Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1880-08-17
LONG
Maggie MitchelI's Father So His
Walking Feats and Social
Accomplishments.
Correspondence oourier-JOurnal.l

correspondence OOuIlCI-OOuIndlsl
LONG BRANCH, August 9.-This
city by the sea is still crowded, with
no lodgings to let. Fashion will re-
side here a month longer and then
break for the city. In six weeks
from this time the hotels will be
closed, the guests departed and the
Branch and the country contiguous
left to solitude at the very moment
when nature begins to be most boun-
tiful of her charms. The heart of the
horse knows his own misery at the
present moment, when society is at
flood tide. Everybody rides and al
most everybody drives a pair. Con-
slant habit does not seem to blunt the
sense of enjoyment. Like the case Of
Mrs. Gilpin:
"Crack went the whip, round went the
wheels;
We're never folks so glad"
And it really seems that we are re-
turning to dust in a daily experiment
al way in order that the final return
may not seem strange and disagree
able. Every vehicle that passes sends
up minute particles of mother earth
in a huge cloud, which gives the land
scape the appearance of that sugges-
tive school of art dear to audacity and
imbecility. The soil is a light sandy
loan, Of most exhaustless thirst.
Deucalion's food would have been
a failure lift had broken out here, for
this end Of the world would have been
dusty on the forty-frst day. That
portion of it covered with grass, how
ever, holds on to the rain and dew,
and at this time the fields and trees
are emerald green, although all else
is turning to gold and ripeness-the
fruit on the trees and the vegetables
of the garden. The grapes are turn
ing to purple Oh the vines, and even
that gentleman with the tough hide,
the pear, is preparing to give in and
become useful as well as ornamental.
Everything follows the great fashion,
change. Nothing stands still, not
even the pyramids. The question
seriously arises, where is this thing
going to stopY
One of the characters of Long
Branch, rather superior to anything
on the stage, is Mr.. Mitchell,
THE FATHER OF MAGGIE.
He is an old gentleman, se~venty-eight
years Of age, hale Chat word ofhor-
ror to Sir Lawrence Paragon), hearty,
rudy Of aspect and so full of life that
he promises eventually to hold a con-
spicuOus place in the records of re-
markable longevity. 1t is his invari-
able custom to rise early and take a
little walk before breakfast very
little inc of eight to twelve miles.
In these limited stretches he takes no
companion but a walking stick.
Centuries ago he would have been
looked upon as the champion pilgrim.
and a mar Of wondrous and ceaseless
activity, He is a scotchman by birth,
and in early youth may have taken
every morning a light run from the
edge Of the lake to the summit of Ben
Lomond, by way Of an appetizer. The
old gentleman's legs seem to have an
inscrutable mission which keeps them
in almost perpetual motion. Within
his rugged physical frame is lodged in
that undiscovered country where such
things are bestowed a mind of might.
His money is something prodigious.
and out of that closet of a million
hiding places he will produce literary
treasures stored away q half q century
ago, if the right spring be touched,
either Intentionally or by chance. 1t
is almost impossible to refer to
any one Of the English
classics that the man of vigorous
memory is not acquainted with. Anec-
dotes of johnson, Steele, Gay, forgot
ten by everybody else, are carefully
hidden away by him to be brought
!, out on occasion and related with a
gusto that would have delighted those
immortals who commenced with
Queen Anne aud travelled down into
the reign of George III. 1t is a
pleasure not wholly free from melan-
|, eholy to hear this old veteran quote
from Rasselas, from Parnell's Her
NIT, from Beattie, Crabbe and a host
Of others who, to the admirers. of Ten
nyson and his school, seem to be
rusty old fossils scarcely emerging
from the mists Of obscurity. And yet,
Time shall draw its dying groan" ere
we shall see another band like those
who slumber SO soupdly on the
shelves Of the library, or where the
thick dust, like a spiteful old grave
digger, buries the silent dead on the
counters of the bookseller. To these.
the old, whose senses swim, may ex-
claim, with the dying gladiators,
We, who are about to die, salute
you