Newspaper Page Text
■ msxxbweJ
\_SVIEWOF KEHNESAW AwnTAIH- s\g> DEP^ ) *
Vol. IV.
Massa’s in de Cold, Cold Ground.
Round de meadows am a ringing,
De darkey’s mournful song,
While de mockingbird am singing,
Happy as de day am long.
Where de ivy am a creeping,
O’er de grassy mound,
Dare old massa am a sleeping,
Sleeping in de cold, cold ground.
Chorus.
Down in de corn field
Hear dat mournful sound :
All de darkeys am a weeping,
Massa’s in de cold, cold ground.
When de autumn leaves were falling,
When de days were cold,
’Twas hard to hear old massa calling,
Cayse he was so weak and old.
Now de orange trees am blooming,
On de sandy shore,
Now de summer days am coming
Massa nebber calls no more.
Chorus. —
Massa made de darkeys love him,
Cayse he was so kind,
Now dey sadly weep above him,
Mourning cayse he leave dem behind,
I cannot work before to morrow,
Cayse de tear drop flow,
I try to drive away my sorrow
Pickin’ on de old banjo,
Chorus. —
A Celebrated Character.
Cen. Joseph E. Johnston, the Sole Survivor
of the Confederate Leaders,
A very white-haired and white
whiskered gentleman sat in one of the
Palace hotel chairs the other day, and
while he puffed away leisurely at a ci
gar gazed in idle though dignified curi
osity at the younger people passing
by. Few of San Francisco’s jeunesse
iloree, with hats a-cock and canes a-tip,
gave more than a passing glance at the
white-haired old gentleman. The lat
ter sat and eyed them all, and seemed
to note their air of indifference with
an amused expression of his dark
gleaming eye, which lay hidden behind
an overhanging brow frosted with sil
ver. How many of the gilded youths
bent only a meridian cocktail and
noonday lunch could have ever guess
ed at the aged man’s identity, and if
they had known it, how tew that
would not have stared at him I And
well they might.
The old man —trim, erect, scrupu
lously neat, and with an air that some
how is not often seen in the present
generation—is one of the few living
and well-preserved of the mightiest per
formers in a nation’s tragedy.
Gens. Grant and Lee are gone.
Hancock, Ewell, Hooker, Hood, Jeb
Stuart, Pemberton, and, last and fore
most of the recent survivors, Sheridan,
A humorous dare-devil —the very man to suit my purpose. Bvlw.b.
M {>=/
]/
TACKLING THE W. & A.
The fellow on the left tried it with the usual result. We present this as a speci
men of high art from an amateur’s pencil. You can’t poke the finger of scorn at the
idea even if you would pretend to do so at the “pictur’.”
has been laid to rest at Arlington.
The two most distinguished of the
commanders of the two great contend
ing armies, Sherman and Joseph E.
Johnston are yet living, and of the
really great ones on either side they
are all that is left. Sherman is in
New Y r ork, and it is old Gen. John
ston, who surrendered to Sherman on
that disordered April morn in North
Carolina in 1865, that now sits rock
ing his restful frame in the court of
the Palace.
Young people who see the old gen
eral hardly realize that he is the sole
survivor of the distinguished Confed
erate leaders. He is the last of the
officers of that army who bore the full
rank of general. There were but three
of these —Lee, Johnston, and Thomas
J. Jackson (Stonewall), killed at
Chancellorsville. The leaders more
clearly remembered by the generation
of to-day —men like Beauregard, Early,
Longstreet, Pemberton, Ewell, the
younger Lees, and Hood —were lieu
tenant generals. There were scores
of major generals. Nearly all of these
who attained distinction or filled the
world’s eye in a great degree are dead.
The only names now recalled, of those
of the living, who were the subordi
nates of the old grey-haired leader in
the rocking-chair are Longstreet, Beau
regard, Early, Wade Hampton, and
Fitzhugh Lee. Providence has dealt
more mercifully with the distinguished
OUR. “‘WAR. HISTORY' 1 HUMBER.
ATLANTA, CA., JUNE 15, 1889.
survivors of the rebellion than with
those who crushed it out. Few, in
deed, of the latter remain—none in
fact, but Sherman, Schofield, Howard,
Slocum and Terry.
Old General Johnston is not only
amiable, but very courtly. He chats
very pleasantly of what he has seen in
California in later years and discour
ses eloquently of the marvelous chan
ges. He will even talk of the growth
of the whole great West, and predict
with something of a sad air that if he
could only have foreseen forty years
ago, when he ‘was a dragoon officer,
what California was to be, he would
not now have to depend upon his own
resources.
One thing the old gentleman will
not talk about. Let the subject of
the war and the armed hosts of the
South be brought up, and the general
draws into his shell at once. After a
hint thus received it were well that a
persistent searcher for information had
hied him to a monastery, for the indig
nant stare he will get from Gen. John
ston’s eyes will be remembered all his
life.
One memory of the war he will
speak of, one hero of the Union forces
he is ever ready to discuss —Gen. Sher
man. Let the name of Sherman be
mentioned and the chances are that
the old man’s eye will soften and he
will say: “Well it’s all over, but
‘Tecump’ and I were classmates.”
And so it was. These two highest
ranked combatants now living, studied
logarithms, made field notes of engin
eering defenses, rode horses in cavalry
tactics, went out to old Benny Havens’
famous place for pop and ginger beer
together, and now, when both have
fought their fight and the years are
gone, those whose rare privilege it is
to see the two together and witness
their antics often wonder if, after all,
there ever was a war. “Tecump” and
“Joe” meet sometimes in New York
and Washington. When they do the
G. A. R. and the “Grays” of Atlanta
had better not talk too much of the
glories and humiliations of the past. —
/SanFrancfsco Examiner.
A Correction Gracefully Made.
On May 12 the Times said: “Six
months ago the Times began the agita
tion of the movement to secure acom
modation trains. At that time there
was but one accommodation train oper
ating here, that one being the reliable
Oakdale accommodation train on ihe
Cincinnati Southern road.” To this the
Kennesaw Gazette replies: “What
was the matter with the Western &
Atlantic Dalton accommodation?”
We acknowledge the corn, and as usual
charge it to the intelligent compositor.
The Western & Atlantic accommoda
tion has “always been all right.”—
Chattanooga Times.
Renan, in his “Recollections of My
Youth,” says:
One of the most popular legends in
Brittany is that relating to an imagin
ary town called Is, which is supposed
to have been swallowed up by the sea
at some unknown time. There are
several places along the cost which are
pointed out as the site of this imagina
ry city, and the fishermen have many
strange tales to tell of it. According
to them, the tips of the spires of the
churches may be seen in the hollow of
the waves when the sea is rough,
while during a calm the music of the
bells ringing out the hymn appropriate
to the day rises above the waters. I
often fancy I have in the bottom of
my heart a city of Is, with its bells
calling to prayer a recalcitrant congre
gation. At times I halt to listen to
these gentle vibrations, which seem as
if they came from immeasurable
depths like voices from another world.
Since old age began to steal over me,
I have loved, more especially during
the repose which summer brings with
it, to gather up these distant echoes of
a vanished Atlantis.
The W. & A. is a very resourceful road.
NO. 12.