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m fuwtts eoufciiON cTerTce .TTducatio 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.” W&mak 1 Hi (HfJlIggjJJ; PPBI mmsl '• '^aissl instinct print