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VOLUME VI.
11l ®
- .j
AN OLI) MAID’S SOLILOQUY.
BY Dlt. J. G. HOLLAND.
•Sitting to-niglit in uiy chamber
An old maid crabbed and lonely,
I fondle my old cat and him -
Him and him only.
While I nit here in the twilight,
Memories of lovers surround me;
Gents that are married and single
Itiso to confound me;
Smooth-chinned, moustached and whiskered,
Beaux of every variety—
Who shall say that I have not
Had a satiety ?
Lovers—well I remember them—
Those with smooth chins wore the neatest;
Sweet were they all—but oh ! those mous-
Tacbios were the sweetest.
Willie was tender and loving;
His hazel eyes melting and bright;
Ho once was my meat, drink and sunshine,
Air and moonlight.
Herbert was sweet, fleet and flirting,
Flying hither and thither, and yon
Sipping honey, gaily buzzing, a moment and
Then he was gone.
Willie sleeps deep in the ocean,
The blue waves crash over Lis head—
Ye wild winds, breathe a low requiem
Over the dead.
Herbert has sown all Iris wild oats;
Of pleasure he’s drained the last drop,
And now, a grisly old bachelor, he’s
Gathering the crop.
Hubert and James, John and Charlie,
All are well settled for life;
'Vliile Alfred and Harry, disconsolate, still
Sigh lor a wife.
Clarence is married! —another
Fills my place in his heart
And cu rls his mousta eh, whisper in g— ‘ ‘My 1 o ve,
We never will part.”
Alas, I have lost him !—an angel
With blue eyes and curls makes him blest—
Him 1 loved dearly and truly,
Last and the best!
Thus I sit sighing and thinking,
An old maid crabbed and lonely;
I press xny pet cat to my bosom—
Him and him only.
MISCELLANY.
[Written for the Eastman Times.]
THE LOST BABY.
BY MRS. C. V. A.
[conclusion.]
While the parents are wandering'
here, where is little Homer and his
Hew ones? Ah ! they have rode bacii
in regal splendor, much to the discom
fit of th eir less fortunate friends.—
Would they have been envied il the
secrets of their hearts had been re
vealed. Did all their wealth and its
surroundings make them happy? Yes,
to the tvorld none were so envied ; yet
behind a smiling face throbbed an
aching heart.
Tola, dear, you must put on one of
your sweetest smiles for I’ve
just met an old friend and college
chum, Walter Devant, who will call in
a short time witlThis fair young wife,
and we are invited to tea with them
this evening/
‘My friend Devant is very wealthy—
has just inherited a large fortune from
a bachelor uncle down south ; they
live in magnificent style/
‘Who would have thought of our
meeting an old friend of yours up here
in our rambles, aye, Eugene V
After tea the converssation turned
to events of their married lives. Mr.
Devant asked to have little babe
brought into see the new friends. Mrs.
Cromwell took the baboon her lap, and
while caressing it, asked its name.
‘Homer Eugene/
The sweet familiar name and the re
semblance of her own lost babe was
more than she could bear in her weak
state of health, and she fell fainting in
her husband's arm.
‘Your wife is ill; shall I send for
medical aid ? Do, Moldrid, quick !’
But such a pallor was over her face
that if Mr. Cromwell seen it some sus
picion must have been awakened. Af
ter many efforts Mrs. Cromwell was
restored to consciousness, and when
some stronger she was taken in the
splendid carriage of the Devants to
her hotel. The nurse had in the mean
while held little Homer, and protested
that lie was just like misses’ own. bo
which Mrs. D*vant replied :
‘lt is only because they have nam s
alike—all babes look a ike/
Yes, m /am, I beiieve all r e i folks
bahi< s do. 1 jusu k ow miss thought
so, or she would not have landed 1 k •
that. I know she will be sick uga n
like when them people stole her baby
from me/
‘Did someone steal your miss' ba
by? I wondei she did not tell us/
‘Hut master never likes to speak of
it before her. It always makes her so
sorry, and cry herself sick.'
‘Where did tuis happen V
‘ln the city of IS., near the park.'
J his was enough for Mrs. Devant—
she went quickly out to conceal her
emotion from the servants—ill at ease
to think ol the danger of discovery.—
As soon as the guests were gone, Mr.
Devant came in wearing a troubh and ex
pression of countenance and was sur
prised to see it reflected oil his wife’s
face
‘Mildred, we are in eminent danger.
The Cromwells are the child's true
parents. She must not see the child
again ; and this woman is the one from
whom we took the child.'
‘I have come to the same conclusion,
from tiie nurse's remarks/
‘I must devise some plan to take us
away to-morrow. I can feign a letter
calling u.s to the death-bed of some lar
off relative. So you will‘arrange to
night for our departure to-morrow. I
will go around to the hotel and apprise
our friends of our unexpected summons,
and tender our regrets that so pleasant
are-union should be so cruelly severed
by the relentless hand of fate '
LA id even hint that if Mrs. Crom
well was stronger we should like to
have them accompany us, if it were
not so sad a mission/
‘Suppose they should suspect the
truth and should go—what then ?’
‘They will not wish to ret mm south
in mid-summer. They cannot suspect
anything yet.’
‘But Mrs. Cromwell may, when they
talk tiie matter over.’
‘Wo must go. A just Providence
may have directed them here. The
wicked flee when no man pursueth; so
it is with us/
‘Oh! little Homer, I wish we had
never been tempted, and you were
happy in your own mother’s arms. But
while I live you shall never feel the
loss of a mother's love. If your mother
knew how tenderly we watched your
little life, and what wealth was yours,
it might soften her grief/ *
Long before Mrs. Cromwell had ris
en next day, the Devants were gliding
swiftly oil tne placid waters of the Po
tomac — not southward bound but far
away to the north.
The first mantle of snow that cov
ered the pretty valleys of Virginia,
made our wanderers turn their faces
homeward, to s*ek a more genial home
in the sunny south. Hope and happi
ness were not always vanished from
their home. The next winter a baby
boy was born to fill the place of the
lamented and not forgotten Homer.—
He seemed to the mother to be the dis
embodied spirit of the first—so like in
every feature and expression. He was
a well-spring of happiness to this house
hold. Then came a ministering angel,
the father's image, with the mother’s
gentle spirit, little Itnz. She too was
a balm to the wounded heart.
The lapse of fifteen years have glid.
ed by as swiftly as a fair ship before a
morning breeze. Peace and happiness
had reigned supreme in the mansion
of our hero and heroine—save the
shadow of gloom that flung its unwel
come visits across the heart of Mrs.
Cromwell, while the still small voice
of conscience was ever whispering in
the ear of Mrs. Devant.
Weak woman ! why was thou tenant
ed ? What has become of the stolen
babe ? Tall, handsome, brave and
talented lie moves in pride and digni
ty—an. honor to the medical world.—
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, MAY 23, IS7S.
The assumed parents watch his every
movement with ambitious pride, for
they have no other child, and must live
through a long life to see the child of
strangers enjoy the wealth intended
lor their own.
But hist ! the war drum sounds—
she ca ls her sons to action. The rich
ami p or are alike Vend' and in on- com
m m cause. Our country's call must
echo in the art every true son of
liberty. Mathers buckled on their son's
armor—maidens bade their lovers go—,
sisters unfurled banners of their own
handiwork, with the shnple but im
pressive motto, “Victory or Death."
Such was the one borne by Virgil
Cromwell when he bade a last adieu to
home and its luxuries, to battle on the
snow capped hills of Virginia.
Dr. Devant was not the listless son
of fortune. lie too was enlisted in the
cause, and though he bore no banner
or musket, lie did his part. lie was
ever ready to heal the sick and bind
the broken limb. The angry billows
of battle lashed miny a brave son of
fury, and the lulls and valleys were
already spotted with little mounds,
soon to be obliterated. Battle after
battle, and still our heroes stood ; but
their time had not yet come. Ambu
lance after ambulance was brought to
the rear. The dead and dying lay in
confused heaps, when Dr. Devant's at
tention was riveted on a dying soldier
so strangely like himself that he into
itively bent over to look more closely
at the man whose every feature was
so blended in his own likeness.
‘Doetor, you can do me no good ;
but come nearer and bear this message
to a fond mother and sister. Listen
now, time is passing swiftly. Tell them
I have fought nobly and fallen for their
rights. 1 die with bright hopes of
Heaven, lake this locket, and you
will know them ; my home is in the
Mississippi valley—grand and magnifi
cent/
A short pause reminded the Doctor
that the name he knew not. The lips
were trying to utter some words, but
soon all was hushed. Death had borne
away its victim.
‘Retreat ! retieat !’ rang in clarion
accents along the line, and the dead
were in the hands of the enemy. The
little miniature was hid away in the
Doctor's pocket, and almost forgotten;
so rugged were the paths of Avar.
Peace at last. The weather-beaten
soldier returns to find home desolated,
family scattered, and a lost cause to be
mourned. Dr. Devant found bis fam
ily penniless refugees in another State,
his mother's health destroyed, and his
father prematurely old. They sought
health and sustinence in the balmy
regions of Florida. Dr. Devar.t made
every exertion for their comfort.
Strangers hav 7 e come in search of
health to the floral garden. Dr. De
vant hails their coming with interest,
for he feels the want of patronage, and
when summoned to their presence does
his be>t to please. But lie finds deep
seated sorrow making iqroads on the
too sensitive nature of Ins patient.
‘My son, who are those strange pa
tients of yours —they seem to have
wealth fioni the style of their equip
age ?’
‘I judge so—they are Major Crom
well's family/
Eager, enquiring glances were ex
changed between the father and
mother.
‘What ! Cromwell, Eugene V
‘I think so/
•All, indeed, an old college friend of
mine that I have not seen for years.'
A deadly pallor overspread the face
of Mrs. Devant.
‘Dear mother, you are ill—can I do
anything for you V
One stern loak from her husband
recalled her to comp >sure.
‘No, my son, it is only a fit of weak
ness —it is over now—-just nelp me to
my room/
The matter was discussed in private
by husband and wife, and both con
cluded that the past was buried in ob
livion.
Dr Devant said to his mother one
day in a playful mood :
‘Mother there is just the loveliest lit-
tie nymph in town you ever beheld, —
how would you like a daughter to
cheer your lonely hours and chase
away dull care ?'
‘Ah, my 6on, I have looked forward
to that day with pleasure ; but whom
have you found so lovely ?’
‘Miss Inez Cromwell, mother; she is
to— Oh! and ear mother, how it unmans
me to see iliis strange pallor come over
you. Twice now of lute—you must
suffer more than you confess. Some
mental weight oppresses you ; canvou
not share the burden, if such be the
case, with your son ?’
‘No, my boy—my days are few ; this
burden will, I fear, carry me to an
early grave.'
‘Mother, your burdens are mine—
unbosom yourself to me, and I know
you will n t regret/
‘\\ oulcl to God l could, my son'
‘Do mother, tell me what new trou
bles have come upon you. Lot not the
loss of wealth so distress you ; I am
strong and able to sustain you/
‘ 'Tis not that, my boy—you are so
kind. Go now a while, to be alone
with my sad thoughts is bettor for
me/
‘Well, let it be so then ; at another
time I will tell you more about my fair
goddess/
Little did the kind son know what
torture wrecked the mother's heart.
‘Oh, Mr. Devant, what shall we do,
our son has- at last found us out. I
must go down to my grave hated and
spurned by the only one on whom to
look for sympathy and aid. Accursed
wealth ! would to God we had spent
our days in poverty !
‘Mildred, what do you mean ? Is
your weakness mental as well as phy
sical ? Would you disclose our secret?’
‘You do not understand me. Are
we to add injury to crime, and see our
bo} 7 wedded to his own sister ? Gad
forbid 1 It shall not, must not be ! I
will go my grave covered with shame
rather.'
‘Hush, Mildred, he has no such idea.
Your fear has magnified the matter ;
he would have told you of his inten
tions/
TL* did as much to-day/
After this eonv rsation, Mrs. Devant
was fearfully exhausted, and sank into
a troubled sleep, which terminated in
brain fever. Many days of anxious
watching confirmed their worst fears
and Dr. Graves was summoned to ap
prise the dying -woman of her true
state. Awakening slowly to conscious
ness, she found her son watching alone
by her side.
‘Are we alone, my son V
‘Yes, mother, dear ; are you bet
tor r'
‘No; no bettei. Come near, I must
tell you ere I go, that you are not my
—oh, how can I expose my guilt, but
to save the child we have wronged so
many years 1’
‘Mother, you are weak, be calm and
try to sleep ; you are too ill to talk/
‘No, my child, I cannot die acting a
falsehood, as I have lived. God help
me to atone for my sins.'
‘Mother, dear mother, what can you
mean V
‘That you are not our child, but we
stole you in infancy to heir the wealth
once ours/
‘My mother, ob, my mother ! then
why not have let me think so still;
you are dearer to me than any m Ther
can be.'
The strong, manly Ilomer wept
aloud.
‘Your name I cannot now reveal, but
promise me before you marry to de
mand it of Mr. Devant. Ileie is a lit
tle article that bears your given name
—that we never changed, as it was the
same as our own babe/
The burden is delivered, and at this
painful moment the spirit seeks its last
home.
And alas for poor Ilomer ! a name
less blank, alone in this great world.
Mr. Devant's grief is too deep to admit
of consolation. He spends his time in
solitary wandering through the dense
woods of the trackless forests.
Dr. Devant, as we must still know
him, was grieved, perplexed and una
ble to solve the great mystery. He
sought to bury his new born sorrow in
the fascinating company of Inez and
her mother. In them he found true
friends ; yet not a word of love had
ever been breathed to her, though he
felt a strangely gentle influence exert
ed over him.
Now to Lis former life. The past
events of the late war was an abaiin
doned topic in this little circle ; and
for the first time only had it been men
tioned. Dr. Devant drew from his
pocket a little miniature case, saying
to Inez :
‘This contains a strange likeness of
yourself and mother, though I have
never heard 3*oll speak of a lost broth
er. Unbidden tears stolen down the
saddened face of Mrs. Cromwell, and
she turned away to hide her emotion
from a stranger. The only words audi
ble were, ‘too sad, too sad/ Inez was
in a moment by her mother's side. ‘Oh,
ni3 T dear mother, here is our lost gift
to brother Virgil, and ids farewell/
Dr. Devant repeated his dying mes
sage, and told them he gave it to him
in his last breath.
Mrs. Cromwell seemed to forget the
presence of the doctor.
Tjh, my dear son ! God has answer
ed your mother's prayer in blessing
3 ? our soul ! Could 1 but hear the same
of my little stolen Ilomer, I could die
in peace/
Anew light flashed in the doctor's
(\yes, and he drew forth the little loop
ups. Going softly to her side he said,
‘Dear Mrs. Cromwell, can these throw
any 1 ght on the subject ? They are
the property of a stolen chill bearing
that name/
‘The same ! 3 7 cs, the very same !
Oh, Doctor, where did you get them ?
Tell me if my son live !'
‘My mother 1 oh, my mother ! lain
your lost son, your Homer! 4 And the
mother and soli were in fond embrace,
while Inez had run for her father to
join in the reunion of their long lost
sou. Happy, thrice happy home.
The Beggars’ Feast.
Moscow gives us an odd little ro
mance. A beautiful young heiress
has married a beggar 8G years old.
It has a queer look at first, but noth
ing could be more natural. The young
girl—she is only 22—could not enter
into possession of her fortune until she
was married, and the 3*oung men
whom her guardian introduced to her
were empty-headed creatures, to whom
she was unwilling to bind herself for
life, so she resolved to marry an old
beggar and get the money without
sacrificing her independence. The old
mm was one of her pensioners, and
readily consented to marry her, and
then keep out of her way, retiring on
a comfortable allowance. All the beg
gars in town feasted and made merry
on the wedding night. That was a
girl of spirit.
Bible Terms.
Headers of the Bible will be inter
ested in the following explanation of
expressions frequently met with in the
holy scriptures. They are believed to
be entirely correct: A day's journey
was 33 and 1-5 miles. A Sabbath
day's journey was about one English
miie. Ezekiel's reed was II feet,
nearly. A cubit is 22 inches, nearly.
A finger’s breadth is equal to one
inch. A shekel of silver was about
50 cents. A shekel of gold was $8.09.
A talent of silver was $1,518.32. A
talent of gold was $23,309. A piece
of silver, or a penny, was 13 cents. A
farthing was 3 cents. A gerah was 2
cents. A mite was cents. A Lorner
contained 76 gallons and 5 pints. An
ephab, or bath, contained 7 gallons
and i pints. A bin was 1 gallon and
2 pints. A firk'n was 7 pints. An
oraer was 6 pints. A cab was 3 pints.
A log was one-half pint.
The end crowns the work.—Laura
(with novel.) ‘Oh, if this talc were
only true, and I were the heroine !’— I
Kate—‘What! with her persecutions l
and misery ? Laura—‘Ah, but then, j
dear, remember she docs get a husband j
after all/
Hope—a sentiment in the wag of a
clog's tail when waiting for a bone.
The editor of a Wisconsin paper
wants an intelligent boy. lie will
probably be mad if its a girl.
\\ hen an idler enters the sanctum of
a busy editor, and the editor says,
“Glad to see you're back," vvliat does
he mean ?
‘Don‘t you think/ said a husband in
mild form of rebuke to his w r ife, That
women are possessed of the devil? 1
‘Yes/ was the answer, ‘as soon as
they are married.'
■>. . .
At 20 a woman searches for tho
trailing arbutus. At 25 she is after
horse-radish. At 30 she digs foots for
her blood. Such is gentle spring in the
various stages of feminine life.
•
Mark Twain, in speaking of cannU
bals, grew serious for once, and sol>
emnly declares that for his own part
he would go hungry for two days
rather than eat an old personal friend.
‘ln selectidg a husband/ said Mrs.
Puffer, ‘above all things choose a man
of cultivation. This remark harrowed
the girl to such an extent that she
went off and married a farmer.
—■— ■ ■
A correspondent of the Scientific
American wants to know “how human
skin can be tanned/’ He must have
been a remarkably good boy when ho
went to school not to have learned
that among the other branches.
Mary asked her father if she might
marry Charles, and when the old man
inquired about the extent of Charles 1
salary, his loving daughter proudly re
plied: “Oh, he makes over a SIOO a
day/' They were married, and Mary's
father lias discovered that Charles does
actually makes SIOO a day—but he
makes it in the mint, and his salary is
only sl4 per week.
♦. .. - ...
Old Zeke, a colored member of tho
Thompson Street Aromatic Social
Club told his wife Hannah, ‘dat yer
can’t tell do difference at ween de new
butter an’ de old kind. 4 Last Thurs
day she found out that the name of the
new butter was ‘oleomargarine/ Little
Lem, their nine year old, started for a
pound with 15 cents and came homo
with a broken jaw. ‘Oleomargarine'
wa3 too much for him.
<♦■..■■ . -
Phlirtation—‘Phairest Phlora !’ billed
an amorous youth, ‘phorever dismiss
your phears, and plily with one pher-.
vent pliancy is phixed on you alone.—
Phriends, phamily, phather—phorget
them, and think only of the phelicity
of the phuture ! Phew phellows are
so phastidious as your Pherdinand, so
plieign not pbondness if you pheel it
not. Phorego phrolic, and answer phi',
naily, Phlora/ ‘Oh, Pherdinand, you
phool/ she cooed.
A few evenings since, a father and
daughter at Wallesley, Mass., were
having a pleasant chat, mutually
calling incidents of the latter's child
hood.
‘I shall never forget/ said the young
lady, ‘how yon took me out of church
one Sabbath, when I was about throe
years old, and punished me for placing
in meeting. I can remember the ting,
ling of that peach-tree switch to this
day.
‘Very strange, very strange/ said
the father; ‘I dont recollect the circum
stance at all. 4
‘Ah, well papa,you were at the other
end of the switch.*
NO. 21.