Newspaper Page Text
VOL. XX.—N 0. 92G.
ATLANTA, GA., OCTOBER 28, 1893.
PH*^E: $2 00 A YEAR.
ATSIlAKSriARZ’S TOMB.
Once where a spray of apple-bloom
Hung o’er my garden wall
There came a vagrant oriole
To flood the music of its soul
Full in my open-windowed room.
A fleck of gold, with voice of lute,
Within mv casement swung—
uj own sweet prisoned singing-bird—
Whose tribute, which the master stirred,
Left it aghast and mute.
Thus came his flight and canticle,
Flooding Song’s dawn with Day.
Thus we, atlirill and tribute-stirred,
Like my poor prisoned singing-bird.
Falter love-dumb and still.
—Edgar L. Wakeman.
STOA EWA1.L JACKSON’S OBIT
luddenli Showing Bow Difficult It Wft«
To Sturt Blm.
“Maj. Jackson,” said a confederate
veteran recently to a reporter of the
Louisville-Oourier Journal, “was a
man of great eccentricities. He was a
genius in the matter of military
science. He also taught other things
but lacked the ability of im
parting his own knowledge, which was
was very great. He was a stern man,
and believed in obeying orders to the
very letter. As an illustration of his
belief in the absolute obedience of the
letter of the order. I have heard a
story told of an incident that occur
red during the Mexican War. Maj.
Jackson was then a lieutenant of ar
tillery, commanding a section compos-
posed of two guns. In a certain ac
tion he was ordered to occupy a cer
tain position and open fire upon the
enemy, llis two guns were started
for tlie place, which was very exposed
and before reaching it he saw that he
could not reman there ten minutes
without losing every horse and man
he had. At the same time he saw that
by moving some 300 yards away, his
fire would be more effective. But his
orders to open fire must be obeyed, so
reaching the designated position, the
two guns were fired. Tnen they were
limbered up and moved to the new
position, and fire was opened in ear
nest and with effect.
“1 could tell several incidents in
which Maj. Jackson figured,” contin
ued Judge Lawson, “which came un
der my notice while at the institute,
remember once how a student tried to
kill him. Some fellow—I forget his
name — had a fancied ^grievance
against Jackson. He took a bag which
was used to hold soiled clothes and
filled it with bricks. His room was in
the top story of the building, and one
day, as Jackson was passing under his
window, he dropped the bag of bricks
It passed so close to Jackson that
grazed his cap, tilting it to one side
M ithout pausing or looking around
he straightened his cap and passed
if on parade, the only notice
seemed to take of the occurrence be
Ang to step over several of the bricks
that rolled out of the bag. Several
us who were standing near rushed up
to him, remarking upon his coolness.
L entlemen,'said he, the bricks were
on the ground when I saw them. They
could not hurt me then.’
hen Jackson, upon the outbreak
of the war, was appointed a colonel of
the Virginia troops, all the boys who
had seen him at the institute and
judged him by his eccentricities,
thought that he might perhaps make a
good colonel. When he was made a
brigadier-general, we thought that he
was getting into deep water,and when
he was appointed major-general there
was not one of us but what was certain
that a great mistake had been made
and that Jackson was clearly out
classed.
“I do not say,” declared the judge,
warming up under the inspiration of
old memories, “that Stonewall Jack-
son was the greatest general that the
war produced, but I do say that he
was the greatest military genius. His
campaign in the valley of Virginia
excelled even the celebrated Italian
campaign of Napoleon.
“Napoleon had, for the most part,
well-equipped veteran troops. The
forces that Jackson fought against
were greater in proportion to his own
numbers than were those of the ene
mies of Napoleon.
“His enemies comprised well equipp
ed troops, and one army at least—that
of Shields—was composed almost en
tirely of veteran troops. Jackson’s
own troops were mainly raw recruits,
who had never been under fire. No,”
he continued, “I do not say that Jack-
son was the greatest general, but he
was the greatest military genius de
veloped by the war.”
NO THIEF WILL TOUCH IT.
The Muffled Women of Morocco.
as
he
Writing abont Moorish women,
Richard Harding Davis says:
“There is something continually in
teresting in the muffled figures of the
women.' They make you almost ash
amed of the uncovered faces of the
American women in the town;
tand, in the lack of any evi
dence to the contrary, you begin to
believe every Moorish woman or girl
you meet is as beautiful as her eyes
would make it appear that she is.
Those of the girls whose faces I saw
were distinctly handsome; they were
the women Benjamin Constant paints
in his pictures of Algiers, and about
whom Pierre Loti goes into ecstasies
in his books on Tangier. Their robe
or cloak, or whatever the thing is they
affect, covers the head like a hood, and
with one hand they hold one of its
folds in front of the face as high as
their eyes. The only times that I
ever saw the face of any of them
was when I occasionally eluded Ma-
hamed and ran off with a little guide
called Isaac, the especial protector of
two American women, who farmed
him out to me when they preferred to
remain in the hotel. He is a par
ticularly beautiful youth and I no
ticed that whenever he was with
me the cloaks ol the women had a
fashion of coming undone, and they
would lower them for an instant and
look at Issac and then replace them
severely upon the bridge of the nose.
Then Isaac would turn toward me
with shy, oonsoious] smile and blush
violently. Isaac tays the young men
of Tangier can tell whether or not a
girl is pretty by looking at her feet.
It is true that their feet are bare, but
it struck me as a somewhat reckless
test for selecting a bride.”
In 690 the King of Northumberland
save eight hundred acres of land for
one book, oontaining the history of the
world.
An Unlucky Bins Which Hang* on the
Week of a Madrid Statue.
I
A costly ring, unguarded by police
or other special protection, hangs
suspended to a silken cord round the
neck of a statue of the Maid of Alma-
dena, the patron saint of Madrid, in
one of the most frequented parks of
the Spanish capital. It is set with
valuable diamonds and pearls, but, ac
cording to the Philadelphia Record,
there is not the least danger of it be
ing stolen; the greatest thief in Spain
would sooner steal the plate from his
mother’s coffin than to even so much
as touch the uncanny relics. Its his
tory is curious and interesting, being
equal to anything related in medi
aeval folklore. It was made in ac
cordance with a special order from
the late Alfonso XII., who gave it to
his cousin, the beautiful Mercedes, on
the day of their betrothal. She wore
it constantly daring their short mar
ried life. Upon her death the king
presented it to her grandmother,
Queen Christina. She died soon after
accepting it, and the king then passed
the deadly little jeweled band of gold
to his sister, Infanta de Pilar, who
died within a month after. Again the
accursed circlet started on its deadly
rounds, next finding a place upon the
finger of Christina, daughter of the
Duke Montpensier. In less than 100
days she, too, was dead. Alfonso then
put the cursed jewel in his own casket
of precious relics, and lived less than
a year after so doing. Is it any won
der that such a harbinger of death
can safely hang on a statue in an un
guarded square?
BOirOB DIAB OLD MdTHIB.
Her Live li True When All the World
Brows Dark A front It on*
Time has scattered the snowy flakes
on her brow, ploughed deep furrows
on her cheek—but is she not sweet
and beautiful^now? The lips which
have kissed many a hot tear from the
childish cheek are the sweetest lips in
all the world, says the Bngle Call. The
eye is dim, yei it glows with the rapt
radiance of a holy love which can
never fade.
Oh, yes, she is a dear old mother.
Her sands of time are nearly run out,
but, feeble as she is, they will go
further and reach down lower for you
than any other on earth.
You cannot walk into midnight
where she cannot see yon; yon cannot
enter a prison whose bars shall keep
her out; yon can never mount a scaf
fold too high for her to reach that she
may kiss and bless yon.
In evidence of her deathless love
when the world shall despise and for
sake yon—when it leaves you by the
wayside to die unnoticed—the dear old
mother will gather yon up in her fee
ble arms, carry yon home and tell yon
all your virtues, until you almost for
get that your soul is disfigured by
vices. Love her tenderly, and cheer
her declining years with holy devo
tion.
A certain Mr. Henry, an American
living in France, has succeeded in
making a clock entirely of paper,
which will run two years without
wearing out.
THE CAVERN QUEEN.
OR
Colonel Charlton’s Heiress.
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
[COPYRIGHTED.]
CHAPTER XL.
“THE MURDERER—WHO WAS HE?”
The low music went on. The pict
ure faded from the screen, and another
presently grew upon its grajt sur
face. Hampden almost started out of
his seat. He recognized the room in
the haunted house where he had last
seen Amy—the old picture, the faded
lounge and that figure upon it; it was
himself, asleep. Eagerly his glance
went to the other figure, that slim girl
sitting in the window. Yes, it was
she, his lost ward! It was Amy with
her little, quaintly fashioned black
frock, her short hair, her head bent
over tUe backless fragment of the old
book.
“ T t is Amy "Wharton—don’t you
recognize her, Norman?” he said, hus
kily, as soon as he could speak.
Normals answer came in a strained,
unnatural voice:
“No, I don’t see any likeness; but
then I have forgotten how she looked.
I should imagine you had done the
same. You knew her such a little
time, and it has been so long since.”
“I have forgotten nothing connected
with Amy Wharton,” Hampden inter
rupted, coldly. “The likeless is per
fect!”
The picture was already passing
from the canvas. Norman, white with
fear, saw another appearing upon the
screen. He trembled as he saw at the
end of the vista a chamber of the cav
ern—the chamber of the dead.
He knew it at once. The gloomy,
arched roof, the rugged walls, the
gray stalagmites—their outlines re
sembling the rigid shapes of the dead;
and among these grim shapes a sol
itary human figure—a girl holding a
fragment of lighted candle. The
feeble rays of the candle threw a nar
row illumination abont her forlorn
little figure. They showed her white
face, her scared eyes—their look
strained forward with tense anxiety,
trying to pierce the mysterious shad
ows that filled the cavern.
_ The picture told its own story—a
girl alone, lost in an underground
labyrinth.
“Amy Wharton—lost in a cavern!
Can this be?” muttered Hampden.
No response came from Norman—
no sound but that of his agitated
breathing. He felt sure that the
next scene would be the revelation of
the crime he had believed was un
known, unsuspected by any living be
ing.
The next instant his fears were re
alized. The picture passed from the
gray canvas; another took its place.
As it assumed distinct oatlines Hamp
den started to his feet, ottering an
exclamation of horror. He saw before
him Amy’s desperate struggle for life
against her wonld-be slayer. The
scene was again the cavern, the cham
ber of the chasm. The foreground
showed the girl hanging against the
side of the precipice, clutching with
frantic grasp the arm of a man who
stood on the ledge above her—a man
who, instead of trying to save her,
was fiercely tearing her fingers from
their hold and pushing her back, rav
age determination expressed on every
line of his figure. His face was hid
by a slouched hat, his form concealed
by a loose gray overcoat.
The girl’s face had a look of agon
ized appeal; her lips were parted, as
if sending forth a cry for mercy.
“Amy! My God! could that have
been her fate?” cried Hampden.
“Madame Delorme,” he called out in a
voice hoarse with emotion.
She came gliding up to him in the
gloom.
“Tell me,what is this? Do you mean
that Amy Wharton perished like
that?” f
He pointed to the picture. 1
“What you see there is what took
place,” she ans#ered.
“This cavern—do you mean that it
was there—near that house?”
“The cavern is there—in sight of the
haunted house. 'A stone is now rolled
to its mouth. It was known only to
three persons.”
“And one of these lured that child
into it and destroyed her? Do you
mean to tell me this? Speak, mad-
ame!”
“I did not say I would speak. I
would only show you what became of
your ward.”
“She was murdered, then! Bat the
murderer—why have you hid hie
face?”
“The next picture will show it to
you. The light of day shines upon it.
He stands outside, pushing an over
hanging rock down upon the mouth
of the cavern.”
“To seal up his crime. Show the
picture to me at once, Madame De
lorme !”
She made no answer. In the iater-
val of silence a hoarse, rattling sound
was heard. Norman was trying to
master his voice. When he did speak
his tones were strained and unnat
ural. -
“I protest against any more of tbife
mummery,” he said. “Hampden, your
common sense seems to fail you. How
can you believe in these imaginary
sketches? Madame Delorme is playing
on you for her amusement. She has
heard the story of yonr ward’s disap
pearance. She has seen her picture.
She has got up some sensational pic
tures, and shows them by means of a
magic lantern—that is all.”
“Everything I have shown you can
be easily verified,” said the countess,
calmly, turning to Hampdon. *|Tho
cavern is there, the—the body hus not
decayed-” \
“And the murderer—where it ho?
Who is he?” interrupted Hampden.
Tpe countess made no answer.
“Show me the remaining pictures
at once—I demand you I”
COSTINUED OX FOURTH PAGR.