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THE SUNNY SOUTH.
The Jiver floweth soft below.
The rushes murmur on the brink.
At noon the women till their pails.
The thirsty cattle come to drink :
At night the stars look down alway
Into the heart of each blue bay.
The village stands alH>ve the stream,
On a fair slope that comes to meet
The limpid waters; trees are round
The village green; and all things sweet
Gather and grow. Peace seems to stand
Smiling upon the smiling land.
Each home springs up beneath the shade
Of the old steeple that has seen
A score of generations pass.
A thousand children on the green,
The grandsirc and the little son.
Through the long years that time has run,
A hundred stones with names out-worn,
A thousand graves are round its feet.
And death has little fear for these.
Who know so well and think so sweet
The garden of their dead that lies
I nder tin* blue and smi ing skie.
Husbands and Wives.
The Different Kinds.
tO I RAli: WESCRIPTIOAS.
Ilj ;<n IndcgM-iMloiil I'oniiilc.
I declare, here's another—the sixth I've
had this month. What on earth do people
mean by sending me wedding-curds; the
nasty, smooth, white things ! They always
make me think of a snake. If men and wo
men won't take warning, and will he fools—
if they feci it their duty to degrade them
selves from units to halves, and make them
selves miserable and ridiculous for life, why,
in the name of common sense, ean't they do
the thing quietly, or, at least, with appro
priate symbols of mourning ! W hat pos
sesses them all that they must throw them
selves ami their absurd happiness at your
head, worrying the lives out of sensible
people;
You needn’t sneer, sir: it is not “sour
grajtes” (a woman that has received tiiree of
fers can pass over such a contemptible insinu
ation with the sdent contempt it deserves);
and 1 do know something about it, having
had more fools for my friends than I could
count up i ' a hurry. Why, I’ve got a led
ger in my desk containing the name of all
my married friends—male and female—prop
erly classified and arranged under appropri
ate headings, and there isn't a sjiecies of hus
band that 1 haven’t down, except one, and
that is— But I'll tell you about that when I
come to it. I have also several orders of
wives on my list; though, as a general thing,
there is little variety existing in that class of
sufferers—wives being very much what their
husbands make them. But to ~v e ' -k to
husbands. First, there’s yo--
business husband—the * '
second-rate tailor, an ' »
dle-light immediate *■■?«
down-town, and roi *
brains in the <iei.it a.e'
heart in the money ■
jiers, and bis eyes on his w f
cash, which has to tie examii.. ., -uti.l-u,.,
and sometimes stormed over every week;
knows his children by sight, but has no furth
er definite ideas concerning them—except that
it costs more to dress his girls than it did his
sisters; and if any of his boys have a taste
for the fine arts, the sooner the nonsense is
taken out of them in a counting-room the
bet er. He is the man who sleeps all the
cv ling over his newspaper, and is some
times seen at parties forlorn and upright,
against the wall, garroted by his cravat, and
ai solutely speechless. What do you think
of him, girls < He is by no means a rare
specimen; and. before marriage, I doubt if
you could have detected any marked differ
ence between him and -John Smith, whom all
your friends pronounce such a nice young
man.
Then there is the Molly Coddle husband.
He is generally goo Mooting; perfectly neat
in hi* appearance, and—I am not quite sure,
but 1 think—he lias a tendency to gaiters;
though i have seen a “Molly Coddle - ’ in dou
ble soled boots that would have done for a
grazier. He is the man that knows just how
much over a teaspoonful it takes for the tea.
and shows the cook how to 1/oil the potatoes,
and what to do w illithe scraps of tile dinner.
He cuts out the children’s clothes, and goes
shopping with his wife; counts the pieces of
sob]i. and sjiends all his spare time over the
household accounts; has opinions about the
cut of his wife’s dresses, and makes her life
miserable every time she gets a new bonnet.
But Molly Coddle is also, 1 think, given to
theories, "anil keeps the house in a perpetual
ferment, and his wife's nerves ajar, wilh his
experiments. He has a hawk's eye for any
thing like disorder but his own special draw
ers and closets: is always insisting on system,
and is, probably, more intensely and persist-
cntlv disliked by servants and relatives limn
an' other species of husband down in my
ledger.
There is your brutal husband- the man
%v j, , plays such an active part in novels, and,
unfortunately, has more to do in real life
than we, w ho see only the outside, are apt to
suspect. He is the man who regularly bullies
his wife at breakfast, throws the table over
■-iii Ivr. and breaks the dishes once in a while,
when things go wrong dow n town : insults her
in company, when she has no relatives near
to defend her: takes her money, if she has
any. anil deals much in coarse epithets. Look
o ;t, for him, girls! When 1 have seen him he
•was neither red-faced, loud-voiced, nor full-
necked, blit was generally much thought of
for his tenderness toward his wife, and his
■■■xalted moral sentiments.
There is the husband flirt—devoted to eve-
•v one but his wife. Sees a lady drop her
handkerchief across the room, and flies to
nick it up, but never can remember to serve
l,i. s wile at table. Is especially liked by young
belies, who pity him, and think it a pity that
Mich a charming mail should be tied up to
that poor creature—his wife. He has gencr
; ,lh a slight tinge of sadness in his manner,
and the most perfect laste in dress. Is espec
ially careful of hisown comfort: but isquite
above any such weakness as anxiety about
Ill's wife and children. Doesn't effect being
much at home, and is singularly charming in
conversation: lets Ins wife wear the siik she
had when she was married, and lieg a new
di'awl of her father, and sends bouquets and
bracelets to his last flirtee. Remember him
in the Litany, girls, at the time you pray to
I** delivered from plague, pestilence and
(amine—for be is all three.
There is vour stupid husband—the man
who is blind; having eyes, und deaf, having
ears—the inconsolable mourner, who is so ta
ken bv surprise when his wife drops off in a
decline, after having been nurse, seamstress,
chain!lennaid, cook, anil his patient slave for
years. The father who warps the nature of
iiis children to evil, because be let the time
|- , sl ,wing good seed pass by unhee led. The
man who never thinks that his wife wants a
change of air or some trifling recreation, and
advises her. when she has a pain in her sale,
-•to make an effort”—he has it often, andean
always conquer it,' who classes new Imoks,
cheerful conversation, and occasional friend
ly visits under the head of useless luxuries;
sends his sick wife around the house on er- |
j-diuis while he lolls in his easy-chair: lectures
her for laziness, after sleeping soundly all
night, while she has lieen walking the floor
with the baby, because she tries to get a short
nap in the morning; and never, under any
possible circumstances, dreams that she can
lie anything but happy, or that lie is not the
most exemplary husband in the world. He,
too, is common, and is a great help to under
takers and marble-cutters.
Here is the jealous husband, who wont let
his wife cross the ferry alone, or sit by the
front window. Makes her wear a vail and
wont bring her home the papers for fear she
has some interest in fashion or personal news.
Never gives her any money if he can help it,
and makes her account for evo-y dime, lest
she should take a ride in the stage of which
lie knows nothing. Inspects every piece of
paper lying about the bouse, and listens at
the door when she is talking with tlie ser
vants. Is very affable in t o kitchen, where
he is in the habit of {Hitting leading questions
in an easy, off-hand sort of way, and is fond
of giving out that he will leave town at a
certain !.inie. and then coming home unex-
jiecfedly. Receives nil his male friends alone
in the parlor, and if a good-looking one in
vites him to dine, pretends not to have re
ceived the note, and makes his wife spend the
evening riding up and down in the horse
cal's. If you get hold of him, girls, resign
yourself to your fate, for he will neither lie
happy himself nor let you lx- so.
There is the fretful husband, who finds
fault before he gets in at the door; and the
nervous husband, who worries out his life
and yours about door-hinges and bell-pulls:
aril the husband who is never at home; and,
oh. yes! there's the awkward husband—the
man who always tears your dress, and
knocks over your cologne bottles, and breaks
\ our combs, and uses your host, lace handker
chief for a wash-rag, and bumps the baby’s
head, and gets three out of the six children
crying before lie lias been ten minutes in the
house.
But there is one kind of husband I have
never seen, and that is your Alan, handsome
as Apollo, brave, talented, wealthy and high-
boni, with the tenderness and the flue percep
tions of a woman, the tongue of a poet and
the eye of an artist, so common in honks and
the reveries of young ladies. Good husbands
there are, noble hearts of oak—great, tender,
generous souls—sell sacrificing—much endur
ing; but such hearts lieut oftener under
rough coat than a tine one, and such souls
wear oftenest a plain mask, and frequently
can’t use good grammar.
(If wives there are fewer varieties, they
being rather the creations of their husbands’
management. The wife of a business hus
band is very apt to harden into a worldly
woman, that of a Molly Coddle to grow sour
and sharp and pinched. The stupid husband
will generally have a nervous invalid, the
brutal one a sad icicle.
Tli 'll conies the slatternly wife—the girl
who, after marriage, has grown slip-shod in
dress and manners, the woman who goes to
breakfast with uncomlied hair, wears stock
ings with holes or none at all, her husband’s
slippers, no collar and horrid wrappers.
She is a iate riser, an inveterate pleasure-
seeker; her children go about unwashed and
in dirty night gowns: and the family are
about as apt to have dinner served up in the
chopping tray as anything else.
There is her direct opposite, the fearfully
notable woman, whose life is one long cru
sade against grease spots and Bridget; whose
conversation smacks of mops and cleaning-
days: whose highest flights of imagination are
the composition of a new cake or a novel
method of making preserves. The notable
woman’s soul cries out jierjietually at the
carelessness and tilth cf this dirty world
Her husband forgets to wipe his boots and
throws her into hysterics, lavs his hat oil the
centre-table and [nits her in an agony, takes
down the towel and distracts her by not
anging it on the corner nail again. She
■eaks her heart fifty times a day with torn
ickets and greasy hands, scraps are wasted
i the kitchen, Bridget will not keep her
lish-towe's as such things should be; and the
lotable woman's thoughts, traveling so inces
santly in such vfry small conqiass, fret and
corrode her heart at last, which may have
been as big as yofira or mine, till marriage
taught, her that she was a model housekeeper.
There is the literary wife, who reads all
the new works and hasn't time to teach her
children to spell. Khe has refined tastes and
congenial friemds and house, hustiand ai d
children go where I shouldn’t like to say,
while she reads aloud the last new poem,
stopping at every other line to exclaim; “How
exquisite!"
There is the philanthropic wife, who can’t
superintend her children’s education, and
keeps her husband a buttonless man. because
fairs and charitable societies leave her no
time. And the silly wife, and the strong-
minded wife, and worse than all, that cause
of our national ruin, that fruitful subject of
astounding newspaper paragraphs, that rock
on which nearly all our monster firms have
split—the extravigant wife,
if And now I desire to ask how in the world
it happens, in spite of all the warnings, in
the very fare and eyes of all these terrible
examples I have quoted, in spite of the ad
vice of all those who have tried it. young
men and women will still lie so blind, so mad,
so infatuated, so reckless, so idiotic, as to
marry r
There is the spider in plain sight—there are
the victims in his web. Why don't you keep
out you silly flies : Bask in the sunshine, use
your freedom and he thankful for it.
I wish ]ieo]ile were gifted with my sense.
As 1 have said. I had three offers. The first
was front John Mote—Long John, we used
to call him. I was only sixteen, but 1 remein-
lier it as well as if it were yesterday. I
never had thought anything of his visits, as
he was a neighbor's son, and used to come in
two or three times a week, and sit about in a
grand fatherly sort of a way, so that 1 was
quite used to him, and just went about bak
ing, or sweeping, or ironing, as if he were
only our old black cat.
i hie morning we happened to he all alone,
I sweeping, lie leaning back in bis chair,
tilted as usual against the wall on two legs.
All of a sudden he says:
“Seems to me you’re mighty handy with
the broom, Sally. I wonder if you'd lav it
on a fellow’s head as nicely as you do on the
carpet
1 was so surprised at what he said, or in
deed at iiis speaking at till for he generally
sat like an oyster—that I never thought to
answer him; so in a minute lie went on:
“I wish all the gals were as perlite as you,
Sally. You sweep all round a fellow, and
never ask him to move.’’
Then, of course. 1 knew what was coming,
and 1 took tlie only course left for a sensible
and right-minded woman.
“John More,” I said, looking relmkiiigly at
him over the hrooiii-handle, "that will do. 1
understand you perfectly now, and should
think that you would have known hotter than
to ask me to have you. 1 have no wish to
marry: and if I had dreamed of your inten
tions. I should have behaved with more re
serve: for I considered it the height of im
propriety in a young woman to marry a man
under a ten years’ courtship; and I'm think
ing of leaving the village this spring—so you
see it will lie impossible.”
My conscience! I really think he turned
tilueand y ellow.
And what do you think the awkward fel
low said 1
“Why—why, Sally, I hain’t asked you to
have me, have 1 *”
Now, wasn't that like a man, getting out of
it in that contemptible way '. Enough to dis
gust one with the whole sex. I say!
But to come back to my offers:
My next was from our clergyman, and
was occasioned by my own natural goodness
and sincerity that is always getting me into
trouble. He was a widower, and preached
lovely sermons; and unless I was adamant or
steel—which I don’t pretend to lx*—I couldn't
avoid feeling a certain interest in his little,
motherless girls, and 1 maintain that it was
perfectly natural that l should be all the
tune knitting her stockings, and sending him
currant jelly.
It was quite ns natural, though, that 1
should be misunderstood in a world that has
never appreciated exalted sentiments; and
I am pained to say that even our excellent
clergyman failed to appreciate me.
Calling one afternoon, he said to me:
“Miss Sallv, I wish to ask your advice on
! tin important subject. I ain thinking of
No'v, how could I know that he meant
| matrimony ? Men are such artful creatures
i we can’t he too much on our guard against
1 them, as no one knows better than I; but m
i that instance I-forgot all my caution, and
| laid down my knitting to listen, quite unsus
pectingly. _ „ ,, ,
“Of—of getting married, Miss Sally, he
went on, getting suddenly very red. “Now
Miss Sally, you are a person of experience
and observation- What do you think of
“It’s no use,” I cut in sharply, vexed at
being a second time annoyed by an offer.
“I wouldn’t have you or any other man I
ever saw for a fortune!”
That was the way I put him down.
My last offer I had a year ago from a wid
ower that got in the habit of dropping in
once in a fortnight; and finding he was going
on in that dawdling way for any number of
years, I just told him one evening that he
needn’t trouble himself to come, as 1 had
seen too much of his sex to bother myself
with them.”
And so I got rid of my third offer.
Now, girls, whirh of you will have the
sense to go and do likewise !
SOUTHERN GEORGIA.
* It ETC1I IT* T K A ■» I-
T I O A S .
I*rctty Yliily lloxlortl.
We have the pleasure, says the Savannah
News, of laying before our readers this morn
ing another of the interesting traditions em
braced in tlie paper on “Sketches anil Tradi
tions of Southern Georgia,” read before the
Georgia Historical Society by Capt. W. \\ .
Paine on last Monday night.
Children of both sexes were earl}' taught
self-reliance, and to defend themselves from
any foe—Indian, panther, bear, wolf or rat
tlesnake; and there tire many accounts of
hair-breadth escapes of both boys and girls,
as well as of mothers and fathers.
Tradition tells of pretty Milly Hosford. a
blue-eyed lass of seventeen summers. She
was an only daughter, and had been deprived
of a mother’s care early in life. Hosford,
with iiis family, consisting of this daughter
and two hardy sons near their manhood,
lived on the head waters os the St. Ilia, not
far from the noted trail called “Barnard's
Path,” leading from Barnard’s Bluff on the
Altamaha to old Fort Mitchell on the Chatta
hoochee river. Fort Mitchell, a few miles
below the now city of Columbus, was a place
of much note, and was named in honor of
General David Bradie Mitchell, once Gover
nor of Georgia.
( hie morning old Hosford and his two sons
were plowing in a field, some distance from
the house, and Milly, with her bright face
and golden locks, fer she was of the full
blooded Anglo-Saxon type, was singing from
a cheerful heart at the wash-tub (all happy
girls sing whether reared in palace or in cot),
when her quick eye discovered Indians slip
ping from (>ine to pine, with the intention of
surprising her, As quick as thought she ran
into tlie house, caught up the rifles of father
and brothers to carry to them and give the
alarm. Just as she was stepping from the
door she saw one Indian much in advance of
the others, and not more than sixty yards
distant. In a moment one of the rifles' was
at the shoulder of the brave girl, and, resting
the barrel against tlie facing of the door, she
tired, and the Indian fell dead in his tracks.
Milly then ran with the rifles and shot-hags
to her father and brothers, v who readied the
house in time to prevent it from being plun
dered and burnt by the remaining Indians.
I am aware that science teaches that a wo
man with a blue eye and light hair could
not have the nerve that Milly showed; but
tradition says to the contrary. Many deli
cate ladies of the present day have exhibited
great presence of mind ami determined spirit
in times of danger and alarm, and the mild
blue eye has shown as much decision as the
flashing black or the resolute gray. But. I
will not discuss this subject—I tell the tale as
it was told to me.
I wish, for the information of my fair hear
ers. that I knew the subsequent history of
Miss Milly. She no donbt married—most
girls do—and some of her descendants may
now be numbered among the fair daughters
and brave sons of Georgia.
A AIII1IA*T’S «!OAFKSSIOA-
llartmuiin Telling lion He
Tried to Blow up the t'znr's
Train.
London, March 19.—One of the sensations
of the day is tlie declaration of Hartm inn,
who, within a few days after his arrival here
from Paris, when tlie French Government
refused to surrender him to Russia under the
extradition laws, feeling himself safe from
all further danger of arrest, freely told to
personal friends and to others the whole story
if his connection with the Moscow affair.
He says that with the assistance of friends
he planned and executed the explosion,
which failed only because of the mistake on
their part as to the right train, Hartmann
declares that he personally hired the house
in which the electrical battery and instru
incuts were found and conducted the arrange
ments which were calculated to net as a |
"blind” to ward off suspicion. After the ex- ]
plosion he fled, and although his pursuers
were often close upon his track he succeeded
in getting out of the Czar’s dominions. He
refuses to divulge the slightest hint that
might direct suspicion toward hisacconiplices,
most of whom, he says, are nowin St. Pet
ersburg. “working for the good cause,” and
intimates that if the Russian Government of
ficials knew their names they would he con
siderably surprised. He glories in the promi
nence he has in the afl'air, and says lie only
regrets the failure of his well-laid "plan. (>h
being reminded that in case he had succeed
ed in blowing up the right train many inno
cent persons might have been killed or
wounded, he replied that such a result would
have been regret iMe, but in a struggle like
the one now going on in Russia, when open
war is yet impossible, it was necessary to
take those chances. Hartmann intends to
sail for the l nited States 011 Saturday, from
which country lie hopes to lie able to assist
the Nihilists at home in various ways. He
thinks it probable that his admission of his
complicity in the Moscow affair will so en
rage tlie Russian authorities with France for
not holding him for further evidence that it
muv easily lead to the breaking off of diplo
matic relations, if not to an open rupture be
tween these countries.
Pa ills. March 111.—/.,■ Tern/is suggests that
Russia should ask England to extradite Hart
mann, and in the event of refusal, then the
C nited States.
It will be ninety one years, in the coming
April, since Chancellor Livingston, from the
open balcony of Federal Hall, then standing
where now l isc the marble columns of the
Sub-Treasury. New York city, administered
to George Washington the oath of office as
first President-of the United States.
The old family Bible that belonged to “Ma
rt', the mother of Washington,” is still in ex
istence, and is kept in a branch of the Wash
ington family in Virginia. It contains the
family register, recording the birth of George
Washington. Feb. 22, 17,12. The binding has
a cover of cloth woven by the hands of his
mother.
New Occupation for Women.
She Must Join the Orchestra.
•Scribner for April.
\\ ith tiie exception of the double-bass
(violin) and the heavier brass—indeed, I am
nut sure that these exceptions are necessary
—there is no instrument of the orchestra
which a woman cannot play successfully.
The extent, depth and variety of musical ca
pability among the women of the United
States are continual new sources of aston
ishment and pleasure to this writer, although
his pursuits are not specially of a nature to
bring them before his attention. It may be
asserted without extravagance that there is
no limit to the possible aehievments of our
countrywomen in this lielialf, if their efforts
be turned in the right direction. This direc
tion is, unquestionably, the orchestra. All
the world has learned to play the piano. Let
our young ladies—always saving, of course,
those who have the gift for the s|>eoial instru
ment—leua-e that anil address themselves to
the violin, the flute, the oboe, the harp, the
clarionet, the bassoon, the kettledrum. It is
more than possible that upon some of these
instruments tlie superior daintiness of the
female tissues might finally make the woman
a more successful player than the man. On
♦is- Bute, for instance, a certain combination
of delicacy with flexibility in the lips is abso
lutely necessary to bring fully out that pas
sionate yet. velvety tone hereinbefore alluded
to; and make ninny players, of all requisite
qualifications so far as manual execution is
concerned, will be forever debarred from at
taining it, by reason of their intractable,
rough lips, wiii di will give nothing hut a cor
respondingly intractable, rough tone. The
same, in less degree, may be said of the oboe
and bassoon. Besides, the qualities required
to make a perfect orchestral player are far
more often found in women than in men: for
these qualities are patience, fervor and fidel
ity, combined with deftness of hand and
quick intuitiveness of soul.
To put the matter in another view: no one
at all acquainted with this subject will under
value the benefits to female health to lie
brought about by the systematic use of wind
instruments, l tut of personal knowledge the
writer pleases himself often with picturing
how many consumptive chests, dismal shoul
ders and melancholy spines would disappear,
how many rosy cheeks would blossom, how
many erect forms delight tlie eyes which
j mourn over their drooping—under the stimu
li;-. "Tjtbus* ,'ong, equable, and generous in
spirations and expirations which the execu
tion of every moderately difficult piece on a
wind-instrument requires.
KO*>A BO AII IT I It.
An Odd Oreatnre, But :t Great
Artist.
This great artist is at work on a picture of
huge dimensions, on which she proposes to
stake her reputation. It represents horses
threshing out wheat in the south of France.
Rosa Bonheur is in perfect health, and lives
very quietly in a quaint house at Thornery,
five miles from Fontainebleau, receiving only
intimate friends. It Ls more difficult for a
stranger to obtain access to her than to se
cure a presentation at the court of a reign
ing sovereign. Hundreds of tourists besiege
her doors and expect to take up her time,
forgetting that it is worth at least one hun
dred dollars a day. Rosa Bonheur is scarce
ly changed—certainly not for the worse—
from the date of her portrait painted by Du
bufe, representing her resting on the neck of
her fa'hrite bull, painted by herself. The
close-cm hair is grayish, but her hazel eyes
are as bright and her smile as winning as
ever.
She sdll wears, for convenience in her
walk-J^.h.eforest, and fishing and shooting
excel su*.-’” the masculine dress she first
adopted’ from necessity when, too poor to
purchase or hire animals for models, she was
obliged to make her studies in the public
horse mart and slaughter houses of Paris.
But she always wears the garb of her sex
when receiving her rare guests at Thornery.
She is a very conscientious artist, and though
perfectly able to draw any animal en chic,
that is without consulting the living model,
yet she always draws and paints from the
life, and for this purpose keeps up a sort of
zoological garden stocked with birds and
lleasts. They are frequently changed. Late
ly she had as a temporary guest a magnifi
cent African lion, purchased for the purpose
of painting the portrait of this king of beasts.
In private life Rosa Bonheur enjoys a reputa
tion never sullied by a breatli of scandal,
and no thought of marriage ever entered
her head. Her companion in her charming
retirement is Madame Payrol, an artist like
herself.
Tiie employees of the Paris horse market
retain a vivid and pleasant recollection of a
bright, alert young fellow, who used to at
tend every sale, knew the points of a horse
better than they did, and who moved among
kicking and biting stallions with perfect
fearlessness anil safety. That young amateur
of horseflesh was none other than Rosa Bon
heur. and she has immortalized her favorite
haunt in a world-famed painting which is j
owned in America, and of which thousands
of engravings have been made and circulated
broadcast. It is a pleasure and a duty to pay
a passing tribute to one who is an honor to
art and a.glory to her sex.
PERSONALS.
What tlie I*eopie are Doing; and
Saying; Everywhere.
Reubenstein is nearly blind-
Carlyle complains of loss of memory.
Seymour is both “willing and anxious."
MANCH.
— BY —
MARY K. BRYAN,
From Heherco Cameron, ffitlsboro, N. C.
Author of “Exalted Inj Fire. 1 '
\\ e have lately read a new hook, a good
book, a clever hook—sound, sweet, healthy;
President Hayes plays .first-rate game of I «nd[it was more than that though these are
rresiueni najes e - ° virtues enough to flavor half a dozen of the.
cards.
Mrs. Kate Chase Sprague ls giving social
supper parties in Washington.
It was I be late N. P. Willis who
or custom
rst re
marked that King Henry VIII. always mar
ried his wives and then axed ’em afterwards.
Victor Hugo at the «g. 01 79 lias just written
a long poem, a five-act drama and three
edies. “Age cannot wither him
stale Iiis infinite variety ”
Carlyle t kes a very gloomy view of the
future of England, and does not hesitate to
express hi inseif in pronounced terms. He
simpiy despises Lord Beaconsfield,
John Howard, tlie great philanthrooist. mar
ried his nurse; she was fifty two and lie was
but twenty five. They lived happily together
a couple of years, when she died.
The Princess Louise is very homesick and
don’t ike Canadaat all. It will end in her
husband giving up Iiis post by-aud-b v.
Miss Bryant, daughter of the poet, and her
cousin. Miss Fairchild, were, at last accounts,
in Rome, in good healtti.
Bessie Turner lias found a hustiand in tiie
person of a theatrical scene-shift r.
It was Menander who said a daughter is an
embarrassing and ticklish possession.
Mr. James Russell Lowell is now just past
nis sixtieth year. Like Longfellow, when he
is at home in Cambridge, be occupies a fine
old house of the Revolutionary period-
Wilkie Co fins is a slow and laborious
writer, very conscientious, wriling and re.
writing, erasing and interlining. He wouldn't
do for an editor of a newspaper.
The Marquis of Grillo, husband of Madame
Histori, is building a modern palace to live in
at Borne, iu the new section of the city.
The Milledgeville Union & Reco der thus
spea s of Hon. David E. Butler; “We were
pleased to meet this distinguished gentleman
in our city last week. He has a host of friends
here, as he has everywhere throughout the
State; indeed, we doubt if there is a mail in
Georgia who has more warm personal friends
than Mr. Butler. Few men have done more
to promote tiie moral and material welfare
of our beloved Commonwealth. He has beeu
an able *nd earnest worker, and in the many
positions he tins held he has prove-., himself
to be the right man in the right place. He is
not a politician—has not sought nor held
many political offices, (State Senator and
member ol the Constitutional Convention be
ing all we now remember,) but lie has had a
broader and nobler field in which to win tiie
love and admiration ol his people. Asa lead
ing minister of the Baptist denomination, and
for many years Mode, atorof the Baptist state
Convention—as Grand Master of tlie Masonic
fraternity—as Trustee in several leading in
stitutions of learning—as a member of the
Executive Committee of theState Agricultu
ral Society—as editor—as a speaker and writ
er—as a railroad director—and in many other
positions, he Ins shown marked administra
tive ability, and commended himself to the
people by Ids Integrity arid devotion to the
interests committed to his keeping.'’
Bishop Doggett, of Richmond, Va., has ap
pointed Rev. John W. Burke, of Macon, pre
siding elder of the Americas distict, in place
of Rev. Samuel Anthony, deceased.
Dr. A. A. Lipscomb, now professor of Belle
Lettres in Vanderbilt University, Nashville,
is announced as one of the editors of the new
Southern Monthly Magazine, to be published
in that city-, and the first number of which is
announced to appear in May.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”
—the Russian emperor's bodyguard is now oil
duty day and night. Anybody entering the
bed-room or the library would have to pass
two hundred Cossacks. Two soldiers sleep
at the foot of his bed every night.
The communist leader and head of the
Workingman’s Organization in San Fran
cisco, Dennis Kearney, has- been arrested on
the charge of using incendiary language and
inciting the people to riot. Re was convicted
and sentenced to pay a fine of one thousand
dollars and to be imprisoned six months.
Kearney has given bond and will carry the
case to a higher court. The sentence meets
the hearty approval of all law-abiding citi
zens of California.
V-T
A \OVI.I. HITil,.
If any of our readers suffer with neural
gia or headache, we would call attention to
Neuralgine, an unfailing remedy for these
troubles. It is endorsed by many' of our most
prominent and reliable citizens. All drug
gists keep it,. For further information ad
dress Hutchison & Bro., Proprietors, Atlanta,
Georgia.
'I'u 11 Ilcvican I'nlllc Hrivci-s
I'iglil B ith flu- I.simmo.
A novel kind of duel was fought lately in
the Indian Territory, near Atoka, between
two Mexicans, cattle drivers, returning home
from a drive to Colorado. One was Don
John dc la Cruz, the other Pedro Garcia, and
both were in love with the same woman—a
circumstance not confined to Mexico. While
discussing their claims to the possession of
their mistress they- quarreled, of course, and
declared in the hottest of hot words, that the
world was not big enough for both of them.
They determined, therefore, that one of them
must be extinguished, and were on the point
of a personal encounter with revolvers, when
common friends interfered, anil persuaded
them to adopt the native weapon—the lariat
or lasso. Having taken position 011 the open
prairie, a certain distance apart, they
wheeled their horses—they were finely'
mounted—anil dashed towards one another,
lariats snugly in hand, and crouching on tiie
saddle to avoid the flying noose. The lassoes
were simultaneously cast. Cruz missed lii.s
aim, but Garcia’s lariat fell with unerring
precision over the head of tris adversary, who
was jerked to the ground with the intent to
break his neck. Cruz, fortunately, was
thrown on his side, and would certainly have
been dragged to death, for the horses were at
full speed, had not the lasso snapped with the
sudden strain. As it was, he wasso seriously
hurt as to lie unconscious, and he may not
recover. The lasso generally used in South
America for capturing wild horses and cattle
is dissimular to the lasso employed mainly in
Mexico. The former, a long, stout throng of
skin, with a leaden ball at each end, is so
thrown that when it strikes neck or leg it
coils around and restrains the flying lieast.
The Mexican lasso or lariat has a slip noose,
and requires more skill in management. The
lasso was frequently directed against the
Spanish soldiers during the struggle of the
South American Republics for independence,
and also by some of the Russian tribes, dur
ing the Crimean war against tlie French sen
tinels, but with poor success. (iccasional at
tempts were made with the lariat upon our
troops during the Mexican war, though they
were speedily abandoned, as the American
proved much less tractable than the native
wild cattle.
©cuts of Thought.
Happino:
; not to la
en-old.
s grows at our own firesides and
picked in stranger's gardens.—
The “point of honor" can often be made to
produce, by means of vanity, as many good
deeds as virtue.—Talleyrand.
The best of men may sometimes fall into
the gutter, but it is the worst only who is
willing to remain there.—IU. C. Simms.
The best physician is he who insinuates
hope into the heart at the same time that he
prescribes a cordial for the disease.—Bovee.
Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than
happiness ever can: and common sufferings
are far stronger links than common joys.—
Lamartine.
We seldom find persons whom we acknowl
edge to be possessed of good sense, except
those who agree with us in opinion.—Le
Hnehefoucauld.
He that knows a little of the world will
admire it enough to fall down and worship
it: but lie that knows it most will most de
spise it.—Colton.
A generous, virtuous man lives not to the
world, but to his own conscience: he. as the
planets above, steers a course contrary to
that of the world.—Bacon.
Without liooks God is silent, justice dor
mant, natural science at a stand, philosophy-
lame, letters dumb, and all things involved
in Cimmerian darkness.—Bartholin.
None are so fond of secrets as those who
do not mean to keep them: such persons covet
secrets as a spendthrift covets money, for
the purpose of circulation.—Lacan.
If, under all circumstances, a man does not
go round facts or ideas, to examine them un
der their various aspects, this man is incom
plete, feeble, and in danger of berisning.—
Balzac.
All our friends, perhaps, desire our happi
ness; but then it must be in their own way:
what a pity that they do not employ the
same zeal in making lis happy in ours.—Bid
wer Lytton.
We celebrate nobler obsequies to those we
love by drying the tears of others than by
shedding our own; and the fairest funeral
wreath we can hang on their tomb is a fruit
offering of good deeds.—Jean Laid.
What intoxication for a y r oung man to see
the woman he loves to buve the handsomest
of all, become the object of passionate looks,
and to know that he alone receives the light
of those chastely-reserved eyes; tc know so
well the different shades of her voice as to lie
able to distinguish in her words, apparently
light or sportive, the proofs of a constant
thought.—Balzac.
Spenser, the poet, died in >59S.
modern nineteenth century novels. It is
well written, that is, in good, pure English,
good grammar and good taste. More than
that still, it was absorbing, thrilling, delight
ful. We began to read it after tea—say
eight o’clock, or a little later. When the
last page had been turned, and we came to
ourself, it was just half past eleven; we had
lost ourself completely' for nearly four hours,
lM'ing absolutely ubsorliod into 'he current of
the story. And it seems to us that is about
as much of a compliment as a reader can pay
a book. We do not say'the book is beyond
! criticism, but that ungracious task we leave
| to others—if such there be—who have been
I able to read it slowly enough to detect the
1 flaws. For our part, we were too well en
| tertained to feel disposed to quarrel with the
i entertainment
j The book is called “Munch," and is from
the pen of the gifted Airs. Alary Bryan of
j Atlanta, and issued by the fir.11 of 1). Apple-
I ton & Co., in their usual perfection of style
I and finish. The moral is perfect, the style
| easy and graceful, the characters all ger-
; main to the action of the story, none stiper-
' fluous. The action, always well sustained,
; rises into actual dramatic effect towards the
| close, when the some-time Captain Brown
i recalls himself —like the blast of a bugle
j horn—to the memory' of his former eompan-
! ions-in-arms. We will not review either
j plot or characters, though Melieent is so
| sweet, true and womanly. Neil, beautiful.
( almost unreal in his heroic self-abnegation;
an 1 “Munch,” the boy whose name (or lack
of one) gives title to the book, is the most
winning, dearest little waif in the world of
book-made people. We will content ourself
with very heartily thanking Mrs. Bryan for
a very enjoyable book, and praying her
please write another.
Rebecca Cameron.
From Hon. .4. II. Stephens to the publishers.
1 think “Munch” is one of the most inters
es'ing and thrilling stories I have ever read.
.Send me out- hundred copies and I will remit
the price.
From Prof. Win. Henry Peek, the popular
novelist and favorite story writer for the
New York Ledger".
Atlanta, Ga., January 28th 1880.
Mrs. Mary K. Bryan:
Dear Madame—Permit me to congratu
late you upon the many excellencies of your
brilliant novel, “Manch.” It is indeed a
powerful and original work. The plot is
hold, the movement rapid and intense. 1
began to read the story at 6 p.m.; I did not
pause in my perusal till I had read through
to the enil—at midnight. Six hours of deeply
absorbed attention; six hours of literary
pleasure! I am much obliged to you.;
I am sure that v our work should give you
both fame and gold. Certainly you deserve
both; and much of each.
Your sincere friend.
W m. Henry Peck.
Front Mrs. Mary Ashley Townsend, author
of "‘The Brother Clerks.”
New Orleans, Feb. 16.
Dear Mr. Derby:
I have just finished the thrilling and beauti
ful story of “Manch.” I was profoundly inter
ested from the first chapter to the last; 1
find it full of vigor, originality and dramatic
power. I am too fresh from the magnetic
influence of the story'—too much stirred ba
the heroism, too much moved by the pathos
there betrayed to attempt to criticise it in
any way. In fact, my present impression is
that it is above, criticism. The characters
are admirably drawn and well sustained, the
plot is novel, well laid and cleverly carried
out, the story is told wirh much force: is un
clogged with dull description and the reader's
interest is not once allowed to Hag. 1 am
truly obliged to you for having recommend
ed to my notice so admirable a tiook.
Sincerely-,
Mary Ashley Townsend,
From Maria Darlington Deslonde, Author
of "The Miller of Sillcott Mills,'' “Johns
Marshall," etc.
To speak candidly of my own sensations
while reading “Manch,” I must confess that
my interest was at once excited, and that as
the story developed, its real merit was most
cordially recognized. Neil Griffin’s terrible
fate—his dogged submission to the judgement
of the lawless men who condemned him—tlie
grief of the child wife—the wratli of fierce,
old Hagar—the night ride through the forest
to Gallows Hill—the sight of a writhing hu
man form shooting up in the red glare of the
torches—the cry of Captain Brown as he cuts
the rope—“My* God. too late, too late!”—all
make a grand and thrilling climax. And the
intense, half-feverish interest is sustained, al
though the author lias run into the danger of
anti climax, and entails upon herself the difli-
cuities of sustaining a correspondent interest
throughout. Yet she succeeds in the task and
enlists both curiosity and interest in a high
degree until the denouement. Altogether
Manch is so good a book that the author may
be most sincerely congratulated upon tier
success, and by none more cordially than ba
the writer of this brief notice—one personally
unknown to her.
From the Christian Tade.v.
We have read the book with great interest.
The smooth, deep, rapid flow of the diction;
the consummate ability with which the plot
is managed, its details worked out: the thrill
ing, tragic situations: the perspicuous, elevat
ed style: the under-current cf passion that
hurries on towards the denouement; the start
ling glimpses ave have in the rush of the nar
ration as to aa hat the denouement avitl lie; the
richly contrasting and Rembrandt like touch
es that give as bits of Southern and frontier
scenery, gloaving with the color ami beauty
of poetic interpretation—these are qualities
that stamp ‘-Manch" as the work of a strong,
highly-gifted, original and imaginative mind,
familiar with the artistic elements essential
to the production of works of this kind.
From the Chicago Tribune.
“Manch” appeals powerfully *to the sym
pathies of the reader. Dramatized it would
be classed as an emotional drama: as a noael
it is difficult to assign to it a proper classifi
cation. It. is exciting, working eaer to effect
ia-e climaxes, thrilling in many portions,
arousing the sympathies of the reader and
holding his attention to the end.
From the Louisville Courier Journal.
Its characters are made to stand out Isddly
and distinctly: its plot, isa strong one with no
minor parallel threads to detract from its
power. Arousing interest at the beginning,
it sustains and increases it to the finalr with
out relaxation. Its motion is consistent, and
at times intensely dramatic, in less skillful
hands it. might have been called sensational:
in those of Mrs. Bryan it is an effective piece
of art. The style is colored with the warm
glow of the Creole. It is tinged by the touch
of a rich poetic temperament, and occasional
ly surprises one with a unique figure or a
dainty fancy. But it is not weakly effemi
nate or fiorid: on the contrary, it is charac
terized by more of strength than accompanies
the work of most women.
From the Xejr York Herald.
“Manch" is the singular title of an Ameri
can novel by- Mary E. Bryan. The story-
deals with Western scent's and subj wts. and
that it is exeiting. no one can deny. The
plot is intricate and the interest breathless.
To an Eastern reader the story seems hardly
within the bounds of possibility, still truth ‘is '
strange anil so are the people of the West.
Mrs. Bryan lays her local color on thick
and the scenes are life-like,”
85?" M e will forward a copy post-paid, to
any address, on receipt of $i.5o.