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EDITORS AND
PROPRIETORS
ATL \m, GA„ SATURDAY .MAY
TERMS I
f PKK ANNUM
IN AUYANCK.
pio, uor never will be. unless you renew your
broken pledge and give me this little hand. Will
you forgive my pride and jealousy and be mine
after a:*, dear Lute f
The sun sank ou' of sight at that moment The
Easter day was done. It had begun in such pain
and gloom to little Lute, it ii:id ended in such ra-
diant iov.
THOUGHTS AMONG THE CONFEDERATE DEAD
BY TRAVIS.
Breathe softly, winds ol April morn
With sighs that seem as sad as ours
And let the blended plaint be borne
Along with breath of tribute flowers
Till all this burial ground so dear
Is filled with perfume s s jbtle waves
For woman brings sweet flowers here
To deck the mounds of fallen braves.
Speed April winds to woods afar,
To fields and blooming gardens near,
Where shines each blossom like a star;
Steal Its rich breath and bear it here;
Ttiat upward, to the waiting skies
From sacri d altars of the dead,
The mingled incense may arise
In circling honors overhead.
For here are dead from all the South,
Whose brave devotion conquered hate
Till even their foes with tardy mouth
Now praise the deeds that made them great
And Northern soldiers at each grave,
Bend low with awed and honoring knee;
The brave will honor still tne brave
No matter what their cause may be
They feel a cause should cast no blame
Upon its soldier in the fight
When all is done in honor’s name
That honest soldier holds is right.
’Tis true his wrath in battle smoke
May kindle when the sabres meet,
But vengeance ceases with the stroke
That lays its victim at his feet.
And pity stoops with heart all warm
And eyes that drop the kindly tear,
And seeks to win the bleeding form
To life, witli all a brother's care,
And wounds of hate by love restore
’Till gra itude by kindness won
Made earnest pledge to fight no more,
But heal the wrongs that both had done.
’Twas such true souls that saved our land
From further blood when peace was made;
That frowned upon the dastard hand,
Which, though the foe in dust was laid.
Would strike him still. 'lAioae spirits cast
lnn.it/iefmouldfnrdi v ider~VTc»,
And showed us we must leave the past
And bind our interests anew.
Must lift once more the blighted brow
And make re-bloom our trampled soil,
While soldier’s children hold the plow
And learn how blest is honest toil.
Thus time has soothed the wrong and wrath,
And noble fortitude has won
For patient lis-es an aftermath
And watching nations say. “well done,"
But ye, who perished in the cause
Your gallant hearts had held so dear,
Oh ! still we bid file's current pause
One day of all the rolling year,
And leave the world’s mad roar and rush
To mingle memories sad and sw< et
With sighs and flowers and music's gush—
As incense for your spirits meet.
To tell, though buried here, you five
In faithful hearts; jour flag though furled
Bears still a record that sh 11 give
Your fame for ages to the world.
Then hush j’e winds, or only mourn
For living, loving hearts bereft,
And let j'our sighs with ours be borne
Back to those homes In shadow left,
And breathe to angels guarding there,
Our praj ers to bear to heaven's throne,
That the All-Father’s tenderest care
Around those lonely hearts be thrown.
and embracing his wife, walked home with her;
and they lived together in great harmony from that
time till the day of his death. ”
How they could, is the mystery; tor it is inconceiv
able that a woman of any spirit could submit quiet
ly to such an insult, and enter again w ith any heart
iness into the second sacred relations that had been
so wantonly outraged. At ieast, the woman of
the present day finds it hard to believe such facts;
but I suppose^he wives of the past century were kept
in better subjection.
A somewhut simiiar case, on American soil, had
a different ending. The deserting husband did re
ally take himself to parts unknown, and stayed
away, not for seventeen but for thirty years.
YY hen he returned, his wife—who had to supDort
her children by her own hard labor, and whose life,
as we may suppose, had had more than its share of
bitterness—refused to recognize any marital claim.
A grown up son, himself a husband and father, re
ceived the wanderer into bis own house; and there
he stayed, meanly content to accept support from
one who certainly owed him little filial reverence.
A daughter of this man, who had been an infant
when he abandoned his family, grew up, married,
and imitated his virtuous example by deserting her
husband and little child for a man, who in turn de
serted her. And the bad blood, breaking out in a
third generation, made a criminal of the deserted
child before he reached manhood.
As a rule, the eccentric manifestations of matri
mony are masculine, at least the noticeable and out
rageous ones. Wherever there is power, there is
the opportunity of .tyrany; and the mere 6ense of
power is to some natures an irresistible temptation
to abuse it. A man marries a young, inexpe
rienced, confiding creature, who puts her destiny
in his hands with a fearless faith in his goodness,
and especially in his unending love for herself. He
has been the slave of her pretty caprices, the adorer
of her manifold perfections, throughout their court
ship; why should she not expect a continuance of
such adoration? But some men take toil after mar
riage for all the tribute they have pa d before, and
delight in humbling the woman whom they bowed
down to as sweetheart. I have seen men take pleas
ure in giving positive pain, mental and physical, to
their wives. I have seen a pretty, delicate, sensi
tive woman smile in her husband’s face with a self-
control that was marvelous, when her nerves were
quivering with the shock of some rude practical joke
or her heart sore with the sting of some cruel
speech. It was not that she offended him, or that,
in his way, he did not love her: but she belonged to
him, and why should he not tease her if the humor
took him?
I knew a man once who called himself a gen
tleman, and was taken for one, who made a prao-
tice of blacking bis boots in his wife’s bedroom; not
because it was a convenient place, but because it
was particularly disa greeable to her. He had the
reputation, outside, of being a devoted husband.
Another man, when his wife made mention of
some courteous attention on the part of a mere ac
quaintance, answered her carelessly:—
“Oh, yes; he could afford to be polite. He does
not have to pay your board.”
The English Church has glorious memories. It
has done a great work, in past times, for Christ.
May God purify it—in the fires if need be—for a
still greater work in fighting the battles of the com
mon faith.
An important revival is reported in the city of
Mexico. It began in the Presbyterian Mission, and
the awakening nas become gene'ral in all the Prot
estant churches, Several .prominent citizens are
VISITING AND EXCEPTION TOILETS.-(From Demo.-est for May.)
“What was the trouble, Eva ?”
“Oh, jealousy and pride,” answered Eva as she
drew on her gloves, “bet's go; there is nothing
more to be done and—”
“Merry Easter, friends,” said a man’s rich voice
from the door. “Have you no welcome for an old
friend P'
“Why Mr. Thorne, we were just speaking of you!
When did you com-’ ? so glad to see you, and a
chorus of voices welcomed him as he sauntered
gracefully out. from the shadows and looked around
upon each pretty face and going among them,
shook the hands that were stretched out to him,
for he was a favorite among the young ladies. A
gay, good-humored fellow, graceful and witty,
tvith a frank, handsome f.<ee and brown curling
hair ou a white forehead, The shapely hand that
held the jaunty cap, the slender foot indicated good
blood.
Lute Parsons sat motionless in the shadow, listen-
ing to the girls as they rallied her quondam lover
upon his approaching marriage, hearing the clever
wav in which he turned off their teasing questions,
while their gay laughter grated upon her sick spirit.
Unseen from her hiding place, she watched the
face, the every movement of the man who had once
been her lover, almost her husband, now he be
longed to another, but she must meet him some
time. She rose pale, but composed. He looked to
wards her and flushed slightly. Then he approach
ed her, a- she stood by Miss Kingsley, the organist.
“I hardly expected to meet you here M ss Par
sons,” he said politely, as he shook hands with Miss
Kingsley. He d d not offer his band to Lute “Are
you well?”
‘‘Unusually well,” she returned coldly—he looked
keenly at her—there was no lovelight in her eyes—
no misty dew upon the lashes to whisper of their
past love.
She is heartless, he thought as he turned away
with a quiet smile upon his face.
Like a flash of lightning through her heart went
the thought, “He has seen my weakness and glories
in it. ”
All the pride of her nature arose at the thought
and with a strong effort she conquered her feel
ings. and bending her head slightly she passed him,
saying, “Good morning, Mr. Thorne,” and went
from him out into the balmy evening with an ach
ing heart.
The sun was setting in crimson pomp: the young
leaves were quivering in pure del ght, nature was
at variance with her chilled and dreary heart. As
she walked home, sweet odors assailed her from
blossoming gardens, and when she entered her own
pretty cottage home, the lamp was lighted, and
her sister Eunice was playine a merry waltz at the
piano, while the younger fry were skipping and
singing in the piazza.
Through the curtains she saw the cozy parlor; the
children had dressed the vases with fresh flowers
and twined wreaths of clustering, waxen Lady
Banksia about the windows and pictures.
Poor Lute: she could not meet them now, so she
crept up stairs to her own room, telling the servant
she was too tired to come down, and locking her
door she gave way to her grief.
One year ago she was Harry Thome’s promised
wife—all was ready—when they were parted. “On
ly a trifle,” sobbed Lnte to her sympathizing moth-
she did so, she caught his eye; keen, questioning,
mock.ng it seemed. She collected all her strength
arid began to sing. At first her voice trembled,
then it arose wonderfully sweet and clear; soon
die was conscious of a voice joining her—a tenor
rich and fu 1—now rising, now falling, fraught with
a pathos that thrilled her. She seemed enrapt; her
tyes bright, her color rising and burning in her
cheeks. She never sang better. Then the anthem
dosed Lute seated herself, the color fast dying
from cheek and lip; the lights danced to and fro,
whirled mazily together, and—Lute had fainted.
Harry Thorne sprung forward a d bore her
out, her head resting on his shoulder, and only yeild-
ed up bis burden at the door of her home.
It was late on Easter evening. Lute was pillowed
in her easy chair in her mother’s room. The father
said she was over-worked: deluded old father—the
mother knew it was heartache; she was in deep
thought: the sun was setting, the windows were
open to the fragrant air. She could hear the sound
of light voices and rattling vehicles, as people went
along the street.
It had been very quiet, until Lute gave one low,
sobbing sigh, ana clasping her arms around her
mother's neck burst into tears.
Just at this moment her sister Sylvia entered the
room.
“Lute, Harry Thome is in the parlor. Shall I
tell him you are too ill to see him ?”
Lute started—“Yes—no—wait, I will see him
myself.”
‘‘Why, Lute, are you crazy ?” interposed her
mother, who knew her child's heart and dreaded
this interview.
“No mother, bat I wish Harry Thome to see I—
am quite well. I am sure to day he thought that—
that he was the cause of my sickness. I want to
let him see how perfectly recovered I am—and to
congratulate him on his marriage.”
She was bathing her face and removing thY trace
of tears. Hurriedly, but carefully, she dressed and
went alone to the parlor. He was standing by the
centre table as she entered. He turned and came
towards her, bolding out his hand.
“I hope you are better,” he^ said, looking at her
keeenlv.
“Oh"! I am quite well again. It was only a mo
mentary faintness. I had been working too hard,
decorating the church, and it was so warm and
such a crowd. I thank you for your timely assist
ance. I—”
But at this point, she met his eyes, and faltered
under that thrilling, well-remembered look. She
stood flushing and silent.
“Lute, dear Lute, you love me still,” he sai 1, ta
king her hand and drawing her gently to him
“Mr. Thorne, how dare you, sir ! Remember—
your wife—”
“1 have no wife, Lute.”
“Did l not see her to-day—Miss Harrell ?”
“Miss Haarell was married to-day, Lute, but it
was to my friend, veung Dr. Winter. As we were
on our way to church after the marriage, the Doc
tor was summoned to see the child of an old friend
that had been taken very ill. He went as he ought
to have done, and left me to take his place as escort
to his bride.”
Lute drew a deep breath of happiness.
“Not married !” she said, half doubting still.
er. To-night she recalled it all. Harry had long
been jealous of Dick Vernon—a handsome, earless
flirt—and at a partv one night in a spirit of mis
chief she allowed Dick Vernon to wish his ring on
her finger — then she danced two or three
times with him. Then Harry told her Dick had
been drinking, and had made idle boasts
about her and he told her to return the ring: this
she promised to do with heightened color: for Lute
was proud of her name and was angry with Dick
Vernon. She would give him his ring with a severe
rebuke and never speak to him again. The fates
were against her. She could not find him, so she
had to keep the ring until they should meet.
Going home, Harry caught the sparkle of the dia
mond as the moon shone upon it. Then there was
a scene. He became furiously angry, and finally
told her to choose between them, and, when she
was silent, called her a soulless, designing flirt.
Lute was indignant.
“Harry Thorne, I neither love or respect you,”
she cried, drawing his ring from her finger and
dash ng it upon the piazza floor. “What blind in
fatuation possessed me to promise to marry you, I
cannot i magine. Jealous, suspicious being that you
are, I ”
She paused as she heard the receding steps of her
lover. He was gone; for a moment she gazed after
him. Then she hurried in with a face as white as
the camelia in her hair.
She stood, biting her lip and trembling a mo
ment, then she threw herself on the bed, sobbing
bitterly and repenting her folly and weakness;
how needlessly she had thrown away her happiness.
She saw all in' its true light now: her foolish co
quetry with Dick Vernon; his mocking smile at the
anger of Harry; her own trifling with her lover and
her unreasonable anger and taunts. But he would
come tomorrow, she consoled herself with thinking,
and she would sacrifice her pride and ask him to
forgive her. But he did not come that day nor the
next. A week passed and she learned that he had
gone to a neighboring town and there entered into
business. He visited Maysville at intervals, and
they met after awhile as mere acquaintances.—
But with her the wound had not healed; the old
love was alive and strong as ever. She knew it by
the pang that went to her heart when she heard he
was to be married to-morrow.
Easter morning came in sunshine and gladness.
Lute had schooled herself so that not even her
mother could detect her heart ache. At the usual
hour she was in her seat in the choir. “Bright-eyed
and smiling ; she does not care for him,” was the
verdict of her friends. Group after group came in.
Lute watched eagerly for Harry's coming Ser
vice had begun when he entered with a lovely girl
on his arm. She had seen Miss Harrell once before,
and she recognized the fair face in the white bridal
bonnet, the golden hair and violet blue eyes. So
it was all over. He was married ; there sat his
bride blushing and happy. How well he looked;
his eyes were turned upon the face at his side with
a look of teuder admiration. Lute forgot herself,
and her dignity and self-possession seemed to fail
her, she was sick at heart : she looked at the cler
gyman, what was he saying. Ah, he could not
minister to a mind diseased. At last she had to
sing. She felt it was impossible. Her brain reeled,
she put her hand to her head in a dazzled way. As
Lute Parsons' Easter.
How it Begun and how it Ended,
By ROSE GIFFORD.
A group of girls laughing and chattering in the
dim old aisle of St. John's in the April twilight
The choir was practicing the grand Easter anthem;
the last “finishing touches" had been given to the
beautifully decorated altar and chancel, and the
young ladies still lingered looking with admirat.on
upon their work and listening to the music, as it
rolled through the church, and rose heavenward,
through fesioons and arches of roses and snowball,
mingled with the deep green of ivy.
“The Lord has risen,” sang the chorus of harmo
nious voices, and among the singers one voice arose
—pure and clear, and yet with an undertone of
sadness—the anthem ceased and the singer seated
herself wearily, her pale ftice half in a shadow; her
brown eyes fixed upon the the scarlet letters, that
adorned the grey walls of the old church, uncon
sciously repeating slowly each word: ••Wonderful,’’
“Counselor, “King of Kings.” She was very
pretty from the rippling brown hair to the dainty
arched foot that peeped shyly from beneath her
dress. Yet, there was a shadow in her eves and
about her parted lips was a pathetic listlessness and
want of interest in her own young life. The organ
ist was playing a low voluntarv that threaded her
sombre thoughts like a chain of light.
Suddenly she started and as she listened the color
came into her cheeks and then went, '
—, leaving them
white almost as the spray of Bridai Wreath in her
hand. These words came floating to her out of the
dimness, uttered by one of the group:
“Poor Lute, she' is so sad at times. Easter one
year-ago she was to have been married, you know.”
“Yes.” said Eva Moore in a subdued tone, “I
wonder if she knows Harry Thorne is to mam-
Clara Harrell. They are to be married to-morrow
morning at nine o'clock and drive into church.
I)r. Winter is first groomsman. He told me him
self that he and Harry were going out to-morrow
and that the wedding would be private. Clara is
an heiress you know. Pa says her father has the
finest plantation on the river and ever so many
thousands in bank here. But she's not as pretty as
our little Lute. From here now. Lute looks like a
picture of a saint or an angel. I wonder how Har
ry could give her up.”
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