* 'i j
Bi
VOL. Ill
OXFORD, N. C., WEDNESDAY, MARCH 21, 1877.
NO. 12.
UUESSES—TUOSK W810 BIAKJE
AKO THOSE WilOWEAlt
THEM.
Earc as a rose Avliieli lias caught tlie
bloom
Of summer suns iu its heart of gold,
Fair as a lily whieli lights the gloom
Of a shadowy spot with its splendor
cold,
Is the beauty bright of tlie belle who
stands
AVith the liearts of men iu her queenly
hands.
robes which around her
Eich are tlie
fall,
Soft is the foam of her cobweb lace;
Like a star iu midst of the stately hall
Is the smile on her lovely lifted face:
She, and lier sisters—oh, sweet and
low
The winds that over their life-path
blow.
fold
Ah! beautiful girls, when you
away
Amur garments fair, do you ever tlimk
Of women haggard and wan and gray,
AVlio toil for the barest of moat and
drink—
Of women slender and young like you,
AAlio wearily labor tlie long days
through ?
Climbing up the tenement stair.
To tlie room where her ailing sister
lies,
Is a little maiden, who thought you
fair
AATicn she measured your silk and
tulle w-ith eyes
Aching and burning from last night’s
work
By the smoky light of a candle mirk.
A'our costly lace, if it once could speak,
Alight tell'of a toiler, hollow-eyed,
AVith hunger’s mark on herpallid clieelc,
AVhose ptient tingers wrought tlie.
pride
Of those marvelous roses one by one,
AVith tears oft stained ere the task wa.s
done.
Tliere are mothers whose needles keeii
the door
Of their houses safe from utter want;
Tliere are those wiio once were gay,
who bore
Life’s prizes liravely; weak and gaunt,
^Aiid glad of a iiittauce, to-lay tliey sue.
For the chance of making a gown for you.
Oil, never a life stands ail alone,
never a liome lint somewliere feels
'file beat of another. Not our own
Are we; and a tlioughtfal look reveals
How bound together, and touching
hands.
Are the ricli and thepoor of many lands,
€u:VSTAi\TJi'V«PLE.
It is a delightful sail from the Eir-
ieus, over the sinootli sea, to Constan
tinople. The Archipelago is usually
very (juiet in the spring and summer,
llitferent i.shinds are abvays in ^ icw,
generally rising up to rocky heights,
with a village at tlie base, wliich some
times extends higli up the steep sides
of the mountain. Tliese villages, built
of white stone, are seen at a great dis
tance, and stand out from among tlie
green groves with picturesipie effect.
A few miles before we arrive at tlie
eutr.iuce of the Hellespont the blue
top of Jlount Ida appears, and Booii
tlie plains of Troy are before us on
our rigiit, and the Island of Teiiedos,
the great rendezvous of tlie Greeks in
tlie Trojan war, on our left. Tliese
plains are a maguificeiit tlieatrc tor
the manoeuvering of large armies, and
here it was that tlie great prodigies of
valor betw'een the Trojan and Grecian
heroes w'ere enacted, of wiiieh the
blind old man of Seio sings, and wliicli
we read in our college days. Standing
on tlie deck of our ship, w-ecau almo,st
^ see the famous story of tlie old poet
enacted before our eye.s—tlie lauding
of the Grecian liosts; the shock of the
contending armies; the liaiid-to-liaud
contests of the great lieroes. Hector,
Paris, Acliilles, Patroclus, and Ajax;
their jirodigies of strength, w'hile gods
and goddesses liovered near iu the
fall aud
death; the, shouts of the victors, the
wailing of the compiered; the cliariot
of Aeliiiles dragging liis conquered
ciiciiiy, Hector, lii .savage fury around
the wails of the city iu the sight of liis
agonized old fatlier, wife and ehiidren;
tlie stealtiiy Ulysses mounting the
wooden liorse ; tlie fiery serpents rush
ing from tlie foaming sea, Laocoon and
ids sons struggling in tlieir scaly
folds—all these pietiu’es rise up before
you like a moving panorama, aud you
would fain believe them all. Near tlie
siiore tliere rise large, coiiieal mounds,
evidently artifleial. For ages one lias
been regarded as tlie tomb of Acliilles
and Patroclus, wdiere Alexander tlie
Great aud Julius Cicsar iiave done
honors to tlie dead lieroes. Farther
inland, near the ancient city, is an-
otlier largo mound called the tomb of
Hector. Troy was situated about
seven miles from the sliore of tlie sea,
on an eiiiinence overlooking a beauti
ful plain watered by tlie Scamaiuler.
Its site is very well autlieutlcated.
A sail of five miles brings you to tlie
HelIe.spout, wdiicli is about live miles
wide. On either side stand immense
forts—one in Europe and one in Asia
to guard tlie entrance, armed with
gims of tlie largest calibre and of the
most approved models. The narrow
est part of tills classic stream is very
near tlie soutlierii entrance. Tlie sliores
on eitlier liaud slope back to lofty,
rounded liills covered w-ith the green
est verdure and trees. Tlie Asiatic
shore is tlie most beautiful, luiviug tlie
greatest variety of bold mountain
seeucry.
It was at this narrowest part of tlie
Hellespont, lietween Cestus iu A.sia
aud Abyilos iu Europe, that Xerxes
built ids bridge of boats wlien lie in
vaded Greece, and wliicii saved liis
retreating array from de.structioii after
tlie liattle of Salamis. Here Alexan
der tlie (ircat crossed wlieii he carried
the war iiito Asia. It was iierc, too,
tliat the lieroic Leaiider porislied iu
liis attempts to seek Ids Hero tlirougli
the angry waters, and wliere Byran,
in after years, sneeeeded more fortu
nately in performing t!ie same feat,
o.sca])ing witii only a cold aud fever.
At tills place tlie Dardanelles, meas
uring from a long jxoiiit at Cestus, on
tlio Asiatic side, across to Abydos, is
about one mile wide. Scattered along
on eitlier side of tlie Hellespont are
towns loolcing w-ell in tlie distance.
All the higli points are surmounted by
immense wiiid-iidlis for grinding flour,
wliicli give all tliese villages a very
liieturesque effect. AA’e approached
Coiistaiitiuo]ile from tlie Sea of Jlar-
mora just before sunrise, and came
abreast t!ie city as the suii was gilding
lier lofty iiiiimrets and domes, shining
witli dazzling briglitness on a thou
sand w'iiidows. Standing ou tlie deck
of our sliip, as slie came up proudly
from tlie sea around the Point Seraglio,
nothing could be more grand than tlie
picture before us. At our nglit rises
Stamboul, on a triangle of land flank
ed by the JIarmora and Golden Horn
on two sides, and tlie green Seraglio
for its apex, its liouses rising by easy
ascent from tlie w-ater on each side,
rand above rank, to a gentle emiuence
snrmouiited iiy a lumdred domes and
minarets; while towering above tliem
all, and crowning the picture, rises tlie
magnificent dome of St. Sopliia, sur
rounded b5' gilded minarets streteliiiig
almost into the blue sky.
Before us stands Pera, another ci
ty covering the steep sides and tlie
lofty einiiience of another liill. On
the Asiatic side lies Scutari, embos
omed ill green trees, and still further
to the east, iu lofty gradeur rise the
purple sides Alouiit Olympus. To the
north, winding up among the wooded
hills, is tlie Bospliorus ; wliile to tlie
west, between Stamboul and Pera,
lies the Golden Horn, streaeliiiig up to
tlio eliarniiiig valley of tlie “Sweet
AA’ater.” All tlie element of natural
graiideuv aud of tlie liaiidiwork of man
are before you iu one picture.
Hero floats before you tlie most
stately of slii]is—the flags of all na
tions. Tiie waters are replete witli
craft of every kind, from tlio ocean
steamer to the irail kiak. Ilore'wo see
tlio mountains, tlie rivers, tlie cities,
all in one glorious setting, sucli as tlie
word lias never seen before. T^ou
stand in mute w-oiidor belioldiiig tlio
scene before you. Manifestly tills was
iiiteiuled by Provideiieo as a mag-
iiifieeiit capital of a most magnifleeiit
empire.
But tlie cliann is dispelled the mo
ment you set foot witliiii the city.
Tlie streets are narrow, fllled w'itli dogs,
badly paved, tortuous, often filtli5'—
buildings generally very common, old,
and built of w'ood—excepting tlie
mosques, wliicli witli tlie lofty domes
minarets, are externally very magiii-
Ucent and imposing. Tlie people seem
devoted to trade ai small wases of all
nations. Tlio bazaars are extensive ;
but they tliere sell more of European
and American goods than any otlier.
Tlie most common of American articles
for sale are plain muslin and petro-
lium. Ill deed, America is now-giving
liglit to tlie world. Tlic only illumi
nator to be found everywliere.—in Nu
bia, Egypt, Jerusalem, Haiiiasens and
Coiistantmople—is petroliuiu. An
American often sees, to liis surprise,
in tlie sands of Egypt or the lonely
paths of Palestine or Syria, camels and
donkeys loaded witli boxes marked
witli tlie cheering words, “Eelincd
Petroliuiu, New- York.” In tlieliazaars
of Cairo, Jerusalem, namasns and
Constaiitinoiile, lie w-ill liear tlio hum
of tlie American sow-iiig maeliino, and
find them everywhere for sale.—X. P.
Observer.
VICT«U iSiltJO.
Tlie name of M, Victor lingo
is one of the very few which at
tract universal attention in the
world of literature. His great
genius and bis long life, his com
mand, almost unrivaled, of the
springs of hninan emotion, and
even the wildness and eccentric
ity rvhich accompany his powers,
unite to excite the curiosity at
least of all readers to every work
that bears his name. The great
est of these works are of almost
colossal pretensions, and dwarf
every thing that can be put by
tlieir side; we know scarcely
any thing in modern literature
which would not look pale in
presence of “ Notre-Daine ” and
“ Les Misdrables.” The very
G.xtravagance which mingles with
the real greatness of these books
gives to them a wild miignificance
of outline wliicli captivates the
imagination, even when it offends
that strait-laced and not always
infallible quality wliich we call
good taste. His rules of work
are not as tliose of lesser men ;
he does not introduce us into a
circle of animated figures, and
allow us to share their life and
thoughts for as long a time as
suffices to elucidate tlieir story,
which is the manner of most suc
cessful writers of fiction. On the
contrary, tlie spectator is put out-
sitJe the scene, and can do noth
ing but look on breathlessly,
while, amid mist and cloud, with
illuminations fiery or genial, as
the case nui}' be, the gre'at picture
rises before him, each actor de
tached and separate, some in
boldest relief, with a force which
is often tremendous, and always
forcibly dramatic. We see tlie
personages of his story all around,
not .-ofteniiig off into any back
ground, or confused hv any sec
ondary circumstances, but dis
tinct, complete, as if cast in
bronze—which does not prevent
them from exhibiting now and
then the most delicate shades of
tenderness, and wliich in no way .
interferes with this author’s power
of representing childreti—one of
his greatest gifts. The babes are
as distinct as the lieroes, every
pearly curve of them tender and
sweet as rose-leaves, yet complete
creatures, nowhere blurred or
indefinite, even in the most deli
cious softness of execution. The
onlv work which wo can recall
which exhibits a mode of treat
ment similar to that of Hugo, is
Uarivle’s “French llevolution
but the philosoplier is scornful of
his puppets, and throws a certain
tragic gleam of ridicule across
even tliat lurid back-ground of
despair and suffering, whereas
Hugo is always deadly serious,
and even by chance niay stray as
near tlie limits of the ridiculous
as is given to mortal man, with a
sublhne unconsciousness of that
dangerous vicinity. Tlie French
man, we may add, is left alone in
his greatness without any con
temporaries. In his own country
there is no one who can he so
much as thought of in any possi
ble asjiect of rivalry. George
Sand, though still now and then
at far intervals putting forth some
pale fiowor of old age, can not
cei-tainly now enter into any
thing like competition with an
old man whose works have all
the vigor of manhood still ; and,
of the 3-ounger crop of writers
whom the empire has trained,
there is not one fit to tie the shoes
of either of these writers. Neither
is there any one on our own side
of the Channel who can with an}-
show of justice bo placed h}-
Hugo’s side—his genius is too
national, his workmanship too
characteristic, to be contrastid
with tlie calmer inspirations of
any Englishman ; and, even on
other grounds, we know no Eng
lishman, except George Eliot
(may the bull be forgiven us!),
who could fairlv stand a compar
ison with him. We do not think,
indeed, tliere is any man living
in whose productions the reader
can see and feel the poetic pas
sion of composition, of which we
have all hoard, as he can in the
works of Hugo—not that weak
frenzy wliich nroduces washy
floods of fine writing, but the
nervous thrill of a force restrained
and managed with all the skill of
a master, but yet carrying on the
strain in spontaneous fire and
fullness beyond the reach of mere
art. His subject, the character
lie is unfolding, possesses the
writer—he throws himself upon
it with a glow and fervor of
knowledge, with a certainty of
delineation, which is not the mere
exercise of practised powers, but
that with something indescribable,
something indefinable, added to
it, swelling in every line, and
transforming every paragraph.
The workinansliip is often won
derful ; but it is not the work
manship which strikes us most—
it is the abundant, often wild,
sometimes unguided and undis-
cijilined, touch of genius which
inspires and expands and exag
gerates and dilates the words it
is constrained to make use of—
almost forcing a new meaning
upon them by wa}- of fiery com
pulsion, to blazon its own mean
ing upon brain and sense whether
they will or not. We know no
literary work of the age—we had
almost said no intellectual work
of any kind—so possessed and
quivering with this undescribable
but extraordinary piower.—Black
wood’s Magazine.
Oil tliat I migiit effectually recom
mend to you tlie pos.session of tliat
precious legacy of our blessed Sariour,
peace.
—“Anytliiiig pitc you dcro ?” inquir
ed one Hiitcliman of aiiotlier, rvhile
engaged in angling. “No, Hotting at
all.” “Veil, retumod the otlier, “net
ting pile me too.”
An Irish gentleman, lieariiig of a
friend liaving a stone coffin made for
himself, exclaimed: “Byiiiesowl, an’
tliat’s a good idee! Shuro, an’ a stone
eolfiu ’ud last a man ids lifetime.”
It is said tiuit tlie Parisians regard
Mile. Albaiii as tlie first prima donna
of tlie -n-orld; but that tliey consider
Madame Patti as a plienomeiion, and
do not include iier in aiij- classification.
A dead man can drift down
stream, but it takes a live man to
pull up against it. That is the
time that tries a man’s soul—
when the tide is against liim.
—The Argus says that tlie first
thought on a cold morning is
“ God help the poor.” To judge
from appearances, the second
thought is a determination not to
meddle with the intentions of
Providence.
A party of young men dined sump-
tiously at a restaurant iu Dublin, and
cacli one insisted on paying the bill.
To decide the matter, it was proposed
to blindfold the waiter, and the first
one he caught sliould pay the bill.—
He hasn’t oauglit any of them yet.
“Get out of
are you good
my way—what
for?” said a
cross old man to a little bright
eyed urchin who happened to
stand in the way. The little
fellow,as he stepped aside, replied
very gently ; “They make men
out of such things as we are.”
AVear your learning, said Ches
terfield, in a private pocket, and
do not pull it out and strike
merely to show that you have
one. If you are asked what
o’clock it is, tell it, but do not
proclaimed it hourly, and unasked,
like the watchman.
The proverbial quickness of Irish
wit is illustrated by an anecdote rela
ted by Captain A . He came
across a private belonging to one of
the most iiredatory companies of the
Irisli Brigade, with the lifeless bodies
of a goose and lien tied together by
tiie lieels, dangling fi’om liis musket.
“Wliere did you steal those, 5-0U ras
cal!” he demanded. “Paith, I was
marching along wid Col. Sergeant
Maguire, and tlie goose—bad cess to
it—came out and liissed the American
flag.” “But Hie hen, sir, iiow about
tlie lien t “It’s Hie liin, is it! The
hill bless ye, was in bad company, and.
laying eggs for the rebels.” •