Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
DUBLIN, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 26, 1870.
NO. 2.
SELF.
UY 5IUS. M. A. KIDDEH,
With unlatched doors on every side,.
And windows opening free and wide,
How oft we sigh and sigli in vain
To flee from misery and pain.
We all may leave our goods bchiud,
Our houses, lands, and e’en our kind
May bid good-by to earthly pelf;
But ah / we cantiot fly from self.
Self, either enemy or friend,
Knows our beginning and our end,
Our lying down, our rising up,
Walks in our footsteps, drains our cup
Brings peace or warfare to our hearth
Goes with us round the teeming earth
Aye ! with its blessing or its ban,
Clings closer than a brother can.
If self be then so very near,
A sole compaiion, even here
To whom we all our secrets give;
It then behooves us so to live
And so to walk in honor’s path,
Avoiding envy, hate and wrath,
That we on some eventful day
Strive not from self to run away.
To do for others in their need—
To sympathize with hearts that bleed—
To grant forgiveness for a wrong—
To sometimes suffer und be strong;
To work with ready, willing hands
And courage, as the case demands,
Will scatter discord’s busy elves,
And reconcile us to ourselves.
1>I FALKLAND’S MISTAKE.
In the full, l icit, red glow of aglo-
riotis sunset, Di Falkland stood, her
elbow on the stile, her little round
chin resting in her pink palm, and
her soft, clear brown eyes wistfully
following the well-set, manly figure
of Sir Harry Dynne, as, with bowed
head, lie strode from her across the
meadow.
There were tears in the brown
eyes; a sigh parted the fresh rosebud
lil»s. If Di Falkland had ever re
pented a rash, petulant speech, she
(did that one uttered not ten minutes
Sir liarry Dynne, whom she had
known from childhood, and, yes,
loved as long, had, meeting her by'
that shady stile, asked her to-be his
wife, and she had refused him.
Why ?
Because of the very friendship—
almost of Brotljpr and sister—which
had existed between them, Sir Harry
had begged her to bo his without
preamble, without any lover’s flowery
verbiage, but in a manly, straight
forward fashion, without perhaps a
little too apparent assurance of suc
cess.
It was the latter that had occa
sioned the wretched rebellious spirit
to start up in Di’s heart. • Hid Sir
liarry possess the conceited idea that
,he had but'to ask and have? . Was
she not worthy some doubt, some
anxiety ? Thus it was that Di’s
pride answered, and not, her heart;
when she had rejected the suit of
of the man she loved, giving a light
ness to her reply which, only after
utterance, she saw how deeply it was
calculated to pain.
A moment he had stood silent be
fore her, agony blended with amaze
in his gray eyes, then the expression
changed to one of sad reproach; he
had spoken a few brief words of fare
well, and left her—left her to sigh
and moan in her repentance.
“What have I said? Why did I
say it?” she murmured, dropping her
head on the, stile. “Will he ever
ask me again? No, no! Harry is
not the man to seek .any woman
twice. I have held my happiness in
my hand, and cast it from me. Oh,
Harry, Harry!”*
Di Falkland, only child and heir
ess of Leighton Falkland, Esq., of
The Alders, remained at the stile
battling with her sorrow, until the
sunset had given place to twilight,
when, hoping against hope, for she
knows well Sir Harry’s spirit, she
bent her steps through the dark back
to the house.
Mr. Falkland was absent, being in
London a few days on business, and
as Di, regarding the yet unlighted
windows, thought of the dreariness
of the lonely drawing-room, the bit
ter recollection of her late folly, her
sole companion, she shivered, and
diverting her steps, proceeded round
to the west side of the house.
Here the bright flicker of the fire
light on a small ground-floor bay-
window, gave an assuranco of life
and sociability. Approachingly Di
looked in. A pleasant-faced elderly
woman sat in a comfortable arm
chair by the hearth. Her eyes were
half closed ; her hands rested in her
lap, whereon lay her knitting and
spectacles.
It was a lonely picture, but the
girl knew in the whole world she
could find no sympathy warmer than
here.
.Turning the handle of the window,
and partly opening it, she said :
“Nurse may I come in? The
house is so dull with papa away.”
“ Come in ? Surely Miss Di,
dear!” ejaculated the old woman,
bustling up. “Your bounic face and
bonnic presence are ever better than
sunshine to old Margaret.”
A few minutes later and Di Falk
land was loaning back in another
arm-chair, her dainty feet on the
bright fender, enjoying the agreeable
warmth.
“Oh, please, nurse, don’t got can
dles,” pleaded the girl, as Margaret
rose for that purpose. “I do so like
fire-glow. It is quite enough to talk
by; and nurse, dear, I want you to
tell me something.”
“As you desire, Miss Di, and I’ll
tell you anything I can.”
“Well, nurse, I want you to relate
to me again the U-gend of Lady
Hilda’s Seat.”
“Again ? Lor ! Miss Di, you must
have heard it score of times.”
“Ah! but I’d like to hear it again,”
laughed the girl. “Was it at the
full moon, or—”
“The now, Miss I)i; like it is to
night,” interrupted the nurse, not
displeased at,this means for loquac
ity-* " - > -
•, ^‘There, you sec, I had forgotten
forgotten the details,” laughed Di
Falkland, a little nervously.
And why, my dear, fash your
head about details ?”
“Oh!” replied the Machivelian Di,
I should like to know it as perfectly
as you do.”
No way loth, Margaret began, but
there is scarcely need to follow her
prolixity. A. few words will bettor
suffice.
During the Civil Wars a daughter
of the house of Falkland had given
her heart to a Cavalier who had sided
with the Parliament. On his seced
ing from the king the family of Lady
Hilda strove to force- her into mar
riage with a young Royalist. For a
long time she refused, but finally,
hearing that her lover was slain, she
hud consented.
On the eve of the wedding sad at
heart, she had sought her favorite
spot, it being there that Geoffrey
Hampden had wood her. It was a
rustic seat in a plantation situate at
an elevated portion of the grounds.
A rude fence divided it from the
road, which passed nearly twelve feet,
below.
Hero, sitting down, she was mur
muring her last prayer, and shedding
her final tear for her dead lover,
when the tramp of a horse coming
along- the road aroused her. Look
ing over, she porco’ved it was a sol
dier of tiie Commonwealth.
It was tire first night <Jf a new
moon, but the light was sufficient
for Lady Hilda to recognize Geoffrey
Hampden. A cry told him of her
presence. The result was that when
search was made for Ludy Hilda she
was nowhere to be found. Indeed
nothing was heard of her again until
peace returned to England, when
she came back to Hall, and was for
given, as Lady Geoffrey Hampden.
Since which time, the legend has
run that whenever a female Fulklatul
liked to sit in the rustic seat at the
time of the new moon she would
aurely see her future husband.
This was the story that old Marga
ret related with such gusto, and to
which Di listened very attentively.
It was half-past nine before she
quitted her nurse and wont to the
druwing-romn. There, without yet
removiug her hat and cloak, she
stood by the open window, thinking
of the legend and Sir Harry Dynne.
Suddenly a flush rose to her cheek.
An nncortain, half-ashamed, half-re
solved light glanced in hor eyes.
Then she laughed nervously—then,
swift as a lapwing she passed swiftly
down the grand staircase, unseen and
unheard, fled over to the lawn to
wards the plantation. Partly in jest,
partly from the craving hope in her
breast, she intended to test Laxly
Hilda’s Seat,
Swiftly sho made her way through
the dark plantation. The pheasants
moved in the branches abovo her
head, but Di had no fear. PonolVers
seldom visit the Hall, and sho be
lieved her fathers gamo-keopers near
somewhere. Reaching the seat 'she
dropped upon it, shrinking info a
corner, and beginning to feol.she
was a very great, stupid. T-liree
minutes, which seem like ton to hor,
had passed, and she was on the point
of running back to the house, ^hen
she heard the tread of feet in, tho
road. Far too heavy for Sir Harry’s;,
but rising, she pooped over the feneo.
Those approaching were two men,
attiied in gaiters, velveteen cjbats,
and with caps drawn over tlieii*,&ees,
while in their hands they parried
guns. Di held her breath. Sl|e was
scarcely frightened, for it was not
likely the men had any thought of
entering the plantation. Tjp her
surprise they halted almost beneath
where she was, and, thougll thoy
spoke in whispers, she heardfovery
word, her blood freezing witlrjiorroi
as she listened.
“I’ll tell ’ee, lad,” said one, “wo
are hide ourselves behind the ‘artlie
rine ’edge, by the Cumberley Rognl,
so that we can do for ’un if the chaps
at the crass-roar'ds sliouId rmssAin.”
“Which they ain’t like to do,” was
the response. “But are you so davy
sure the barrernifc is at Starming-
harn? I saw ’un a few hours back
with tho Farklaud gal in the, four-
acre meadow.”
Di staited, but pressed her hand
to her throat to stifle her cry. The
other man answered :
1 • I’m sartain. He’s gone to*.Star-
minglmm on the very business that
we are going to put a bullet in his
skull for to-night. If we goes on
strike, we goes, and we ain’t going
to *ave Sir ’Arry or hunybody else
bringing new hagricultooral ’ands to
oust us. He’s brought liis death on
his own head. Come lad—Sir’Arry
leaves Stanningliam at ton.”
“All right; but the boys at the
crass-foads will finish him without
The men tramped off ; and Di re
mained paralyzed where she was.
Paralyzed, however, only for a fow
seconds. Sir Harry Dyntie’s life
was in danger. Those men were de
termined. They would not fail in
their purpose, and beforo an hour
Dynne Chase would havo no master,
and she—
“Oh! Harry—Harry!” she cried,
wringing her hands. “I must—I
will save you. But how? Oh, kind
Heaven, aid me !” She pressed her
hands to her temples, trying to
think. There was no time to return
and seek help from the house. She
feared to call aloud, to see if any of
the game-keepers were near, lest tho
men hearing should return; To her
excited brain she saw but one safe
way to save Sir Harry—that was to
warn him herself.
It was no easy matter. She dare
not to go by tho G'umberly road for
fear of those two men in ambush.
Besides, it was ten minutes to ten
already. Before she could reach the
cross-roads that way, Sir Harry
would have done so from the oppo
site direction, and, unwarned, J^ave
met his cruel death.
His cruel death!—that decided Di.
She would save him, though the
meuus was difficult, for she must go
"cross-country,” defying all obsta
cles.
In a moment sho hud clumbored
over the fence, and by tho help of a
pliant bush lowered horself down and
dropped into the road. Scratches
and tears sho felt not. Swiftly sho
crossed to the other side!, casting a
scared glance in tho direction of tho
men, to sec if they wore in view.
The highway . was clear, and Di
clambered the opposite bodge into
tho field. She know perfectly well
the road leading from Starmiogham,
which was fortunate; but tho way
laid over stubble, and meadows heavy
with dew. Over, .too, ditch and
thorn hedge, for the girl dared not
lose time to seek gates or gaps.
Time/ Oh, Heaven! could she
even yet do it? Five past ten! Five!
It would not take Sir Harry ton to
got to tho cross-roads, especially if
he were riding dour old Hector.
And—and how far sho had still to
go!
Onward . she went, however. If
sho could not save him, slip would at
least try her best. Her pretty dress
was torn to shreds; the lower part
was saturated with water; her hail
hung tangled about her pale face;
hor hands wore bleeding. Frequent
ly she fell, but,.bravely roguiuod her
feet.
Tlie hist meadow was reached,
when the quick heat of ljopfs on the
roiid reached Di’s oar.., "A* hoarse cry
burst from her lips. If she missed
him now his fate was sealed. Tho
road lie was traversing wont along
the furthest sido of tho meadow—
could she reach it? Would lie go on
to liis death?
Sho tried to quicken her pace, hut
her limbs wero numbed—her brain
stunned. Siio endoavored, to call his
name, but breathless, it died on hor
lips. Soon she sped op, mophani-
AN UNCUT DIAMOND.
willy, hardly award 'of the hoofs com-
Then she was conscious of a hedge,
of a gap in‘it, of struggling forward
into tho road, and of falling on hor
knees there with extended arms, al
most under the horse’s feet, so near
that had not the rider made him roar
and swervo, tho animal must have
been on her.
“Great heaven, woman, are you
mad? What are you about?” cried
Sir Harry, angrily.
“Oh! Harry, Marry, it is I.
Thank, thank heaven, I am in timo,”
she sobbed historically. “You must
not go on.”
“Heavens, Di!” lie ejaculated, in
consternation, and in a second was
raising hor in his arms. “What
does this moan ?”
In bitter accents she told him all.
“I thank you much,” he said,
quietly, when she ended; “yeti am
sorry you took all this trouble, as 1
shall go on.”
“Go on! Oh! no, no. Yon must
not,” she cried, in horror.
“Why not?” ho answered. “What
charm now has life for me, Di?”
Sho understood him. Clasping
his hand in hers, nestling with blush
ing cheeks close to him, she answer
ed:
“I was very foolish to-day, Harry,
you know I didn’t mean what I
said. You must not go on! For
my sake, you must not!”
Sir Harry did not go. He and Di
wont buck to Sturmuiglmm and got
help. The men wore taken, mid the
baronet, by his leniency in dealing
justice on them, made the four his
friends for life.
“How could I do otherwise,”
smileB Sir Harry, “since it was
through them I learned iny Di’s real
affection for me ?”
A correspondent wants to know
which is tho “best western settle
ment.” Ouo hundred cents on a
dollar is the best settlement we know
of, but there arc not many of that
kind in the west.
An exchange wants to know why a
woman always wants to sit on the
floor to put her shoes on. Because
she can’t sit on the ceiling.
Ho was not ono of those shiny, good
looking ehaps that I see every day
hanging about tho dopot, dressed in
a long overcoat and plug hat, mid
with seemingly no other business
than to swing a dandy cane and stare
at the ladies. IIo didn’t wear his
hair parted in tho middle. To toll
the strict truth, I don’t believe it
was parted at all, for it stood out all
over his bond in overy direction, and
reminded one strongly of *a bush on
fire. That ho was from the country
one could see with half aiieyojtho
ovidonoos of rural Hfo wero too plain
ly marked. Ilia great, round, good-
natured face had boon kissod by the
sun until it was the line of . a peony,
and was studdod with freckles as
thick as the spots on the back of a
speckled lion. His hands wore so
largo that ono of them would have
nnulo two good sized ones for a dan
dy, and left some to spare. Ho wore
number fourteens, patent , no, I
mean cowhides, witli his pants tuuk-
od in to show their yellow tops. His
coat fitted him about liken school
boy’s jacket, and was of a variety of
colors now, owing to long usage and
exposure. Wliisps of straw protruded
from tl|p pockots and hung from
every eutehablo place about him. In
one hand he carried his broad-brim
med straw hat, and in the other an
old carpet bag, which had lost the
lock, being fastened together with a
piece of wool twine, and although
great pains had evidently boon taken
with this, it failed to conceal nether
garments and something that looked
immensely like a red ilanuol night
cap.
Seating himself by the side of an
olegantly drossed lady, and putting
the aforesaid bag between his foot
for safe keeping, ho drew out his red
baudunna anil mopped off his fore
head.
Tho lady drew away hor rich silliH
impatiently, and with a frown which
said plainly, “You’re out of your
placo, sir.” But ho didn’t soom to
notice it in tho least, for very soon
lie turned to hor and remarked good
humoredly:
“An qll-flrod'hot day, marm! Go
ing fur?”
The lady deigned no reply.
Supposing himself unheard, he
repealed in a louder tone, “An all-
fired hot day I I Bay, inarm, going
fur ?”
No reply, but u look of supreme
indignation.
“Why 1” he exclaimed—evidently
for tho benefit of tho whole crowd—
“the poor critter’s deaf.” Bending
forward, lie screamed: “I’m sorry
you’re deaf, marm. IIow long havo
yo bin so ? If you wurn’t born so,
niaybo ’tis only ear wax what’s hard
ened in your oars. I know what’ll
cure that, sure as guns. It cured
my uncle Ezra. I’ll give you the
recipe, marm, un* welcome; perhaps
you’d hotter write it down ; ’Puke a
little soap and wutor, warm—”
“Sir,” said the lady, rising, her
eyes blazing with wrath, “do you
intend to insult mo? I shall earn
plain of you to the police J” and she
swept haughtily out of tho dopot.
“Waal, I never,” ho exclaimed.
“I’m hdat! What struck her ? I’m
sure I was jost a speaking for her
good. I wus only a goin’ to say;
Take a little soap and water, warm
and syringe it into the ears three
times a day. It’s sure ; and I’ll bet
my best heifer on it, if slic'd only
liccrd to a fuller, it would have done
tho business for hor. But some folks
nevor like to hear their unfortunities
spoke of, and I s’poso I hadn’t orter
a took any notice on it,” und lie re
lapsed into sileneo. "
Presently tho Western train came
due, und a tired looking woman cume
in with two children hanging to her
skirts und a baby in her urnis, besides
a bund-box and satchel. It was the
only seat vacant. Sho sank into it
with a weury sigh, and tried to hush
the fretful baby and keep watch over
tho two other restless, fluttering
budgets, who wore also tired and
frotful, and kopt teasing for this und
that until the poor mother looked
ready to sink.
“Pretty tired, marm,” remarked
Jonathan. “Goin’fur?”
“To Boston, sir,” replied the lady,
courteously,
“Got to wait long ?”
“Until thvoo (gliuioing at me.)
“Oil, dearies, do In* quiet; and don’t
tease mother any more.”
“Look a hero, you young shavers,
and soo vylmt 1’vo got in my pocket.,”
and lie drew out a handful of pop*
pormint drops. In a few minutes
they wcht both upon his knoo, eating
their candy and listening eagerly
while ho told them wondbrfnl storios
about tho sheep and calves at homo.
But the. baby Wouldn’t go to sleep.
He was quito heavy, and wanted to
bo tossed tho whole time. Jonathan
noticed this; and finding a string
somewliore in the depths of his old
carpet-bag, he taught tho two chil
dren a game he called “Out omdlo.”
Soon they wero seated on the depot
floor, as happy us two kittens.
Now. let mo tako that youngster,
inarm,” ho said ; “you look clean
beat out. I guess I cun please him.
Pin a powerful hand with babies,”
and ho t< ssed the groat lump of flosh
up until it crowed with dolight. By
and by it dropped its Load upon his
shoulder and fell fast asleep.
Two hours aftonvards I peered
through tho window as ho helped
her, and hor belongings, aboard tho
ours, and I don’t believe if ho had
boon tho Czar of Russia sho could
Injvu looked any rruoro grateful, or
thanked him any sweeter. ,
•* ’Taint nothin’ at all, marm,” I
heard him say, bashfully, but I know
sho thought differently, and ho did I.
Ho camp back, resumed his sout,
and buying a pint of peanuts from a
tliin-faoed little girl—giving twelve
cents instead of toil for them—sat
munching away in hearty enjoyment
until tho Northern train camo duo.
Then ho snatched his dilapidated
ourpot-lmg and that of an old lady's
near by, who was struggling feebly
towards tho door.
“Lean right on me, nmrm; I’ll see
yon safo through,” ho said, ‘ cheer
fully.
The conductor shouted “All a*
board!” and the train moved away.
As I looked around at tho empty
soats, I thought, “Something has
gone out of this dopot that docs not
come in overy day.—an honhst
irUAUT. ” "
The best joke we havo hoard in a
long time was cracked by a village
preacher, lie was preaching on a
very sultry day, in a small room, and
was much annoyed by those who
dropped in after the service lmd com
menced, invariably closing tho dooi
after them. His patience being at
length exhausted by tho extreme
oppressiveness of tho bout, lie vocif
erated to an offender, “Friend, 1
believe if I was preaching in a bottle
you would put tho cork in.”
“What! refuse to lend a paltry X
to me—your other self?”
“That’s why you’d nevor rotnm
the money. I 'know myself too
well.”
William sends a lotter to this offico
asking us to explain wliut is u de
pressed currency. A depressed cur
rency, William, an awfully depressed
ono, is tho buttons found in a church
collection basket.
A Connecticut man recently said,
Lend me a dollar. My wife bus
left mo, and I want to advertise that
I am not responsible for her debts.”
“Why, papa,” said a Market-street
girl to her father, as lie sauntered
into tho parlor, away long in tho
night, when sho and hor Adolphus
wore conversing upon tho ethics of
the dust and kindred topios, “Why,
papa, wlmt uro you looking for?”
‘Oh, nothing, just thought I’d get
up and soo tho sun riso.” Thou the
olook and tho son rose and vanished,
andiJthe old man wont hack to bod.