 The Colored People at the New Orleans Exposition, from the American Missionary, Volume 39, No. 7, July 1885, by Anonymous. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852-1905, by Various. Section 4 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Colored People of the United States are just 20 years out of the House of Bondage. With long centuries of barbarism and 250 years of slavery behind them, they started out homeless, landless, moneyless, and experience-less. The New Orleans Exposition was to have exhibits from all lands, Asia with its millennium of transmitted achievements, Europe with its centuries of enlightened development. The United States, with their wonderful improvements on the best the world had produced, were all to be there. What show could the 20-year-old freedmen make in such company? The very idea of their attempting to put in an appearance would seem absurd. But the Colored People desired at least to stand up and be counted. They determined to be there. The entire gallery and one end of the immense government building was assigned them, and the specimens of their skill more than filled it. They came from nearly every state and territory in the Union. Their exhibits represented almost every department of mechanical, agricultural, and artistic skill. Excellence in workmanship, fertility in invention, tastefulness, and the fine arts were all displayed to a remarkable degree in the large collection. Southerners and northerners were alike astonished at what their eyes beheld. Those who thought that the Negro has no higher mission than to be a hewer of wood and drawer of water were compelled either to change their minds or else say they did not believe that the Colored People did the work. It was amusing to hear the remarks of some of the latter class as they looked at some beautiful specimens of Negro handicraft or ingenuity. It may interest the readers of the missionary to glance at the great variety of lines along which Negro ability put itself on exhibition. Examination papers from schools were very numerous, showing proficiency in penmanship, spelling, arithmetic, algebra, geometry, free drawing, grammar, and translations from the classics. Fine needlework of all kinds, millinery, dressmaking, tailoring, portrait and landscape painting, and oil, watercolors, and crayon. Photography, sculpture, models of steamboats, locomotives, stationary engines, and railway cars. Cotton presses, plows, cultivators, and reaping machines. Wagons, buggies, tools of almost all kinds, from the hammer of the carpenter to the finely wrought forceps of the dentist. Piano and organ, both pipe and reed, making. Carpentry, cabinet making, upholstery, tin smithing, black smithing, boot and shoe making, basket and broom making, pottery, plain and glazed, brick making, agricultural products, including all the cereals and fruits. Raised in the country, silkworm culture, fruit preserving, flour from a mill, and machinery from a foundry owned by a colored man. Patented inventions and improvements, nearly all of them useful and practical, were quite numerous, drugs and medicines, stationary, printing and publishing. Some of the articles on exhibition are worthy of special mention. A black walnut pulpit, in design and finish, as beautiful and tasteful as any church might wish. A sofa, finely upholstered, and the covering embroidered with artistically executed needlework, showing four prominent events in the life of Toussaint-Laovateur. A chandelier, very beautiful in design and finally finished. A complete set of dentist's instruments in polish and finish, remarkable. A little engine made by a silversmith of Knoxville, who was a slave and who has become a skilled workman of local reputation. He never worked in a shop, till he had one of his own. He learned the use of tools without any instruction. These articles would certainly merit attention, even if put in competition with similar specimens of the very best workmanship. Neither the Negroes nor their friends have any reason to regret that an exhibit was made. It was, in every sense of the word, creditable. It marks a progress simply wonderful, when all the circumstances are taken into the account. It is prophetic of a very hopeful future. It demonstrates that the Negro race can enter every profession and calling in which the white man is found. It proclaims in tones that no one should misunderstand that he who writes or speaks of the colored people should be careful how he pronounces judgment in regard to their capacity. They should be given a white man's chance. No trade nor occupation should be closed against them. Open doors should welcome two honorable competition, white and black alike. Let this be so, and in less than half a century there will not be a trade nor profession nor calling in which black men will not be found in the front. There will be preachers and professors and editors and physicians and lawyers and statesmen and teachers and bankers and businessmen and artisans and mechanics and farmers of African descent, of whom, as brethren, the very greatest of white men will not need to be ashamed. Let writers on the Negro stop theorizing about his capacity for this or that calling and unite in demanding that he have a fair chance to become what God has made him capable of becoming. It is wrong. It is wicked for men who by voice and pen influence public sentiment to conclude that because the Negro is now a waiter, a boot-black, a barber, a laborer, that therefore he cannot be anything else, or even that he cannot probably be anything else. By the very force of circumstances he has been compelled to occupy these positions. By an unjust public sentiment he has been shut out from even an opportunity to prove his capacity to stand beside his white brother in every calling. Public sentiment should be reformed at this point and the colored people's exhibition of what they have achieved in the short space of twenty years in spite of opposition and in spite of lack of opportunity assures us that if they are permitted they will contribute no small share in securing the reformation. We advise all leaders of public sentiment who do not desire twenty-five or thirty years hence to be found eating their words of today or explaining how it was that they came to be on ground so untenable to heed the lessons of this exposition and range themselves with those who look at facts and who recognize the prophetic power of facts and heartily accept the prophecy even if this prophecy run counter to what have been their fancies. The colored people's educational day at the world's exposition called out an immense crowd and proved to be of very great interest. Speeches were made by representatives of both races. Reverend Dr. Palmer, the eloquent Presbyterian divine of New Orleans and Colonel William Preston Johnson, president of the Tulane University, represented the Louisiana whites and in their speeches not only complimented the colored people on the progress they had made but assured them of the hearty sympathy and cooperation of all good people in the south. The Reverend A. E. P. Albert, a graduate of our straight university, represented the colored people. The newspapers published his speech in full. We have read it with much interest. It is a speech of considerable power. It is an honor to the man, to his race, and to the AMA. Our students' letter this month is from Talladega College. The memories it portrays are not pleasant, but it is fitting to remember the pit out of which we have been digged. The darkness of the picture makes the present opportunities and privileges of the colored people to shine out all the brighter. Heartily can we thank God that these terrible things are now only a memory. End of The Colored People at the New Orleans Exposition by Anonymous First Modern Novel, A.D. 1740 by Edmund Goss from The Great Events of Famous Historians, Volume 13, from 1905. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852 to 1905 by Various Section 5 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times Quote, Let me make the ballads of a nation, said Fletcher of Salton. And I care not who makes the laws. The place which the ancient ballads held in forming the characters of the people is, in our day, more than filled by the novels. Everybody reads them, especially in the younger generation, and every character is more or less molded by the sentiments and teachings they contain. The novel has been almost entirely a modern English development. Two centuries ago our ancestors did not read fiction. They had practically none to read. So that the production of the first English novel in 1740, leading as it has to the present state of affairs, may fairly be counted a most important event in the history of our race. Nowadays, ten thousand novels are published every year, and for some of these is claimed the enormous circulation of half a million copies. There is nothing offensive to the dignity of literary history in acknowledging that the most prominent piece of work affected by literature in England during the 18th century is the creation, for it can be styled nothing less, of the modern novel. In the 17th century there had been a very considerable movement in the direction of prose fiction. The pastoral romances of the Elizabethans had continued to circulate. France had set an example in the heroic stories of De Erfe and La Calprenéde, which English imitators and translators had been quick to follow, even as early as 1647. The Francion of Sorrel and the Roman bourgeois of Fiottier, the latter published in 1666, of a special interest to students of the English novel, had prepared the way for the exact opposite to the heroic romance, namely the realistic story of everyday life. Bunyan and Richard Head, Mrs. Ben and Defoe each had marked a stage in the development of English fiction. Two noble forerunners of the modern novel, Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver's Travels, had inflamed the curiosity and awakened the appetite of British readers. But although there were already great satires and great romances in the language, the first quarter of the 18th century passed away without revealing any domestic genius in prose fiction, any master of the workings of the human heart. Meanwhile the drama had decayed. The audiences which had attended the poetic plays of the beginning and the comedies of the close of the 17th century now found nothing on the boards of the theatre to satisfy their craving after intellectual excitement. The descendants of the men and women who had gone out to welcome the poetry of Shakespeare and the wit of Congrave were now rather readers than play-glowers and were most ready to enjoy an appeal to their feelings when that appeal reached them in book form. In the playhouse they came to expect bustle and pantomime rather than literature. This decline in theatrical habits prepared a domestic audience for the novelists and accounts for that feverish and apparently excessive anxiety with which the earliest great novels were awaited and received. Meanwhile the part taken by Addison and Steele in preparing for this change of taste must not be overlooked, and the direct link between Addison as a picturesque narrative essayist and Richardson as the first great English novelist is to be found in Pierre de Merrival 1688 to 1763, who imitated the spectator, and who is often assumed, though somewhat too rashly, to have suggested the tone of Pamela. Into this latter question we shall presently have need to inquire again. It is enough to point out here that when the English novel did suddenly and irresistibly make its appearance it had little in common with the Rococo and Coquettish work which had immediately preceded it in France, and which at first, even to judges so penetrating as the poet Gray, was apt to seem more excellent because more subtle and refined. The rapidity with which the novel became domiciled among us and the short space of time within which the principal masterpieces of the novelists were produced are not more remarkable than the lassitude which fell upon English fiction as soon as the first great generation had passed away. The flourishing period of the 18th century novel lasted exactly 25 years, during which time we have to record the publication of no less than 15 eminent works of fiction. These 15 are naturally divided into three groups. The first contains Pamela, Joseph Andrews, David Simple, and Jonathan Wilde. In these books the art is still somewhat crude and the science of fiction incompletely understood. After a silence of five years we reach the second and greatest selection of this central period, during which there appeared in quick succession Clarissa, Roderick Random, Tom Jones, Peregrine Pickle, Amelia, and Sir Charles Grandison. As though invention had been exhausted by the publication of this incomparable series of masterpieces, there followed another silence of five years, and then were issued, each on the heels of the other, Tristram Shandy, Rassilis, Cristle, the Castle of Otranto, and the Vicar of Wakefield. Five years later, still, a book born out of due time appeared, Humphrey Clinker, and then, with one or two such exceptions as Evelina and Caleb Williams, no great novel appeared again in England for forty years, until, in 1811, the new school of fiction was inaugurated by sense and sensibility. The English novel, therefore, in its first great development, should be considered as comprised within the dates 1740 and 1766, and it may not be uninstructive before entering into any critical examination of the separate authors to glance at this chronological list of the first fifteen great works of English fiction. The novels contained in the catalogue just given, however widely they differed from one another in detail, had this in common, that they dealt with mental and moral phenomena. Before 1740 we possessed romances, tales, prose fiction of various sorts, but in none of these was essayed any careful analysis of character, or any profound delineation of emotion. In Defoe, where the record of imaginary fact was carried on with so much ingenuity and knowledge, the qualities we have just mentioned are notably absent. Nor can it be said that we find them in any prose writer of fiction earlier than Richardson, except in some very slight and imperfect degree in Afra-Ben, especially in her Russo-ish novel of Orinoco. The first great English novelist, Samuel Richardson, 1689-1761, was born and bred in Derbyshire. He records of himself that when still a little boy he had two peculiarities, he loved the society of women best, and he delighted in letter writing. Indeed, before he was eleven, he wrote a long epistle to a widow of fifty, rebuking her for unbecoming conduct. The girls of the neighborhood soon discovered his insight into the human heart and his skill in correspondence, and they employed the boy to write their love letters for them. In 1706 Richardson was apprenticed to a London printer, served a diligent apprenticeship, and worked as a compositor until he arose, late in life, to be master of the stationer's company. He was fifty years of age before he showed symptoms of any higher ambition than that of printing correctly, acts of parliament, and new editions of law books. In 1739 the publishers, Rivington and Osborn, urged him to compose for them a volume of familiar letters, afterward actually produced as an aid to illiterate persons in their correspondence. Richardson's set about this work gave it a moral flavor, and at last began to write what would serve as a caution to young serving women who were exposed to temptation. At this point he recollected a story he had heard long before of a beautiful and virtuous maid servant who succeeded in marrying her master, and then, laying the original design aside, Richardson, working rapidly, wrote in three months his famous story of Pamela. All Richardson's novels are written in what Mrs. Barble has ingeniously described as, quote, the most natural and the least probable way of telling a story, unquote, namely in consecutive letters. The famous heroine of his first book is a young girl, Pamela Andrews, who describes in letters to her father and mother what goes on in the house of a lady with whom she had lived as maid, and who was just dead when the story opens. The son of Pamela's late mistress, A. Mr. B., it was Fielding, who wickedly enlarged the name to Booby, becomes enamored of her charms, and takes every mean advantage of her defenseless position. But fortunately Pamela is not more virtuous than astute, and after various agonies which culminate in her thinking of drowning herself in a pond, she brings her admirer to terms, and has discovered to us at last as the rapturous, though still humble, Mrs. B. There are all sorts of faults to be found with this crude book. The hero is a rascal, who comes to a good end, not because he has deserved to do so, but because his clever wife has angled for him with her beauty, and has landed him at last like an exhausted salmon. So long as Pamela is merely innocent and frightened, she is charming, but her character ceases to be sympathetic as she grows conscious of the value of her charms, and even the lax morality of the day was shocked at the craft of her latest maneuvers. But all the world went mad with pleasure over the book. What we now regard as tedious and prolix was looked upon as so much linked sweetness long drawn out. The fat printer had invented a new thing, and inaugurated a fresh order of genius. For the first time the public was invited, by a master of the movements of the heart, to be present at the dissection of that fascinating organ, and the operator could not be leisurely enough, could not be minute enough for his breathless and enraptured audience. In France, for some ten years past, there had been writers, Caribbean, Merrival, Prévost, who had essayed this delicate analysis of emotion. But these men were the first to admit the superiority of their rough English rival. In Merion, where the heroine tells her own story, which somewhat resembles that of Pamela, the French novelist produced a very refined study of emotion, which will probably be, one day, more largely read than it now is, and which should be looked through by every student of the English novel. This book is prolix and languid in form, and undoubtedly bears a curious resemblance to Richardson's novel. The English printer, however, could not read French, and there is sufficient evidence to show that he was independent of any influences save those which he took from real life. Nonetheless, of course, Merrival, who has a name for affectation which his writings scarcely deserve, has an interest for us as a harbinger of the modern novel. Pamela was published in two volumes in 1740. The author was sufficiently ill-advised to add two more in 1741. In this letter installment, Mrs. B. was represented as a dignified matron, stately and sweet, under a burden of marital infidelity, but this continuation is hardly worthy to be counted among the works of Richardson. The novelist showed great wisdom in not attempting to repeat too quickly the success of his first work. He allowed the romances of Henry and Sarah Fielding, the latter as grateful to him as the former were repugnant, to produce their effect upon the public, and it was to an audience more able to criticize fiction that Richardson addressed his next budget from the mailbag, Clarissa, or the history of a young lady. He appeared in installments, but in seven volumes in all, in 1748, with critical prefixes prefixed to the first and fourth volumes. In this book, the novelist put his original crude essay completely into the shade and added one to the masterpieces of the world. Released from the accident which induced him, in the pages of Pamela, to make his heroine a servant-girl, in Clarissa, Richardson depicted a lady, yet not of so lofty a rank as to be beyond the range of his own observation. The story is again told entirely in letters. It is the history of the abduction and violation of a young lady by a finished scoundrel, and ends in the death of both characters. To enable the novelist to proceed, each personage has a confidant. The beautiful and unhappy Clarissa Harlow corresponds with the vivacious Miss Howell. Robert Loveless addresses his friend and quantum fellow reveler John Belford. The character of Clarissa is summed up in these terms by her creator, a young lady of great delicacy, mistress of all the accomplishments, natural and acquired, that adorn the sex, having the strictest notions of filial duty. Her piety and purity, in fact, are the two lodestars of her moral nature, and the pursuit of each leads her to life, to shipwreck. By the universal acknowledgement of novel readers, Clarissa is one of the most sympathetic as she is one of the most lifelike of all the women in literature, and Richardson has conducted her story with so much art and tact that her very faults canonize her, and her weakness crowns the triumph of her chastity. In depicting the character of Loveless, the novelist had a difficult task, for to have made him a mere ruffian would have been to ruin the whole purpose of the piece. He is represented as witty, versatile, and adroit, the very type of the unscrupulous gentleman of fashion of the period. He expiates his crimes, at the close of a capital duel by the hands of Colonel Warden, a relative of the Harlow family, who has seen Clarissa die. The success of Clarissa, both here and in France, was extraordinary. As the successive volumes appeared, and readers were held in suspense as to the fate of the exquisite heroine, Richardson was deluged with letters in treating him to have mercy. The women of England knelt sobbing round his knees, and addressed him as though he possessed the power of life and death. The slow and cumbersome form of Clarissa has tended to lessen the number of its students, but there is probably no one who reads at all widely, who is not at one time or another, come under the spell of this extraordinary book. In France its reputation has always stood very high. Diderot said that it placed Richardson with Homer and Euripides. Rousseau openly imitated it, and Alfred de Moset has styled it the best novel in the world. To those who love to see the passions taught, to move at the command of sentiment, and who are not worried by the excessively minute scale as of a moral miniature painter, on which the author designs his work, there can scarcely be recommended a more thrilling and affecting book. The author is entirely inexorable, and the reader must not hope to escape until he is thoroughly purged with terror and pity. After the further development of Fielding's genius, and after the advent of a new luminary in Smollett, Richardson once more presented to the public an elaborate and ceremonious novel of extreme prolixity. The history of Sir Charles Grandison, in seven and six volumes, appeared in the spring of 1754, after having been pirated in Dublin during the preceding winter. Richardson's object in this new adventure was, having already painted the portraits of two virtuous young women, the one fortunate, the other a martyr, to produce this time a virtuous hero, and to depict the character and actions of a man of true honour, as before in a series of familiar letters. There is more movement, more plot in this novel than in the previous ones. The hero is now in Italy, now in England, and there is much more attempt than either in Pamela or Clarissa to give the impression of a sphere in which a man of the world may move. Grandison is, however, a slightly ludicrous hero. His perfections are those of a prig and an egoist, and he passes like the sun itself over his porter of adoring worshippers. The ladies who are devoted to Sir Charles Grandison are, indeed, very numerous, but the readers and trust centres in three of them. The mild and estimable Harriet Byron, the impassioned Italian Clementina della Porretta, and the ingenuous Ward Emily Gervois. The excuse for all this is that this paragon of manly virtue has the most delicate of human minds, and that women are irresistibly attracted to him by his splendid perfections of character. But posterity has admitted that the portrait is insufferably overdrawn and that Grandison is absurd. The finest scenes in this interesting but defective novel are those in which the madness of Clementina is swelled upon in that long-drawn, patient manner of which Richardson was a master. The book is much too long. Happy in the fame which the three daughters of his pen had brought him, and enjoying prosperous circumstances Richardson's life closed in a sort of perpetual tea-party in which he, the only male, sat surrounded by bevvies of adoring ladies. He died in London of apoplexy on July 4, 1761. His manners were marked by the same ceremonious stiffness which gives his writing an air of belonging to a far earlier period than that of fielding or smalled. But his gravity and sentimental earnestness only helped to endear him to the women. Of the style of Richardson there is little to be said. The reader never thinks of it. If he forces himself to regard it, he sees that it is apt to be slipshod, although so trim and systematic. Richardson was a man of unquestionable genius, dowered with extraordinary insight into female character and possessing the power to express it. He had little humor, no rapidity of mind, and his speech was so ductile and so elaborate that he can scarcely compete with later and sharper talents. End of First Modern Novel, 80, 1740 by Edmund Goss. Modern Types by Mr. Punch's own typewriter from Punch or the London Charivari, Volume 98, March 15, 1890 by Anonymous. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852 to 1905 by Various. Section 6. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Number 4. The Giddy Society Lady. The Giddy Lady is one who, having been plunged at an early age into smart society, is world perpetually round in a vortex of pleasures and excitements. In the effort to keep her head above water, she is as likely as not to lose it. This condition she naturally describes as being in the swim. In the unceasing struggle to maintain herself there, she may perhaps shorten her life, but she will apparently find a compensation in the increased length of her dressmaker's bills. She is ordinarily the daughter of aristocratic parents, who carefully allowed her to run wild from the moment she could run at all. By their example she has been taught to hold as articles of her very limited faith that the serious concerns of life are of interest only to fools, and should therefore, though the inference is not obvious, be entirely neglected by herself in that frivolity and fashion are the twin deities before whom every self-respecting woman must bow down. Having left the seminary, at which she acquired an elementary ignorance of spelling, a smattering of French phrases as used by English lady novelists, and a taste in music which leads her in afterlife to prefer Miss Bessie Bellwood to Beethoven, she is soon afterwards brought out at a smart dance in London. From this point her progress is rapid. Balls and concerts, luncheons and receptions, dinners and theatres, race meetings and cricket matches, at both of which more attention is paid to fashion than to the field, follow one another in a dizzy succession. She has naturally no time for thought, but in order to avoid the least suspicion of it she learns to chatter the slang of the youthful guardsmen and others who are her companions. A certain flashing style of beauty ensures her to the devotion of numerous admirers to whom she babbles of chapies and jaunies and real jam and stony brook and two to one bar one. As if her life depended upon this correct pronunciation of as many of these phrases as possible in the shortest time on record. She thus comes to be considered a cheerful companion and at the end of her third season marries a jaded man of pleasure whose wealth is more considerable than his personal attractions and who, for some inscrutable reason, has been approved by her parents as a suitable husband. She treats matrimony as an emancipation from rules which she has rarely seen anyone else observe and has never honoured herself, and after a few years she becomes one of that gaudy band of society ladies who follow with respectful imitation the giddy vagaries of the Corinthians of a lower grade. She dines often without her husband at smart restaurants, where she has constant opportunities of studying the manners of her models. She adores the burlesques at the gaiety and the avenue and talks with a complete absence of reserve and a disregard of pedantic accuracy about the lives and adventures of the actresses who figure there. She can tell you, and does, who presented Lottie A. with a diamond star who was present at the last supper-party in honour of Totty B, nor is she averse to being seen and talked about in a box at a music-hall or at one of the pleasure-palaces in Leicester Square. She allows the young men who cluster round her to suppose that she knows all about their lapses from strict propriety and that she commends rather than condemns them. The causes celeb are, to her, a staple of conversation, her interest in them varying directly as the number of correspondence. It is impossible, therefore, that the men who are her friends should treat her with that chivalrous respect which an obsolete tradition would seem to require, but they suffer no loss of her esteem in consequence. Having her behaviour in the society of men, the tone of her daily conversation with friends of her own sex may be readily imagined, though it might not be pleasant to describe. Suffice it to say that she sees no shame in addressing them or in allowing herself to be addressed by a name which a court of law has held to be libelous when applied to a burlesque actress. She is always at Hurlingham or the Rain Law, and has seen pigeons killed without a quam. She never misses a sandown or a kempton meeting. She dazzles the eyes of the throng at Ascot every year and never fails at Goodwood. Twice a year the giddy lady is compelled by the traditions of her caste to visit Paris in order to replenish her exhausted wardrobe. On these occasions she patronizes only the best hotel and the most expensive and celebrated of men dressmakers, and she is fitted by a son of the house, of whom she talks constantly and familiarly by his Christian name as Jean or Pierre or Philippe. During the shooting season she goes from country house to country house. She has been seen, sometimes, with a gun in her hands, often with a lighted cigarette between her lips. Indeed, she is too frequent a visitor at shooting luncheons and in smoking-rooms, where a woman, however much she may attempt to disguise her sex, is never cordially welcomed by men. The conventions of the society in which she moves seem to require that she should be attended during her visits by a cavalier servant, who is therefore always invited with her. Their pastime is to imitate a flirtation and to burlesque love, but neither of them is ever deceived into attributing the least reality to this occupation, which is often as harmless as it is always absurd. These and similar occupations, of course, leave her no time to attend to her children, who are left to grow up as best they may under the fostering care of nursery-maids and of such relations as may choose, from time to time, to burden themselves with the olive branches of others. Her husband has long since retired from all competition with her, and leaves her free to follow her own devices, whilst he himself follows the odds. She is often supposed to be riding for a fall. It is certain that her pace is fast, yet, though many whisper, it is quite possible that she will ride to the end without open damage. Of her dress and her jewels it need only be said that she affects tailor-made costumes and cat's-eye bangles by day, and that at night she escapes by the skin of her teeth from that censure which the scantiness of her coverings would seem to warrant, and which Mr. Horsley, R.A., if he saw her, would be certain to pronounce. In Middle Age she loses her brilliant complexion. Yet, for reasons best known to herself, her color continues to be bright, though her spirits and her temper seem to suffer in the effort to keep it so. As old age advances she is as likely as not to become a gorgon of immaculate propriety, and will be heard lamenting over the laxity of manners that permits girls to do what was never dreamt of when she was a girl herself. End of Modern Types, the Getty Society Lady, by Mr. Punch's own typewriter. An ADLL adventure in Liverpool. From Chambers-Edenberg Journal No. 441, Vol. 17, June 12, 1852. Editors Robert and William Chambers. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852-1905, by Various. Section 7 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times. Liverpool has perhaps fewer relics of an archaeological nature than any other town in the United Kingdom, and this at first seems a little singular when we remember that it is not without its place in the more romantic eras of our history, and that a castle of considerable strength once lent it to protection. Its old castle, its towers, and the walls by which it was surrounded have all been swept away by the busy crowds that now throng its thoroughfares. Even the former names of places have in most instances been altered, as if to obliterate all recollections and associations connected with its early history. Thus a row of houses, which a few years ago bore the not very euphonious name of Castle Ditch from its having followed a portion of the line of the moat by which the fortress, which once stood near it, was surrounded, was changed into St. George's Crescent, and many others underwent similar transmutations. But if the physical aspect of the place holds up few or no attractions to the antiquary, the moral one of its inhabitants, insofar as his favourite subject is concerned, is equally uninviting. For, taken as a whole, it would be difficult to find a population less influenced by or interested in such studies. The only relic of the olden times which Liverpool has for a long time past retained was a long, low, picturesque-looking, thatched cottage in the small village of Everton, of Toffee, notoriety, which went by the name of Prince Rupert's Cottage, from its having been the headquarters of that fiery leader when he besieged the town from the ridge on which the village is situated. But even this was swept away about six years ago by the proprietor to allow a street which he had mapped out to a butt upon the village at the point it occupied. The project did not succeed, and the outline of the contemplated street is all that as yet marks out the spot where this interesting object stood. I confess to the soft impeachment of having been, at a very early period of my life, inoculated with the true Monk Barn's enthusiasm, and I have always been a great admirer of that beautiful remark of Lord Bacon's, that antiquities may be considered as the planks of a wreck which wise and prudent men gather and preserve from the deluge of time. Some months ago I was walking along what is called the Breck Road, leading out of the little village of Everton, of which I have been speaking, when my attention was arrested by a market-cross in a field on the opposite side of the road. I was somewhat surprised that it had escaped my notice when I formerly passed that way, and I immediately crossed over to examine it. It was formed, as all the English market-crosses are, of a series of flat steps with an upright shaft in the centre, was built of the red sandstone of the district, and bore the appearance of great antiquity. The field was not far from what might be called the principal street of the village, and as I was aware that considerable changes had taken place of late years in the neighbourhood, it occurred to me, as possible, that at one time the cross might have occupied the centre of a space on which the markets were held. My time, however, being limited, I was unable to make any immediate enquiries regarding it, but resolved to take an early opportunity of making myself acquainted with its early history so as to rescue one interesting relic, at least of the place, from apparently a very undeserved obscurity. This opportunity did not present itself for some weeks, but at length it did occur, and I started for the place to collect all the information, both traditional and otherwise, which I could regarding it. On arriving at the spot my surprise may be conceived, for it cannot be described. When, on looking at the field where it stood, I found that it had been removed, and all that remained to point out the place was the bare mark on the grass of the spot which it had occupied. The consternation of Aladdin, when he got up on one fine morning and found that his gorgeous palisade vanished during the night, was hardly greater than mine on making the sad discovery, and like him, I daresay, I rubbed my eyes in hopes that my visual organs had deceived me, but with as little success. On looking to the other side of the road I observed a mason at work repairing the opposite wall with some very suspicious looking stones, and I immediately crossed over and commenced a categorical examination of the supposed delinquent. I inquired whether he could explain to me the cause of the removal of the ancient cross, which used to be in the field exactly opposite to where we were then standing. But he said that, although he was an old resident in Everton, he had not even been aware of the existence of such an object. This I set down as an additional instance of the want of interest which the natives of the place take in archaeological subjects. He told me, however, that about three weeks previously he had observed several men facing the wall opposite the large stones, which they brought apparently from some place close at hand, but that having his own work to attend to, he had not bestowed any particular thought on the matter. He said the field was rented by a person for the purpose of cleaning carpets, and he had no doubt the removal had been accomplished by his directions. On stepping across the road I found these suspicions completely realized, for there, resting on the top of the wall, were the time-honored steps of the cross of my anxiety. Luckily for me, at least, the tenet was not at hand at the time, as in the state of excitement in which I was, I might have done or said something which I should afterwards have regretted. I had no alternative but to return to town, nursing my wrath to keep it warm, and thinking over the best and most efficacious method in which I could accomplish the punishment of the aggressor, whoever he might be, and procuring the restoration of the cross in all its primitive simplicity. I thought of an article in the papers into which all my caustic and sarcastic powers were to be concentrated and discharged on the head of the desecrator, then of calling on the Lord of the manner and mentioning the matter to him, so as, if possible, to carry his influence along with me, although I thought it quite probable that he might have sanctioned the spoilation to save the expense of new stones for the repair of his tenet's wall. Under this latter impression, therefore, and previous to carrying either of these belligerent intentions into effect, I thought it would only be fair to give the obnoxious man an opportunity of explaining the circumstances under which he had assumed such an unwarranted responsibility. Accordingly, a short time afterwards, I again wended my way towards the field, determined to bring the matter in some way or other, to a bearing, when I saw a very pleasant looking man standing at the door of the house in which the carpet-cleansing operations are carried on. Supposing him to be the delinquent, I endeavored to bridle my rising collar as much as possible while I asked him whether he could tell me anything about the removal of the cross which had once stood in that field. With a gentle smile, which I thought at the time almost demoniac, he mildly replied that he had removed it, because the object for which he had erected it about twelve months before had ceased to exist, and he had taken the stones to repair the wall close by where it had stood. The shock which the nervous system of our worthy friend Monk Barnes received when the exclamation of Edie Ocultry fell upon his ear of Praetorium here, Praetorium there, I mind the big and odd was not greater than that which mine sustained on receiving this death-blow to all my hopes of rescuing this interesting relic of antiquity from its unmerited oblivion. Gulping down my mortification as best I could, I, and as indifferent a manner as I could assume, craved the liberty of inquiring what the circumstances were which had led to such a fanciful employment of his time. He told me that he had been a carpet manufacturer in Oxfordshire, but had been unsuccessful in business, and had come here and set up his present establishment for the cleaning of the articles which he formerly manufactured, and that, wishing to add to his income by every legitimate means within his power, he had been supplied regularly with a quantity of Banbury cakes, for the sale of which he had erected a temporary wooden hut in one corner of his field. That one morning early, about eighteen months ago, as he was lying awake in bed, the thought struck him that as there were a great many large flat stones lying in the corner of the field he would erect them in front of the hut into the form of the well-known cross of equestrian nursery rhyme Notoriety. He immediately rose, and summoning his workmen succeeded in making a very tolerable imitation of the worldwide known cross, but that after about twelve months' trial of his cake speculation, finding it did not succeed, he gave it up, and removing the cross of which it was the sign, turned the stones to a more useful purpose. Thus ended my daydream connected with this interesting relic, and nothing, I am sure, but that indomitable enthusiasm which distinguishes all genuine disciples of the Monk Barnes School could have sustained me under my grievous disappointment. End of an ADLL adventure in Liverpool. Dungeness. General Green's Sea Island Plantation by Frederick A. Ober from Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 26, August, 1880. British and American Periodical Articles, 1852 to 1905 by Various. Section 8. Southernmost of those famed sea islands of Georgia, lying right inside of Florida's northern shore, on the northern verge of the tropic borderland, Cumberland Island presents its beach-front to the ocean. It unites within itself all those attractions which have made Florida famous, all but river and lake. It has the balmiest climate in the south. The vegetation of its forests is semi-tropical. It has game in abundance. It has all these, and yet its territory is now a waste. In November I visited it, and again in April and later in August. To reach it one must go first to St. Mary's, the town farthest south on the Georgia coast, or to Fernandina, the northernmost city in Florida. In either case he will have to hire a boat and a boatman, and in either case he must carry with him his provisions. St. Mary's in April is St. Mary's in August, a drowsy, quaint old town, warm in the daytime and cool at night, hot in the sunlight, but with cool sea breezes. The streets of St. Mary's are her glory. They are 100 feet wide, carpeted with a green, suede, smooth as a shaven lawn, lined with live oaks and china trees. In April the latter are in full bloom, their lilac blossoms hanging in dense panicles, the green leaves fleshing them just enough to afford contrast, and the somber Spanish moss depending gracefully from every branch and limb. Great gaudy butterflies are continually hovering over them and fluttering uneasily from flower to flower, and gleaming hummingbirds, our own northern summer visitors. The trocholus colubrus are flashing from tree to tree, now poised a moment in air, now sipping honey from the tiny cups. From the lighthouse dome at Fernandina one can look over half the island, trace the white sand beach miles to the south, follow it north till it curves inland, where Amelia Sound, the mouth of the St. Mary's River, forms the harbor. Away north runs up Cumberland Beach, and among the trees and over a broad stretch of marsh gleam white the ruins of Dungeonus. West again one sees the gloomy pines of the mainland, behind which the sun goes down, lighting gloriously the marsh and silver threads of the river. Unlike the seasons of the north, there is here no perceptible line of demarcation between them. We cannot positively assert that spring has opened or summer or winter begun. As for autumn and harvest time the crops are being continually gathered in. So since the year came in I have seen various plants and shrubs in bloom that ought to open with spring. Up the Aqlawaha in January I saw the Blackberry or Dewberry and Blossom, and ever since along the St. John's in that month and February on the banks of the St. Mary's in February and March, and even here in Fernandina and St. Mary's it is blossoming and bearing fruit. It is this week, the first week in April, that we obtain the first fruit for the table, buying it for ten cents a quart. It puzzles one to think of planting. When must he begin? Last Christmas one of our truck farmers had a large crop of peas ready to harvest. A chance frost gobbled them up, however. Now, April, peas and potatoes are in their prime. By the middle of April the China trees have dropped their blossoms, and the streets beneath are strewn with withered flowers. The fragrance that filled the air has departed with the hummingbirds and butterflies. The pomegranate still continues in bloom. Its vividly scarlet flowers have delighted us ever since the middle of March. The figs commenced leafing with the month. Now they are green with broad leaves, and in the axle of each appears the rudiment of a fruit. They are grotesquely gnarled and twisted, taking most unthought of shapes and positions. The mockingbirds have mated and begun the construction of their nests. Their music is delightful, nearly all the day long they sing, and sometimes in the night. It seems almost wicked, to mercenary man, to think that birds worth twenty-five dollars a piece are freely fluttering about, unharmed. When the breeding season has opened, however, it will not close without some family of mockingbirds being made desolate. For the young Ethiopian hath an ear for music, and most eagerly seeketh the young bird and its downy nest, trusting to the unsuspecting Yankee. Renumeration, therefore. The month went out in glorious style. Every morning of its thirty days it opened with unclouded sky, and each night's sun went down with a blaze of glory that flooded the marshes with golden light, and left painted on the sky clouds of royal purple and crimson. Two or three showers sprang upon us in the afternoon, ending after a stay of an hour or two, cooling the air and refreshing weary man most wonderfully. Plums and peaches are nearly grown and turning color. They afford another illustration of the flowery motions of vegetation here. In January I left some plum trees in full bloom. Returning a month later I found the same trees still white with flowers. The peaches were pink with bloom in February and March, and even in April some blushing flowers appear. This was Fernandina and St. Mary's in April. In August the latter town has changed but little. The straits were as green as in early spring. The flowers were fewer, but the air was heavy with the fragrance of crepe myrtle and orange. It was hot in the morning, but an early breeze from the ocean soon came in, blowing with refreshing coolness all day long. It was even pleasanter. Then in spring and winter the air clearer and more bracing, and annoying insects had disappeared. St. Mary's is intimately connected with Cumberland Island in history. In the war of 1812 the island was taken, and the slaves were offered their freedom by Admiral Cockburn. But such was their attachment to the place and their masters that but one availed himself of this opportunity to escape. At Point Peter, where the mainland of Georgia terminates in the marshes of St. Mary's, a fight occurred, and there are yet the remains of an earthwork thrown up by the Americans to repulse the British fleet in its advance on St. Mary's. The oldest inhabitant of St. Mary's, who is said to have scored a century old Daddy Patty, a negro who bears in his face the tattooing of his native Africa, participated in that fight. He lives in a little cabin on a street by the wharf and devotes his time to fishing, at which he is very expert. Upon being questioned regarding the fight, he seemed rather hazy as to dates, but was positive as to the time he first saw America. Dewey of the Revenue was just clapped peace when I land in Charleston from Africa. Was young man then just grove? No saw. Never saw General Washington, but hear of him. Sir. He fought with the British. Sir. And gained the victory at New Orleans. Sir. That was General Jackson. Uncle. No saw General Jackson. Multibenda, but General Washington. He had a hand in it. Yes, sir. As de Façadella. Sir. Was in St. Mary's, a photo street was laid out in 1787, and was all big gall and hammock. The Indian name of Cumberland Island was Miso, beautiful land. And this was changed when Oglethorpe visited the island at the request of an Indian chief who had received some kindness from the Duke of Cumberland. It is related in an old English record of which I have seen a copy that the Duke was so well pleased at with the evidence of goodwill that he caused a hunting lodge to be erected there and named it Dungeonous after his country seat. Castle Dungeonous on the Cape of Dungeonous and the County of Kent. From that time until the breaking out of the Revolution it was owned successively by peers of the British realm. The island is 18 miles in length and from half a mile to three miles in breadth. The soil is sandy, adapted to the culture of cotton, corn, potatoes, etc., pomegranates, olives, dates, figs, limes, lemons, orange, and melons yield abundant crops. The great frost of 1835, which extended over the entire peninsula of Florida, destroyed the fine groves of orange trees. At one time this fruit was shipped in schooner loads, and from this tree three thousand oranges have been gathered. The forest trees are live oak, cedar, and a few pines. A most interesting fact in the history of the island is found in its chronicles, for here we are obtained the timbers for the Constitution, old iron sides. That noble frigate so well known to every American. Some of the stumps of the indestructible live oak from which the timber was cut for her ribs may yet be seen. Deer, raccoons, bear, and possum are abundant in the thick forest. The climate is temperate and healthy. Many of the former slaves lived to a great age. The island has never been affected by fever, while the town of Brunswick to the north and Fernandina just across the channel to the south have been scorched by yellow jack. Cumberland has ever remained untouched. St. Mary's across the marshes on the mainland also boasts this immunity. The creeks of the marshes swarm with fish of every sort, and there are oyster beds containing large and toothsome bivalves. With possums and coons, fish and oysters, it is strange that Cuffy clung to his old home long after his master had left it. Is it a matter of wonder that there yet seems a remnant of the old slave population, houseless and poverty stricken, clinging to the island that once gave them so delightful a home? At the close of the war, it is related, Mr. Stafford, proprietor of the central portion of the island, burned his negro houses to the ground, telling his people to go, as he had no more use for them, nor they for him. Cumberland today is nearly depopulated. The fertile cotton and cornfields run to waste, and wild hogs and half-wild horses roam over the pasture and scrub that cover once cultivated fields. The history of this island commences with that of Georgia. We read that in 1742 the Spaniards invaded Georgia and landed on the island. With a fleet of thirty-six sail, and with more than three thousand troops from Havana and St. Augustine, they entered the harbor of St. Simons, north of Cumberland, and erected a battery of twenty guns. General Thorpe, with eight hundred men, exclusive of Indians, was then on the island. He withdrew to his fort at Fraterica, and anxiously awaited reinforcements from Carolina. By turning to account the desertion of a French soldier, he precipitated the attack of the Spaniards, and on their march to Fraterica they fell into an ambush-cade, great slaughter ensued, and they retreated precipitately. The place of the fort is to this day known as Bloody Marsh. The Spaniards retreated south along the coast in their vessels, and on their way attacked Fort William, at the southern extremity of Cumberland Island, but were repulsed with loss. This fort, which was constructed, I think, by Oglethorpe, is placed on the extreme southern end of Cumberland in a map of the island made in 1802. Even then the fort was half-submerged high water, and at the present day its site is far out in the channel. The water of the river mouth is constantly encroaching upon the land, and the ruins of a house, once standing upon the southern point, may be seen. It is said, beneath the water at Low Tide. Old Fort William has been seen within the memory of residents of St. Mary's, but likewise beneath the waves. About 1770 that rare naturalist and botanist, William Bartram, landed here and traversed the island, being set across to Amelia Island, Fernandina, by a hunter whom he found living here. He was then at the commencement of his romantic journeyings among the Seminole Indians up the St. John's River, then running through a wilderness. Another fortification, Fort St. Andrew, situated on the northwest point of the island, may still be traced by the ruins of its walls. A well is known there into which, it is said, the English threw ten thousand pounds in silver upon the approach of the Spaniards. In this way, by vestiges of foundation walls, are indicated the various settlements of the island, mansions and cabins that have passed away, leaving no other sign but these sad memorials of the past. At the conclusion of peace, and immediately after the close of the Revolution, the southern portion of Cumberland Island came into the possession of General Nathaniel Green. It is said by some to have been presented to him by the State of Georgia in connection with a beautiful estate of Mulberry Grove, where he removed with his family and took up his residence. His lamentably premature death prevented the consummation of his design to build here a retreat in which to spend the hot summer months. He had resided but a year upon his estate of Mulberry Grove, and had hardly commenced to beautify and adorn this chosen residence of his mature years when a sunstroke cut him down in the prime of his life. The General had selected the site of the mansion to be built at Dungeonness, and had planned the grounds laid out a garden which subsequently became famous for its tropical products and roses, and had lined through the forests of Live Oak, those avenues which have since grown to such magnificent proportions. As had been related, he did not live to see the completion of his work, but died almost at his very inception. In 1786, the year of his death, the foundation walls were laid of the mansion home of Dungeonness, but the building was not finished till 1803. Even after it had been occupied for years and during the sixty years and more it was used as a residence by the descendants of General Green, there remained a few unfinished rooms. A tradition in the family to the effect that some great misfortune would befall it if the building were finished prevented, it is said, its completion. In the early part of the present century it was the most elegant residence on the coast. A mound of shells, the accumulation of centuries, and the result of countless Indian feasts, rose high above the southern marsh of Cumberland. A forest of Live Oaks surrounded it on three sides, and at its feet ran the broad creek which wound through the marsh for miles, seeking the sound at a point opposite the Florida shore. Here, for ages of time, the Indians of the South had resorted to feast upon the oysters with which the creek was filled. The creek Indians, the most honorable with whom the United States ever had dealings, from whom sprang the Seminoles, and who occupied the entire territory of Georgia and Carolina at the period of the white man's advent, were the last who aided in the erection of this monument to a race now passed away. The summit of this shell mound was level for the sight of the house, and a terrace area of an acre or more constructed with shells. Upon this base, raised above the general level of the island, its foundations were laid. It was four stories in height above the basement, and from cellar stone to eaves was forty-five feet. There were four chimneys and sixteen fireplaces, and twenty rooms above the first floor. The walls at the base were six feet in thickness, and above the ground four feet. They were composed of the material known as tabby, a mixture of shells, lime, and broken stone, or gravel with water, which mass being pressed in a mold of boards becomes wind-dry as hard and durable as rock. The walls are now as solid as stone itself. The second story above the terrace were the principal rooms. The room in the southeast corner was the drawing room in the time of the Shahs and the Nightingales. The room immediately back at the drawing room in the northeast corner was the dining room. A wide hall ran through the center, upon the opposite side of which were two rooms used respectively as school and sewing room. Above these apartments in the third story were the chambers. That directly at the drawing room is the most interesting of all, for it was occupied by General Harry Lee, who was confined there by sickness, and there died. The interior of the house corresponded with its exterior in beauty of finish and magnificence of decoration and appointments. Enclosed by a high wall of masonry, the tabby just described, was a tract of twelve acres devoted to the cultivation of flowers and tropical fruits. This wall, now broken down in places and overgrown with ivy and trumpet vines, yet divides the garden from the larger fields, once devoted to cotton and cane. The gardener's house was next the mansion, and joined to it by this high wall. The garden laid to the south, reaching the marsh in successive terraces. On and about the semicircular terrace immediately around the house were planted crepe myrtle, clove trees, and seagull palms. Some yet remained to indicate what an Eden-like retreat was this garden of spices and bloom half a century ago. The first broad terrace, which ran the entire length of the garden wall east and west, was divided by an avenue of olives, which separated in front of the house, leaving a space in which there were two noble magnolias. A broad walk ran from the house to the lower garden, which was divided from the other by a thick-set hedge of mock orange. In this garden was another walk bordered by olives. This space was entirely devoted to flowers. On each side was a grove of orange trees, and in the lower garden were the fig, endia rubber, and date-palm, the golden date of Africa. Of trees there were the camphor tree, coffee, Portuguese laurel, tree of paradise, crepe pesto, guava, lime, orange, citron, pomegranate, seagull palm, and many others whose home is in the tropics. The delicious climate of this island, several degrees warmer than that of the mainland in the same latitude, enabled the proprietors of this insular paradise to grow nearly all the fruits of the torrid zone. A little tongue of land runs from the garden into the marsh, an elevation of the original shell-mount, covered with oaks hung with long gray moss. This was called the park, and here the inhabitants of this favored estate would resort for recreation in the afternoon and evening. Near the strip of land, beneath the shade of an immense live oak, luxuriates a clump of West India bamboo, said to have originated from a single stock brought here by General Lee. The feathery lances clash and rattle with all the wild abandoned characteristic of them and their native isles. I have not seen a more perfect group outside the islands of the Caribbean Sea. From the walls of the second story, if you wish to view the wide extended prospect to the south, you must clamber there. You can look across 3,000 acres of salt marsh to Fernandina and St. Mary's along the river and beach, across miles of ocean. Ivy climbs the corner wall of the ruins and covers the garden wall and trees. Ruin everywhere stares you in the face. On every side are deserted fields and gardens, fields that employed the labor of 400 Negroes, fields that were fertile and yielded large crops of the famous Sea Island cotton. Bales from this estate were never sampled. The Sea Island cotton that took the prize at the World's Fair in 1871 was raised on this island. East of the garden stretching toward the ocean beach is the Olive Grove. 70 years ago the first olive trees were imported from Italy and the south of France. They grew and flourished, and years ago this grove yielded a profit to its owners. In 1755 Mr. Henry Lawrence of South Carolina imported and planted olives, capers, limes, gender, etc., and in 1785 the olive was successfully grown in South Carolina, but probably there is not at the present day a grove equal in extent to this. It was estimated that a large tree would average a gallon of oil per year. There were 800 planted and brought to a flourishing and profitable stage of growth. There are several hundred now, scattered through a waste of briars and scrub and overgrown with moss. But in the avenues, in the hottest day there are shade and coolness beneath the intertwined branches of the live oaks that arch above them. The eye is refreshed and gazing down these vistas over the leaf-struned floors of sand. The sunshine sifts through the arch above, flaking the roadway with a mosaic of leaves and bowels in light and shade. From the limbs hang graceful penons of Spanish moss festooned at the sides, waved by every wind, changing in every light. Grape vines, with stems six inches in diameter, climb into the huge oaks and swing from tree to tree, linking limb with limb. The tree tops are purple with great fruit clusters. To the whole scene the dwarf pomero gives a semi-tropic aspect. There are no signs of life, save a lizard darting over the leaves, stopping midway to look at you with bright eyes. In the evening the squirrels come out in countless numbers, and their crashing leaps may be heard in all directions. Bright cardinal birds, Florida jays and gay non-perials enliven the gloom. The jays chatter in the branches and mockingbirds carol from the topmost limbs. It is one of the joys of earth to walk through the Grand Avenue of Dungeonness at sunset. There were, when the estate was in prosperous condition, eleven miles of avenues, seven miles of beach, eight miles of walks, and nine miles of open roads. Grand Avenue, running midway the length of the island, was cleared eighteen miles to high point. There are now but three miles cleared, but you can look straight down beneath the arch of live oaks for more than a mile of its length. From the sound to the beach, crossing central avenue, ran River Avenue for a distance of about a mile. This live oak forest, which covers several thousand acres, is densely filled with scrub palmero, impenetrable almost, and so difficult to pierce that the deer with which the forest warms choose the old paths and roadways in their walks from sleeping to feeding grounds. The hunters take advantage of this, and after starting with their dogs in the scrub, post themselves on the main avenues where the paths intersect and shoot the deer as they jump out. The deer of the island are estimated by thousands, and a state law which prohibits the hunting of deer with dogs, except with the owner's permission, has aided in their increase. Halfway up the island are numerous ponds to which ducks resort in the winter in vast numbers. Bear are plentiful in the deep woods and their tracks with those of the deer in greater abundance are often found crossing the abandoned fields. Three hundred feet in width, hard as stone, shell strewn between wind-hollowed sand dunes and foaming surf, this beach of Cumberland stretches for twenty miles. The sands that border it are covered with a network of beautiful convalbolas, tufts of sea-oats with knotting plumes and picturesque plumps of Spanish bayonet, yocca gloriosa, with pyramids of snowy flowers. This and the prickly pear suggest the climate of the tropics. I find them on the sand-hills bordering the ocean-beach, the wind-swept dunes between the beach-hammock and the hard sand of the waved-wash beach. They are called barren by many these sand-hills of the Atlantic coast, but I never find them so. To me they are always attractive, whether I am traversing the sand slopes of Cape Cod or the similar ones of Florida. Even the grasses possess a character of their own, gracefully erect, tiny circles traced about them where the last wind has caused them to brush the sand. Here, too, are grasses rare and beautiful, the feathery fox-tail, the tall, loose-branched sea-oats, and many others with names unknown, which you may see ornamenting the famous Palmetto hats. So fascinating are these sand dunes that one wanders among them for hours, following in the past worn by the feet of cattle which roam these hills in the neighboring marsh in a half-wild state. Sometimes the banks will shelve abruptly, hollowed out by the wind, and one can look down into a hole ten or twenty feet deep, arched over by thorn-bushes, grapevines, and a species of bay. These sand caverns are of frequent occurrence. There are clumps of scrubby oak completely covered with scarlet honeysuckle and trumpet-flower. While seeking to investigate one of these, I startled a hen-quail which, after whirring rapidly out of sight, returned and manifested much anxiety by plaintive calls. This is a queer place for quail. In the neighborhood of old fields where they can easily run out and glean a hasty meal from grass and broken ground is their chosen place for a nest. Along the surface of the sea long lines of pelicans pursue a lumbering flight. Graceful turns, sea-swallows, skim the waves, a great blue heron stalks across the hard sand, majestic, solitary, and shy of man's approach, and dainted little beach-birds, piping plover and snowy white and drab glide rapidly past the surfline. A mile below Beach Avenue is a high sand hill shelving abruptly toward the beach, half-buried trees projecting from its western slope. It is now known as Eagle Cliff, so called by the proprietor of Dungeonous from the fact of my shooting an eagle there one day in November. In the beach hammock are the same wind-hollowed hills, rooted into permanence by twisted oaks and magnolias. Upon their limbs in April the Spanish moss and air-plants were just blossoming, the former into little star-like, hardly discernable flowers, the latter throwing up a green stem with a pink terminal bud which in August had burst into a spike of crimson flowers. Curious lichens cover the rough trunks of these oaks, some gray, some ashy white, some pink, some scarlet like blutches of blood. The mitchella, the little partridge berry, is here in bloom and has been since the year came in. The marsh that borders the beach hammock and spreads a sea of silvery green before the mansion is not barren of attractions. Inquisitive and faint-hearted fiddler crabs are darting in and out of their holes in the mud. An alligator now and then shows a hint of a head above the water of the creek, along whose banks walk daintily and proudly egrets and herons robed in white, and from the reeds of which myriads of water-hens send up a deafening chatter. Midway between the mansion and the beach, in the southern corner of the orchard of olive trees, which overhang is surrounded, is the graveyard of the family. It is the last object to which in this narrative I call attention, but to the visitor it is the most interesting, of the past. By a winding and secluded path from the deserted garden, along the banks of the solitary marsh, beneath great water oaks hung with funereal moss, one reaches this little cemetery, a few roots of ground walled in from the adjoining corpsewood, a lonesome acre, thinly grown, with grass and wandering vines. Three tomes and three head stones indicate at least six of the graves with which this little lot is filled. In one of these graves rest the bones of her who shared the fortunes of the gallant general, though Washington of the south, when he rested after the last decisive battle and retired to his Georgia plantation. In another lies buried his daughter, and in another the gallant light-horse Harry, who so ably assisted him at Utah Springs, the brave and brave. Upon the first marble slab is engraven. In memory of Catherine Miller, widow of the late Major General Nathaniel Green, commander-in-chief of the American Revolutionary Army in the southern department in 1783, who died September 2, 1814, aged 59 years. She possessed great talents and exalted virtues. Phineas Miller Esquire, a native of Connecticut and graduate of Yale College, who had been engaged by General Green as law-tutor to his son, managed the widow's estates after the general's death and later married her. His grave is here, though unmarked by any stone. In this name revives the memory of one of the greatest inventions of the 18th century. Eli Whitney, the inventor of the cotton-gen, was born in Westboro, Massachusetts, December 8, 1765. In 1792 he obtained a position as tutor to the children of a Georgia platter, but owing to the imperfect postal regulations his letter of acceptance was not received, and on arriving in Savannah he found his place occupied by another. Without means or friends he was in great want. When his circumstances became known to Mrs. Green, then residing at Mulberry Grove, who, being a benevolent heart, invited him to make her house his home until he should find remunerative employment. One day, while this lady was engaged in working a sort of embroidery called timbre work, she complained to young Whitney that the frame she was using was too rough and tore the delicate threads. Anxious to gratify his benefactress, Whitney quickly constructed a frame so superior in every respect that she thought it a great invention. It chanced shortly after that a party of gentlemen, many of them old friends and officers who had served under General Green, met at her house and were discussing the merits and profits at Cotton, which had been lately introduced into the state. One of them remarked that unless some machine could be devised for removing the seed it would never be a profitable crop. The cleaning of one pound of hay's work. Mrs. Green, who heard the remark, replied that a young man, a Mr. Whitney then in her house, could probably help them. She then sent for Whitney, introduced him, extolled his genius and commended him to their friendship. He set to work under great disadvantages, having to make his tools and even his wires, which at that time could not be had in Savannah. By Mrs. Green and Mr. Green, he was furnished with abundant means wherewith to complete his machine. It was first exhibited privately to a select company, but it could not long remain a secret, and its fame, which spread rapidly throughout the south, was the cause of great excitement. The shop containing the model was broken open and the machine was stolen. By this means the public became possessed of the secret, and before these were in successful operation. A partnership was entered into between Miller and Whitney, and in 1793 a large area was planted with cotton, in expectation that the new gen would enable them to market it at little expense. In 1795 their shops, which had been removed to Newhaven, were destroyed by fire, thus reducing the firm to the verge of bankruptcy. The faith and energy of Mr. Miller are well shown in the following letter, written from Dungeness to Whitney, in Newhaven. I think we ought to meet such events with equanimity. We are pursuing a valuable object by honorable means, and I believe our measures are such as are justified by virtue and morality. It has pleased Providence to postpone the attainment of this object. In the midst of all the reflections called up by our misfortunes, while feeling keenly sensitive to the loss, injury, and wrong we have sustained, I feel an exultant joy that you possess a mind similar to my own, that you are not disheartened, that you will persevere and endeavour at all hazards to attain the main object. I will devote all my time, all my thoughts, all my exertions, all the fortune I possess, and all the money I can borrow to compass and complete the business we have undertaken, and if provided by any future disaster depravis of our reward we will at least have deserved it. While thus embarrassed information came from England that the cotton clean by their gins was ruined, Whitney nearly gave way under the strain and wrote to Mr. Miller at Dungeoness. Our extreme embarrassments are now so great that it seems impossible to struggle longer against them. It has required my utmost exertions without making any progress in our business. I have laboured hard to stem the strong current of disappointment which threatens to carry us over the cataract, but have laboured with a shattered horror, and in vain unless some speedy help come. Life is short at best, and six or seven of his best years are in immense sacrifice to him who makes it. Returning south he constructed a new model. It is said at Dungeoness, with object in view so to improve upon the old one as to remove the seed without injury to the staple. It was first tried in the presence of Mrs. Green and Mr. Miller, but found lacking in an important particular. Mrs. Green exclaimed, Why, Mr. Whitney, you want a brush. And with the stroke of her hand, Kirchoff, removed the lint. Comprehending her idea at once, he replied, Mrs. Green, you have completed the cotton-gen. With the further fortunes of the brave inventor we have no more to do, as that part of his history intimately connected with Dungeoness ends here. His subsequent trials, disappointments, triumphs, all the world knows. His friend and partner, who so nobly sustained him, lies buried here. So tradition says, having died in 1806 of a lock-jaw caused by running an orange-thorn sand while removing trees from Florida to Dungeoness. Near the tomb of Mrs. Miller is another. Sacred to pure affection, the simple stone covers the remains of James Shaw. His virtues are not to be learned from perishable marble, but when the records of heaven shall be unfolded, it is believed they will be found written there in characters as durable as the volumes of eternity. Died January 6, 1820, aged 35 years. And by the side of this latter, another marble slab with this inscription, which explains itself. Louisa C. Shaw, relect of James Shaw, Esquire, and youngest daughter of Major General Nathaniel Green of the Army of the Revolution, died at Dungeoness, Georgia, April 24, 1831, aged 45 years. This ends the record of the residence of the family of General Green at Dungeoness. That they made it their home for many years is evident. That they removed here soon after the death of the General is probable. In the division of General Green's possessions, Dungeoness became the property of Mrs. Shaw, his youngest daughter. She, dying childless, left to her nephew, Phineas Miller Nightingale. Mrs. Nightingale, wife of the grandson of General Green, to whom this property was given, was daughter of Rufus King, governor of New York, and granddaughter of Rufus King, minister to Great Britain, during the Elder Adams's administration. The Nightingale's descendants of General Green remained in undisturbed possession until the late war, dispensing unbounded hospitality at their princely mansion. During the war, the house was occupied by northern troops until its close. When, through the negligence of some Negro refugees, it was burned. Its ruins alone testified to the wealth of former years, which now is departed, and the broad acreage of untilled fields and the ruined Negro cabins cry out loudly for those who will never return to bless them. Let us turn once more to that cemetery in the Olive Grove. A tablet to the memory of him who pronounced those glowing words, first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen. Sacred to the memory of General Henry Lee of Virginia, Oblate, 25 March, 1880, A.T. 63. In 1814 General Lee was injured by a mob in Baltimore and never recovered. Early in 1818 he arrived at Dungeonus from Cuba, whether he had gone to regain his health. He landed from a schooner at the river landing, a weak, decrepit old man in whom it would have been difficult to recognize the dashing Light Horse Harry of the Revolution. A grandson of General Green's, Phineas Miller Nightingale, was loitering near the landing. Calling him, General Lee learned who he was and dispatched him to his aunt, Mrs. Shaw, with the intelligence of his arrival. Tell her, said he, that the old friend and companion of General Green has come to die in the arms of his daughter. A carriage was sent for him, and he was installed in the southern chamber above the drawing-room, and everything done to alleviate his pain was that the kindest forethought could suggest. He lingered here some two months and then passed away, buried in the family-burying-ground. His only baggage at the time of his arrival was an old hair-covered trunk nailed round with brass-headed nails. An anecdote is preserved in the family relating to the General's residence there. One of the servants, Sarah, by name, commonly called the Duchess from her stately demeanor, incurred his ill-will. General Lee once threatened to throw his boot at her, and the Duchess then replied, if you do I'll throw it back at you. This answer so pleased the old General that he would afterward permit no other servant to wait upon him. Some years after his death a stone was placed above his grave by his son, General Robert E. Lee, who a few months prior to his death visited his father's grave in company with his daughter. These are some of the associations that cluster about the ruins of Dungeoness giving to those ivy-grown walls to forest and shore, an interest which mere attractions of scenery and climate could not awaken. End of Dungeoness, General Green's Sea Island Plantation by Frederick A. Ober. The Pretty Things to be Warn by Mrs. Helen Hooker from Cosmopolitan Vol. 1 1886. This LibriVox recording is in Domain, reading by Bologna Times. British and American Periodical Articles 1852-1905 by Various Section 9 As many cotton dresses are made at home, while in more elaborate gowns of cloth, silk, and wool are put into the hands of Taylor and Modiz, a few hints about making them may not be amiss. The skirts of cotton gowns are cut two yards and a half wide. They are made with deep-facing and bound with cotton braid, the color of the dress. The lower edge of the skirt is finished with one or two narrow pleatings or ruffles. If ruffles are used for the foot trimming, they should be made scant. If pleatings, they should be made quite full. The draperies for such a dress should be long and made in simple fashion. For the front drapery take one long breadth if the material is wide, hem it neatly and drape onto the front of the skirt as an apron. Lay three or four pleats on each side of the apron and fasten them to the under petticoat by buttons and loops. For the back drapery take two breaths and sew them to the belt. Drape them and then fasten the loopings in by means of tapes. Made in this way is much easier to laundry than when the draperies are firmly sewed to the foundation skirt. Kilt skirts are also worn in gingham, chambray and satin dresses. A favorite way of making the waist of such dresses is either in a gathered basket or a Norfolk jacket. To make a gathered basket, cut the front of the waist three inches wider than the paper pattern. Father the extra fullness of the neck, the waistline and the bottom of the basket. The back of the basket is fitted smoothly, ending in several pleats. The basket should be longer in front and back than on the sides. Finish the edge of the basket with a bias piping. Add to the waist a high standing collar and coat sleeves. Fasten with small ball shaped purl buttons. More dressy baskets are made by adding lace of embroidery and embroidered collars and cuffs and an apron of all over embroidery or cotton lace, either in white or in a color to match the dress. Muslin dresses have round waist made of length wide tucks and lines of insertion or surplus waist. The waist of dresses that are transparent should, if not white, be lined with the same material as the dress. The dresses are double and it is only by lining the waist that it can be made to look the same color as the rest of the dress. Satines are made as elaborately as soaks, with whale bones in the waist, steels in the skirts, and intricate draperies. Some of the prettiest satines are made into French pollinets or dressy baskets and overskirts to be worn over skirts of stirra or full-arred afternoon toilettes. Figaro jackets, opening over blouse fronts of shirred or pleated satine or surra, pointed bodices with long full overskirts, and even velvet vests and skirts reverse are some of the more elaborate styles displayed. A beautiful white dress may be made of embroidered muslin, either in striped lace, which is the newest fashion, or in flowered lace. The waist made of lengthwise strips of muslin and insertion should have a low V-shaped lining and be made in a Russian jacket, with closely fitting positioned back. The front of the waist should be cut away to show a full gathered vest of embroidered gauze, silk, muslin or surra. Sometimes the embroidery forms a short basque in the back, with a long pollinet's front, then rolls over long, plain breaths of fine muslin. Fine Nainsuk dresses should have a petticoat of the same material made the exact length of the dress. The dress skirt itself should be finished by narrow pleatings of lace or tucked pleatings of muslin. An apron made of the muslin and edged with lace may be fastened at the sides where it is draped by graceful bows of creamy white moirier satin ribbon. A dog collar of the same ribbon at the throat adds a pretty touch to a white toilette. Many young ladies like the full plain back for dressy muslin robes but if drapery is desired a very graceful one is made by using a long wide sash of the muslin, finished at the ends with tucks and lace or embroidery. Any of the above styles are pretty for graduating dresses. The lace used for trimming them should be oriental or valenciennes. A charming graduating dress is made of valenciennes net over a white satin slip. This lace may also be found in flouncing width, 40 inches wide and in narrow trimming laces to match. Black lace dresses which are just as fashionable as ever are made over colored slips mauve, rose color, pearl gray and straw color. The first choice is given by women of the best taste to slips of black syrup. Frequently an old dress of silk or satin may serve as the foundation for such a dress. In such case, from five to eight yards of the piece lace will be required. The quantity depending somewhat on the condition of the lining used. Time was when elderly people wore quaker gray or black almost exclusively. The prevalent taste for color has changed all that and now the mother and even grandmothers wear the same colors as the maiden. All of the dark shades of brown, moss green, plum color and blue are worn by them for street dresses. For house and morning gowns they wear cream white, cardinal, garnet, blue and lavender. For elaborate, stately gowns, gold and seal brown, pansy purple, black and exquisite combinations of black and white find most favor. These gowns are made with train. The material used is velvet, bengaline, gross grain or satin. Perhaps the most serviceable of these dresses is a black velvet or gross grain silk trimmed with chantilly lace and jet ornaments or with a set of real lace in white. Such a dress may be made walking length with a plain full back. A separate train can then be added when desired. Such a train can be hooked on at the belt under the basket and hooked down each side of the skirt. A skirt that is much like by women inclined to be stout has the front laid in three or five wide box pleats separated by rows of passimenteri or braid and very long straight drapery in the back. A pretty afternoon and church dress is made of fine cashmere combined with watered silk. Make a plane under petticoat of the silk and a long polonaise of the cashmere. Make the collar and cuffs of the watered silk and drape the polonaise very high on the left side and a very little on the right. Make part of the back drapery of silk. Simple house dresses are made with a round basket and full search or veiling. China silks with a small figure and a good quality of summer silk and a pinhead check and trimmed with velvet ribbon with a feathered edge make lovely cool church dresses for elderly women. The new parasols are large and cast as much shade as sun umbrellas. The fabrics used for them are brocaded, plain and striped satin. They are either plain or a fringe of narrow loops of ribbon. Some of the parasols for carriage use have the sides decorated with embroidery or have white, ecru and black lace covers. Satin parasols also reappear and are pretty and inexpensive. The handles of parasols are of natural carved and ebonized wood. White petticoats are very little worn except for the house and under very thin white dresses. With dark dresses black or dark skirts are worn. These skirts are of farmers satin or cheap quality of black saura and finished with a narrow pleating. Lighter colored skirts are made of gray and cream morine or surge. Boots and shoes have broad low heels and the toes less pointed than last season. Beautiful hose are displayed in dove gray, dark blue and black grounds with tiny blocks of white, cardinal and gold across the instep. These are to be worn with low shoes as are also the silk hose with the instep of lace or embroidery. Plain black lilethread hose remain the most popular for everyday wear with women and children. Gloves need not necessarily match the costume. Though they should harmonize with it it is said that pearl, love and all the tents of gray will be much worn this summer. The safest way is to buy the demi-shades of tan and gray as they can be worn with any color. For evening, pale accrue, lavender and pearl are first choice. Gloves of good make now come in short fingered, medium and long fingered lengths. The collars of dress wastes are worn so high that only the very narrowest of lines of white appears above them. Often this is omitted and the throat of the dress is finished with a very high jetted dog collar fastened at the side with a bow or several hooks and eyes. Rushings or collars are, however, much more becoming and ladylike than simply the dress collar. Rushings may be found in every color and style. Orange, pink, blue velvet, and canvas folds in as great a variety. With the round waists so much worn in all materials, all worn belts of beaded galoon fastened in front with a handsome buckle sewed to the edges of the galoon. If the galoon is not strong enough to stand anywhere, fasten the galoon to a silk belt. Slaves and petticoat of plush or velvet with the corsage and overdress of fine wool are coming into fashion again. It is also said that this is the last season of the draped skirt and that air another winter clinging perfectly flat dresses will be worn. Already the pouf is considerably diminished in size. Many dresses are not draped at all, but fall in plain straight folds. Wood lined with soak is added to many of the jackets and little scarf mantles worn with wool dresses for church and street. End of The Pretty Things to be worn by Mrs. Helen Hooker.