The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, October 05, 1878, Image 1

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» WE riflWERS COLLECTIOi- vol. iv. TATTV TT QT?' \ T ‘v 1 EDITOR AND JOHJN II. ferjAljo, -j proprietor. ATLANTA. GA., OCTOBER 5, 1878. ! S3 PER ANNUM, J -C-K.A1 •>. j 1:s ADVANCE. No. 272. THE DEAR OLD HOME. O little house lost in the heart ofthe lindens, What would I not give to behold you once more! To inhale once again the sweet breath of your roses, And the starry clematis that climbed round your door— To see the neat windows thrown wide to the sun shine; The porch where we sat at the close of the day. where the weary foot trav’ler was welcome to rest him. And the beggar was never sent empty away; The wainscoted walls, and the low-raftered ceilings To hear the loud tick of the clock on the stair; And to kiss the dear face that bent over the hi hie, That always was laid by my grandmother’s chair! O bright little garden beside the plantation. Where the tali lleurs-de-lis theirblue banners un furled, And the lawn was alive w T lth the thrushes and black birds; I would you were all I had known of the world ! Jdy pink sweet-pea clusters! My rare honeysuckle! Aly prim polyanthuses all ofa row! In a garden of dreams I still pass and caress you, But your beautiful selves are forever laid low— For your walls, little house, long ago have been levelled; Alien feet your smooth borders.!) garden,have trod Andt hose whom I loved are at rest from their labors, Reposing in peace on the bosom of God! Tie Fancy Ball; —OR,— Which was the Hero? COSCUDED SEXT WEEK. BY MBS. M. E. B, ‘Will you go to the fancy balll to-night Har vey ?’ ‘Yes; I suppose so,’ answered the handsome sybarite, throwing away the Gloire de Djion rose he had boen smelling till all its odor and ' 3>'bress had ~cen aVicrboci. ‘In what character ?’ ‘Greek—Adonis. ’ ‘Adonis ! Upon my word that’s modest. I suppose you think your personal appearance will bear out the character.’ ‘Oi course,’ with a languidly audacious glance in the mirror that redacted hia perfectly propor tioned form and handsome features in the uni form of a Lieutenant of the U. S. A. ‘Then my dress is just perfect.’ •Undress rather. You’ll be sure to leave those limbs of yours to the frankness of pink flesh ings as much as possible. But who will be Venus to Adonis ?’ ‘Guess.’ ‘Not Mrs. Belton suiely ?’ ‘Why not? None but the rare and radinat Maud can look the character.’ ‘Why not ? why surely she and you have car ried that nansense far enough. Maud Belton is a married woman; you have paid her attentions so devoted as already to excite gossip.’ ‘A fig for gossip !’ ‘Very well for you to say so, yon whom gossip will not hurt—only put a feather in your cap—add to your reputation as lady killer and an Irresistible. But she—I never thought she would be so reckless. She must be mad—or in love with you, or she would not brave public opinion as she does.’ ‘Maud Belton is a disappointed woman,’ Harvey said as he pinched the silken ears of his beautiful Esquimaux dog. She married Belton to escape poverty and a shrewish step mother, but all the same she expected him to realize her romantic ideal; caught from Owen Meredith, Balzac, Bniwer and heaven knows who else. Belton is a plain, practical, money making fellow. He understands nothing of what women call their finer feelings, though he would be sure never to let her lack for any of the comforts money can buy, or for personal kindness either for that matter. But he doesn’t know how to pay delicate compliments, or to look at her with a ‘world of love in his eyes’ as k the novelists say; or to quote poetry and sing love songs.’ ‘And Lieut. Harvey Blair does.’ ‘Just so. It is a gift from mother Nature, and besides I have had plenty of practice.’ ‘I should think you had; Harvey you’re twenty eight; it’s time to settle down.’ ‘Settle down for what? Settle down and vegetate as you are doing, working day in and day out to keep a woman well dressed and raise a lot of troblesome babies. I beg your pardon Hal, your wife is a dear little soul, but such a monotonous life don’t suit me. I am bound to live while I do live. It won’t be for long; all my people die young. Ihavntasingle one of my kindred left that I know of. As only a short span is allowea me, I’ll cram into it all the variety I can.’ ‘It is for this reason I suppose that you are making love to Belton's wife?' ‘Not altogether: Maud Belton is a glorious creature. Romance is her natural element, and love the homage appropriate to snch a queen of beauty. Besides she is one of Shakspeare’s beings of ‘infinite variety,’ and I am studying her phases—her moods and tenses.’ ‘And how does the husband like that kind of business. I did not think Belton would tamely submit to seeing his wife taken up with your society; either singing and reading to you in her parlor, riding and walking with you, or whirled about in your arms at balls, as no wife of mine should be.’ ‘Belton’s a good fellow; not very bright. He thinks because he owns the woman, she is his heart and soul. He has too much faith in her and too much esteem for himself to be jealous, though I own he seems a little nneasy, and I have seen a flash in his eve lately when it caught mine that—’ 'Scared, yon did it?’ ‘No, that roused the imp of the perverse, and set me to flirtiDg yet more desper ately with his pretty wife. If he were not so taken up with his child he might not be so obtuse to Maude’s carry ing on. But bis little girl is his idol.’ ‘Yes he takes her to the store with him every day, Indeed I think the little one would suffer from neglect, if he were not more attentive to it than the fashionable mother. Where are you go ing now ?’ ‘I told you I had an en gagement with ma belle, and I am late. ’ But late as it was Harvey Blair had to wait in Mrs. Beltons parlor before the mistress of the house appear ed. There had just been a stormy scene enacted in her dressing room. Belton had caught up town some faint wfiisper of the gossip that linked his wife’s name with young Blair’s—a whisper that was like a thunder bolt to him, startling him to a knowledge fo how blind he had been. True, of late, he had been amazed by Harvey’s frequent visits and atten tions to his wife, but he had not imagined, there was anything really wrong in these attentions, and he had given them little thought, absorbed as he was in busi ness cares. Now, however, his eyes were opened. His wife bad subjected herself to censure—thoughtlessly, innocently, he felt sure. He hastened home and going directly to her room told her gently that Lt. Blair’s attentions must cease, that they had provoved ill-natur ed comment. To his snr- .sae laughed «i u. ‘Comment from a pack of envious gossips,’ she cried, though she blushed scarlet, and pulled savagely at her curls as she stood before the mirror, dressing her rich hair. ‘I will not suffer such a set to dictate to me, and control my actions. I sion that he was somewhat | to blame himself. She was | such a sensitive, ardent, so- j cial creature, so fond of, praise and petting; and he was snch a home keeper, such a plain, undemonstra- . tive fellow, though he loved her dearly and would have j given his life for her. He in her words. from her mother and altogether unlike her. Please God, my daughter shall be a true and pure woman.’ His words cut her to the heart. ‘Pure! then yon think I am—’ She did not finish the sentence. She drop ped her head on the table she sat by and sobs shook her from head to foot. He was touched by the ring of indignant pain 1 He stood looKing at her a mo- resolved to be different in ! ment, then with his child in his arms, he left future, to be less neglect- '< the room. ful and reticent, to go with | That night he received a challenge from St. her more into society, to read such books and culti vate such tastes as she admir ed—even to try to like the operatic music—all sound and fury—that he detested. He thought to find Lieut. Blair to a duel to take place next morning He wrote briefly declining to accept the challenge. He said he held his life too sacred a trust, and of too much value to him, for his child’s sake if for no other consideration, to risk it in any such way. He went to Maude’s room with Blair’s note Blair gone, and Maud alone, j in his hand. and as he hoped, in a softer mod. But lights were burn ing in the parlor. Through the half open door he heard Harvey’s tenor singing to a piano aeompaniment; ‘Would we had never, never met, Or that this heart could now i forget ‘How bright, how blessed it might have been Had I-’ale not darkly frowned between.’ He stood listening to the last note, then he advanced to the partially open door and stood just outside in the shadow. He saw Harvey take his hat to go; saw Maud pull a cluster of tube roses ‘Lt. Blair Las challenged me to a duel,’ he | said to her. She looked around white as death, her lips ! parted with terror. ‘Aod I have declined it,’ he added. The blood | surged back to her cheeks, tears of relief rush ed to her eyes, and yet with strange perversity, ; her lips curled and she said: Like a coward. He smiled with a deep sadness in his eyes. ‘I came here for no more bitter words,’ he said. ‘I came here to say to you that I have determined for the child’s sake and for the sake of the love I still bear you, ^o wait longer before taking any steps to secure a divorce. I will wait and see if you mean to change. I have heard that you intend to go to the fancy ball Thurs day night with Lt. Blair, and in a dress that no modest woman would wear. If you do this, all is at an end between us. I will separata from you With his child in his arms he left the room. old enough and have sense enough to mind my own business. I can take care of myseP.’ ‘Maud, you talk like a girl; not like a wo man who is a wife and mother. It is time yon became less of a butterfly. It is time you re alized your duties more fully.’ ‘What duties Sir ?’ ‘Duties as head of a home, as mother of a child, as wife of a husband who has given you every comfort you desired, gratified every wish you have expressed and who has a right to some consideration in return.’ ‘You are generous to remind me of what you have done for me.’ ‘I do it only to recall you to a sense of right and justice. If such considerations do not move you, surely a regard for the world’s opinion should. Will you let your name be smirched by scandal.’ ‘I defy the pack of nosing busybodies. They shall see I do not care for them. Wait till next Thursday night. I will go to the fancy ball with Harvey Blair; he is a gentleman, the son of my father’s triend. I know no reason why I should avoid his society. I am not afraid of his saying or doing anything to hurt me.’ ‘You m ust not go to the hall with him Maude. ’ ‘Must not Sir?’ ‘Must not Madam.’ It was the first time she had ever seen this calm, self-controlled man excited. She admired him. He was almost handsome with that flash in his eye. But it passed in a moment, he quieted down and talked to her in a gentle, reasoning way, and then he seemed again plain John Belton—a thoroughly honest, honorable man, but no hero, incapable of entering into her feelings, incapable of the fervent, impas sioned love that her admirers and her mirror told her she should inspire—a cold, common place man, nay a kind of tyrant, who wished to restrict her pleasures, to deny her the intellect ual gratification of communion with a mind that was congenial to hers—a soul that could sym pathize with the yearnings that filled her breast —^yearnings that reached beyond the dull round of domestic duties and such social recreations as the envious, spiteful town afforded. To think he. should throw up to her the gossip of these small, groveling minds—gossip she despised, and would show them she cared nothing for. But she did care for it, and she felt keen twinges of self-rebuke as her husband talked and this helped to irritate her, so that tears and bitter words came fast, and in the midst of it all, came Harvey’s ring at the door. Her husband hit his lip, but he said: ‘Go in and tell him you cannot go with him Thursday evening. Let him know that his vis its had best be discontinued. You can do so without making him an enemy. He has some sense I take it, if he does play the fiddle and write poetry.’ A scornful look was her only answer; she was bnsy removing the traces of tears. Flushed and agitated, she had never looked lovlier than when she entered the parlor. Harvey rose from the piano as soon as the rustle of her dress was heard at the door He came forward to meet her. ‘Something has troubled you,’ he said, as he took her hand and looked down into her face. ‘Your lashes are wet with tears; who could have been so cruel as to make such eyes Bhed tears ?’ She colored deeply. She knew that glance was all too ardent for a wife and mother to re ceive. She oast down her eyes and withdrew her hand. ‘Yon will be pale at the ball, and Yenus must wear all her roses.’ ‘I am not going to the ball.’ am | ‘Not going? Dear Mrs. Belton, tell me what from a vase and give it to : him; saw him bend his 1 head and kiss both flowers and hand, and heard him | say: ‘I am glad you have assert- ed your independance and J will go to the ball. I had something tc ask you about j my costume, but it escaped j me. I will ask you to-mor- ! row when we drive. Don’t i ic enr drGb a' five 1 o’clock. You will be sure to i Basques are again in the world of dress. g 0 1‘ ' | Long cloaks will be worn this winter, plain John Belton could not aD( l trimmed, stand any more. He strode | AH wool suitings come in light and dark coi- into the room and stood be- ; ora fore the military AdoDis. No sir, Mrs. Belton will not go with you ei- immediately ’ Her eyes flushed defiantly. He was dictating to, threatening her. He should not humble her so. ‘Nevertheless I shall certainly go,’ she said. ‘And I shall as certainly do as I have said,, he answered. (concluded next week.) Fashions. dark has happened? You will Dot speak? then I must guess. I feel morally certain that some foolish gossip has reached your ears; is it not so ?’ ‘Yes—I—that is my husband,heard that—that ‘That ‘they said I was paying too much attention to you. Well I expected nothing bet ter, only I did tnink you had too much sense and soul to regard their envious tattle. Bat— it has caused you tears; it must come to an end —my pleasant intercourse with yon—the one woman in this town for whose society I cared a straw. The one woman who has a soul above flounces or puddings. It must end. I will not be the cause of sorrow to you, who are so de I mean whom I esteem so highly !’ Harvey walked about the room as he talked, and tumbled his dark hair and looked like an ideal Claude Melnotte or Ernest Maltravers- And Maud felt herself a wronged and misun derstood woman—only appreciated by this noble nature, who was now to be debarred from her society forever. He came up to her, where she sat pale and troubled. •Dear friend,’ he said, ‘forgive me for having been the cause of those tears. I will go away from you and never trouble you with my pres ence any more. I thought that my solitary life might be blessed with one sweet friendship, but it must not be. I do not blame you that you re gard the gossip of an ignorant few more than you care for my society. I know you have your position to sustain and your husband to please. I am nothing but an idle, profligate fellow, fit only to amuse a leisure hour, and to be tossed aside at will. Fate has always denied me a true friend, I ought not to have hoped for snch a boon. I will say good-bye now, and come no more.’ He held out his hand, hut Maud did not take it. She could not give him up—this handsome, gifted young visitor, who only asked for her friendship. His delicate, adroit flattery was so sweet to her, who had been accustomed to men’s praises from her cradle. He flattered her with his eyes, his rapt attention when she sang. Then he was such a hero, so brave, so gallant. Did not the papers praise his heroism in that fight with the Indians over in the far Territories? And was it not because of his wound that he was here in barracks for the time, with a regiment that was not in active service. He would go back now, he would go away—her handsome es cort that all the girls had envied her. He had said she was the one woman in the town whose friendship he cared for, and she was turning away from him, as good as driving him from her presence, No, she could not do it; she was like a charmed thing under the gaze of those dark eyes, and she said breathlessly: ‘No, don’t go away; I did not mean it I don’t care, let them talk.’ ‘But your husband ’ ‘He is not my master—I am no slave, for him to dictate to.’ ‘No; but I should be your slave if I were your husband !’ And Maud knew that speech was wrong, bnt it was so softly murmured and it was uttered as if involuntarily. She forgave it and gave her self up to the charm of his sooiety. An Lour after, John Belton came back from his store, where he had been posting his books, for times were bard and he had been obliged to dispense with a book keeper. He had thought over Maud’s conduct and come to the oonclu*, ther to-morrow or at any other time; understand that.’ Do you think so ?’ queried Harvey, insolent ly arching his eye brows,but taking care to move nearer the door, for Belton's eye looked dange rous. Maude was terrified for a moment, then she laughed sneeringly: ‘At five, Lieutenant, I will be ready,’ she call ed out, and he bowed low aR be left the room. She ran up to her own chamber and closed the door. John did not seek to speak with her. He felt he could not trust himself. He went in the nursery and slept, ns he often did, with his little child in her trundlo bed. As the clock struck five the next afternoon, Lt. Blair’s horses and buggy were at the door. Throwing the reins to a servant, he ran up the steps, rang the bell and was admitted just as Maude came down the steps, trailing her ashes ^ of roses silk behind her. She was pale and cast i Q ar f ai jji on reporter has had a peep into such nervous glances at the closed library door, sue , an 0 p en j n g > aD) j itemizes as follows concerning knew her husband was in the room. Lt. Blair ; ^0 maaner 0 f garments the masculine world met her with outstretched hand and eyes a-beam : wi jj ^ on season> with admiration. i ‘The black dress-coats in which husbands, ‘My sweet, brave friend, he exclaimed in his k ro th e rs and lovers martyr themselves in order ot moinitnunatin vninfl. fhe librarv door open-i to form a background for the many colors of The leading fashion in suitings is grounds, with shadings of red and blue. Plaids will figure largely in the arranging of toilets, both for ladies and children. The famous Scotch ginghams, with various plaids, are expected to make quite a show in winter toilets. A dress from Pingat, the famous man-dress maker of Pari3, has the skirt formed of dark plaid gingham. The princess composing the top garment, is made of plaid a shade or two lighter. The vest, sash, cuffs and collar are dis posed in velvet. Fashionsfor Men J It is a popular falacy that only the ‘female woman,’ with her butterfly mind, concerns her self about the changes of fashion. Not so; many of the sterner sex aspire to be the ‘glass of fash ion and the mould of form;’ and men have their fall openings as well as women, only they don’t make quite such a flutter and fuss about them. best melodramatic voice. The library door open ed; John Belton strode up to the two, a set, de termined look on his massive face. ‘Come back to your room, madam,’ he said, seizing his wife’s hand, drawing it through his arm and holding it fast. ‘And you, sir, leave this house and enter it no more. Go!’ He_ en forced his words with a tight grasp upon the Lieutenant’s shoulder and a strong push that feminine dress will for this season fit closely to the manly waist. The lapel, through which runs a miuutely embroidered seam, must reach the lowest button, and must roll towards the neck as symmetrically as an ocean wave curls around a circular stone. Overcoats are to be worn loose, because it is ordained proper for the manly form to grow stout; and the gayer sent the lady-killer outside the door of the hall. ; colors and plumper folds are to aid garniture Then he drew his wife into the sitting-room, de- j f or the throat. Trowsers are to show symptoms spite her efforts to free herself from the strong ■ 0 f drapery, and morocco is to take the place of grasp. He locked the door, then released her and stood looking at her. She clenched her hands and stamped her little foot in rage. ‘You shall repent this,’ she cried. ‘0h! you shall repent it! You have begun your role of leather for evening shoes, while in the street men are to stalk in double-soled flat-boats; felt hats are to be as much in vogue for men as for young girls and the younger matrons. And it is indispensible to remember that the walking- coat, which may be as outre in fabric as is agree A Southerner on Politics. tyrant; yon think to make me your obodient : able to the wearer, must be cut according to the slave, but you shall see what I will do.’ (especial choice of wearing the coat buttoned ‘You may do what yon like a few days hence,’ with one, two, three or four-bat never five- he answered, coldly. ‘It will no longer be any- buttons, and so that no heretical wrinkle shall thing to me. I will to-morrow institute pro- mar tbe smoothness of the chest, codings for a divorce. I can no longer endure- your conduct. I will leave you in possession of this honse and will take my child and make me a home elsewhere.’ A divorce! She had never thought of it be fore. Was it possible he would separate from her? Yes, she saw determination written on his face. The child had been playing on the floor. She left her doll honse and came to her father’s side, gazing amazedly into his stern face. She had never seen that loved face wear such a look. Mande’s eyes fell upon the upturned face of her little May. He wished to rob her of^the child. ‘Your child,’ she repeated, in choked tones. ‘It is my child. Do you think I would give her up ? Do you think I would let you take my child from her mother?’ ‘Mother!' bitter scorn was in his tone. ‘Yes I am her mother, and she loves me; she will stay with me. May, my darling, come to me,’ Bnt the child shrank back from the out stretched arms and clnng to her father’s knee. He canght her up in his arms and kissed her passionately. ‘The child knows her best friend,’ he said. •She shall go with me. No jury would give her to a mother who had proved so recreant to her trust. She shall never be left with snch an in fluence around her. She shall grow up away Mr. E. J. Ellis, member of Congress from Lou- esiana, known as an orator, said to a reporter at the Westminster Hotel to-day that it would be impossible to express the heartfelt gratitude of the Southern people for the generous treatment they have received from the North in the deep affliction caused by the terrible scourge now devastating so many once happy and prosper ous Southern homes. Politics, Mr. Ellis said, was almost, if not entirely, lost sight of while the South was so afflicted. He touched only casually upon the latter subject. The Maine election, Mr, Ellis said, was a rebuke to the ex tremists who usually controlled the politics of that State. He thought Mr. Hayes had been sustained and Mr. Blaine rebuked. The result would also materially aid the Greenback cause. Perhaps, Mr. Ellis farther said, that while the Democrats' honestly believed they carried the country and elected their president in 1876, yet a dispute arose, and for the sake of harmony the question was submitted to arbitration. Dem ocrats and Republicans voted for a commission to arbitrate. He did not see that any good could result in reopening the question at this late day. The next Congress Mr. Ellis thinks, will be Democratic. The South will not be affected by the National movement so much as the North will. It will be solidly Democratic.