Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1876-08-19
reopIe You mee. >. "rhe Rranch

People You Meet ut "The Branch :"
" Gath " in the Philadelphia Timesl
A day or two ago at the Branch
/ went out to ride behind George
Walton's speedy twelve-year-old, a
sorrel, with a propensity to go. We
took the wide, gravel-rolled drive
to Deal, hard as a cement beach,
with hedges and lawns and cottages
on both sides. There, on the left,
were three noble cottages, owned
by the three proprietors Of a sooth-
ing syrup. Frailty, thy name is
little baby; thy wall makes for
tunes; mothers keep awake; fathers
must awake, and they say: 60
diva ! for Heavens sake give that
baby something. How do you ex-
pect a father to support a family
and get no sleep ?"
This interrogatory sufices. The
poor little woman doses little
Johnny, and here are three royal
residences built out Of the proceeds
of baby's walls. Modern ciyiliza.
ton is no more than stopping diff
ferent sorts of collie. Mr.. Pull
mans cottage is built of the pro-
ceeds of putting older babies tc
sleep. Mr.. Childs' cottage is the
best here; he puts his readers tC
sleep. Grants cottages are closed
up he is like Macbeth" Still il
cried sleep to all the world. The
cottages of Long Branch are slen,
der screens Of frame, carving and
variegated slate, made green with q
little creeper. They face the SEE
like bits of Swiss carving against
the Alps. a long fog disSOlvei
them; they last, at the best, one
hospitable generation. Yet when,
in the future, men come here and
say, ga hundred years ago all gov.
ernment business in summer was
transacted on this bluff line, where
now the sea is beating the land like
a housewife beating eggs" the Wis.
itor will bathe where hospitality
used to be, and with his naked fool
stir up these cottage timbers. For
as all guide books tell you, the bluff
is receding. / never read a local
history in my life but it began with
geological recession. Cape May
is sliding back, all Jersey is slipping
off into the ocean, nothing is In
sured except crabs and CLAIMS.
We pass on the road the long
hair and affectedly indolent lounge
of Henry Ward Beecher's shallow
son, Theodore Tilton. An insuffer-
able pastry-cook in letters and
lectures, he fans himself as he goes
by, as if he had just got out of the
oven of brainwork. 1t must fatigue
Theodore to work his mind, as
there is so little Of it. It Is like
setting a baby to run foot-race.
Mr.. Shanks of the Tribune tells
me that both Beecher and Tiiton
have neglected the woman they in.
iured. He SAYS I'ilton has done
nothing for his wife, and Beechel
has cared nothing, and she has
dropped poor and flat between them,
neglected by husband, lover and
brother, while Bessie Turner is
literally starving in Brooklyn. She
had a good situation as a school
teacher, at OF near Pittsburg, and
was assured of great consideration
and profit if she would give it up
and testify against her master, Til
ton. She did testify with aplomb
and assurance, and now she eats
the bread Of penury and despair.
Altogether, we have not had a
worse exhibit of the baseness Of
santimentalism than in this Brook,
lyn nest, where were intermixed
the eggs of doves and serpents,
setting hens and mud turtles, and
the whole emotional commune. Br
Beecher, also, is to lecture next
winter. Ye who have poor around
you take care that for every dollar
you spend on that sensation Won dc