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<S8* V;- V* I n < r* A L 47^ ijj, \ ^"5 A
VOL. II.
JOHN 0. m SYCKEL & CO.,
Wholesale and Entail Dealers in
CROCKERY,
GLASSWARE,
House Furnishing Goods
Tin-Plate,
Stoves,
Hardware,
&c., &o.
KANUTi-OrcaSES o*
TINWARE.
Mo. 3 3 6 Third Street,
MACON. 6A.
CARE ART & OXJRD,
DCaLEBS n»
Hardware, Iroa & Steel i
WOODENWARE,
Carriage Material,
Cotton Gins,
Circular Saws
SOA.3L.ES,
13
PAINTS, OILS, &c.
Macon. Or.
E. J. DAVAKT. J. 8. Wood, Jit
DAY ANT & WOOD,
11,4 Street,
Savannah, Georgia,
Special attention given to tale ot
COTTON. RICE & KA7iL STORES
AQEM7B YOU
DBAKE’S COTTON TIES
Cash advances made on wrrtiiy-merit*.
W. B. MELL & CO. v
Wholesal^^r.d retail dealer* in
SADDLES, BRIDLES, HARNESS,
Rubber and. .Leather
BELTING AND PACKING,
French and American Call Skins, Sole, Har
ness, Bridle and Patent Leather,
WHIPS and SADDI.ERY WARE
TRUNKS, VALISES,
*
ffarket Square, Savannah, Ga
Orders bv mail oromntly attended to.
ft. J. BRADDY &* SOW
Wrightsville, Ga.
BLACKSMITH SHOP.
A specialty of Plantation Work. Wagons,
Bnggies, etc., made and repaired.
Plows and Plow-Stocks of all kinds, and
every kind of Wood and Iron Work done by
A. J. BRADDY & SON,
Wrightsville, Ga.
SID. A. PUGHSLEY, Jr.
*
AGENT AND SALESMAN,
—WI1H
I. L. FALK & GO.,
CLOTHIERS,
425 and 427 Broome St., New York,
Cor. Congress and Whittaker Streets,
WAVANNAII, GA,
WRIGHTSYILLE, GA., SATURDAY, EEBEUAEY 11, 1882.
Good-Jiight Song.
Good-night 1
Veary one, take sleep’s delight;
Now the day so gently closes,
And each busy hand reposes,
Till gay morning greets the sight,
Good-night 1
Go to rest! I
Let the tired eyelids fall!
In the street where silence lieth
Loud tho hour tlio watchman crieth,
And the soft night-voices call,
"Go to rest.”
Sleep swoetly!
Cream, sad heart, of Paradise !
Love thy holy calm hath shaken,
Many bright dreams thy joy awaken,
Of thy loved one in tho skies I
Sleep sweetly.
Good-night I
Sleep till breaks the coming day,
Sleep until tho new-born morning
Brings now duties with its dawning,
God will watch. Put fear away I
Good-night.
—From the German of Korner.
LESLEY'S CONSPIRACY.
Mr. John’ Clifford looked over the
walnut and plate-glass railing around
nis “ office” in the corner of the count¬
ing-room of the daily and weekly
Herald, just as a sweet, ringing iaugh
from the composing-room opposite
came to his ears.
“ It’s Lesley Lord—that is,” Peter
Furman, the foreman, said, as ho saw
the look of inquiry on Mr. Clifford’s
fa ?e. “ As pretty a girl as ever stepped
in shoes, but spoiled and humored
until she thinks she can do as she
likes.”
Mr. Clifford looked through tho open
door—ho was the new bookkeeper,
just entering upon his duties that
morning.
“So that is Miss ord—the young
lady with tho round white arms and
shining teeth, and the hair piled in a
gold-colored mass on top of her head ?
Well, Furman, the is rather good-look¬
ing—certainly not as handsome as one
would be led to think from your de¬
scription.”
Several hours later, when Mr. Clifford
was thinking it was nearly time for sup¬
per, a merry little clatter of boot-heels
sounded cn the floor, coming toward
his office, and he looked up to see Miss
Lesley Lord standing at the dome
shaped opening in front of him.
“Mr. Clifford,” she said, with a grace¬
ful little arch of her eyebrows—“at
least, I suppose it is Mr. Clifford, the
newibookkeeper ?”
“I am at your service,” he responded,
looking straightforward at the flushed
dimpled cheeks and little white teeth.
“I would like to have an advance on
Saturday night’s pay, if you please.”
The “if you please” was very much
at variance with tho imperiousness of
her demand.
“You would like an advance?” he re¬
iterated gravely, somewhat surprised.
Lesley gave a provoked little toss of
her head, and tapped her fingers on the
plate-glass shelf.
“ That is what I said, I believe.”
“Am I to understand it is the custom
of this office to advance money to the
employes upon all occasions ?”
“I don’t know anything about what
the employes do; I know I always re¬
ceive an advance when 1 ask it.”
Mr. Clifford closed his day-book
quietly.
“ I think the rules of the office for¬
bid such a precedent, Miss Lord.
Frank,” to the office boy busily direct¬
ing the mail, “just light up; will
you?”
Lesley stood perfectly astonished at
tte polite yet cavalier treatment she
had received. The idea 1 This new
man putting on such airs to her—the
acknowledged belle and beauty of the
girls who set type in the Herald com¬
posing-room.
Frank lighted the gas, and Mr. Clif¬
ford began counting tho money in the
cash box, while Lesley, in a ^passion,
stood staring at him.
“ You don’t intend to let me have
it?” she said, presently, in a low, indig¬
nant voice that was irresistibly charm¬
ing for all that.
“ Certainly not—you nor any one.”
And Lesley sent him one look, per¬
fectly savage with anger.
An hour later, in the midst of a driv¬
ing rain-storm, Mr. Clifford stepped
out of the tram-car in a pretty, lonely
suburb of the city, to which he was an
entire stranger—and after looking about
him for several minutes, sans umbrella
or overshoes, he began dimly to realize
that he did not know which of the half
dozen houses within sight was the one
where his new landlady, Mrs. Rawson,
lived.
“ A charming position to find oneself
in,” ho thought, as the rain soaked
through his clothes, and he discovered
that the mud was disagreeably uncer¬
tain to wade through, especially in the
darkness.
“I’ll make a bee line for'the nearest
light,” he decided, and forthwith set
out for a little cottage, not so appall¬
ingly far off, where he arrived in due
time, and shivering with the cold
dampness of his clothes, he was cheered
by the prompt opening of the door by
a placid-faced, elderly lady, who an¬
swered him in the cheeriest, most un¬
conventional fashion.
“Mrs. Itawson’8 ? Why, you w<?n’t
think of going away up there in such a
storm as this. Come in, and see if I
can’t make you comfortable for a while.
I’ve got a boy j ust about your ago
somewhere in the West—and if he
should be out in tho storm—”
Ilor mother-love was sweet and
strong on her gentle, womanly face,
and he stepped in, gladly, yet Reluct¬
antly.
“I am so muddy and dripping—I
am John Clifford, bookkeeper at the
Herald, ma’am, and a stronger in tho
city.”
His hostess insisted on his going in,
and in less than no time he was feeling
decidedly comfortable beside the open
fire, in borrowed slippers and rapidly
drying clothes.
“ The new bookkeeper of the Herald
office, I think you said? My niece
works there—end she’s been talking
about the 1 new man ’ for a week or so
—I believe all the girls were anxious to
see you, Mr. Clifford.’
Tho kindly lady bustled about to get
the supper ready in the little kitchen,
and at tho latest stage of tho proceed¬
ings sho took the lamp out with her,
while sho broiled the ham.
“ You won’t mind sitting in the fire¬
light a minute or two, I know. We’re
poor folks, and liavel'to economize in
oil.” .
And a second after the lamp had
gone, and the savory odor of the broil¬
ing ham floated into his hungry sense,
a side door opened, and somebody came
in, bringing a cool rainy feeling with
her—for it was a girl, in waterproof and
rubbers.
“ I camo so near staying at Jenny
Ball’s for supper, auntie—I would have
stayed only I was afraid you’d be wor¬
ried about me. We did have so much
to talk about,” and a sancy little laugh
rippled through the dusk as she
plumped herself down on the floor to
take off her rubbers. “ Tho new book¬
keeper came, auntie- just tho hand¬
somest fellow, with—on—heavenly eyes
and a lovely mustache, but he is too
mean and hateful for anything—to me,
auntie, you wouldn’t believe it, would
you? Well wo girls’ll punish himl
We’ve made a conspiracy between us,
and I’m to make him fall in love with
me—I can, I know—and then I am to re¬
ject him haughtily, and let---Auntie,
have you been in the cellar all this time
I’ve been talking ?”
Aud as Mrs. Cummings appeared at
the head of the cellar stairs Lesley
Lord picked up tho lamp and carried it
back into the little dining-room, while
Mr. Clifford arose from his easy-chair
as the lamplight and Lesley’s amazed
looks fell upon him simultaneously.
He laughed as he extended his hand,
while Leslie, bewildered beyond meas¬
ure, stood stock-still in the middle of
the room, lamp in hand, her cheeks
flushing painfuliy.
“ Pray forgive me. I certainly did
not mean to be so hateful, I assure you,
Miss Lord. Won’t you allow me to re¬
lieve you of tho lamp? and then—
please begin at once the part of tho
programme you are to fill in tho con¬
spiracy against me. I can promise you
you it will be the most agreeable to
me.”
“I—didn’t—know you were here.”
Lesley stammered hysterically, and
then she did tho best possible thing
under the circumstances — laughed
heartily.
“ I dare say I shall never hear the
last of it,” slie said, “Well, Mr.
Clifford, I can stand it if you can.”
“If you will let me I will stay the
remainder of the evening and try," he
returned, gravely.
Well, he stayed, and Lesley was
most bewitching, and after he had gone
home she went to bed and cried herself
to sleep for very shame at her stupid
idiotic blunder.
“He will despise me, I know he will,”
she sobbed to herself, “ and he is just
splendid.”
But instead of despising her Mr.
Clifford asked Her to marry him six
months afterward,
“I will say ‘ Yes,’ just because I like
to be contrary,” she laughed. “ I said
I’d reject you haughtily, and instead
I’ll accept you—”
She hesitated with a little glance at
his handsome face.
“Because I will not take ‘ No’ for an
answer?” he suggested, drawing her
face to his breast.
“ Because I do love you,” was her re¬
ply, low and sweet.
And that was the delightful end of
Lesley’s little conspiracy.
Bushing to Their Deaths.
“ Howard,” the New York corre¬
spondent of the Philadelphia Times,
writes: Our “ first citizens ” are going
off like hot cakes. It's as much as a
fellow can do to attend to his business
and pay the last sad tribute to departed
friends. First-class funerals are of daily
occurrence, and there are more mourners
in the streets than ever before. Other
things are happening, too, and among
them softening of the brain. For years
Printing House square, the Astor house
rotunda, Delmonico’s and the Bruns¬
wick have been frequented by a hand¬
some-faced, big blue-eyed, frank-man¬
nered, open-handed paper dealer,
known to every ono, and a jolly good
follow all the time. Ho was a fast liver,
a hard drinker and a very light sleeper.
Ho made money easily, spent it like
water and was tho personification
of generous recklessness, llesult?
Softening of the brain, About
three weeks ago he was taken
to an insano asylum, whero ho is of
course abundantly cared for, but the
doctors say ho is hopelessly idiotic. A
friend of mine, ono of these self-sacri¬
ficing chaps, went to see him. The
poor fellow is poisoned by tobacco. He
smoked cigarettes incessantly, so much
so that his forefinger and thumb were
yellow stained. This complicates mat¬
ters. If he were devitalized by loss of
sleep only, rest and regular hours
might recuperate him. If his interior was
simply overcharged with alcohol, proper
medicaments and total abstinence
from intoxicating drink might bring
him up again. But on top, through,
under and all about every muscle, fibei
and tissue of his mental, moral and
physical nature is that ineducable stain
hat nicotine alone can give and omnipo¬
tence alone remove.
Anybody else ?
Yes, indeed. They may not be lit
erally in insane asylums, but they are
tlie merest wrecks of old time glory.
Come with me to that great exchange of
down-town workers, the rotunda of the
Astor house, and stand near the cashier
The place is packed from noon until
three, and tolerably full all the rest ot
tho day. Thousands eat and thou¬
sands drink and thousands smoke there
every day. The monthly profits are
said to be $15,000—a great deal o
money. Is it the same crowd? Are
they the same thousands? Not by a
jug full. Within tho past five years
two generations have come and gone,
and the third is rushing along as fast as
it can go.
' How?
By eating fast, drinking faster, and
puff, puff, puffing with the eagerness of
a race horse, bound to win and lose no
time. There they stand or sit, as the
case may be. If they eat they throw
their victuals down at a gulp. If they
drink, it’s one, two, three, “ give me a
check,” and off they go.
And then?
Well they work till night, take tbeir
dinner and repeat the“dose in some up¬
town house, according to their means.
The chief places are Delmonico’s, the
Brunswick, the Fifth Avenue, the St.
James and tho Hoffman. Accustomed
though you may; bo to the gay
and festive developments of Phila¬
delphia, I can show you sights here in
tho gastronomic line that would open
your eyes with wonder and shut ’em up
again in disgust.
Well?
But it isn’t well, it’s fearful, and the
few temperate old chaps who witness
this social breaknp, who see friend after
friend depart—who has not lost a
friend?—are paralyzed with fear lest
some day we be left alone in onr glory.
The Westphalian Zoological society
recently enjoyed an extraordinary ban¬
quet. The company was served with
outlets of lioness, a ragout of badger,
a bustard and a crane stuffed with
chestnuts and plums. These viands all
received duo attention, but it was the
unanimous opinion -that a crocodile
steak was the piece de resistance. It ap¬
pealed to the nose as well as the palate,
emitting a peculiarly grateful and appe¬
tizing odor.
Only One News Stand.
A correspondent writing from Venice.
Italy, says: There is only one news¬
paper in Venice and one crier of papers
in the streets, and this vender makes a
noise between a yelp and a bay—a sad
but desperate noise, as if his opiglottis
bad been struck by lightning and he
was about to expire in mortal agony. I
bought a Paris paper from him—about
all he carries—but it didn’t seem to do
him any good.
The saddest thing in Venice is the
absence of newspapers. I have never
yet seen one in the hands of anybody
but a traveler. The red-faced Venetian
sits lazily under the half-drawn curtain
that takes the place of door to his
shop, waiting for customers, knowing
nothing of the world without; the
women, barefooted or in toe-slippers,
shuffle and gossip about; but no ono
has a newspaper or a book; tho somber
gondolier quarrels for an extra cen
tesimi from his passenger, but he never
heard of America or of England, and
has never read a word even of his own
language. All are proud of Venice,
even though she is but the dowerloss
brido of the Adriatic; proud that she
was once conquered by Napoleon; proud
of the church and square of St. Marks;
pvrwid of fhe palace of tho Doges, with
its quaint Moorisn-uotmc architecture;
proud, for aught I know, of the Bridge
of Sighs, “ a prison and a palace on
each hand,” which we traversed yester¬
day, and of the horrible machinery of
persecution underneath, running down
a hundred steps into the gloomy earth,
whero tho early Venice developed all
h at was devlish in man. But Venice is
a bankrupt city, only half fed, a pauper
of brass gewgaws and filigree, slowly
returning, through gloomy grandeur
to tho quagmire from which it sprung,
How our Ancestors Roasted a Goose.
Who after reading the following
will not admit that tho world has im¬
proved? The most cruel aud brutal
in this age would turn in horror from
the unuaae >sary cruelty of torturing a
poor creature as our ancestors did with
a grave complacency, as if unaware of
the suffering they caused. Read and
wonder:
“ Take a goose or some such lively
creature, pull off all her feathers, ex
cept those of the head aud neck ; then
make a fire around her, not too close,
s > that the smoke may not choke her,
and that the fire may not burn her too
soon. Within the circle of the fire
let there be small cups aud pots full of
water, wherein salt and honey are
mingled; and let there be, also,
chargers full of sodden apples, cut in
small pieces. The goose must be larded
and basted over with butter, to m ike
her the better tasting, and. also, that
she may roast better. Pat fire about
her, but dociofc make too much haste,
when, as you see, she begins to roast.
For by walking about and flying here
and there, being cooped in by the fire,
that stops her way out, the unscared
goose is kept in. She will fall to and
drink the water to quench her thirst
and cool her heart, and all her body
and the apple sauce will cleanse her.
When she wasteth and consumes in¬
wardly, always wet her head with a
sponge; and when you begin to see
her stumble, her heart wants moisture,
and sho is roasted enough. Take her
up and set her on the table, and she
will cry as you cut off any part from
her, and will be almost eaten up before
she is dead. It is mighty pleasant to
behold.”
The Origin of Regattas.
Apropos of a recent article in the
Pall Mall Gazette, a correspondent
writes, it may not be generally known
that Venice is the home of regattas
whence they were introduced into Eng¬
land in 1775. In the appendix to the
“ Annual Register” of that year will bo
found an article entitled, "8ome Ac¬
count of the new Entertainment Called
a Regatta, Introduced from Venice into
England in the Course of the Yeai
1775." Tho event produced a universal
excitement. The whole river side was
‘crowded from London bridge to Mill
bank, and even Westminster hall was
desecrated by a scaffold for spectators.
“ Plans of the regatta were sold from a
shilling to a penny each, and songs on
the occasion sung, in which * regatta
was tho rhyme for ‘Ranelagh,’ and
‘ Royal Family ’ echoed to ‘ Liberty. » »
The racing itself is dismissed with tho
scanty information that “tho wager
boats started on tho signal of firing a
single piece of cannon,” and that “they
were absent near fifty minutes.”
NO. 39.
Love’s De-ire.
Come here, my love, and let ns sit awhile
Within the shade of this tall poplar tree,
A nd, while the moments pass. I will beguile
Tbine ear with words which I will speak to
tlioe.
Ah I sweet! when first I saw thy lovely face,
And viewed the sparkling light within they
eye,
And noted wliat a proud and queenly graca
Was thine—as thou, one day, wert passing
by—
I know that I, at last, had met my fate,
And, if thy love by me could not be won,
That I must live my life disconsolate—
For hearts liko mine can never love but one,
And when one ove, to ask thy love I knelt—
My sweet, thou knowest well the place and
when—
’Twas rapture such as I had never felt
To learn that, loving, I was loved again.
But one thing more to fill my cup of bliss
I need, and ’tis to know, my queen of queens,
That in the wide world’s boundless space
there is
Not one can rival tlieo in baking beans.
PUNGENT PARAGRAPHS.
Life is real, life is earnest,
And our logs, though stout and brave,
Will through space at times bo flying,
Upward shooting from the pave.
The young man goes to see his girl,
And then what does he do ?
He wonders if $6 a week
Is money enough for two.
Young lady: “ Is there anything that
will remove a mustache from a girl’s
lip ?” There is. An ugly old man will
sometimes yank it away and sling its
ownei over the fence, but it will come
back again.
Junior class in zooology: Examiner
—My good child, what are quadru¬
peds? Scholar—Animals with four
legs. Examiner—Very good. Now
name some ? Scholar —& dog, a borse,
wo hens.
Professor Huxley wants his boy to
have “broad shoulders, a deep chest,
and a stomach so good he will never
know he has one.” That kind of a
stomach would be a bonanza for a
tramp. And, occasionally, it would
strike the wealthy editor as a good
thing to have in the house.
At breakfast a remarkably light ome¬
let soufiie is served, at a moment when
every one is engaged in a deeply in¬
teresting conversation. Tho omelet is
neglected, and begius to settle down
from its appetizing airiness, to the enor¬
mous disgust of the little daughter of
the house, who exclaims : "Oh, ma, do
hurry ! The omelet is eating itself 1”
A doctor will sit down and write a
prescription; time, five minutes; paper
and ink, one-fourth of a cent; and the
patient pays $1, $2, $5, $10, as the case
may be. A lawyer writes ten or twelve
lines of advice, and gets from $10 to
$20 from his client. An editor writes
a half column puff for a man, pays a
man from fifty cents to one do lar for
putting it in type, p hits on several
dollars’ worth of paper, sends it to sev¬
eral thousand people, and then sur
prisesithe puffed man if he makes any
charge.
Dinners, of the German Emperor.
Tho American Register A Paris says:
After the frequent notices we read in
the papers of dinners at the emperor’s
palace, and tables laid for twenty or
more covers, it may not be uninterest¬
ing to learn something about the em¬
peror’s table in general. Emperor Wil¬
liam is in the habit of taking, about
7:30 a. m., a simple coffee with a large
allowance of milk, and a couple of
small breads without butter, ^t ]
o’clock r. m. the second breakfast
(lunch) is served alternately cold or
warm. The dinner takes place regu¬
larly at 5 o’clock. If the emperor has
one or two guests the table is simply see
in the lower apartments of the palace, tho
menu remaining the same which
he is wont to order fi r
himself, consisting of four
or five courses, which the chef do cui¬
sine submits early in the morning and
the emperor approves of. If the din¬
ner is a large one, the table is laid in
the upper apartments. Tho invitations
are given by the emperor at an early
hour, the arrangements of seats being
then and there discussed with the court
marshals. The invited guests receive
their hdfct in a saloon adjoining the
dining-room, where the latter salutes
and, after a conversation of ten or
fifteen minutes, precedes them to the
table. The emperor takes light claret
or Moselle with soda-water, and coffee
only occasionally after large dinners. A
cup of tea, without cake or bread, after
the theater, concludes tho frugal re¬
pasts of the day. When the empres
is present the menu is submitted to her,
and, except when a large paity is in¬
vited, the emperor takes his dinner in
the empress’ apartments.