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33 A. I L Y EVENING
Savannah a
VOL ].—No. 141.
THE SAVANNAH RECORDER
R. M. ORME, Editor.
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[Written for the Savannah Recorder.]
Sappho’s Lament For Fhaon.
BY JOHN D. DONEBAN.
Ah ! would that lovely voice again,
That sent such pleasure to my heart,
But once more sing the loving strain,
Which to my breast did love impart;
Oh ! how would all life’s former hours,
Come back unto my heart once more,
And in these dull and lonely bowers,
My happiness of youth restore.
But ah! that strain is hushed and still,
Not in the grave, but to my ears;
Another’s bosom now doth thrill,
With Phaon’s voice, midst pleasant tears.
But who could list unto its tone,
And not awake to ecstasy ?
Alas! its memory must own
The tears now dimming all I see.
For I have listened to his voice,
Which seemed to me so pure and true,
And with wild rapture did rejoice,
Of future bliss which must ensue.
But could thou see my tearful eye,
And gaze upon my paling cheek,
Oh! then perchance thou would’st descry,
How deep Is the woe of which I speak.
For Phaon’s voice had sought my ear,
And I unconscious of its aim,
Sat a pleased listener, with the fear,
That now too truly has its claim.
But why those tears, since yonder wave
Allures me on to seek relief?
And in its cold and watery grave,
End the deep anguish of my grief.
There's naught on earth to glad me now,
Or ease my aching heart’s distress;
Another kisses Phaon’s brow,
And soothes him with Love's fond caress.
Ah Death! I’m thine; in thee alone,
From yonder rock I’ll find my peace,
Since Phaon’s love from mo has flown,
Naught but thee can my woo appease..
AN ODD STORY.
“And you ask me to believe this?”
“1 ask you to believe nothing; I sim¬
ply tell you the truth.”
My last hope vanished. Bitterly I
looked up at Philip Barringer, dress. bitterly
down at my mourning
Twice only had I seen this man;
three weeks since, when he brought the
news of my lover’s death; to-day,
bringing—a harsh supplement—the
news of his perfidy. official, speak;
This was so to sealed
by his dying lips.
“Tell Yinniejthe truth,” he said; “tell
her the treacherous part 1 have been
playing, that she may shed no tears
for me.”
It was the old story—absence; a fair¬
er face had broken former ties. Had
Hart Whitney lived, he would have
been worse than dead to me.
A shock, bewilderment, and then I
would not believe I clung defiantly to
the memories that sanctifies my dead.
What more natural ? On the one
hand, the living letters ouly a few
weeks old; on the other, a stranger's
story, unsustained by proof.
And yet instinctively I felt it true.
Standing folded, before me, with arms hautily
with Philip eyes flashing beneath my
suspicion, disbelieve. Barringer was not a
man to With his proud an¬
swer looked my last hope him, vanished. bitterly Bitterly
I up at down at
my mourning robes.
“You might have spared me this,” I
murmured; “but for you I would have
never known.”
Ere I finished, his hand had closed
on mine, he answered hurriedly.
“It is not right that a woman should
honor a false lover, even though he be
dead. You will come to forget Hart
Whitney; to smile at his perfidy. There
are-”
He paused, abruptly dropping the
theme.
“My views do not matter' ’—I would
never have known his voice aud tor Philip low—
Barringer’s, it grew so soft
“believe me, I never meant to tell you.
I have a<'ted to-day from an impulse I
cannot too much regret; because to you
I must always be the bird of ill-omen,
coming only to cause you pain.” Swiftly
He left no room for answer.
I heard his footsteps receding fiom me
forever; I thought, gratefully, Philip
Barringer was right; he was a bird of
ill-omen, bringing only pain to me. It
was a relief to have him drop out of
my life.
I would forget Hart Whitney, I
would come to smile at his perfidy.—
Philip Barringer be. was a poor prophet;
that might Nevertheless, I pon¬
dered: Not to me, but to the fair girl in
the Indies belonged the sanctifying
memories, the heritage of tears. And
so I brought the letters, the dark lock,
the miniature, upon which I dared not
look, and I made them a funeral pile,
watching with stoic countenance till it
dwindled down to ash.
And so but gladly in I would have buried
memory, vain; my love for Hart
Whitney had been too strong, too abid¬
ing, to die with his perfidy; and though
daily my faith grew in Philip Barrin¬
ger’s story, it was but to wound deeper
the poor heart unto which love was
doubly dead.
As usual, man’s falsity wrought its
work; I grew skeptical, distrustful;
there was henceforth no truth, no beau¬
ty, in life for me. Moreover, there
was dissatisfaction: I had lost a wo¬
man’s hopes, a woman’s mission, The
still life of womanhood lost its charm
for me. I must have work, action—
what, it mattered little, so I was saved
from torpidity. sought
In various ways I it, but fate
seemed contrary, there was no opening
for me. So I pondered wearily one
morning as I unfolded the county pa¬
per, when suddenly my eyes met an ad¬
vertisement. It read :
“Mrs. Ethbert Thorne desires a gov¬
erness. Box 23, Wabash.”
I had grasped vainly after similar
straws, but this time my application
proved successful, and a week latter
found me whirling away to the distant
kingdom wherein I was to rule.
It was at the close of a dull, drizzly
day that I reached Wabash. Drearily
enough I stepped upon the platform and
stood in the dim light waiting to be
recognized.
“My brother will meet you,” had
written Mrs. Ethbert Thome. What
would he be like? What would be my
fiist impressions of the household 01
?
I had not long to speculate, for pres¬
my wraps were taken from me.
I was conscious of a tall man beside me
speaking words which the wild shriek
of the engine sunk into nothingness.
Then I took the arm offered and went
where the carriage stood.
Was I dreaming ? Had I seen a
vision in the dim light ? Mechanically
I entered the carriage, mechanically
made room for the one who was to fol¬
low me.
But the figure without did not enter;
the door closed, and a crisp voice said :
“Drive on, Peters ; I will walk.”
This time there was no mistaking ;
there was but one such voice in my
memory, and that was Philip Barrin¬
ger’s. “My brother
will meet you,” had
written Mrs. Ethbert Thorne. “I am
living on his estates,” she had previous¬
ly explained. This, then, was Philip
Barringer’s sister, and I was going to
his home.
With the man whom I had rejoiced
to see destined dropping from my life forever, I
was to pass months in the in¬
timacy of his own hearth. So fate had
ordered, and rationally I must abide.
But fate seemed hard. I had never
been able to forgive Philip Barringer ;
my bitterness had grown toward him
with the days. He might have spared
me Hart Whitney’s perfidy; but for him
I might be only a woman mourning a
lover, not the wreck I was.
He was always the bird of ill-omen,
pain to me. He knew of my
hither; he might have spared
to me.
There was one comfort; he had not
; he had chosen to walk on in'
drizzly darkness ; he would keep
from me.
A night at Sunnybank brought wis
dom ; I descended to breakfast in a
calmer frame of mind. Philip Barrin
ger must be naught to me ; that he had
made life harder for me, I must tern
porarily torget. My business was with
Mrs. Ethbert Thorne.
I found that lady alone in the break
lastjroom ; a gay little lady she proved
full, OU acquaintance, especially, of so Philip full oi Barringer gossip, so j
s
praises, I that business must wait.
had not been many minutes in her
society before I began to be exceeding,
ly annoyed; not at her rhapsodies; to
these I had quietly resigned myself,
But there was something marked in her
glances, What a searching scrutiny.
Was I did it mean? I questioned. liked? !
younger, fairer than she
Did she fear dispossession of Philip
Barringer But ? Ethbert
Mrs, Thorne was not
one to talk long with eyes.
really “My dear," she said suddenly, but tbe “I
should not speak at all,
resemblance is so very marked.”
W hat did it mean ? I stared at her
°r “Y'ou en }y- do not understand, of course,”
continued, merrily ; “there’s a por
trait of a beautiful young girl iu Phil’s
SAVANNAH SUNDAY, MARCH 16, 1879.
parlor—much more beautiful than you
—pardon like. It me, my dear ; but, oh, so very
is such a mysterious picture,
too. Who is it ? I have asked Phil a
dozen times, if once. ‘A lady whojwas
engaged Indies,’ to his a invariable friend of mine in the
is reply. My
dear I really wish you could see it;
only I would not dare take you in
Phil’s private parlor ; he never allows
strangers there.”
I had begun listening to a gossip’s
story; I sat, at its ending, pale and still.
There was, then, in this house, a pic¬
ture of Evelyn Marston; 1 somewhere the
face so fatal to me smiled down from
the walls. How I had longed to look
upon her—what riches I would have
sacrificed at this moment to see her
painted Much self.
more beautiful than you, but,
oh, so very like ! Was this, then, the
key to Hart Whitney’s perfidy; was it
but a fairer copy that had won his
fickle heart ?
What did Evelyn Marton on Philip
Bartnger’s walls a queen enthroned in
his private apartment on which no
stranger’s eye might look ? Perhaps he
accepted was her hopeless lover; perhaps the
one she soon would wed.
I was roused by a light touch on my
shoulder; Mrs. Ethbert Thorne was
finally delayed. awake to the business so long
“You will teach the children, of
course, my dear. I will take you to
my studyroom.”
I followed her down the broad hall,
striving distracted to still the emotion that had so
and pointed me. Suddenly she turned
to a door.
“That is Phil’s parlor,” she whisper¬
ed; “if we only dare go in.”
I gave but a furtive glance at it, but
from that moment it haunted me.
Daily, as I passed it, my pulse quick¬
ened; ever rebeliously JI went by. Who
more than I had a right to see Evelyn
Marston, to know how fair she was?
Three months, and this longing had
become a mania, with difficulty sup¬
pressed. Thrice I had stood by the
wooden Cerberus, with my hand upon
the knob. Shame hitherto had de¬
terred me; but the time had com# to
see Evelyn Marston even at the risk
of shame.
So I decided, one day in autumn,
when opportunity seemed ripe. Chil¬
dren, Philip Barringer, had just van¬
ished down the roadway ; Mrs. Efil¬
bert Thorne was dozing sweetly ; Sun¬
nybank was mute.
The time had come. I would steal
in, lock upon the face that had won
my lover, and be forever satisfied.
With beating heart I crept down the
hallway; with hushed breath crept
in.
It were easy finding Evelyn Mars¬
ton ; there was but one picture on the
walls. In the far corner I descried it,
with strained eyes hurrying onward,
looking up finally to see—to look
again and stare. For the face befor e
me was not Evelyn Marston's but my
own—mine as it had looked in the old
girl days when Hart Whitney went
away.
There was no mistake. I remem¬
bered the picture well; one of the many
I had given him, one I had wondered
not to find among the article Philip
Barringer brought back to me.
Much more beautiful, but, oh, so
very like! One mystery was solved.
But one.
What was it doing here ?
I could only stand with giddy brain
repeating the question, and staring at
my painted face. How dream long, I know
not; it was all a till I saw a
shadow in the sunlight and Philip
Barringer. I had but little thought
for him, little wonder for the look he
w’ore. The circumstances of my pres¬
ence even were nothing now ; I knew
but the present mysterj, and he could
me.
“What-”
Eagerly I began the query, but he
anticipated “I it.
know your question. I saw this
face in the Indies; I dreamed of it, i
day and night. When Hart Whitney j
died I kept this picture, as one unlikely !
to be missed. I was only dreaming j
then, but with presence came realiza-j
tion ; a passion quickly killed, but a|
passion until death. Hopeless, but I
would hope; you should know Hart
Whitney s perfidy; you would surely j
then forget him ; in time-'
He paused, and his voice sunk to the
soft cadence ot that other day. i
“I told yon, and what fruit? You
doubted me, you might come home to
hate me, I must drop out of your life.
Fate brought us again together, but I,
have never forgotten this ; my sole hope
now is that you will let me keep this
picture, that you will not take it away;
from me.
Truly a day of amazements, a day of
mysteries solved but to precipitate fresh
ones. Was this Philip Barringer, the
formal master of Sunnybank, talking
thus to me ?
Was this the cold creature Hart
Whitney bidding him bad keep fashioned, this woman
her portrait, since it
seemed so much to him ?
Is it an odd story 0 Odd then, but
true. From that day I grew to forget
Hart Whitney, to smile at his perfidy.
And when the spring put forth its
buds and blossoms, I put my hand in
Philip Barringer’s and went out to be¬
come his wife.
HON. WM. H. FELTON.
His Reply to Senator John B. Gordon’s Re¬
cent Letter,
Cartersville, Ga., March 8, 1879.
To the Chronicle and Constitutionalist :
Messrs. Editors : I have just read
the letter of Gen. Gordon, addressed to
you, and dated Washington, March
4th, 1879.
I understood before I left Washing¬
ton that a grand consultation was held
to conclude the attack commenced on
my wife in the Macon Telegraph and
Messenger If some weeks ago.
this manifesto, signed by Senator
Gordon, embodies all the strength and
strategy that the organize* can
command, after full consultatii.ii with
both visiting and resident stau men,
then we are surprised at the weakness,
malice and impotency of such a war¬
fare.
Gen. Gordon ignores my wife in
this communication. It is a pity that
this sober second thought had not oc¬
curred to his mind at an earlier stage
of this controversy.
I wish it distinctly understood that
Gen. Gordon was the real author and
instigator of the attack on my wife in
the Macon lelegraph and Messenger.
He was the man who commenced the
search for the letter in the city of
icitude Washington, and expressed great sol¬
to be placed in possession of its
contents, and knowing these things
my wife dealt with him, rather than
Reese, the nominal author.
When Gen. Gordon instituted this
search for my wife’s letter, that fact
was soon made known to me. He went
in person to Senator Ferry and applied
for her letter. He begged to know its
contents, and gave as a reason for this
meddlesome interference, “that Felton
was his bitterest foe.”
He states in the letter before me,
that he did not go into the Seventh
district of his own choice, but went at
the call of “ his party.” Did “his par¬
ty” send him on this errand likewise?
About as soon as his pliant tool
could send a letter to the paper in
Macon, my wife’s name was emblazon¬
ed over Georgia, charging that she
“plead in piteously pathetic terms for
radical money” to help my election.
When Gen. Gordon talks about
slanders on his good name it will be
well for him to recollect who dragged
my wife’s name into the public prints.
Yielding to her earnest request, and
satisfied that no mind in the State was
more thoroughly competent, I, as her
urotector, acceded to her wishes,
when she proposed to measure foils
with a United States Senator who was
too prudent to appear- in an assault
which he engaged A. W. Reese to
make
With a soul filled with righteous in¬
dignation she repelled the charge in a
way that these maligners and revenge¬
ful slanderers of a noble wife will not
soon forget.
Gen. Gordon had no personal interest
in her letter that he sought. It did
not allude to him directly or indirectly.
His search after it was a work of malice
born only of hatred.
I have her original letter. Others
have seen it. Not one dollar was asked
for—no pecuniary aid was requested,
and the false allegation recoils on the
heads of those who promulgated the
slander.
When the howling political dervishes
of the Seventh Congressional district,
had slandered every member of my
family; and when their foul tongues and
filthy pen were insufficient for the oc
casion, there was no other man in the
State, outside the district, whose pro
clivities for falsehood promised them so
much “aid and comfort," as did Gen.
Gordon. He rushed to the res
cue and became the leader of these
calumniators of the wife, who was
struggling for the success of her bus
band.
Not satisfied with this effort in Geor
gia, he has carried the war into Con
gressional circles. From the capitol of
the United States he continues the dir
work begun in the seventh district
last fall.
A woman’s quick intellect and deep;
sense of wrong has made her punish her
assailants with merited severity.
Gen. Gordon stated in a public
speech, that “he had met Blaine, Mor- !
ton and Conkling and blackest in the Senate, the;
meanest that body, but Felton Republicans in
was meaner than
all.” He stated also, “that one more
success for Felton would make him and
his friends respectable,” implying by
the expression that they had not yet
attained to respectability. He also
said “the independents must be pushed
to the wall and crushed enternally.”
He wound up this tissue of slanders in
his Atlanta speech by saying that my
success in the seventh district was the
result of “repeating negro votes,” all of
which assertions he knew was
false.
When I spoke in Atlanta, less
a week before his re-election to
Senate, I was urged by my friends
retaliate upon him for his
assaults upon my character and
name, and to denounce publicly one
the most vulnerable political
ever made by a Georgia Senator.
I steadily refrained in the interest
harmony and good will, and
my heart craved peace.
When his final attack upon my
constrains her to turn like the
and sting the foot that seeks to
it, what does he say? Does he deny
charges? No. He explains. He
varicates. He apologizes.
She charged him with being a
of state conyicts, working them for
ney. Does he come out like a man
say “ 'tis false !” No.
chosen He says legislature” “the law of was passed by
our “own
pie,” “without his knowledge or
ey.” If we are correctly informed
Yazoo frauds were passed by a similar
body, manipulated by a United
senator, and like some of the statesmen
of that time, it seems that Gen. Gordon
stands ready to reap the profits of such
favorable legislation.
She charged that Gen. Gordon bor¬
rowed the scanty earnings of a holy
man of God and deposited with him
security certain worthless' collaterals.
Does he deny it? No. He says “he
stands ready to make good every
of loss.” Ah! the good man is gone
and does not need this generous propo¬
sal to become an [honest man. If he
had applied a pittance of his large in¬
come liquidation from insurance debt companies during the to the
of this life¬
time of the good bishop; he might stand
up and say to the world, “ ’tis false!”
She charged that he could manipu¬
late a southern insurance company and
a southern university publishing the com¬
pany, in which the money of sub¬
scribers disappeared forever. Does he
deny the charge ? No. In the insurance
matter he says every “death policy was
fully paid.” Ah! it was the money of
the living policy holders, she asserted,
had disappeared forever. He persuaded
hundreds, by his oily tongue and de¬
ceptive pen, to invest their money drew in
this company, from which he an
immense salary while these unfortunate
policy holders know that their money
has disappeared forever. pub¬
As for the southern university
lishing the company, he attempts desired to plaster
fraud by saying he to give
the country southern books that did not
slander “our people.”
Soon after the war this distinguished
General ascertained that an appeal to
southern pride and sectional honor was
the short road to the pockets of south¬
ern men, and he has traveled that road
in pursuit of his own emoluments until
it is worn smooth.
The charge was not about southern
books, their value or quality. It was
not whether General Lee had approved
or that disapproved invested of the enterprise, the but
the money in concern
through General Gordon’s influence had
left the pockets of the ubscribers and
has never returned.
I heard a distinguished member of
Congress from Georgia say, some days
ago, that he had several hundred dol¬
lars of this worthless university scrip,
which he had advised his wife to burn
as waste paper.
All the way from Baltimore, down
south, we hear of men who invested in
this south sea bubble, and up to the
present time, General Gordon admits,
it has made no money for the stockhold¬
ers. Did he get no percentage—no
profits?
Again, my wife reported the fact
that his name in connection with the
money of Jay Gould and Huntingdon
was the street talk of Washington city,
and some of this talk mortified and as
tonished two prominent Georgians who
were at that time visiting the city,
He replies that this was the mere
gabble of the friends and advocates of
two opposing railroad companies, and
goes off into an extended explanation of
his vote which he seems to think gave
rise to this gabble.
Since Geu. Gordon, by his humble
tool Reese, did not hesitate to publish
my wife’s name to the general public
in connection with “radical money,”
she decided to give him the benefit of
a general criticism on the money of Jay
Gould and Huntingdon. In a spirit of
candor and fairness, she referred him
to the distinguished Georgians who
heard from strangers these damaging
charg es. proof
When he gives as satisfactory
of his innocence as she has furnished of
her innocenee he may congratulate that
himself, but it is my impression work of much
his vindication will be a
greater Allow magnitude. just here, that it
me to say,
would be a novel sight in any other
State to see a lady of the highest social
standing, thus attacked openly and by
name, and then to be lectured by a
venal press for allowing her name to
in print in reply, peroration,
Gen. Gordon, in his says
PEICE THREE CENTS.
“that I was false to my people in war
and begrimed with a wicked and cor
rupt alliance with the enemies of my
party, section and people.”
He knows that after uttering these
foul slanders at every cross road and
county gressional precinct district in the Seventh Con
last fall, the purest
and best citizens of that district with
a unanimity and zeal unparalleled in the
history of Georgia politics, placed the
seal of falsehood and condemnation
upon his statements.
Now, having shown in the outset of
this letter that he was guilty of a base
falsehood against my innocent and noble
wife, and after a succinct review of all
the facts involved in the controversy,
I close with the full conviction that the
country will award a just and impar
tial decision.
Like the great Duke of Marlborough,
he has besmirched a brilliant war re
cord with financial and official compli
cations, until Georgians blush that the
grand highest old State is represented in the
councils of the nation by such a
man. Respectfully, W.
H. Felton.
L OST Tools. suitably —A Paints TRUNK, and containing Pictures, The Artist’s Under
will be rewarded. Address.
Prof. J. EDWIN CHURCHILL, Artist.
Business Cards*
——
F. BINGEL,
WINES, LIQUORS AND SEGARS.
Milwaukee and Cincinnati Lager Beer on
draught. hand. Free Lunch. Fresh Oysters always
on 21 Jefferson st., corner Con tigress
street lane..__ mchio-ly
JAMES RAY,
—Manufacturer and Bottler—
Mineral Waters, Soda, Porter and Ale,
15 Houston St., Savannah, Ga.
feb23-3m
Dr. A. H. BEST,
DENTIST
Cor. Congress and Whitaker streets.
SAVANNAH, GA.
T EETH extracted without pain. All work
I guaranteed.
patrons. respectfully beg to refer to an y of my
oo itl-brao
C. A. CORTINO,
Bair Cutting Bair Dressing, Curling and
SHAVING SALOON.
HOT AND COLD BATHS.
der 1361^ Planters’ Bryan street, opposite the Market, <ior- un¬
Hotel. Spanish, Italian.
man, and En glish spokon. n<n(KBf
HAI It S TOR E :
JOS. E. LOISEAU & CO.,
118 BROUGHTON ST., Bet. Bull A Drayton
K EEP on hand a large assortment of Hair
tialr Switches, combings Curls, Puffs, and Fancy Goods
worked in the latest style.
Fancy Costumes, Wigs andjjeards for Rent
GEORGE FEY,
WINES, LIQUORS, SEGARS, TOBACCO, Ac .
The celebrated Joseph Schlitz’ MILWAU
, AG JS R i5K EU
^ whu hit S» w e £i.' W r .°r«V.i^ , ' a ’ speciality. lock. No. 22
onH Savannah,
°r"z'U REE ^NCH r °very day from 11 to 1.
Carriages*
A. K. WILSON’S
CARRIAGE MANUFACTORY,
Corner Bay aud West Broad sts.
CARRIAGE REPOSITORY ;
Cor. Bay and MontgOE%ery streets.
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
The largest establishment In the city.
Bu I i«les. keep a Spring full line of Carriages, Rockaways,
and Farm Wagons. Canopy
d P alling Top Baby Carilages, also a full
line of Carriage and Wagon Material. I have
engaged in my factory the most skillful me
chanies. Any orders for new work, and re¬
pairing, aud short will be executed to give satisfaction
at notice. raay!2-ly
Carriages;
EAST END
Carriage Manufactory.
P. O’COIOTOB,
Corner East Broad, President and York sts.
Savannah, Ga.
I beg leave to inform my frtends and the
public in general that I always keep ou
hand a full supply of the best seasoned mate¬
rial and am prepared to execute orders for
Wagons, Buggies, Drays, Trucks,
Etc., with promptness and dispatch, guaran¬
teeing all work turned out from my shops to
be as represented. In all Its branches.
Repairing polishing, lettering Painting, Var¬
nishing. aud trimming
done in a workmanlike manner.
Horse-shoeing a specialty. mch2tf
Leather and Findings*
STER\ & HUM,
COMMISSION MERCHANTS
And Dealers in
HIDES, LEATHER Hi! FINDINGS,
166 BAY STREET,
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA,
H IGHEST Market Price paid for Hides.
Wool. Sheep Skins, Furs, Deer Skins
Beeswax and Tallow. ’
A full supply of the best French and Ameri¬
can Liberal Tannages advances constantly kept on hand.
No made on consignments.
business transacted on Saturday,
