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VOLUME VII. the old home. It is not ft castle olden, Standing in the sunlight golden, Relic of the Past; With a deep moat, mossed and lioary, And my from bygone glory O'er its ruin cast, Rut a mansion, fair and pleasant, kuuwu alike of peer and peasant For its kiudly cheer; With its glades and leafy covers, ferny haunts ot loitering lovers, And the shy wild deer. Crimson blossoms ledly glowing, Flickering shadows o’er it throWiiig, Veil the lichen’s stain; Sunset gleams of rose and amber, Where the ivy tendrils clamber, Flush each casement pane. Lurks r.o ghost behind the arras, Happy midnight dreams to harass, Wakes no Banshee’s wail; Tapestry, nor antique lumber, Both its sunny hall encumber, Shield nor suit of mail. Morning wakes its household noises, Busy footsteps, laughing voices, 4s in days of yore; Burns its warm hearth too brightly, Where the gay groups gather nightly, Though it knows no more. Hearts, by other loves supplanted; Steps, that once its precincts haunted, Hushed by mouut and sea; Only my sad heart remembers Flowery Junes and dark Deceoitjers Spent, old home, in thee! Shadows pace the garden alleys, Wander with me through the valleys, Join my woodland walk; 4ml tiy streamlets, willow-shaded, Where the song birds serenaded, Parted lovers talk— Idly talking, idly dreaming, With the sunlit waters gleaming Golden at their feet; While the fair-haired children plunder, llosy-mouthed, with blue-eyed wonder, Fruitage, wild and sweet. When I stretch my hands in greeting, Each familiar name repeating, Straight way from my sight Buck to angel bowers they vanish, Even as beams of morning banish Visions of the night. MISCELLANY. AFTER MANY DAYS, Arthur St,. John had laid down his pen, head and heart weary wondering, alter all flic world-wide fame and pop ularity lie iv;n gain’ng, the money he w:\* making, w;is not a poor return for the hard drudgery of brain toil in which he had spent his days—wondering if ever, like other men, find rest and hap piness and peace in woman's love, real living, loving w< man, instead of the beautiful creations of his own fancy, which hitherto had no rivals. He had just laid dowu his pen, when he heard Miss Chester's low, exquisite voice in the adjoinng room—a voice he had always thought the perfection ot sweetly-icy passionlessness, but that now startled him with its thrilling in tensity—that astonished him beyond measure by its utterance : "Do I admire him? Nita, don’t quite despise me that I confess to you what I dare hardly say to my own heart, I would willingly forfeit five years of my life to be Arthur St John's wife!' To say he was astonished beyond measure but faintly expresses the feel ings he experienced when he heard Hora Chester's plain positive asser h°n, that she, heiress of an estate worth nearly ten thousand a year, cov eted him for her husband who never once had given her a thought in such a direction. Dut naturally, this betrayal of her heart, set him to thinking with new, strange thoughts, thoughts that fired his ambition afresh ; thoughts that •uoused all his surpise and aatonisn- Ill( - nt ; thoughts of a sweet, fair face he had once on a time caught himselt thinking of-—Nita Bellington, to whom Chester had given her trust of confidence. that Arthur St. John had ever actually cared fur Miss Behington—he nd been too much in love with his literary life for that; but of a'l the '' nnon he ha 1 ever seen or met, she 1 * come nearer to his ideal of what a woman— a wife should be. he sat there at his desk—such an snit desk—in one of the handsorn •d gueat chambers, where Miss Ches r had him installed on his arri fpje Eastman fpmegl val, with a dozen ether guests for a months visit, it occurred to him, as it never had occurred to him before, that Miss Chester had shown him many delicate little preferences, friendly courtesies he saw now in the true light of revelation by her own words. He saw now that there had fallen to his lot a good fortune that would make him the envy of scores of men. He understood now there was irt waiting for him a destiny that had come to him without his seeking. Hut what a des tiny. For he knew he never could love Flora Chester, for all the golden treas ures with which she could weigh him down. He knew that if he accepted this golden glory held out to he would forever forfeit the happiness of which he had all his days dreamed—ha ipiness of loving and being loved. lie k new that this woman was proud, haughty, reserved, with all hergener osity, her curious fancy for him, and ho knew that in her he would not find one of the attributes, personal or intel lectual, he desired in bis wife. She was very plain, lie never knew how bitterly she had, time and again, lamented that fact, as she stood before her {glass, conscious that all the costly adornings at her disposal would never make her more than the plain woman she was, with her small, white face, pale blue eyes, thin, straight lips, coloiless hair, that was neither luxu rious nor graceful, and spare, angular form. And Aithur St. John was so hand some ! It was that at which had at first attracted her ; his splendid lice, and head, and physique, to which he added the rare charm of manner and the grace of talent. He was so kingly, jot splendid, and she so plain, so unattractive ; yet she had dared love him, and he had dis covered that she did. Several minutes after he had heard her rapidly-uttered,impassioned speech flic rustle of si ken skirts passed h s door, told him that the ladies had gone down stairs, the two women, one of whom he might have, with all her wealth, just for the asking ; the other— and for the first time there came to him the convincing knowledge that all these days he had been crowning Nita Belliugton queen of his heart— to whom Miss Chester had gone with her confidence. He rose from his chair at the desk, and began a leisurely saunter through the three rooms of the suite, noting as he had never noted before, the costly elegancies that were very delightful to his aesthetic taste and critical eyes. And twenty-four hours later Flora Chester went to Niiu’s room and told her, with gleams of exquisite delight shining from her eyes, that it seemed as if Heaven had corne down to her, for Arthur St. John had asked her to be bis wife. While Nita listened, her sweet face turned just a trifle pale, her heart beating painfully for several minutes. ‘You ought to be happy, Flora. You will have nothing in the world to wish for—nothing/ Then when she had locked her door on Miss Chester an hour later, she laid her bonny head on her pillow, that no one should hear the sobs that shook her from head to loot. ‘lf he only could have cared for me 1* Seveial days later the party atMay bury broke up, and Nita went home, her pitiful secret well concealed, even from Arthur St. John’s eyes, who had already come to think it was a grand mistake he had made. Yet he took no pains to unmake it, because the temptation was too bright ly golden. And so one sunny autumn day saw his destiny fulfilled—the day he and his bride started on their wed ding tour The days went by, and the weeks widened into months, every successive hour bringing to Arthur St. John's wife the heart-sinking discovery that her husband cared nothing for her, heart-sinking, for Flora St. John wor shipped him with a tenderness, a devo tion that was so truly womanly in its unwavering patience and loyalty. Little by little the appalling truth had been forced on her, until she real ized that there seemed no probability of any future accord for them, until one day, in almost desperation at his listlessness, his unsympathetic cool ness, the bloke through her pride and patience into a storm of painted re proach. ‘I know perfectly well you never have loved me, but is even that an ex cusc for your aversion to my society . If you would rather be free of me, say so. I will go ; you may have every thing. Nothing is valuable to me since I learned you hate me/ For a while she was nerved into an excitement of regretful sorrow, that brought f>rth its fruit of renewed at tention, a harvest caused by tier touch ing self-abnegation ; but there was no true principle of affection at the bot tom, and h s defection begaii again.and then Flora quietly put on her hat and shawl ana walked out of the house, and for five years he never heard or saw sound or sight of her. Her absence was a relief at first ; then when he realized how wondei ful ly generous she had been, how she had left him sole owner and possessor, re lief changed to shame, and all his man hood rose in arms, and he refused her bounty, and left Maybury alone to the servants, and went away, no one knew where. At first lie w r ent abroad, revelling in freedom, and getting away fio-.n his morbid attacks of gloomy regrets and useless fancies—fancies which, as the years went by, took more and more the shape of Nita Bellington, until one day when he was strolling idly through a silent, deserted Venetian palace, he felt for the first time in all Ins life Fate had been kind to him to Dring him face to face to her—with her same sweet and bonny, dusk haired head, and tender, velvety dark eyes--Nita Bei lington still, indeed, and truth and name After that it was very easy to be happy. The woman he loved was with him. It was enough that such was the tact, and he was able some how to keep himself from any qualms ot p tying wonder about the woman who vas not with him—the woman who loved him. Away off* in the remotest parts of upper Get many, where Miss Belling tou’s party had been enthusiastically touring at the time, the news o St. John's wife had never reached Nita, and now, when she saw how pointedly he avoided any remarks of her, her dc’icacy forbade her mentioning her. Until one day St. John told her all about it, entering into fullest, minutest details, and then asking her if she would dare promise to make the rem nant of liis life happy if he should se cure legal freedom, as be felt he had long been morally free, Nita listened, bewildered, not know ing whether to be most sharply pained or gladdened ; then all her exquisite womanhood rose in her as she made her decision. ‘Find Flora, Mr. St. John—find her and if she has ceased to care for you-- as you think you have ceased t> care for her—biing her to me, and let her tell me I may—care for you. So Arthur St. John went on his strange quest, over land and sea. in city and country, to find the wife that was no wife. For months he steadfastly kept to his purpose, pursuing his self-marked out course, fired by the reward held out, eager for the light of Nita Belling ton’s eyes, the sweetest of her glad smiles. One day as he was leisurely walking along the quiet street of an obscure, picturesque Normandy village, scan ning every face he saw with the way that had become habitual to him, he stopped suddenly, aghast, at sight of a face so like his own—the face so sweet, so fair, of a child who was playing at the gate of a romantic little cottage. The child must have seen the unusual interest in his regard for her, for she looked gravely at him, and it made his very heart thrill to meet eyes so exact ly like his own. What if—could it be possible—could it be possible ? And amid all tne thoughts that went careering through bis fancy, was one of swift, sudden regiet and pity for this little girl's mother. His voice trembled as he spoke to h3l*. ‘What is your name little one ? Wilj you tell me ?’ And every pulse in his body seemed throbbing in mad excite ment as the answer came sweet, shy accents: 'Alice St. John.' His child—his daughter ! And he —Oh, God !—he searching for her mother, that he might take from her her repudiation of him. His own lit tle one—and he, her father, thinking of a woman who was not this sweet- C3 T ed child's mother. And in the clear light of little Alice’s eyes all the pitiful horror of it now came to him ; all tho lack of sympathy and tenderness this child's mother had suf fered; all the lonely burden of fears and woes she had borqe these misera ble years. EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JANUARY 23, 1879. This child’s mother bis wife ! And he —he who had been caring for a dif ferent womaiij who had been actually bargainingfor his wife's loyalty to him. His vo : ce trembled as he asked the child where her mother was—her mother, his wife. And when he walked into the dainty little parlor, to mmt Flora face to face —Flora, whose plainness and angu larity and unattractiveness had all vanished before the mysterious charm maternity lent her—Flora, his wife, with her sweet, almost terrified sur prise, through old pas sionate idolatry shone brightly as ever. ‘Oh, Arthur! Arthur!’ And in that blessed moment was born in his heart abiding affection and tenderness for her who had alwavs loved him—and who had sacrificed all things for him—who found her unex pected reward at last. Shortly after, Arthur St. John wrote to Nita Bellington, bravely, kindly and manfully ; and, for all the wrench of pain her heart suffered, there still was womanly thankfulness to offset it thanklillness that Arthur St. John had found at last a haven for his heart. Fearless for Truth. The graphic pen of Rev. Edward Eggleston has sketched, with vivid touches, the typical ‘circuit preacher;’ but so far as we knew he lias never written anything of the life and expe riences of Elder John Easter, of Sus sex county, Virginia, John Easter, like all the pioneer min isters of last century was a man of fearless character, and tremendously in earnest in his work. Without the rude bluntness and oddity of Lorenzo Dow, and the rough-and-ready muscu larity of Peter Cartwright, he possess ed their courage, persistency, and in vincible convictions; and in the pulpit or oo the p’alforrn, uttering divine truth, he was a “son of thunder/’ His preaching was plain, and the opposition kiudb and by it was ruffianly, and sometimes personally violent. O uco, while he was preaching on •‘The Cowardice of Sin/’ the ringlead er of a gang who had sworn to break up his meetings, took a conspicuos place near him, and in sight of the whole congregation, brandished a club at him, purposely to interrupt his ser mon. The minister was among strangers, and too many of the crovd evidently were afraid of or in sympathy with the bully. Mr. Easter stopped, spoke to him, and asked him to put away his club and be quiet. The man only grew more insolent, and then the preacher rebuked him severely. Tiiis enraged him, and he rushed upon Mr. Easter, with his club uplifted to striKe. The preacher stood un moved. “1 am ready to spill my blood here, if that must be,’' he said, “but you will harm me at the peril of your soul.' The blow was ahned, but it hung in air, the threatener’s eyes glaring fury. “Strike me if you dare to,’' said the fearless minister, ‘'but I am God's ser vant, and He will avenge His own/’ Completely outfaced, his assailant lowered his arm and sneaked away, like the follow who once undertook to throw stones at Whitlie’d. “Said I not the devil is a coward?’’ remarked Mr. Easter, calmly resuming his sermon. This bold turn conquered the congregation as thoroughly as the scene had excited them. None of them disturbed him again, and many of the throng who followed his discourse to its close suffered themselves to be led to the feet of his Master. In another place, while Mr. Easter was leading a camp-nmeting service, a turbulent ruffian actually seized him by the breast of his coat, and raised a horse-whip over his head, at tne same time pouring forth a volley of profane abuse. The undaunted preacher ut tered a lew wordß of warning, and lilting his eyes to heaven, prayed for tiie man who assaulted him. John Easter could pray like Elijah the pro phet, and .is the awlul appeal went up, the ruffian with 'he whip turned and fled as if he saw all heaven armed against him. Incidents like the above, often told of good men merely to illustrate their powerful presence and heroic mien and manner, really reveal the moral c nv ardice ol sinners. He who insults any thing sacred, forfeits moral protection, and all wicked men are moral outlaws. Their weakness is in being such, and knowing it. '"To see ourselves as others s *e us/’ would not be half so disagree*ole as t*> have others see us as we ready arc, Ran Away to Sea. The effect of bad books, such as by wild, improbable stories excite the imagination of boys, may be seen in the following story of romance and and reality, told of a boy named Rich ard Fielding, who recently arrived at Baltimore in a Nova Scotia schooner- Young Fielding is about fifteen years ot ago, with a bright, handsome face, pleasing manners, and of evident in telligence. His father is a wealthy land owner in Hampshire, an English gentleman of family and position. Richard had been sent to school in Dorsett, where some of the improbable stories detailing the adventures of young boys who run away from home, fell into his hands and were eagerly read. The natural result followed. He determined to run away and go to sea. Tying up the customary bun dle, he slipped away from school and went to Liverpool. There he found it impossible to ship in any capacity; but determined to go to sea at all haz ards, lie slowed hiuself away in the hold of a Mediterranean fruit brig bound to Messina. lie was soon discovered, and after undergoing no end of abuse from the captain, was s*t to the dirtiest kind of work, swabbing the decks, scraping the masts, and tarring down the rig ging, and on every calm was put over the side to scrub copper. Before arriving at Messina, he was one day tarring down the jib stay ( swung in a boatswain's chair, when the man who was attending to the hoisting r-pe carehoigly lost his hold, and Dick was precipitated to the deck, falling on an anchor stock and on the rail. His arm and leg were broken, and he bounded into the water. He was rescued, however, and after being free ly cursed by the captain for the deten tion to the vessel which the accident l ad caused, he was passed below,where without any medical treatment, he was permitted to stay till the vessel arrived in port—fortunately only twenty-four hours afterward He was then sent to the hospital, where incompetent physicians dressed his limbs, and alter three months he was discharged, penniless and without friends, and a cripple. All the British consul could do was to get him a berth, which, owing to the fact of the boy's crippled limb, was a difficult tiling to do, but which was finally accomplished, and Richard sailed as a cabin boy in an American bark for Rio. His situation in this vessel was more tolerable, but on ar riving at Rio, the bark was condemned as unseaworthy, and Richard was a second time cast adrift in a foreign land. lie finally shipped as cook in a West India trading schooner, where he got more kicks than money, and in this vessel came to Ha'ifax, where he ship ped in a schooner that afterwards came to Baltimore with potatoes. Previous to sailing, he wrote to his mother, telling her the name of his vessel His father cabled to Halifax and ascertained his destination, and then cabled to a friend in Baltimore to look out for Richard on his arrival. Dick came there in the schooner Bertha Ellen , after a thirty days’tempestuous voyage. His father's agent met him, tele graphed his father, provided him with anew outfit of clothes and a passage to Liverpool by the White Star line steamer, sailing recently. And a lew evenings ago Richard left for New York to take the steamer, a wiser boy, a cripple for life, and one not likley to again be filled with glow ing enthusiasm at th<- stories of writers af melodramatic fiction. Sulphur for Diphtheria. Mr. J. S. Wiles, a surgeon of Thorn combe, Dorset, writes to the London Time-? that aft- r two cases of malignant diphtheria out of some nine or ten he had been call and to attend had proved fatal, the mother of a sick child showed him an extract from an American pa per concerning a practitioner who used sulphur to cure the diseas-*. Accord ingly used milk of sulphur for infants and flowers of sulphur for older chil dren and adults, brought to a creamy consistency with glycerine ; (lose—a teaspoonful or more, according to age, three or four times a day, swallowed s'owly f and application of the same to the nostrils with a sponge. Result he did not lose a case there or else*, where, and he succeeded in saving life when the affection had almost blocked pip throat. Touching Scene. We need not seek amonj the select classes to discover the finest poetry of sympathy. The Detroit Free Press publishes this affecting instance of true feeling in the hearts of the lowly : One day three or four weeks ago, a gamin was run over by a vehicle on Gratiot Avenue and fatally injured.— Alter he had been in the hospital lor a week, a boy about his own age and size, and looking as friendless and for lorn, called to ask about him and to leave an orange. lie seemed much embarrassed, arid would answer no questions. After that he came daily, always bringing something, if no more than an apple. Last week, when the nurse told him that Billy had no chance to get well,the strange boy waited around longer than usual, and finally asked if lie c<>uld go in. lie had been invited to many times before, but had always refused. Billy, pale and weak, and emaciated, opened his eyes in wonder at the boy, and before he realized who it was the stranger bent close to his face and said, with moistened eyes : ‘Billy, can y<-u forgive a feller ? We was alius fightiu’ and I was too much for ye, but lam sorry. 'Fore ye die won’t ye tell me ye have no grudge agin me ?' The young lad,‘then almost in the shadow of death, reached up his thin white arms, clasped them around the other** neck and replied: ‘Don’t cry Bob—don't feel bad, I was ugly and mean, and I was heav ing a stone at ye when the wagon hit me I'll forgive ye and I'll pray for both o’ us.' Bob was half an hour late the morn ing Billy died ; when the nurse took him to the shrouded corpse, he kissed the pale face tenderly and gasped : ‘ D—did he say anything about— me V 'lie spoke ol you just before be died —asked i f you were here,' replied the nurse. ‘And may I go—may I go to the fu neral V 'Yon may.' And he did. He was the only mourn er. llis heart was the only one that ached.—No tears were shed by others, and they left him sitting by the new made grave with heart so big he could not speak. If under the crust of vice and igno rance, there arc such springs of pure nobility, who shall grow weary of doing good ? What a Mule dan l>o. This mule looked like he was 138 years old, and he was dead standing on his feet. He was hitched to a pine bodied spring wagon, with a high dashboard. The “team*’ was standing on the levee in mute silence, while the old darkie who ‘ f driv” it went aboard the wharf-boat. A tramp could make a barrel of money shilling pictures of that mule, labelled “Patience/’ His long, flabby ears hung down each side of his head like window awnings with the rods out of them. His face wore a sober look, while out of his mouth hung a tongue eight inches long. Ilis tad hung down from the rear end of his hurricane root like a wet rope, and his whole body seemed as motionless as death itself. Presently a red-headed boy with atijold boot in his hand came up in front of him, an I lo iking in his face saw that the mule was asleep.— He walked around, climbed up that wagon, leaned over the lifted that mule’s tail, and quietly tied the boot thereto. That mule woke up so quirk that lie kicked the boy and the dashboard twenty feet into the air He didn't step there. He changed the position of his ears hauled in his tongue and planted his fore feet and his hea l between his knees, and from the fore shoulders to the tip of his trunk was in a lively motion, and he didn't look like he was more than two years old, the w iy he was kicking that old wag on-body into kindling wood with his heels. He had it all to himself, and was doing finely when the old darkie rushed up the hill, got in front of him, ana grabbing him by each ear, shout ed, “Whoa ! I tell you ! What's de matter wid you ? Whoa-up !" and looking around at the crowd, yelled “Will some o' yer gentlemen git that er boot leg out while I hole him ? kase the waggins mine, and I jes’ borrowed demulc ? r But noone interfered and when we left, his heels had almost readied the toll-gate, and the old ne gro was still yeiling “Whoa l'* Pastime—When the other fellow has the two Lowe's and the aoo of trumps. A noisy fellow annoys a fellow. The best illustrated paper out —a bank note. Prize fighters show each other mark ed attention. Even a blacksmith's bellows some times come to blow. Nothing makes a person laugh so much as anew set of teeth. The best band to accompany a lady' vocalist—a husband. If you've got a bad wife don't ‘IU quor.' It does no good. —— "W by is it blush like a little girl? Because it becomes a woman. A ooy who was spanked said the sensation was thrilling in the extreme. Those who “swore off’’ last New Ye ar and stuck to it can now resumo with Secretary Sherman. Persons who write anonymous let ters for publication should send fool names to the publishers. The average woman is composed of 242 bones, 169 muscles, 22 old news, papers, and 210 hairpins. In the bright lexicon of the modern fanner there is no such word as flail. All the thrashing in done by machine ry. Mrs. Partington declares that sho does not wish to vote, as she fears that shs could not stand the electrical franchise. When it comes to business, folks who theorize about love are very much like those eminent lawyers who always lose their own cases. Edison thinks he can light a theatre for $4.60 a night; but if the receipts are only $4.60 where will he the gain over the present syste n? ‘Pants for ss?' said a seedy looking cnan, reading a sign in the window of a clothing store he was passing. ‘So do I; I never panted so for $5 in alll my life.' It was Emerson who declared that a i man ought not to be a slave of his yesterdays. Quite true—nor yet of * his to morrows. Let him rather bo master of his to days. A company of in naming their new town, called it because, as they said, that’s the only place where peace, prosperity and happiness are always found. The difference 'twixt tweedledum and tweedledee is illustrated in the fact that the rich man with a great ap petite is called an epicure, and the tramp with a great appetite is called a glutton. } The moon is just the thing for coory hunting or sleigh-riding, but it isn't worth much for gathering chickens or talking ab ut the greenback movement over the front gate with another fel low's girl. A gentleman, rejoicing in the royal name of Stewart, felt considerably as*. tonished the other day when a friend’ slapped him on the shoulder and ex claimed: ‘Coma along; you're Stew art's body, ain't you?* ‘How to break up a setting hen,' was a recent query before a Farmer’s club. For hens afflicted with that form of insanity a sledge hammer is the only eff otual remedy. Any one who recommends a milder remedy is a quack. ‘I 11 never do a kind act again,'sigh ed Dr. Drood the other morning. ‘1 just gave a tattered and half starved looking individual half of my fortune, and he went right around and invested, it in a schooner of beer.' An old toper, hearing some ladies discussing the wonderful fact that a baby can say ‘No' several months be fore it can say ‘Yes,’remarked: ‘Well, ladies, you see that’s 'cause babies ain't never asked if they'll take some.* thin'.’ 'Be ever ready to acknowledge favor,' says a writer. We are, sir; wo are. What troubles us is that on one side we are completely loaded down w ith leidiness, while on the other side. oppo r t unity is painfully scarce. NO. 4.