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About Crawfordville democrat. (Crawfordville, Ga.) 1881-1893 | View Entire Issue (May 22, 1885)
0 CRAWFORDVILLE. GEORGIA. EDITOR AND BOOK All JIMS He Oblrrtl to the Feinnlro, but no! to ihr Mule*. The Richmond (Va.) Religious Herald says: We can stand a book agent, provided he is of tho masculine denomi¬ nation. We are not afraid of him. We know that he is coming and can deal with him without buying his book. He may be pompous aud courtly or he may be pimpled and cadaverous ; his lips mny be bedewed with honeyed flatteries; he may be oily and crafty in his ap¬ proaches ; he may modestly ask for “ just a moment of our precious time;” he may say that he only craves the qse of our name, or he may charge in upon us and seek to carry us by storm. This does not matter with us. He is a man, and so are we in a small way, and we have our rights. We tell him what we will and what we won’t, and that ends it. Bnt when she comes—then is the win¬ ter of our discontent. We bow to the storm, and have no remarks to submit. All the hidden resources of our polite¬ ness are called into requisition. She is a woman, and has the advantage of us. She has seen better days, and has a tear in her eye. She belongs to an old fam¬ ily, and swnm in luxury in her youth. Little cares she for money—character fa everything with her. She is working in the interests of literature and to lift up society. Her book fa for the home circle, and is destined to ennoble the character of mothers, and in that way to add glory to republican institutions. She came the other day. How glib and rattling she was I She had us be¬ fore we knew it. She had us sitting as erect as a sunbeam in July, and meekly nodding assent to her sage observations. We neither moved band nor foot, and as for talking, we had no chance. She talked fast, and she talked long, and she talked all the time. After regaling us with the grandeur of her ancestry, the pleasures of her childhood, and the sur¬ passing excellences of her hook, she touched ns up. She did it handsomely. She expatiated on the potency of our influence, the value of our personal sig¬ nature and the well-known warmth and kindness of onr heart. Greatness, she hinted, always had a tear on its cheek for the struggling and unfortunate. And there we were—dumb and foolish, a victim to her spell. Time came and went, bnt she we«t on, aud on, and on. W fatigued and lonesome, jjSfily and wai „ 1 • 1 • 'w. it would end. and graduallv descended from her dr enmlocntory flight, and lit in the region of business. The atmosphere became commercial, and it was a question of dollars and cents. She hod a book for sale and desired to sell ns a copy. It ceased to be a question of ancestry, and the poetry and praise all faded away. The spell was broken, and all we had to do was to say whether or not we would buy tho book. We did it as well as we could—we spoke in a bright and respectful tone— we even thanked her for her visit—we paid a tribute to her brilliant conversa¬ tional gifts—we wished her high fortune aud a golden future, and expressed re¬ gret that it had to l*e so. How her whole aspect changed 1 8he patted tier check with petulance, her faoe flushed, she breathed wildly, and swept angrily away. Ami yet truly we felt sorry for her. It hurt us to think of her hard lot, and her desperate devices to stem the tide of adverse fortune. We would have bought her book, except that we could not conscientiously pay an exorbitant prioe for a useless article Tarls as a MeapnrL The old idea of making Paris a sea p ventilate J in 1825, has again been taken up by an engineer, M. Bouquet do la Grye, who is a member of the In¬ stitute. Ho proposes to deepeu the Seine between Rouen, where largo ves¬ sels can sail or be towed np from the eea, and Poissv, a pleasant summer re¬ sort of many Parisians, within easy dis¬ tance of the metropolis. The distanoe to be deepened is something over 93 miles. The projector, however, says nothing of the daugers likely to result from the numerous islands which stmt the Seine between Poissy and Rouen, and which would render river naviga¬ tion exceedingly dangerous for vessels of large tonuage, such as those who pick their way so candidly from Havre to Rouen. The cost of deepening the Seine, with its tortuous windings be¬ tween l’oiasy and the Norman town, is estimated at $30,000,000. The engi¬ neers who, in 1825, conceived the gigan¬ tic plan, spent 310,000 m studying the problem, but their labors were inter¬ rupted by the revolution of 1830, and the project haa been ainee in a bey an oe. Tux news from Suakim is distressingly meagre, says an exchange. For in¬ stance, a dispatch states that the enemy appeared in force in the direction of H-iudoub, and the men at work on the railroad ceased operations. Now, who were the enemy ? Did the men strike when they quit ? Aud did they join the enemy, or stand to one side to see that the latter did not oommenoe where they left off f Railroad men quitting work it) thm ooaotry has bnt ouo significance. IN WINTER. St LOUISE enAJiCLEB MOCLTOK. Oh, to go back to the days of JuP' Just to be young anil alive again, Hearken again to the mad, sweet tone Birds were ainging with might and main; South they flew at the summer’s wan Leaving their m sts for storms to harry, Bince time was coming for wind and rain Under the wintry skies to marry. Wearily wander by dale and dune Footsteps fettered with clanking chain— Free they were in the days of June, Free they never can he again; Fetters of age and fetters of pain, Joye that fly, and sorrows that tarry— Youth is over, and hope were vain Under the wintry skies to marry. Now we chant hut a desolate rune— “Oh, to be yourg and alive again P’— But never December turns to June, And length of living is length of pain; Winds in tho nestless trtes complain, Snows of winter about us tarry, And never the birds come back again Under the wintry skies to marry. > ENVOI. Youths and maidens, blithsome and vain, Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry, Mate in season, for who is fain Under the wintry skies to marry? —Century for April. A ROMANTIC STORY. Startling stories are told and thrilling effects produced in the many novels of the day, but it is seldem we find any¬ thing more startling or thrilling in fiction than this “ower true tale" of a belle of the early part of the present century. There are those still living who can attest to the facts; bnt were it not that the principal actors have passed from the stage, I should hesitate yet to make public such a peculiar family history. As it fa I will “tell the tale as it ’twas told to me,” only begging pardon for concealing the real names. “In what was than a charming sea¬ side town, there lived, fifty years ago, a most lovely girl, named Amy Provence —bright and radiant and witty, but, alas ! as the sequel shows, most unwise, to say the very least. Of suitors Bhe had many, and wbeD she first appears in the light of a hero¬ ine, she had already promised her hand, with her heart in it, to a prosperous and highly respected young merchant. There was not so muoh of fashion and folly then as now; young ladies did not lie awake over trosseaus and establish¬ ments, or mar their beauty and redden their eyes, dimming their luster by late hours and high living. But Miss Prov enoe approached her bridal day in all her youthful freshness. Her lover Ernst Rhodes, was ardently attac M< >d to her, and tne course w n cue •, *pp«*» ently very smoothly. But the old fash¬ ion fate has of turning momentous re¬ sults on very small hinges, was in style then as now, and fate was busy with them. Miss Amy was invited to visit Miss Woolsey, a wealthy old aunt in Rhode Island, before her marriage. So, bun¬ dling up some of the mysterious wed¬ ding paraphernalia, for a last beautify¬ ing touch, for her fairy fingers were very tasteful and swift, she left her lover, with regret, I know, and left him for a week's sojourn with her aristooratio relative. This week was understood to be the last of her maidenhood, and the young girl felt even that to be a small eternity. But what young fiancee, on the eve of marriage with tho dear one of her choioe, cannot find a wealth of enjoyment in loving thoughts oven for a whole week? Miss Woolsey was a lady of position and consequenoe, and tho rare beauty and grace of her niece gave her a pres¬ tige id the eyes of the many visitors to tho house. Her entertainments were unique aud “just the thing,” and it was with u oertuin degree of pride that a» invitation to Miss Woolsey’s was accept¬ ed by the surrounding gentry. It fa the same the world over, and has been for far more years than this veritable history covers, that a certain element in charac¬ ter is gratified by the notice of those who are considered a round higher on the social ladder. Amy was delighted with the evidence of luxury about her; and her vanity was flattered by the nu¬ merous attentions she received from the various visitors to her aunt’s house. Ernst at home was impatient for her re¬ turn, chafing and wondering how Amy could go away from him, even for a week, if she loved as he loved I Fate was weaving btr first thread ! Among the many who came to Miss Woolsey’s attracted by the exquisite beauty of Miss Amy, was one, a certain Mark liaise, of whom people knew lit¬ tle, save that he seemed to live iu some style; at least, he kept a carriage, a luxury that few indulged in in those days, and said very little about himself aud his antecedents. Each evening he came, and each evening saw him at Amy's side. Ate had mi talked at toi** bnt shrewder eyes than hers saw whither he was tending, and fate was weaving her second thread. In the meantime Amy bad been very diligent; the work was finished, the last touches given to the dainty finery, and in the near future the sweet hope of her life would be fulfilled; so thought she. Krust was at home, waiting as only lovers can wait, aud each one of yon knows how pa tently that is. Amy would gi* to-morrow. Even at this distant time, in the light of all the sufferings that followed, my pen almost refuses to chronicle the tec- ord of the last eventful evening of the poor girl’s visit, We do have some thing to do with our destiny, inasmuch as the reins are put into our own hands, and we may turn whithereover we will 1 So Mark Halse came and Amy him. As usual he sat by her side, and, as usual, she let him linger there. Alas l for the dear boy at home she knew she loved, and whom in spite of all that fol lowed, you know she loved ! Ernst was not by to give her his warning look, and save her from the tempter. The soft voice spoke: “My dear Miss Amy”—and very der was his look—“you are going away, and do you know how I shall miss you t” “You can’t ‘miss’ me much longer,” she blushingly replied, laugning at the innocent pun. -L. “Ah 1 that is what makes my hea ache so,” said he, “for when you a£ gone, and I think of all your happinef I shall regret more than I can tell y* that yon ever came among ns to so di turb the ripples of my quiet life;” a deep sigh enforced his words. “Please don’t talk so, Mr. Halse, said Amy, “for even in this short weel I have learned to prize your friendship highly, and I should be sorry indeed not to retain it.” “Amy,” said he, casting off all reserve, and abruptly seizing her hand—“Amy I can stand it no longer; I must kno? my fate from your own lips! When yot talk to me of quiet friendship, there .-ashes upon me like a wave the of all that I lose in losing yon! you be my wife ?” His impetuosity startled her, and she drew back. “Do not talk so to me I” she cried, “Do. you not know that in a few days I shall be Ernst’s wife ?” Mark Halse knew not and caTed not who “Ernst” was; he only knew that she had promised her troth to another, and he meant to win her from him. Don’t tell me that she was wrong and imprudent to listen to him—don’t I know it ? I am only telling you a true Btory, and it is my duty to record that this particular Amy Provence was no ex¬ ception to the corps of silly girls. “Yes I know it, I know it,” he plead¬ ed “bnt, Amy, darling, how can I let you go 1 I will do anything for this dear hand. I will give you a princely home and every surrounding that wealth can purchase, if you will only come to me and be my beloved wife 1” “No, no,’’said Amy, “donot tempt me, Ernst ia not rich, I know, but I love and he loves me dearly, and I will be his wife.” Do you think th/ Mark Halse gave ** the oh -“*? Not lieve me or not as you see . - tiegan to listen to hui persuasive Ernst was away, and Mark, with >fs fine presents and finer promises, near-even at her very feet. .So it came that Amy Provence not even “off with the old tove before on With the new,’ for when Mark Halse added to all the other temptations the promise of a carriage for her very own, the poor, ambitious victim yielded, and gave to her tempter her broken faith. What he cared for it will soon appear. The forsakeu Ernst bore as well as his fortitude and outraged love would let him, the cold letter announcing to him his Amy's treachery, and never sought for an explanation. He was too manly to resent the insult, and treated the whole affair as beneath contempt rightly judging that the false-hearted girl who could trifle with his tenderest feelings was not worth mourning for. It would be well for all if I could leave it here, but truth compels me to pro¬ ceed. I need not tell yon of the poor mother, whose whole heart was in Amy’s marriage with Ernst, of all who were so indignant at her decision; or of the for saken lover who had loved so blindly only to be made to suffer so deeply— my story is not with these. Miss Woolsey was well pleased at turn in the tide of affairs, and offered the deluded girl all the necessary assistance. She was married in a few weeks from her aunt’s house in a stylo seldom seeq at that time. I should like to linger hero if my heart was in it, and tell you of all the fine things that was said aaJ done, in spite of the unpleasant state o things, but I will forbear. Ambition aud love are always at war! and one must be victor, so when Am! “ swallowed her down ambition, the love and she looked gave fo th| t reins to ward to her lordly home with w pleasures she might But she me nothing more of the man who had “It her his own way” than he had told he himself, so that when she came to ln| sad awakening it was as if a thunder had fallen at her feet What were . promises ? Mere empty air 1 The b° he took her to was a miser’s home, ai ! hencefortli, aud for her whole life » fifty years, she saw such sufferings woman seldom sees. Do yon ask me if he gave her nothi of all he promised ? Yes, the carriat which was the thing that turned t scale lu his favor; he gave her that, e thus fulfilled his literal promise. He gave her the carriage, but it ah? in the barn for fifty years, with neves horse, anil never a ride had she with For fifty years there was present be! her eyes this CJusUnt reminder of a J ing heart trampled upon—for fifty yt Mark Halse made her feel his iron ha Children came to her, bat no com with them; one grew ap a miser drunkard, and another went oat from her for many years, returning finally, to settle down at home, taciturn and mo rose. Her husband died, and this son jseemed ali she had to live for, and, as father’s will was made np entirely in ‘us favor, the wretched woman, who j ad absolutely no society or friends, leaned on him for her daily bread. But ri a little while he died, and all the poor jotber could now do was to be thank fill she was not a pauper. Meanwhile i r read his will ? All, everything, be c atfced to a wife and son in South £ -ica of whose existence nobody , ed! he terms of the will, the son was S' North immediately on being ap S“2 ,>f his father’s death, take the “1‘me and look after the property: * , ; nut a word of the old mother, no for her declining years, no love ex¬ led, nothing for her—ali as if she not 1 Is it strange after ail these es, and the corroding remorse of *‘v years, that the poor woman found ,er burden greater then she could bear V When she felt her miserable life rawing to its close, she sent for Ernst, udfor the tirat time in all these years two stood face to face ! He with “ white Iocks - bnt still commanding gnre, and fine, stern face, was an ivenging angel I she with her bent and rambling form, her wrinkled, careworn ace, with its hungry look for human ympathy, was scarcely the brilliant, -eautifnl girl who had gone from her ;ome in her youth and innocence to >ring upon both their lives such a terri ile consummation 1 They gazed at each other without a rord, till, at length, she spoke, and the •fords which rang upon his ears came om the depths of a broken heart. “Ernst I”—the name, the once-loved, ill loved name, lingered upon her lips ke a strain of forgotten music—“Ernst, J^Gently an you ^brgivq me ?” the old lover took her trem¬ bling crushed lumd %i Iris, but with everything of icve out for all the years; calm if the wordt fell on her ears: “Amy, cannot 1 You rained my v-hole life# Bnt for your trampling out py younJheart I should have been a "different ran I But for your treachery »,v might Jiave been happy 1 As it is< jou e-'.ild destroyed neveWrust my faith in woman; I another I” iBhe c cfti I in her misery, and pufc Pg ora her face) p| ’ hrunken cried: hands over her 1, “Before "l 1 * 1 Ernst, I pray for your yj^^ows ., lercy how I have suffered, nd if ever a poor criminal expiated his nilt with his ,heart’s blood, I have! feel that your just resentment - |te.the.ei*naJ world 1” j the old, old time—” his voice % . &Qd b6 raised hig dewy eye8 „ it is hal , a century. But A n fa but as a moment * t 7$ wilout C0m e. I have lived a lone- I wife or children. X thoUflimd timea have , ^ sod over yonr grave , ^ ^ f a ^ lost to me becaUBe ^ od tban to hava it as it fa. , ir ownlhand gave the blow, and wag ,, nJ h and which crU8bed all Bat i{ it wiu bo anv comfort to . feel tbat I do not hold resent F t tm then be comforted, Amy. . i I aa willing to leave all with God.” He b> ed his head over her hand and W&S giilOs * ‘ * * > they came.to her, hoars later, , t j pcace f u lly asleep, her white I hand* lasped over her breast, and the $ exprieion on her dead face calmer and •6' T-f than it’had worn in life since vb . bt time Ernst had looked upon it. ******* PV had woven the last thread. When are Women Old J * hen does a woman begin to grow : • as lately asked in an assembly of ■neh women, who are said to be eve aore afraid of vieillir than the wo • e f other countries, although from Ufirervous concealment of their age ono Should imagine even in this country that not to remain eternally young was a thing to be ashamed of. “With the first gray hair,” suggested one of the ladies, and “When she ceases to inspire love” thought another. The decision was finally put to a charming white haired maiden of some 70 years, who at oace replied, “What do I know about it? You must ask an old woman to au i a ver you such a question.” Which I sjows that at least one among the ladies had the right recipe for remaining „,'>ung. Dwarf Love Making. j Count Magri, the dwarf, who is soon > marry General Tom Thumb's widow, -'as dining in a restaurant, when a ewspaper man imformed him that his ' iancee has spoken of him most com ** imeutarily in a printed interview¬ ed, in fact, said that she was madly a love with him, and other words of similarly burning import. The count hang his head, blushed deeply, asked for her exact language, and took out a .lead-pencil and wrote it down in midget letters on the bill of fare; ia order, as he said, to show it to her, and see if she roaily did feel so. Three days after¬ ward he was found again. “I read that to her,” he observed, sadly, “and she ■aid she never said anything of the kind." NEW ORLEANS SOCIETY. COMPARISONS BETWEEN MEN THERE AND MEN AT THE NORTH. The Jolly Man a Rara Avia In the Crescent City—Crltlciatn Not Welcomed. “The manners and customs of the men of New Orleans are peculiar. The prev¬ alent expression on their face is not a cheerful one; it is sombre and thought¬ ful, if not melancholy, and a visitor who wanders about town is struck by the number of men who seem to be brood¬ ing over a wrong. Jollity attracts at¬ tention. In the Northern cities there is an endless number of men who show by their cheerful faces, free manners, aud prosperous-looking clothes that they take life easy and enjoy things by the way. Every one is familiar with this type of man. His wit may be cheap, his talk slangy, and his perpetual cheer¬ fulness at times a bit raspin g, bnt his laughter is none the less infections, and his face insures him a welcome every¬ where. He talks too loud in the read¬ ing room of the club, plays practical jokes on the waiters in the restaurants, is apt to look too long upon the wine,, and commits various other indiscretions that annoy the frigidly polite; but it is to be observed that he has hosts of friends, that his purse is always open, and that he is asked to ten dinners a month where the frigidly polite must content themselves with two or three. When he sails up to a bar or into a cafe he is greeted with smiles, and there is a rustle of satisfaction all around. He nsually has a waistcoat that bellies out like the jib of a yacht in a gentle breeze, his trousers are natty, his boots well polished, aud his hands white and soft. Every one calls him ‘Charley,’ ‘Billy,’ ‘Smithy,’ or some other affec¬ tionate version of Charles William Smith, if that happens to be his name, and he goes through life and about town in a manner that does good on every hand. “This type of man is not a rarity in New York, Boston, or Philadelphia, but he is almost unknown in New Orleans. He is not to be found at any of the ex¬ cellent clubs the town can boast of, at the bars or in the streets. The men drink here with the soberness of mourn¬ ers. They walk along the streets with their eyes half closed and their hands in their pockets, and the ring of a quick and vigorous step on the pavement never oomes from a native’s heels. “I wandered into one of the oldest barrooms in New Orleans one night about 9 o’clock, and the the place melancholy air which hung over struck me at once. It had low ceilings and was musty. Mythical facts painted on the tr> o'! »i. ante-bellnm days smooth as a bit of polished marble, aave where the knots in the wood rose abov the level. The bar and all decoration* of the big square room were painted white, and the bartenders, I was told by the man who took me there, had been in their places for years and years. The man with me knows everybody here, is a member of three clubs, and popular as popularity goes in this lym¬ phatic tOWD. “‘I find I’m growing old too fast heah,’ he remarked, slowly, the other day. ‘I’m healthy enough, sound as a dollah, as far as I know, weigh 185 pounds, and stand six feet high. 1 eat and sleep well, but there’s something wrong with me shuah. When I was No’th at college I was as spry on my toes as a French dancing master, but now I’m as languid as a malaria dude. I go home at night five or six times a week and sit dreaming of what I shall do some day in a business way, and go to bed full of ideas and resolutions, On the following morning lam so enervated, weak, and lifeless that I go crawling about like a man of sixty, It’s the climate, I think.’ “Scattered about the barroom were half a hundred men of the same social status as the crowds that drink in the cafe of the Brunswick or at the Hoffman House. They were sitting at small tables in little knots of twos and threes. talking in subdued tones. Most of them wore frock coats, which hung in wrinkles on their shoulders, while their faces were shaded by soft felt hats. They were New Orleans gentlemen, though not New Orleans swells or club men. There was not a ruddy, healthy-looking faoe among them, most of tho cheeks being either pale or sallow. As the man with me passed along he nodded right and left, and was sainted in return by solemn duckings of the head and such greetings as ‘ Well, David,’ ‘ Good evenin’, Dave,’ *Ah, Dave,’ and simply ‘David.’ Though these men had grown up with him from childhood, and had been companions with him for years, they were as quiet, cold, and formal in their greetings as though meeting a re¬ cent acquaintance. It wa3 not the self¬ repression and very proper air that Eng¬ lishmen affect, but an almost sullen man¬ ner, and barely relieved of discourtesy by the softness of the voice. ft f If you think this place is quiet now you should have seen it a few, a very few, years ago, ’ said the proprietor of the saloon a little later on. ‘Policemen were stationed at the doors then to search every one who entered to take a drink, so as to see that no concealed weapons were carried. This searching process took the irons away from all the boys, and they felt kinder lonesomer and quieter than ever. The place was like ft tomb then.’ “This downcast air is as prevalent among the members of what is called the best society as it is elsewhere. The men, when yon meet them, are courte¬ ous, quiet, and sad. They talk about the gravest of things, and when a dozen of them gets together it is only at rare intervals that a laugh is heard.” Bread Cast Upon the Water. About a month ago an old flew Yorker dropped his luggage before the clerk’s desk in an Old Point Comfort hotel and dashed off his autograph in a free and easy hand, “John McKesson, New York city.” Day after day passed and the visitor seemed to be enjoying Virginia with a great deal of zest. When he finally made np his mind to move homeward he tripped once more to the clerk’s desk, this time to ask for his bill. “McKesson ! McKesson 1” ejaculated the clerk, “there’s no bill here for any Mr. McKesson.” “No bill ? why, what are you talking about. Do you know how long I've been here, Mr. Clerk ? “Yes, sir, I do know, but I have orders from headquarters to take none of your money—not a cent.” Now comes on the scene a genial hotel pro¬ prietor to beam upon the astonished old Knickerbocker and grasp him by the hand after an enthusiastic fashion. “You’re the same old John McKesson I knew thirty years ago,” ejaculated the hotel man. “Don’t remember me, eh ? Well, let me recall a little incident which happened when I was straggling along in the world years and years back. Yon belonged to one of the leading wholesale drag firms in Maiden-lane, and I was the driver of an express wagon. One day I had to unload some packages going from your store to some Western town. My horses were scared just as I was handling the goods and one package was dumped to the ground and broken. At headquarters I wa3 told that I'd have to make good the loss, a little matter of $20 or so, which meant a great deal to me./ With a sore heart I went down to your store the next day to ask what was the lowest figure at which I could settle, and you, without a mo¬ ment’s hesitation, told me that I need not pay one cent, that yon could stand the loss better than I could, and that must be the end of it. But it ian’Mi¬ en d of it, all the same, for I am m a round $100 a day down here thongh if I wasn’t making a cer dashed if I’d let you pay for an under my roof, if yon Btaid h whole year through.” A Wonderful Stream of W —-»* ,rro "s>re is.' -o man c ter A The springs c3ver two or WL and the water is from ten mostl to? deep. The bottom is the white sand, and the water is th water in the world. It is so c any objeot on the bottom can F plainly as thongh one was only J through a sheet of the finest plate glass. You can never realize it until you see it. Fifty feet down yon can see fish as plainly as though in an aqnarinm, and actually distinguish the separate scales on the fish. The sun shining through this water makes the most beautiful colors, like diamonds. All the colors of the rainbow can be seen, and where there is grass on the bottom, as there is in some places, it is of the purest green, and the green blends with rainbow colors until the beholder is perfectly awe-struck, and cannot Bpeak for fear of breaking the spell. It is hard to break a way from the scene, and one wishes lie could stay for weeks. There are huge catfish swimming around, looking as though they might be a yard away, they are so plain, but they may be twenty feet down. The springs form a river which flows for eight miles before it reaches the Oklawaha, and all of that distance people stand on the decks of the boat and gaze into that beautiful water, and see the fish swimming around. Here will be a school of catfish, black and saucy, some weighing fifty pounds, there a school of a hundred garfish with their long bills, playing about, paying no attention to the steamer, but acting SB thongh they were on exhibition. That eight miles is the most fascinating ride in the world. Those who visit Florida and fail to take the Oklawaha trip make the greatest mistake in the world.” Desirous to Emigrate. Major George L. Lane, colored, of the North Carolina State Guard, says there is a strong feeling among the col¬ ored people to emigrate to Liberia. He gives as the cause for this feeling that wages are so low that colored people cannot make anything beyond a living. Wages for farm hands are only seven dollars a month and rations, which cost about sixty cents a week. There are now 700 families in the State who have each paid into the treasury of the Emi¬ gration Society in this place ten dollars. Fifteen dollars more is expected from each of these families, and with addi¬ tional aid to be furnished by societies in Washington and New York, they will be able to reach Liberia with a full supply of clothes and all their tools of various kinds. The young negToes are more anxious to leave than the older ones, and the number who are joining the society is increasing every day.
