Southern world : journal of industry for the farm, home and workshop. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1882-18??, September 01, 1882, Image 10
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THE SOUTHERN WORLD, SEPTEMBER 1, 1882.
Jjomq (H'iticlq.
BLOODIiEM VICTORIES.
Let other* write of battles fought
On bloody, ghastly fields,
Where honor greets the man who wins,
And death the man who yields;
But I will write of him who HghU
And vanquishes his sins,
Who struggles on through weary years,
Against himself and wins.
Here Is a hero staunch and brave
Who fights an unseen foe,
And puts at last beneath his feet
His passions bsse and low.
And stands erect In manhood's might
Undaunted, undismayed—
The bravest man that drew a sword
In foray or in raid.
Itcalls for something more than brawn
Or muscle to overcome
An enemy who marchetb not
With banner, plume and drum—
A foe forever lurking nigh
With silent, steal thy tread,
Forever near your board by day,
At nlgbtbeslde your bed.
All honor, then, to that brave heart,
Though poor or neb he be,
Who struggl *s with bis baser part—
Who conquers and Is free.
He may not wear a hero's crown.
Or fill a hero's grave;
Bnt truth will place bis name among
The bravest of the brave.
JfARVKMT II I'M.V.
For Thanksgiving; Day, August 31, im
Charles w. Hcnxrn.
O Lord of love and light!
Creator Infinite!
Benignant Ood!
We come before thy throne
Tby sovereign might to own,
Thy love to laud.
Without thy help In vain
The tiller sows the grain,
And giildgp the plow;
Through thee his work was done,
Through thee the wreath was won
That decks his brow!
No end thy mercies know.
Thy blessings overflow
The smiling land;
The harvest's rlph Increase,
Wealth, honor, power, and peace,
Come from tby hand.
All-wise, almighty Friend!
Whatman can comprehend
Thy wisdom's ways f
Incline to us thine enr,
And condescend to hear
Our feeble praise;
Our humble tbanks receive,
We've nothing else to give,
Spirit divine!
We are thy pensioners—
The boundless universe,
Father I Is thine.
Lord! Savior! Holy Ghost!
God triune! thee we trust,
And have no fears;
Tby mercy we Implore,
As now so evermore,
Bless tbou the years! *
PAMELA’* ESCAPADE.
BY MARY KYI.lt PALLAS.
The Crumpi were, or considered them
selves, the very first people in Pottsville,
and Josiah Crump, the present bead of the
family, were very proud of his ancestors.
He was about the meanest man in money
matters ever known. He has driven his
boys from home by his niggardliness; and
now that his wife was dead his daughter
Pamela was all that he had left. She was a
handsome, strong, well-made girl, with a
good mind, although he had given her the
very poorest education and no accomplish
ments whatever. She worked in his house
without help, or tbanks, or reward of any
kind; her only consolation being that she
was Miss Crump.
“Much good that does me,” she used to say,
as she toiled away to save her rich father a
few dollars more.
Girls who had no grandfather to boast
about had accomplishments and good
clothes, and comforts and pleasures of all
sorts which she never knew, and which her
father could well afford. At last, on her
nineteenth birthday, after she had longed in
silence for many days, Pamela grew bold.
Long, fur-lined cloaks were just coming into
fashion, and how she wanted one, only a
girl can know. ^
It was while her father sat counting a
great roll of bills, which he had just received
as the rent for certain property that she
went up softly behind him and said meekly;
"Pa, can I have one of those large black
silk cloaks, such as Betsy Burroughs wears
—one with fur-lining ? Oh, pa, I do so want
itl ” and she paused, with hands uncon
sciously clasped together.
Mr. Crump looked at her horror-stricken.
“A silk cloak, with a fur-lining I" he re
peated, slowly. “Ho you can’t, Pamela; its
too expensive. Get your poor ma'i gray
blanket-shawl and wear that out. I’m sure
she’d be willing."
“Poor ma’s shawl .had moths in it two
years before she died,” sighed Pamela. “She
couldn’t wear it, and you never knew, pa,
you don’t know how badly off I am. I've
outgrown my sacque, and look like a fool in
it. X have boys’ shoes and a bat—oh dear,
such a hat I I cannot really go out any
where.”
“Women should be keepers at home,”
said Mr. Crump.
"Certainly I ought to go to church,” said
Pamela.
“Hot to show fine clothes,” said. Mr.
Crump.
"But I ought to dress like a lady,” sighed
the poor girl. "I should think you'd admit
that, pa?”
“Ladies are not always most dressed,"
said Mr. Crump. “Par from it. You are
Miss Crump. Remember the Crumps are
the oldest family in Pottsville.”
“Oil, I know all that, pa,” interrupted
Pamela; but it does no good if I must go
about looking like a beggar."
Me. Crump brought his cane down on the
floor, thundered out, "Hold your tongue,
Pamela," buttoned his pocket-book into his
bosom, and trotted away to deposit the
money, while Pamela, scarlet from brow to
chin, remained where he had left her.
"Oh, what shall Ido?” she exclaimed at
last. " Is this a woman’s fate, to beg all the
days of her life? I have no edneation. I
cannot teach. lean do nothing but house
work. I am the best washer in the village,
but— There!” cried Pamela, bringing her
foot down on the floor suddenly. “There!
I’ve got it. A girl who can wash and iron
as I cun, doesn’t need to beg for her
clothes.”
. Brushing her tears away, she ran into the
entry, took from a peg her shabby sacque
and hut, put them on, locked up the house,
and hurried down the village streets as fast
as her young strong limbs could carry her,
until she stopped at a little white house at
the low window of which she tapped. A
little girl opened the door, and Pamela fol
lowed her into a sitting-room where a thin
woman sat, amidst cushions, in a big Boston
rocking-chair, with a brand new baby across
her knee, two elder ones on the floor near
her, and two little boys building a block
house on the table, white the little girl that
had opened the door made the sixth of the
youthful group.
“Why, Miss Pamela,” said the mother,
"how pleased I am to see you! Excuse my
not getting up. I ain’t strong yet. I was
thinking when you came in whether or no
I should be able to darn that place in the
carpet, but I don't feel I shall. Hurse has
gone away, and sister can’t come, because
her husband is down with malaria, and I’m
awfully unsettled.”
“You must be,” said Pamela, dandling
the baby. "Why, what a little beauty it is,
Mrs. Pease. I suppose you’ve got a washer
woman this week?”
“Ho, I haven’t. It's my worst trouble,’>
said Mrs. Pease. “I had Kitty bring the
things, and they are all mended and sorted
out; but black Barbara is engaged up on
the hill, and 1 don't know what I’ll do.”
"Hire roc," said Pamela.
"My! ” laughed Mrs. Pease. “Why, Miss
Crump! ’’
"I mean it," said Pamela. “I wash better
than black Barbara, and I want to earn some
money. You can pay me what you pay her,
Mrs. Pease.”
“A dollar a day,” said Mrs. Pease; “but
gracious Pamela you can’t mean it”
"I mean it from my heart," said Pamela.
“Pa thinks more of his money than he does
of me. I’m going to earn my clothes for
myself. I need them, I’m sure.”
“Men are so peculiar sometimes,” sighed
Mrs. Pease. “If you really mean it, it will
be a great comfort to me.”
Pamela Instantly took off her bonnet and
sacque, tucked up her skirt, and took Kitty
out into the kitchen with her.
Before night “the washing” white as snow,
was piled in a great clothes-basket. Mrs.
Pease had had a great bowl of soup, and all
was tidy in the little sitting room, where
Pamela sat mending the bit of carpet.
“I knew it would bother you until it was
done,” she said, "and now I’ll go home and
get pa’s tea."
“Oh, Miss Pamela, I am so much oblig
ed,” said Mrs. Pease. “And I believe you’ve
only done it to oblige me.”
“Ho,” said Pamela. “I did it to earn the
money. May I come next Monday ?”
“Why, gracious me! If you will,” said
Mrs. Pease.
“B$en to see Mrs. Pease?” asked curious
Mrs. Chalker, peeping out of her kitchen
door as Pamela passed.
“I’ve been washing for her," said Pamela.
“Why, how Christian kind of you, to be
sure,” said Mrs. Chalker.
“Hothing of the sort,” said Pamela. “I
took my dollar for It. Have you your wash
erwoman, Mrs. Chalker?"
“Ho, I haven’t and I ain't able to wash,”
said Mrs. Chalker.
Pamela instantly offered her services.
“I am going to do washing,” she said.
“ I’m going to do it just as other washerwo-
mem do, for money. I shan't explain why.
But here I am a splendid laundress, ready to
be hired six days in the week, from seven to
six if any one wants me.”
So it began. Before long Pamela had many
emplbyers, and the village was rife with
suspicion as to the why and wherefore; but
never was a girl prouder of herself than was
Pamela when she laid down upon the count
er of a dry goods store the money for the
silk and fur of her coveted cloak; hard-
earned money, but all her very own, not a
cent of it coaxed out of any unwilling man
alive.
She wore the cloak and a pretty plush bon
net and new kid gloves to church on Christ
mas day. She looked well. The squire
stared at her solemnly, but he knew she had
no money.
“I reckon,” he thought, “she’s cutup her
poor ma’s old black silk. I won’t ask any
questions,” and be held his peace.
Pamela, as she looked at him, wondered
what he would say if be knew all. That
week she had had some cards printed—pro
fessional cards.
The printer brought them home the next
morning. They read thus:
“MissPamelaCrump—Laundress. House
cleaning done in the best manner. Crump
House, .”
Tlie cards were circulated through the
village by a boy hired for the purpose, and
on her return at night from her days’s work,
Pamela found a postal card awaiting her:
“ Miss Crump, Laundress—Please call at
Mr. Both well’s early to-morrow.
■ G. Botiiwell.”
How Mr. Bothwell was the new minister,
a widower with two children. He knew
nothing of the Crumps or of the village as
yet. He had preached there once and been
“called” inconsequence, on the demise of
the excellent Mr. Dolorous, who had depart
ed this life at a ripe old age. Pamela laugh
ed a little as she determined to call and see
what was desired. At seven o’clock she
rang the bell of the pastor's very small house
and was answered by the gentleman himself.
He was evidently in distress of mind and
his dressing-gown needed mending sadly.
He looked at Miss Crump for a moment
and then requested her to walk into his
study. It was a dusty place with a good deal
of manuscript lying about; and the shrieks
of weeping children were heard in the dis
tance.
“May I ask what I can do for you, ma
dam?” inquired the gentleman motioning
to a seat.
“ You wrote to me,” said Pamela. " Miss
Crump, laundress.”
“ Oh, dear, me, yes,” replied Mr. Bothwell,
with wide open eyes—“I wrote to you.
Thanks for your promptness. The fact of
the matter is, my housekeeper—an aged
colored person—I thought her most estima
ble—is lying terribly intoxicated on the
kitchen floor, and has been for two days,
and things are—are—’’
And Mr. Bothwell, running short of
words, spread his hands abroad in a panto
mime descriptive of chaos.
“I understand,” said Pamela, calmly.
“ Where Is your kitchen ? ”
Two hours afterwards the master was
calmly writing in his study, and the chil
dren, washed and dressed, were listening to
the stories Pamela told them as she rubbed
away at the wash-board.
The housekeeper had been dumped upon
a bed in a small bed-room on the lower floor
to sleep off her intoxication, and potatoes
were boiling and a couple of chickens roast
ing for the family dinner.
Meanwhile, Mr. Crump, having some im
portant documents to inspect, had come
home unexpectedly, and, entering the house,
had found it empty, afld in the sitting-room
came upon a sight which petrified him with
horror.
A little portable desk, which his daughter
had appropriated for her own, lying open on
the table and in it the cards we have de
scribed, and her account book.
He read the card first;
Miss Pamela Crump—Laundress. House
cleaning done in the beat manner.
Then he ran his eyes over the account
book. .
Washed—Monday, for Mrs. Pease; Tues
day, for Mrs. Chalker; Wednesday, for Mrs.
Mott; iron, Thursday afternoon; house
cleaning for Mrs. Downs on Saturday.
All this in a furious rage, and almost
foaming at the mouth, until he came to the
following items:
Dec. 6th.—Bought the silk and fur for
cloak.
Dec. 10th.—Made cloak. It fits well.
Dec. 25th.—Wore cloak to church, and
thanked heaven I hadn’t had to beg it from
father.
Then Mr. Cramp closed the book, and
with a queer disposition to cry, sat down
beside his solitary hearth and looked at the
fire for several hours, without stirring.
When Pamela opened the door and came
in, she saw her father and knew that he
knew all.
“Pamela, come here,” he said. “How
long has this been going on?”
“ Since October, pa,” the girl answered.
“Then you’ve been disgracing me and
yourself for three months," said the old
man. “You, a Crump! and all to spite
your poor old father for being careful of his
money."
Pamela was not afraid of her father now.
She came over and sat beside him.
“ Pa,” she said, “ it was not for spite; it
was for need; I suffered so much mortifica
tion, not only from being shabby, but hav
ing to beg. If there is anything in good
blood, as you think there is, perhaps that
made it hard for me to beg from even you.
I was happier earning what I needed. Would
you like to be a,beggar, pa?”
"You’ve done very wrong, Pamela,” said
her father. Then he paused, and added:
“You shall tell me what allowance you
need for your clothes, and I will let you
have it monthly. How give me those
cards.”
He burnt them in the fire when she had
handed them to him, and hurried away to
get his tea, and no more was said. The
Crumps were not great talkers.
But Pamela is not sorry for what she did
to this day. As for Mr. Botiiwell, he re
joices; for otherwise, perhaps, he might,
being a shy man, never have met Pamela
Crump, who is to marry him before long.
Other people may blame her for her “es
capade,” or call her “odd,” or spiteful; he
understands her, and admires her all the
more for her independence.
“Though, Pamela,” he often says, “ I
should have offered myself all the saifte had
you actually been a laundress.”
The fairy fictions of Arabia were un
doubtedly, known in Europe from a very
early period. The romance of Cleomades
and Claremonde, which was written in the
thirteenth century, is really but another
version of the "Enchanted Horse” in the
“Arabian Rights,” and in the famous col
lection of stories known as the “ Pentamer-
one.” Many of the tales are unmistakably
of an Eastern origin. The manner in which
they traveled is evident. The necessities of
commerce, and their pilgrimage to Mecca
occasioned a constant intercourse between
the Moors of Spain and the fellow sectaries
of the East, and the Venetians, who were
the owners of Candia, carried on an exten
sive trade with Syria and Egypt. It is, there
fore, evident that Europe derived her ro
mance from the East, just as she has derived
the rest of her civilisation.
The Romances of Chivalry may be divided
into three classes—those of Amadis de Gaul,
Artur and his Round Table, and of Charle
magne and his Paladins. Among the inci
dents of that fine old romance of Lancelot
du Lac, is the death of King Ban, caused by
the grief at seeing his castle taken and in
flames through the treachery of his seneschal.
His afflicted queen had left her new-born
infant on the margin of a lake, while she
went to soothe the last moments of the dy
ing king. On her return, she finds her babe
in the arms of a beautiful lady. She en
treats her pathetically to restore the orphan
babe ; but, without taking any notice of the
unhappy mother, she plunges into the lake
with the child, and disappears. The lady
was the celebrated Dame du Lac, and the
child was the celebrated Lancelot du Lac.
Merlin, the demon-born, the renowned en
chanter; became enamored of her, and
taught her a portion of his art, and the ill
return she made is well known in the annals
of female treachery.
As for the stolen child, Lancelot, son of
King Ban, the Lady of the Lake brought
him up with great care, and when his
knightly education was completed, she pre
sented him at the court of King Arthur,
where he became one of its most distin
guished ornaments.