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Marriage After Burial.
CHAPTEBI.
Antoine Latonrette was a merchant in the gay
city of Paris. He was a Iran of more than ordi
nary ability, and had raised himself from a
gamin of Paris to an opulent and respected po
sition in the mercantile world.
Antoine had a bosom friend named Francois
Dam as—also a merchant and also rich.
Latonrette had a beantifnl daughter, whom he
called Panline, and Dam as had a son, a noble-
hearted and splendid-looking youth, whom he
had named Antoine, after his life-long friend.
The two young people bad loved each other
almost from infancy, and when they were still
very young it was agreed between their parents
that they should marry ..when they had reached
a proper age.
That time was fast approaching. The youth
Antoine had reached his twenty-third year, and
Panline was just three years his junior. The
wedding day had been fixed and all concerned
were looking forward to the nuptials as a season
of unalioyed happiness. But ‘the conrse of true
love never did run smooth,’ and the loves of
Antoine and Pauline were no exception to the
rule.
The merchant Latonrette bad one weakness
which over-shadowed all his virtues.
Sprung from the lower order'of Parisians him
self, he no sooner began to accumulate wealth
than the desire seized him to become the inti
mate of those high above him in the social
scale. Hif low origin was the thorn that
tankled in his side, and it he could have wiped
out the recollection of his early days by the
sacrifice of his entire fortune he would gladly
have made that sacrifice, and considered him
self the gainer by the exchange. And it hap
pened that just on the eve of the marriage of
our hero and heroine, the Marquis DeLiporte—
a member of the old noblesse — was introduced to
the proud old merchant. He was a man some
sixty years of age, well-preserved, and of im
mense wealth. He was unmarried, and having
seen the fair Pauline, fate decreed that he should
fall desperately in love with her, and fate also
decreed that her father should favor the suit of
her ancient nut high-born lover.
In vain did the poor girl plead, with tears in
her eyes, that she should not be sacrificed—in
vain did the young lover—her affianced husband
—beg and rave by turns—in vain did his life
long friend, Francois Damas, appeal to his
sense of honor and point ont to him the misery
which would surely follow a union of the mar
quis and Pauline. He was deaf alike to their
threats, anathemas and implorations. The idea
of his daughter/orming such an alliance had fair
ly turned bis head and warped his better judg
ment, and he swore his daughter should marry
her ancient suitor even though she died the
moment thereafter.
The merchant's will was all powerful and the
young couple were obliged to submit.
Their parting was a painful one—the young
lover was frantic with grief, and urged hiB affi
anced by every argument which he could com
mand, to fly with him. The temptation was a
fearfnl one, bnt her Bense of duty and the dread
of parental anger outweighed all other consid
erations, and she determined to accept her fate
with what philosophy she could.
And so they separated—the girl begging her
lover not to subject her to temptation by re
maining near; aDd in a few weeks thereafter she
was united to her ancient lover.
Little satisfaction, however, did the old mar
quis receive from the unholy union; tor soarcely
nad the marriage ceremony ended when the
bride fell lifeless to the floor, and all efforts to
resuscitate her proved entirely nnavailing.
Great was the grief of t.he,anotent bridegroom,
and deep was the remorse ot the/bereaved fath
er, as they followed the lifeitt&a body of the
bride to the grand mansion which the old mar
quis had fitted up for her reception; and grand
was the fnneial which only three days after
wards took place.-
Among the taoumerS present at the funeral
was the yonng lover, Antoine Damas. His
presence was not prohibited, now that the idol
of his soul lay cold in death, and as he stood by
the side of the grand coffin, looking down upon
the rigid features of the ioved and lost, his tears
fell like rain, and the bosom of the strong man
swelled with an agony which only those who
have been similarly bereaved can fully apprs-
c ate.
•Farewell, thou wildly-worshiped one!' he
mentally ejaculated: .‘thou hast entered the
realms of eternal light, and left me to bewail
thy loss, but I will not remain long away from
thee! My soul shall greet thine in Paradise ere
thou hast been a day buried! Then why should
I weep?' he continued, as he hastiiy brushed
the sorrowing drops from his eyes and smiled
hopefully. ‘Is it not better that I should own
thee in heaven, than that another shonld claim
thee here? Away, thon foolish tears! and rejoice,
oh, my soul! lor thy mate shall greet thee where
all is joy, and peace, and eternal anion !'
And so the beantifnl dead was laid away to
rest in the grand family mausoleum, where slept
the ancestors of the old marquis; and when
night had fallen upon the scene, the bereaved
lover took his way to the lodge oc mpied by the
old sexton, who bad charge of the grounds, and
knocked gently for admission.
The door was speedily opened, and the sex
ton—a venerable, gray-haired man of kindly as
pect—stood before him.
‘How now, my son?' he said gently, as he
gazed in some wonder at the sorrowing face of
the youth;'why dost thon seek admission into
the lodge of old Joseph at this nnnsnal hour?*
•Father,' replied he, in a tone of great earn
estness, ‘I would ask a favor of thee.‘
‘If, keeping strictly to the line of duty, I oan
do anything to assuage thy grief, my poor youth
or to assist thee in any particular, I shall be on-
Iv too happy to do it.‘ replied the sexton, in a
tone of unfeigned sympathy. ‘So speak freely,
mv son, and let me know how 1 can serve thee.’
T desire to gain admittance into the tomb
where my lest love is lying,’ replied Antoine.
‘Do me but this favor, father, and I will bless
theewitb my last breath.
•Your request is as unreasonable as to grant it
is impossible.-returned the oil & xton.iu a tone
of sorrow. ‘Grief has turned thy brain, and
rendered thee reckless. Get thee to thy home,
and to bed my poor boy, or thou wilt be a fit
subject for,the mad-house before many days roll
by.‘
«j shall be ofit subject for the grave ere to
morrow if tboudost not grant my request,’ re
turned the youth, earnestly. ‘Dost thon think
old man, that I can sleep with this dead weight
on my bosom? As well mightest thon recomend
repose to one undergoing the torture of the rack.
I tell thee, father, I must see my love to
night or I shall be a raving maniac ere the
morning! L6t me but look upon her sweet face
once again, and press my lips to hers, and I wili
part quietly—and nobody need know that I had
the precious privilege. If thou dost feel for me
the sympathy which thou dost effect to feel,’ he
continued, claspiDg his hands and fixing upon
the old sexton a look of pitiful entreaty. ‘I im
plore thee grant me this one favor.
.Thou art distraught, my son,' replied the
old sexton, mournfully, ‘but I suppose no harm
will come of granting thy request, and so thou
shalt be gratified. Come with me.' And don
ative of some important event in French histo
ry. took place in the gay capital. It was large
ly attended by all the first citizens of Paris as
well as by a large number of the nobility.
Among the latter was the old marquis De La-
porte, who had not yet ceased to mourn for his
fair bride, and who had attended the ball more
to get away from his sombre thoughts than from
any other motive.
The dance progressed. Wit and repartee was
heard on every side from the most briiliant rep
resentatives of Parisian society, and (he enjoy
ment was at its height, when suddenly the Mar
quis De Laporte, who sat conversing with a
friend started as though he had received an
electric shook, and seizing his companion's
arm asked excitedly:
‘Coant, who is that lady hanging on the arm
of young Damas? Do you know her?’
His friend fixed bis eyes upon the lady to
whom his attention had been called, ana after a
careful scrutiny, replied:
‘Her countenance is very familiar to me, my
dear marquis, and but that I know the thing is
impossible I would swear she was Panline La-
tonrette, your recently deceased wife!'
•I would net trust my own eyes,’ returned the
marquis, with no less excitement than before,
•for my imagination conjures up her face in ev
ery woman I look at, and I did not know but I
might be mistaken. She is certainly singularly
like my dead darling. I must be introduced to
her. I could not sleep tonight otherwise!’ And
rising from his seat he approached the couple.’
•Good evening, Monsieur Damas,* he said, as
he reached them—‘it is some weeks since I saw
you last, and I am rejoiced to see you are look
ing much better than you did. Have you been
traveling?*
‘Not far, ‘ retorted young Damas, who locked
much embarrassed, I have been a little way iuto
the country—that is all. ’
•And there I suppose you made the acquain
tance of your fair companion, eh?’ asked the
marquis, as he fixed a searching gaze upon the
lady, who, although she tried hard to preserve
her self control, trembled in every joint. Gome,
Antoine, introduce me!'
‘This is Mademoiselle Daval, a cousin of
mine,* returned yonng Damas, unhesitatingly—
then turning to tue lady, he added; ‘Cousin
Antoinette, this iB the Marquis De Laporte, an
old friend.*
The lady bowed gracefully, but flushed crim
son as she did so, and the old marquis, after re
garding her in silence for some time said:
*l T on will pardon me, mademoiselle, but you
bear so close a resemblance to my dead wife that
I cannot help regarding you with more scrutiny
than strict etiquette would perhaps warrant.’
‘I feel flattered to be told by so distinguished
a person as the Marquis De Laporte that I re
semble his wife,‘ replied the lady, smiling;
‘but is not the resemblance purely imaginary on
your part ?‘
‘Imaginary !' exclaimed the marquis, excited
ly ; ‘far from it! There is no imagination about
it! why, the voioe itself is that of my lost Paul
ine, and, as I live, you have the mole on the
neck in the exact place and of the same appear
ance that she had ! This is wonderfnl! Par
don me, mademoiselle, but you would gratify
me greatly by giving me the particulars of your
birth and parentage.*
‘I wonld do so cheerfully, marquis/ returned
the lady, now greatly embarssed, ‘but I— I— I—’
Here Antoine Damas came to her assistar-ce.
'Pardon me, marquis, ‘ he said, in a whisper
so low that the lady did not hear him; ‘Made
moiselle Duval is my affiancsd wife. You have
already deprived me of one wife and you shall
not deprive me of another if I can help it!
Gome, Cousin Antoinette, let us join the dance!
Adieu, marquis !' and placing the lady’s arm,
^within bis own the c«tupl|e walked away. . x I
’ For a moment the old marquis stood rooted'
to the spot and indulged in a long revery.
He aroused himself at last, exclaiming as he
did so:
‘Mon Dien 1 but this is very strange! The
figure, face and voice exactly the same, and the
mark on the neck also ! What does it al! mean?
I must investigate ! If she is ia the coffin where
I left her of course she cannot be here ! If she
is not in her ccffin then she is here beyond a
doubt!‘ And leaving the ball-room at once he
bent his steps in the direction of the sextou’s
lodge.
Three hours later he returned to the ball-
SOUTHERNSKETCHES.
The Man With a Plan.
BYE. C. I.
niDB his coat and hat. he lighted a lantern and
the two set forth in the dark together.
CHAPTEB IL
Some months subsequent to the events narra
ted in the first chapter, a grand ball commemor-
room.
His face was ghastly white and a look of stern
determination shot from his piercing black eyes,
as looking eagerly around he observed young
Damas and his partner whirling around in the
galop.
Bushing towards them like a muniac, he
siezed the Indy firmly by the wrist, pulled her
rudely away from her partner, and exclaimed in
a voice so boisterous as to attract the attention
of all upon the floor, as be fixed a look of burn
ing hatred upon yonng Damas.
‘Villian ! Yonr heart's blood shall wash out
the stain which you have put upon my honor !
And yon, Madame le Marquisse De Laporte,
will go home with me !
At once all was confusion. The dance was
stopped and 6ager listeners gathered aronnd to
hear what further might happen.
•This lady, 1 continued the marquis, is my
wife! Her deatn was feigned to deceive me so
that she might fly to the arms of her lover!
They had the assistance of an old servitor of
mine in whom I placed the utmost confidence,
bnt the villain has paid for his treachery with
his life!’
•Mon Dieu !’ Yon did not slay the sexton !’
exclaimed Antoine Damas, with a look of hor
ror.
‘Yes, villain !‘ returned the marquis, foaming
with rage, ‘and the same sword which let out
his life shall be sheathed in your bosom !•
As be spoke he drew his sword and rushed
upon the youth, but the nest moment he stag
gered and fell at full length upon the floor in a
fit of apoplexy.
They picked him up and called assistance at
once, but the doctor arrived too late to be of
any service. The old man's soul Lad taken its
flight.
That night Antoine and his much-loved Paul
ine (for she it was, as the reader must already
have surmised) muds their appearance at (be
house of Anroino Latonrette, when the youth
stated that he had mourned Pauline &s*dead,
and had gained permission from the old sexton
to visit h^r corpse in the mausoleum—that
while gazing on her rigid features he discovered
sigaa of life, and with the assistance of the sex
ton succeeded in resuscitating her—that then,
looking upon her as doubly his, he had taken
her to an obscure quarter in Paris, determined
if possible to procure a divorce for her, and
marry her himself—that he hau attended the
ball tot supposing that the marquis wonld be
there, and the rest the reader knows.
The old merchant no longer withheld his con
sent to the union of the loving pair, and they
were accordingly united amid much rejoicing,
receiving the good wishes and congratulations
of 'troops of friends,* who showered blessings
upon the head of the bride who had been ‘mar
ried aftor burial. ‘
Fanny Davenports and her dear ‘hubby,’ Ed
win Prioe, were upset out of a buggy near St
Paul, Minnesota. Fanny caught the horse, but
sprained her hand.
The many beautiful young actresses now with
Bioe’s Surprise Party, at the Holliday Street
Theatre, are attracting much attention. All are
good singers and dancers.
‘God bless my soul, old fellow! how are you?
How are yon?’
I was sitting at supper in the dining-room of
Brown’s Hotel, in Macon, intent upon satisfy
ing the cravings of an appetite sharpened by a
day’s abstinence trorn food. I had been travel
ing all day, and had reached Macon only an
hour since. The vigorous salntation that rung
across the dining-room caused more heads than
mine to pop np and turn abont in order to
catch a glimpse of the speaker and the friend
whom he had just found.
‘I’m coming over there, old fellow, just wait a
minute!' the voice exclaimed. ‘Here, waiter!
carry my plate over to that table there. Come,
hurry up, my sable friend, I want to clasp in
my arms the friend of my youth. ‘
From a table in the rear of the room rose a
fashionably dressed, fine looking man, with a
napkin tied under his chin, ana knife and fork
brandishing about in either hind. He came np
the room towards the table at which 1 was sit
ting. followed by a grinning darkey bearihg his
plate and other articles of crockery deemed nec
essary by hotel-keepers to assist one in partak
ing of meals prepared at their houses. While I
was vainly attempting to discover the friend
whom he was so anxious to cl*sp in his arms,
the loquacious gentleman had reached my seat
and thrown his arms over my shoulders*
‘Good Lord, Karl! don’t you know me? Had
to shave ’em off. Tell yon about it after awhile.
Why, man, don't yn remember your best
fri-nd, Wilton? Bob Wilton?’
l r es, I did remember him. but that he was my
‘best friend' was news indeed. I had met the
effusive gentleman seme four years previous to
the time of which I am now writing, on board
an excursion steamer from Savannah to Cuba.
Beyond a dozen or so of words, consisting in
sundry invitations to him on my part to ‘taka
something.’and invariable acceptance of his, I
had never conversed with him ten minutes. I
had heard from the gentleman who made us
known to each other that he was a scion of an
old and honorable old South Carolina family,
and that he thought he was at that time con
nected, in some way, with the press. I owned
the acquaintance, however, and invited him to
seat himself by my side, for I wished him to
subdue his lond exhibition of friendship for
me, not relishing the amused glances of the oth
er occupants of the room.
My ‘best friend’ was not a bad looking man.
He was tail and straight, with beautiful, black,
curly hair, dark complexion, eyes black as coal,
nose straight, and a mouth that seemed express
ly for soft and pleasing tones, so perfect was it.
He was well dressed, and one wonld think him
well to do in the world. Handsome is the word
that will describe him best. Indeed, he pos
sessed almost a commanding presence, and, as
far as ontward appearance goes, was just suoh a
man as would attract attention in a crowd.
•This is a joily go, now, ain’t it?’ remarked
‘my friend.’ ‘When you first entered the room,
I thought there was something familiar abont
you. but I couldn’t exactly locate you. I sent a
waiter to ask the clerk your name, and as soon
as I beard it, I remembered you. By Jove! its
four years since we went to Cuba together!
Plenty of time for occurrences, eh? Well, I’ve
bad my share of them—all kinds of things have
turned up, sometimes turning me up along with
them, but more frequently turning me down.
Yes, sir, that's the word, douml I’ve been down
several tiu./,;,bnfa’othini; l‘m up now, Karl, and
—, by JoveNoldjmigrwi*' Come out here! Come
out here—su-’o fU'ejotuve! I’vfe g'ot)a plan that'lt
make our fortunes,{suae pop! Haye yen finish
ed? Come along then, and let's bit bn the bal
cony. By Jove! I’m spoiling to tell yon about
it!’
T followed him into the office, where we pro
cured cigars—at my expense, by the way—and
then we went ont on the balcony. Seated in a
comfortable chair, my feet hanging over the
railing, and puffing away at a cigar, I settled
myse.'f to hear Mr. Kobert Wilton's plan for
making my fortune.
‘You see, old loiiow,’ he said, confidentially.
‘I got hold of my plan last night while sitting
there in the office. Two feliov/s, farmers, I
reckon, for they were execrably dressed, and
smeiled like thunder of pigs and horses and
things, were talking abont- Hallo, there. Jack-
son! I say, Juckson!' Ho brokesuddeuly effaud
jumping to his feet, began lustily calling to a
gentleman passing down the street. But the
gentleman did not hear him, for he conlinued
on his way and was soon lost in the gloom.
‘By Jove! I'm sorry of that!’said my friend.
•You know Jackson? Y/ent with us on that
trip to Cuba. Clever fellow, too, and as lib
eral as a prince. He's an Atlanta man. Be
longs on the Ledger. I'm an old newspaper
mar myself, you know ’
•Yes,*I said, ‘i believe you were going ont
on that trip to Cuba as the representative of
an Atlanta paper, were yon not?
‘Yes, that‘s so. You see, the concerns be
longed to Tom Singleton and myself—know
Singleton? You don’t? Well, I wouldn't ad
vise you to enter into business relations wiih
him. He won't do. Ever hear how he did me
up? No? Well, by Jove! I thought everybody
in Georgia knew ail about it.*
1 informed him of the fact that I returned to
Cubu soon after the occasion of the excursion,
and that business engagements had kept me
there until a few months since.
•Oh, yes!' be said. ‘Believe I did hear some
thing about it. Well, now, let me tell you how
tuat fellow Singleton did me up.
You see, I was teaching school up in Gaines
ville fi ve years ago, and just about that time, the
I 'Sun,' one of the Atlanta papers, went up the
I spout. Weil, 1 had apian, and so I threw up
I my school and went to Atlanta. Ever teach
school? Yoti havn't? Don't you ever do it,
! K rl, it won't p.»y. My patrons used to pay m
i trade and such like, and by Jove! I didn’t ro-
j ceive move than seven dollars and eighty-five
! cents cesh during the whole month and a half I
taught. 1 went there to start a female college,
too. About my plau now.
•I vent down to Atlanta, looked np Singleton,
told h:m that 1 thought there was a splendid
opening for a paper in the city, and ssked him
it he didn't want to join me in establishing one.
He hemmed and hawed around awhile, but I
showed him the immenss profits that were
bound to grow out ot the enterprise, and
finally he consented lo join me. I didn’t
have much money, but I put my time
and talent against Lis money, and by
Jove! I think he had the advantage of me even
then.
‘Singleton sold out his business—he was
in groceries—and we bought the ‘Sun’ outfit.
We called our paper the ‘Every Day,’ because
we intended bringing it ont every day in the
week. I was chief editor and business mana
ger and Singleton did the local.
‘Things rocked along first rate for four months.
We bad two or three hundred subscribers,
with prospeots ot more, and an unlimited credit
—at least I never found its limit, for I never
got a chance. We lived in style too. I was at
the Kimball, spending about sixty dollars per
month, and Singleton kept kouse. Whenever
we needed money, which was pretty often, I
wonld borrow it on the firms note.
‘About the time of that excursion to Cuba, we
were in a trouble. I wrote an article reflecting
severely on the Chief of Police. As soon as he'
saw it, the fellow sent me word that he was go
ing to cowhide me. Now you kno v yourself
that I am not afraid, (How? I wondered!) bnt I
thought, in consideration of the fact that we
were the people s teachers, and that they ex
pected ns to ba law-abiding citizens, we had bet
ter avoid a difficulty. So I retracted all that I
had said in that article. But that didn't satisfy
the blood-thirsty devil, for he sent me word that
he intended to cow-hide me anyhow! That
made me mad, for while I am a law-abiding cit
izen, and always will be, under certain restric
tions, my passions got the better of me in the
face of that insulting message, and, as I had no
desire to kill the rash fellow in a duel, as I cer
tainly should have done if I had remained in
Atlanta, I mortgaged the outfit of our paper,
took the money, and joined the excursion to
Cuba. That was a purely business transac
tion, however, tor I thought letters from Caba
would be a big thing for our paper. Now, then,
just listen to the ingratitude of that man Sin
gleton.
‘When I arrived in Savannah on my way back
from Cuba, I heard that our paper had basted!
It seems that the holders of our notes, which
were past due, wanted their money, and that
fellow Singleton, instead of mortgaging or seli-
ing his houee and paying them, and thus save
the paper, let them sell out every stick belong-
ing to the firm? Wasn't it shameful? Bat that
isn’t all. He published me as a swindler and
warned the people not to credit me on the firms
account! It it hadn’t been that I felt myself su
perior to a dog so low, I would have caned him,
sir! Of course I didn't return to Atlanta. What
was the use? Business was busted up, nothing
to do, and published as a swindler! Besides, I
had another plan on hand, and—but don't you
think that fellow Singleton a regular sell?'
I expressed my sympathy, with my best friend
in his misfortunes with his perfidious partner
and inquired his next business.
‘Oh ! he said, ‘I concluded to become a gen
tleman farmer. The truth is Karl, I wanted to
work myself into something whore but litle
Jabor would be necessary. Labor! The very
word has an ugly, dirty, unwashed sonnd about
it to a gentleman ! The Good Lord didn’t intend
that gentlemen shonld work. Only your com
mon sort of a man and niggerB ought to labor.
Some infernal fool down there in Savannah
told me that I ongbt to farm. He said tuat it
was a very pleasant business ; that all a man
needed to do was to ride around over his plan
tation and see that his bands did their work ;
that there was literally no labor, and that a fel
low would have ample leisure for having a jolly
time. Now I liked that, and began to farm. My
landlord bore the name of Smith. He furnished
me with stock, implements, fertitizsrs, provis
ions, and everything else needed. He was to
receive one half the profits, and I the other.
Out of my half, however, I was to pay my hands.
For the first two months I thought farming the
nicest business in the world. I rode aronnd and
watched the hands, and I tell yon they worked
like men ! Things were booming ! Bnt it didn’t
last long. I began very soon to notice that very
little was being accomplished. It would take
the united force of ail my hands for a solid day
to work over two acres. What the trouble was
1 discovered by an accident I got up early
one morning, intending to ride over to Ameri
cas, and by jove ! not a single darky on the
place had waked np ! Yon, see, I was in the
habit of sleeping late—didn’t rise until eight or
nine o’clock. The lazy rascals soon discovered
my habit, and by jove ! they ail took advantage
of me and slept as iate as I did ! 1 stopped that,
however, for I began to rise very early in the
morning so that I could feed my own horse and
tenderly care for an old sow and soma pigs I
kept in a pen near the house. But I had to give
that up. The work was too dirty. Why, 1
yc’ulilfa tket.p mysshirls -clean to save my li,fe,
aud soon began to look and feel like a hog my
self. One morning I went ont to teed my hogs
and found that the old sow had knocked over
the water trough. I jumped over into the pen
to sat it up, and while I was stooging over the
infernal thing, trying to place it baok in posi
tion, the old sow ran between my legs and
turned me over into an immense mudhoid ! 1
lelt the pen aud never afterwards fed those
hogs. That cccured about the middle of the
summer. The same day I sat down and made a
calculation, in order that 1 might know how
much money I should possess at the end of the
year. Willi my crop prospects, I discovered
that I would be in debt to my hands something
over a thousand dollars ! Of coarse I couldn’t
think of continuing in the business under such
circumstances as those. I wrote Smith a note
informing him that I had concluded to give up
farming, and that day I left. You see. I had
another plan in my mind. I thought I saw a
bleudid opening on the Tennessee river in Ala
bama.’
‘Did ■ our friend Smith raise any objections to
your leaving in so unceremonious a manner ?’ I
inquired.
‘Objections ? I don’t know. He served me a
scurvy trick with my partner in the Alabama
Btore.’
‘The Alabama store ? How was that ?’
‘Well, you see, there was a man named Upton,
a cotton-buyer, living in Americus while I was
farming near that place. I told him of my Ala
bama plan, and asked him to join me. The
plan was this. There is a little town on the
Tennessee river in Alabama, called Jonesvilie.
It is in a splendid section of country, and just
the place for a country store. My purpose was
to go there, buy cotton, exchange all kinds ot
merchandise for the products of the country,
ship our products to good market, and pocket a
heavy profit. We would certainly Lave made
our fortunes, but there was a little bitch in the
arrangements—by-the-way, s appose wo have
something ? I’ll order—ah—I—yes, by Jove ! I
left my pocket-book in my room on Cherry
street! j ast like me ; so forgetful !
I quickly relieved him of bis embarrassment
by making the order myself. He d-ained his
glass to the bottom in a siugla gulp, winding up
the operation with a sigh ot infini e satisfaction.
I knew tLe mark. If he had not, in the inno
cence of his soul, already shown me that he
was one of that large class of gentlemanly do-
nothings in the South, his manner of ‘taking
his tod’ would have told the tale. It is uamia
II k able.
■Oil! yes !’ he said, ‘1 11 tell you about it.
Upton oonsented to join me. 1 went to Jones-
viiie at once and began to buy cotton. My
partner intended coming out as soon as he could
purchase the necessary stock for our store, ia
the meantime, he instructed me to draw on him
by sight drafts in payment for all cottun I
should buy. Ever been in that country around
Jonesvilie ?’
I told him that I had not.
‘It’s the roughest country in the United
States, sir!’ he said. ‘It lies right in the moun
tains, almost inaccessible except by river, and
when once you get into it, you feel that you
never want to get out, if you have to travel the
Banie road you came in order to do so. The
people are rougher than the country. They are
long and dangling of frame, never wear* any
coats, and wherever they go, are invariably ac
companied by a mangy bound and one of those
old time long rifles. They don’t kuow much
law out there. Each inhabitant is a code, law
yer, jury, judge, and courthouse for himself.
They have an infernally expeditious way of dis
posing of cases that come before them for adju
dication, too.
I established myself in a little log store-house,
the only one inJJonesville,using it both as office
and dwelling honse. I bought ten bales of cot
ton from a rough old fellow named Perkins. I
had received no money from my partner^ so I
gave him a sight draft on Upton for the amount
due him. He sent it on for collection, and by
Jove ! it came back after awhile unpaid, with
notice that Upton disclaimed any business rela
tions with me ! I discovered afterwards, jast be
fore I left Jonesvilie, that Smith had tola Upton
that I had swindled him, and warned him not
to deal with me! I have always thought that
that was a very Bcurvy trick on Smith’s part. I
didn’t run off with his farm in my pooket, Be
sides, I left him my share of the crop, and he
certainly ought to have made a good thing ont
of it.
Perkins was as mad as hops ! Swore that I
would either have to pay him his money or re
turn the cotton. I told him that there was a
mistake somewhere, and that I would write and
have the cotton returned. I did write, but I
never knew whether the cotton was sent back
or not. Perkins, with his old rifle slnng over
his shonlder, followed me abont in all direc
tions. When I closed up the store at night and
turned into bed, that old walking courthouse
would station himself outside and stay there
until I reappeared ia the morning. He abussd
me a great deal, too, and I didn’t like it. I
should certainly have done him an injury if I
had remained in Jonesvilie, as much as I dis
liked the kind of law he carried on his shonl
der. But I concluded to leave, aod thus be
escaped punishment. You see, business was
poor. I had neither stock nor money ; couldn’t
hear from Upton ; and nobody. would sail me
cotton as long as Perkins continued to act as
my guard of hnnor. I concluded to leave. But
how in thunder to do it, was toe question!
Perkins watched me like & hawk night and day.
I had no deBire to hurt him, for I really had
nothing against him. The mistake about the
cotton was not his fault. If I had gone off in
the day tim6 before his eyes, there would have
boen’difficulty, and that,on his account, I wished
to avoid. I solved the problem, and got rid of
any unpleasant contingencies, by leaving at
night. I had no baggage to cumber me—I nev
er carry baggage when I am traveling—and so
one night X crawled out of a crack in the back
of the store and quietly walked away. A fear
ful walk it was, too, before I reached my desti
nation ? Had to go ten miles np the river, over
rocks, through mud aud briers, and across deep
sloughs, to a wood-landing before six o’clock in
the morning, as that was the time the boat came
along. I reached the landing, however, took
passage on the boat,for which 1 paid by pawning
my watch, and started for Georgia by way of
Chattanooga. My purpose was to proceed to
Americus and give Smith a whipping. Got
another cigar? Ah ! yes ; thank yon !’
While he was lighting his cigar, I seized the
occasion to closely scrutinize him. It was
difficult to realize that the splendid specimen
of physical manhood sitting near me was a crea
ture so utterly without purpose. With plenty
of determination, what a success he might have
made of himself ! But he was too old when the
war ended. He had become too thoroughly
used to consuming the products of some one
else’s labor. Bather than eDgage in some earn
est avocation diligently and honestly, he pre
ferred to play the fine gentleman, which he be
lieved consisted in dressing well ani doing noth
ing. He was a skimmer. He labored nominally ;
not really. Whenever he found any of his plans
required hard work for successful development,
he threw them aside aud tried something else.
‘Well, I suppose you administered a sonnd
drubbing to Smith ?’ I said.
‘No.’ he said, ‘I let him off.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Did you ever see Smith ? No! Well, he is a
very small man, and I oonld easily have
thrashed him, but there wonld have been no
glory in doing so. The fact is, after thinking
khei matter over, I was satisfied that he had se^^
oared a warrant for my arrest. Now a trial in*"M
court is something I have always disliked. A
gentleman has no bnsiness in court as a party
to a suit. He shonld settle his grievances ac
cording to the code, sir ! If I had gone to Amer
icas, besides, very great inconvenience would
have resulted from the trip, for jast at that time
I had matured another plan. I determined to
settle in Hawkinsville and practice law. Ever
study law ?’
‘No ; never,’ I replied.
‘Its a beautiful thing, sir, is law, and very
easily learned. Why when I went to Hawkins
ville I knew not a syllable of law, and yet in
less than three months I was admitted*to\he
bar ! You see, this is the way we do it we study
the code awhile under some well established
lawyer, and then we apply to the court for ad
mission. The court appoints an examining
committee to inquire into the proficiency of the
applicant. The examination takes place'dnrinr*
the sitting of the court, when everybody is
busy, the committee especially. Oa the dav
appointed^for the examination, each member o
the committee asks the applicant half doz-f
questions on the leading principles of law, ann
then they express themselves to the court as
satisfied with tne ‘proficiency’ of the candidate
for legal honors. The court delivers a little
speech, and then the applicant is furnished bv
the clerk with a license to practice, wherein he
is set forth as ‘learned and skilled in the laws.’
v* 11 “ f ? 1 !° w ha8 t0 do is to open an
office and hang out his shingle. There was nev
er but one man refused admission to the bar in
Georgia, and that was while old Judge Lone-
street was on the bench. That fallow tried it
m six different counties, but failed every time
Finally, at the suggestion of the judge, he cave
up tbe attempt and went to plowing ’ ga
*TTi>w rfirf — -s ic yonr new profes _
How did yon succeed
sion ?' I inquired.
‘Oh! splendidly! splendidly!’ he replied.
For two or vhree months my hands were full of
business. I had innumerable bills to collect
always making a fair per cent. lam satisfied
tnat I could have made a fortune practicing 'aw J
but a very strange thing occurred to me after T
had been in the business abont four mnnVhV
and I withdrew from the profession ’ tbS ’
tji'Indeed ! I said. ‘What cans d you to do
‘Providence sir. Yes, sir, Providence and
no m^ue lou will agree with me when you
nave he^rd the circumstances ’
About four months after 1 began the practice
,1’ there, was an excursion from Hawkins
vine to Cumberland Island. You know of late
years the whites in the South have crown as
lona cl excursions as the negroes. Neat 7v ev
ery man, woman and child in*the townparti J'
pated in that excursion, and among the r«i'
ail the lawyers save myself, i was trvf™ .
econom.zs just at that time, and in view S
fact, remained at home. n Vlew °* tta,:
There was a bar-keeper named t,u..
at the expense of the State fn ® e ^ a . so J onri1
on account of certain deviations'/hFf'
supposed line of rectitude °i b from tbe
at home that day and ahom ^ ? lso ? em “ ined
shot and instantly killed*! partTfrom^h °° k h *
try by the name of WiUiamf The ^ °° nn ~
oarred in Johnson’s bar mnn, shooting oo-
ly without provocation William^ T*L, e ? tire *
n a biu - Johnson hs«d th« t w ^i£ hn '
had sold Borne cotton that j, ™ 1 j Wllllams
message requesting him^n ?.iT’ “i d sent a
William8 q t“d the m“s 96 nae P * y bil, ‘
son that he might go to -w!n°rf >y to Job,J '
tteniely difficult. Wh..h., »'
proDnmt.iAti »» t_■ u o UI
better of his heated proposition Lt®? tho1