Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

V Z ^iOVTrtS CC'UiCTIOn' VOL. V. J. a. & w B. SEALS. EDITORS AND proprietors. To Tin; i>oi;r iktist ATLANTA GA„ SEPTEMBER 13th. 1879. Terms in advance : ' STBSEY I.A\li:it, Siprav ol "Yellon Jessamine" from Tile ** .Marshes iil iilynn.*’ IlfcI.EN C. HoSTWK'K. Uu Marsh of Glynn, which one we know has set lo nohle music, rode we on an eve Flushed with the sunset. Lush, tall (trasses waved With willowy grace, touched by the winds that canu Jo bathe our foreheads, laden with flower-breath And salty sweetness, caught from ocean's kiss. Above,arched the soft, fleece-flecked blueof heaven; Around was spread a wilderness of green, And here, betrayed by odors, subtly sweet. Vines trailed their tropic wealth of green, crowned o er With cuiis of royal gold, brimful of scouts, Floating from hidden nooks, so wild and wierd Bonie Iiryad tliere might well have made her moan Over the falseness .of some fickle Faun. 1 lie sounds of wood and marsh fall on our ear, The cushats mellow coo, the croak of frogs, J he ho it oi hidden owl, I lie mock bird’s note, 1'lie pipe < fthe curlew, the harsh loud call Of the marsh hen to her mate, as inong the reeds 1 liat h inge tile inland's winding creek she broods l pou her nest; tin* rustle of tiie leaves I >11 whirl! the sunset's gilding lingers rest. J hen slant across the shimmering plain and touch Tiie scene so richly that a longing comes lo ha\e tliis beauty voiced in song, and when 1U turned to me—my poet-friend, and asked “W hat recompense—if any—can 1 give l or this rare golden hour I owe to you ?” i quick replied,” “.Set but to music meet— Oi words and tones—as you alone can do— 1 lie beauties of 11 iis. scene; embalm this hour In the rare amber of your poesy, Which proves that A roadie is not a dream And gallant Sidney lives and w ^ ou've chanted praises of th Of swaying wheat; of all glad Natur 1 >f wealth and beauty have you suns Almost too ! are quits. • waving “corn," store strains t was your hand rect; lose loyal worth ered fraud and pure for common ears And, at our land’s great birtlida That laid too rmrst oner!ns at n Verse, pure as pearls unflawed, ‘shall stand the test of time Oil Oh, soul of inline! high and line With genius true cliild-like simplicity And gentle kindliness, tiial bids me dare To lay at feet of this thine my own flower Wild blossom from the marshes thou hast sung Bright yellow jessamine, whose chalice flings A fragrance so divine, so subtly sweet, So thralling to tiie senses it may type Thy verse, Oli! Poet; so ’tis not unmeet That I should offer this sweet souvenir him, who sung Tiie Marsh of Glynn; to him ■ proudly own our southern king of song. MY BETTER ANGEL. “0 blest lie thine unbroken light That watched meus a seraph's eye. And stood between me and the night. Forever shining sweetly nigh,” Bi'Ros. ltd fascinating guest. Phil bp was enchanted with him. ami long lio- | fore he rose t<> leave, bad pressed upon him an invitation to stay "'it h us for a fortnight prior to leaving the country. 1. of course, . added my persuasions; J and, thanking us heart ; ily. he accepted. He came, ami the first week of his- visit passed away happily enough. 1 i is gaity never flagged, no matter how fatigu ing the day s exertions 1 might have been. He was in tin* evening like a giant refreshed. Four j days prior to the ar- j ranged date of his de parture, in jumping a i fence he se V ere 1 v ’ sprained his ankle, and ha l to be driven home. I found great pleas- | ure in doing all in my j power to allay the paiii I that he suffeied. AH • day he used to recline ; upon the sofa, and, j while apologizing for j the troutde he gave, j profess that he could not liear any one Inn myself to attend upon | him. Phillip offered to I remain at home with | him. but, Captain Bar- ■ nett would not for one mo m cut countenance .the idea. 'Mv dear fellow,' he ' ■said, ‘your good little wife always takes the ! greatest possible care of j mi*; am) in her absence ; Ciolden liitir comes and chats with me.’ j Holden Hair was hi ! the room .vhe.t lie - Van; ; a r'm.fiwnnl. •' at* she I mentioned in ')? i *My darling,' y said | to her that e*” iing, I when preparing for I dinner, ‘you do not | seem to take such pleas ure in attending to Cap tain Barnett as you generally do our other visitors.’ She (lushed up it my words and did not im mediately answer me. At last she said: ‘It's very wrong, I know, mamma dear, but cannot like him.’ ‘But why, mv child!—why?’ I persevered. ‘I have tried, mamma dear, but 1 cannot eyes frighten me.’ ‘You funny child!’I said, as we went do dinner, little thinking that her antipathy w innate shrinking of innoc that which was evil. Captain Barnett bail been with us for a month when an end came to all my faith in him. Phillip was out about the grounds and I was alone in the dining-room with Captain Barnett. The couch was drawn across the window, and my chair was placed at the end. I was occupying my self with some needlework, but at that moment was attracted by seeing my darling on her pony, led by li the gate to wards the village. She had scarcely passed out of sight when Captain Barnett addressed me. What a wonderful woman y u are!' he b his usual sincere t me. ‘TPliat a wonderful man you are for thinking so!' I respond laughingly. •Not at all:' lie replied: ‘ym are a wonder—a mans better angel. Whit a heavenly benediction your husband received when lie married vou! His voice was full of pathos as he said this. 1 laughed innocently and merrily at this extra ordinary eulogy. ‘Ah, there you see,’ he said disappointedly; ‘you are different from other women.’ He seemed so hurt at my want of seriousness that I thought I had pained him. ‘You really cant expect me to take such unmer ited praise seriously,’ I remarked. ‘A little old- < ;< No. 218. T tried to think calm ly. to draw out in mv mind some plan bv which I might clear my- seli in hi sieves; but the endeavor was totally futile. I ii less than two hours the agony of n.v cruel position had brought on ravingdelir- ium. quickly, b with deep i ‘Mv wife I ut husband ! it ere I can look upward ; 'motion falls upon mv ear: My darlin through in v i u forgiv and belli; niv S1IE SLEEPS WELL IX TIIE OLD GRAVEYARD. AT THE FOOT OF THE YEW. Hi; II to the rail in I was married at the age of eighteen. My hus band having a comfortable income, devoted hinis self to a country life. I am the daughter of a medical man. and my father was the physician and confidential friend of mv husband's family. We had grown up together . . from our childhood, and our increasing attachment oneotthe farm men,^passing thn had been regarded by our parents with no unfavor-t war " s the village able vigilance. TV hen he was one and twenty and 1 eighteen, we married. It was purely and wholly a love match. I can say now with all sincerity that I firmly believe no two beings ever loved each other more perfectly than Phillip and I. His only trouble seemed to be that he could not, in his own idea, do sufficient to make me as happy as he wished me to be: and if I had any trouble, it was that 1 felt I could not do enough to return his unbounded love. There are few married people. I fear, whose only sorrows are derived from a similar source. On the first anniversary of our wedding-day, I was blessed with a daughter. She was our only child. We christened her Emily: but at the expir ation of three tears, we never called her by that name: we called her Golden Hair. Need I tell you that our reason for giving her that pet name was, , ■ . - , , ,„„ h the fact ot her possessing a perfect glory of the j "oiuanhke nursing cannot deserve such ei.com- brightest golden hair that ever decked an infant’s ; UU1S - . hea l.” ‘It was no/ unmerited, and it was serious, he re- Even now I sometimes dare to fancy that I am I plied earnestly. You are the best, the most patient once more caressing those golden locks, while I kiss j wife God ever made. Would to heaven 1 had such her upturned face. One bright tress, hidden away ! a one!’ in my desk, is all that remains to me of my better; I felt my bosom heave with pride at the mans angel! words. I felt the tears rise to my eyes with the ( Again I find myself running away from my stos thought that Philip had told him how deal I "as in ry, but you must forgive me. 1 think you will his sight. 1 could not speak for joy. He saw Hie I when y<>u know all. The first ten vears of"my mar- tears stealing through my fingers as I held them be- I ried life were happier than words can tell. Never fore my face. He saw the heaving of my glai. bos- 1 did a cross word pass my husband’s lips; never did om, and, God forgive him, he misinterpreted the . he wound me with one cross look or angry frown. ■ cause of my emotion. Oh, how much I had to be thankful for! how very, ‘Ellen,’ he whispered, hoarsely, ‘I love you. Come very much! " with me away from this place—away from your I have seen many homes, but I cannot call to neglectful husband forever !' mind a single one in which there seemed to exist 1 As the words passed his lips, he leaned to where the same perfect peace and affection between man 1 was sitting. At the touch of liis hand, I rose, and wife as there existed between Phillip and my- with passion inexpressible. self. ‘You villain !’ I uttered, with a struggle. ‘You There were plenty of people ready to call us love- false, despicable villain!’ I could not go on: my sick, and to twit us with childish sentimentality; j horror of one wiiocould thus treacherouslyen<leav- but, thank goodness, it all fell harmlessly on our or to betrav the unsuspecting friend who, trusted vonng hearts. 1 often thought that those who af- him with all sincerity, was greater than words fected to laugh at our devotion would have felt could express. In a moment li.- recognized the err- right glad to own a love equal to ours. ror he had made; in a moment he recognized t he It was at the commencement of the eleventh i speechless indignation and abhorrence he had a wak j ’ a i,f.. ...i first shadow of ened in my breast. ‘Forgive me, forgive me !’ be cried, imploringly. | 'larin. My intense love, ' For- i At last the moment, of his departure arrived. I » said ‘‘Guod-hve to him as calmly as I coil'd. Phillip was to drive him to the depot. I shall 1 never forget the sense of relief that came over me when I saw mv husband touch the horse with his whip and drive Captain Barnett, away. I was a free woman again ! i was no longer called upon to play a false part, to assume a liking e "'heiiin contact with i where with all mv soul I felt a loathing. j Six o’clock was our dinner hour, and I expected Phillip back early, as it was only two o’clock when he left, and the distance was but five miles. How 1 longed to see him returning alone ! ►Six o’clock came, lint he did not return. Seven, eight , nine, ten ! At last I heard the carriage- wheel on the gravel-drive. The door opened. My husband entered. ‘tPhy, darling, how late you are !' 1 said. He did not answer me; lie never opened his pale trembling lips. With an iron gra-p he took me by , the arm. led me into the house, banged the front | door behind him fiercely, and, pushing me into the dining-room, thrust me at arm's length from him, ; fixing on me a cruel, killing gaz \ Breathless and bewildered. 1 staggered against i the table, mv eyes fixed, with what must have been ! a terrified expression, on my liusban i’s lace. Fie drew a letter from his pocket, and toi>k it t ''om out the envelope slowly and deliberately Then he ad vanced towards me and held the letter out to me. ‘IT’tiat have you to say in answer to that ” he asked, in a solemn voice. I took the letter from his hand, t tried to dash the tears away from my eyes, but they rose thick and fast, and I could not decipher a single line. ‘Read, woman, read !’ be said, pointing to the missive that l held. Once again 1 struggled to read the words before me, but to no avail. The terrible chilliness in his voice and manner was more than I could bear, and reeling back with a heart-broken cry, 1 fell swooning at hi fei t. When my senses returned I to aid myself on a sofa, with my servant at my side. ‘Where is your master I asked. ‘He’s gone out, ma’am.’ How long since !' ‘Three hours ago. ma’am.' ‘I )i ; he leave any message ?’ ‘He left this letter, ma'am.’ The girl handed it to me as site spoke. I tore the envelope asunder with a hind rendered steady with desperation. It contained two notes—one in the hand of tny husband, tiie other in the hand of Captain Barnett. I read C iptain Barnett’s first. It ran thus: month covered from the fever into which this the most pamfui episode in my life had thrown me During my illness the trustwi>rthy housekeep er had taken full charge ol the establishment, and the familv lawyer had carried out liberal ly my husband’s ar rangements as to my fu ture income. The docs umeuts were handed over t<» /lie as soon as I : '■vas valeseent. He had left more than half his income at my dis posal. In vain did I endeavor to gain traces of him. All that could gather was that lie had gene abroad. I have tried to avoid further mention of the man who caused this cruel separation. I have tried to subdue all the bitter feeling that rises :n my breast while 1 re- rord these things—may I be able iodo so to the etii* ! For six months after my recovery 1 bore my burden as bravely as 1 could. Golden Hair soothing and encouraging :n> with her great love. J i myraving. wiien id.si ■ _ had learned the cause / ■ ’ ■ 14 ' up '' m H in,, j lh . r "°[S hack to me,. - 7 . ,J fi«/rif?mS!i... ev enmg j n ri ,!/, Lt is no exaggvi — . u when I state that mv darling was in mind a woman at ten years of age. She had ‘'out lived herself by many a day.” In some form or other God sends us sue- To some, lie sends it in Captain Barnett had been stricken with a fatal illness, and, on procuring Phillip’s address, had written to him. making full confession of his vil lainy. and endeavoring tmnnke ah the reparation ill his I lower. He owned that the annoyance he , ,, felt at meeting with such a rebuff as the one he ex- i t v. as fully two , pern need .-it, m> hands, when he had inwardly as. Jefore I had re- sured himseif that he had suc-ceded in " inning i guilty affect ion from me. had prompted him to the ■ co'.vapby revenge he had taken. He begged that Dhihp would hasten to him, anil in person pardon him eic he died. This last request mv husband j granted; and Capta n BarneF del with his hand ! m the lorgiving grasp of the friend whom he had so scc-ely wronged. And so we aie united once more—husband wife ; and daughter. ! Soon—alas, how soon !—the time came when mv darling daughter was taken, leaving us alone. i have told you the story of my darling, mv Golden Hair. 1 have told you how a merciful Providence gave it into her faithful trust tosave me and redeem me. I have told you how God made her to me my better angel. She sleeps wed in the little gravevard at the foot of garden-wall: and the time is not far distant. I believe, when I, who sit. gazing at her resting-place in the soft twilight, will join her in her tranquil 1 i sleet). LYING IN BED, LazylMan’s View on the Advantage of Not Get ting Up in the Morning. (Front London Society Let us analyze this lyin I maintain that, in the tin there is something health; system. The wheels of i The proper and legitimate purpose o bed is to go to sleep. There is nothu '’’here is no tonic or medicine in tiie like sleep. The more sleep the brain : 's the brain work. All great brain in bed a little further, e fact of lying in bed, and recuperative to the -■ are oiled and eased. been gre h at sit ''A " .uts nine. ?epers. Sir Haiti than ten hours. stopping in like sleep, hole world ts the better orkers have ■Scott could never A fool may want cor in our hardest trial; the form of self-strength and fortitude; through ! and slept, slept and drank, till he drank and slept The men nln have been tlH greatest generals are the men who could sleep at ’ Thus they <! Ii£e: h S^UUK&?n_and Nap " " aged Palmerston. There is a man who has hPe.’. attorney-general, whom I have seen bury his face in his hands over his desk and sleep soundly until his own cause should come on. ‘‘Sleep,’’ says the Greek proverb, ‘‘is the medicine for every disease, if he sleeps he will do well.” A friend told me that he treated himself for fever. He went to lied with a large pitcher of lemonade by bis side. He drank the help of friends; perhaps, though not too often, through the aid of relatives. To me He granted it. through a little child gifted with reason beyond her years. Even through the soul ol my darling sent He His strength unto me. I have said that l bore mv trouble for six months after my illness. Then, anil only then, did I utter ly break down and fail. Then seemed my burden too heavy to bear. Once let doubt creep into the mind as to God’s mercy and God’s help—once let that blind misgiving enter into the aching heart, then, unless we at once cast it it from us as we would a serpent, or unless some more faithful sou! leads us back to the forsaken and happy faith, we are irretrievably, hopelessly lost. I did let that doubt creep into my sad heart; 1 did lose ail faith in God's help. I shall never forget the night when tuv faith died within me. I could not sleep, I could not rest. I tried to pray, but I felt that all my prayers were wasted and in vain. The light of day brought me no relief from my agony of soul. This torture went on for weeks. In vain did my darling try to comfort me. I treated her with something ap proaching harshness. I should never see my be loved husband again. I should never have a chance to vindicate my conduct. 1 was destined to live a lonely, wretched life of mental torture, with the maddening fact ever before me that lie would never know that I was innocent of wronging him even in thought. The weeks had dragged their weary length along, and Christmas eve was close at hand. 1 had re solved that that Christmas-eve should be tny last. God forgive me for it ! I must have been mad. My darling had grown pale anil worn with anx iety. I do not believe she one moment felt for her self on account of my coldness and neglect. 1 am convinced she thought only of me. Christmas-eve came, and I was as firmly resolved as evei'. From my bedroom window. I watched the wintry sun go down behind the distant hills. 1 watched the golden light that he left in his wake gl ow fainter and fainter, and then I turned to do my work of irreparable evil. himself well again. When vou take to your bed ' get all the sleep you can out of the bedstead, even j although, to quote Dick Swiveller’s saying, you have to pay for a double-bedded room, confessing that you have taken a most unreasonable amount ; of sleep out of a single lied. You will be banking a I whole store of recuperative energy. Even if you cannot sleep, still keep your bed. There is no more pestilent heresy than that you should get up direct ly you are awake. If it is the early riser who catches the worm, the worm is a great idiot in ris ing still earlier in order to be caught. It you do not get sleep by lying in bed you get rest. You se cure the fallow ground which will hereafter pro duce a good harvest. Sleep is of course the prop er employment for bell, but if you don't sleep you can lie still and read, 1 don't believe that the man who gets up really learns or does mi ire than the man who lies in tied. If, for a moment, the writer may be egotistical, some of the hardest work which he has ever done has been from the early dawn till af ter a breakfast in bed. Of all the sleep in the world there is none so good as what you get, in Hie way of treasure-trove, after the usual time of waking .when in point of fact, you have given up the expectation of getting any more sleep. As for‘‘being called, as the saying goes, that: is simply a relic of the bar barism of our ancestors. 1 should quarrel with any man who presumed ‘‘to call” me. One of the main beauties of an occasional day in bed is that you get an extra stock of sleep, which goes to the credit side of your sanitary account. Taking an occasional day in bed, simply on ac count of indisposition, is. however, a very simple and rudimentary notion of this glorious institution. Bed is the natural domicile of every man: “In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, Are born in bed, in l>ed we die." Bavard, the French physiologist, maintained that man is an animal who exercises the thinking facul ty best m a horizontal position. Thus, there are high artistic, social and intellectual uses connected with an occasional day in bed. which imperatively claim discussion. Brinley, the great engineer when he was fairly bothered and puzzled by some Gil the dressing table stood a small vial contain- t 'j, nn.piem always betook himself to bed until 1., ,i. L. •< nix 1 iwixn orl..., ...f-.wv.l I.olmMo it II (til . r ' . . • ■ ‘ 11 - .4- l.in. ] year of our married life when tin sorrow crossed our threshold It was on an afternoon in n in January, close upon ‘God knows I meant no harr the hour of dusk, when Phillip unexpectedly hitherto subdued, overpowered all restraint, brought home to dine with him an acquaintance of give me, I implore you !’ long standing, a Captain Barnett, who happened to At first I was immovable in my purpose to expose be staying at a friend.s house in the neighborhood, him to my husband: but when be beggedanduu- I was. as usual, sitting in the window, watching plored of me, with bitter tears, to pardon him for for my husband, when I saw them coming up the his ill-placed love, the existence of which he most garden walk, with their guns thrown across their vehemently adhered to, an t on his promising to shoulders. quit our house on the following day, never to re- Captain Barnett was a tall athletic man, with an | turn, I agreed, led by his insinuations of causing extremely handsome cast of features. tny dear husband unnecessary pain, to remain si- Diuner lieing over, we three were comfortably lent, seated in the parlor, Captain Barnett doing all in On the following morning he declared himself fit his power to make the evening a pleasant one. His j to travel, assuring Philip that it was of the utmost anecdotes abounded in wit and interest: his re par- importance that he should take his immediate de- tee would have immortalized him as a dramatist of parture 1 had to the best of mv ability, eudeav- themodern school: bis voice pealing forth rich and ore(1 toassume my usual bearing towards him dur- mellow, would have obtained him high rank upon ; ; the few rem aining hours of his stay. _ the lyric stage. In fact he was most accomplished 1 b “My dear I’hil.—I could not have the heart to I'll you by word of mouth wh it. 1 now write. 1 could not. bear to witness your agony. Of course, I mnif | judge wrongly: but my experience tells me other- j wise. All I say is, watch carefully over your wife's | fidelity. Yours ever faithfully, Henry Barnett ” I hagun to see through the mystery now, 1 be gan to see through the deep villainy of the man whom l had spared. I turned to my husband s let ter, and read: “When you receive this. I shall have gone. When you read the enclosed you will know why 1 have gone. Your conduct when I handed you Captain Barnett’s letter to-night, confirms the veracity of the suspicions therein conveyed. Proper provision shall he made for your maintenance. Slay God forgive you; I cannot. Farewell, and forever. Philip Golding. With a moan of agony l cast the letter from me. Gone ! Gone forever, with scorn and contempt, with loathing for me—me his guiltless, his once be loved he had solved it. Most people have a great kind ness for Lord Melbourne, who, under the affectation of frivolity, used to get up Hebrew and the Fath ers and imperturbable good humor to bear with his wife, Lady Caroline, while the pretty,Byron-struck termagant used to smash the drawing-room furni ture. His intimate friends would find the premier oabillv taking breakfast in bed, with letters and dispatches strewed all over the counterpane. The w laudanum. A wine-glass stood beside it. With a firm hand 1 removed the stopper from the vial; and then 1 poured into the glass sufficient of the poisonous opiate to have killed the strongest man living. For a moment I replaced the glass upon the dres sing-table. ; ‘Just one look,’I cried, peering at my haggard face in the looking-glass, ‘one last look at the face ,,,, be once loved so well. Good-bye, Philip, my dar- j J^ts have been terrible fellows to get out of bed. dug. good-bye !' ; I suppose it is because the visions of the day and of Mv wicked hand ts stretched out to raise the 11itrlit sweetly intermingle. The poet Thorn- death draught to tny lips, but as it touches it, an cultivated laziness as a fine art, and thought out agonizing cry rings in my ears. Another hand, his j )oem s in lied. Pope was a still worse fellow, smaller ami more fragile than mine caught the glass \y linn he had a tit of inspiration on him, he would and made a desperate effort to take it from my keep the servants running about for him all through grasp. 1 the night. Hemadeamendstothembvtheplente- ‘Mother, mother, you must not! It is a sin. God | ous!less „f his “vails.” We take a later instance, would be angry. And mother, would you lease j iij S i Il;l jvk sas's, according to Dr. Busch, ‘1 was troubled with varicose s'eins in ik66. I lav full ■(), God, my child !’ As the words pass my lips, I dash the deadly opiate from me. In an instant her tiny' arms are flung around me, her subs convulsing her fragile frame. The sight is more than I can bear with calmness—the sight of my unselfish, noble child, heartbroken with anguish, teaching me my duty, saving me from a terrible crime ! She has called me to my reason; she has brought back to me my faith; she had brought back to me that belief, which in forsaking I had lost all. I can bear it calmly no longer, but lifting her in mv arms, I carry her locked in my repentant bos- length on the bed, and had to answer letters of a very desperate sort with a pencil.’ He has given us some of his experiences when lying in bed. used to lie awake full of all sorts of thoughts and troubles. Then Yarz’n would suddenly come up before me, perfectly distinct in the minutest partic ulars, like a great picture, with even all its colors fresh—the green trees, the sunshine on the stems, the blue sky above. 1 saw every individual there. 1 struggled to shake the thing off: and when at last 1 ceased to see it, other things came in—reports, notes, dispatches, and so on; but 1 fell over aliout morning.” Bismarck at Versailles used to lie in he cannot keep himself ife—raging ia his breast ! Gone without one om to the bed, on which I cast, myself in a flood of |, C( | ;i ^eat deal, ‘bei _ word at parting, save the cruel accusation of a thankful, blessed tears. While weeping as if my' ivasonablv warn! in any otlier way.’ I sympathize crime that never held a place in mv innocent heart would break, the door gently opens, and ‘ with Bismarck. Accept, Prince, the marks of my heart !’ feel some one s arm steal round my neck. 1 start j distinguished consideration.