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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.