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THE SUNNY SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, DECEMBER 10, 1892.
13
THE TELL-TALE 1EAET.
T IS TRUE!—NERVOUS—
very, very, dreadfully ner
vous I bad been acd am ; but
why will you say that I am
mad? The disease had
sharpened my senses—not
destroyed—not dulled them.
Above all was the sense of
hearing acute. I heard all
things in heaven and in
earth. I heard many things
in hell. How then, am I
mad? Hearken! and ob
serve how healthy, how
calmly I can tell you the
whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea
entered my brain; but once conceived, it
haunted me day and night. Object there
was none. Passion there was none. I
loved the old man. He had never wronged
me. He had never given me insult. For
his gold I hid no desire. I think it was
his eyel Yes, it was this! One of his eyes
resembled that of a vulture—a pale blue
eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell
upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by
degrees—very gradually—I made up my
mind to take the life of the old man, and
thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me
mad. Mad men know nothing. But you
should have seen me. You should have
seen how wisely I proceeded—with wlia**
caution — with what foresight — with
what dissimulation I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old
man than during the week before I killed
him. Aud every night, about midnight, I
turned the latch of his door aud opened it
—O, so gently! Aud then, when I had
made an opeuing sufficient for my head, I
put in a dark lantern, all closed,—closed
so that no light shone out, aud then I
thrust in my head. O, you would have
laughed to see liow cunningly I thrust it
ini I moved it slowly—very, very slowly,
so that I might not disturb the old man’s
sleep. It took me an hour to place my
whole head withiu the opening so far that
I could see him as he lay upon his bed.
Ha! Would a mail-man have been so
wise as this? Aud then, when my head
was well in the room I undid the Jantern
cautiously—O, so cautiously!—cautiously
(for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so
much that a single thin ray fell upon the
vulture eye. Aud this I did for seven
long nights—every night just at midnight
but I found the eye always closed; aud so
it was impossible to do the work; for it
was not tue old man who vexed me, but
his evil eye. Aud every morning, when
the day broke, I went boldly into the
chamber and spoke courageously to him,
calling him by name in a hearty tone, ami
inquiring how he had passed the night.
So you see he would have been a very pro
found old man indeed, to suspect that
every night, just at twelve, I looked in
upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than
usually cautious in opening the door. A
watch’s minute-hand moves more quickly
than did mine. Never before that, night
had I felt the extent of my own powers—
of my s igaeity. I could scarcely contain
my feelings of triumph. To think that
there I was, opening the door, little by
little, aud he not even to dream of my
secret deeds or thoughts. I fairiy chuckled
at the idea; and per naps he heard me; for
he moved on the bed suddenly, as if
startled. Now you may think that I uaw
back—but no. Ilis room was as black as
pitch with the thick darkness (for the
shutters were close fastened, through fear
of robbers), and so I knew that he could
not see the opeufng of the door, and I
kept pushing it on steadiiy, steadily.
1 had my head in, aud was about to open
the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon
the tin fastening, aud the oid man sprang
up iu bed,(crying out—"Who’s there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For
a whole "hour I did uog move a muscle,
aud in the meantime I did not hear him
lie down. He was still sitting up in the
bed, listening;—jusc as I have done night
after night, hearkening to the death-
watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I
knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It
was not a groan of pain or grief—O, no!—
it was the low, stifled sound which arises
from the bottom of souls wiieu overcharg
ed with awe. I kuew the sound well.
Many a night, just at midnight, when ali
the world slept, it has welled up from my
own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful
echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say
I knew it well. 1 kne.v what the old man
felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled
at heart. I knew that he had been lying
awake ever since the first slight noise,
when he had turned iu the bed. His
fears had beeu ever since growing upon
him.
He had been trying to fancy them
causeless, but could not. He had been
saying to himself—"it is nothing but the
wind m the chimney—it is only a mouse
crossiug the floor,” or “it is merely a
cricket which has made a single chirp ”
Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself
with these suppositions, but he had found
all in vain. All in vain; because Death,
in approaching him, had staiked with his
black shadow before him, and enveloped
the victim. And it was the mournful in
fluence of the uuperceived shadow that
caused him to feel—although he neither
saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my
head within the room.
When I had waited a long time,—very
patiently, without hearing him lie down,
1 resolved to open a little—a very, very
little crevice in the lantern. So 1 opened
it—you cannot imagine how stealthily,
stealthily—until, at length, a single ray,
like the thread of the spider, shot from
out the crevice and fell upon the vulture
eye.
It was open,— wide, wide open—and I
grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it
with perfect distinctness—ail a dull blue,
with a hideous veil over it that chilled
the very marrow in my bones ; but I could
see nothing else of the old man’s face or
person; for I had directed the ray as if
by instinct precisely upon the damned
spot.
And now have I not told you that wha^
yon mistake for madness is but over-aeute-
ness of the senses?—now, I say, there
came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound
such as a watch makes when enveloped in
cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It
was the beating of the old man’s heart. It
increased my fury, as the beating ol a drum
stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still.
I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern
motiouless. I tried how steadily I could
maintain the ray upon the eye. Mean
time the hellish tattoo of the heart in
creased. It grew quicker.—The old man’s
terror must have been extreme! It grew
louder, I say louder every moment!—do
you mark me well? I have told you that
I am nervous; so I am.
And now at the dead hour of the night,
amid the dreadful silence of that old
house, so strange a noise as this excited
me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some
minutes longer, I refrained and stood still.
But the beating grew louder, louder! I
thought the heart must burst. And now
a new anxiety seized me—the sound
would be heard by a neighbor! The old
man’s hour had cornel With a loud yell,
I threw open the lantern and leaped into
the room. He shrieked once—once only.
In an instant I dragged him to the floor,
and pulled the heavy bed over him. 1
then smiled gayly, to find the deed so far
done. But, for many minutes, the heart
beat on with a muffled sound. This, how
ever, did not vex me; it would not be
heard through the wall. At length it
ceased. The old man was dead. I re
moved the bed and examined the corpse.
Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed
my hand upon the heart, andheld it there
many minutes. There was no pulsation.
He was stone dead. His eye would trouble
me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will
think so no longer when I describe the
wise precautions I took for the conceal
ment of the body. The night waned,
and I worked hastily, but in
silence. First of fall, I dismem
bered ho corpse. I cut off the head and
the arms and the legs.
I then took up three plank3 from the
flooring of the chamber and deposited all
between the scantlings. I then replaced
the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that
no human eye—not even his—could have
detected anything wrong. There was
nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind
no blood-spot whatever. I had been too
wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha!
hal
When I had made an end of these la
bors, it was four o’clock, still dark as mid
night. As the bell sounded the hour,
there came a knocking at the street door.
I went down to open it with a light heart,
for what had I now to fear ? There enter
ed three men, who introduced themselves
with perfect suavity, as officers of the po
lice. A shriek had been beard by a neigh
bor during the nignt; suspicion of foul
play had been aroused ; information had
been lodged at the police-office, and they
(the officers) had been deputed to search
the premises.
I smiled, for what had I to fear ? I bade
the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I
said, was my own in a dream. The old
man, I mentioned, was absent in the coun
try. I took my visitors all over the house.
I hade them search—search well. I led
them, at length, to his chamber. I show
ed them his treasures, secure, undisturb
ed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence,
I brought chairs into the room, and desir
ed them here to rest from their fatigues,
while I myself, in the wild audacity of my
perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon
the very spot beneath which reposed the
corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner
had convinced them. I was singularly at
ease. They sat, aud while I answered
cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.
But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale,
and wish them gone. My head ached, and
I fancied a riugiug in my ears, but still
they sat and still chatted. The ringing
became more distinct; and I talked more
freely to get rid of the feeling; but it con
tinue 1 aud gained definitiveness—until
at length, I found that the noise was not
within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale—but I
talked more fluently, and with a height
ened voice. Yet the sound increased—
and what could I do? It was a low, dull,
quick sound—much such a sound as a
watch makes when enveloped in cotton.
I gasped for breath—and yet the officers
heard it not. I talked more quickly—more
vehemently; but the noise steadily in
creased. 1 arose and argued about tri
fles, in a high key and with violent ges
ticulations ; but the noise steadily increas
ed. Why would they not be gone? I
paced the floor to and fro with heavy
strides, as if excited to fury by the obser
vations of the men—but the noise steadily
increased. Oh God! What could I do? I
foamed, I raved, I swore! I swung the
chair upon which I had been sitting, and
grated it upon the boards, but the noise
arose over all and continually increased.
It grew louder, louder, louder! Aud still
the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled.
Was it possible they heard not! Almigh
ty God! No, no! They heard! They
suspected—they knew! They were mak
ing a mockery of my horror! This I
thought, and this I think. But anything
was better than this agony! Anything
was more tolerable than this derision! I
could bear those hypocritical smiles no
longer! I felt that 1 must scream or die!
Ami now—again!—hark!—Louder! louder!
louder! loudsr!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no
more! I admit the deed! Tear up the
planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of
liis hideous heart.”
The Tourist Zeitung publishes a list
of Alpine accidents for 1S92. There
were thirty-two fatalities in all, twen
ty-six having occurred in ascents
w ithout guides and six with guides.
Twenty-six w r ere tourists and six were
guides. Ten w r ere caused by attempts
to gather edelweiss.
Pf[\0T)<^ tf?e Bard5.
TUE DINNER HORN.
When lazy dials point to noon,
And clocks are chiming out the hour;
When sable Phyllis ’gins to croon,
And pigeons nod upon the tower;
Black Tom, beneath the spreading tiee
That shades the pleasant farm house yard,
Looks out across the shimmering lea,
And blows the bugle long and hard.
Blow, bugler, let the echoes float
The tie ids and woodland slopes along,
Till every wild but mellow note
Burst on the distant hills in song.
Sound thro’ the valleys, cool and green,
Where tinkling brooklets purl and creep;
Sound where the nodding flowers are seen,
And wake the poppy from its sleep.
Where cattle drink by shady streams,
Where wave the yellow fields of wheat,
Where plowhoys diive their sweating teams,
Send out thy note prolonged and 9weet.
The lab’rer casts aside his lioe,
The horse, delighted, gins to neigh;
What-says the bugle, well they know.
Although it speaks a mile away.
“Come to the cool and dripping well,
And at its mossy curb-stone kneel,
And lave thy sweaty face a spell,
And eat the simple noon-day meal.
“There’s cider from the oaken press,
And iu the cellar dark and old;
There’s many a sweet you cannot guets,
There’s tempting cream the hue of gold;”
Sing, bugle, sing with all thy power,
And let thy last note be the best;
Thou hast announced the golden hour,
The noonday’s hour of drowsy rest.
0 bugle of the good old days,
Forever silent in the South,
Poor Tom has grown too weak to raise
Unto his lips thy mellow mouth.
No darkey of the younger brood,
Tho’ he should blow his lungs away,
Can send afloat o’er field and woou,
The notes that he was wont to play.
The songs the red-lipped maidens sing
Along 'my pulses bound and thrill;
They charm, but no such pictures bring
As that old bugle on the hill.
1 seem again with blushing June
To stand amid the fields of corn,
Whene'er, thro’ languid airs of noon,
I hear the distant bugle-horn.
And, Oh! I sigh for boyhood’s time,
For our okl homestead on tne hill,
And for the drowsy droning rhyme
Bung by the busy water-mill.
The cherry’s blood was richer then,
The peach was of a deeper hue;
And I have wondered if again
The skies can ever be so blue.
Ah, could I be again a boy,
And could I be where I was born,
I’d kLs thy lips with reverent joy,
And hug thee, battered bugle-horn!
—W. T. Dumas.
AGITATION.
A year of wonders, ninety-two!
Fierce Agitation, storming through
This world of matter and of mind,
Suspense and terror leaves behind.
Afar on Russia's sterile plains,
Where tyranny its grasp retains.
Roams pallid Want with waiting breath,
And wailing millions sink in death,
While westwardiy ’midst terror wild
Stalks Pestilence, privation’s child.
The clouds their flood-gates open wide,
And roaring waters surge, and glide,
Aud hear beseeching thousands down,
Who clutching, gasping, gurgling,—drown.
The winged mammoth of the skies
Athwart the globe like dragon flies
With trailing trunk, which (monstrous sight !)
Sucks, twists, and reaches left, and right,
And rends and scatters m its wrath
Whatever lingers in its path.
And lo! the ocean burdened plains
at depihs no sounding-lines attains
By forces man may nev er know
Are raised aud folded from below,
And ocean’s self, profoundly moved,
And roused trom slumbers much beloved,
Uplifts liis crest with wrathful roar,
And scales the steep enwalling shore.
While writhing from these ague pains,
And fever burning in its veins,
The land unmindful of its own,
Topple the towns and cities down,
And, groaning from imprisoned fire,
And fever ever mounting higher,
Delirious bursts its heaving side,
And forth the surging lava-tide
Pours down, a seething, gleaming flood,
annihilating all tilings good,
And leaves behind a desert wild
Where homes, aud fields but lately smiled.
And thoughtful men in eve>y clime
Review the lore of ancient time,
And led by reason’s peerless light,
Laborious*seek to know the right,
And voice it forth in accents bold,
Unawed by bigotry, or gold,
And break tbe fetters of the past,
And bless the world with truth at last.
\ wonderous age, this Age of Thought,
Untrammeled, bounding, bold, unbought,
A decade of whose work o’ersprings
The fruitage of a thousand kings
Who, claiming power direct from God,
Enforced with autocratic nod
Wliat men should take, and what should 1 ?&VC
And what reject, and what believe.
Dissection reigns! the surgeon’s knife
Essays to bare the springs of life,
Mind, spirit, government, and creed;
All systems on the table bleed!
In vain conservatives cry “Hold!
We reverence this because’t is old!
Oh spare the sacred flesh of age!”
Vain, vain their pleadings, and their rage.
For men at length begin to see
That, like the thoughts of infancy,
Ideas borne througn age£ long
Presumptively are crude and.'wrong.
And rolling on o’er sea and land
All nations hear the stern demand,
"Pull down the false, exa;t the true!
Search out, inspect, review, review!”
Mark well these throes of Mother Earth:
O mystic Parent! give you birth
Like Sarah, in thy senile days,
(Departing from the ancient ways )
To some long-dreamed-of, hoped-for plan
To breed, and glow ideal Man?
—Henry Clay Fairmani-
EQUAL AT LAST.
A Contrast Which Fits the Occasion.
Chilled and shivering from the cutting
blasts, that came whistling and dashing
around the corner, the newsboy drew his
ragged coat closer about him, and shrank
back against a sheltering wall. Above
him the sky loomed dark and gray.
Around him the air was speckled with the
tiny flakes of snow, skurrying before the
biting wind and flashing beneath the
bright electric light, as they sped over and
under, seeking a hiding spot on the sloshy
street.
“Paper, Mister ?” but the cry was un
heeded by the man passing hurriedly by,
muffled and wrapped luxuriously from the
cold.
The paper was lowered beneath the
stiff arm again, and a tiny blue, tingling
hand crept into a thin pocket.
“Fi’s rich as him,” muttered the boy,
between his chattering teeth, “I wouldn’t
let no little boys stan’ out nere in the
snow.”
“Who is he?” asked a companion.
“Don’t you know?—dat’s Jay Gould.
“And a half sneer of pity, at the ques
tioner’s lack of information, slid over the
drawn mouth.
********
In a darkened room, spacious and furn
ished with all that heart could desire, the
man lay dying. About his bedside, his
weeping family was bidding him a fond
farewell, the skilled physicians had drawn
back, acknowledging defeat, and waiting
for the end.
The rays of morning’s sun were just
gilding the top of the house, aud a little
beam crept in through the half open blind,
and played about the sufferer’s pallid lips,
then fled.
In another room, close, damp and far
removed from this scene, a little boy was
passing into a new existence; sitting be
side him, half holding him in her arms, sat
his mother,—a sad, haggard look covering
her pale face, down which tears of grief
were gliding.
“Mama,” came the weak voice, “don’t
take on that way, you’ll have sister with
you.”
The woman sobbed louder.
“Look,” and an emaciated hand reached
out. “the sun is shining,” and through the
broken window panes a brilliant gleam of
light burst, shedding a ray of glory over
the waxen face.
Just then a cry was heard from the
street, that caused a flash of interest to
burst from tbe boy’s eyes.
It was a newsboy:
“Here’s yer extry! J ay Gould’s dyin’!’’
“Oh, mama, if I could only get out to
day,” gasped the weary child, “I could
make a pile. Jay Gould’s dyin’!” and a
look of sadness stole over him, then, lower,
“an’ so is Sammy, the newsboy.”
The moments passed, and lower sank
the exhausted boy, until at last, he gave
one long, last look into the loving face
above him, and gently laid his head on her
oreast; a sigh fluttered from the parted
lips, a peaceful expression settled about
the closing eyes, and the little soul crept
before it’s maker.
The mother buried her face on his
shoulder and poured tears of anguish over
the cold, white features in her arms.
At the same moment a wail came from
the rich man’s chamber, and from amid
the richness of his surroundings, another
son went forth to be judged. They were
equal at last. Edward N. Wood.
Appreciative Mention.
Macon, Ga., November 28th, ’92.—Edit
or “Sunny South,” Atlanta, Ga. Dear
Sir: The “Thanksgiving” number of your
paper come, as usual, in due time, and I
am constrained to say I never saw a more
creditable specimen of journalism in its
entirety. From its beautiful and artistic
dress to the shortest paragraph, it display
ed excellent taste and skillful mechanism.
It is indeed a pleasure to have such a jour
nal in a horn-i, feeling assured there is all
to amuse and instruct and nothing to
offdnd to be found in its colums. May you
always keep it to its present standard of
excellence, and may it prove a profitable
investment. You richly deserve .success
and I most heartily wish it for you. When
my subscription expires I will renew.
Subscriber,
143 Cole street.
The Sunny South has finally eclipsed
all former issues in its Thanksgiving num
ber. The cover is of white enameled pa
per, with the words “Thanksgiving Num
ber” embossed in gold diagonally across
the front. Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, Joel
Chandler Harris and other well known
Georgia authors contributed a sketch
apiece. Several other prominent writers
have contributed their quota, making al
together one of the best issues of this pop
ular Southern journal.—Columbus (Ga,)
Sun.
The Thanksgiving number of The Sunny
South, of Atlanta, is to hand, and is neatly
printed on fine paper and beautifully il
lustrated Among the articles of interest
is one by Mr. T. C. DeLeon, of Mobile, en
titled: “Practical Words to Southern
Authors,’’ being an essay setting forth the
over-ambition of too many people in the
South to write before they are prepared to
do good work. He warns them that tho
desire to see their names in print is not
sufficient excuse for rushing into print,
and says that the only result of such
practice is to lower the literary standard,
bring Southern writers as a body into dis
repute, and achieve no good result, as
voluntary efforts of this kind do not even
bring a reward to those who make the ef
forts. It is a well written and timely ar
ticle, and is illustrated with a large photo
gravure picture ot the interior of Mr. De
Leon’s work room, Mr. DeLeon appea ’og
in the scene, seated at his table earpentt/r-
ing words.—Mobile Register.
The holiday number (November 2Gtl:),
of The Sunny South contains an ar&icte
of peculiar interest to Mobiiians from the
pen of that staunch olil Confederate execu
tive Officer, J. McIntosh Kell. This is an
interesting reminescense from an officer of
the Alabama. This number of The SUNNY
South should find its way into every
household in Alabama.—Mobile News.
Mr. T. C. DeLeon.
Thanksgiving day number oi “The Sun
ny South,” the superb and most irre
proachable of Southern periodicals, pub
lished at Atlanta, Ga., contains an excel
lent article from the pen of Mobiles favor
ite literary son, Mr. T. C. DeLeon. This
master of the English language in the ar
ticle referred to chose, “The Hopes, Fears,
Rewards and Disappointments of Author
ship,” as his subject. Mr DeLeon has
chosen a wide the-ue on winch toven tilate
his views, but he has done so iu a remark
ably able and pleasing manner. Probably
no man in all the South has ao tasted and
experienced all the hopes, ftars, rewards
and bitter disappointments of authorship,
as has the brillant writer here spoken of,
and to say that his rewards are incommen
surate with his un-rits, is but to place him
in the category with the thousands who
have only capped a life of labor, research
and usefulness with a posthumous
fame which continued pertiaaceously
coy during the life of the
author. The article in the Sunny South
is four colums in length aud is embellish
ed by a capital half-toned illustration of
Mr. DeLeon’s study, with a perfect pic
ture of the author himsalf seated at his
desk at work. This study, the Sunny
South calls Mr. DeLeon’s “work shop,”
and it is not a misnomer, for few shops in
the south witness as much real, tireless,
earnest, intelligent and unremitting labor
than as this little room on St. Michael
street, Mobile, just above the Daily News
office—Mobile News.
Cora, E. S.—of Iuka Miss—sending a
remittance says: “Your thanksgiving
copy was very pretty, and deserves much
praise from old readers, and I dare say
will be placed with other dear relics, and
kept as the “Sunny South’s Thanksgiv
ing” souvenir to its many readers. No, I
can not do without the dear old “Sunny”
and I in father's place subscribe.
Rats Deserting a Ship.
“I once came near losing iny life by
being too smart,” said Marion E. For
ney, a member of the Mendacity Club,
which was holding an informal session
at the Lindell. “1 was at Rio Janeiro
and desired to go to Havana. There
were at that time no steamers plying
between those ports, and I had to take
passage on a sailing vessel. The ship
was to sail before daylight and I went
aboard early to get comfortably settled.
That evening I sat on the deck until
long past midnight chatting with a
party of Englishmen, who were also
passengers. Presently one of them
got up, tossed his cigar overboard and
announced that he was going ashore.
‘Tlied—1 you are!’ exclaimed one of
his companions.
‘You’l get left.’ ‘Exactly,’ he re
plied; ‘and if I go in this ship I’ll get
drowned. Look there I Don’t you see
the rats are leaving it?’ and he point
ed to the gang plank. Sure enough
the rats were going ashore, a hundred
or more of them, headed by a good old
rodent. Well, we all laughed at the
young Britisher for believing sailor
superstitions, and I guess I was the
greatest scoffer in the lot. He went
and we stayed. On the second day
out the ship sprang a leak, and before
night was under forty fathoms of
water. We took to the boats and
drifted about for twenty-four hours
before we were picked up by a Brazil
ian barque and taken back to Rio.
One of the first men I met was the
young Englishman I bad riciculed.
He was the most generous man I ever
met. He never once said, ‘I told you
so.’”—St. Louis Globe Democrat.
A FATED MAN.
Unwillingly Connected With Several
Great £ vents of the War.
Tne treaty between Grant and Lee,
which terminated the war of the “rebel
lion,” was signed at Appomattox court
house on the property owned by a man
named McLean, concerning whom a con
federate officer told me an interesting
story. It would seem that Mr. McLean,
though striving to keep himself aloof from
wars and rumors of wars, was pursued by
a fatality from the start to the finish of
the great conflict, says Kate Field’s Wash
ington.
At the outbreak of the war Gen. Beau
regard’s headquarters were near Manas
sas, on the farm owned by the same Mc
Lean. There the first engagement of mo
ment took place. Gen. Longstreet and
corps were also encamped there for a time.
When the firing began there came a voiley
from the federals which literally tore to
pieces Gen. Beauregard’s dinner, spread
on a table in the garden at the rear of the
house. At the close of the engagement
McLean picked up such goods audcoaitels
as remained and moved to Mississippi,
where in course of time the war followed
him. , ,
Tired at last of the self-imposed banish
ment from Virginia, he returned just in
time to be fairly settled at Appomattox
courthouse and for his property to be that
selected for the signing of the treaty of
peace.