
papers in New York are asserting that, while the
Utica Convention expressed its preference for
Gov. Tilden, ex-Gov. Seymour is the real candi
date of the Deinocraej'of New York for the office
of President. The Utica Herald supports this
ing mind may attain in this species of intellect- \ statement with an analysis ot the delegation,
nal portrait painting is often wonderful. And j showing thirty-seven for Seymour and tliirty-
we remark these things not to state the fact that three lor Tilden.”
we are indebted to such a process for what we The Blaine men are beginning to assert that
may say about the subject of this sketch, but 1 charges against their champion came from the
because we know that thousands of those who j Bristow camp, and it is stated that there is a
read after him will also read this crude portrait- growing feeling of ill-will between the two gen-
nre, and we desire them to draw the parallel be- i tlemen. The Boston Advertiser (Blaine paper)
tween their ideal and the real, as here limmed
in colors none too flattering or brilliant.
Horace Cone, political editor of the Houston
(Texas) Daily Telegraph, the oldest journal in
the State—we believe we are not mistaken in
saying the first ever established in a then infant
and experimental republic—is ono of the least
known but most noteworthy of the present gal
axy of Southern editors. He is the son of a
Baptist minister, and was born in the State of
Virginia, in the year 1821. He received a very
says that “Air. Blaine is still the object of open
or insidious assault chiefly by journals in Mr.
Bristow’s interest;” and it adds that “this kind
of warfare is calculated to work to the advantage
of candidates whose nomination the friends of
both these gentlemen would regard as a serious
disaster. ”
Joe Jefferson, Barney Williams, and Mrs. Mest-
ayer were members of the old Chatham Theater
Company in 1850. Both of the actors secretly
Virginia, in me year ly, ne receiveu a very admired the pretty widow, and each was igno-
hberal education, and his store of information rant of the other s feelings. One night Jeffer-
and knowledge, gained from all sources from his ; son> who was even the “ excessivel * modetjt
youth to the present day, is a well-arranged the- asked Williams to propose for him to Mrs. Mest-
saurus, ever at ready command. In 1837 he
moved to Alabama, and read law with Henry
Ellis of Tuscaloosa, one of the most eminent
ayer. Barney agreed to do so, and performed
his disagreeable duty faithfully. The widow re-
LjIiis.oi iuscaioosa, one ui me mosi ernmern turned a decided negative. “I respect and ad-
“ e f, la u hlli J rot S, sslou at that day m that section mire Mr . Jefferson,’’she said, “ butI can never
* our y_ e . ars later ' Mr - 9°?? com - be his wife.” “ Then will yon have me?” eagerly
“I will,” said she, brighten-
of the South,
menced the practice of his profession in Marion,
Perry county. Afterwards he formed a law co
partnership with George Gayle of Cahaba, with
whom he won honors at a bar then distinguished
for its number of brilliant advocates. In Cababa
Mr. Cone wooed and wedded Aliss Amaranth E
Roberts, in whom be found a congenial and
encouraging wife. Mr. Cone planted near by,
and practiced law in Cahaba until the year 1850,
when he emigrated to the new State of Texas,
then looming in the southwestern horizon as
a “land of promise.” Settling in Brazonria
county, he pursued his profession, and with
such popular success that in 1853 the people
sent him to the Legislature of the State, where
he proved a wide-awake and careful Legislator.
In 1857 he removed to Houston, the then chief
city, and represented that constituencj' in the
Legislature in 1850 -60. In March, 1860, as at
torney ot the Texas and New Orleans Railroad,
he was called to New York, and remained there
until January, 1861. During these months he
was a close observer of Northern sentiment and
ambitions, and lie wrote to the people of Texas
a series of probably fifty letters, which were
published and became famous in the history of
the times, in which he demonstrated the philos
ophy' of the state of affairs and the certainty of
be his wife.” “Then
inquired Barney.
ing up as Barney seized her hand. And she did.
RIPPLES.
Three hundred and fifty educated alligators
have been sent to the Centennial.
One of Barnum’s cannibals is about to marry
a sweet young woman of New York.
It isn’t the greenback party, but the grain-
back party, that must save the country.
Rarely a man lives to be one hundred years
old w'ithout at some time having to wrestle with
a wart on the end of his nose.
There is economy in traveling on the fast mail
trains. You can make what you eat go a great
deal farther in a given length of time.
YVesley Lynch was fooling around the busi
ness end of a mule last Thursday, and he was
taken to the Surgical Institute on a dray.
The greatest evidence that we see of the re
turn of better times is everybody putting in
every available foot of ground in corn or cotton.
Humboldt ( Tenn.) Herald.
_ . The Danbury News says: “Lots of able-
war, as the natural result of causes then plainly 1 bodied young ladies are off all day hunting for
aetive and recognizable. ^ j trailing arbutus whose parents haven’t got a
Upon his return to Texas, he addressed the i snoonfnl of horseradish in tl»« im... ”
people from the hustings upon the same sub
spoonful of horseradish in the house. ’
There is one thing about a hen that looks like
ject, and was present as one worthy to counsel i w i sdom —they don’t cackle much till they have
at the called session of the Legislature of 181,1. ! laid their eggs . Some folks are ^ brasrein “
He was afterwards on General John b. Alagru- , and cackling what they are going to* do before®
der’s staff, and Judge Advocate Geneial ot the | baIld . 8 ® rc
In 1865 he moved with his family to New York i „ They have a disagreeable way in Canon city,
city, where he pursued his profession until 1874, ! ,° ora ^ ?! * ? n a n i an a . es a broken chair to
when he returned to Houston and assumed the. , e . a ,?, hfiV^Thi aa ^ ln ®’’ "? 1 *' ^ on a
editorial chair of the Daily Telegrajih.
As an editor, we can only treat of Mr. Cone
during the more recent days, although he has
written volumes for the press, and often occu
pied positions forspaees of time, without fee or
reward, but from laudable and friendly motives.
As chief editor of the Telegraph, he has given to
that old and favorite journal a voice with no
uncertain sound, and so emploj’ed with wise
and able discourse as to command the highest
confidence in Texas, and the largest respect
abroad. His style is that of a free writer—not
a “free lance”—and his themes are chosen with
the view of interesting the popular mind or ar
resting the misguided judgments of an unin
formed, perhaps sentimentally debauched pub
lic opinion. He writes with care, vigor, and a
full responsibility of the effect of what he is
about to say. As a journalistic debater, we know
of none in the South who are better, and as a
jocose commentator, he has rousted many a chiv-
alric pretender in the arena of newspaper joust
ing. In the matter of politics, he is a liberal
thinker, a conservative adviser, and a very
strong champion of the best Democratic ideas
of the day. In Texas, he has wielded an envi
able power in moulding opinion and action in
this r. gard.
Personally, Mr. Cone is a portly man, of fine
physique, genial countenance, sharp yet merry
eyes, and a sociality which warms all about him
as with sunshine. His natnre could hardly be
mistaken from his writings, for they sparkle
with his good humor, his wisdom, or his happy
scintillations of sentiment. He is an ornament
to the profession, and will be a pride to the peo
ple ere more durable records than these of
Southern journalism are made.
chair, did she ?” This is very trying to the aver
age citizen.
A student who failed to pass in his Greek
history examination repudiated with scorn the
intimation that he was not prepared. He had
crammed himself, he said, so tight ha could not
get it out again.
At a religious revival of th» colored people now
m progress at Palestine, Texas, a song was sung
ol which these two lines are specimens: 8 ’
What kind o’ shoes is dem you wear
Bat makes you walk so light and Bqu’are ?
A profanb young person describing the looks
of a newly-arrived M. C. from the far YVest as
he appeared at.the Washington depot, says:
“He looked as if he had come all the way across
the continent on the hurricane deck of a mole.”
The Nelson (Ky.) Record says: “A young
lady in Bardstown told her lover that she liked
Bhakspeare very much, and that she “read it
when it first came out.” Then she proceeded
were** 1 * magazme to see what the spring styles
PAEADISE '- We U, we are lazy in
Norfolk, that s a taet But there’s no need of
working here. If a man has energy enough to
dig worms he can take a pin hook and sit on the
wharf and catch fash enough in one day to last
him two. If he is too lazy to dig a worm he cTn
tie a piece of flannel rag on a string and catch
enough crabs to last him a day or two; and if he
is too lazy to tie a piece of flannel to a string he
lays down on his back on the sand at ebb-tide
opens his mouth, and when the tide comes in
the crabs run into it. What need is there of
work in a county for which nature has done so—
much ? North Carolina Economist. t
* uHoeeries
--uAouse— No. l
e “Grocery Bouse
-»House.