Newspaper Page Text
JOHN H. SEALS, - Editor and Proprietor.
W. B. SEALS, - Proprietor and Cor. Editor.
HRS. MARI' E. BRYAN (•) Associate Editor.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA, MAY 4, 1878.
Burton Bros., of Opelika, Ala., are Agents for
The Sunny South.
Forth Coming; Portraits.—We shall
soon bring ont splendid engravings of Major
General Wheeler, the venerable Judge Garnett
Andrews, and our popular Mayor Dr.N. L
Angier.
Col. J. H. Seals, of our Sunny South, is in
Griffin, where on Friday he delivered the Me
morial Address. We havn’t heard from him,
but as the address was in several respects a new
departure from the ordinary track of memorial
speeches, we have no doubt it created a sensa
tion. Prof. W. B. Seals has been for some
time traveling in Texas in the interest of the
Sunny South. He writes back glowing accounts
of the beauty and fertility of the Lena Star
State. *
The Sunny South Enters on its
Fourth Volume.—With this number closes
the third volume of The Sunny South. And
it still lives. In spite of the prophecies of the
croa kers, who sneer at the South for having no
first olass literary journal yet who, when one
does venture to put up its head and ask for a
little fostering patronage, proceed to nip it in
the bud with predictions of early death, and de
clarations that ‘nothing of this sort has ever
lived long in the South, or ever will.’
Just the extent of all that The Sunny South
has struggled through since it came into exist
ence—the losses through dishonesty of others,
the leaks that were caused by want of experi
ence, the difficulty of making headway in a
time cf financial stagnation—none but the pro
prietors of the paper know or can realize. They
are regretfully conscious of having failed to ful
fill their own highest hopes with regard to their
journal.
But a brighter field lies before the Sunny
South, and confidently we trust before its liter
ary namesake. Not only do we expect to keep
it afloat, but to trim its sails to better advantage.
Our heart is in the effort to give the Southern
people a journal that shall be worthy of them,
and we yet hope to succeed. The friends of the
Sunny South have stood by us nobly; our thanks
are due them for past kindness, and we earnest
ly hope they will continue to look upon our
paper as a friend, and to appreciate our future
efforts to add interest to its pages and to make
it more fully and systematically expressive of
the life and interests of our people.
Masculine Fondness for Petting;.
No doubt man is a magnificent creature when
he fills the chair of State or glitters in gold lace
and cock’s feathers as a representative of mili
tary power, but it is a consolation to know he
is a very weak creature in some respects. He
likes to be petted and coddled and fed figura
tively, (and literally too, sometimes) on sugar
plums. Notwithstanding his grandeur and
greatness, his talk about intellectual superiority,
etc., he cannot altogether do without feminine
petting. He “hankers” after a womanly apron
upon which to lay his magnificent head, and to
have his hair combed and threaded by slender
white fingers. He wants a soft arm placed
around his neck, a lip pressed to his contracted
brow, and a sweet voice to say, “Tell me what
has happened, love,” when he returns home,
burdened with the cares of the day. He wants
somebody to fuss around him a little when he
is sick; to hover about the bed softly, as though
she were stepping on water lilies, and adjust
the coverlet and smoothe the pillow and ask,
“Are you doing nicely now, dear, or shall I
bathe your head, or would you like a warm cup
of tea?"
Oh! in spite of all the nonsense they talk
about the “bothering women,” how they do
like such as this ! And they will have it too.
If there is no mother or sister to diffuse an at
mosphere of roses around their daily life, they
will look around for some one nearer and dearer,
to add the harmonizing treble to the bass of
their existence,.and they will get het—ifthey
can.
Then, when the household divinity is placed
in its accustomed niche by the fireside, how
her sweet ministrations are missed when they
are deprived of them for a brief period 1 How
everything goes wrong in her absence, and the
cloud she would have chased away, darkens
into a storm, and the newspaper is out of place,
the slippers not to be found, the tea tasteless,
the toast burnt and the servants unbearable-
all for want of the gentle magnetism of a soft
hand, of a sweet voice or a loving nmii^ •
Portrait of Lieut. Gen. 1 Wheeler.
The next paper in the series of articles on
“Battles Around Atlanta,” (No. 11) will contain
a full biographical sketoh of Lieut. Gen. Joseph
Wheeler, whom Gen. Lee pronounced one of
the two greatest cavalry commanders in the
Confederate army.
The sketch will embrace a very fine picture of
this modest but gallant soldier, and in its details
show that he was the most incessant and use
ful fighter in the South, always watching and
defending the front or rear of the Confederate
army to which his cavalry corps was attached.
This kept him almost constantly in confliot
with the enemy.
Rufus Spring, U. S. Marshal, while raiding
in Greenville, S. C., last week, was shot and
instantly killed. There is excitement in Wash
ington and talk of sending an armed foroe to
Greenville.
The Old Country Church.-It is Eas
ter Sunday. Surely never was sunshine so soft
and mellow; never was sky so tender, nor earth
so hushed.
Peal! peal! peal! How solemnly and sweetly
the bells of the city roll out their liquid notes
on the still Sabbath air,
“And every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a prayer.’
How many bells in this broad land are send
ing up their blended voices to Heaven this tran
quil Sabbath morning! Through quiet villages,
through cheerful towns, through the atmosphere
of crowded cities, heavily surcharged with the
breath of living thousands, thrills their sweet
clangor, wakening the echoes of the adjacent
hills, and soothing the listener’s soul like the
music of a lullaby.
Now the streets are filled with the assem
bling congregation. Watch them, in their vari
colored dresses, as they wind, like a continu
ous rainbow, down the streets. There are rust
ling silks sweeping beside the faded garb of
decent poverty; there are waving plumes, flut
tering ribbons and daintily-gloved hands lift
ing the rich fabrics to afford a view of the neat
ly gaitered foot, and the snow of costly embroi
dery.
How many souls among them are following
the asoending soun i of those solemn bells, ris
ing above vanity and envy and malice, on the
wings of prayer and praise ? How many hearts
respond voicelessly to those devotional chimes ?
It is not for us to judge; nor indeed is it of
this we are thinking.
The sunshine and the holy hush of this love
ly Easter Sunday set us to dreaming of a far
away church, amid the magnolias and long
leaved pines of a land we love—a church, old
and moss-grown, with green billows of grave
mounds rising around it; a white rose bush at
each sleeper’s head, and a mocking bird in the
boughs above to sing to them all the peaceful
day. There is a little band assembled in that
church at this very moment, and though there
are no plumes, no jewels, no dresses, “stiff with
costly lavishness,” yet, there are true hearts and
faces beautiful with brotherly kindness and
Christian love, and the “Old Hundred” hymn,
led by the weather-beaten farmer in his home-
spun garb, is richer in feeling and soul melody
than the organ whose flute-like tones have suc
ceeded to the pealing of the bells. No need of
bells in that old country church to call the con
gregation from their homes on the neighboring
hills. They came in groups along the winding
paths—rosy little children with handsfull of
early violets gathered by the way—sweet, fair
faced girls in simple bats or cottage bonnets,
with the real blushes of health and modesty on
their cheeks.
All drank from the pitcher filled from the
pure spring at the foot of the hill—all exchanged
kindly greetings and went, like a household of
brothers and sisters, to sit down before the
white-haired man, whose voice, sweet, though
tremulous with age, read the hymn in which all
so earnestly united.
bomehow, in those sweet seasons of hdly com
munion, that old church used to seem very near
to Heaven—nearer than the statelier fanes,
where we have knelt since those blessed hours !
of purity and childish faith. But God is every
where, and his loving arms are ever reaching
down to receive the trembling, fainting prayers
that his frail children send up to His throne.
A Woman's Enterprise.—“Roberts,”
the originator of the ‘ Penny Lunch’ charity in
Washington, will have no secretary, treasurer, or
other officer, in the management of her enter
prise, She says these clog and kill the usefulness
of every charity that is set on foot. The average
woman can do nothing without forming an asso
ciation and having heart-burnings and dissentioDg
about the election of officers. “Roberts” takes
the business of the Penny Lunch in her own
hands, and she has done more good with it than
any other Washington charity has ever effected.
She has fed many thousands of the starving poor
this winter, besides keeping a large number of ‘gen
teel poor’ from absolute suffering. This class is espe
cially large in Washington. They are well born and
educated people (many of them Southerners) who
have known ‘better times,’ but have lost every
thing except their pride.
Unable to procure work, too proud to beg, and
without means to get away, they have applied in
confidence to the energetic lady who pitches into
Congressmen, fights the battles of women Treas
ury clerks and writes spicy letters for the Capital,
and she has quietly helped them and kept their
secret.
“Roberts” has good blood in her veins. She
comes from a brave and honorable family, and is
full of pluck herself. *
Sad lor Her Children.—Mrs, Tilton’s
latest confession is said to surprise no one,
who knows the weakness and morbid sentimen
tality of the woman. Some hold it to have been
done at the urgent instigation of her husband,
but this he denies with tears, in his effu
sive fashion. Whether true or false, it iB a pity
that the oonfession was made public. It is the
renewal of an offensive scandal, of which even
gossip was weary. And it is so sad for the
young daughters, said to be lovely and talent
ed girls, with a strong inclination to domestic
affection, that unfortunately cannot root itself
in respect for either father or mother. It has
been only a little while since we read of Flor
ence the elder, studying music assiduously in
Germany, and writing home that, although she
practices many hours a day, she is only to per
form scales—no composition as yet. ‘Alice has
reproduced a crayon pioture of the boy Ralph,
the poor little fellow in regard to whom a great-
er ju dgement than that of Solomon has been ask
ed; and her talent with the brush and pencil is
quite marked. There is a wreath of forget-me-
nots in the house, whioh she gave her mother
on her last birthday. There are forty-three
flowers—one for each year—a pretty conceit of
the child’s.* •
%
" x;
The Gray Vnifonn-A Terrible
War Incident.—As the Cadets filed by in
the Memorial procession on Friday, the “Con
federate” gray of their uniform looked strangely
familiar, and a memory of the old vanished
dream of Southern Independence mixed itself
with the colors and music, the flags and flowers
of the procession. But those were fearful
times when ‘ ‘brother’s blood by brother’s spilt”
reddened the land, and when such terrible in
cidents as this one we give below were not in
frequent.
The two brothers spoken of here were twins
in soul if not in body. They had never had a
quarrel, or a harsh word, until the red hand of
war came between them, and, each sympathiz
ing in a different cause, they parted in anger,
not to meet again. Years after, the surviving
brother told the dead brother’s boy, whom he
had remorsefully taken as his own son, this
incident:
“In one of those dark hours, when the cause
of the Union seemed doubtful, the rebels,
flushed with temporajy success, had been push
ing us all day, and our wearied troops toiled on,
footsore and beaten, but still full of fight, until
in the afternoon we olimbed those heights that
are memorable in history, and the whole army
was in line of battle tv^ore sunset. In front of
our division the skirmishers engaged hotly,
and presently the long grey lines came out of
the woodland into the open field, and as the
slanting rays of the sun struck their glittering
steel the dark lines changed to sheets of flame
moving steadily on; then there was a redder
flame, as the sun went down, and the earth and
air shook with rolling thunder, only broken by
the deadly clatter of musketry. Thousands of
hissing missiles filled the air with death. Dy
ing groans echoed the officer’s cries of encour
agement, and ever as the fierce rebel yell re
sounded over the din the deep-toned shout of
the North replied. We peered into the thick
smoke for some minutes before we could see
their fluttering red flags. And then I noted, by
the lurid glare more than by any lingering day
light, a gleaming blade in the hands of an offi
cer, and oalled to the regiment at the top of my
voice to fire; we had held our fire up to that
moment. For a minute it was all smoke and
fire and the smell of burnt powder, and all the
time that infernal fiendish yell mingled with
the groans of the wounded men; then the yell
ceased suddenly and the storm began to lull.
The enemy had fallen back, broken and shat
tered, down the hill and into the deepening
night, leaving the ground covered with their
dead and wounded. Then the full moon came
ont and we beheld a thousand ghastly forms,
some still, some writhing on the ground in
front of our rude palisade; but in front of them
all was the officer who had waved the gleaming
blade. The fascination of a sinister, resistless
curiosity made me go out and turn his face up
to the moonlight."
The speaker had been talking as if to himself
and lost in an awful dream, but had grown
more and more excited until the last few sen
tences were pronounced with the difficult ut
terance of intense agony at a dreadful remem
brance. He paused, overmastered by his emo
tion, ann then said, answering the awe-stricken
look on the boy’s face, “yes, it was he. The
dead hand fell from mine with a cold, clammy
flap on the bloody ground. The eyes were fix
ed, the face like marble, and then I kneeled
holding him in my arms, and gazing on the
face to see if I coul<l interpret a smile there
to forgive the hard wiorda I had given him when
we parted last, on /'ie very ground where we
had played years before. I
conld only swearor; jfie dead man’s still heart
to find his wife and boy.”
Who would desire a renewal of such terri
ble scenes ? Rather pray that
“The war drum throb no longer
And the battle flag be furled,”
over the entire globe, and that peace and good
will, industry and happiness reign instead of
the bloody Moloch of Battle. *
Love is Best.—Shallow wits are fond of rep
resenting the old maid as incarnated vinegar
and pepper* It is true that the unmarried wo
man, who has no regular, active business to
employ her energies and keep her nature from
selfish stagnation, is apt to become either cold
and narrow, or cross and cynical, but there
are plenty of exceptions. There are natures
that time sweetens and mellows (like winter
apples) even when they hang ungathered on
the bough. Such a nature belonged to sweet
Phoebe Carey—the younger of those two poet
sisters, who were so lovely in their lives, and in
death were not long divided. Nothing more
pathetic in its patience* end tenderness was ever
written than this fromithe pen of one who was
yet—an old maid:
“ I would not smother, if I could,
Love’s inextinguishable fires.
So, banishing from out my heart
The sacredest of life’s desires,
I can walk onward and endure,
Whether the way be smooth er rough,
But will not sohool myself to think
Life’s round of duties is enough.
Over my eyes, most sad to-day,
My tresses as they will my fall;
A hand to put them softly back,
I’ve only dreamed of, that is all.
God gives his creatures many gifts,
And very precious are the rest;
But this, I say, with un kissed lips,
That love is better than the best*”
One can scarcely readmit without tears. It is
plain that it comes fron^xhe heart and reveals
the “small, sweet need of woman to be loved.”
It tells of tears falling upon the laurels of a well
earned fame; of a soul, sick of fulsome adulation
and longing for the low spoken words of ten
derness, dreaming in the dreary night time of
a cheerful fireside and domestic joys. It tells
of a spirit strong enough for any fate, yet gen
tle enough to desire a life of quiet, sheltering
love, and candid enough to confess that desire.
It t«u« of the trembling of those “ unkissed
lips,” when the future, with its cheerless and
lonely old age, rises before the eyes, that look
sadly forward into coming time. Yet there is
no repining; no envious murmuring; no gall of
HBr »patw poured upon the more fortunate of her
sisters, who wear the roses of love, instead of
the scentless amaranths of fame. There is noth
ing save the simple* touching acknowledge
ment that, of life’s many gifts,
“Love is better than the best”
The Baptists have declared in favor of licen
sing women to preach. The Methodists have
declared against it Women are, however, free
to speak ia public in Methodist churches wher
ever they are invited, but they must not call it
“preaching.” It may go by the name of “Evan
gelistic services,” or “Bible Readings.”
Be Brief.—“Brevity is the soul of wit.”
The aphorism is truer now than ever before, for
modern mortals have so many doses of wisdom
to swallow, that they want them of homoeopathic
size.
Butter does very well spread thin, but not so
with eloquence or information. Many an essay,
sermon and lecture tails of its effects by being
protracted too long. The attention of reader
or hearer is wound up to a certain point, and
when it is run down, it takes a new key to set
it going again.
“Linked sweetness long drawn out” is de
lightful to its manufacturers, but not so agree
able to other people.
It takes an orator of no common abilities to
carry with him the unwavering interest of his
hearers beyond an hour and a half. Men are
unfortunately human, and if the spirit is will
ing, the flesh is apt to be weak. Consequently,
the victim to a three hour’s harangue will, after
the first hour, find himself, in spite of his
efforts to the contrary, mentally wondering
when this eloquent discourse will end. At the
lapse of the second, he will have counted every
bugle on the bonnet of his neighbor in the
front pew, and ceased to be shocked at his own
irreverence in conjecturing whether the roast
will not be burned to a cinder before dinner,
and at the end of the last mortal hour, if he is
not, through the spells of Morpheus, blissfully
oblivious of sixthlies and tenthlies, he will be in
no very Job-like frame of mind, and greatly
tempted to relieve his feelings by wishing that
the indefatigable orator were drowned in the
sea of his own mellifluous words. *
Washington Deadbeats.—“Roberts,”
of the Cupital is net so taken up with riding her
penny-lunch hobby, that she can not now and
then let fly an arrow at Washington sins and fol
lies with almost as much vim as in the days before
she gave her mind to soup and broken bread. She
thus shows up the male dead-beat of the magnifi
cent city and his female counterpart:
There is the political dead-beat—the man who
hangs around hotels as if he lived there, but who
only dines there when asked by some one. He
wears a real diamond pin, bought at the dollar
store, and dresses in the height of fashion. He
makes his living by getting a hold of persons who
have business beforejthe department of Congress.
He represents that he and the Hon Oily Gammon
are the dearest friends; and as for Senator Weath-
erwax, ‘Why, my dear sir, we are more than
brothers; there is nothing he will not do for me ;
and as for the officials in the departments, why
I’ve got them all.’ Here he winks in a mysteri
ous manner, as if to infer that every official in the
Treasury Department and Pension Office had com
mitted deadly crimes that only he held the .key to.
The fish bites, thinking that this powerful man
with friends near the throne can do better than
he. ‘It costs ready money, you know,' he says to
the fish. ‘Weatherwax is violently opposed to
claims like yours, but we will manage him; I’ll
bring him round, but it will take a little money.
Champagne, cigars, an attraetive woman to soothe
him and the thing is done,’ here he pokes the fish
between the ribs and winks, and the fish swallows
the bait whole; thinks how fortunate he has been;
orders unlimited quantities of Heidseck; pays
over a sum of money that makes a huge hole in the
Auloutrt he has command of, and docs not see th6
hook which the bait covered, until he is landed
high and dry on the shores of adversity, and is
told, coolly: “My friend, your claim was so poor I
could do nothing, I never saw Gammon or
Weasheawax so set. ‘My boy,’ said they, ‘you
know how we trust you; lay down our life for
you, as it were; but really we can’t act act in this
matter.’ I talked with them; spent money out of
my own pocket to soften their views; but no use.”
And he turns away to angle in another portion of
the stream of life, while the poor fish, so success
fully caught, is left to get back into his native
waters if possible, or die on the shore of despair.
There is a female counterpart, I am sorry to
say, of the male dead-beat I have mentioned. I
have several in my mind now. They got hold
of an ignorant class, who perhaps lost a ham or
a chicken during the war, and are told that they
can get so many thousands from the government
for their loss ; so they get together a sum of
money, which they give to these iemale vam
pires, and realize Dead sea fruit. I know of one
case where a hard-working man in a certain
kind of business here has been all winter pay
ing the board of a female who could not get a
hearing before any committee, and to whom no
member or senator would listen for one moment,
unless she had a blackmailing hold on him,
(whioh she has on some of them,) yet she per
suaded the man I mention to the belief that for
some loss he endured during the war she could
get some $9,000 from Congress for him. To ac
complish that he has been, as I said before, pay
ing her expenses, and he has no more show of
getting it than I have of getting $100,000 from
Congress, or half as much; for I believe the
chunks of wisdom of the Cave would give me
that sum sooner than one dollar to the woman
in question, and I hold up myself personally
responsible for everything I say.
People That Everybody Like.—When you
hear it said of an individual, that he is uni
versally popular,” just set it down that ® * s
either a milk sop, not worth hating, ot t a .
is a sneak; a hypocrite; a man with no opinion
or ideas of his own; a mere chameleon, chang
ing his colors to suit the company he is in. o
good was ever achieved by individuals of sue
negative character. They have not the mora
courage to erect a standard, either in the service
of God or Satan. Like the bat of Esop’s fable,
that, in the conflict between the fowls an
animals, was alternately a beast and ^ a bir ^ as
victory wavered between the contending parties,
this negative go-between will skulk through
life, furling or unfurling his wings, being a bat
or a mouse, as he thinks it to his advantage. An
admirable writer gives her ©pinion of the
“people every body likes,” in the lol owing
terse passages:
“Have the Priests and Prophets, the men and
women heroes of the world, been of this kin
Was there ever any good wrought, any J- ruin
spoken, any Right achieved, that was not evi
spoken of—that had not to make its way to mao s
recognition and reverence, through discord an
slander and foul falsehood—happy if
through imprisonment, and bloodshed, ant^
carnage! ,.
Ah ! the world has never fancied its deliver
ers, from Moses to Milton, and. yon, reader, do
not this hour enjoy a single social, civil or reli
gious Right which was not wrought out for you
by men whom very few people of their day and
generation •diked!" ..
And agreeing with everybody, reflecting ail
manner of opinions and sentiments, does so sap
one’s moral constitution, weakening slow, but
certain, as the wash of the wave against the
rocks, or the gnawing of a worm at the roots of
t-mnsxn n’o nni Vi’ innl noVVA ATI tl fl hrfl. mRlxI D
Look-Out Mountain,—so famed for its
natural sublimity—is now adding to its alrea
dy high claims as a delightful summer resort.
Mr. A. R. Thomas, proprietor of the Natural
Bridge House, on top of the mountain, is build
ing new cottages on that elevated and pic
turesque point, improving the grounds, and en
hancing in various ways the attractions of the
place. The natural curiosities and scenic gran
deur of Look-Out, although its highest, are not
its only charms. The exhilerating atmosphere,
the fine water, the quiet of the little village
with its summer hotels and vine covered oot-
tages, sleeping under the blue sky 2,600 feet
above the sea level, the winding paths that lead
to shaded nooks and rocky seats, where one may
read, or dream, or feast the vision on
a glorious prospect—all these advantages
come to mind when one thinks of Look Out as
a summer home. Nor can the material advant
ages be forgotten by one who has once eaten a
dinner in the breezy dining-room of the Natu
ral Bridge House, where the plentiful fare is so
nicely prepared, the creams, and fruits, and ve
getables so fresh that the most fastidious dis_
peptic must needs be satisfied. *
A \en Agricultural Magazine.—
We have previously noticed the advent of a
new publication devoted to the farming inter
ests of the South—the South Georgia Agricultu
rist, a monthly magazine, published in Thom-
asville, Ga. The long and loving study and
practice of agriculture by the editor—Col. L. C.
Bryan—enables him to bring a full mind to his
task of instructing the farmers of our land in a
science in which new processes are constantly
being discovered. The March and April num
bers of the magazine keep the promise which
we noted in the initial number. The editor
gives an individuality to his periodical. His
own ideas, illustrated by his own experience
and observation, impart freshness as well as
practical value to every dapartment. Though
the selections are good, the magazine is no
mere work of the scissors, with the cut-and-
dried character of such a publication. All the
editor now needs is to get his neighbor farmers
to send him the results of their experiments
and observations, in the shape of short commu
nications. Let the good farmers of his section—
the banner county of agriculture in Georgia—
interchange ideas through his magazine. *
Robert Bonner and His Pads.—The
Gainesville Eagle does the Ledger man injus
tice in saying he has quit literature and gone to
selling patent medicines. Bob, the Fad man,
says that “Bonner, of the Ledger, is an Irish
man, and that he is a Georgia gentleman,” He
is making a grand success of his pads, and
from the written testimony which he is reoeiv-
Public Executions.—It is certainly time
that this revolting and demoralising custom of
public executions was abolished in all civilised
communities. The most awful duty of sooiety,
that of taking life which we cannot give, should
be performed in the most solemn, secret and
impressive manner, with its horror heightened
by all the fearful auxiliaries of secresy, mystery
and Bilence. Instead of which, it is made an
exhibition gratis to a curious rabble, who crowd
around the public scaffold to torture with their
unfeeling stare the last moments of the doomed
man; to swear and fight and get drunk and com
ment, and grow more hardened by being famil
iarised with a punishment which, to be proper
ly feared and dreaded, should have attached to
it the mystery and unspeakable horror that en
veloped the inquisition of old, and rendered
its very name a thing to chill the blood |with
terror. *
“Heavenly Tidings.”—It gave us pleas
ure to meet, at the late Sunday School Con
vention, Mr. John Fairbanks, of the firm of
Fairbanks & Co., publishers and booksellers, of
Chicago, Illinois.
Mr. Fairbanks had an interesting selection of
Sunday School supplies of all kinds on exhibi
tion, noticeable among which, was “Heavenly
Tidings,” an illustrated paper for children,
Pictorial Primary Lesson Paper by Mrs. W. F.
Crafts, and the Primary Monthly.
Mr. Fairbanks is a relative to our clever
friend, Mr. Charles Fairbanks, artist and en
graver, of this city, and the handsome Miss
lEmma, his sister.
ing from the best people in the country, they
are doing incalculable good. Col. R. F. Mad
dox, a prominent and well-known citizen of
Atlanta, has written him the following note:
Robert Bonner, Esq., Atlanta, Ga.:
I have less confidence in patent medicines
than almost any man; that there is some vfttue
in the “Hollman Pad,” I have no doubt I was
afflicted with Sciatica for six months, and tried,
it seems, a thousand remedies. Hot Springs,
Arkansas, among the rest, and found no relief,
I tried the Hollman Pad, and in thirty-six
hours I slept very soundly, something I had not
done in six months, and I am now entirely re
lieved. The credit is due to the “Hollman
Pad.” Respectfully, R. F. Maddox.
The Coronation of the the May Queen will be
performed at the Opera House on the 17th of
May for the benefit of the Memorial Association.
It will be followed by an elegant supper for the
same purpose. The Coronation—in the form of a
drama—was written especially for the occasion,
and its rehearsal and general direction are under
the management of Mrs. Lyons of this city, a lady
whose fine taste and talent eminently fit her for
the task. No puns will be spared to make the
entertainment a beautiful and unique one. Be
tween thirty and forty young girls will be upon
the stage, and speak and act different parts. The
tableaux alone will be worth seeing, and when we
remember the noble purpose for which the enter
tainment is given, we cannot doubt that a crowded
house will reward the.efforts of the ladies of the
Memorial Association. *
The London Athencewm warmly praises the
terations which Miss Neilson has made in
Juliet, especially in subduing the balci
scene.