im FUMCIR tOlUCTWM
JOHN H. SEALS, }g«8i.
ATLANTA, GA„ SATURDAY, JANUARY 1!». 1878.
m pnno i $3 TER ANNUM
TERMS, 1 IN ADVANCE.
“Wc Never Missed the Waters Till the Well
BT J. A. STEWABT.
His heart was once a fountain
Of the brightest, softest trash,
And his Katie's was another
Of the purest maiden blush;
And so full and overflowing
Were the streams that sparkled by,
That they never miBsed the waters
Till the Btreams ran dry.
So full of life’s endearments
And so bright the morning rays,
The future had the promise
Of unending happy days;
A world so filled with beauty.
And with hearts so full of joy.
They never thought of meeting
Where the wells run dry.
The morning was so beautiful
And everything so bright.
They thought not of the future
With its sable hues of night.
The wells were overflowing
And the fountain’s gush was nigh,
But they never missed the waters
Till the wells ran dry.
In the freshness of the dawning
We inhaled the twilight air.
And we revel in itB beauties—
Its reflections rich and rare.
But, in quaffing pleasant waters
From the streams meandering by,
We drain the crystal fountains
And the wells run dry.
THE FflE/KS OF FORTUNE
Bt H. W. R.
When Mary Abwell received the intelligence
that an old uncle had died and madehe r heiress
to one of the finest and most valuable estates in
Australia, she urd her young husband concluded
to visit. For Charles Abwell, though in com
fortable circumstances in bis native land, was
yet only the second son of a nobleman, and as,
at the time we write of, it was a disgrace for the
son of a noble to engage in a trade, and he hail
no fancy for the ministry or military, his proud
energetic nature felt a yearning to escape from
the thraldom of lethargy forced upon it by birth,
and seek a new country where no honorable em
ployment of brain and bands would be consid
ered a disgrace. His brave little wife sympa
thized with him in his yearnings for a broader
sphere of action, and so with their household
effects, they took passage for themselves and
their ten-year-old daughter, Mima, in a vessel
bound for Sidney.
A single day, however, before the sailing of
the vessel, and after they had taken leave of
their friends, and gone abroad, a message came
to Charles Abwell announcing the probable fatal
illness of his father. The dying man pleaded
with his son to come to him once again for a last
The grief-stricken son could not refuse. A
hurried consultation was had between him and
his wife, at which it was determined that the
young wife and child should continue their jour
ney to their new home, Mary’s presence there
being required at once, to properly secure to
her the legacy from her uncle, while Charles
should go to his father’s bedside, receive his
last blessing, and rejoin his family bj the fiist
vessel sailing thereafter.
The parting between these two loving hearts,
though it seemed to them their separation could
only exist a few months at the most, was indeed
a sad one.
Mary Abwell and little Mima had a prosper
ous voyage: they safely reached their new home,
and were enchanted with it. And now the days
were passed in familiarizing themselves with
their new, strange, happy lives, and picturing
the delight of the loving husband and father
when he came to them.
Bnt he did not come. Instead of his own
beloved form there came intelligence that the
vessel in which he took passage had been lost,
with all on board. Ah, those were fearful days of
agony that followed, to the poor weeping, wid
owed mother in her darkened chamber and to
the little awe-stricken child, who realized that
something awful had happened, bnt could not
comprehend the nature of her loss.
“He will come to me; he is not drowned; his
dar eyes will yet look into my own, or upon the
monnd making my last resting place,” the poor,
weeping wife would constantly repeat, even
when months of waiting and watching piled
npon each other, forming years.
Mary Abwell realized that her own life could
not be a long one, and through these sorrowful
years tier one joy was in training her child’s
mind and person to every sweet, virtnons trait,
impressing upon her strength of purpose and
self-reliance, that, when left alone in the world,
she would not be helpless.
In her twentieth year, Mima Abwell was a
lovely girl, noble, brave and womanly, when
her mother, feeling that her life’s mission was
done, went quietly to her eternal rest. Even in
her last breath her laith in the one inspiration
of her life, all these years found expression to
her weeping child.
“Your father will come,” she said; “watch
for him, and tell him that 1 waited here as long
as I could, hoping to meet him.”
Her presentiment proved itself true.
The flowers planted by the loviDg hands of
Mima over the mound that marked her mother’s
resting place were blooming their first time
when a foreign letter came to the faithful heart
now at rest. It devolved on Mima to open it.
And how powerless are words to express her
bewilderment and intense flood of joy, when
it revealed to her the knowledge that her father,
mourned bo long as dead, was alive, and would
soon be with her. His letter explained all that
jwaB mysterious in his long silence.
When the vessel that,
more than ten years pre
vious, was conveying him
to Australia, to rejoiu his
wife and daughter, found
ered in the great ocean,
he clung to a floating spar,
and for many fearful honrs
of thirst and hunger and
suffering was beaten about
from wave to wave.
On the second day,
when life seemed hopeless,
and reason had almost
deserted him, a vessel
bore down upon him, and
he was plncked out of
the cruel waters, only to
face a more cruel fate.
His rescuers were pir
ates, and in their strong-
bold he served as a slave
for ten long years, each
day being a succession of
abuse and suffering more
pitiless than death itself.
The hope of escape, the
hope of once more clasp
ing his wife and child to
his bosom,gave him
strength to live on, and
deliverance came at last.
His letter to his dead wife
was dated from his native
Eogland, and it terminat
ed with the glad intelli
gence that as soon as he
had regained sufficient
strength to undertake the
sea voyage, he would
hasten to his wife and
It was a hard task to
write the words that must
add a great, life-long sor
row to the awful weight of
woe this poor, frail, suffer
ing man had borne.
Amidst tears of love and
sympathy, Mima revealed
in tenderest words to him
the death of her mother,
telling him of her patient
love and tru-l luring a*!
the waiting years, and of
her last message to him.
And then she told him
how fondly she, as his
daughter loved him, and
how much she needed his loving presence and
counsel, begging him to hasten to her.
Caird, though using all his eloquence, conld
Dot convince Mima that it would be right for
her to disobey her parent, and without his con
sent become his wife.
“We will wait,” she said, with such a trusting
confidence in their future that it conquered him.
“Though years of separation should elapse, it
«. — cannot change our love, dear Caird, and our
duty, and a fearful horror | happiness then will be greater for having per-
of this man who claimed | formed our duty iO others.
to be her father. But Caird found some joy. He met Mima ire-
She might have learn- quently, for every day she stole away trom her
ed in time to be more home down to the hut, there to spend an hour
like a daughter to him, . with the poor, stricken old man in it, and atter-
but for certain out-crop- wards to walk home with herlover. 8>he could
pings of fiis character, not account for the irresistible way she was
termed her willfuness in
not giving him, without
question, doubt or con
dition, the love of a
daughter. Her life was in
deed one of most pitiable
misery, divided as it was
between a desire to do her
which manifested them
selves after he had been
established as master of
his new home a week. He
was tyrannical and cruel
to the servants, who had
been used only to kind
ness from Mima and her
mother. He was parsim-
o n i o u s, treacherous and
dishonest in his dealings.
often speaking rudely to
her, and when Caird
Meredyth paid his usual
visits, he was so boorish
and nugentlemaDly in his
treatment of him as to
make it almost unbearable
to that proud - spirited
youth. It was only, how
ever, after he learned that away in great glee. The sailor and Caird ed
Mima’s sense of duty to the way. How it came about none knew, but
him as a father was so I the party found themselves without premedita-
great as to overcome her j tion at the burial-ground ,v ^ i ere ._ r f 8 Jfj
He fell on the grave and wept piteously.
“Mima, my daughter,” exclaimed the strange j months more of such dreadful life to her would
man, in sad reproach, “you deeply wound me ! kill ter.
In due time an answer came from him, assur- by your conduct. Alas, have I, too, lost the love
ing her that she was the only dear link binding | of my child? Have I been spared through so
much suffering to feel the ungratefulness of the
his heart to the earth now. He would hasten to
her, that he might bestow upon her the fondest
love of a father, and be near his wife’s last rest
ing place. He would leave by the first vessel
following that which carried the letter to her.
“It is more than ten years, Alima, since you
last looked into your father’s face. Do you
think you will know him?”
The speaker was Caird Meredyth, a young
only object on earth I love? Cruel, cruel fate !
why has life been preserved to me, that I may
only curse it?”
He sank into a chair, and holding his face in
his hands, wept bitterly.
Mima hesitated but a moment longer, and
then, springing to the side of the bowed form,
wrapped her arms about it, exclaiming:
‘Forgive me for my heartlessness. I did not
mother and many others. The invalid began to
read the words inscribed on the headstones that
he passed, until he came to one more preten
tious and tasteful than the rest, trom which he
He started as he pronounced the name, clasp
ed his hands over his temples and repeated it
slowly several times in a strange bewilderment.
T'h !>'• if liqht came to him suddenly, he fell
prone upon the monnd with a great moaning
sob, and wrapping his arms around the stone
home, that he might es- | containing that name, wept as it his heart was
cape constant insults from breaking. . f . .
father — that a few; Mima stood powerless in amazement. Caird
sprang forward to lift the prostrate form; but
the sailor stopped him with serious meaning m
his face. Thus they remained for several min
utes, when the weeping man aroused himselt,
and arising slowly to his feet, looked vacantly
upon the faces before him, recognizing none
until he encountered the sailor s eager, ex
pectant gaze. Then, holding out his hand to
the faithful fellow, he exclaimed, with the light
of reason again in his eyes: .
“I have had a long, dark, learlul dream, but
the clouds are all gone at last. See, here is my
poor dead wife. They tried to cheat^me out^of
forbade her from encour
aging the attentions of
Caird, and treated her
Caird Meredyth was in
agony over the way mat
ters were progressing.
He realized even time
he saw Mima’s sad face—
which Vi as 'll-. ' OVi,
for he had almost ceased
his sad visits to her
Thinking it all over one evening, lie determin
ed to go over to Mima’s home, knowing that her
father would be absent on that evening, and at
tempt to induce her to become his wite at once,
and thus secure his protection.
It was a lovely moonlit evening, and as he ap
proached Mima's home, he saw her on the veran
dah, and hastened his Rteps, feeling his heart
beat faster and more joyfully, as he approached
the lovely girl. She did not see him; she seem
ed intent in thought, and he had planned how
he would surprise her, when suddenly and with
man of twenty-five years, son of a neighbor, and | mean to wound you, or ever give you cause to j a startled scream, she sprang from her seat.
a dear friend and welcome visitor always to
Mima Abwell, as he had also been to her mother
during her life.
The sweet experience which rounds out and
makes perfect in loveliness every woman’s
nature, the experience without which her life
is a failure, had already come to Mima. She
loved Caird Meredyth; he was worthy of her
love, and returned it with a passion strong and
“Know my dear father!” she exclaimed, in
astonishment at his query. “I could recognize
him among a thousand, I feel certain.”
“Then you must have a distinct recollection
of his features as you saw them last, dear Mima.
Please describe him to me, for am I not interest
ed in him, next to yourself?”
She looked bewildered; how could she des
cribe him when her only remembrance, being
put to the test, was most vague and shadowy—
the remembrance, simply, of a face of noble
outline, of soft, tender eyes, filled with honesty
and sincerity, and of a kind voice?
“ His eyes will reveal him to me,” she persist
ed; “then he will look so noble, so grand and
self-reliant—so honorable, that I caDnot mistake
him. Surely, Caird, there must exist such an
intuitive sympathy between ns that we will be
irresistibly drawn to each other.”
He sighed deeply as he answered:
“I hope you are correct, Mima,but I cannot
be anything but miserable until I know him.
Have you thought, darling, that he may refuse
to ratify the gift that you have'given me of your
self—that he may deny me the privilege of soon
calling yon my wife?”
Looking bravely into his eyes, for she loved
him too fondly, and was too pure and innocent
to be ashamed of showing her effeetion, she said:
“My father will be too noble, Caird to be guilty
ot anything that would make his child miser
able. Besides I know he will be proud .of you,
for no one who knows you can help feeling so.”
When she retired to her chamber, she quietly
thought over all that her lover had said and went
to sleep happy and without fear.
Nothing could have been more startling than
the information that awaited her on opening her
eyes the following morning. Her father had
arrived during the night, and was in the library-
now waiting tor her. How she robed herself,
how she reached the threshold of that room
holding her long-lost parent, she never conld
realize. There she stopped clinging to the door
for support, while she eagerly searched the face
of the elderly man opposite her, who stood
with his outstretched arms and eager face, wel-
But from that face and figure her eyes wander
ed searchingly, unsatisfied, around the room,
coming back to it again with an awful depth of
disappointment in her face.
“No, no, yon are not my dear father,” she
said. “Oh, where is my father? Has he not
come ? Have they been deceiving me ?”
And with heart-breaking sobs, she turned to
fly from the room
feel a sorrow. But it is all so sudden, I cannot
think—I cannot understand. Tell me, I pray
you, as you hope for peace hereafter, are yon
indeed my own long-lost father? Oh ! do not
deceive me !’’
The poor girl’s pleadings would have touched
the hardest heart, they were so pitiful.
He looked up reproachfully, his cheeks wet
“Alas ! my daughter,” he exclaimed, bitterly,
“have you let the world usurp your mind so
much as to wipe away from your memory all re
membrance of my face ? What stronger proof
can you ask than that which may be found in
my books ? ’
“Forgive me,” he added, hurriedly, wrapping
bis arms around her, as he saw the pain his
words occasioned her; “I was too hasty in con
demning you, forgetting how the sufferings I
have undergone must have changed my appear
ance. I have abundant proofs of my identity,
dear child; but can you not recognize some fa
miliar features in me?”
She looked long and searchingly into his
“It is like and yet not like,” she murmured in
a bewildered way.
Then, with an effort, she added.
“I may have been willful, my father, but if
you can forgive me, and bear with me, you will
at least find a dutiful daughter. I do not know
my own mind—I am bewildered. I need time
to think over all this—time to grow familiar with
your appearance and your tastes—time to know
yon. Bear with me, I pray you, if it is for
months that I ask it, and surely the love and
devotion that I had thought were already in my
heart, will come hack and be yours.”
He pressed her shrinking form to his breast
and kissed her, saying:
“The suddenness of my arrival and your long
expectation and anxiety have evercome you, my
dear child. Go now to your own room, and rest
She tottered rather than walked away. When
within her ewn room, she paced the floor for
hours, pressing her throbbing temples,and tyring
to think, to reason, to understand. But ever be
fore her, like a dreadful nightmare, was the
memory of that face, like and yet so vastly un
like that which she expected to see in her father.
The contour of the lace was in some respects
similar to her ideal face, but, alas ! there was
no nobleness, no true bravery nor honesty, no
gentleness nor forbearance in the small, cun
ning, deceptive eyes and the thin, cruel, scorn-
lul lips of that man who called himselt her
Then, and many times in every succeeding
day daring the following month, Mima would
flee from his presence, lock herself within her
room, and throw herself down in the wild aban
donment of grief, moaning.
“He is not my father ? Oh, I cannot call him
Bat quite as many times a day she censured
herself, and wept bitter tears over what she
her grave even, hut I Lave tound it after a long,
siarueu scream „ long search. Come, lam strong now, and we
Looking hastily to perceive the cause of her j will go and ^search for my daughter, my poor
alarm, be saw that a man in sailor s costume, ; little Mima. - imrutprinnii words
g(i “What do you wish? I do not recognize you,” j man’s arms, but Caird held her back, realizing
Mima said, trembling with apprehension. the time had not come tor that. continued
“Whv von see miss, there’s a poor old man j “How came 1 hen., the old man continued,
lying over here, who is very ill, and if you’d just | “I thought I could jj®
come over and talk with him, I know your sweet j thread of memory » again s ° f ^
voice would do him good. When it bewitches | grasp. Ha, I do all* my <iscape 1tom
young fellows out of their senses, it might be- among pirates, the mtelligen^ of my w e i
witch senses into the old man. j : death, my departure to meet dau ghter ac-
Caird had his hand on the man’s collar, and ; compamed by you, “y^ant friend,
he showed every sign of terror and a strong de- ! on our arrival here to he my servant, and a -
Sre to rca P e n y ntn 8 he learned that his cantor | by my foster-brother to whom I oftered a home
did not belong to the Abwell household. j with myselt and childl, our
“Won’t vou go miss?” he continued, plead- homeward, and then that fatal night when al
inglv 8 most in sight of port, David Rose, my foster-
“Yes I will hoping I may he of some use to ( brother, and myself were on deck alone. The
J ink™?' tYebrave girl answered, night was dark, I was leaning over the taftrail,
the poor sufferer,” the brave girl
“Caird, you will accompny us?”
The man in great delight hastened away, the
lovers closely following. He led them to a lone
ly spot, on which stood a log hut, in which they
found, streched npon a pallet, the emaciated
form of a man. His thin, worn face and gray
head and beard, were a sad enough spectacle,
but when, awakening from a slumber by their
entrace, and perceiving them, he sprang away
in wildest terror from them, guarding himself
behind the sailor, and pleading piteously with
the faithful fellow not to let those strange fel
lows take him away or harm him, they realized
that his ailment was a mental one—that his rea
son was affected.
What was there in that sad, crazed face, that
irresistibly drew Mima to it? A great love and
pity welled up in her pure heart at once for this
poor,frail man, and laying her electric fingers up
on his hands, she asked him to trust and love her.
With a glad look of surprise the sufferer followed
her to the pallet, murmuring as if to himself:
“She is not one of my enemies; she will not
harm me. She is an old, old friend oi mine. I
recognize her now.”
And then, while she smoothed his gray hairs
with her magic touch, be prattled away to her
in child-like, silly talk, and she answered him
as if he were indeed a child.
Caird and the sailor left them thus, realizing
that Mima alone with the invalid could soothe
him as a medicine might do. When they re
turned, a half-hour later, they found that gray-
head nestling trustingly on Mima’s bosom, and
those wild eyes closed in peaceful slumber.
Already the suffering man was much better for
Before they left the humble hut the sailor
again impressed upon them, almost with terror
in his voice, the importance to the suffering
master and himself that Mima’s father should
not know of this mission of theirs nor of the ref
ugees at the hat, lest they should fall under his
They promised to he silent.
when, suddenly looking up, I saw David with
a knife upraised to strike me. I was too late to
save myself, the blow fell, I felt myself forced
over into the water, and from that moment all
the rest is a blank.” ..
“ I saw that awful deed, the faithful sailor
eagerly added; "I dashed over into the water,
got you up and got you ashore. I heard you
talk about the home of yours where your daugh
ter was awaiting you, and I had you brought
here, for I knew the way. But ah! they were
dark days that followed, for that wicked blow,
though it didn’t cut deep, seemed to have
knocked all the sense out of you, and nobody
could find it until a sweet angel came to you.”
“ A lovely girl, wasn’t she, with kind, tender
eyes, soft, soothing hands, and a voice like
sweet music?” the old man gasped. “The
memory of her seems like an enchanted dream
to me. Can I not find her to bless her for re
storing my reason to me V I will love her next
to my own dear Mima.”
The sailor pointed to the real Mima. Already
the old man’s eyes had fastened upon her in be
wilderment, in amazement, and then in a tre
mor of hope, of wild expectation. The brave
girl who had been so patient, who had borne so
much in these minutes of startling disclosure,
reached out her arms pleadingly, and no longer
restrained by Caird, murmured the word
“father!” ... ,
“My long-lost daughter ! my own Mima ! he
almost shrieked, realizing the truth, and rush
ing to embrace her. _ , . , .
At last the real Charles Abwell had his daugh
ter Mima clasped to his heart. . .
We need not dwell upon the happiness of
hese two long-separated ones in these first mo
ments of their re-union, nor describe how proud
they were of each other, and how full of gen
love were their hearts, and any one looking into
his eyes now could see the evidence that again
reason sat firmly enthroned over his mind. It
was only when those surrounding him were.
Continued on 8th page.
drawn to this strange old man. She was hap
pier with him than with any other, except Caird;
she clung to him with all the anxious intensity
that, a mother would to Her stricken child —
learning to eagerly watch every changing ex
pression of his face, and to anticipate his every
Mima’s visits to the invalid were not fruitless.
He grew to watch for them with painful eager
ness, going into wild despair if from any reason
u,™mu, n u™. us ,. lS he was delayed in reaching him - His eyes
He began to be overhear- : grew to be not so wild, his t toe not so .ad, at
ing and unkind to Mima, j his speech more sensible. L nder Mima s soo -
inn influence reason was attempting again
to assert its throne. It was most pitiful at such
times to witness the efforts of the poor, weak
m?n to grasp some tlireacl of memory tliat, now-
ever, when he felt sure of the victory, eluded
him and left him in despair.
During one ot these visits to the hut, Alima
proposed a walk, which the invalid gladly ac
ceded to, leaning on Mima’s arm and prattling