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Banks County Gazette.
VOL 2.— NO. 27.
A True Story of Ooatli From a
Broken Heart.
Can a man die of a broken heart ?
I think so.
I known of one who did.
Years ago my father was in the
lumber business down in the Valley
of Virginia. The lumber was brought
down the Shenandoah river in gon
dolas. The Shenandoah, “The Laugh
ing Daughter of the Stars,” is a beau
tiful river winding along the base of
the Blue Ridge mountains. A bright,
sparkling, laughing, merry river. But
sometimes it grows dark; it does not
sparkle, it foams; it does laugh, it
roars and moans. It grows angry,
wild, raging,, tumultuous. The boat
men were a rough lot. Perhaps the
roughest of the lot was Jam. He had
a knife cut on the back of his neck
that made him look up all the time.
But his thoughts did not follow bis
eyes; they were of the earth, earthly.
He lived, when on the river, on “biled
eggs and apple jack”—more apple
jack than eggs. He was a very pro
fane man and always ready for a fight.
I knew him for years. Finally I
heard he was married. It made no
change in him, although I suppose it
made some difference in bis change.
After a while I heard ot the little
baby. Jim said “It is a cute little
cuss.” Then Jim bought a wee bit of
land right on the river bank and built
a little two room cabin with a dirt
lloor, but it was home.
One morning Jim pushed out from
home with his boatload of lumber on
his way down the river. He turned
to take a good-bye look at his home.
Ilis wife and baby stood in the door
kissing their hands to him. lie never
saw them again alive.
While he was down the river de
livering his lumber we had one of the
heaviest freshets ever known in that
section.
Jim was paid eff and started for
home, going as far ns Harrisburg by
rail. Then he had a tifteen-niile walk
over the mountains. Just at sunset
he reached a hilltop from which he
■tad a good view of the valley of the
River. At first he saw no change in
r the familiar landscape—the forest, the
rushing river, the mountains.
But suddenly there came to him
the consciousness that something was
missing. He did not see his cabin.
He rubbed his eyes. He looked again
long and earnestly; then started rap
idly down the mountain.
He met a man, a neighobr, a friend.
He stopped him. He said : ‘‘l don’t
see my home.”
“No ”
“Why not ?”
“It was washed away.”
“When r”
“The other night, in the freshet.”
“In the night
“Yes, in the night.”
“And my wife?”
“Drowned.”
“My baby ?”
“Drowned.”
lie staggered down to the river
bank.
The very ground his house had
stood upon had been washed away
He was alone. All alor.e.
Nothing was left of his home.
The rushing, mad river had carried
away his all. Not much. A little
ground. A log cabin. A young wife.
A baby.
He turned away. For a few days
he walked about like one asleep.
Then he went into a neighbor’s cabin,
threw himself on the bunk, turned
his face to the wall, and when they
called him he did not answer. When
they touched him he did not move.
He was dead.
Died of a broken heart.—A. W.
Hawks in The Voice.
President Harrison’s Barrel.
“Home industries” have been stab
bed in the house of their friends.
Andrew Carnegie, the great apostle
and beneficiary of the protective tariff
has sent to President Harrisori, as a
kindly token of his esteem, a barrel of
choice and costly old Scotch whiskey.
It went through the custom house
here last week, and the papers gave a
graphic description of it and even
photographed it for the benefit of the
American public.
Now, of course, no one will be so
uncharitable (no one at least who is a
republican) as to suppose that this
whisky is for beverage purposes. Mr.
Harrison is a Presbyterian dea
con, and was a Sunday school
teacher, and deacons never, never
drink. He was a candidate for presi
dent on a platform that said that “the
first concern of all good government
is the virtue and sobriety of the peo
pie,” and of course he would not
drink a whole barrel of Scotch whisky
to show his concern. It is incredible
that Mr. Carnegie, being a good per
sonal friend, would so mistake Mr.
Harrison as to suppose ho couid do
so. Perish the thought!
It must be that Harrison wants
this whisky to bathe in. Probably
Baby McKee has insisted that he
must have whisky for his bath, or he
will take no hath while the world
stands. Or perhaps the moths are
ravaging the carpets in the white
house, and that the president has
heard that whisky is rough on moths.
We never have heard that it is, but
Mr. Harrison or Mr. Carnegie may
have heard so It is very reasonable
to suppose that a barrel of whisky,
properly app ied, will kill a great
many moths.
Hut why should it be Scotch whis
ky? There’s the rub! Isn’t Ken
tucky bourbon good enough even for
Baby McKee ? Where do home in
dustries come in on this deal?
Couldn’t Vice-President M orton’s
Shoroham saloon supply the president
with an American article that would
answer the purpose? Couldn’t that
good republican, Greenhut, president
of the whisky trust, insure satisfac
tion ? M e trust that Mr. Harrison
will spurn this injudicious present
from the illustrious Carnegie,—The
Voice.
We are never without help. Wo
have no right to say of any good
work, It is too hard for me to do; or
of any sorrow, It is too hard for me
to bear; or of any sinful habit, It is
too hard for me to overcome.—Eliza
beth Charles.
Sledge-Hammer It lows.
This is the day of side-tracking in
the theological world; and every man
who “goes off,” hunts a side track
all by himself, m order to be “inde
pendent,” you know. The insane
notion about it is, that to keep to the
middle of the road—the good, old
fashioned Bible path—is a sign of
weakness in the head. And this idea
has helped many a man to make r
sublime idiot of himself in his effort
to appear “high.” He has taught
the “eonceipt” idea of the Book un
til his declarations of law as taught
therein lack force and point. He has
felt it necessary to depart from old
standards, not so much for truth’s
sake, as for the sake of making a sen-
sation—and “raising the wind.” He
“raises the wind,” but it blew him
clear out of the tack of gospel preach
ing and soul saving; he has forgotten
w'hat he w y as sent for, and you will
find him, like some worn-out freight
cars, lying off on a siding, a useless
piece of machinery.
There was a man who was pastor
of a large church. His views chang
ed and after ventillating them m the
pulpit, he thought the grand old
church would go without him, on his
side-track. So he called the official
brethren together, and laid the matter
before them. But he scarcely got
through with his statement before
“suthin’ dropped. A senior deacon,
not waiting for father discussion,
said, slowly, “well, brethren, from
the earliest days there have been
men who did not wish to continue iu
the Word, and they went out from us
—and the best we can do is to let
our brother go out too!” He went
out, and the old church has kept to
the middle of the road; and the
preacher on the side-track—oh, where
is he!
In das Zweiten platz: There was
another. He also changed his views
—got up higher, you know, so he
could see farther. He had such
nOMER, BASKS COUNTY, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 11, 1891.
wonderful sight that he looked clear
over our Savior’s statements in the
parable of Dives. So he shot out on
his side-track; there was a noise;
things seemed dark and gloomy. But
the old church kept to the middle of
the road, and the preacher, oh, where
is he!
There are a few more in the cata
logue, but these suffice for the pres
ent occasion. I want to say a word
to the average brother minister.
There are certain things you want to
bear in mind, as you enter this field
of “independent” thought and study
and deep research.
The proof of the truth or inspira
tion of the Bible does not rest on
what these modern cr.tics say. That
book is divine that by its teaching
and power transforms men from
brutes into sons of the living God;
and no matter what that book is called.
If Shakespeare can change the char
acter of a man, the comedies and
tragedies are divine. But if you have
any experience as a minister, you
know there is only one book will do
that: and that book is the Bible. No
book of evidence can prove as much
to you aa this plain fact known by
every honest preacher of the Word.
That much is clear.
Then, it will he worth while to
look at the men who are heaping rid
icule upon the present method of in
terpretation, and what we call the
orthodox view of the inspiration of
the Scriptures. Are they men who
have personal experience in the
preaching of the word to lost men,
as we understand the word? No.
Are they men who know of the vic
tories of the Bible in meeting the
heart needs of men? No. What are
the facts? They are men isolated
froin the mass of humanity, whose
whole time, day and night, has been
taken up with vowel points and the
construction of sentences. The spirit
of the word has long gone out of it,
and they are dissecting a body. And
their eyes are so blinded by “close”
inspection that they are too near
sighted to see a mile into God’s plan;
things look double.
Then remember another thing: a
hen cackles when she lfcys an egg
just as if there were not many eggs
laid before she was hatched. The
present day is a day of new theology;
but is as old as Apollyon. A simple
glance into history will show you that
these are all old skeletons with new
clothes on.
Still more: don’t carry this “stuff”
into your sermons. The chances are
that your audience will not read the
long, dry, fossilized attack on the
Bible, and in your attempted answers
you will give them more rank infidel
ity in a half-hour than they would
learn in a life-time, and the ebanccs
are that your answers might not be
just the things necessary.
Now all this may be a sign of
weakness in he head; but you re
member that it is your heart that
needs to be right in the sight of God.
And as between head-strength and
heart-strength you will bo safer to
keep to the latter. If your head
needs developing at the expense of
your heart, stop tbe head-developing.
But I have a lurking suspicion
in my mind that his head is clearest,
whose heart the Savior fills complete
ly—all things considered.
Don’t be afraid of the old Bible.
You think it is getting hard b'ows?
My dear boy you need have no fsar;
it will nsver break; the thing that
breaks is the thing that strikes it. I
never knew a man to hurt a rock by
kicking it—but there wasn’t much
left of his feet. The following is my
view exactly:
One day I paused beside a blacksmith’s
door
And beard the anvil ling the vesper
chime;
Then looking in I saw upon the floor
Old hammers worn with beating years
of time.
“How many anvils have yon had,”
said I.
“l’o wear and batter all these ham
mers so?”
“Just one” he answered; then with
twinkling eye,
“The anvil wears the hammer out.
you know.’’
And so I diouglit. the anvil of Rod’s
word
For ages skeptic blows have beat upon;
Yet, though the noise of infidels was
heard.
The anvil is unworn—the hammers
gone!
Don’t tremble for the results of
God’s word. Meu who laugh at it
now will do all the trembling by and
by. Did you ever see a dog run
after a train? Well, you needn't ask
long Avhat became of the train—or
the dog either. Keep to the path;
preach the old book. Build on it!
Live on it! Die on itl—Rev. W. H.
Geistweit in the Standard.
What Will You Ballot Count
For?
A prohibitionist of Jersey told us
the other day that, meeting a promi
nent local republican on the street, bo
asked him innocently: “Say, what is
a republican ?” The prominent re
publican faced this sudden but simple
little question in confusion. After
stuttering and stammering for several
minutes, said: “Why, a republican,
he isn’t a democrat!” On the follow
ing day he accosted in a similar man
ner a prominent local democrat with:
“Say, what is a democrat, anyhow?”
The democrat was also struck all of a
heap, and after about an equal amount
of stuttering and stammering man
aged to say: “A democrat? Why,
he—he—he isn’t a republican." And
now the small boys are guying those
two local politicians on the streets of
their native city.
And yet where is the republican or
democrat that can give either ques
tion a more satisfactory answer? Who
can give an answer that will serve tor
two years in succession or for two
adjacent states? The truth is that a
republican or democratic ballot does
not. express the opinion of the voter
otiTany public question of the day.
It is impossible to tell, simply by
looking at such a ballot, what the
voter who casts it believes on any
public issue before the people. Re
publican journals like the New York
Tribune and Philadelphia Press clash
ing with other republican journals
like the Chicago Tribune and St.
Louis Globe-Democrat on the tariff
question. The republican state con
vention of Colorado declaring for
“free silver,” and the republican state
convention of Massachusetts declar
ing against it. A republican platform
in Maine for prohibition, in Pennsyl
vania for high license, in Ohio for
taxation. Democratic journals like
The Sun and The World of the same
city fighting on the tariff, and demo
cratic congressmen like the late Sam
uel Randall and the late W. L. Scott,
from the same state, doing the same
fighting. Roger Q. Mills, the leader
of the democrats in the house of rep
resentatives, and Grover Cleveland,
late democratic president, at the op
posite sides of the currency question,
and the democratic slate platforms
varying all the way from no coinage
of silver, in Massachusetts, to free
coinage, in Ohio. What is a demo-
crat? What is a republican ? Who
can tell ?
Now what is a man’s ballot for if
not to register his views on public
questions ? Is it not thrown away if
it fails to do that? So far as the can
didates, the politicians, the office
seekers, are concerned, a ballot is
thrown away that does not help de
termine which set of them goes in
and which set goes out. So far as
they are concerned every prohibition
bollot is thrown away. But so far as
the voter is concerned every ballot
that fails to represent any principle
or purpose of government is thrown
away, even though it alone decide
which set of politicians come to power.
Does the prohibition ballot register
any such principle? It is the only
one of the three that does. Look at
a prohibition ballot and without know
ing who cast it, what his name is, or
where he lives, you know at once his
views on an important public issue.
It is the only ballot of the three that
tells anything about the voter’s public
views. It is the only one of the
three that is not, so far as the voter
himself is concerned, everlastingly
thrown away.
What is a prohibitionist ? Ask tile
most illiterate man in the party and
you can get to that question a clear
and definite answer in half a minute,
and it will be the same answer in
California as in New York.
Don’t throw away your vote. Vote
a ballot that counts for something.
Vote for a candidate .hat represents
something.
Must Take Cp Prohibition.
The people’s party can never suc
ceed under saloon influence.
A correspondent of The Voice,
from Maryville, Missouri, of October
24th states that George I). Fullerton,
lately chairman of the people’s party
central committee in that count_v and
candidate for representative on their
ticket last fall, asserts that “the peo
ple’s party is in the hands of the
liquor men.”
He will give that party until the
conference on February 22, 1892, to
decide for prohibition and equal suf
frage. If it does not declare for both
of these reforms then he will join the
prohibition party. Mr. Fullerton ad
mits that “it will undoubtedly be a
difficult task to force the people’s
party to take up these two reforms,
but says the party cannot make any
headway at the other reforms while
the liquor traffic remains to continue
its corrupt methods. He says:
“Everybody sees that the prohibi
tion party has within it the morals
and intelligence of the country. It is
the strongest party in America to-day,
and unless the people’s party takes
up prohibition and drives out of the
lead such men as the brewer who was
chairman of the evening meeting at
Cincinnati, the better class of the
party will leave it and go into the
prohibition party.”
Mr. Fullerton has been prominent
in the Farmers’ Alliance, a member
of its state executive committee, and
one of its lecturers. 110 was a dele
gate to the Cincinnati confcence.
God’s Care.
A mother one morning gave her
two little ones books and toys to
amuse them while she went up stairs
to attend to something. A half hour
passed quietly away, when one of
the little ones went to the door of
the stairs, and in a timid voice cried
out:
“Mamma, are you there?”
“Yes, darling.”
“All right,” said the child, and the
play went on. After a little time
the voice again cried:
“Mamma, are you there?”
“Yes, darling.”
“All right,” said the child, and
or.ce more went on with his play.
And this is j *st the way we should
feel toward Jesus. He has gone up
stairs, to the right hand of God, to
attend to some things for us. He
has loft us down in this lower room
of the world to be occupied here for
awhile. But to keep us from being
worried by fear or care, he speaks to
us from the word, as the mother
spoke toiler little ones. He says to
us: “Fear not; I am with thee.”
Jehovah Jireh—“the Lord will pro
vide.”—Rev. Dr. Newton.
We are never shut out from ser
vice and testimony; the most ordina
ry events of life are sufficient to dis
play the love and power of God. No
matter if inclosed by uncongenial
surroundings, no mattor if the door is
shut. We are ever gathering or scat
tering—God's service is not all in the
sight of man.—Anna Shipton.
We shall hare two wonders in
heaven—the one, how many come to
be absent whom w'e expected to find
there; the other, how many are there
whom we had no hope of meeting.—
Pillotson.
You should expect temptations;
you should not be afraid of them; for,
although the devil can tempt you
against your will, he cannot conquer
yon, unless you consent to be con
quered.—Pregchoud.
SINGLE COPY THREE CENTS.
A VILLAGE POOH BAH.
The lOxporlence of h Reporter In a Sulli
van County Settlement.
A reporter seeking information of a
! former resident visited Oakland valley,
! Sullivan county, the other day. While
awaiting tlie Monticello train at Port
Jervis tiie reporter inquired of a group
of loungers where he would be most
likely to obtain the required informa
! lion.
"When you got off the train," said
one man, “take the main road, and in
tin* first house to the right lives an old
lellow who can toll you all you want.”
"I'd see the supervisor if l were you,”
said another; "lie has held office nino
leun years and knows everybody.”
“Or the postmaster. In those little
villages tiie postmaster knows every
body's business," suggested a third.
“Take the little path down the hill
and you'll come to a sawmill. Ask the
boss,” was the next suggestion aud it
was followed by this:
“There’s only one storekeeper in the
village; ask him.”
The last one was, “Old Ben Case ’ll
tell you all you want to know.”
At the foot of the very steep hill
leading from tiie railroad station the
reporter met a fine looking, well set up
man in top boots, rough trousers, a
woolen undershirt and a slouch hat,
who in answer to an inquiry, said lie
was Ben Case. He knew ail about the
man the reporter was seeking, and gave
the information freely. As there was
no way of leaving the village until the
next train, five hours later, the reporter
determined to visit the other persons to
whom lie laid been directed. He
thanked Mr. Case and walked to the
sawmill and asked to see the boss. The
workman directed him to the general
store near by. There lie met Mr. Case
again. In answer to an inquiry for the
sawmill’s owner, or for the general
storekeeper, Mr. Case replied, "They’re
me.”
As it was unlikely that he could give
more information as general store
keeper and mill owner than he had al
ready given as plain Mr. Case, the re
porter asked to be directed to the
supervisor, and again received the re
ply, “That’s me.”
“You seem to bo nearly everybody
here, Mr. Case. Where shall I find the
postmaster? He may know more than
you’ve told mo.” -
“Waal, 1 don’t think so, but you
can ask him if you like. I’m the post
master.”
Unwilling to ask any more questions,
the reporter started for the white house
to the right of the road. There two
young women, busily engaged in do
mestic duties, said their father had
gone to the store, but would return in
a few moments. Would the visitor
wait? The reporter waited, and in
about an hour the übiquitous Mr. Case
arrived.
“Como, girls," lie said, “1 am ready
for dinner. Lay a plate for the
stranger. lie wants to see me bad.”—
New York Sun.
THE BRAZEN PALACE.
Wonderful Ruins in the Ancient City of
Aiitirajalipovra. In Ceylon.
One of the most noteworthy build
ings of the “refulgent” city was the
Lowa-Malia-Paya, or the Brazen pal
ace, erected by King Dutugemunu in
tlie year 112 B. C. It stood upon 1,600
granite pillars, and vied with surround
ing dagobas ju height, rearing its ninth
story 270 feet skyward; it contained
1,000 dormitories for priests; its roof
was of brass, and, according to the
Mafiawanso, the walls gleamed with re
splendent gems. The great hail was
supported tin golden pillars resting on
lions, and in the center was an ivory
throne with a golden sun and a silver
moon on either side.
Several times the Brazen palace was
razed by iconoclastic invaders from In
dia. and as often restored by zealous
adherents of the new faith, up to the
latter part of the Twelfth century,
when the capital was removed to Pol
ionarua. From the upper stories of
tins magnificent pile the priestly occu
pants could view the fur extending
city, and look upon six great dagobas,
all within a radius of little more than
u mile, and lifting their huge white
domes as high as some of tlie loftiest
cathedrals in Europe.
The Ruamveli dagoba stood near the
palace, and according to the native
archives, rested on a platform 6(10 feet
square, its glass pinnacle glittering in
the sun 270 feet above the city, its base
surrounded hv marble statues and its
outer walls mounting elephants of ma
sonry with real tusks. In the north,
beyond splendid pavilions of king and
queens, loomed the great Jetawanarama
dagoba, with its 20,000,000 cubic feet
of masonry.
The beholder at the palace had only
to turn his gaze in the direction of the
rising sun to look upon the greatest of
the relic tombs, the Abhayagiria da
goba.—James Kicalton in Scribner’s.
John <i. Whittier pets three dogs in
liis old age a Newfoundland named
Roger Williams, a Scotch terrierdubbed
Charles Dickens, and Carl, a grey
hound. Springfield Republican.