About Columbus daily enquirer. (Columbus, Ga.) 1874-1877 | View Entire Issue (Sept. 2, 1877)
I.ITI'LE JIM. This small poem was written by Ed ward Farmer of Great Warwickshire, Kugland, and presented by the author to , \\ Couldock, the eminent actor, in Tiiccottage was a thatched one— die outside old and mean; Vfi everything within that cot VV'ux wondrous neat and cleau. T|,r eight was dark and stormy, j j,,. wind was howling wi.d; A pstieut mother watched beside ■!!,, druth-hed of her child. A little worn-out creature— liis once bright eyes grow dim; li • liu collier's wile and child, jbcy . riled him “Little Jim.” Ami oh! to see the briny tuar* hurrying dowu her cheek, A, .ho ottered up a prayer in thought; She was afraid to speak. 1^5t she might waken one elie loved p a r better than her life; r she had all a mother's heart, Had that poor collier's wife. With bauds uplifted—flee, she kneels jlebide the sufferer s bed, And prays that He will spare her hoy And take herself instead! jr|,e gets her answer from the child— Soli tall these words from him; “Mother, the angels do so smile And beckon Little Jim! “I have no pain, dear mother, now— But, oh! 1 am so dry; Ju.t moisten poor Jim’s lips again, And, mother, don’t you cryl” \\,th gentle trembling haste she held A teacup to his lips; lie smiled to thauk her as he took '1 hree little tiny Sips: • T. ll father, when ho eomos from work, I said ‘good night’ to him; And mother, now I’ll go to sleep— Alas! poor ‘Little Jim!’” (the saw that ho was dying— That the child he loved so dear Had uttered the last words that she Might ever hope to hcarl The cottage door is opened, The collier’s step is heard— The father and the mother meet, Vet neither speak a word. He felt that all was over, lie knew his child was dead; He took the candle in his hand And walked towards the bed. llis quivering lip gives token of the grief he’d fain conc.-al; An J see! his w ife lias joined him— The slrickeu couple kneel I With hearts bowed down w'itb sadness They humbly ask of Him— lu lloave i ome tnor * to meet again Their own poor “Little Jim.” SOMMER’S GOLDEN DAYS. [from Tinsley's Magazine.] CHAPTER 1. “Woman is but a contradiction still.” I Lave an intense, inexpressible desire to go into the country; I have a wild, nn- ntterable longing to see the green fields, ami to hear the murmur of the river as it Hows smoothly through (he meadow at tbo end of auntie’s garden; I have a mad impulse to throw myself down in a hay- field, and to toss the hay abont until I am weary; but I can have none of these glo rious things, for it is the height of the Loudon season, and mother will not let me leave home. I think it is very hard of her; but she believes she is doing her 'uty by keeping me in hot, wearisome London; and she thinks I ought to have my chance as well as the other girls, so she takes me about to concerts, garden parties, halls, fetes, and flower shows, until 1 am in such a whirl of exoitement that it is quite by chance that I say the right thing to the right person, and do not do something to make myself ridicn- lous and to vex my sisters. Mother thinks that it is high time one of ns was mar ried; and as I am the second, and am 21, all her energies seem to be expended on me this season. 1 suppose it is beoanse Barbara, my eldest sister, is such a lovely girl that she ran pick and choose her hnsband, so that there is no fear of her being put on the I shelf, and that there is plenty of time for Helen, who is only just out, that mother pitches on me to torment unmercifully just now. J nne is hot in London, and I do long for the country; and yet I am so strong and well that my longing does not make toe look pale, aud late hours do not take the lustre from the roses in my cheeks, or 1 might appeal to mother’s heart, and I then she would let me go to the country I to freshen up my beanty. 1 am not a bit beautiful, though; only I I am young, and all the Heseltines have good months and pretty figures, so I fome in for those two attributes just in the same way as I get my name of Lois Hezeltine. i am all this time dreaming of the country and of pleasant things instead of dressing for dinner, and the bell will ring | directly and I shall be late, and father 1 look grieved and mother will scold, I & nd I shall not be one bit nearer Coolmo- 1 ry. In the midst of my meditation Helen c °nies into my room, and says father is - siting for me before he tells us all a piece of news. I quickly change my dress while Nellia gets out my ribbons and frills, and before ■ >c g we are all eagerly listening to fath- story. He tantalizes us by making us guess news, and after refusing to do so we “h make the most lamentable failures in ^ Hue, until I say, (my mind still full the country): Has it any thing to do with the Cool- m °f.v people?” I hen father says: Luis s guess is nearest, for Maggie is gJing to be married this day fortnight, b nd she wants Lois to go down at once to ^ el P Her make preparations and to be “ er Lridesmaid.” And how did you hear it, father?” Hbfhara asks, and as she absolutely looks ‘ ut erested about Maggie; for we are all ?er y fond of our only cousin. " ell, the young man came to see me ! H° office to get my consent, as I am ® r guardian; but as your aunt and Mag- had already settled everything, there ** nothing left for me to do exoept to | lve them my blessing, which I did roost hie Mr. Strafford is a gentlemanly young fellow, and has been curate at Coolmory for a year; he has just been presented with a living, and nothing will content him but to marry Maggie offhand, so that they may take a holiday and a wedding tour in one, before they settle to his par ochial work down at Westbury. “It is very annoying that Maggie’s wedding is to take place just now,” mother says, and then continues: “Why could she not have asked Barbara or Hel en to be her bridesmaid instead of Lois? But they always were such friends, I suppose I must let her go;” and then fa ther decides the question at once, and adds: “Of course Lois must go, and after the wedding she must stay with Aunt Mary until Maggie returns from the honey moon expedition.” Already I am wildly happy at the idea of leaving London, and happier still when I think that I shall be out of all the gay- eties that are set down in the engagement book, and which stretch out until the end of burning July. How I commiserate my sisters when I think of what they will have to go through while I shall lazi ly enjoy the lovely Summer weather down at Coolmory! Don’t think I am not fond of gayety, and even of London; but I am weary of it all just now, and particulary weary of mother’s efforts to get me married. I have never seen a man I oould love, so I have never wanted to be married; but mother will insist on it, and seems to think it reflects discredit on her tact that she has still her three daughters on her hands. I am quite content to wait until the others are married, and then I trust she will let me alone to enjoy myself in my own way, and keep father company while she goes about finding husbands for oth er people’s daughters. I have no reason to grumble just now, though, for my wish is gratified, aod I am going down to Coolmory for Bix weeks holiday, and shall only return just in time for the general migration to the coaBt or the Continent. Mr. Strafford has been to see us and we all agree with father in thinking him quite an uuexceptionably agreeable young man, and mother considers Mag gie a lucky girl to have already secured such a prize in the matrimonial lottery. He proposes to take me down to aun tie’s on Monday morning; and as Mag gie also signifies her approval of this plan in her letter of invitation, I agree to it, and am radiantly happy daring the next three days, though I am taken about a great deal more than I consider good for me. Monday at length arrives, and amid kisses from the girls and innumerable di rections from mother about the length and fit of my bridesmaid’s gown, father slips a clean, orisp ten pound note into my hand. Mr. Strafford and I are at last driven away. Then, and only then, I realized the gratification of being on my way to the country, and at the same time as happy a girl as was to be found within the bills of mortality, as somebody says. I am leav ing behind me all the gayeties and so- called pleasures of the metropolis, aud all dear mother’s plans for my future happi ness, which cause me so much weariness of spirit iu the present. CHAPTER II. “Words are easy like the wind; Faithful lriends are hard to find.” —Shakespeare. The wedding is over and I have just sent home an elaborate account of it. Auntie has gone up to her room to shed unlimited tears, for she thinks it the proper thing to do; and I feel rather duil and lonely now that the excitement is over and Maggie has gone. The wedding was very simple, but we made everything look as pretty as possi- sible, and transformed the house into a perfect bower of roses. The church was crowded, and Maggie was so contented and happy that she looked really pretty. I was the only bridesmaid, and had to do a good deal of singing, so that I felt quite a person of importance. Then there was the breakfast; then Maggie went away; then all auntie’s friends went to their respective homes, and auntie and I are left alone to enjoy each other’s com* pany. The best man, a young surgeon named Philip Graham, is staying at the rectory; and I think he might stroll over to know how we are after the fatigues of the day. What I have seen of him I like very much, for he is tall and dark, and appears to be of a serious turn of mind: but he is not really serious, for he has an immense fund of humor, and generally amuses me to such a degree that I laugh to an immoderate extent, and am always in dread of being reproved by auntie; but she seems to eDjoy his conversation, aud never checks my mirth as mother would. We saw a good deal of him before the wedding, as he used to come over and spend the day here with Mr. Strafford, and naturally we used to go about a good deal together, so as not to interrupt the lovers. I wonder if we shall ever see him now his friend is gone, and how long he will remain at the rectory. With all my self love I can see that he does not oare a bit about me, and there is no danger of his making love; so if he does not con template leaving Coolmory at once I trust we shall have some pleasant walks and talks together. Next morning auntie recovered her usual spirits, and is already looking out for letters from Maggie. Be fore we have finished breakfast Mr. Gra ham comes in in just the same easy way as if Mr. Strafford was following him. “Good morning, Mrs. Lisle; how are you after your fatigues of yesterday? he says, and then they begin to discuss the wedding, and talk it over, which to my mind is very often the best part of enter tainments. I look out of the window and think how pleasant it must be under the shads of the alders down by the river s bank, and I fervently wish that Maggie was here, and that we might go out and spend our morning there, as we did every day last week. Evidently Philip Graham thinks -the same thing, for turning from auntie to me, he asks if it would not be pleasanter out of doors this lovely morning, and if I will stroll down to the river with him. I look toward anntie and datifally ask if she will accompany us; but she declines and says she will spend the time we are out in packing up Maggie’s presents, feel I ought to offer to help her; but the sun is shining so dazzlingly, and there is such a fresh breeze down by the river, that my good resolutions melt away, and in another minute my hat is on, and Phil ip Graham aud I are sauntering throngh the dewy meadows, and I am enjoying pleasant Coolmory even as much as I an ticipated. We wander on through a good many fields and finally settle down to rest in quite a new spot. It is very lovely, and the scent of the clover intoxicates me to such a degree that I throw myself down in it and take a long sniff before I look up to see what my companion is doing ne regards me in quite a superior way, and I cannot help laughing, as it Btrikes me he looks very like Landseer’s dog Dig nity; while I feel like Impudence, with my rough hair and my hat very much on one side. After my frolic I smooth my hair, put my hat straight, open my parasol, and then ask Mr. Graham for a remark. He answers me slowly aB he says: “I was thinking what a child you are, and wondering whether you bad any depth of feeling or force of character.” In a moment I am serious, for his words chill me somewhat; and then I tell him that I am having a summer’s holiday, and am just a child again for a month, daring which time I want to leave all my worries at home. Then he laughs in his turn at me and inquires my troubles; aud before I know what I am saying I tell him all abont mother aud the girls, and when our walk is over I feel as if I had known Philip Graham all my life. The rest of the day auntie and I devote to paying visits, and in the evening we an swer Maggie’s letters. All our days paBs pretty much in the same way. Every morning Philip Gra ham and I take a walk—sometimes down to the river, and occasionally to the little town, two miles off, to fetch the letters that ^rrive by the afternoon’s post. Aunt Mary is always busy in the morning, and never comes with ns. She is such a dear, sweet woman, and always reminds me of father. I have been with her a great deal for the last two days, for it has been raining incessantly, and I have not been able to leave the house even for a turn in the garden. Wet days in the country are more unbearable than in London; for I feel as if they deprive me of so many modicums of freBh air that legally belong to me. We have seen nothing of Mr. Graham, and I miss him very much, a great deal more than I thought possible; perhaps it is because I have neither Barbara nor Helen to talk to about little things that do not interest auntie. At the end of the second rainy day there is a little excitement in the house, because we receive an invitation for a dance at the rectory next week. Auntie and I find plenty to say about what we shall wear and who will be there, and I go to bed in a pleasant frame of mind, bnt with an intense desire for the following day to be fine, so that I may go for a walk with Mr. Graham. It is just as fine as I could possibly wish, and at the usual hour Philip Graham saunters in; and without waiting to be asked I put on my hat, and once more we are out in the clear, fresh air. Everything appears to have benefited by the rain; the flowers and grass look so refreshed that I exclaim “The world seems as if it was just made and I am delighted to be out again.” “Did you find it dull for the last two days?” Mr. Graham asks me; and I con fess that I did, and that I wished he had come to see us. ‘I did not think you would ,h aT0 liked it, Miss Heseltine; because I understood you to say you did not wish to be bother ed duriDg your visit to your aunt.” I look up to see if he is laughing at me, but he is perfectly serious; so I tell him that he does not bother me, and ask him if we have another wet day to call at auntie’s so as to break the monoto ny and interrupt our tete-a-tetes. This he promises, but adds that he is leaving Coolmory next week, and is going to In dia as doctor on board one of the mail boats. “Why did you not tell me before, Mr. Graham?” I ask, and I feel as if he had wronged me by not telling me sooner. “I have only just got the appointment, and only knew it myself an hour ago; and I hastened over here to tell you, be cause, Miss Heseltine, I look upon you as one of my dearest friends. ” O, how his words delight me! At last I have met a man who is honest enough to tell a girl he looks upon her as a friend and, who does not mask his friendship behind a flimsy veil of flirtation. “I am so glad you look upon me as a friend, Mr. Graham. Now I can tell you that you have made my visit to auntie much more enjoyable by your friendship; so let us shake hands on it and vow eter nal fidelity.” I put my hand out to him, and raised my voice to a theatrical pitch, then look ed up at him with my eyes full of laugh ter; but his are looking at me so tender ly that I drop mine to the ground, and cannot raise them again even when he says, in his usual voice: “Thank you, dear little Lois. I think you are a woman who will prove as good as your word on all occasions; and I think yon are one whose friendship is true enough to last through life.” He Bpeaks so sternly now, that I am quite relieved when he continues in a lighter tone; “Since we are to be real friends, Lois, you must call me Philip. ” “Yes, Philip,” I answer, and then add hastily. “And we shall be always friends whatever happens, Philip; even if we never meet again.” Somehow I have a presentiment that after to-day we won’t see mnch of each other; so I want to go down to the river and spend one more pleasant morning. We lazily enjoy onrselv6S, discuss our favorite books, compare our ideas upon music, and I can scarcely believe it is as late as it is when I see auntie approach ing us, with the tidings that luncheon has been ready for more than an hour,and that she has come to fetch us in. It was Buoh a glorious July day when Philip and I became Philip and Lois to each other/ that so long as I live it will stand out in bold relief from all others. Never can I forget the golden glow of that summer time. CHAPTER III. “Oh, lor the days that are past retrieving! Oh, for the golden days!’’ We have four days of showery weather. Mr. Graham, auntie, aud I have been able to go out for a drive three after noons, but the fourth is too wet; so we spend the afternoon in watching the rain at least Philip and I do, while auntie works. Aunt Mary seems to have taken an odd idea into her head since that morning she fetched us in to luncheon. I verily be lieve she thinks Philip is making love to me, or that I am falling in love with him; for she never leaves us a moment alone, and interrupts all our conversations. If this absurd notion has really taken pos session of her mind, all our free inter course is at an end; for she would never enaourage anything of this sort without directions from headquarters, or, in oth er words, mother’s consent. I think if she knew that nothing was farther from our minds, and that we were only friends, she might relax her vigilance; but I do not oare to speak to her on the subject, and feel I would rather not enjoy any more rambles with Philip than tell anyone of our compact of triendship. It is very hard, for he will leave Coolmory to-mor row; so that unless auntie ceases her vig ilant watch at the party which takes place to-night, we shall not have any time to gether. At going away Philip asks me to keep him some dances, and I promise to do so; bnt even here anntie interrupts aud says: “Lois dear, I don’t wish you to dance more than two dances with any one, as people in the country talk about every thing;” and turning to Philip, she pro ceeds to say: ‘I don’t want my niece to lay herself open to criticism; she shall dance twice with you, Mr. Graham. ” Philip bows his thanks, but looks dis appointed. At the party Aunt Mary in troduces every one to me, aud before Philip can get to me my programme is nearly fall; but I have kept his two dances. The first is a quadrille. Aun tie dances opposite to us, and directly she takes me off to introduce me to some old lady who knows my father. I don’t know any of my partners, and I don’t care to dance with any one; but I go on through all the dances in a mechanical way, and get no pleasure out of them. I notice that Philip does not dance, and that eve ry time I look at him he is looking at me. At length our waltz arrives. The mu- sio seems better, and the light more bril liant, directly I feel Philip’s arm around me, as we slide off into a delicious swing ing step. “This is nearly as pleasant as sitting by the river, Philip, don’t you think?” I ask; but he answers, “I would give anything I have for one half hour with you alone, Lois, down by the river.” “It would be very nice, Philip; but we shall never go there again,” I murmur; aud the music makes me long to be off again. Next time we stop is by an open win dow that leads to the garden; Philip puts my hand throngh his arm aud leads me to it; then he bends his head close to my ear, and whispers: “Lois, come out into the garden and decide my fate for me.” He looks at me so tenderly and eager ly that I see in that moment that his friendship for me has turned to love, and I feel that I cannot return it, and dare not answer him. “Lois, won’t you come out? Do, dar ling, for I must tell you that I love you, and hear that you love me. ” I do not know what to say; he is my friend, and I am so fond of him that I do not wish to hurt him; yet I cannot give him the answer he wishes to hear, for I do not love him. I am trying to frame a reply when anntie comes up to us and tells me it is time to leave. I answer hurriedly: “Yes, auntie, I will get my cloak;” aud I give Philip a look to follow me; but Aunt Mary has checkmated me here, for she hands me my wrap, and then takes Philip’s afm. As he puts me in the car riage, be says: “Write me an answer in time to let me come and see you to-morrow before I leave Coolmory.” I nod assent, then lean back, cover my head over, and pretend to be asleep. Why could not Philip have remained my friend? Why does he want so much more than I can give? When I get to my own room I take ont my desk and write a letter to Philip. I want it to* be kind and friendly: but I wish him to understand I have no love to give him in return for his. First, I write a long letter, telling him he has mistaken friendship for love, but I feel I am wronging him by such a supposition, so I tear it up, and write just what I should have said to him had time allowed: Dkab Philip: Forgive me if I have ev- •r led you to believe my affection for you was any other than that of friendship, am so sorry that you love me, for I have no love to offer you in return, but shall always remain, dear Philip, your true friend, Lois. It is broad daylight before I have fin ished this short epistle, so I do not at tempt to go to bed, for I see it is six o’clock, but I change my dress and run over to the rectory with my note, drop it into the letter box, and get home long before auutie is down. After breakfast she orders the oarriage round and asks me to go out for a drive with her. I see her reason; she is afraid that Philip will come over and that we shall go fora walk. I know that he will not, so I assent read ily. As we are on the way home we meet the rectory carriage returning from the station, and I know that Philip Graham has gone. I am very weary, and go to bed early. Auntie wonders next day why Philip does not call, and I tell her that he has left Cqplmory, and is going to In dia. She replies that ho might have been polite enough to have called to say good by; and then severely censures him for his inattention. This I cannot bear, for I am very fond of Philip, aud I will not hear a word against him. I feel weak and hysterical, and burst out crying in a foolish way; then rush out of the house down to the river, where we had so often from him, in which he begs so earnestly for my love, and promises to make life so pleasant to me, that for one moment I feel inclined to let “the dead past bury its dead,” and to become his wife, if he will have me when I tell him all my love was given long ago to Philip Graham, but I remember Philip’s words, and that he considers me true and worthy; so while the others go out to the Park I stay at home to have a quiet afternoon to answer Mr. Beanohamp’s letter, and to tell him that I cannot marry him. It is a brilliant warm day, and I am writing in father’s study. I am very puzzled what to say to Mr. Beauchamp, and my thongbts revert to the other let ter I wrote to Philip this time a year ago. I pass my fingers throngh my hair with a vague idea that that will help me what to say, when I hear the study door open aud close again from the outside; then I look up to see who has entered, and can soarcely believe my eyes, for it is Philip Graham. In that one glanoe I can see that Phil ip loves me still, and that no one has come between ns. That he loves me with the same passionate longing is evi dent for before either of us has time to reflect he has caught me to him, and I have thrown my arms around his neck, and can say nothing but “Philip,” while been together. I throw myself down on he smooths my hair and murmurs, “Lois! my little Lois! ” The he puts me from him while he says: “Lois, I never should have intruded on you, but I came to see your father on business, and they told me no one was at home.” Here I oannot help interrupting him with my exclamation of— “Oh Philip, it is what I have been praying for night and day.” Then I break down and cover my face with my hands, as I remember that he has said nothing to me that has given me any right to revert to old times. At length I look np, and find the same fond old smile on his faoe as he takes my hand and says: “So, Lois, you do love me, though you' wrote that letter, which has kept me in exile for a year?” And my eyes answer for me; for in an other moment I am in his arms again and he is pressing his lips to mine. “I came on here from your father’s of fice to get him to draw up an agreement for a partnership with Dr. Drewitt; but now he will have to give me a deed of gift instead; for I shall not give you up easily this time, little Lois.” Before the others come in we have set tled everything; and Philip and I are looking forward to spending many golden Summer days together. the grass and have a good cry; then wan der about to all the places where I had been so happy, aud remember every word that Philip said, and everything that I had done, even to my romp in the clover-field. Everything is the same, but the conn try seems to have lost its charm. The sun is just as bright, the grass just as green, the river just as rippling; but I want to go home. I am longing to see mother and the girls, and to have no time or opportunity to think of the past month. I am pining for change, for nothing seems pleasant to me at Coolmory now; but most of all I am longing to see Phil ip again. If I could only see him down by the river once more, only have time to tell him that my letter was a mistake, and that I love him more than life! It is too late now, and I only look for ward to seeing Barbara and Helen, and trying to forget my summer holiday. I never thought how golden the days were or what made them so bright to me, un til Philip left; now all the glory of my life seems to have departed with him,and I feel as if the beauties of Coolmory are mocking at my misery, and Ldesire as much to go home as I longed a month ago to come down to Aunt Mary’s. CHAPTER IT. “And tell me how love goeth. That was not love which went.” I have been home some months now,and everything is the same as ever. Mother is just as busy about getting us married as she was last season,only that she seems to have given me np altogether, and I am allowed to accept or refuse invitations at my own sweet will. We spent the an- tumn at a semi-fashionable watering- place, and made some new acquaintances —among others Mr. Jerome Beauchamp, who is very attentive to us all. Mother has great hopes of his ultimately making one of us Mrs. Jerome Beauchamp; but I have my doubts on the subject, and look upon him as quite a confirmed old baoh- elor. He is an amusing clever man, and does not bore me in the least, conse quently we get on very well together. I have never told any one about Philip Graham, nor even asked aunt Mary for news of him. When I first came home I tried to forget him, but every day I think of him, aud wonder if I shall again see his grave, serious smile, or hear his melo dious laugb. It is nearly a year since I went down to Coolmory, and we have again glorious Summer weather. The season is in full swing, aud we go out a great deal. I seem to have lost all my girlish whole* heartedness, and enjoy nothing with the old joyousness; but I go out, and my thoughts are distracted while I dance and talk, but when I come home I feel weary of it all, and then think how happy I might have been with Philip if I had answered his question differently that morning a year ago. I often wonder if he is still in India, or if be returned home at once; and also if he met any girl on his voyage there or back who has made him forget me. I feel that I should be happier if I knew these things concerning him, and then I argue with myself that he is nothing to me now, and my stock of logic is ex hausted in the conviction that he is dear er to me than all the world. I am ia this frame of mind one morn ing when father sends for me, and when I reach his study I find mother awaiting with him for me. Mother is looking de lighted about something, and father is looking worried. They do not keep me long waiting before I have heard their reason for sending for me, namely, that Mr. Jerome Beauchamp has done me the honor of proposing to father for my hand and youthful affections. Father goes on to tell that both mother and he approve of the match, and that they have given Mr. Beauchamp permis sion to plead his cause with me. I listen silently until father has finished speak ing, then break out into a passionate re fusal to see Mr. Beaucham, much less to become his wife. Father looks relieved at my answer, but mother seems disap pointed, and I wish it was in my power to pass Mr. Beauchamp’s offer of marriage on to Barbara or Helen. After this little episode my life seems even darker, for Mr. Beauchamp used to lend me clever books and his conversa tion was always brilliant and amusing. Now my refusal of him has vexed mother and nothing I can say or do will please her. Evidently Mr. Beauchamp will sot take father’s answer as a decided one, be cause this morning I received a letter Holder « ml .Sous. Most boys go through a period when they have great need of patient love at home, says the Christian Intelligencer. They are awkward and clumsy, some times strangely willful and perverse, and they are desperately conscious of them selves, and very sensitive to the least word of oensure or effort at restraint. Authority frets them. They are leaving childhood, but they have not yet reached the sober good sense of manhood. They are an easy prey to the tempter and the sophist. Perhaps they adopt skeptical views, from sheer desire to prove that they are independent and can do their own thinking. Now is the mother's hour. Her boy needs her now more than when be lay in his oradle. Her finer in sight and serener faith may hold him fast, and prevent his drifting into dan gerous courses. At all events there is very much that only a mother can do for her sou, and that a son can receive only from his mother, in the critical period of which we are thinking. It is well for him if she have kept the freshness and brightness of her youth, so that she can now be his companion and friend as well as mentor. It is a good thing for a boy to be proud of his mother; to feel com placent when he introduces her to hsi comrades, knowing that they cannot help seeing what a pretty woman she is, so graceful, winsome and attractive! There is always hope of a boy when he admires his mother, and mothers should care to be admirable in the eyes of their sons— not merely to possess characters which are worthy of respect, but to be beauti ful and charmiDg, so far as they can in person and appearance. The neat dress, the becoming ribbon, and smooth hair, are all worth thinking about, when regard ed as means of retaining influence over a a soul, when the world is spreading lures for it on every side. Above all things, mothers need faith. Genuine, hearty, loving trust in God, a life of meek, glad acquiescence in his will, lived daily through years in the presence of sons, ia an immense power. They never can get away from the sweet memo ry that Christ was their mother’s friend. There is a reality in that which no false reasoning can petsuade them to regard as a figment of the imagination. —The other day, as an undertaker was walking along, accompanied by his son, he took off his hat and made a low bow to a man whom they saw across the street. “Father, why do you take off your hat to such an old codger?” inquired the sou. “My son, that man has ten children,some of whom will die before the summer’s out, and he pays cash down for every thing,” was the reply. —Some short time ago a Vicksburg wo man was trying hard to get her drunken husband home, and as she. pulled him along, her words and actions were so tender that a citizen lialted and said, “Well, all drunkards’ wives haven’t your disposition.” “S-h-b! don’t say any - thing,” she replied in a whisper; “I’ve got to eall him pet names to get him home, bat wait till he drops into the hall —be there then.” —An old-fashioned watering 'place: pomp. EDUCATIONAL. State Apteral anil Mechanical COLLEGE. T HE FIRST TERM or half of the Academic year, 1877-’8, wlllbeeln WEDNESDAY, SEP TEMBER 28th, 1877. The dis cipline is Military. Tuition tor residents of Alabama or any other State or Territory is vrbb. Each Cadet trom Alabama, or elsewhere, at the beginning of • ach term or half year, must deposit with the Treasurer- Contingent Fee,... $5 00 Surgeon’s Fee 2 50 Total College Fees, per term $7 6o EXPENSES PER TERM : Tuition, free. Board and Lodging $40 50 to $58 5i> Washing 4 60 4 60 Fuel, Lights and attendance 9 «o 9 00 Surgeon’s Fee 2 60 2 50 Contingent Fee 6 00 6 00 Total $8150 $79 50 Cadet Uniforms are furnished In Auburn at the lowest possible rate. Board, washing, fuel, lights, and attendance, are paid for at the beginning of each month. For further information senu for Catalogues. Address any member of the Faculty, or L T. TICHENOR, President. Auburn, Ala., July 20th, 1877. augll til octl University of Georgia. T BE77TH ANNUAL SESSION of this Institution will begin on the 3d of October, 1877. Schol- larships In the State College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts are granted to as many students, residents of the State, as there are mem tiers of the General Assembly. In addition, 50 ben eficiaries are appointed in the Academic De partment. Every branch of a Liberal and Practical Education is taught. The annual session of the Medical Departmental Augusta, will begin on first Monday In November. For Circulars, apply to the Dean of the Faculty, Augusta, Ga. Board $12.60 a month. For Catalogues and farther particulars, address WM. HENRY WADDELL, Sec’y of the Faculty, Athens, Ga. aui8 dAw3w University of Virginia O PENS October 1; contin ues throuhg nine months. It is organized in schools on the elec tive system, with full courses in Classics, Science (with Practice in Chemical and Physical Labrato- ries), Literature, in Law, Medicine, Engineer ing, Natural History, and Practical Agricul ture. Expenses (including everything) about $500. Apply for catalogue to JAMES F. HARRISON, M. D., Chairman of the Faculty Post Office: University of Virginia. aulOd&wlm PARK HIGH SCHOOL TUSKECEE, ALA., K E-OPENS for Boys Its 21st session September 10th, 1877. Institution owes its successful and persistent life to careful and sys tematic lnsctruction; energetic, skillful teachers; thoroughness in every department; healthful locacion; refine ment, culture and good morals of people; what it does and what it has done, and its exceedingly moderate charges. 49* Send tor new oatalogue. JAMES F. PARK, A. M.. aug6 eod2w&wlm Principal. Andrew Female College, CUTHBERT. GEORGIA. Rev. A. L. Hamilton, D. D., A FT ER an absence of six years, will again take charge of this once popular Institution, as Its President and General Superin tendent, on Monday, October 1,1877. And will be assisted by a full corps of experi enced officers and teachers. buildings commodious and splendidly re paired and re-fnrnished. Handsomest grounds In the State. BOARD AND REGULAR TUITION, for the entire Collegiate year of sins months, varies according to class, lrom $204 to $222—to be paid quarterly in advanck. Extra charge for Music, Drawing and Painting, French and German, Mantua Making and Physical (1\ m- nastics. No charge for Latin anil Greek. The celebrated Pianist and Vocalist from the Academy of Music, New York—Professor R F. GONZALEZ—assisted by the popular Mrs ELODIA B. RUSSELL, will have charge of the MtiBical Department. The Institution will he again, as it was for merly under my management, rigidly non- skctarian. 4®- Boarding Pupils will furnish one pair sheets, one pair blankets, one pair pillow cases and their own towels. Cuthbert is justly remarkable for Its good health and fine society. For additional information address the Pres ident. auzl w4t B altimore south ern HOME SCHOOL for Young Ladies and Little Girls. Established in 1842. Principals—Mrs. Wilson M. Cary, Mrs. Gbn. John Proram, Nos .197 and 199 North Charles street. French the Language spoken. jyl8 eod2m ATLANTA Medical College, ATLANTA, GEORGIA. The Twentieth Annual Course of Lectures W ILL COMMENCE OCTOBER 15th, 1877, and close March 1st, 1878. Faculty—J. G. Westmoreland, W. F. West moreland, W. A. Love, V H. Taliaferro, John Thad. Johnson, A. W. Calhoun, J. H. Logan, J. T. Banks; Demonstrator of Anatomy, C. W. Nutting. Send for Announcement, giving full informa tion. JOHN THAD. JOHNSON, au7 wlm Dean. 50 CENTS PER BOTTLE; - annoa uad sxnio os «2 Sis "-S’ 0 2 -w-nS £ 2.o-o'g « n P O •g-i §12.0 S 3 O 0 G-n - , 48“ Sold in Columbus b> A. X. LLAX- NON and X D. HOOD, * CO. faug!4 d&wtf RAILROADS. WESTERN RAILROAD OF ALABAMA. Columbus, Ga., August 12, 1877. Trains Leave Columbus* AS FOLLOWS Sfmthern Mail. 12:59 p.m.,arrives at Montgomery. 6:14 P x Mobile 5:25 a K New Orleans. 11:25 a M Selma... 7:30 p m Atlanta....... «:40 a x Atlanta & IVo/'tliei’ix Mail. 7U5 a. m., arrives at Atlanta 2:20 p K Washington . 9:46 P K Baltimore.... 11:30 pi New York... 7:00 am ALSO BY THIS TRAIN Arrive at Montgomery.... 3:08 p m TRAINS ARRIVE AT COLUMBUS From Montgomery and Southwest.. 10:66 a m “ “ 6:06 p M From Atlanta and Northwest 6:06 p m 48“ This Train, arriving at Columbus at 5:05 P. HI., loaves Atlanta at 9:30 a. in. E. P. ALEXANDER, President. CHARLES PHILLIPS, Agent. doclS tf Central and Southwestern Railroads. ***" -.j y-y ‘ini Savannah, Ga., March 8, 1877. O N AND AFTKR SUNDAY, March 11, Passenger Trains on the Central anu Southwestern Railroads and Branches will run as follows: TRAIN NO. 1, GOING NORTH AND WEST Leaves Savannah 9:20 a m Leaves Augusta 9:15 a m Arrives at Augusta 4:46 p m Arrives at Macon 6:45 p m Leaves Macon for Atlanta 9:18 u m Arrives at Atlanta 5:02 a m Making close connections at Atlanta with Western and Atlantic Railroad tor all points North and West. COMING SOUTH AND EAST. Leaves Atlanta 10:40 p X Arrives at Macon 6:45 a a Leaves Macon 7:00am Arrives at MiUodgeville 9:44 a X Arrivos at Eatonion 11210 a x Arrives at Augusta 4.45 p m Arrives at Savannah 4:00 p » Leaves Augusta 9:16 a w Making connections at Augusta lor the North and Fast, and at Savannah with tko Atlantic and Gulf Railroad for all points In Florida. TRAIN NO. 2, GOING NORTH AND WEST Leaves Savaunah 7:30 px Arrives at Augusta 8:00 a x 1. eaves Augusta 8:05 P x Arrives at Milledgeville 9:44 a m Arrives at Eatonton 11:30 A x Arrives at Macon 8:00 a. x Leaves Macon for Atlanta 8:40 a m Arrives at Atlanta 2:18 r x Leaves Macon for Albany and Eu- faula 8:20 A M Arrives at Eufaula 3:19 r x Arrives at Albany 2:10 P x Leaves Macon for Columbus 9:33 a x Arrives at Columbus 1:13 p x Trains on this schedule for Macon, Atlanta, Columbus, Fufaula and Albany daily, making close connection at Atlanta with Western & Atlantic and Atlanta X Richmond Air Line. At Fulaula with Montgomery and Eufaula Railroad; at Columbus with Western Rail road of Alabama, and Mobile and Girard Railroad. Traiu on Blakely Extension Leaves Albany Mondays,!’ uesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. COMING SOUTH AN D EAST. Leaves Atlanta 1:40 p x Arrives at Macon from Atlanta 8.65 p x Leaves Albany 10:o0 a x Leaves Eafaula 8:06 p k Arrives at Maoon from Eufaula and Albany 4:10 p x Leaves Oolumbus.' 11:19 a x Arrives at Macon from Columbus.... 3:11 p m Leaves Macon 7:36 p u Arrives at Augusta 8:00 a x Leaves Augusta 8:05 p m Arrives at Savannah 7:16 a x Making connections at Savannah with At- antic and Gulf Raftroad for all points in Flor ida. Passengers for Milledgeville and Eatonton will take train No. 2 from Savannah and train No. 1 from Maeon, which trains connect daily except Monday, lor those points. WILLIAM ROGERS, General Supt. Central Railroad, Savanuah. W. G. RAOUL, Supt. Southwestern Railroad, Macon. feb5 tf A YEAR. Agents wanted. Busi ness legitimate. Particulars free. Mobile & Girard R. R. SlxFSSS O N and after SUNDAY, MAY 8th, the Mail Train on tne Mobile it Girard Rail road will run as follows : GOING WEST. Leave Columbus General Passenger Depot daily, at 1:40 P x Leave Columbug Broad Street Depot daily, at 2:20 p m Arrive at Union Springs 6:55 p x “ Troy 8:00 p m “ Montgomery “ Mobile . 7:55 P M . 6:25 A X “ Nashville . 7:55 A X “ St. Louis . 8:10 A X “ New York .10:26 A X COMING EAST. Leave Troy Arrive at Union Springs . 2:40 A M “ Opelika “ Atlanta . 9:20 A X . 3 06 P X “ Savannah . 7:15 A X Springs daily for Montgomery and points beyond. For Eufaula Tuesday, Thursday and Satur day. Through coach with sleeping accommoda tions between Columbus and Montgomery. Passengers for the Northwest will save ten hours’ time by this route. Through tickets to all principal points on sale at General Passenger Depot, and at Broad Street Shed. W. L. CLARK, D. E. WILLIAMS, General Ticket Agent. Superintend my9 tf Warm and White Sulphur SPRINGS. P ASSENGERS goin* to the Warm and White Sulphur springs will find it more convenient and pleasant Via the North & South Railroai, As arrangements have been made to bav HACKS meet every morning and evening’s train. WM. REDD, Jr., ju9 3m * Nup't. °TC’sinoT l9"o;> y Mlio.W P “axil -jvinoji •JRj-puaini smjoj/paAj.iDaasieiuotuiisaj A44f«Mj,WOITa*40.1 Bijoux.*0, J^fcO ol 'Oldei-jspootj <n 669
