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CCLLKjir,, J. H. & \v B. S SA [>’ -f ®>rrors A ^o " 1 proprietor* ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY. XOVE.MIiER !). 1878. by anna cleaves I’ve seen a face to-day 1 have not seen in years • Strange that so sweet a fare Should till mine eyes with tears, As spirit of one dead It beamed upon my sight ■ And with it all the past Came back in vivid light. Time had not spared its marks }>on that cheek and brow;' what I saw was not. What other eyes see now. A beauty undefined— A smile surpassing sweet: 1 he which to gain I would Have fallen at his leet. as no good an ire I near 0 To whisper of mv need’" To point him where I stood And with his heart to plead ? hav e louched hishand- 1 ut something at my heart T vv ,n , < ';. altll " u -l' *<> near, vv e still were worlds apart. ■And so I turned away Ah "weiYA' 1 U,e ? 1 ' , > r)i,i Pain; A.i well I know that face l 11 never see again. TER U S \ ANNi m. U1 I .FI Q ) INA.DVANCK OR,—. OUGHT M THE MlUm Complete in one Number, BY MAJOR F. GRANT, ‘I Khali answer plainly Mr. Richardson w h8 ( t vd^iPiphl - 1 vaet/it-r ui y ‘nanif mnBt U1V JV. A - has been promised to another, and I reply with the frankness which I trust has ever character ised tny speech in yonr presence, that it has.’ The tall, dark-faced, bnt handsome man, who was the beautiful girl’s only auditor, turned his face partly away at her last words and clenched his handB. ‘Yon need not mention his name, Irene,’ he said bitterly over ashen lips. ‘It is known to me—known too well.’ ‘Long ago we met, before I first encountered yon,’the girl continued. ‘You cannot blame me.’ ‘No, poor child, when I know that yon do not know the truth.’ She started, and the color left her cheeks. •Tell me what yon mean?’ she said, implor ingly, and her hand touched his arm. ‘No, I would not clond your young life for the world, though I feel that 1 do you wrong to keep back what I unfortunatety know.’ He took a step down the garden walk, but found the white-faced creature at his heels. ‘Tell me Henry—Mr. Richardson,’ she cried. ‘No.’ She did not see the expression that sat en throned on Henry Richardsons face as the monosyllable dropped from his lips. She could not know that he was eager to convey the in telligence she sought; bnt that he was keeping it down till the proper time. Again her hand touched his arm and held him there. ■it you ever expect to win the love of Irene Waring, tell me the secret which you withhold!’ she said. His time had come; his dark eyes flashed with the triumph of a cunning man, and drawing her quickly to him, he pressed his lips to her ear. One moment there they stayed, when Irene reel ed from him with a startling cry, and fell in a swoon upon a bed of mountain flowerB. ‘She would know it,’ the man said, gazing at the deathly face, fairer than ever in its pallor, and withont another word turned on his heel and heartlessly walked away. He had sowed the seed of a harvest which he, sooner than he had hoped, would reap. Without looking back to see if the servants had heard the cry of the swooning girl, the dark faced man passed from the garden and lost him self among the tortuous streets ot the western city. Everywhere excited crowds discussed the news which had lately arrived from the outly ing districts. A band of desperadoes which had long infested the mountains had committed some bold robberies, and several wealthy peo ple had suffered to the extent of their entire money possessions. An organization of vigi lantes had operated to no purpeB3 ; the haunts of the rascals were not revealed, and the people despaired of seeing a single one brought to summary justice. Henry Richardson did not avoid the groups of people ; but lie was not inclined to disems the important state of affairs. He was known as a rich man who took care of his own money, and did not care what became of the possessions of others. He passed to his own home in the suburbs of the city, mounted a horse and rode away. On, od, beneath the few golden stars that glitter in the sky the man urged his steed, unmindful of the spectre that almost noiselessly followed. Henry Richardson led his pursuer a long chase ; but it ended at last, and at the break of day a solitary horseman rode into Belmont City a smile of satisfaction on his rough tace. It was the man who had followed Irene War- ing's rejected lover through the night. It was night again, and once more Irene stood in the garden with a man, but not he who had sent her reeling to the earth with a word. Her companion was yonnger than the dark faced man, and each seemed created for theoth- ' ®r, while they stood faoe to face in the ambient NO, 177. The door moonlight, j-itb. -cut, y«atif5 mnu said, 8 flush cf indignation on his cheek. ‘1 never in all my life, said twenty words to Henry Rich ardson. He slanders me now for a purpose too dark to think ot without indignation. I, a rob ber—a member of that lawless band that infests this newborn State? Irene, yon do not believe it!' ‘No, Nathan.' Then he stooped and kissed her, to start sud denly at a sound which the night winds bore to his ears and to hers. They looked into each other’s face and invol untarily embraced. ‘What does it mean?' Irene said. ‘I hear yonr name above the imprecations of the crowd. They are nearing ns Hark ! the voice of Dick Swayne, the captain of the vigilantes.’ Despite his efforts to remain calm, Nathan Bertbold's face became very pale, and he would have started from the fair girl if she had not held him with a frenzied grasp. •Stay ! stay !' she cried. ‘Guilty or innocent, do not desert me here.’ He did not reply, but looked at her as if he half believed that she deemed him guilty. Meanwhile, the cries of the rapidly increas ing mob of exasperated men grew londer, and its destination soon became plain. The name of NathaD Berthold was bandied from lap to lip like a ball, but threats and curses, invariably- accompanied it, aDd the young man clenched his hands as he listened. The mob swayed and pushed its members be fore Jndge Waring’s residence, and soon drew the dignified gentleman to the step. Loud cries of “We want him!” “bring him out!" and other threatful sentences, greeted the jndge, aud when he had quieted the excitement, he addressed the mob. He declared that he did not know where Nathan Berthold was, that the youth was notin the house, that he had not seen him for several days. The Jndge uttered the truth in his reply to the mob ; but he was not believed, and a committee was appointed to search the premises. Bowing to the indignity which he eouldjnot resist, Jndge Waring stepped aside and the committee, six burly men, who re ally had the best interests of the community at heart, walked into the house. The domicile was quickly bat thoroughly searened withont result, as the reader has al ready guessed, for the man for whom they sought stood anxious in the garden, clasping the whit est hands ever seeD in Belmont City. All at once he started, for cries of “ the gar den ! the garden !” greeted his ears. A moment later the hnnters ponred into the paradise of flowers, and Nathan Berthold advanc ed to meet them. « Here I am, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘ I beg that yon do not trample any of Miss Irene’s flowers.’ The mobocrats were amazed at the youth’s calmness. In a moment he had banished fear and nervousness, and met them like a man. * We want you !’ said the spokesman of the party. ‘ You know for what.’ ‘ Yes,’was the answer. ‘But he has basely lied.’ * Who has lied ? Come, Mr. Berthold, do not commit yourself by counter accusations. Re ally, we do not know to whom yon refer.’ 4 'Tis easily told, sir. I mean Henry Richard son. He has accused mo for a purpose which I will not name hero.’ 4 You are laboring nnder a mistake. Henry Richardson has not accused you. He has not been in Belmont since yesterday, and he is ab sent now. No, sir The evidence of your guilt consists in certain stolen valuables found in your house, your night rides to the canyon, your —bnt enough ! W- never dreamed that you were leagued against the people who have re garded you so favorably. Come ! our folks are exasperated. If we can, we will shield you from their righteous indignation.’ Irene Waring stepped between her lover and the vigilantes. ‘Give him time to reply to your charges,’ she opened, and two - 1M®ared with pistols. l seese<l a ecu came the strange goods to'^ohr house ?’ The answer was quick and very firm. *1 do not know !' Th3 spokesman of the party turned with tri umph upon Irene. ‘It is a plot—a dark plot!’ she persisted. ‘The light will Rurely reveal it to the eyes of honest | people. Do not make yourself a party to it by she ading his blood.’ j ‘We never hang the innocent in Belmont!’ I was the reply. ‘Enough ! Na'han will come out of this tri- j nmphant. Gentlemen, consider him your pris- ; oner, and l shall hold you individually respon- | sible for his safety.’ ; The last speaker was the judge himself who ! had lately arrived upon the scene. I Nathan Berthold bowed his thanks to the dig nitary, for he knew that in him he had a friend whose influence was vast and powerful. He therefore placed himself in the hands of the cit izens who conducted him to the impatient crowd withont the garden. Loud cries greeted his appearance, and a rnsh was made upon the guard; but the show of weap ons oti the part of the six determined men kept them at bay. It was with extreme difficulty that the prison er was lodged safely in the city jail; but thanks to the presence of the judge, ana the firmness of the guard, this feat had been accomplished. But the danger that menaced unhappy Nathan Berthold, had not yet passed. Indeed, the hours seemed to increase rather than to diminish it. Excited people everywhere discussed the situa tion; there were men who added fnel to ttie flames, and a guard was placed around the not- over strong jail. ‘They will storm the jail before day !’ Judge Waring said to his wife upon his return from the street. ‘What will happen then !’ ‘Ah! do yon not know? What happened when the mob battered down the jail doors and dragged Tom Morgan out ?’ Mrs. Waring grew pale and cried: ■Not so loud ! Irene might hear yon, and not for the world—’ The judge's wife paused abruptly, for the door had been flung wide, and the lovely daughter stood on the threshold. ‘Storm the jail, will they ?’ she cried, with flashing eyes. ‘Not so long as Irene's hand can send the leaden messenger of death from this re volver!’ The stern judge started forward, as he caught sight of the silver-mounted weapon clutched in Irene’s right hand, and her name fell from his lips. ‘Irene, my child, yon know not what you say!' he cried. ‘You must not face such a set of fu rious men.’ •I will! I will do anything for him. Why, they would take his life for the plot of such a man as Henry Richardson, whom I rejected last night with scorn.’ ‘You did, Irene ?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Thank God ! I felt that yon would never give him yonr hand, and I, too, believe that he is at the bottom of this work.’ The last word was still quivering on the judge's lips when he was summoned to the door by a loud, imperious rap, A rough and bearded man stood on the stoop. ‘You are Dick Peters,’ the judge said, recog nizing his late caller. ‘That is so,’ said a hoarse voice. ‘Do you want to save him ? They will begin on the jail at daylight.' ‘Do I want to save him? Certainly!’ said War ing, starting at Peters’ last sentence, so full of dread import. But what can we do?’ ‘What we do must be dons within four hours! There is a certain man whom we want here in Belmont City—the chief of the robbers.’ ‘But to get him here before they storm the jail —that is the difficulty.’ because the moments are flying amt they art precious. Your daughter once did me a favor. My family were starving, and no one would suc cor them because Dick Peters was a shiftless cuss. But your daughter carried food to them. I want to repay her. Say nothing. Keep them from the jail as long as you can. Two of us are going. Good-bye, Judge.' ‘God bless you, Dick Peters’ was the fervent response, and the vigilante sprung from the sten and disappeared. The judge took bis bat and weDt out. The little city swarmed with people. A large crowd filled the square before the jail, and threats to lynch the prisoner at daybreak were freely indulged. Jndge Lynch held court not unfreqnently there, and the record that Bel mont City owned was dark and bloody. A search made by several for Dick Peters and another vigilante named Call Jeffrys, revealed the fact that they were not about,and much spec ulation followed. But no one saw the two steeds that were flying fom Belmont carrying two stal wart men far to the South. One led an extra horse. They did not hesitate to use the keen spur, and word and whip helped to urge the horses on. They seemed to be going for life. On the interior of a large and strongly built cabin, sat a party of men around a large table, well laden with mugs and glasses. The major portion were rough lookiug fellows, but there were some whose faces bore looks of refinement, and who would have passed for gentlemen away from the place. The company was hilarious, and rough toasts, jests and songs went round the board. Suddenly, the door was flung wide,and before the half drunken wassailers conhl recover, two giants pointed four pistols at them. Chairs were overturned by the startled robbers and many prepared for escape or assistance, when the voice dl the twain fell upon their ears. ‘We want but one man,’ said Dick Peters, for the speaker was the redoubtable vigilante. ‘We are going to take him. Ha! there he is! Mr. Richardson, you will please come with us.’ The face of the man at the table grew deathly pale, and with great emotion he got upon his leet. •You are the man!’ said Dick. ‘Sirs—’ ‘Don’t ‘sirs’ us, Mr. Richardson. We have no time for parley. We will argue the case in the Square at Belmont. No resistance, men. We’ll drop the first one that raises a weapon.’ The threat had the desired effect, and Henry Richardson, much agairst his will.st.epped from among the outlaws. He was conducted to the door by Dick Peters, while Jeffrys awed the crowd by two revolvers. ‘Mount!’ said Peters, pointing to the horse which had been led from Belmont, and the cap tured man suddenly filled the saddle. Then the vigilantes sprang upon their steeds, and with a ‘good-night’ to the few robbers who had followed them to the door, gave the spurs fair play, and were off like the wind. No shots were fired, no pursuit followed. It was evident that the robbers were not sorry for Richardson’s departure. ‘It was a pretty plan, but it failed,’ Peters said to the captive bat once during the ride. ‘I fol lowed you last night, and found yon out.’ Henry Richardson did not reply,but his down cast look and guilty face betrayed him. ‘Hark!’ said Dick suddenly, as he turned to the prisoner. ‘Do yon know what that means ?’ ‘No.* ‘They are storming the jail. YVe mast get along faster, else we will be too late.’ The day was breaking when the trio dashed into Belmont City. The mob were already bat tering away on the jail. Reckles-ly they rode into the square,and Dick Peters, rising in his stirrups, raised hiB voioe to the highest pitch. »ob h fr£:sr.,r n r, d „ b, " : tbe z« ot ">* powerful sledges HfJ ?„ °w" C - Cnmb to ready to spring ’ I De "to was ed into the P squ g aJe fcV ° 1Vferia band - raah - ‘ fA 7T BtJ . IuJOat « Wildest time ! the^man who i h t unVM gW ' 8 u h,1 u d ’ whpD vigilantes. b *1 head, between the A paler man n™ 1St m . ° t,je prisoner's face. ; rv ikZZ^tiZY! 1 8,irr "P*’ munaged to tell,1 f 6 tb<? crowfl ‘ bnt listeners. * StarUed and exasperated his j He nad played for Irene’s fair hand, and lost ! Diet r„t„» hi ’°° c, '“'i“ vod 'ter mcb ? ,dm ,mi - ES: ‘ Monte Ciisto’s Daughter.’ A writer in London Truth. Oct. 10 giving account of Marie Alexandre Dumas, daughter of ; the eldest novelist of that name/or ?Mo n £ I Cmto s Daughter,’as she was foud of calling i i h cotina n v?- ¥ i ^ri7L°r f !H e i p™ ™bV,»5S n h "Lu°h“ h“ if, f R2° a ^d her illustrious half-broth, the most pronounced features, and all out of harmony with each other of the Jewish, negro and Norman races. The eyes of pale turquoise blue stood out from their orbits. They express ed the faculty for learning languages, hut they impressed the beholder with the painful idea of strangulation. There was a patch of coarse red in the yellow cheeks, which, in cold weather, became bluish. The nose was heavy and aqui line, and the mouth pure African. An even set of white teeth were the one redeeming point. The figure, which was separated from the head by a virile neck, hirsute as that of the femme a barhe, was grace and symmetry themselves, and never lost elasticity or yonthfulness of outline. ‘ Marie Alexandre Dumas married, 28 years ^ ago, aM. Petel, who want out ot his mind the day after the wedding. He was taken from the bridal chamber to be confined in a lunatic asy lum. When he came out he refused to see his wife, and in speaking of her did not show the reserve which was to have been expected from a man of his education. It was his duty, accord ing to the French code of gentlemanly manners, to have kept silence about her neck, aud to have stood to her in the relation of a friend whose in terests were identical with his. ‘ A French gentleman rarely forgets that if he is not to close’the eyes of his wife and bury her. she will be called to perform those melancholy duties to him. The hapless grass widow had affairs of the heart which ended cruelly for her. Charlotte's Bronte’s Jane Eyre inspired her with a passion for a manufacturer of chemical pro ducts, who was also a savant and nomine de let- tres. His fortune was considerable, and he had lost his eyes in a factory explosion. It was this fact, coupled with his personal qualities, which gave him value in her estimation. She solaced him with her readings of Lamartine and DeMnsset and with her sympathetic conversa tion, Things converged toward a Rochester and Jane Eyre denouement whan the wife came back. This spoiler of the romance that was be- iug built up was a pretty woman of the hussy tribe, who had run away from the conjugal dom icile to Mexico. The news of the husband’s ca lamity called out a feeling of tenderness for him and brought her back to Paris to claim him as her own. The memory of her charms soft ened the heart of the man she had betrayed, and she had the address to make him believe that he was falling into the hands of a sharp, mon ey-loving woman, whom nature had expressly created to afford amusement to peasants at vil lage fetes. Religion chased away the suicidal ideas into which the dame barbne fell, and Victor Hugo, bearing of her cruel disappoint ment, conceived the plot of L’Homme qui Rit. Our Baby. How bright has been our home since we’ve had a baby in it. What a world of sunshine floods our pathway. The flowers bloom all the brighter because Baby loves their pretty looks, and birdie’s songs are all the sweeter, because they are the lully- bie’s to cradle him to sleep. We have no time now, to be wearied, and worried with life, be cause oar baby’s laugh chases away the shadows, from heart, and brow. Papa comes home earlier to tea, to see how pretty the picture looks of baby, in her pretty crib. The rough winds of our married life, have all blown to somebody’s house where no baby lives The air we breathe, is mild and sweet as a June rose, just baptizsd in the glorious dews of Heaven, and on our baby’s brow we read the title page to all that is worth living for on earth : While on his breast willlie Sweet flowers of hope To crown us till we die. Some girls are like old muskets; they oarry great deal of powder, but don’t go ofl.