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YOL. t.
LIVE AND LEARN.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
Here, in the workshop of to-day,
The artist modeling in clay,
With iron hand the image breaks
That told of yesterday’s mistakes.
And on the min builds again,
With wiser heart, with clearer brain.
Not as on eagle’s wing our flight
Prom lowly vale to lofty height,
But slowly, step by step, we climb
The rugged steep to Alps sublime.
Nor miss the prize for which we yearn
If striving still to live-antl learn.
Each mom we find upon life’s page
The task bur thoughts to re-engage,
. And bending o’er it, heart and mind,
New light and inspiration find;
And still to-morrow will return
With something we have yet to learn,
O, hearts/ what wisdom ye might gain
Through intercourse with grief and pain,
But for the passion that has sway,/ ; '$•
And leads you evermore astray;
Unmindful of the cautions given, ’
Ye love, and miss the way to heaven.
Still live and learn; nor counsels spurn;
Those idols break; those records burn; ■
And in the workshop’ of to-day
. Destroy false images of clay;
And on the ruins build again,,
With wiser heart, with clearer brain.
A LITTLE OLD LOVE-STORY;
Long, long ago when New York
\vas a much smaller place than it has
now grown to be, a little old French
man named Jean Mathieu kept a
small cigar store in a narrow and
crooked street near the Battery; It
was a tiny shop ill a tiny house, blit
it was tidy and pretty. There were
artificial flowers in vases on the
shelves,and over the counter a little
oval looking-glass draped with white
lace, and behind the counter, from
dawn to dusk, the prettiest face one
could see in a long day’s walk. It
was the face of tho Frenchman’s
pretty daughter, Manuette Mathieu,
a girl as good as she was pretty, who,
though she waited on the young men
who sauntered in the shop for cigars
and snuff, which dandies took in
those days, beloved with such pro
priety that no one of them dared give
her so much as a bold or insolent
glance.
Her father worked at his trade in
room above; she served the customers.
Sunday was her only holiday. On
this day she went to the church in
the morning, and in the afternoon
visited her aunt, Madame Pau, a
fashionable dress-maker.
On one of the Sundays Manette,
having stayed later than usual at her
aunt’s house, was hurrying home
through wlmt is now. the lower end
of Brtyidwrty; •wheii three yduhg mep
walking arm in arm, suddenly stop
ped before her and, with oaths and
laughter, declared that she must give
each a kiss before they would permit
her to pas? them. . . .
Vainly Manuette ondeavorod tore-
lease herself, and, finally, one actu
ally touched her cheek with his
mustache lips. At this, insulted and
terrified,, the poor girl uttered a loud
scream for help, and almost on the
instant found* tier arm grasped by a
strong hand and saw a large and
handsome man standing between her
and her assailants.
J “Have no fear,” said a low deep
voice.. “You are quite safe now
young lady.” ’ ^
“And who aro you, pray?” oried
one of the other men, “How dare
you interfere with other gentlemen’s
amusement ?”
“By tiio right that makes every
man the protector of every woman,”
was the reply. “.This lady called for
help.’'
“This lady!” sneered quo who had
not spoken. “Pslia! you don’t know
Her-r-a little tobacconist’s shop-girl.
It is not worth playing Don Quixote
for. She can take care of herself,
I’ll be bound.”
The auswer was a blow that' laid
the speaker low. And in a moment
more Mannette,'trembling and weep
ing, was spectatress of a conflict in
which one sober man stood against
three that were more than half tipsy,
and finally came off victorious.
“Let them lie there,” he said con-
temptously. “The watchman will
arrive shortly and take care of them.
Meanwhile let mo see you safe home.
I regret that you have been obliged
to witness such a scene.”
Through the streets, lit only by
feeble oil lamps, the stranger led
Mannette.; At tiio door of the shop
stood old Mathieu. Explanations
were made; thanks uttered. The
stranger begged that he might call
to inquire if Mademoiselle had suf
fered from alarm, and went away in
the night, leaving op Marinette’s
heart the impression that is made oil
that of a girl by her first masculine
hero. • /
I-Ie came again and again. Soon
it was evident that a new love story
was begun. >
The gentleman was not too young
to bo judge of his own actions, and
old-Mathieu bad grown rich in the
course ef years of thrift.. When he
had promised his daughter’s hand to
George Talbot he decided that on
the day of tho Wedding ho would
close the shop forever. IIo would
buy a tiny cottage in the suburbs,
where, his future grand-children
should visit him. Already in fancy
ho saw Manuette a happy matron—
mother of two boys Jean .and Pierre,
and of a little girl also. Tho eldest,
Jean—named after him—lip should
love best, and make his heir; but in
his sentimental French heart ho re
solved to be religiously just in lrs
distribution of kisses and bon-bons.
Mannette also had her day-dreams.
It was so sweet to be loved, and by
such a hero as this George Talbot.
So she sat one morning sewing on
her wedding dress, fitted elegantly
as for an empress by Madame Pan;
and singing to herself behind the
counter, when suddenly a shadow
fell ugon tbe floor, aiid lifting up
her eyes Mannette saw standing in
the door a lady. She was tall and
grand in figure, no longer youiig, but
•yet handsome. Her velvet robes,
and the pearls in her cars, bespoke
her wealth; without stood livered
servants. *
Mannette; put by her work and
arose.
“How can I serve you, niadamo?”
she said.
“By showing a little common
sense,” said the lady. “I am George.
Talbot’s mother. Perhaps you do
not know he has one, though I think
you are Mannette Mathieu.”
“Mr. Talbot often speaks with
great affection of his mother,” said
Manuette.
“Speech and practice do not al
ways tally, I know,” replied the lady.
‘ * Where can I speak to you ? • Is there
no place hut the shop ?”
Mannette pushed open the little
door leading into the parlor beyond
and followed tile lady into it; already
•prescience of evil had fallen on her,
her limbs tremble^ and her cheeks
grew pale. V . > v-:
She offered Mrs. Talbot, a chair—
but she herself stood opposite her,
“I havp very little to say.” began
the Judy. “I’ll not speak. of the. way
in which you chtrttppeA my son. I
only ask wlmt it will cost to open the
door of his cage ?”
“Madame !” queried the girl.
“Wlmt shall I pay you to refuse to
marry that foolish boy??’ said Mrs.
Talbot “There, that is plain
enough.”
It was plain enough, indeed.
Amidst her anguish, Mannette quite
understood all. L ij \ ; ;•}•]}> ;
“He is to marry Miss Wineoop,”
continued the mother. “He cannot
marry you. Come, nunte your price. ”
Then Mainietta found voice to'
speak’:
“ Your son was not sought, Mad
ame,” she said. “He sought me;
but be assured that after this insult
not all the-wenlth of the world could
buy me to be Ins wife. We are poor
are. I would never enter a family
that lmd insulted me.”
Her voice aud look sileuced the
lady. She lmd expected impudence
DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 2(i, 1879.
and vulgarity. She lmd no weapons
to use against this girl whoso shield
was her dignity, and who stood silent
until she arose to go; and said no
more onoo having said all.
She did not know that tho proud
heart Was breaking, but sho felt a
little twinge of pail) as sho re-entered,
her carriage.
“I do not woi.dcr he loved the
girl,” sho said to herself; “but a to
bacconist’s daughter, who waits in the
store—it would never do, and ho must
marry Annie Wincoop.”
In loss than an hour George Talbot
came to old Mathieu’s house burning
with indignation, and vowing that, he
was his own master, and that he
would marry the girl ho loved. But
he was too. late. Mannette had fold
ed away her wedding dress, and had
hut two words lO say: “Farewell, for
ever. ’
fused to listen to his prayers
“My mother has insulted you, not
I,” cried George Talbot.
“Nevertheless wo have been insult
ed-and the affair is at an end,” said
old Mathiou
George Talbot was forced to de
part, but lie came again and again
Ho plead his ciiuso earnestly, ten
dorly, nil in vain, for many months.
Then ho egased to haunt tho door,
and when Mannette prayed before
the little shrine in her room for the
soul of her dead mother, she prayed
also for the lover who was dead to
her.
Years glided by. It was an event
ful period. Tho colonies took up
arms against the motherland. Inde
pendence was declared. Kinsman
crossed swords.with kinsman. Broth
ers learned to bate oneh other. Men
forsook the shop and tho field. Rich
men wore ruined. The sound of the
drum, the call to arms, filled the ears
of peaceful old men and terrified
women.
Once standing at the door of tho
little- tobacco-shop Munnette saw
troops march by. At their head
rode a form she know. It was that
of George Talbot. As he passed the
door he lifted his cap. In his look
and motion she read tho saddest of
all eternal farewells.
“I shall never see him again,” she
said, and fell senseless to tho floor.
Through all the years of Revolu
tion this was her only glimpse of him.
Peace was proclaimed at last; but
the land • was covered with graves,
families were separated and hearts
broken. Rich men were poor, poor
men wore beggared. Old Mathieu’s
little money, hoiyovcr, luid been safe
ly • bojirded. Ho could now pity
those whom he had once envied a
little in his mild and harmless way.
amongst others George Talbot’s
mother lmd become penniless. She
.earn! her bread in humble toil in the
bouse of Madame Part, who again
began to make dressog for the few
who were able to buy them. Once
slie spoke to Maniiotte.
“Pity me,” sho said.. “I think
my son is dead. Forgive me; I am
punished.”
“May God pity you Madame,”
said Mannette; hut in her oivn room
she ca3t - herself down arid moaned
bitterly. “Ah! it is my beloved al
so, not only her son, who is dead.”
Tho girl’s eyes were no longer
bright, aud her face was sad; but the
little shop was tho same* The white
curtains draped the looking-glass,
tlie flowers bloomed on their sholves;
behind the glass-case, upon the coun
ter, sat Manuette every' week-day.
On Sundays she took her old holiday,
going to church, and to ten"at Mad
ame Pan’s, where they wore black
for a sou who was dead, and whore
another,, with a crutdh und Cmpty
sleeve, told stones of the war and
drank to the health of General La
fayette. L.
Returning alone in the evening,
she passed the spot where her lover
’ first met her—us sacred a place
as would liavo been a tomb. It was
near tho steps of a church.
In its shadows she sometimes lin
gered for a while. Often the tears
fell as they might have fell upon
Georgo Talbot’s gravo, had she known
where to seek it.
On one of thoso Sabbath evenings
was no light hut tho light of
stays aud those dull oil lumps whiob
gave so little light—even when the
wind did not extinguish thorn—and
when she was returning slowly to her
honio. When passing the old church
sho saw, lurking in its shadow, the
figure of a man. It shrank hack as
she passed, but in a moment more
sho Tieard quick footsteps following
her.v
A certain terror possessed her.
Her heart beat fust. She hastened
heivstops, but those other stops fol
lowed still. Amdffilast reaching tho
shop-door, she turned and stood
with her back against it, and saw a
man standing near her, with his arms
Old Mathieu indignantly refolded on his bosom and his head
beilt upon them.
“What do you want?” sho criod.
Then hor eyes, strainod through tho
darkness; caught sight of tho conti
nental uniform—old, worn, evon tat
tered, but still a soldier’s costume.
“Who are you?” sho oried. And
tho man lifted his head, uncovered
it, and turned his faco toward hor.
“Havo yon forgotten roe, Mun-
notto?” ho said. And sho saw George
Talbot oboe again.
“Are you really a living man? 1
have thought you doad. Is this flesh
and not spirit that I see?” sho said
slowly. Then she began to sob. • “I
have bcliovod von dead so long,” she
said. “Oh, thank God who has
spared your life!”
; She opened the shop door. He
fallowed her. The white candlelight
fell upon both faces.
. “And I,” cried. the woman with a
sob—“you would not know me, l ain
so changed; so old.”
“I do, pot know whotboi’you; have
altered,” said tho man. “I only see
Mannette—my Mannette. But 1—
1 return a scarred and ppnniless sol-
dior with neither fortune nor fame.
1 have done my duty. I have not
cared enough for my life to bo a cow
ard—that is all. I must earn my
bread as I can. If I may keep tho
hope of winning yon somo day,
my lifo begins anew. But you are
cruel,, unforgiving. My mother’s
words have blotted out your love for
me
“Your mother?” sighed a trembling
voice. “Your mother is in here.
She heard of your return, she know
where she would find you. Can you
forgive her?”
And Mannette looked up to see
Mrs. Talbot standing upon the
threshold she had so darkened ton
long years before..
But now her fprm-was bent,.her
hair gray. Hoi; velvet robes changed
for patched and rusty stuff; and hor
only pearls the tears that trickled
down her cheeks. She flung herself
on hor knees at her sou’s foot.
‘‘Forgi vo me 1” she sobbed. “And
you, uLo, forgiyo me.' , Wore ,1 a
queen I would ask no better wife for
my son.”
Together they.ruise.fl her. Hlioheld
a hand of euoh and placed them in
each other.
Shall it bo, Mannette?” asked tho
soldier, and drew her, unresisting, to
his breast.
Slowly prosperity revisited the
war-stricken land. Poverty fled.
Trade resumed its old routine.
Too much Veto Unhealthy.
Washington Post.
Mr. Hayes will find it a part of
wisdom not to be lavish of his veto
power. A too free use of the prero
gative might provoke a joint con
gressional inquiry into the fraudulent
means by which it was acquired.
. “All the world’s a stage,” he rumi
nated, “and till the men and women
merely players, and most of the plays
arc from Shakespeare, too! Before
we wort married, Julia and I played
Romeo .and J uliot,’ and now its most
ly ‘Tempest.’ And when tho skies
are clear again, it is found to bo
‘Much ado about nothing.' ”
In Which He Grows Sorry over
. Human Passion ami Perversity.
. Atlanta Constitution.
There are times when a man don’t
feel like doing anything bub brood
over trouble—not his own trouble,
but ttoublo and grief and want and
sorrow generally; whon he fools his
helplessness and that of every body
else in the effort to keep mankind in
peace;, whon ho sorter gives it up that
the world is growing worse instead of
bettor, and neither law nor’ gospel
nor newspapers can stop-folks from
shedding one another’s blood,' and
bringing sorrow that cannot bn do-
soribid unto the widow and the
orphan; when some terrible thing
happens which cannot be remedied,
its a shade of comfort to sit still and
ponder and bo sad. 1 reckon Units
what old Solomon- meant whon ho
said “it 1 is butter to go to tho house
of mourning than the house of feast
ing.”
One day I hoard Jndgo Dougherty
of Athens, asking Mr. Gritlin, of
Gainesville, wlmt groat change hud
como over him that made him so
silont .and sad, “Why,” said ho,
“after I was grown, I spout about
fifteen yours in an earnest effort to
mako everybody happy and live in
peuco with one another, I tried to
stop all wrangling, and to reconcile
enemies, and I was tho umpire in
hundreds of disputes, bub one day
1 got to reflecting upon what I had
accomplished in reforming sooibty
and it amounted to nothing, People
went to law the minio as ever, and
cyory quarrel I sottled broke out
again sooner or later—so I bociupe.
disgusted and quit. If , they wont
hear Moses and the prophots they
wont hear mo.”
Well, if wo emit do anything We
cun mourn with those who mourn.
If one touch of nature makes tho
whole world kin, so do the streams
of sympathy spring up in a thousand
breasts whon a great sorrow overtakes
and crushos down a follow-mortal.
Even hearts caso-hardoned-and crust
ed over with iron rust will throb, and
tiio hidden fountains of tenderness
break loose. . Many folks soem rough
er than they are anyhow, and I always
feel like drawing close up to a man
who looks a pain and heaves it genu
ine sigh foy another’s grid;. Wo
quarrel and fuss a good deal will)
each other about things of no groat
consequence, but that dont signify.
Its no sign of a brute, {vo seen,
brothers do that, but there was an
undor-qiirrontof fraternal love which
was shore to bubble up when danger
or troublo came in sight. 8on»o
families are very muoli like the old
nmn and Iris wifo who wore having a
little chronic sorimimtgo of their own
when a pesky nabor interfered to
keep tho peace they joined forces
and lmd like to-have heat him to
death.
I reckon tlicros no eluiuoe of stop
ping murder and bloodshed in this,
sin-cursed world. Maybe ’ I boro
wouldnfc bo quite so much of it if
pistols wore abolished, but to my
opinion us long as men grow up with
unsubdued passions thoyl do some
devilment when occasion coinos. If
Gain killed Abel with a club when
the Lord was close by, wluit else can
we expect of bad people when He is
bo fur off. I remember when nobody
carried pistols, for, there was. none to
carry. The generals and colonels of
{he Georgia militia did have some
great big ones about a foot and a half
long, which they curried in holsters
hung in the pommel of. the saddle as
they traveled around to the general
musters, and a few bloods lmd a case
of duolliug pistols, which thoy kept
sorter hid out and exhibited once in
a while to personal friends; lint these
little new fashioned lepoiiters and
reyqlv'oi'H and Holf-cookors that every
and the niggers carry now-u-
days hadnl been invented, and I wish
sion so many accoidents that I debt
want one in a hundred yards of me
or my folks. I dont see much sense
in the law against carrying them
conqpaleil, for you cant cull it con
cealment when you know that, a feller
Inis got, one under his o mt-tail. Ill
quarrelin with a man, its a reasona
ble presumption, that lies got ono and
that youve get another, and it dont
make any difference whether its con
cealed or not. If lie didut have one
lie oau*. stop in a store and get one
mighty quick it he wants to kill von,
or tiio can get. a shot-gun like they
used to dp. in old timos. I dont
think there are any more murders
from pistols than there would be
without om, for if a man is holi-bent
on killin spoiebud v he can find weap
onsenough. J cap remember hut
live men killod in Floyd county iii
years, and but ono of them was
shot with a pistol. So I dont seo
ail .y,the.law, more especially
as it scorns impossible to execute it.
They make oni so small how that u
boy can hide one in his watoh pocket
and they’ll ■ kill'overy pop at closo
quarters. 1 never l.ou-d one in my
life for 1m al'eeni of cm. 1 dont say
that a muu who does ttfeffas bravo as
Julius Gosttr, but I hoard Dennis
Hammond charge the grand jury of
Floyd that a nmn who lmd one hid
ubout his person had a streak of cow
ardice running down his buck-bone
as big as his arm, and tvasout lit to
associate with goutlomon nor Chris
tians, aipl ho wound up by saying
“thats'tlio Jaw.” *
'I’he trouble is not so .much.In the
pistols, for us the judge said thorn •
folks: who toEo om ' habitually are
afraid to use cm, and the fear of be
ing shot, sometimes koops down one
of these old fashioned fights where
they knock and gouge and bite it
out. T|io chief troublo is inhuman
passion, which no law can regulate
at all t imes, and tho next troublo is
the whiskey that stimulates and foods
it. Wlmt to do about it, nobody
seems to know, for everything 1ms
been tried over and over again to
stop it, and still its a power in tho
land. It doos look like tiio people
wore just obliged to have it. Some
times I. think that maybe its best to
repeal all the laws and lot everybody
mako it who wants to, and lot it be
sold withouta liconso. Mankind are
very In uoh li ke oh lid ren. Thoy wan t
a tiling a heap more when you say
they slmnt have it. Yours,
Bill Akp.
A Now York papa rcoontly signed
a $3,000. cheek, to pay for two dress-
oh worn by his handsome twiu daugh
ters just unco.
A ricli, biit parsimonious; old gen
tleman on being taken to task for In*
unclviritablonoss, said: “True, I do
not. give much; Imt if you only knew
how it hurts.when I give anything,
you wouldn’t 'wonder.”
The Camel.
. . ^
Rend Warner’s description of w
camel: “.\o human, royal family
dare bo tiglior thiiii the ctmiol. Ho
is a mass of bones, faded tufts,
humps, lumps, splay-joints and cal-
lossities. His tail is a ridiculous
wisp, and a failure its an ornament
or a fiy-lmish. His foot are simply
big sponges. For skin covoring lio
1ms pntohos of old,buffalo robes, faded
and with the lmir worn off. His
voice is more disagreeable than his
uppoarunqu. With a reputation for
patiohdo, lie is snappish und vindic
tive. His ondumnoo Is overrated;
that is to say, lie die.-; like a sheep if
ho is not w-11 fed. Ifis gait racks
the musclos like {he ugtjo, And yet
this ungainly oroaturo oarrjes his
head in the dir aiid regards the world
out, of' it.: great brown eyes with dis
dain. The very poiso of his head
days: H liuVo 'oonie <mt of tlm dim
past; the ilolugo did not touoli me; I
helped Shoofoo build tho great pyra
mid; 1 know Egypt when it hadn’t
mi obelisk nor a temple. There aro
they hadn’t as yet—not that I am threo of us; the date-palm, the pyr-
ufeerd of anybody siiooti ug mo with amid and myself. Everything el so
matioO aforethought, but’ they acea-1 is inodorn/ ”
