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THE BLACKSHEAR HEWS.
PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY
E. Z. BYRE,
Editor and proprietor,
BLACKSHEAR, • - G.V.
SUBSCRIPTION, $1.00 PER YEAR.
Special Rates to Advertisers on applieation.
COUNTY DIRECTORY.
Ordinary.—A. J. Strickland. «
Clerk —J. w. Strickland.
Shemet.— E. Z. Bvrd.
County Tkeasuseb.— B. D. Brantley.
County Surveyor. —Davis Thornton.
Tax Receiver.—J ohn J. smith.
Tax Co elector.— Alfred Davis.
Clinch , ^JOUHT CALENDER.
and OetolxM Aj^xty.—F irst Mondays in March
oS\T‘~ >
Cd M0nj3?8 m MarCJ
and
Wayne Third Mondays in March
an d Oc tober. tm. <
Fierce CousBL—Fourth ™ Mondays in March
and October.
No^ember° CoSnECoujnr.-First UXTr "'~F irat Mondays in April and
Monday in Tuesday after second
Charlton April an l November.
County. —First Tuesday after
r£ in Apri
CamdlsCounty.— lourth v Mu*ri4*££*in . April , *,
and November.
Glynn County.— Commencing Ap.. i\ ’
Monday in May and December, and ti \
r-Ninim 51. L." Mershon, ‘ “ B ° Judge, ^ ^ baglu ^y^ ' *!
G. B. Mabry, Solicitor-G- Brunswick, Ga., Ct. |
neral, Brunswick.
—— —"--------===== ==B
TOWN DIRECTORY.
Mayor.— ffm. It. Phillips.
Aldermen.— Dr. C. H. Smith, T. J. Fuller,
J. M. Shaw and J. W. Strickland.
SECRET SOCIETIES.
A BLACKSHEAR Regular LOME NO. 270, F. this & A. X.
communications of lodge
will be held on the first and third Fri¬
day nights in each month.
C. T. Latimer, W. M.
A. J. Strickland, Secretary. aug-tf
PROFESSIONAL CARDS.
W. R. PHILLIPS,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
aug4-tf Blackshear, Ga.
A. li COCHRAN,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Blackshear, Ga.
Practice regularly in the counties composing
the Brunswick Circuit and in the District and
Circuit courts of the United States as Savannah
or the Southern District of Georgia. mylC-Gm
n B. MABRY,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Brunswick, Ga.
Practice regularly in tho counties of Glynn,
l’ierco, Ware, Wayne, Camden, Coffee, Appling and
of the Brunswick Circuit, and Telfair,
of the Oconco Circuit. aug4-tf
S. VV. HITCH,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Blackslioar, Ga.
Practice regularly in the Brunswick Circuit.
aug4-tf
B. ESTES, JR.,
1
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
Blackshear, Pierce Co., Oa.
Practice regularly in the Brunswick Circuit.
feb28-ly
PHYSICIANS.
JQR. A M. MOORE,
PRACTICING PHYSICIAN,
Blackshear, Ga.
Calls promptly attended to day or night.
aug4-tf_
j^J-EDICAL AND SURGICAL NOTICE.
DR. C. IL SMITH
Offers his professional services to tho ciftxons
of Pierce and adjoining counties.
Blackshear, Ga., March J, 1880-tf.
DENTIST.
D It. WM. NOBLE,
DENTIST,
Elaekshear, Ga.
Offifce on Maine street, opposite FostoSee.
MARBLE WORKS.
JOHN B. HELL,
MARBLE AND STONE WORKS.
•'Monument*, Tombs, Headstones, etc. Esti¬
mates fumi-hed on application for all kinds of
•Cemetery Work.
205 and 207 Broughton Street,
jy25-6m Savannah, Ga.
HOTnii.
JEaUF HOUSE,
T, P. LITTLEFIELD, Ga. Proprietor,
Jesnp, public ii
The attention of the traveling
lirectel to the inducements offered them b;
ttus hotel.
Bates, per day........ „......11.82
Iftcglc. Meals..........
By the Month......... ......30.00
By Ike Week................. ......7 «
Liberal discount to tuuiiM.
Blackshear News.
E. Z. Editor and Proprietor.
VOL. IF.
My Lore and I.
Far, far array, the weary day
Has barred liis gates of amber,
Eve’s shadows hoar, watch round the door
Of twilight’s sober chamber;
And hand in hand adown the land,
Through ranks of listening clover,
My love and I, my love and I
We walk our life path over,
Oh, on wo'll go througW-ain sXy and snow,
Through cloudbor weather,
For I am thine add thou art mine,
So we’ll jog on together.
The dogwood rears its snowy crest,
The ruddy sumach-berry
Dro °P 9 °’ er tho l' ath whick throa 5 h thc west
Goes sloping to the ferry;
And o’er tho hills in proud array
The mailed stars are sweeping IT®
Once ^ more to guard m faithful ward ,
. Sweet nature’s peaceful sleeping.
v But on we’ll go, ccmc joy, come woe,
Tlirough fair or stormy weather,
& \ r ° r 1 am t,line and tbou art mine ’
y 0 ^v 0 ’il jog on together.
ASPE.i closer to my side,
I tt*^f«sught-dews farL-UtJtb falling,
And 6 meadows wide
MethinkLike.nce is calling 1
Como closer, closer to my heart,
Tho way is long and dreary,
I would not that we two should part
Lost one should be a-weary.
Then on we’ll go through rain and snow
Through clouds or sunny weather,
For thou art mine and I am thino.
So wo’ll jog on together.
But hark ! the voice Is nearer now (
Mcthinks its echo thrills
Where rise beyond the upland’s brow
Tho everlasting hills.
The wandering moon with timid smile
Has kissed those banks of clover,
Where lingers now a little while
One sad and weary rover.
Forlorn I go through grief and woe
Where erst wo walked together,
For Oh, she waits within God’s gates
In heaven’s changeless weather.
—Barton Grey.
CROOKED WAYS.
Like a good many other young men—
and women too, for that matter—I was
once badly afflicted with cacodhes scriben
di. Of course greater evils might have
befallen me; 1 might have been seized
with a passion for whisky or gambling ;
but, still, my cacodhes scribendi was
serious enough. During my college days
the symptoms showed themselves
plainly ; but the malady awful did proportions not really
assume its true and
until I had taken my degree. Then, for¬
sooth, it fastened upon me like a leech,
and before many months elapsed it
overmastered me completely. In ac¬
cordance with my mother’s wish, I went
to Dundas ostensibly to read law with
my uncle, but it was a mere pretense of
law-reading, for the mornings that I
ought to have spent over Blackstone
were devoted to the composition of a
novel and the afternoons to the polish¬
ing of some poems. Uncle Dick shook
his head gravely and remonstrated,
sometimes in sadness and sometimes in
anger.
“ That scribbling will never amount
to anything,” he wonld say contempt
ously. This was hard to bear; but my
lofty aspirations sustained me, and firm
in my belief of ultimate success, I
scribbled on and ever, and bombarded
all the magazines in the country with
my manuscripts. The magazines did
not open their columns to me, and I
fell back at last upon the weekly
newspapers, and especially upon the
Boston Weekly Palladium. That journal
printed my essays and a certain assist¬
ant editor, whose initials were “F. B.
S.,” sent me polite notes from time to
time. It was something to see my
productions in print; it wonld have
been better had these productions
once in a while brought in
check. But they never did; they
elicited only polite notes from F. B. fc,.
Finally, editor I wrote a letter to the assist¬
ant upon the subject, and by re¬
turn post I received a reply. It was
sent to my private box at the postoffice,
but, to my great amusement, was di¬
rected to “Jane Bsll,” instead of “John.”
My handwriting was not very distinct,
and perhaps a trifle feminine, and the
signature, upon which I rather prided
myself, tion certainly left it an open ques¬
whether John or Jane were meant.
The note, too, began,—
“Mm Bell In reply to yonr ques¬
tion, i would say that this journal pays
its regular corps of writers. We are
glad to receive your artic»ea, and per¬
haps later may make adequate compen¬
sation therefor; but, as a young writer,
it would be wiser for you to think at
present only of securing a foothold.
Ton have an excellent chance of success
in the end ; bat much patience is neces¬
sary at the outset.
“Please say whether I shall direct fu¬
ture communications to John Bell, Miss
BLACKSHEAR, GA.. FEB. 9, 1882.
Bell or Mrs. BelL At present I do not
venture to give you any title. Very
truly yours, F. B. Screven.”
This letter at once amused and piqnod
me. It was pleasant and rather en¬
couraging, but it was plain the writer
set me down as an impecunious young
woman, whereas the truth was I had a
very fair income of my own, and was a
six-foot, mustached specimen of mas¬
culinity. The idea of playing tho role
of Miss Jane Bell tickled my fancy, and
therefore, giving my imagination free
rein, upon the spur of the moment I sat
down and wrote as follows:
“F. B. Screven— At present j also
am in a quandary, for I do not know
whether I ought to address you as
Madame, Monsieur, or Mademoiselle.
The last title is mine just now, although
of courso I feel at liberty to change it
when I choose, or rather when the
proper opportunity offers itself. Per¬
haps matrimony would be a more profit¬
able speculation than I literature. dependent Do
not, however, suppose am
upon my pen for my brq|d and butter.
In this case, I fear, the butter would be
very thin indeed. No; the fates have
given me most of the luxuries of life;
but these, of course, do not satisfy about mo.
The reason why I wrote as I did
payment for my articles was simply be¬
cause I thought if they were good
enough to print they were good enough
to be paid for. It seems I was mistaken;
but, to show you that I take yonr ad¬
vice, I send you another essay. I will
at least try to secure a foothold, and pray
that greater success may follow.
“I am, dear Madame, Monsieur, or
Mademoiselle Screven,
“Sincerely yours,
“Jane Bell.”
Laughing in my sleeve, planned I sent that, this
communication off, and if
the assistant editor sent me a friendly
reply, I would open a correspondence
in my role of Miss Jane Bell and fool
F. B. Screven as never a man had been
fooled before. Judge, then, of my dis¬
may when I received a letter in what I
knew was Screven’s writing, but not
written on office paper, and signed
Frances Bertram Screven. “A woman,
by in Jove!” I exclaimed there and then
who the post-office, standing whereat nigh, a nearly small boy,
was swal¬
lowed in astonishment the postage
stamp he was licking. I thrust tho
letter in my pocket and did not read it
until I was safely at home. Thus the
missive ran:
“Dear Miss Bell.”— Your piquant
letter prompts me to write you a reply,
not as an assistant editor, but as a
woman like yourself, who is toiling up
tho steep path that leads to Parnassus.
I might have known you were a woman,
and a young one at that, becanse,
although there is a touch of masculine
strength in your essays and poems, still
there is, too, a sweetness that is only
feminine. I think that women more
often have this flavor of masculinity
than men have anything of that tender¬
ness which is essentially and purely
feminine. Were I in a position of
authority, I should very soon dismiss
the cut-and-dried hack writers whose
contributions, althongh smooth and
polished, lack the freshness, tho spon¬
taneity, which is characteristic of the
contributions we sometimes receive
from unknown writers, and notably rrom
you. But, you see. I am merely an as¬
sistant editor, and a person of no con¬
sequence at all, except as I am useful to
do the work, all the glory of which goes
to the distinguished individuals whose
names are emblazoned at the head of
the paper. There! that sounds better,
I am afraid; but, my dear Miss Bell,
the fates have not been so kind to me
as to yon, and it is not for fame I write,
but for the wherewithal to keep me fed
and clothed. What makes it perhaps it
harder is that I have known what is
to have my bread and butter fresh and
sweet—ay, and honey with it, too—and
therefore the thin slices that are doled
out to me now taste the drier by com¬
parison.
“Forgive me for boring yen with so
much about myself. Pray, stationery, write to me
again. Your luxurious with
faint, delicate perfume prevading it, is
itself a delight. Sincerely yours,
“Mls3 Fbances Bertram Screven.”
*
As I read this letter I felt myself a
scoundrel. My first impulse was to
write a letter of confession to Miss
Screven; but the desire to keep up tho
correspondence and that should try my be band at
composing letters sweetly
feminine overcame my scruples, and 1
sent off the following reply:
“ Dear Mils Screven— Instead of
boring me, the glimpse you gave me of
your life interested me more than I can
tell. But, at the same time, tho con¬
trast between your life and mine made
me envious. Perhaps yonr lot is a hard
one, but it is at least brave and inde¬
pendent. Here am I, ft| only daughter,
petted and and bound spoiled by JLo fanamefnl of luxury. de¬
gree, Biking
Yea, I envy you. here this
merging in my aillff pink-curtained
Subscription, $1.00 per Year.
NO. 42.
boudoir, with a Dresden shepherdess
simpering at me from the top of my
escritoire, I feel my idle, luxurious life
hemming me and overpowering me, as
the perfnme cf tuberoses makes heavy
and sickening the atmosphere of a room
that should be flung open to the fresh
air and sunshine, I wonld change plaeos
with you to-day if I could.”
When I reached this point of my let
ter, I read over app^vingly what I had
written. Arrived at tho lines descrip¬
tive of my imaginary boudoir, I smiled
ns my glance fell upon a boot-jack in
one corner and tho shaving-apparatus
in another. the Glancing at the place
where Dresden shepherdess ought
to have been, my eye fell instead upon
a and pipe, which I took down and filled,
then resumed my writing with con¬
siderable complacency: ,
“This may sound to you rather school
girlish, and I may as well confess that
it is not many years—perhaps months
would bo more accurate—since I left
tho precincts of a finishing sohool.
Finishing-school, indeed 1 Much I
learned there besides the art of doing
up my hair! However, the defects of
my education I must remedy myself,
and I try every day to devote a few
hours to serious study. But it is very
hard to seclude myself long enough to
accomplish anything. Feoplo call; I
must go to gurden-partics; I must drive
out with my mother; I must hold
solemn conclave with tho milliner and
dress-maker; in short, I have constant
demands of a most frivolous nature
upon my time.
“All this you will probably laugh at;
and, lest I write yet more foolishly, I
will bring this letter to a close. If you
aro write not quite disgusted with me, do
again soon.
“Faithfully yours,
“Jane Bell."
I may as well confess that I thought
this letter a successful imitation of
some of tho epistles that I had myself
received from feminine hands. It
sounded enthusiastic and very “missisb,"
and I sent it off that afternoon with a
bold heart.
“Jack,” quoth my uncle, who mot me
as I came from the postoffice, “I verily
believe yon aro makingan ass of your¬
self over some girl. I don’t believe it is
the muses you are courting; it is no
muso ; it is a miss.” And with this ho
passed on, chuckling at his own wit.
As tho days went on, however, my
uncle’s words seemed in a fair way to
provo Scroven. true. My I thought only of Mi KM
novel I left untouched,
and my rhyming dictionary accumu¬
lated dust slowly, but surely. Fled
world were my with visions genius. of astonishing the
my I lived only for
the mail from Boston.
As I ro read tho letters I received
from Miss Screven, I can make some
excuse for my infatuation. They were
frank and outspoken, and sometimes,
indeed, tinged with cynicism; but
through them there breathed a sym¬
pathy, a tenderness, that touches me
even now as I read them over. Finally,
at my solicitation, she sent me her pho¬
tograph, which showed her to be a
regular-featured, large-eved woman, of
rather a serious cast of countenance
indeed, but with a lurking smile in her
mouth that I confess was a large one.
She was not a beauty, I saw that, but
she had an earnest, interesting face,
that grew upon me every day.
Little by little I gave myself up to
thoughts of her by day and dreams of
her by night. Her letters I awaited
with a feverish impatience, and if one
were delayed I was in torment. I make
no excuses for my folly, dear sir or
madam ; but pray do not forget that I
was only one-and-twentv then, and had
fed myself plentifully with novels and
poetry. And this was my first love!
I endured it for just ten days, and
then I packed my satchel and went to
Boston. Bah! what a day it was when
I arrived there! It had snowed a little,
and then a thin, cold rain began to
drizzle down despairingly. The weather
suited me better than tho garish
splendor of the hotel, and I wandered
forth that evoning, half-unconsciously
wending my way toward the street in
which Miss Screven boarded. I found
myself opposite the house. From an
upper window a light struggled faintly
between the closed shutters aad thrilled
me through and thiough. Perhaps she
was there, ill and alone, uncared for,
save by the mercenary landlady, or,
worse still, by a slatternly servant. I
went np the steps and rang the bell. A
slip of a girl opened the door to me,
and I handed her my card, saying
mechanically, “ Ask Miss Screven if she
will see me.”
I trusted that the name John Bell
would perhaps lead her to suppose that
I was a cousin or the father of her
friend.
The slip of a servant-maid looked at
the card and then looked at me,
tively. “Frances Screven?” she said, interroga¬
“Yes,” I replied. Then I took the
card, rsn my pend] through the ec-
THE BLACKSHEAR NEWS.
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Bills due immediately after first insertion.
graved name, and scrawled my illegible
signature below ft The servant took
the card again and skurried away, leav¬
ing mo standing there in the cold, dark
entry.
It was several minutes before she re¬
in appeared, and then it was only to say
a sing-song tone, “Three flights up;
first door to the right.”
I went np the threo flights and
rapped at the first door to the right.
A voice called out, “Come in."
I entered a medium-sized, plainly
famished room that was redolent of
tobacco. There were two arm-chairs,
a large table, covered with a faded cloth,
and an old-fashioned horse-hair lounge,
from which, as I entered, a young man
rose. Ho was thin and hollow-eyed,
and a beard of several days’ growth
made him look, to snv tho least, un¬
kempt. offering “Mr. Bell, I presume,” he said,
me his hand and then drawing
up a chair for me.
“I have called to soe Miss Screven,”
said I.
“Have yon, indeed ?” he replied, in a
nasty, sneering way.
It flashed through mo at once. It
was her husband I She had deceived
me!
“May I ask if you are-auy relation to
Miss Jaue Bell, of Dundas, Washington
county, New York, postoffico box 462?”
he continued, in the same sneering
way.
I stuttered and stammered, tried to
lie, and nearly choked myself to death.
I wanted to be diplomatic; I wanted to
shield her from his anger.
“Who the deuce are you, anyway?”
he exclaimed.
“I—I am John Bell," I answered;
and I hare called to seo your sister.
Is she ill?”
“I haven’t any sister,” said ho, non¬
chalantly ; “that is, I am my own sister,
and she has just escaped pneumonia.”
Tho truth flashed upon mo. “You
are “Four an importor, sir I” I exclaimed.
Bister doesn’t think so,” said
lie, complacently.
“I havon’t any Bister,” said I, in my
turn.
He wheeled sharply about: “Who is
Miss Bell, then!”
“I urn all the Miss Bell that exists,"
I answered, grimly.
“What 1" he exclaimed ; “you aro the
potted and darling who wanted to bo a
poet an essayist and Lord only
knows what all? You aro tho only
child of wealthy parents? You aro the
doir lovely creature who sits in a pink bou¬
and writes vorsos with a gold poa
and on perfumed paper?”
"Yes,” said I, desperately. .
Screven dropped into a chair and
roared. “A sell all round!” said he.
And then lie laughed until he cried,
while 1 quietly stele away back to the
hotel, a sadder but a wiser man.—
Charles Dunnituj, in LippincoU.
POPULAR SCIENCE.
It has been discovered that the venom
of tho Lachesis rhambeala, a species of
snake, possesses the power of digesting
albuminous substances and emulsifying
fats.
Flourens, the French physiologist,
fixing the complete development of man
at twenty "times years, teaches that lie should
live five as long as it takos him to
become an adult.
Tho light which falls npon tho earth
from tho satellites of Mars is about
equivalent to what a man’s hand on
which the sun shone at Washington
wonld reflect to Boston.
There is now a theory that diphtheria
may be prevented diphtheritic by artificial vaccina¬
tion. The plant, which ap¬
pears on the membranes, may in time
bo cultivated and used for inoculation.
Salamanders, during the first part of
their lives, breathe by gills alone and
are thns related to fishes ; in the latter
part they breathe by lungs and are
other ways related to the higher animals.
A Horse Epitaph.
Horse epitaphs are not numerous,
but here is one taken from a rough
stone set-up near a farmhouse in old
England:
Here lies poor Z \:>
In death’s coll grip,
J list lour wees* since I bot her,
No.v twelve pounds tiirou
Aro gone, and she
Died when sac hadn’t onghter.
When Bichard, the lion-hearted, went
to the Holy Land, one of the laws he
made lor his troops was that if any oo*t
should bo convicted of theft, boiling
pitch should be poured over hia head and
a pillow fall of feathers shaken over it.
A Chicago drummer fell through hk a
bridge at Des Moines and broke
leg while trying to flirt with a caiioo
dress bung oo a clothes-line, Even th»
masher has his hour for sorrow.
It is supposed that tho lubber ire*
grows wild in *11 tropical climates.