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t**’ 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/ ”