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ill imu mi
BY HORNADY & ELLS.
VOL. 111.
' 1
DEVOTED TO RELIGION AND LITERATURE,
Is published every Saturday, at Atlanta, Georgia, at the
subscription price of three dollars per year.
HORNADY & ELLS,
Editors and Proprietors.
H. C. Hornady] [James N. Ells.
MISCELLANY.
The City of the Dead.
BY ANNIE E. BLOUNT,
There is a beautiful city,
Laid out in walk and square,
Where flowers in rich profusion
Perfume the summer air.
’Tis there the willow waveth,
And the violet lifts its head;
And they call this lovely city
The city of the dead.
The breeze, in gentle dalliance,
From flower to'flower roves;
And the very air seems purer
In those quiet, shaded groves.
No sound stillness—
No laughter, rude and loud;
For there’s something in that city
Awes e’en ths gayest crowd.
And, side by side, there slumber
The rich man and the poor;
There foes lie down together,
Nor wrong each other more.
There sleep the great, the lowly,
The same trees o’er them wave;
For earth’s proud and vain dis'inctions
Are levelled by the grave.
Here some weary, aged warrior
Quietly takes his jest;
And near him some pale young mother,
With her baby on her breast.
There the wealthy merchant slumbers,
And dreams no more ot gain;
There the widowed one forgetteth
Life’s weariness and pain.
There sleep in peace together
Betrayer and betrayed;
The wronged lies down by the wronger,
And feels no more afraid.
And afar in some lone corner,
Slumbers the suicide—
No marble tablet telling
How he lived and how he died !
The bride, in her fair young beauty,
With orange buds in her hair,
And the wedding robe around her,
Sleeps calm and peaceful there.
There the orator proud reposes,
A stone at head and feet—
A nameless one lies near him,
Whose rest is just as sweet.
Artist, Statesman, and Poet!
Wooers alike of fame:
Your haunting dreams have vanished,
And a white slab bears your name.
Ah ! who has not bowed with weeping
Over some coffined head;
For we all have loved and lost ones
In tlie city of the dead !
LITTkEJPINKY.
TIIE MINER’S STORY.
“ Yes, sir,” said the man, running his
hand through his shaggy locks, his harsh
face showing marks of unusual intelligence,
“ mining in this region is a hard life, but l
think we’ve all been better since little Pin
ky went away.”
“ And who was little Pinky ? ” asked the
gentleman, while the dark eyes of the lady
at his side sparkled in anticipation of a
story.
“ Well, you see—it be something of a
tell—and if ye’d move further on in the
shade of the old oak yonder, it’ll mayhap
be pleasant for the young mass, for the sun
be hot.”
The lady and gentleman followed the
brown and weather-beaten to the cool shad
ow of the oak, and finding a seat for the
young lady on a convenient root that came
squarely up from the ground, the miner be
gan, with his usual preface:
“ You see—Pinky were the son of Jesse
Pinkham, a young man, and a regular good
one, as the saying goes. I reckon Pinkham
was the only man of us as ever said the
Lord's prayer, or any other prayer. He
were a tine young fellow, that’s the fact !
But we’re a rude set, sir, we of the mines,
and 'specially in this place; we didn’t like
anything that was what we call ‘pious.’—
Sunday, sir, used to be regular—well, 1
might say devil’s day— with us. It was
nothing but drinking and dancing, pitching,
and cards, and s\\ earing.
“ Well, sir, you see—Jesse he got mar- \
ried to a regular lady like girl, sir, and it!
turned out a pious one. They didn't, none
u f ’em —that is, Pinkham, his wife, and old
mother —jine us in our merry-makings on
A RffiSUXStIOTO AM® i,SS®®A¥ MWS*>A*®M.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA, OCTOBER 25, 1862.
a Sabbath, but sometimes the young man
and Bessy—that’s his wife, sir—would
walk five miles to hear a parson preach.—
We was all down upon Jesse, sir—you see
the real thing was, he made us ashamed of
ourselves by his goodness, and I was worse
than the rest, trying my best all the time
to pick up a quarrel with him. Well, sir,
one Saturday night what did we see but a
notice stuck up on this very tree, that
there’d be a parson from Frankstown on
the nmrro®_to- preach- Ira us. We didn’t
like the news, and we could tell pretty well
where the move come from ; 'cause, you
see, we knew Jesse was pious. So we de
termined, the greatest part of us, that we
wouldn’t have any psalm singing—no cant
ing prayer—no reading out of the Bible.
“ Well, the minister came, and he found
a Babel. We all got together, and we
raved, and laughed, and pitched quoits, and
made such a noise that the parson had to
give it up. He tried agin and agin, and
came right among us—he was plucky, I tell
ye—but we hooted in his ears, and threw
mud on his betterrnost clothes, and so he
was fairly driven off—•’cause you see we
had liquor enough in us to set us all erazy.
“Poor Jesse! how we jeered him after
that; but he bore it meek, sir, and I was
often ashamed of myself, though I’d died
afore I’d confessed it. But I am sorry
enough for my part of it; for one day there
came a rumbling, heavy noise, shaking the
earth, and then a crash like rattling thun
der beneath our feet, and we knew that
somebody was buried alive. It was in the
working shaft where Jesse was, and there
didn’t happen to be a soul in the place ex
cept him, poor fellow ! The) ’d all gone
into another shaft, where he didn’t like to
follow ’em, ’cause they were such a wicked
set; and as they were eating their dinners,
and he his, the accident happened.
“We dug him out, sir! He was awful
crushed—-all but his face—that looked smi
ling and peaceful-like, and we couldn’t bear
the sight; it made us think how we’d
treated him. So we carried him home to
Bessy. She didn’t cry and take on, as most
the men’s wives do when an accident hap
pens, but it were awful to see how still and
white she were! Awful, sir, and l never
want to see a sight like it agin.
“We all felt bad, for poor Jesse hadn’t
never said a harsh word to one of us, and
he’d borne many an insult.
“We couldn’t see through it when he
vere living, but used to call him ‘ weak
headed,’ and a ‘ tame covey ;’ and as he lay
there in his coffin, there came a different
feeling over me, sir, you may depend upon
it. Oh! if I’d a-heard then to the lesson
that was telling of me; if I’d only listened
then to the voice of God, speaking, as it
weie, from the lips of that crushed dead
body —I’d a saved myself many a day of
sufferin’, many an hour of torment. But I
didn’t.
“We all walked to the grave, and I tell
ye it touched even hard fellows like us, to
see that young widder, with her little child
in her arms, fuller close to the coffin—nev
er crying, only holding her head down as if
it were heavy bowed with her sorrow to
keep it up.
“ Well, we had a talk at the grave by the
same parson as we’d treated so badly. I
don’t know what his good words would a
done in after days, if 1 hadu't been a lead
er in wickedness, a hater of pious people,
and everything that had to do with religion
—a wicked swearer, worthless sinner ! I
say it to.my shame, I don’t boast, sir—God
forbid ! I wish I could just shut out my
thoughts all these >ears of my life that I
| ain’t spent piously. But God, I hope, ’ll
be merciful to me.
“ Well, sir, his wife—the poor young
thing!—took the death sadly to heart.—
They said the shook had been too sudden,
dried up all the tears, like. She never cried
one’t—only languished and ‘pined, grew
thinner and whiter, and died just three
months after poor Jesse. This was how
the little boy—Jesse's little boy —came to
be an orphan, sir.
“ Well, we were all determined to take
care of the Tittle one; so we east lots eve
ry month to see which should have the
maintainin’ of him. It used to come to
me pretty often, but I done it willingly,
sir. because 1 considered I’d been hard to
| the man—hard to poor dead Jesse.
“ The boy was pretty, sir but he didn’t
“his banner over” its is “love.”
grow much. You see he hadn’t no mother
love to thrive on. The women, they thought
they did well by him, but they sort o’ hus
tled him, and he wanted something different,
coming of a delicate stock. I don’t spose
nothing, sir, can givea child that feel, which
having somebody to love and call mother,
does—no, not all the cosscntin’ in the world
by strangers.
“Well, the years passed, and the little
fellow began to be handy in the mine. It
seemed a pity to see him beginning that
hard sort o’ life, but then we’re not able to
take care of one more helpless hand, and
there was plenty as young as he down
there. But he was so different from all the
rest of the children. He looked for all the
world, before he got the grim in his face,
like a gentleman’s child, sir. Ilis skin was
like the shells you sometimes see with a
little red tinge on’em, and he had his moth
er’s large brown eyes, and his father’s curly
hair, and then he was so slim-like and girl
ish. But he had spirit beyond his strength,
and gloried in his work.
Things was going on about as usual, ex
cept that I was harder down on religion
than ever. The soft feeling wore off my
heart, and I think I hated what was pious
worse nor before. Our Sundays was train
ing days—nothing good—everything evil,
just as evil could be.
“Weli, sir, one day that little fellow
was on my beat, and he had done up his
work quick and airly—so he stood some
time beside me talking. He was queer at
talking—l never heard such strange things
as he’d say. So says he, as I was fixing
my tools, says he, ‘ Keene ’ —that’s my
name, sir—‘wherd all thisfcoalcome from?’
“‘ Come from the earth,’ I said.
“ ‘ Yes, but what made it ? ’
“ I prided myself on my little learning
so says 1, ‘ Wy, nater made it, Pinky we
used to call him Pink, and Pinky.
“‘Well, what made nater, Keene?’ he
still kept askin’.
“‘Why,—why! nater made itself!’ 1
said.
“ ‘ Oh, no ! ’ he cried ; and with a solemn
look as ever I see on any face —and his
voice of warnin’—l don’t know why, but 1
never heered anything like it; says he,
‘God made everything; God is down here
in the dark ! ’
“ I declare it was as nigh as if a man had
struck me as could be. Says I, ‘Pinky,
where did you get that from ? ’
“ Says he, * The good man told me.’
“ ‘ What good man ? ’ I asked, and an ug
ly feeling came over me.
“ ‘ What preached at mammy’s funeral,’
said he.
“ And where’d you see him?’ f sort of
growled, like.
“‘Out in the road yesterday. I seed
him on a horse, and he took me up and ri- t
ded me so far a back, and he told me all
the good things.’
“ I was silent, I tell you. I didn’t know
what to say; but I was mad. Just then,
in moving up quick, my lamp went out.—
Now, that’s a thing that don’t happen but a
few times in a good many years; 1 knew I’d
have to wait and holler till somebody come
—for the pit was full of holes; and so Ij
said, ‘ Don’t be afraid, Pinky, they’ll be
here soon; ’ but 1 was shaky, for he was in ;
a dangerous part of the pit.
“Says he, ‘I don’t feel afraid, Keene;!
don’t you s’pose God’s close to us? ’
“ I declare 1 felt my blood trickle, cold \
at every wind that came down the shaft
way. I thought this was his breath—the
breath of God!
“Well, the hours passed away, and no-1
body come. Presently says little Pinky,
| i’ll go for you, God will show me the way,’
| and I heard his little feet patting along them
I dangerous places. It was awful! Ihe
! sweat started on me thick, and it seemed
; like 1 couldn’t breathe. But when I railed
; him back he shouted with his little voice,!
j‘ God’ll show me the way.’
“It almost makes me tremble when I
; think on’t, sir; the boy went over the worst
! road in the pit, full of sunk shafts and dan
gerous places, without no lamp ! Oh, sir,
when they came for me with plenty light, I
I—l couldn’t believe it, sir, l couldn’t; and
| though they kept telling me that Pinky was
; safe, I tell you, sir, 1 thought it was a lie
1 till I see him and heard him cry out, * I am
j safe, Keene—God showed me the way ! ’
Well, sir, you may not say this looks
true, but ’tis. Oh, ’cis as true as wonder
ful, sir; and 1 tell you, I was a different
man after that. Not that I grew good at
once—no, I didn’t know the way then, sir.
1 didn’t feel like little Pinky; I didn’t feel
sure that God’d show me, but he did.
“ One day, after Pinky had been working
hard, he said he was dry and his head ach
ed. Well, we always expected something’d
bo ailing, him ; so that night I carried him
home in my arms and laid him on his bed,
and he never, sir,” —the miner choked for
a moment, drew one rough hand across his
eyes, turned away for a brief second, then
sa'd hurriedly—“ he never got up from it
of himself again. Every night 1 came
home he was worse, and I tell ye I felt as
if all the light I ever see was going out!
“ One morning he asked me in his weak
voice, ‘ Wouldn’t I send for the good man
that preached for his mammy ? ’ I didn’t
say no, twan’t in my heart to do that thing,
and before long the parson was there, talk
ing and praying. That seemed to do the
child good; and as the miners dropped in
with their black ft ;s, and the lamps in
their hands, he’d smile on ’em sweet, sir;
it would adoneyour heart good to a seen it.”
The man paused again, overcome by the
recollection of the scene. The muscles
round his firm lips quivered, and over his
great bronzed face there swept an expres
sion of almost womanly tenderness.
“ Did he die then ? ” The question was
softly asked, and the dark eyes of the lady
were full of tears.
“ Oh, my dear Miss—yes, yes, he died
then. He grew very bright and lively;
though, and we’d all set our hearts on his
getting well, when there was another change,
and the color left his face, and his little
hands hadn’t no strength in’em. The min
ister came again, and as he stooped down,
says he, ‘My dear child, are you afraid to
go?’ And what do you think, sir—what
do you think, Miss—he said ? Oh, how it
went through me!
“ ‘ God’ll show me the way ? ’
“ And He showed the way, sir. 1 never
see anything like that dying, sir—never.
He held my hand, he said, ‘Keene, you love
God, too.’ He gave a gasp, and then q
smile, and then there came a bright glory
light over his white face that made it shine
all over. Oh, sir, I—l can’t tell it.”
The man held his head down and sobbed
like a child, and his were not the only tears.
The next morning was the Sabbath. A
near bell was heard ; a plain white meeting
house stood in sight. The stranger and
his daughter met the miner, who, pointing
to the heavenward spire, exclaimed, as a
smile broke over his face:
“ You see, sir, God shows all the way.”
Confession of a Drunkard.
Some years since there was a pamphlet pub
lished in England,entitled the “Confession of
a Drunk trd.” The statements made in it
are asserted on good authority to be au
thentic, —and what does the writer say ?
“Of my condition there is no hope that
it should ever change; the waters have
gone over me ; but out of the black depths,
could 1 be heard, I would cry out to all
those who have but set a foot in the peril
ous flood.
“Could the youth, to whom the flavor of
his first wine is delicious as the opening
scenes ol life, or the entering upon some
newly discovered paradise, look into my !
desolation, and be made to understand I
what a dreary thing it is when a man shall
feel himself going down a precipice with
open eyes and a passive will; to see his ]
destruction and have no power to stop it, j
and yet to feel it all the way emanating]
from himself; to perceive all goodness;
emptied out of him, and yet not be able to I
forget a time when it was otherwise; to j
bear about the piteous spectacle of his own |
self-ruin ; could he see my feverish eve. fe- \
; verish with last night’s debauch, and fever- j
j ishly looking for this night’s repetition of]
!the folly; could he feel the body of the
[death out of w'hieh I cry hourly, with fee
ble and feebler outcry to be delivered—it
were enough to make him dash the spark
ling beverage to the earth in all the pride
jof its mantling temptation.”
Adhesiveness is a large element of sue.
cess. Genius has glue on his teet, and will
, take hold on a marble slab. The first part
jof economy is to do your peculiar work;
the second, to do it by system.
TERMS Three Dollars a-year.
Sir.
It is doubtful whether there be another
monosyllable in the language which admits
of such delicate distinctions as that most
common one which heads this article—Sir.
Not the trembling ‘No ’ of the bashful
maiden, whose command of verbal inflec
tion is so perfect that she makes it to fill
the place of ‘Yes.’ could be more signifi
cant; not the emphatic ‘There’ of the
dined aide-man, who pushes his last plate
an inch or two from his encroaching stom
ach with a satisfied sigh, and a comfortable
and firm belief in his own mind that he
has, in the highest and noblest sense, said
Grace; not the ‘ Well?’ of the rival con
versationalist, interrogatively fitted in at
the conclusion of your very best narration,
as though the point were yet to come ; not
the facile ‘Ah ! ’ of the debt-hardened bor
rower, when he is reminded of the little
account which, with the utmost delicacy,
you have forborne to speak of until it has
almost run clean out of sight forever under
neath the statute of limitations ; not the
‘ Bah !’ of the attorney, so different from the
same expression in the mouth of the inno
cent wearers of his shefpskins, when you
inadvertently let fall some moral axiom or
some tender sentiment, forgetting in whose
presence you stand ; nothing, equally brief,
had ever such variety of meaning as this
‘Sir.’
Even in writing, and when it stands apart
and unrelieved by ‘My dear,’ or ‘Dear,’
it has a certain unpleasant significance. It
shows that the writer has no acquaintance,
and far less friendship with the person he
addresses ; that, for certain, he does not
know anything about him, and that, in all
probability, he does not care. There is not
only a stiffness and reserve, but an absolute
antagonism in a ‘ Sir ’ of this sort. It is
more than possible that it may be followed
by, ‘ As the legal advisers of Messrs. Har
py,’ Ac., and that the whole may be con
cluded—like an unprepossessing scorpion,
whose worst has yet to come in the tail of
it—by the signature of a legal firm. One
has, in this case, to write back ‘ Gentlemen,’
too, in return for it, which, it may be, is
as tremendous a sacrifice of truth as of in
clination. The editor of the Moral Lever
begins with the ‘Sir’ indignant, when he
writes that he is in truth astonished at his
once esteemed contributor requiring com
pensation in dross for that blessed privi
lege of elevating the masses which has been
afforded to him by the publication of his
article; and the once esteemed contributor
has made previous use of it, apologetically,
in demanding modestly to know whether
the Lever was accustomed to balance its
accounts at the end of every six months or
of a year.
This ‘Sir’ epistolary may be the herald
of a compulsory marriage (when it ema
nates, for instance, from one of the big
brothers of the three Miss Malonies, de
nominated, for certain reasons, ‘ Plague,
Pestilence, and Famine’); of death, itself,
even—provided, at least, that there is no
property bequeathed to us, in which case
we mi) be sure it would become ‘My
dear Sir,’ or ‘My very dear Sir,’ in pro
portion to the sum ; but it is never by any
chance the harbinger of anything satisfacto
ry, except perhaps in the extremely miti
gated form of a receipt for the second pay
ment of a disputed bill. ‘Sir’ never asks
you to dinner, nor even pays you a com
pliment, except of the most artificial cha
racter, such as that of representing some
body as your most obedient and humble
servant, who, if not an utter stranger, is a
foe determined upon your ruin. ‘Sir’ is
the dogged submission which the most
savage hand is compelled to pay to the
laws of civilization, the transparent veil
through which it strikes with undiminished
power. The only social invitation which
it ever heralds is that which belongs to the
duello, the pressing summons to ‘ pistols
for two in the saw-pit,’ or other unfrequent
ed meeting-place; nor has it anything to
do with love, except at the extreme fag-end
of it, when it sometimes announces Cupid’s
death and the birth of Mammon coincident
ly, in the notice of action for breach of
promise of marriage. It is the sign that
the chain of friendship is broken, and that
the remaining life-links which connect us
and the writer must needs be formed of a
far baser metal. Indeed, the only sort of
excellence which the ‘Sir’ epistolary pos
sesses, is of a decidedly negative character;
it does not, as far as we are aware, form
part of the formula of a writ.
NO. 49.
