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VOLUME VIII.
1)11. MOLTON’S MOTHER.'
The clock on the mantel had just
jhimed one short, musical stroke.—
Through half closed blinds shone the
iilvery light of the fast-waning moon;
die candle had burned low in its sock*
3t ; the log of wood had converted it¬
self to ashes; but of all this, Dr. Ber¬
nard Molton saw or heard nothing, as
he sat in his office chair lost in
thought. If tfie moon had hidden the
world good-night, if the candle’s fee*
ble existence had entirely ceased, and
v, n the ri d glW of the ashes iu the
1 / away, he would still
he picture of the wo*
ICC whom he loved,
It was with him now as it had been
with him tor hours past, since the mo¬
incut he hud placed his fate in Violet
I Face's keeping, and she had accepted.
No wonder that it seemed new and
Strange to him — that he was heedless
of timo and space She was such a
delicate high-born lady, and be—ah,
another vision came before him n<»w.
Not the cheerful office, with its iuxu
rious appointments —he might at least
offer Violet a worthy home—but the
memory of the days when he had run
a Jittle, barefooted lad, about his
mother's cottage, and the toiling for
her only child had earned one by one
the dollars which nad sent him first to
the village school and then to the
great city, to learn the profession for
which he longed.
lie had succeeded well and bravely,
, beyond his ambitious hopes; but the
mother who had toited for him, where
was she ? Why was it that to*night
her old wrinkled face drove even Vio*
let Fane’s beauty from him.
True, he had no longer all owed her
to work ; true, she sat at ease in Lor
liitle cottage, thinking of and praying
for her boy, who was so good and
generous to her, but was it his fault
that his patients were sc many, and
his hours so precious that he could not
find time to gladden her old heart by
a giitnpse of him every now and
then.
And now—now that he thought of
Violet as his wife—Violet, with her
high-bred—\ iolet^ whose every asso
ciation was in such a vilely different
sphere—could it be that he was
ashamed of his mother ?
The candle died out entirely ; the
°od was white ashes now; the moon
had sunk to rest, the clod chimed two,
but a red hot flush burnid on Doctor
Molton's cheek, as he rote to find his
way up to his room and jed, and per¬
haps forgetfulness in sleeo.
For three long hours ie sought the
boon in vain and when at last it came
to him, and his tired eyes closed, how
could he but dream of tlose other eyes
just awakening in the ar-off home,
which somehow to-night had so per¬
Ml tly haunted his thoights?
the little cottage al was bustl o
Ls. Molton •»
had determined Z -**
'live her boy a surprise, and —
for Loud u staited very eirly.
London! It lay ten hens away.—
H would be almost nightfill when she
a 'lived, How glad Bermrd would be
to see her. He had nev;r
her coming beciuse he hough she
Wuuk not find courage ; a, though for
}| ix sake she would not do dare
thing. .r any¬
She was sorry now she lad not iiad
J Vllla g° dressmaker male up that
black silk he had sent her, hit it look¬
ed so grand in its lustrous olds, that
% 1__ V
N------- , m
it seemed a pity to toucj it with the
scissois, and she would seem more
natural like to Bernard in her stuff
dress.
How often she had pictured him in
his lonely home. She hoped that he
might be out when she arrived, that
she mght take off her bonnet, and,
slipping on tier white cap, let him find
her, with her knitting in hand, quietly
seated by the fireside, waiting his re¬
return.
All the way in the train, when at
last she had got started on her jour¬
ney, she could hardly keep her happy
thoughts to herself; and more than
one glanced at tfie smiling old face
with something tugging at their heart¬
strings which almost brought moisture
into their eyes.
It was nightfall when the city was
reached. There had beeu some slight
delay on the road, and the old lady
felt a sinking at the brave heart
which had made her go. However,
she succeeded in finding a cabman
who was willing to take her to the ad¬
dress she held in her hand,
*lt must be a mistake, or he lias
brought me to the wrong place. Oh,
dear, what shall I do/ she sighed, as
he drew rein before a laige, hand¬
some house, presenting a well-lighted
front, in one of the most aristocratic
portions of Mayfair.
But cabby reassured, and she soon
found herself, surrounded by boxes
and bundles, lacing the formidable
gentleman who opened the door.
Save for a suspicious shortness of a
certain portion of his attiie, which
reached only to his knees, where they
were met by stiff leather leggins, the
worthy woman would have dropped
him a courtesy.
'Past tfie doctor's office hours,
ma’am/ ho said, m response to her
feeble appeal. ‘It is as much as my
place is worth to take in your card/
‘But I have no card—he will see
me I'm—I’m—’
But she did not finish the sentence
—only stepped inside the door, and
stood undet the lull glaie of the light
of the hall lamp.
The man looked askance at the sin¬
gular apparition. Her hat was crush¬
ed and bent, her dress bore evidence
of the dust ol travel, and in her hand
was a huge bandbox, containing the
hat which was to astonish the London¬
ers
Indeed, rna‘am—’ the man began,
but the old lady walked steadily on to
the door, beneath whose threshold
she descried a stream of light.
The Lot flush had by this time
burned out of Doctor Molton's cheek
The morning dawn had dissipated the
foolish fancies of the night: Ilis du¬
ties for the day were over,
and he W3s free to seek Violet, whose
wonderful eyes would brighten up as
he entered, and whose lips would per¬
haps brush his cheeks with their vel*
vety caresses.
He sprang to his feet to seek her,
when the door softly opened, and
turning he saw—could it be a dream,
conjured up by his restless fancies of
ttie night before—his mother ! Close
behind was the wholly-wondering,
halt-apologetic face of his butler. It
took him a full minute to realize it was
no dream and then (honor to his
manhood) a sudden, overwhelming
tenderness swept away all else, and
with a glad cry of 'Mother/ he clasped
her to his heart.
\V hen she had grown calmer and
more at rest, beginning to look round
and wonder and admire, a little feel¬
ing of irritation began to grow at bis
heat. W hy had she come ? Had he
not made all comfortable for her at
home ? Here she would be constrain¬
ed, unnatural. And Violet—He
could picture the astonished look
which would creep in'o her eyes when
he said to her: ‘This is my mother;’
J1A3’, more, the haughty curve which
would gather about her mouth, so rich
and ripe, and sweet. So the ques*
tion at his heart found words, und he
scarcely himselfknew the innate irrita
tion they betrayed.
‘Mother, why did you not let me
know you were coming?'
‘I meant to surprise you, my boy/
she answered, fondly. ‘Can it be that
I have done wrong ?’
•No, no,’ he hastily replied. ‘Come,
you must eat an go to bed. You need
a rest.'
But long after he had bidden her
good*eight, he sat and thought.
Ilis mother had come to make her
home with him this was clear, If he
toid her ho wished it otherwise, she
would obey him.
For a time he planned it out—how
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JANUARY S, 1SS0.
he would tell her that city life was
adapted to her needs; and then
Violet need never know of the plain,
woman, who hadn’t been shamed
to toil with her own hands that his
might be the hands of a gentleman.
Oh, shame on him ! Could he ever
wash them clean, even of the thought?
No, Violet should know the truth.—
He could bear the scorn now in her
eyes and in her voice, as she would
question him how he dared to look
up to her, but his mother should share
his home and his heart to the end.
It was too lute to visit Violet to-night
hut he went up stairs, and, softly turn¬
ing the knob of the door of the room
in which his mother slept, he noteless*
ly approached the bed, and, bending
down, touched his lips to the old with¬
ered forehead reverently.
She started up, with a glad sob of
joy
‘My boy 1 my boy ! who I thought
was not g ad to see his mother.'*
He quieted her at last, wondering
why his own heart felt so light, and
she foil asleep with his haud tightly
clasped in hers.
'You did not comeTast night/ said
his betrothed, when next morning, he
sought her presence.
‘No, Violet / he answered, ‘but I ara
come to-day to tell you how unwor¬
thy I am of your Jove. Last night
my mother came to me. Nay, do not
start. It was no visitant from spirit*
land, but an actual reality. I have
never told you of my mother. Think
of it—a man so blessed, and yet dumb.
All her life she toiled with poverty—
for whose sake think you ? Her son's
that she might make of him a gentle¬
man. God prospered him, and ena¬
bled him to take all the but den from
her old shoulders, and so he thought
he had done his duty. He fed the
body, but he let her heart starve.—
Last night, in the despeiation of her
hunger, she sought me out. For a
moment—oh, bitter humiliation ! —
my pride rebelled. Think of it, Vio¬
let—the cruel, unnatural pride which
which would bring into a man's cheek
ablush for the woman who bore him.
I thought of you with your pretty,
dainty ways, side by side with her
plain and homely ones. I knew the
two never could be reconciled; and so.
Violet, I have come to ask you to for¬
give and forget me. My heart, my
home, is my mother's henceforth and
forever.
Had he some lingering hope that
the girl before him would refuse the
sacrifice? Certainly an added look of
suffering grew into his eyes as she an¬
swered nothing, only laid her hand m
his a moment, as in farewell.
His visits seemed very long, very
weary all that day ; but, as'he cross¬
ed the home threshold at nightfall, he
smothered the frown from his brow, as
he remarked:
'Sn* must suspect nothing.*
He would find her he knew on his
study. As he soLly opened the door,
he anticipated her glad cry of ‘My
boy/ as she tremblingly rose to greet
him , but, ah, he had not anticipated
the picture which met bis gaze.
His mother was sitting, indeed, in
the arm-chair by the fire, but at her
feet, her head resting in her lap, while
the old fingers caressingly stroked the
luxuriant chestnut hair, was another
figure, which rose instead to welcome
him.
‘Bernard,'the 'I sweet voice whispered
in his ear. lost my mother when I
was a baby. It has been sc sweet to
find one again ! You said, henceforth
your home and heart were hers. Oh,
my love, may we not shaie the
boon ?’
§
y
WANTED DER AIDITOR.
He entered the Journal office with |
the smell of buckwheat cakes on his j
garments and blood in his eye. He I
had on an armv overcoat, a plush hat i j
and , a , frown darker , , than a thunder! . .
cloud , , folded _ ,, . three . thick. , . , lie TT looked; , . , I
1
the , foreman . who , . . .
at was just sitting
down , to give . a credit for 17 cents
man
on subscription, ... and „ sternly .... inquired
f 1 :
t ... itoi _
u.re is i le an .
t e just stepper out a moment ago.
Shipped oud, eh T \ben T.I1 he
s ^ .tq> m .’
‘Expect him hack very soon. Any.
t..in„ I can do for you .
‘Maype he knows I vas gooming . and
e, n 't eon 10 ^'l''IT < n t say ll ' M f ou as ' to that.
‘Gnodn’t, eh ? VeMI vartaaleetle
und ho gooms back, eh ?'
‘I think lie will be in, sir, in a few
moments/
‘I liaf a leedle pisness mit liim.—
Vhat he has been zaymg aboud me in
der Shournal/
‘About you ? I dont know sir.’
‘Veil, by saimrmny, he zays I vos
got dhrunk und raised some bell von
tay, und I shoos zee bond dat.'
'Think yoa must be mistakes, sir,
I—’
‘Dink I vos, eh ? Mape I got some
friends vot tole me boud dot ! I find
id all out in dwo minets! He zay I
vos dhrunk und make some droubles,
an vhen he gooms back I shoost zee
boud dot. I plaek his eyes, py shitu¬
mmy, und gick him und knog his
brains oud maype, far dot. Shoost
let him goom back und I show him all
aboud id.‘
‘Somebody's been putting up a job
en you, I fear/ observed the foreman
‘I dond got any foolishness mit you
—I vait till he gooms pack und got
some zatisfaction. I gick him right
agay down stairs so gwick der leedle
cuss vont find oud vot ailed him ! I
Laid you !’
‘But, my friend, I guess you don't
know him. He is twice as big as you
are ; weighs 210 pounds, and got lots
of muscle/
‘lie vos ferry lurge ?'
‘Well, about the size of Atkins, the
Banner man/
‘Ish dot so ? Adgius vos a stoud
man.'
‘Yes, either of them can pick up a
barrel of salt and throw it across the
road without a grunt,’
‘Py shimminy ish dot so ?’
‘Yes. There, there comes the editor
now/ cried the foreman, aiming his
finger at Capt. Fuller (a 240 pound
man who was coming down the street.
‘Dot vos der aiditor ? Veil, if lie
didn't say. nothing boud me it is all
right/
'Let's see, your name is--?’
‘Yaw, dot ish my name/
‘Well, come to think, I believe he
did say in the Journal a week or two
ago that you got drunk at Berry's sa¬
loon, kicked out three or four window
lights, smashed up a few chairs, and
tried to steal five cents of a small boy
to buy another drink with/
‘Vos dot all he said ?'
‘I believe he said that any man who
would conduct himself in such an out ¬
rageous manner ought to be tarred,
feathered and rode out of town on a
• ail/
'Vhat else did he sap ?'
‘I think he closed by remarking that
if he had been the owner of the prop
erty he’d have smashed yon up into
Dutch cheese in less than two minutes.
‘Und dot vos all he said boud me in
dose papers ?
‘Well, that is about ad I remember
now/
Vel, py shimminy, I vos a pig fool
of I got mad bond leedle shokes like
dot. I go right ovay oud und wond
zay nottings boud id. Dese Tellers
vos dryin to put up a shob on me.—
Dey zay he vos hurt mine garaeder,
and I know it vos a tam lie all de
while. Py shimminy, I vish I vos pig
as Adgius. 1 put a head on dose vei
lers—you baid !‘
Just then the devil in the press
room gave a Comaochee war whoop,
and foreman heard a man going down
stairs as though his satanic majesty
was after him.
The actor is the only aitist whose
work dies with him.
The only really bitter tears are those
which are shed in solitude.
The man who does net help ns at
the right moment does not help ns at
all.
YVe are apt to believe what the world
believes about us.
TIIE RIGHTS OF CHILDREN.
Experience of a Parent Who
Tried Rob Ingersoil’s
Method.
Springfield Republican.
Colonel . T Ingersoll ,, . lie keeps
says r a:
pocket-book , . , . drawer , and
in an open 1
his children go and , , help , thoroselves , , to
whenever . they . it. lhe\
m >nev want r !
eat . when they . want .. they
.* to; may
sleep , all day , if they , want to, and sit
U p a ff night it they desire. I do not
^ to coerce them. I never punish ;
^ 8ijolcIi Thfly buy th( . ir own
clothes and are masters of them
sch . es ,
gentleman living on Marshall
, treet> who a „ a boy that is full as
kitteny, as liis father read the article that!
and pondered deeply. He knew
Co)oue) Ingersoll' was a success at
raising children in the way they should
go, and he thought he would try it.—
The boy had caused him considerable
annoyance, and he made up tiis mind
that he had not treated the boy right,
so he called Irm in from the street
where he had been putting soft soap
on the lamp post in order to see the
lamp-lighter climb it, and said unto
him:
‘My son, I have decided to adopt a
a different course with you. Hereto*
fore 1 have been very careful about
giviug you money, and have wanted
to know where every cent was ,and my
supervision has no doubt been annoy
ing to you. Now, I am going to
leave my pocket book in the bureau
drawer, with plenty of money in it,
and you are at liberty to use all you
want without asking me. 1 want you
to buy anything you desire, buy your
own clothes, and to feel as though the
money was yours and that you have
not got to account for it. Ju3t make
yourself at home now and try to have
a good time.
The boy looked at the old gentle¬
man, put his band on Lis bead, as
though he had 'got'em sure,’ and
went out to see the lamp-lighter climb
that soft soap. The next day the
stern parent went out into the coun¬
try shooting and returned on the mid¬
night tram three days later. He
opened the door with a latch-key, and
a strage yellow dog grabbed him by
the elbow of his pants and took him,
he said, ‘like the agur/ *
The dog barked and chewed until
the son came down in Ills night-shirt
and called him off. He told his father
lie had bought the dog of a fireman fir
$11, and it was probably the best dog
bargain that had been made that sea*
son. lie said the fireman told lutn he
could find a man who wanted that
kind of a dog.
The parent took off his pants what
the dog had not removed, and in the
ball he stumbled over a birch-bark
canoe the boy bought of an Indian for
$9, and an army musket with an iron
ramrod fell down from the corner.—
The boy paid six dollars for that. He
also bought himself an overcoat with a
seal-skin collar and cuffs, and a com
plete outfit of calico shirts and silk
stocking.
In his room the parent found the
marble top of a soda fountain, a wheel¬
barrow and a shelf filled with all kinds
of canned meat, preserves and crack¬
ers and a barrel of apples. A wall
tent and six pairs of blaukets were
rolled up ready for camping out, and
a buckskin shirt > aild a P“»»' °f cordu*
r .° y pants Iay on tbe bed ready for P uN
° n ‘ ^ sb pcdes and a basket
full of fish lines were ready for busi
ness, and an oyster-canful of grub**
worms for bait were squirming . on the
washstand, dheold gentleman looked
the lay-out over, looked at his pock
et*book in the bureau drawer, as
empty as a contribution box, aud
said:
‘Young man, the times has been too
flush. We will now return to specie
basis. When you want money, come
tome and I will give you a nickle,
and 3 r ou will tell me what you want
to buy with it,or I'll warm you. You
bear me ?'
ODDS AND ENDS.
No sooner lias one learned how to
live than he must die.
EveryboJy gives advice, few take
it, and none act upon it.
Beware of a leligion that pays its
ministers large salaries j
All women consult their mirrors {
;
vary few listen to them
AH death’s heads grin. Can they
have read their epitaphs ?
None enr ad:uits hi * >f >t j
. not to , their
is insist upon compensa-;
‘! 0QS '
TIIE SWIFT WITNESS.
BY DILI. ARP.
Tom Gaines was what you call a
swift witness. When Tom was for a
c feller „ he , was r for him all over, and , , he
’
was so f friendly and confiding the .
Judge T , didn’t , . kuow what t> do with
, turn. • T Last , lawyer Branham ,
court , nut
m lorn the stand 4 \ to a that
upou prove a
dunking man couldn't ,, ,, remember . what ,
he had done when he was drunk. Tom
had taken about ten drams thut morn
mg and was feeling splendid, lie
swore straightont that he couldn't.
The Judge didn’t like that. He did
not like witnesses who were so willing
and familiar, and he put a few ques
tions to Tom from tfie bench,
‘Mr. Gaines, wasn’t you drunk yes.
terday-Suuday ?
‘They say 1 was, your Honor.'
‘And you donfc remember it V
‘It’s sorter like a dream, your lion*
or ; but I do remember 1 was awful
sick last night.'
'How are you now, Mr. Gaines ?’
‘I am tolerable well, I thank you,
Judge,; how do you do yourself?’ and
Torn bowed humbly, for he thought
the Judge was kindly inquiring after
his health.
When the Sheriff had quieted the
general hilarity, the Judge said :
'Mr. Gaines, you were drunk on yes¬
terday, which was Sunday. Now
where did you find your whisky ?
‘Iu the jug, Judge—right in the
jug-'
‘Well, sir, where was the jug?'
‘Under the fodder stack, Judge. I
always keeps it there, or in the shuck
pen, and if your Honor ever passes
that way, it's a free thing to—'
‘Mr. Gaines, you can retire, sir.
believe you are the same man
about thirty years ago testified in tl is
court house that Jim Wilkins bit his
own ear off.’
'They say 1 did, Judge, but you
know I was drunk and of course dont
remember it. You was a defeud in Jack
Boozer for biting off Jim Wilkins' ear,
and you told me that in the scrimmage
Jack shoved Jim up agin the sharp
edge of the door and the door cut it
off’; but you see, Judge, I got drnnk
and forgot what you told me, and
s’pose I did swear that Wilkins bit
his ear off himself, and wasn’t so un*
reasonable nohow, for he hud the aw*
fulest month that ever was seed—
didn‘t he, Judge ?
'Mr. Gaines, I told you to sit down,
sir. Mr. Sheriff give me the names
those gentlemen who are so hilarious.
I’ll see if I can't stop their merriment.
Brother Brauhao, put up your next
witness/
KEEP STRAIGHT AHEAD.
Pay no attention to slanders and
gossip*mongers. Keep straight on in
your course, and let their backbiting
die the death of neglect. What is the
use of lying awake at nights brood*
ing over the remark of some false
friend, that runs through your head
like lightning ? What is the use of
getting into a wo*ry and fret over gos¬
sip that has been set afloat to your
disadvantage by some meddlesome
busbody who has mot e time than char*
actor ? These things cannot possibly
injure you unless, indeed, 3011 take no
tice of them, and in combatting them
you give them standing and charac
ter. If what is said about you is true,
set yourself right ; if is false, let it go
for what it will fetch. Ifa bee stung
you would you try to destroy
it ? \\ ould not 1,000 come upon you ?
His t. • wisdom ■ 1 to say ... little concerning
the injuries you have received, We
a,e generally losers in the end, if wc
stop to refute all the backbiting and
gossipping we may hear by the way.
They are annoying, it is true, but not
dangerous, so long as you do not stop
to expostulate and scold. Our char
actors are formed and sustained by
ourselves, by our actions and
**es, and not by others. Let us always
bear in mind that culminator*
may usually be trusted to time and the
slow but steady justice of public opin¬
ion.
Contentment produces in a
measure, all those effects which the al*
chemist usual!}* ascribes to what he
calls the philosopher’s stone, and, if it
does not bring riches, it does the sane
Plug by banishing the desire for
them.
The man who is constitutionally in
capable of taking advice needs to be
very wise indeed. For, says the pro
verb - 'The
: truth which we least wish
to hear is the one which is most to our
advantage to know.
JIO.'J.
SENTIMENT AND SENSE.
It is impious in a good man to be
sad.
Calumny is only the uoises of mad
men.
Rare is the union of beauty and
virtue.
Men who never do wrong, seldom do
anything.
Necessity reforms the poor and sa¬
tiety the rich.
The body of a sensualist is the cof¬
fin of a dead soul.
Civility costs nothing, but smooths
everybody's paths.
A malicious enemy is not so bad afc
a clumsy friend.
A wise man is never less alone than
when he is alone.
* The wisest of is he who has the
men
most civility for others.
The beauty of the body is for a
day; the beauty of the soul is for
eternity.
If in the morn of life you remember
God, He will not forget you in y#ur
old age.
Eyes raised toward Heaven are al¬
ways beautiful, whatever color they
may be.
The whole question is not whether
sins tempt or not, but whether it reigns
or not.
About the most unoomfortable seat
a man can have in the long run is self
conceit.
Impatience is a sure proof of inferi¬
or strength, and a destroyer of what
little there may be.
A man with an excellent voice, who
' s destitute of a well informed head,
cannot shine in the pulpit.
Charity under divine influence will
relieve suffering. Charity under di¬
vine wisdom will prevent it.
It takes one less time to get over
one's own misfortune than to be recon¬
ciled to a neighbor's good fortune.
Ilaryest never comes to such as sow
not ; and so experience will not, unless
you do what God has commanded.
Never speak evil of any one ; be
charitable in thought, and give even
the worst people the benefit of the
doubt.
Things right in themselves are more
likely to be hindered than advanced
by an injudicious zeal for promoting
them.
Augustine said, ‘'Faith is to believe
what we do not see, and the reward
of faith is to see what we believe,
F rom the moment that a defect can
be no longer concealed we ex agger*
ate it.
Prayer is the pulse of the renewed
soul ; and the constancy of its beat is
the test and measure of spiritual life.
Crockery with gilt bands or flowers
should not be wiped. It should be
washed quickly, rinsed and drained
dry.
Men are never so ridiculous from the
qualities which really belong to them
f 8 lum which they pretend to
have.
Sudden resolutions, like the rise of
mercury in the barometer indicate
He else than the changeableness of
tbe weat ^ er *
There are people with whom peni
tence stands for repentance—with
whom wearing mourning dispenses
with feeling sorrow,
^ beautiful smile is to the female
countenance what the sunbeam is to
the landscape—it embellishes an infe*
rinr face, and it redeems an ugly one.
Momory Can £ !ean but can never r< •
n ° W ‘ ^ bl ' n ^ us TO’ 8 rtS the
P e, ^ u ' ne ol tbe flowers which are farted
dl| H dried, of the summer that is gone,
M'e ought to live each day as if it
were our last. What a pathos this
w °uld gire to our existence, and how
^ wou ’d fill the world with serious
ness and P f,wer -
True virtue consists in improving the
mind aud purifying the heart ; iu
bearing good will toward mankind,
and engaging them to truth and mor
al excellence.
Prayer in the morning is the key
that opens to us God's mercies and
blessings. Prayer in the evening is
the key that shuts us up under his pro¬
tection.
Never say 300 have heard before
what your friend has evidently taken
great p’easure in telling you. Hjs
delight at finding yon equally well in*
formed with himself may not be great
as you had imagined,