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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 30, 1887
the wedding last night.
Marriage of the Daughter of Secretary
Lamar.
[Macon Telegraph, July, 22.]
The marriage of Mr. W. H. Lamar, of Wash
ington and Miss Jennie L. Lamar, of Oxford,
MUr occurred last night at 8 o'clock at the
Georgia'residence of L. Q- C. Lamar, on Or-
“TtotaSrior of hie residence was magnifi
cently decorated throughout with the rarest
flowers the parlor, in which the ceremony was
performed, being especially handsome, two
large hearts composed of tube roses suspended
from the Center of the room forming the prm-
c'paJ floral decoration. From every nook and
corner bloomed the flowers which seemed U,
hav<i be^n chosen for their fitaiess through
casion, the pure white predominating through
° U At 8 o’clock the officiating minister, Rev. C.
Ti Iamar of Demopolis, Ala., brother of the
groom, took his position in that portion of the
parlor in vffiich stood Secretary Lamar and his
bride last January. In the parlor had assem
bled th« relatives of the family. A few mm
u es after 8 o’clock the bride came down stairs
accompanied by her father. They were met
at the door of the parlor by the groom, who
then presented the bride with her boquet an
elegant cluster of tube roses. The two then
stepped forward and took their po»W»i“
front of the minister, who read the Methodist
marriage service. ... ,
After the ceremony had been performed, the
family advanced and extended congratulations.
After these were over, the party repaired to
the dining room where a most elegant supper
had been prepared by Furber. It was a gem
of a repast, heightened in its beauty by the
flowers which formed almost a bower, ming
ling their fragrance with the delicious aroma
of the daintiest of viands.
The occasion was a happy, but a quiet one,
and yet brilliant, the rich costumes cl the la
dies adding much to the scene. The bride is a
daughter of the Secretary, and made her debut
in Washington society last winter. She is
years of age, dark eyes and light hair and a
perfect type of Southern beauty. She wore a
dress of white surah, with pearl passamentene
trimmings; flowers, orange blossoms and tube
roses, and for ornaments wore pearls.
Mr. and Mrs. Lamar leave this morning for
Atlanta on their way to Kirkwood, the coun
try hom6 of Governor Gordon. After spend
ing a few days there, they will proceed to
Washington, their future home. Mr. Lamar
is a member of the law linn of Zachry & La
mar and has been practicing law there for six
years, lie is a son of I)r. W. H. Lunar, of
Auburn, Ala., and is a fourth cousin of his
bride. In commemoration of the wedding, the
following verses were written by the father of
the groom and addressed “To Jennie,” the
bride.
Love learns no sweeter term In all Its J oyous lUe,
Its wild superlatives now crystalze In wife;
Nor does that fond Impassioned neart less regnant
Which crowns It regent with Its I-lth and loyal love,
Proud man can never feel thut he Is fully man
Until some fate-commlssloned warder’s magic hand,
flredentlaled with I he key of strange witcheries,
Deftly unlocks the wealth of heart-hid mysteries.
Thus rId thy Longstreet mother, wlthjan angt l’s
skill
Such gtMlsh charms and maiden dignity reveal.
Aa Hr* <1 and fixed the wildered heart and roving
Which,Tike the stars of morning, danced and sung
for joy.
If love’s white banner streams, kissed by the favor
ing breeze, ,
Or drops Its suken foldings on more placid seas,
We durst not prey or dream that tempests may not
rise,
You’ll win your grandest triumph under frowning
skies.
Through rough and smooth alike, with more of joy
thau pain.
The lamp of trust can make the path of dnty plain.
So let no demon doubt thy prouder hopes dismay,
Or make thee less a victor from this happy day.
Brinkley (Ark.) Society Notes.
Editor Sunny South : The weather during
the last few days has been exceedingly warm,
but no sickness or sunstrokes yet, like they are
.having in Chicago.
Mr. N. P. Lowrence, of the St. L., Ark. &
Tex. railroad, is among his many friends this
week.
Mrs. Fannie Hooker is sr journing in Coving
ton, Tenn.
Mrs. Annie Singleton, of Texarkana, aDd
Mrs. Lena Smith, of Little Hock, are visiting
their mother, Mrs. J. E. Craig. They will re
main some considerable time.
The amiable and accomplished Mis Minnie
Looney, of Dardanelle, Ark., is the guest of
her aunt, Mrs. Hallie Tomlinson. She will
leave in a short time, and wo fear some of the
boys will not survive the parting. Don’t cry,
boys, for better days will come.”
Miss Henrie Hudson, formerly of this place,
but now of Little Rock, is spending a few
weeks with her many friends.
Miss Maggie Black is home from the St. Ag
nes Academy, at Memphis, Tenn.
Our oil mill is undergoing some extensive re
pairs under the supervision of Capt. A. A. Dif-
fe.v, and expects to do a good business - this
season.
Baseball is the rage, and our boys play a
good game. We have the best colored club m
the State.
Miss Bettie Forbess is among friends at Aus
tin. She is one of Brinkley’s most charming
youDg ladiss, and is missed very much.
Solon H. Bryan and Robert J. Keely spent
the “glorious fourth” in Arkansas county, and
a delightful time they had. The former went
on special business, the latter on pleasure.
Some day I’ll wander back when it is not so
warm. Old Fogy.
July 16, 1887.
»*»
Miss Mollie Garfielu, the only daughter of
President Garfield, is to be married soon to J.
Stanley Brown, who was her father’s private
secretary and is many years older than the
young girl. Mr. Brown struck double luck
when be became the late President’s private
secretary.
***
A pretty Nebraska widow, who had ensnared
the aflections of many respectable farmers liv
ing near Wyman, was recently ordered to
leave the country by a band of “regulators,”
under penalty of a coat of tar and feathers.
Nothing daunted by the threat the widow
bought a double-barrel shotgun and awaited
developments. When the regulators ap
proached the house to carry out their threat,
the sight of a loaded gun pointed from one of
the windows deterred them, and one of the
number, in admiration of the woman’s pluck,
advanced under a flag of truce, proposed mar
riage, and was accepted on the spot. Then a
parson was called in, the marriage was cele
brated. and the night wound up with a round
of festivities.
***
A lively New York correspondent says:
“Mrs. Wiliiam K. Vanderbilt is the beauty and
dasher of all the Vanderbilts. Her social do
ings have had a vim and style uudesired, or at
least unattained, by any other lady amoDg
them. Her toilets, her equipages, her diver
sions, have been always new and sometimes
strange, while the others have seemed to strive
for privacy, seclusion and quietude. To her is
due the conception of this round-the-world
splendor. The route of the steam yacht Alva
will be first to London and next to Paris, with
the East to follow. Dinners and balls will be
given on board, and it is unlikely that Cleopa
tra in her barge, created the stir that the Van
derbilts will make in the Old World with the
Alva.
Quincy (Fla.) Society Notea.
Mrs. James G. Gibbes gave an elegant “tea
drinking” to a lew friends, in honor of Mrs.
James G. Gibbes, Jr., of Jacksonville, Fla., on
last Friday evening. After lea quite a large
crowd of young ladies and gentlemen came
around, and the mazy dance was indulged in
until quite late. Mrs. Gibbes is the President
of the Ladies Memorial Association and the
life of the society world of Quincy.
Hon. R. H. M. Davidson has had his dwell
ing house and beautiful garden put in apple-
pie order. His two daughters, Mrs. _ R- J-
M unroe and Miss Eloise, who are now in Wa
co, Texas, are expected here next week to
spend the summer. The many friends of Miss
Mamie will gladly welcome her hack to Quincy.
Senator P. B. Stockton has returned from
the Capital and has resumed his studies. For
a young man Mr. Stockton has made a fine
record, and is second to none.
Invitations are out for the wedding of Mr.
Eugene Hutchinson and Miss Maggie Smith,
which event will take place at the home of the
bride on Thursday evening at nine o’clock.
Mr. Huichinson is a very promising drug clerk,
and as yet is not old enough to vote.
Mr. Dawson A. Walker, of Kerr county,
Texas, has been sper ding several days with his
sister, Mrs. Edith Munroe. Mr. Walker is a
former resident of Dalton, Ga., and a son of
Mr. D. A. Walker, at one time a law partner
of Senator Joseph E. Brown. Mr. Walker left
to-day for Dalton.
Mrs. T. B. Nathans, Mrs. E. Kaufman, Mr.
R. C. Strauss and family left for New York on
Monday.
Miss Hemmings, of Texas, is visiting Mrs.
John W. Malone; Miss Onie Jackson, of Co
lumbus, Ga., is visiting Miss Smith; Miss Er
mine Malone has returned from Wesleyan Col
lege; the Mieses Love and Miss Jessie Munroe
are visiting friends in North Georgia.
June 22, 1887. Ha Le Ra.
***
A concert was given at Library Hall, Jack
sonville, Florida, on the 18th, under the di
rections of Signor F. Miglionico. Miss Mamie
Wendt kindly consented to assist on the occa
sion, and made her first bow to a Jacksonville
audience as instrumentalist in the fourth num
ber of the programme. Besides being a uni
versal social favorite, Miss Wendt is a very
superior pianist, and those who had been so
fortunate as to hear her play at home awaited
most impatiently the advent of her rendering
of Gottschalk’s “Piasquinade.” Another fea
ture of the evening was an aria, with harp ac
companiment, “Los Ojos Negros,” by Miss
Florence Keep. Mrs. Morgan rendered the
“Swiss Song,” which of itself is charming.
The Messrs. Miglionico and Madame Armillini
filled out the remaining numbers of the pro
gramme.
Miss Laura E. Bell and Miss Mary Moss-
man will leave August 1st for a vacation at
their respective homes. These charming young
ladies will be sadly missed by their many
friends and acquaintances here. Miss Bell
goes to Ohio, and will return in about three
weeks, but Miss Mossman intends to say
“good bye” rather than “ait rewir.” She will
remain at h :r home in Indiana.
Mrs. H. H. Menager and her son Lawrence
are still at Saratoga. Mr. M. returned home
la-it week, but somehow he seems mournful
and sighs anon: “O! Solitude, where are thy
cham 8?”
The Ladies’ Auxiliary Society of the Y. M.
C. A. gave a most delightful informal enter
tainment on the 11th, at the Y. M. C. A. rooms
in the Hubbard block. Professor Andrew’s
class in gymnastics entertained the audience
most acceptably for an hour or more. This
class is composed of a number of our young
society gentlemen and is daily growi: g in fa
vor. In addition to the exhibition, refresh
ments were served, and Mr. Harry Lampkin
sang several choice selections, such as “Thy
Face,” “Dear Little Pansy Blossom,” etc. Mr.
Lampkin has a wonderfully flexible voice and
imitates a female vocalist to perfection. It
would be unfair to omit to mention little Miss
Mandie Woodworth, whose recitations were as
cate and apt as could be. We trust the ladies
will repeat their entertainment soon and often.
***
Married to a Minstrel.
AVm. H. West, the well known minstrel, who
is quite a favorite, was married at Camden, N.
J., Tuesday, to Miss Rumelia G. Morris, of
Philadelphia, the beautiful heiress and daugh
ter of the late Hon. E. Joy Morris, ex United
States minister to Turkey and for three terms
a member of Congress. The bride, who is just
past twenty-two years, being fresh from gradu
ation at a fashionable seminary, is a most ac
complished woman. Besides “a gem in brains
and beauty,” as Mr. West styles his bride, he
has also captured a very rich prize. The young
lady is reputed to own real estate valued at
over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,
in addition to government and railroad bonds,
the aggregate value of which, at present market
rates, is said to be over $50,000. The hus
band, too, is well fixed. Mr. West is said to
be worth about $150,000, part of which he has
invested in Chicago real estate. He has also
property in New York. On being spoken to
about the marriage, Mr. West said: “Imet
Miss Morris on Jane 14 of last year in mid
ocean, and since our chance meeting our ac
quaintance ripened into friendship, which was
strengthened, on my visit to this city, till it
grewlnto the love that has bound us together.”
Mr. West was married several years ago to
Fay Templeton, a popular comic opera singer,
but the marriage was an unhappy one, and
finally resulted in divorce.
*•*
MRS. FRANK LESLIE.
She is Innocently the Cause of a Col
lision Between a Couple of So-Call
ed Noblemen.
A special cable from London gives the de
tails of a collision between men of noble blood,
with Mrs. Frank Leslie as the cause. Mrs.
Leslie is a frequent visitor of Europe, and on
return from her last trip she was followed to
this country by Marquis De Leuville, who was
madly in love with either her, her fortune or
both. The man was so persistent that she about
half consented to marriage. Her friends ob
jected so strongly that the match was broken
off. Mrs. Leslie is again in Europe, and is
acting as chaperone to Miss Bennett, a lovely
young American girl. Mrs. Leslie and her
charge are occupying an elegant suit of rooms
in the Albert Mansion, near Victoria street, in
London. Recently Prince Eristoff, a noble
man of wealth, has been laying siege to Amer
ica’s noted woman publisher, and has engaged
apartments on the same floor in the Albert
Mansion, and has continued bis devoted at
tentions.
On Friday Mrs. Leslie, Miss Bennett and the
Russian Prince went to drive in Hyde Park.
Clattering behind them came a pair of iron-
greys, driven by the rejected Marquis, who
looked a curious picture with his powdered
face, padded shoulders, pinched waist, and
high-heeled shoes. He drove past Mrs. Les
lie’s carriage and saluted, receiving from all
tis occupants an acknowledgement, the Prince
sneering as he raised his hat. Later on the
Marquis, coming from a new direction, drove
up beside the Leslie brougham, and, reversing
his whip, gave the Prince a blow across the
face with the butt end of it.
The Prince took the insult without a mur
mur, although the Marquis continued beside
the carriage grinning at his rival. In the even
ing the Prince packed up and left the city. It
gives the affair a ludicrous phase since it came
out that the prince was not in any sense a
rival, for he was smitten with Miss Bennett.
Buffalo Bill in Clover.
[El Paso Inter-Republics.]
Col. William Roy, of this city, an old friend
and comrade of Buffalo Bill, is in receipt of a
frank and characteristic letter from the great
scout. It shows conclusively that he is the
same Bill, howe’er fortune has smiled. The
letter runs as follows:
“London, June 23, 1887.
“My Dear Colonel—It was a genuine
pleasant surprise to receive your letter. I
have often thought of you and wondered what
had become of you. So glad you are still on
top of the earth. Weil, ever since I got out
of the mud-hole in New Orleans, things have
been coming my way pretty smooth and I
have captured this country from the Queen
down, and am doing them to the tune of $10,-
000 a day. Talk about show business, there
never was anything like it ever known, and
never will be again, and, with my European
reputation, you can easily guess the business
1 will do when I get back to my own country.
“It’s pretty hard work with two and three
performances a day and the society racket, re
ceptions, dinners, etc. No man, not even
Grant, was received better than your humble
servant. I have dined with every one of the
royalty, from Albert, Prince of Wales, down.
I sometimes wonder if it is the same old Bill
Cody, the bull-whacker. Well, Colonel, I still
wear the same sized hat, and when I make my
fill I am coming back to visit all the oil boys. If
you meet any of them tell them I ain’t got the
big head worth a cent. I am over here for
dust. Will be glad to hear from any of them.
Write me again. Your old-time friend,
“Bill Cody.”
NOCTES HEMORABILES.
“BY B. B.”
Dramatis Personae.
The Doctor—a bachelor, age 60.
Ths Judge—a bachelor, age 46.
The Professor—a bachelor, (suspect) age 30.
The Madam—a widow, (landlady) age un-
oertain.
The Imp—landlady’s hopeful, age irrelevant.
Time—Night.
Scene—Bachelor’s Apartments in a Down-
street Boarding House.
[Copyrighted by Author. AU rights reserved.]
The Prof.: Goethe’s meaning never lies on
the surface. Yon have to dive for it, bat it is a
pearl and not a straw when you get it. This
makes him a bete noir to translators. They
don’t take kindly to him, after the first.
Among the first aspirations of almost every
German-struck enthusiast is the desire of giv
ing to the worlds translation of Goethe; among
their last regrets is the memory of having suc
ceeded in doing so. He has wrecked the liter
ary reputation of every man but one that has
attempted him. And still they wont take
warning.
The Judge: Yes, and serves them right.
For my part 1 can’t see the good in running
after foreign poets while we have so much good
old English lying about us, that we never read.
I wonder how many English and American
people that rave over Goethe and Beranger and
such have ever read their own Crabbe. What
do you think of him, Doctor?
The Doctor: I’m glad you mentioned him,
Judge. I know of no poet so unjustly neglect
ed by the very people for whom he wrote, as is
the great-souled, great hearted, loving, sympa
thizing Crabbe. At the book-store the other
day I found three out of five so-called text
books upon English Literature that did not
even mention his name. I felt like buying
them just for the glorious privilege of throwing
them out into the street and stamping them
into the mud.
His poetry may not be what is called the
“highest order”—that is, it has neither the
sickly, sticky sentimentality of Moore, the
puerility and- mawkishness of Wordsworth,
the indecency and offensiveness of Dryden, the
atheism of Shelley, the misanthropy of Byron,
the plagiarized dullness of Thompson, the ob
scene abandon of Swinburne, the prosy spile-
fulness of Pope, the obscurity of Browning,
nor the meaningless jingle of Tennyson.
It has nothing sublime nor intense
about it, but it is keenly emotional,
and aglow with the tenderest, gentlest of feel
ing. Its kindly sympathy, its sweet hopeful
ness, its pure morality free from affectation
and cant, give it a charm peculiarly its own.
It is the poetry one loves when tired and weary
he would come to books for rest and comfort.
What Scott saw in nature, Crabbe saw in hu
man life and painted it lovingly and tenderly,
and delicately, too.
“My quarrel with him is, that his works
contain nothing worth quoting; and a book that
contains no quotations, is mejudice, no book—
it is a plaything,” says the Rev. Dr. Falliott,
speaking of the author of “Waverly,” in
Crotchet Castle. This cannot be said of Crabbe.
He is one of the most quoteable of authors.
Shakspeare excepted, I know of no poet who
has said so many good, true, pure, beautiful
things as has Crabbe.
I quite agree with Poe in his “Poetic Princi
ple,” that it is not the province of poetry to
teach anything. It is formative, not instructive;
that is, true poetry is. Its offibe—its highest
office—is more directly to mould and shape
than to direct how it should be done; to seize
upon the mind and compel it into the channels
—an active formative agent in culture and
character-bnilding, I repeat, rather than a
teacher pointing out the way it should be done.
Of this peculiar power Crabbe’s poetry is
possessed to an unusual degree. He is, per
haps, never grand nor sublime; but no poet
that I know of is at once so pleasing, so health
ful and so helpful. I am aware that with most
persons the taste for him has to be cultivated;
but it is a taste abundantly well worth the cul
tivating, and once acquired is lasting and a
source of continual delight.
“Nature’s sternest painter, yet her best,”
wrote the brilliant dissolute Byron of him. A
more recent critic says of him: “He had been
“himself within the veil of the poor man’s life
“—he had himself felt many of the sorrows
“that smite the poor; and thus it was that
“he could produce, with such marvelous
“truth and minuteness of detail, those
“grey photographs of humble village life
“which extorted Byron’s expressive line.
“The distinguishing feature of nis poetry is
“the wonderful minuteness of his descriptive
“passages. One of the most objective of our
“poets, he described faithfully all he saw, and
“little seems to have escaped his searching
“ken. Upon tne sea he dwells with especial
“love. It was almost the only beautiful object
“that met his young eyes at A Id borough; and
“whether he writes of it as the gentle, sunny
“thing, that taps lazily at the side of a strand
“ed ship, or tbe fierce and powerful element
•‘that sweeps in white fury over sharp and
“splintered rocks, some of his finest lines flow
“and brighten in its praise. He has been
“called a ‘Tope in worsted stojlcings;” which
“simply means, wheD we get rid of the faint
“flavor of wit, that he wrote in pentameter
“couplet of which Pope was so fond, and that
“he wrote about the poor. Otherwise there is
“as slight similarity between the testy little
“invalid of Twickenham, and the mild, vener
able rector of Trowbridge, as between the
“powdered and brocaded Belinda of the one,
“whose tress is severed by the daring scissors,
“and the sweet, rustic rosy cheeked Phoebe
‘ Dawson of the other, who trip smiling across
“the village green.”
To my mind, he would be more appropriate
ly styled a “Dickens in verse.” He is to poet
ry what Dickens is to fiction. Their writings
have many points in common. Both write up
on the same great theme, the joys and sorrows
of the common life. Both exhibit the same
great sympathizing nature. Both indulge in
the same minuteness of description. Both
have the same loving reverence for what is
pure and goed, honest and sincere. But in the
exuberance of his imagination and the sport
iveness ol his fancy the Novelist has the ad
vantage of the Poe'; and also perhaps in cheer
fulness. Dickens is often sunny where Crabb
is sombre. The minor chords are more fre
quent in the poet, but not less deep, tender
and true than those of the novelist. Both lay
their master hands with the same loving touch
upon the keys of life; and none before or since
have ever drawn such music from them.
There is running through all Crabbe’s v r t-
ings a pleasing vein of philosophy, and he
writes with a keen insight into human nature,
that rivals even that of Shakspeare. He
abounds in quaint conceits, odd turns of
thought, aLd short epigrammatic sentences,
that under the vivifying rays of thought ex
pand almost into volumes; such, for instance,
as the introduction to his “Dumb Orators.”
For a piece of character-sketching the first few
pages of this poem has no superior, either in
prose or verse. For deep philosophy and ten
der sympathy the opening lines to “The Part
ing Hour” stand unrivalled. “The Struggles
of’Conscience” is a masterpiece, full of quota
ble passages, and keen touches of the moral
scalpel. “The Convert” abounds in short,
pithy sayings, sound theology and a great
deal of poetic logic.
His ‘ Library” is perhaps justly regarded as
his greatest poem by all who love books as
books deserve to be loved. You have a copy
of Crabbe, have you not, Will? I wish you’d
hand it to me a moment, if you please.
The Professor, (hesitatingly): Y-e-s. But
I wish I didn’t, if you’re going to bore us with
some of his dullness. (Gets the book.)
The Doctor: I’m going to read, and if you
don’t want to listen, you can just go out, that’s
all.
The Prof.: You seem to be unusually
crabbed this evening. Doctor.
The Doctor, (eyeing him sternly a few mo
ments): I say, Will, did you do that onpur-
P °The Prof.: Do what on purpose? Pat my
feet up on the mantel? F es.
The Doctor: You know what I mean, I
dare say, but I’m glad to see you won t ac
knowledge it. There’s always some hope for
a man that has not entirely lost his sense of
shame. Never be guilty of it again in my
'^The'frof : That’s a deal of fuss to make
about one poor little pun, Doctor. If I had
mv way I’d cure you of that punphobia of
yours. I’d tie your hauds behind you, gag
you, and chain yon to a stake and hire an elo
cutionist to read Saxe to you for twenty-four
straight hours. That’s what I’d do.
The Doctor: Will, there’s a limit to all
things
The Prof.: Except time and space, God’s
attributes, abstract number, and woman’s cu
riosity, Doctor. Be nothing, if not exact.
continued next week.
There is no law to prevent a man’s making a
fool of himself. If there was, some men would
be at a loss how to pass the time.
The Bottomless Jug.
I saw it hanging np in the kitchen ot a
thrifty, healthful, sturdy farmer in Oxford
county, Maine—a bottomless jug! The host
saw that the carious thing had caught my eyes,
and he smiled.
“You are woidering what that jug is hanging
up there for, with its bottom knocked out,” he
said. “My wife, perhaps, could tell you the
story better than I can; but she is bashful, and
I ain’L so I’ll tell it.
“My father, as yon are probably aware,
owned this farm before me. He lived to a good
old age, worked hard all his life, never squan
dered money, was a shrewd, careful trader and
a good calculator; and as men were accounted
in his day and generation, he was a temperate
man. I was the youngest boy; and when the
old man was ready to go, and he knew it, the
other boys agreed that—since I had stayed at
home and taken care of the old folks—the farm
should be mine. And to me it was willed. I
had been married then three years.
“Well, father died; mother had gone three
years before and left the farm to me, with a
mortgage on it for $2,000. I’d never thought
so mnch of it before; but I thought of it now.
I said to Mollie, my wife—‘Mollie,’ says I,
‘look here! Here’s father had this farm in its
first strength of soil, with all its magnificent
timber; and his six boys, as they grew up,
equal to so many meD, to help him; and he had
worked hard—worked early and late—and yet
look at it! A mortgage for $2,000! What can
I do?’ And I went to that old jug—it had its
bottom in then—and took a good stiff drink of
old Medford rum from it.
“I noticed a curious look on the f ice of my
wife jus; then, and I asked her what she
thought of it; for I suppused, of course, she
was thinking of what I’d been talking about.
And so she was. Says she:
“Charles, I’ve thought of this a good deal;
and I have thought of a way in which I be
lieve we can clear that mortgage off before five
more years are ended.”
“Says I: “Mollie, tell me how you’ll do
it.”
“She thought for a little while, and then she
said, with a funny twinkling in her blue eyes;
says she: “Charles, yoa must promise me this,
and promise me sacredly. Promise me that
you will never again bring home for the pur
pose of drinking for a beverage at any one
tine more spirit of any kind than you can
bring in that old jug—the jug that your
father has used ever since he was done with
it.” * i
“Well, I knew that father used once in a
while, especially in haying time, and in the
winter when we were at work in the woods, to
get an old gallon jug filled; so I thought she
meant that I should never buy more than two
quarts at a time. I thought it over, and after
a little while told her I would agreet to it.
“Now mind,” said she, “you are never—never
—to bring home for a common beverage more
soirit than you can bring in the identical jug.”
And I gave her the promise.
And before I went to bed that night I took
the last pull at the jug. As I was turning it
out for a sort of a night-cap Mollie looked up,
and says she: “Charley, have you got a drop
left?” I told her there was just about a drop.
We’d have to get it filled on the morrow.
And then she said if I had no objection, she
would drink that last drop with me. I never
shall forget how she brought it out—"That
Last Droi-!’’ However, I tipped the old jug
bottom up, and got about a great spoonfull,
and Moliie said that was enough. She took
the tumbler and poured a few drops of hot wa
ter into it, and a bit of sugar, and then she
tinkled her glass against mine, just as she’d
seen us boys do when we’d been drinking
good luck, aud says she: “Here’s to the old
brown jug.”
“Sakes alive! I thought to myself that poor
Mollie had been drinking more of the ram than
was good for her; and I tell you, it kind o’ cut
me to the heart. I forgot all about how many
times she’d seen me wten my tongue was
thicker than it ought to be, and my legs not
quite so steady as good legs should be, but I
said nothing. I drank the sentiment—“To
the old brown jug!” and let it go.
“ Well, I went out after that and did my
chores, and then went to bed, and the last
thing I said before leaviDg the kitchen—this
very room where we now sit in—“We’ll have
the old brown jug filled to-morrow.” And
then I went off to bed. And I have remem
bered ever since that I went to bed that night,
as I had done hundreds of times before, with
a buzzing in my head that a healthy man
ought not to have. I didn’t think of it then
nor had I ever thought of it before; but I’ve
thought of it a good many times since, and
have thought of it with wonder and with awe.
“Well, 1 got np the next morning and did np
my work at the bam, then came in and eat
breakfast, but not with such an appetite as a
farmer ought to have, and I could think even
then that my appetite had began to fail me.
However, I eat breakfast, and then went out
and hitched up the old mare, for, to tell the
truth, I was feeling the need of a glass of spir
its, and I hadn’t a drop in the house. I was
in a hurry to get to the village. I got hitched
up, and then came in for the jug. I went for
it in the old cupboard, and took it out, and—
“Did you ever break through the thin ice on
a nipping cold day, atd find yourself, in an
instant, over your head in the freezing water?
The jug was there but the bottom was gone!
Mollie had been and taken a chisei and a ham
mer, and with a skill that might have done
credit to a master-worker, she had clipped the
bottom clean out of the jug, without even
breaking the edges or the side. I looked at
the jug, and when I looked at Mollie then she
burst out. She spoke—Oh! I had never heard
anj thing like it. No, sir; nor have I ever
heard anything like it since. Said she:
“ ‘Charles, there’s where the mortgage on
this farm came from! It was brought home in
that jug—two quarts at a time! And there’s
where your white, clear skin, and your eyes
are going! And in that jug, my husband, your
appetite is going also! Oh! let the bottom stay
out forevei! Let it be as it is, dear heart! aLd
remember your promise to me!’
“And then she threw her arms around my
neck and burst into tears. She couldn’t speak
more.
“And there was no need. My eyes were
opened as though by magic. In a single min
ute the whole scene passed before me. I saw
all the mortgages on all the farms in our neigh
borhood; and I thought where the money had
gone. The very last mortgage father had ever
made, had been to pay a bill held against him
by the man who had filled his jug for years!
Yes, I saw it all, as it passed before me—a fit
ting picture of rum!—rnm!—rum!—deb:!—
debt!—debt! and in the end—Death! And I
returned my Mollie’s kiss, and said I:
“Mollie, my own! I’ll keep the promise! I
will, so help me Heaven!"
And I have kept it. In less than five years,
as Mollie had said, the mortgage was cleared
off, my appetite came back to me, and now,
we’ve got a few thousand dollars out at inter
est. There hangs the old jug, just as we hung
it up on that day; and from that time there
hasn’t a drop of spirits been brought into this
house, for a beveray, which that bottomless
jug wouldn’t have hfid.
Dear old jug! We mean to keep it; and to
hand it down to our children for the lesson it
can give them—a lease i of life—of a life hap
py, peaceful, pr03perc os and blessed!”
And as he ceased speaking, his wife with an
arm drawn tenderly around' the neck of her
youngest boy, murm. red a fervent “Amen.”
A Coffe3 Plantation in Mexico.
While in Jalapa, writes a correspondent of
the Chicago Times, I met Senor Peblo de Las-
currain, and accepted an invitation to visit his
farm, situated a few miles distant, and embrac
ing alt that immense chain of mountains whicn
extends to the gulf. We left on horseback in
the morning, and after a pleasant ride of two
hours arrived at the hacienda, a small but
very comfortable house. After a good dinner
the senor ordered the horses and we started
out to see a portion of the farm. Of couise
only a small fraction of the land is under cul
tivation, the remainder being pasture lands,
woods and mountains. About two miles from
the hacienda we came to an immense coffee
plantation containing between thirty and for.y
thousand trees, which are shaded by eighty
thousand banana trees. The coffee tree, al
though requiring a moist, tropical climate,
cannot bear the sun, and each tree has to be
shaded by two or more banana trees.
The region around Jalapa is far better for
raising coffee than in the famous district near
Or.zaba, where the average is about one-third
of a pound per tree. The senor without any
difficulty managed to bring th3 average up to
nearly a pound. Before ripening the berry U
of a bright red color and shortly after it turns
brown, when it is ready to pick. After being
gathered the berries are thrown into large
wooden mortars, where they are pounded and
the grains of coffee are separated from the cov
ering. The next process is to dry them thor
oughly, after which they are packed in bags
and are ready for the market. As for the ba
nana, each tree produces one large hunch and
then dies. The limit is so abundant that it is
not picked, but ailowed to dry on the stem.
Backward, Torn Backward, Ob, Time.
An old subscriber, Columbus, Texas, by
supplying and thus enabling us to republish,
the following touching poem, has placed us
under lasting obligations:
Backward, torn backward, oh, Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, jistfor to-night!
Mctber, come bact from the ecboless shore,
Take me again to yonr heart as of yore—
Kiss from my forehead tne furrows of care,
smooth the few r liver threads out of my hair—
Over my slumber your loving watch keep-
hock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the years!
£ am so weary of toll ana ot tears—
roll without recompense—tears all In vain—
Take them, ana give me my childhood again;
l have grown weary of dust and decay,
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away—
weary of so mug for oihers to reap—
R.ck me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the nntrue,
Mother, oh, mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has gro* u green.
Blossomed ana faded, our f.ces between—
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night tor your presence again ;
Come from toe silence so long and so deep—
Boca me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep I
Orermy heart, In tbe days that are flswn,
No love like mother-lore ever has suone—
No other worsbip abides and endures
Falthtnl, unselfish and patient, like yonrs—
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain;
Stumpers soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—
Bock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Come, let yonr brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as ot old—
Let It drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my falut eyes away from the light—
Fir with Its suony-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng tbe sweet visions of yore.
Lovingly, softly, its bright DUlows sweep—
Bock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother 1 the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song—
Since then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream ;—
Clasped to your heart In a loving embrace.
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wage or to weep,
Bock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep!
Rome, Italy, May 1860.
What a Woman May Do.
Mach has been said and written about Mrs.
Frank Leslie and her success as the successor
of her husband in the publishing business—
and much more has been said recently about
the notoriety she has acquired—sought or un
sought.
We present as in pleasing conspicuous con
trast with Mrs.Leslie’s apparent obtrusiveness,
the 1 olllowing modest account of of Mrs. Nich
olson’s quiet exceptionally successful manage
ment of the New Orleans Picayune. Persons
acquainted with the publishing business will
readily concede that the last-named lady man
aging the New Orleans Picayune, as she does,
is entitled to the most credit.
The New Orleans Picayune recently cele
brated its fiftieth anniversary, under the lead
ership of Mrs. Eliza J. Nicholson, who is the
only woman living who is at once the controll
ing proprietor and editor-in-chief of a metro
politan daily journal, as she was the first wo
man connected with the press in the South.
She became literary editor of the Snnday Pica
yune in the face of much adverse criticism that
a woman should occupy such a position, though
now there is not a newspaper in New Orleans
that has not several ladies cn its staff. Sle
subsequently married the proprietor, Colonel
Holbrook, who died, bequeathing her the paper,
burdened with a debt ot $80,000. Her lawyers
and relatives advised her to take the thousand
dollars awarded her by law, and abandon the
paper and its cares. The business manager,
George Nicholson, alone counseled her to keep
it. She took his advice, and through excellent
management, and the aid of a devoted staff,
paid off the debt, built new offices, greatly im
proved the paper, and is now at the head of a
superb establishment. After two years she
married Mr. Nicholson, who continues to man
age the financial affairs of the paper, while she
has sole control oi the editorial columns, the
politics of which she directs, and every part of
which undergoes her daily scrutiny.
A Snake Swallows a Fig.
[Marshallville (Ga.) Times]
Jasper Bryan, living out on the river east of
town, relates a remarkable incident between a
pig of his and a rattlesnake. A fine sow and
pigs used to go in the river swamp, and fre
quently the sow would appear for her slops
with one pig short, which so worried friend
Bryan that he mustered his fjrces and went in
search of the pigs. He had not been in the
swamp long before he was startled by the pe
culiar sound of the rattles, and upon investi
gation found that a snake had swallowed apig,
but the little grantor, not being satisfied with
the confinement, had actually kicked its feet
through the belly of the snake and was walking
about trying to find its way out of the woods,
with its head still enclosed in the lower part of
the snake’s body. The snake was prompt y
killed, and found to contain sixteen rattles.
The pig was carried home and is doing well.
The Prohibitionists in Louisiana are pre
paring to make an attempt to drive liquor out
of that State. A convention will be held in
August, at which measures will be devised to
secure the desired end. The call for the con
vention concludes with the following ringing
words: “In conclusion we desire to state mere
ly that this is a wave of that non-partisan
prohibition movement that is stirriDg so might
ily in every Southern State, strictly within the
lines of present political organizations, and
which aims to draw to itself all persons of
every party, creed, sex aud race who can see
no good reasons why the normal rate of taxa
tion should be increased four fold in order that
a handful of men should be protected in sell
ing poison to the rest, and who propose to
make this ‘a government of the people, for the
people and bv the people,’ instead of, in the
language of Canon Wilbeforce, ‘a government
of the whisky traffic, for the whisky traffic, and
by the whisky traffic.’ ’’
Experiment in Chinese Letters.
Mr. W. H. Murray, an Englishman, has
been the means of introducing into China a
system of writing the Chinese characters in
raised print. When we consider the complex
ity and multitudes (4,000) of Chinese charac
ters, and remember that the smallest of
China’s eighteen provinces is equal in extent
to England (and England has 40,000 bliLd), the
vastness of this philanthropic work will be ap
parent. Mr. Murray noted the actual sounds
used in speaking Chinese, and succeeded in
reducine these to 400, each being represented
by a different arrangement of dots. He tried
his first experiment upon a b ind beggar taken
from the streets, and in six weeks taught tie
boy to read, and even to write a little. The
fame of this experiment soon spread, and pu
pils crowded to be taught. The system was
extended to includoTuuste,' and to adapt itself
to the various diaects—fio mean task, since
the Bible must be printed in eight different
sets of characters to be understood all through
China.—Science.
The Check was Forthcoming;.
When the Rev. Charles Deems, of the
Church of the Redeemer in New York City,
wanted money to pay off a debt on the build
ing he called on Commodore Vanderbilt.
“Are you going to preach what I want to
hear?” asked the old man sternly.
“I shall try to preach acceptably,” answered
the clergyman, in an evasive manner.
Bat no sooner had he said the words than all
the manhood within him rose in revolt and the
spirit of John Knox seemed calling him to ac
count.
“I shall preach the Gospel as I believe and
understand it, and if yon have auy special sins
I shall be most likely to preach against them.”
“Humph!” said the Commodore, and ended
the interview.
The next day he sent Mr. Deems a check
for $50,000 for not being afraid to do his duty.
Locomotives of 1881 and 1891.
The following poetical description of the
locomotives of the present day, and those that
will be used in the year 1891, we clip from the
Railroad World:
1881.
Ax'es groaning,pistons hissing,
Tearing, wearing, belts all missing,
Ru«btng hideous tnro’ night air,
Always wanting soma repair.
Boisterous, blustering, screaming, sooty,
That's the way be does bis dnty.
1891.
Silent, voiceless, quickly speeding,
Coal or water never needlDg,
as be rushes thro the dark.
Snowing but a single spark;
Like glow-worm or firefly,
Or star twinkling in the sky,
S landless all i is work will be—
Moved by electricity I
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