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VOL. 1.
DUBLIN, GEORGIA., WEDNESDAY, MAY 21, 1879.
NO 49
BE A WOMAN.
-a
Oft I’ve heard a gentle mother,
As the twilight hours began,
Pleading with n son on duty,.
Urging him to be a mail.
But unto her blue-eyed daughter,
Though with love’s words quite ns
ready.
Points she out the other, duty—
“Strive, my dear, to be a lady.”
What’s a lady? It is something
Made of hoops, and silks, and airs,
Used to decorate the parlor,
Like the fancy rings and chairs?
It is one that wastes on novels
Every feeling that is human?
If ’tis this to he a lady,
’Tis not this to lie a woman.
Mother, then, unto your daughter
Speak of something higher far
Than to be mere fashion’s lady—
“Woman” is the brightest star.
If you in your strong affection,
Urge your son to he a true man.
Urge your daughter no less strongly
To arise and he a woman.
Yes, a woman/ brightest model
Of that high and perfect beauty,
Where the mind and soul and body
Blend to work out life’s great duty.
Be a woman 7 naught is higher
• On the gilded crest of fame ;
On the catalogue of virtue
There’s no brighter, holier name.
Be a woman ! On to duty !
liaise the world from all that's low,
Place high, in the social heaven
Virtues lair and radiant bow,
Lend tlly influence to each effort
That shall raise our nature human ;
Be not fashion’s giddy lady-—
Be a brave, whole-souled, true woman.
CONTRARY MINDED.
“I wonder he didn’t take the par
son, ” mused the deacon’s housekeep
er as the deacon drove off alone to
the annual contcrc'nce. “lie’s com
monly master-thoughtful about look
ing out for folks. What a husband
lie was !’’
Yes, Asti Phoenix lmd been a good
husband.' All tin-neighbors agreed
with Mrs. Dubbs in that particular,
lie had waited upon bis fussy invn-
**lid wife by dying Riches for thirty
years, making her as happy as she
would let liitn; and when her sum--
inons^tame, lie had closed her dying
eyes tenderly, saying, even with
-tears, “Poor sufferer, she is better
f off!”
That he was better off he hinted not
• by word or look. Ho wore I113 wid
ower’s weeds with sad decorum; he
reared in memory of the departed
Lucinda a monument which the most
fastidious deceased might have qii-
vied; he grieved faithfully for the.
full allotted year of mourning. If
now, from the ashes of the funeral
pyre, like his feathered- namesake of
faille, lie was springing up with re
newed youth and freshness, was it
not well ?
In truth, though he had not seen
fit to confide this fact to Mrs.-Dubbs,
Deacon Phoenix had slighted the
minister deliberately and w'.th malice
. aforethought. Nor was it of the
conference he was thinking that fra
grant June morning as he whirled
away, tuekhig the lap-robe well
about liis glossy new broad-cloth.
For once in his hitherto blameless
life ho was essaying to hide secular
underneath the spiritual. He did
not mean to go straight to meeting ;
it was his wily intention to make a
wide circuit, and call on Miss Olive
Wayne in the town of Chester. He
lmd a question to ask her, and did
not want the parson witli him; lie
hoped he might want him later.
Pretty cheerful Olive! How fond
lie had been of her, years ago, when
she attended his school! If he lmd
not been in love’ with Lucinda, he
was sure he should have fallen in love
with her, mere child though she was.
He had never lost sight of her, and
he thankod Providence that, he lmd
been enabled by money and influence
to help her family over some , hard
places. Please God, the dear girl
should henceforth have an easier
life. Girl! Why little Olive must
he fifty! The good deacon laughed
at the amasing recollection. Well,
she would always seem young to
him. And as for himself, at sixty
odd lie was a hale man yet, lie could
jump a five-rail fence as well as he
ever could—give him time. Ilis
thoughts continuously reverted to
Olive, so patiently devoted to her
invalid father. She should bring
the old gentleman to his house if sho
wished, or he would provide for his
maintenance at her brother Reuben’s.
He was inclined t.o consider that the
better plain The money would bo
an object to Reuben,
In those cogitations the morning
passed and noon found Deacon Phoe
nix at ‘the little hotel at Chester.
Impatient of delay, after a hasty din
ner he set out almost immediately
for the Wayne homestead. Arriving
at the gate he spied Miss Olive at
the window, and alighted with a
youthful agility not altogether pru
dent in a man who lmd twinges of
sciatica. And yet—strange incon
sistency of human nature!—he dal
lied at the hitching post, afterward,
with his hand on the very knocker,
lie paused to scan the distant horizon
as though he had come mainly for a
view of the mountains. Miss Olive
opened the door, her check flushing
like late October peaches. She would
not have been a woman lmd she not
divined the deacon’s tender mission,
proclaimed by every detail of bis im
maculate toilette, by the grasp of his
hand, by his nervous, expectant air.
And, moreover, Olive was an attrac
tive woman, not unversed in lovers’
ways.
“Happy to see you, Mr. Phdmix,
walk in,” said she, fluriedly ushering
him into the sitting room, where her
aged father dozed in his arm chair.
“Who is it, Olive?” said the old
gentleman, waking with a.bewildor-
ed stare.
“Mr. Phoenix, father. You re
member Mr. Phoenix, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know as I’do,” said he,
quornoiisly, fumbling with the guests
outstretched hand. “What’s he
come for, Olive ?”
The deacon looked as if he was
suddenly feeling the hot weather;
Miss 01ive*was positively feverish,
blit she-deftly evaded the trouble
some question by diverting her fa
ther’# attention. His peppermint
tea was ready—would he not drink
■it? As she hovered about the inva
lid, straightening his footstool, ar
ranging his pillows, steadying the
oil]) while lie drank, Mr. Phoenix re
garded her admiringly. How young
she seemed still! Not a gray thread
in her golden hair; scarcely a wrinkle
in her face. That was because of
her excellent disposition. He wait
ed till she lmd soothed the old man
into slumber, then in a direct, manly
way introduced the subject that lay
next liis heart.
Miss Olive interrupted him by an
eloquent glance toward her father.
“He is very childish and depend
ent. Ife cannot do without me.”
“Let me help you care for him,
Olive; my house is large, my means
are ample.”
“I couldn’t, Mr. Phoenix—it is
like your generosity to propose such
a thing; but I couldn’t have him a
burden upon you.”
“Why, bless your soul, Olive, do
you suppose I should consider a
friend of .yours a burden?”
“You don’t know how trying poor
father would be to anybody but liis
own daughter, and I think he is like-
13' to live to u great age, as grand
father did.”
“For that very reason then, then
“Besides it would make hirn
wretched to take him from tho old
Homestead.”
“But Olive—”
“So you- see I’m engaged, Mr.
Phoenix,” said Miss Olive, playfully,
while she whisked away a tear. “I
am engaged. You must niarry some
lady who isn’t. And I hope you’ll
be a^ happy as you deserve to he,”
she added, with a little tremor,
springing up to adjust the curtain.
In vain he tried to bend her to his
wishes; she remained outwardly as
firm as the hoarthstone at her feet,
till at length ho arrived at the un
welcome conviction that she lmd no
liking for him, or she would linvo
listened to liis pleadings. She had
interposed the «kl gentleman merely
as a sort of cushion to softon the
blow of her rejection.
If he took a smiling leavo, it was
because pride tugged at. his facial
muscles, for, to tell tho truth, he
had never been more disappointed
and chagrined in his lifo. Of what
avail the stylish cquippugo upon
which he lmd ouco plumed himself!
Was it not bearing him on to the
tomb? And why should ho wish to
prolong his early prilgrimage? What,
further attraction had life for him, a
lonoly old man nearly seventy ?
Hardly conscious of the reins, he
had driven some miles at an unsnne-
tified. pace, when ho almost ran over
Mr. Torroy, brother of the deceased
Lucinda, wlvo was walking behind
his carriage up a long ascent.
“Going to conforenco?” asked that
gentleman, after an exchange of
greetings. “Didn’t you como a
roundabout way?”
“I’m inclined to think I did,” as
sented the deacon, with a prodigious
show of candor. “A roundabout
way and a hard way. Is your wife
with you?”
“Yes; and the widow Vance. I
have to. foot it up lull, you see.
Horse stepped on a rolling stone back
apiece and lamed himself.”
“Your load is too heavy let sister
Tyrrjy ride with me.”
But sister Torroy. being nervous,
lilco Lucinda before her, and mor
tally afraid of the deacon’s spirited
steed, it was in the end Mrs. Vunce
who nestled into the vacant seat.
Bho was a gushing young widow
whose mitigated grief manifested it
self in certain coquettish 'bows of
pale lavender. Slip protested that 1
slip already felt acquainted with Mr.
Phdmix through her lato. husband,,
to whom lie lmd been sd kind. She
would never cease to bo grateful for
the many favors lie had conferred
upon dear Charles, etc.
In the morning the worth}'deacon
would have smiled inwardly at this,
effusive panegyric. Tins afternoon
he hugged it like a poultice to his
aching heart. It soothed liis wound
ed self-love, and inclined him toward
his fair eulogist to whom lie recounted
pleasant anecdotes of her husbands
boyhood. Indeed, lie made himself
so agreeable that she was rather sor
ry to roach Church\illc, where the
whole party wero cordially welcomed
at the house of Mr. Zenus Torroy.
A proud man was Mr. Phoenix.
He would not for tho world have lmd
his recent disappointment suspected
by his wife’s relatives, and during
those three days of conference lie
carried himself .with a resolute cheer
fulness that sometimes—out of meet
ing, of course--verged friskiness.
Mrs. Vance told Mrs. Zorins Torroy
that he was “just splendid,” which
compliment Mrs. Torroy repeated to
him with a significant smile, hinting
that if ho thought of marrying again
ho need not search far for a wife.
He looked, confused and hotly dis
claimed any matrimonal intention.
As to the 3'oung widow, was he not
double her age? Would June join
hands with December.
Alas! wlmt an insignificant trifle
can turn the scale of human destiny!
But for a horse’s right forefoot Dea
con Phoenix might have roturned to
his homo on the morrow as he iiad
left it—a free roan. It was the lame
horse that kicked the beam and de
cided his fate. On Friday morning
that meddling quadruped having
been found lamer than ever, the dea
con could do no less than offer to es
cort Mrs. Vance home. She could
do no less than to accept the offer
gladly. By some mysterious law of
sequences, this led to a second offer
and a second acceptance, and almost
before he knew it Deacon Phomix
had pledged himself to escort tho
widow for lifo. When, after gal
lantly depositing his promised bride
at her own door, bo was alone with
his thoughts, ho felt a littlo suprised
at his own precipitancy; but lie told
himself-over and over again wlmt a
fortunate man lie was—how happy
he ought to be. Contrary to his
usual custom* he had acted from im
pulse, and the result was highly sat
isfactory. “Highly satisfactory,” ho
repeated to himself, as he passed the
entrance to the oross-rond which led
to Miss’ Olivo’s. Somohow his ro-
fleotion^ were loss cheerful after that.
Perhaps tho chilly rain-storm just
setting in depressed him, or perhaps
it, was tho empty hoarse that lie mot
faco to face—for tho host of us have
our superstitions. Certain it. is that,
as lie alighted from his buggy that
evening, with weariness of limb and
linipnoss of linen, his countenance
led Mrs. Dubbs to fear tho mootings
lmd not.been profitable.
Next’morning, tlumks to tho un
gracious weather, lie was aroused by
sciatic.tortures. To an elderly gen
tleman, newly-botrotlicd to a bloom
ing lady greatly liis junior, such nil
awakening was peculiarly trying.
Ho thought ruefully of the early
visit he/lmd promised Mrs. Vance.
Should the pains increase, ho must,
defer it indefinitely; or limp into hoi
presence with crutches—an alterna
tive too suggestive of advancing age.
Flattered as lie was by tho widow’s
aepoptaneo, lio could not deny that
it placed him in a position in some
respects irksome. It admonished
him that lie had no further right to
infirmities; that, henceforth it was
liis bon mien duty to bo as young as
he could. The reflection wearied,
him; the clutching pain wearied
him. Mrs. Dubbs said she had
never soon him so nearly opt. of sorts
us on that evening when she took in
liis mail. -.Among tho letters was
.erne Hut caught, his eye at ojiec:
“Dear FuruNi)”(it run):—“My
poor fat her is at rest. Ho was seized
with paralysis the morning after you
left us, and pussod away painlessly
in a few hours. How little I uni im
puted this-even;, when wo talked to
gether! My hands wore full then;
now they are but very, empty. My.
work here 4s done. If you still be
lieve 1 could make happy the kind
friend who has always been our ben
efactor, J should be glad to see you.
Yours, sincerely,
0t.ivis Wayne.”
Mr. Phoenix read kills missive, re
read it, shut it into tho book of Job
safe from Prying Mrs. Dubbs, and
drummed uneasily on the closed Bi
ble. What a predicament! Must
he thrust back upon Olive this gift
for which lie lmd so lately sued?
Must, he thus humble her? He
writhed at tho thought. Must lie
thus humble himself? Bitterer than
all, muse he relinquish this tried
friend of a lifetime? Having re tch
ed life’s autumn, must lie reject life’s
mature and appropriate fruits for tho
rhubarb and greens of sp.ing-timo?
Alas! } r es; lie must fulfill his engage
ment, for was lie not an “honorable
man?” He would write at once to
Olivo a candid statement of the case.
Bui while lie idled at his dosk on
the morrow, Mr. 'Torroy, came to ask
tho loan of a horse till his own should
be in running order, and tho deacon
laid down his pen with a sigh of re-
Hof.
Feeling that he ought to .toll his
brother-in-law of the contemplated
marriage, at dinner he led the con
versation buck to the conference and
Mrs. Vance.
“By-thc-way, I met tho widow
this morning, riding with John
Vance,” remarked Mr. Torroy casu
ally. * You remember him—the
brother next to- Clmrlo#? He’s just
from CuKforniu, with his pockets
full.”
“Ah r
“Yes. Shouldn't wonder if he
took tho widow. Some say they’re
engaged uli-ead}'.”
Of course the deacon knew better
than that, nevertheless he delayed
liis tender confession. And bo did
not write the letter. Time enough
for that after he bad paid Mrs. Vance
the promised visit. Tho latter lady
hud certainly bad the first claim up
on bis attentions.
Unfortunately several days of tor
menting pain ensued, (luring which
the deacon’s patience was put to a
pretty severe tost; but ho was at last
able to seek tho object of his lmsty
choice. He found her in her door-
yard, playing croquet with n lull,
well-dressed gentleman.
• “So happy to see you Deacon
Phoenix!” cried she, with voluble
embarrassment, “and sc gli.id to in
troduce Mr. Vance, dear Charles’
brother. Do como in.”
“I hope my tardy coming does not
seeiii discourteous, Mrs. Y'miqp,” said
lie, in affable formality, while llie
stranger hastened to a sudden ly-ro-
eallod engagement. “I havo not—”
“Oil—oh’, no,” broko in the wid
ow, nervously.
♦‘I have not been woll. Otherwise
under our present interesting rela
tions—”
“Oh, Mr. Phoenix!” interrupted
she, throwing herself upon a cricket
at'his feet. “Do you know I am so
afraid I am not the one to mitko yon
happy? And our friends say the
discrepancy in our ages is too great.
Ought I lo marry agonist their
wishes?”
“You must decide Unit.question,
dear madam,” responded tliqdeacon,
with suppressed eagerness. Tho lin
go r of Providence was in this, lie
hold his breath to make su.ro which
way it, pointed.,
“Then, if }'ou don’t mind very
much, Deacon Plmmix, perhaps it
would he better for us to*part ns
friends. Oh, dear! I hope you’ll
forgive me if I have done anything
wrong.”
The deacon hardly heard .the clos
ing sen tenon for the glad heating of
his heart. “My dear child, you
have done quite right; 1 do not.-re
proach you,” fluid lie with a smile of
infinite bonovoldnce. “It is natural
that youth should choose to wed
with you Mi.”
.“'And that age should wod with
ago,” lie added, mentally, as, witJi
an adieu almost paternal, he drove
him in the direction of Mi’sh Olivo’s.
lie and Miss Wayne wore' married
the following October, but Mr. and
Mrs. Vance waited till Christmas.—
J/urpar'n Bazar.
Foot! for Reflection.
Naturo novor says that, which roa-
son will contradict.
It is betf. r to bo saved in a storm
tluiii to be lost in a calm,
To live without a purpose is to
load a restless, unhappy life.
They who Inivo tt'uo light in them
selves seldom become satellites.
Actions, looks, words, stops, form
the steps by which we may spell char
acters.
A good report lingers on its way,
hut an ill one flies straight to where
it can do the most harm.
There arc inscriptions on ail liti
man hearts, which are never to lie
seen, except, at low, dead tide.
People do not reflect f lint they
may soon die. If they did, their
quarrels would quickly! terminate.
Friendship in noma people is cru
elty, like feeding a thirsty man with
the beaded foam in the wine cup.
Self-denial is tho most, exalted
pleasure, and the conquests* of evil
habits the most glorious triumph.
It is better ’to sit on tho ground
with freedom of speech than to re
cline in a palace with the lips scaled.
Some people never have a story to
tell, because of their quicksund na
tures, from which every new wave
washes out the old impression.
The force, tho mass of character,
mind, heart or soul, that a man can
put into any work is the mast im
portant factor in Unit work.
Leave your grievances, us Napoleon
did liis letters, unopened for three
weeks, and it is astonishing bow few
of them by that time will need an
swering.
There are moil who no more grasp
tho truth they seem to bold than a
sparrow grasps the message through
the electric wire on which it perches.
It is better to suffer on the sido of
right than to reign on the side of the
wrong. Success, which is the result
of wrong-doing, brings a curse with
it.
Trapped.
She lmd been so often importuned
by him to lot him como in the house,
that her heart, melted till*it was
almost as soft as liis hoiid;
“But mind." said she. “my pa is
Bnrglar-mnd, and imagines every
noise ho hears in the liouso is one of
them ; and as he will not allow me
to keep company in the house, you
must go as soon as he comes homo.”
lie promised obedience. They
lmd scarcely sat half an hour before
the old man was al. (lie front, door,
fumbling with the key.
“Oh! I must iiido you,” cried tlio
girl, ns she hurriedly glanced around
for a place.
Sho led him into the .kitchen ami
persuaded him to creep ihto a barrel;
which stood in a corner. Slio cov
ered him up with a brond-bourd and
returned to the -sitting-room' to meet
her pa. Tho barrel was damp mid
contained lin odor not altogether
congenial ; hut lie dared not stir.
The old man wont armed, so sho Iiad
informed him. Ten minutes passed,
when hea vy footsteps approached the
door, which was opened; then the
old man took off tho lid and emptied
the contents of tho wiisli-haSin over
him! He winced, hut, was glad
when the barrel, was covorod again
mid flic old maii loft, the kitchen.
Trying to shift liis cramped position,
ljo humped his head against the lid,
and it fell with a clatter to the floor!
ID* leaped from the barrel, sought
llie cover in tho dark and found it;
lie jumped buck into the slop barrel
just, in time ; the lid Was adjusted
just as putor fanuHaii came.in-with
a lump in one hand and a revolver in
the other.
“Face mo like men,” roitred he,
savagely tramping about, “and I’ll
show you wlmt, a nuui in bis own
house cun do.”
Ho seareliod around for ten min
utes, then returned to tho Bitting-
room. .Julius began to wish himself
ill; "homo. His love was decidedly
cooled. But the catastropbo was
near. A littlo pet dog slipped into
the kitchen ami smelled him but.
He began to lmrk, which brought
out tho old mun nguin, followed by
iiis wife.
“Tliore’rf some one in tho slop bar
rel,” roared lie.
“Weald him to death,” cried his ’
wife.
I’ll fix him,” said lie. Hero tuko
my revolver, aud shoot when lie pops
out liis head, while I rollout the
barrel.”
Then he rolled it into the yard,
turned it upside down, and called
for his revolver. 'This was not to he
endured. Our love-sick youth gave
one kick mid emerged from tho bar
rel, mid went for the fence. Ho
scrambled over it mid van for his
life. He' avoids that girl now, for
lie 1ms a faint idea that it was a
“put up job” botweon her and lior
P ll< _ •
There are four metulie qualifica
tions which holjt a mun through tho
world : iron in liis heart, brass in his
face, silver in liis tongue, mid gold
in his pocket.
A man who was in lovo with a
bountiful Hebrew girl, on hearing
that hIio was sick, exclaimed: “Ou
my precious pearl! iny Jew-ill. .
There are people who have no
higher ambition than to be well in
formed in regard to other people’s
private business, to retail scandal to
their neighbors, and exult in fiend
ish triumph ovor the wounded feel
ings and bruised hearts of their
innocent victims.
A gentleman lmd a had eye ami
was advised to Imvo it out so that ho
might save the other eye. Ho took
chloroform, and the doctor, a famous
specialist, look out the good eye by
mistake. The patient is' blind mid
can not shoot the specialist.
A man who soya he “peaks from
experience,” thinks that one felon
on the bund is worse Hum two in
the penitentiary.