rf,£ fuw ERS cooectio/v
J. H. & W. 13. SEALS, [proprietors.
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, MAY 4, 1878.
mn-nifci it 3 PER ANNUM
TERMS, i lN ADVANCE.
THE BRIDGE OF ASPHODELS.
A dream-Fpirit bent o'er my conch last night.
And stole, with 1 ts witchery, my soul away,
Through my lips, half parted, it took its flight.
As a bee escapes from a blossom of May.
Away, past the fields of cerulean space.
Where the starry blossoms like lilies shine,
Went that airy dream with the radiant face,
Hand in hand with this soul of mine,
'Till we paused on the archway of bright asphodel?,
That the darksome gulf of mortality spans.
Where onr spirits are carried by siumber"s spells
To grasp in brief visions the angels' hands.
There we meet for a While with the loved and the lost
On that shadowy, twilighted bridge of dreams,
Where the asphodels bloom, and each mist shrouded
Silently Hits o’er the dark flowing stream.
Bnt I heard not the music that faint, and afar,
Came iike the audible fragrance from Heaven's fair
And I saw not the halo, iike mist ronnd a star,
That was wrealhing and floating around and before.
For my spirit met thfne on that far away spot;
My hand thrilled in thine as in meetings of yore;
I knew by thy smile that I was not forgot,
And what asked I, or hoped I, or cared I for more?
The glory of Paradise lay on thy brow—
Its am’ranths were shining amid thy dark hair,
JIow I dared to look on thee is marvellous now,
Or breathe, save with language ol praise or of prayer.
But thy perfume-wet tresses fell low on my cheek;
Thy warm lips pressed mine as they may never more,
And no bliss-freighted word could my tranced lips speak,
Tho’ never was moiVal so happy before,
FARMER’S CITY BOARDERS;
— Or, —
What Happened in- Florida.
■Every body takes winter bonders in Florida,’
writes one of the birds of passage, bnt there was
one plain little farm boose on the St. John's,
which bad never yet permitted its quiet to be
invaded by boarders. But its day came. One
day early this spring, just when orange trees
were in blossom, farmer Ellison
froitift little trio to Jacksonville where he bad
c.u.-eu with tuo now,, -li.u. lie hua
agreed to take three boarders for two months.
It was Judge Carlisle, who used to be a school
mate of his before the Judge, then a young law
yer, went to live in New York, and his daugh
ter and a young man—whose name farmer El
lison had forgotten. They had been spending
the winter in Jacksonville, and w’ere a little
tired of their boarding house there. But the
young lady declared she would not consent to
leave Florida now, just when it was putting on
ail its beauty; when strawberries and green peas
were coming on, and orange blossoms were per
fuming the air, and the weather was getting
delicious for fishing and riding and boating.
So the Judge having met bis old friend and
found where he was living, begged him to
make room for the three of them until the middle
of May, that his Sybil might eDjoy a spring in
Florida, and get the full pleasure of the woods
Mrs. Ellison was a little ‘taken back,’ to use
her own words, at this prospective advent of
rich, stylish city people in her plain old coun
try house, and she worried a good deal about
not having rooms fit for them to occupy, and
about the fare that would seem so common to
their dainty palates.
But farmer Ellison said: ‘Just put up clean
muslin curtains, and have the beds white and
tidy, as yon always do, and stick a lot of roses
in the old china vases—the >oung lady is death
on flowers. And as for the fare, we have fresh
cream and butter, and fish and chickens; yes,
and the strawberries and all yonr jellies and
marmalade; what better do you want ?’
Nat, the farmer’s only son, was ‘put out’ even
worse than his mother. He had traveled some
and knew just how dainty and elegant the sur
roundings of rich people were, and he felt mor
tified to have these fastidious city folks be
come inmates of the old brown farm house he
loved so well, because it was home. He was
young, educated, and sensitive, and knew just
enough about people of wealth and station to
despise the whole lot of them as a supercilious,
purse-proud class, who regarded poverty as one
of the unpardonable crimes.
In spite of all this, however, the boarders
came. They arrived at an nnexpected hour,
and Nat was working in the field. —
That was a good haul, Miss Carlisle,” said Xat, as he baited her hook afresh.
nently successful, lor Nat was really a handsome
man, and could look quite the gentleman when
he tried; so, after arraying himself in his best
suit, and giving his dark, silky moustache a
‘holiday twist,’ as he called it, he went down
to the parlor, and was presented to the guests
came back j with a grand flourish by bis proud mother.
If he had thought Sybil Carlisle a queen ’n
.llC K . .dell, tlv UOUhJ'. hvX .. ...j
night in the light of the parlor lamps; she was
so sparkling and vivacious, so witty, so dis-
tractingly lovely ! Her father, the Judge, was
a jovial, talkative old gentleman, with an inex-
hausible fund of knowledge, which he seemed
to take great pleasure in airing for the edifica
tion of his hearers. Then there was Mr. Clarke
Vincent. About this latter personage there was
something to attract more than a passing glance
from any one. Tall and well proportioned, with
the easy, unforced politeness of a man of the
world, there was that in every detail of his per
sonal appearance, from the cool white cravat
down to the low-cut shoes and silk stockings,
that bespoke him a gentleman of taste and re
finement. He had evidently turned thirty, and
wore a full, flowing beard, which was one of his
chief attractions, as it was dark and wavy, and
soft as plush silk.
‘A friend of Judge Carlisle,’ Nat concluded; ‘a
professional friend, no doubt—a well-to-do law
The evening passed pleasantly to all, though
Farmer Ellison, with his usnal disregard for
courtesy, retired at his customary hour, leaving
his amiable spouse to chat with the Judge about
Nat, of course, devoted himself to the young
lady and Mr. Vincent, and the ioe once broken,
he enjoyed it exceedingly. Miss Carlilse was
possessed of that gift of making even diffident
men feel perfectly at ease in her society, and in
the intoxication of the hour, Nat utterly forgot
the difference in their stations. He gossiped
with her about city-life, country-life, nature,
art, and above all, books, and was delighted to
discover that her favorite authors were the very
ones he most admired. She had brought her
guitar, too— her favorite insirument^and at
Mr. Vincent’s request, played a series of Span
ish airs. Then she sang one or two songs, in a
rich, contralto voice, that displayed such a
marvel of musical power and sweetness that
Nat felt as if he could listen to it forever with
When at last they were about to retire to their
several apartments, Nat said:
‘Do you enjoy horseback riding, Miss Car
He had ful- j ‘Oh, y es > indeed ■’ was the enthusiastic reply,
ly intended to act upon his mother's surges- i and th° se blue eyes _ were turned upon him
tion and ‘spruce up a bit’ in honor of the ""am- j almost eagerly. ‘It is my favorite amusement,
val, hut being taken completely by surprise, his i 1 used to ride eve ?y “ ornin g whe ? we lived in
Miss Carlisle had ijot yet appeared; but he had | the river, whistling as gleefuly as if he wereihe
not long to wait. The opening of the door her- ' happiest mortal on earth, and the disappointed
aided her approach, and she came out on the i pang at his heart was utterly ignored,
piazza in her graceful ridir-g-habit, looking as : He rode with Sybil nearly every morning after
fresh and blooming as a Ijoqjjet of roses and that, when the weather was fine. On a few occa-
lilies. j ec \' i s i° ns Vincent was induced to take his place, but
Nat bowed. Jtht' j that gentleman was not fond of sport, and gen-
‘ Via are punctual, AU-aV ‘ O’e.’ «•* j eraliv preferred to let the young devotee take the
- a:' .. . . ■ * j
replied with a dulcet li •fn. v Oh, what splen- j were both pleasant and painful to Nat, though
did horses ! I am sure wa'ii ha\ e a grand ride !’ j why there should be any pain in the affair, was a
Clarke Vincent came out behind her. He had I mystery which Nat himself could not, or would
come down to see them ofl'. As he followed her D0 *'’ understand.
out to the horses, he said to Nat, half seriously, j One ot the sports resorted to for amusement
half in sport. was that °f fishing. The broad, beautiful St.
‘Be careful of my little girl, Mr. Ellison. I John’s flowed by the rear of the house, plenti-
can’t afford to lose her just Vet, and that animal ! fully inhabited by the finny tribe, and Farmer
looks as if he would like to break some one's
neck. And yon, Sybil—don’t presume too
much on your former skill. Kemember you are
out of practice.’
Nat felt as if a bullet had struck his heart;
but without for a moment losing his composure,
he assured the gentleman there was not the
slightest danger, and then stood at the horse’s
head while Vincent helped ‘ his little girl,’ into
‘ His little girl !’ ‘ Can’t afford to lose her just I
yet !’ What did such remarks mean ? No need I
of the question—there could be hut one answer
to it, and the dullest might guess that. Some- '
how, the thought that C\ark Vincent was the j
accepted lover of Miss Carlisle, had not once j
occurred to Nat, hut he saw now that it must he 1
so. He spoke of her as though she belonged to ;
him; he addressed her by her first name, de- i
noting the closest intimacy; an l thea, the mere
fact that he was here with her and her father,
; Ellison had a Ipug, shallow flat-bottomed boat,
j which he used for his own private navigation.
Often, of an evenirg, the old farmer and the
judge, with Clarke Vincent, Sybil, and Nat
| would go out to the middle of the river, and
: there making it stationary, by means of long
! poles, would become ardent disciples of Izaak
j Walton for an hour or two.
On one of these occasions, Sybil made herself
famous by capturing a fine, large perch—the
; largest that had been taken by auy of the party.
‘That was a good haul, Miss Carlisle,’ said
I Nat, as he baited her hook afresh.
‘I think it is because you bait my hook so
nicely, that I am so successful,’ she replied.
‘It’s nothing else, of course,’said Clarke Vin
cent, in a significant tone, without removing
his eyes from his float. ‘You will find Sybil a
most expert angler, Mr. Ellison, whether she
casts her line for bona file fish, or human ones.’
He said it in the light,bantering manner char-
to spend the summer— Fskaw ! there could be j acteristicof him, hut Nat saw a tinge of color
but one solution to all fhis. Clarke Vincent ! stream into the girl’s face*, and was conscious ol
blushing hotly himself. He thought of Vincent’s
plans were upset. That is how it happened that
just after sunset, as Mrs. Ellison was picking
strawberries for Miss Carlise in the garden, Nat
suddenly burst into view round the corner of
an arbor, whistling gleefully and carrying a hoe
on his shoulder. He came to a standstill and
stared in open-mouthed amazement at the sight
that met his gaze, while his hand involuntarily
sought the tattered brim of his old straw hat. He
saw a tall, graceful figure in a blue silk princesse
en\eloped in a veil of blue gauze; he saw a pair
of wonderiul blue eyes, and the fairest, sweetest
face he had ever beheld, with a mass of golden
hair arranged a la mode on the shapely head,
lhen he suddenly became aware that his moth-
er was introducing him.
i servant ma’am,’ he stammered with a
low bow; and then he strode blindly on toward
the house stumbling over everything that lay in
his way, and making as much noise as a drnnk-
en man as he went blundering up stairs to his
LJ didn t e *pect to see such a beauty,’
muttered Nat beginning to breathe again. ‘Why
shes a regular—a yes, a regular queen! A
regular out and outer,’ as father would say.
Just my luck to meet her in this plight, looking
my very worst I suppose I acted like a con
founded fool, too.
He made all haste to remove the offensive ex-
i • enor t assume a more presentable appear
ance for the evening. In this he waa emi-
the country, but I seldom get a chance in the
‘I supposed as much. I have two good sad
dle-horses, and a lady’s saddle, which are at
yonr disposal. I hope you will do me the
honor of using them as often as you wish to
ride. If you would like a gallop to-morrow
morning before breakfast, I will have the horses
ready for you at an early hour.’
‘Oh thank you. You are very kind. But do
you expect me to ride both horses, Mr. Ellison ?’
she added, with a rougish smile.
•No—of course not,’ a trifle embarrassed. ‘I
meant you and Mr. Vincent.’
‘As for me,’ said Mr. Vincent, stroking his
beard, ‘I am no horseman. Besides, I have
some letters to write which will occupy every
moment of my time until noon. Therefore, if
you have the leisure and inclination, I will ask
you to take my place, Mr. Ellison?’
Nat’s heart throbbed violently.
• It Miss Carlisle has no objections—’
• None in the least 1 It is very kind of you, I
am snre. I am an early riser, Mr. Ellison, and
will not keep yon waiting. Good-night!’
Nat’s sonl was too full of a new sensation to
allow him any vast amount of sleep that night,
and when tho cocks crowed in the dawn of
another day, he was np and dressed, and out at
the stables giving directions to the astonished
When he led the hones ronnd to the door,
and Sybil Carlisle were engaged
•And, of course, it is nothing to me if they
are a thousand times engaged,’ thought Nat.
But for all that, he did not erijoy that ride
quite so much as he had thought he would. To
be sure, Sybil was in her best spirits, and look
ing her lovliest; the birds in the trees by the
roadside were almost bursting their throats with
exuberance of joy; the atmosphere was pure
and bracing, and the morning especially fine
for equestrian exercise; but Nat Ellison had
dropped a tithe of his enthusiasm, and all the
brightness and beauty around him, could not
He was not a fool, however, and so far from
betraying to Lis companion anything like a
change in his feelings, he even tried to conceal
it from himself He surpassed himself in the
brilliance and variety of his conversational wit,
and proved himself a mq- t entertaining and gal
lant cavalier, very much kV V.'3 c-wr. surprise.
They rode for miles a:iM miles along the level
road, and across open fielus, anon racing their
steeds till the violent exercise deepened the rich
glow on Sybil’s pretty cheeks, and made her
blue eyes sparkle with excitement.
‘Mr. Vincent was evidently much concerned
for your welfare,’ ventured Nat, when after a
sharp gallop, they were permitting their horses
to move at a slow walk.
•Yes,’she replied ‘he is always afraid I am
going to break my neck, or do something equal
ly horrible, whenever I mount a horse. He
dosen’t admire horses as I do. But Clarke is so
good to me tLat I wouldn’t disobey him for the
world. Everybody likes him; I am sure you
will, Mr. Ellison.’
Our hero was not quite so sure, but he simply
said, in answer:
* No doubt of it, Miss Carlisle.’
And there the subject was dropped.
That afternoon, when Nat found an oppor
tunity to speak to his mother alone he said to
‘Do you know anything about this Clarke Vin
‘Nothing, except he ’pears to be a mighty nice
sort of a young man,’ replied Mrs. Ellison, busy
with her house-plants.
‘Isn’t he engaged to be married to Miss Car
‘Like as not. I notice they seem kinder famil
iar like. Yes, I reckon they’re engaged.’
Aad Nat went out of the house, and down to
careless remark many times afterward, and won
dered if there could he auy truth in what they
But the weeks continued to slip by, and there
came a time when our hero no longer cared to
struggle against the inevitable. Why these fee-
*hle efforts to hide from himself the truth—it
made the truth no less palpable—he was in love!
For the first time in his life he had ceased to be
master of his own heart. He was wholly, com
pletely in Sybil Carlisle’s power. In vain he
cursed himself for an idiot; in vain he drew
merciless comparisons between his own sphere
of life and hers, compelling himself to stand
forth as a poor farmer, and a ‘court bumpkin.’
The fact was unalterable, and he gave up the
i Love is blind. Now that that the state of his
| heart was no longer covered from his own in-
| spection, Nat began to wonder if he might not
■ have arrived too early at conclusions, in decid-
i ing that Vincent and Miss Carlisle were engaged.
| His first and coolest reflections had not left the
| shadow of a doubt in his mind as to the actual
i state of affairs; but now he began lo grope des-
i perately for evidence to support the theory that
1 lie might have been mistaken. Perhaps some
other relationship than an engagement existed
between these two. Perhaps they were cousins
—though that could hardly be, for he had never
heard them address eacn other by that title.
But no matter. It was absolutely necessary
for him to conjure up these bare possibilities,
or brand Sybil Carlisle as a flirt. For she had
undoubtedly encouraged his attentions, and
convinced him, in many seemingly artless ways,
that his society was especially pleasant to her.
Was slie trifling with him ? Did she seek to
wring a confession from his lips, and then
laugh at his presumption ? He would not, could
not, believe her so cruel.
How passive Mr. Vincent was through all!
It was a dull, rainy day. Net was pacing
restlessly to and fro in the narrow oonfines of
his room, looking far more wretched than the
mere condition of the elements warranted.
‘I’ll do it!’ he exclaimed, at length, with an
air of settled determination. ‘I oan no more
than fail, and even that is preferable to this sub-
pense. They are going away next week; this
is my only ohanoe. Yes, I must make a clean
breast of it’
He threw himself in a chair at his writing-
desk, selected a sheet of note-paper, and wrote
a brief message thereon.
‘Miss Carlisle:—I can no longer refrain from
telling you that which I have hitherto feared to
confess. I love you with my whole heart and
soul—can you love me in return? Please take
time to study yourself before answering: only
let me have your answer before you return
home. N. Ellison.’
He attached the note to a pretty bouquet of
oleanders and clematis, and placed the whole in
a conspicuous place in Sybil’s room, at a mo
ment when she was below stairs.
So the deed was done.
That evening, when the lamps were lit, Nat
sauntered into the parlor as usual, hut was sur
prised to find neither Sybil nor Clarke '■in-
cent there. His father and mother, and Judge
Carlisle were there, and with an assumption
of unconcern that would have baffled keener
eyes than theirs, he threw himself in a lazy pos
ture on a sociable, close to one of the curtained
windows that opened on the piazza.
Scarcely had he done so, when a low voice
close to his head - a voice that was ineffably ten
der, he tnought—very distinctly remarked.
‘Are you sure of yourself, Sybil ?’
Then another low voice, tremulous and sweet,
‘Y’es, Clarke, lam quite sure.’
They were on the piazza just outside the win
dow. Nothing but the thin curtain separated
them from Nat; and although they spoke al
most in whispers, every word was audible to
him. At another time he would have quietly
changed his position, but just now he was burn
ing up with jealonsy. He lay quite still, and
listened to a conversation not intended for his
Yon haven’t the slightest doubt that this ia
! genuine love, Sybil?’
‘Not the slightest. Am I a child that I should
doubt myself? It is love, Clarke—true, pure
and holy. Believe me, I can never love another.’
‘But this other fellow ?’
‘Nonsense! Do you suppose I cared for him?’
‘I was afraid you might, and—’
‘You dear old goose! Why, I fairly detest
him! He had no right, I am sure, to think
Nat waited to hear no more. He had heard
' quite enough. He rose quietly and left the
parlor, before its occupants had observed the
J! .tUlilj ptiilVJI A if iio itsot. I3r» • ‘-„x
his room, and locked himself in, nor cam.e
down again that night. When sent for by his
anxious mother, he pleaded indisposition, and
firth ly refused to show himself.
But he wrote another note, and placed it on
Miss Carlisle’s table, so that she could not fail
to see it when she came to retire. And it was
couched in these words:
‘Miss Carlisle:—I see now what a poor fool I
have beeD, and will not trouble yon for an an
swer to my first note. If you think you have
played a fair game this summer, and can find
it in yonr soul to feel proud of yonr victory, I
have no more to say, except that I wish you
joy of your heartless triumph. N. E.
There were sleepless eyes in Ellison farm
house that night, Nat’s white, haggard face, on
which had settled an expression of weary, hope
less woe, testified to that fact, as he rose on the
following morning and went out into the open
It was a bright, lovely morning, after the
storm of the preceding day, hut it was dull and
wretched enough as Nat viewed it. lit saw no
smile on the face of nature. To him all was
a cold, weary wilderness.
He went down to the river-side, and leaning
against the trunk of a tree, gazed moodily down
into the water.
•What a precious fool I have been !’ he mut
tered, angrily. ‘I might have known—’
He stopped suddenly at the sound of a light
footsteps, and the rustle of feminine garments.
He turned, and beheld Sybil Caililse coming
toward him. His first impulse was to retreat,
but in an instant he saw that her purpose was
to speak with him, and he stood his ground.
He observed that she was as pale as the snowy
wrapper she wore, and that an ominous expres
sion lurked in the turquoise eyes. Dumb with
amazement, he conld only stand and stare at
her as she approached.
‘She was quite calm, in spite of her pallor.
‘Mr. Ellison,’she began, confronting him with
the air of an insulted queen, ‘did you write this?’
She held something toward him. A glance
showed him that it was his note—the second
one he had written.
‘Yes,’ he replied, with all the composure he
could command. ‘I wrote it.’
‘And this, too?’
She produced another one, and he saw that it
was also his; the one containing a confession
of his love. He replied again in the affirmative.
■Then, sir,’ she exclaimed, her eyes flashing
with proud wrath, ‘may I ask an explanation of
this insult? Will you tell me what you mean
by two such notes on the same day?’
Nat was cold as an icicle in an instant.
‘I am not disposed to deny you the explana
tion you ask,’ he said with freezing politeness,
‘I need only say that I have been betrayed into
the worst sort of folly by your beauty and art
fulness. I have permitted myself to enjoy this
summer vacation; have been ungnarded enongh
to fall desperately in love with with you. But
that is all over now.’
‘Is this all you have to say ?’
‘Not quite. I may add that I was ignorant of
your utter heartlessness until last night.’
‘Whatdo you mean, sir?’
‘That I happened to he close to the parlor
window when you and Mr. Vincent were talking
on the piazza. Have you forgotten yonr con
She was standing now with tightly-clenched
hands, gazing at him in a blank, wondering
‘You heard our conversation!’ she said,
slowly, as it trying to comprehend.
All her anger, all her dignity, had vanished,
leaving only that dazed look on her set faee.
‘Yes,’ replied Nat, as coldly as before; ‘I heard
you tell your lover how you detested me—’
[Continued on 8th page.)