Newspaper Page Text
honesty wins.
The hour hand of Phillip Acre’s old
fashioned silver watch was 'pointing to
the figure 8, the snug, red curtains shut
out the rain and darkness of the March
night, and the fire cracked and snap|>ed
behind the red hot bars of the grate
in a cosy and comfortable way, cast
ing a rosy shine into the thoughtful
brown eyes that were tracing castles
and coronets in the bright burning
coals.
“If I were only rich,” he pondered
to himself. “Ah ! Then good-bye to
all mended boots and turned coats, and
all the ways and means that turned a
man’s life to wretched bondage. But
wouldn’t I revel in new books and de
licious paintings and high stepping
horses. Wouldn’t I buy a set of jew
els for Edith—not pale pearls or sickly
emerald; but diamonds to blaze like
links of fire upon her royal throat.
Wouldn’t I—what nonsense I’m talking
though !” he cried suddenly to himself
‘‘Phillip Acre, hold your tongue. I
supposed you were a man of sense—
Here you arc ‘ neither rich nor distin
guished ’ while Edith Wyllis is as far
above your moon-struck aspiration as
the queen of night herself! She loves
though—she'll wait—and the time may
one day come. If only Dr. Wyllis
was not so distrustful of a fellow.
Hello! come in there, whoever you are !”
It was only the serving maid of the
lodging house, carrying a letter in the
corner of her apron, between her thumb
and finger.
“All right, Katy. Now then,” he
added, as the door closed behind Katy’s
substantial back, “ let’s see what my
unknown correspondent has to say. A
black seal, eh ? Not having any rela
tions to lose I am not alarmed at the
prognostic.”
He broke the seal and glanced leis
urely over the short, business-like com
munication with a face that varied
from incredulous surprise to sudden
gladness.
“Am I dreaming?” he murmured,
rubbing his eyes and shaking himself
as if to insure complete possession of
his sense.
“ No, I’m wide awake and in my
fight mind; it’s no delusion—no part
of ray weakening visions. But who
would ever suppose that old Thomas
Mortimer, whom I haven’t seen since I
was a boy of sixteen, and picked him
out of the river half dead from crump
and fright, would die and leave me all
his money ? Why, I’m not the shadow
of a relation; but then I never heard
the old man had any kith or kin, so that
I can’t imagine any harm in taking any
advantage of his odd freak. Rich—am
IJreally to be rich ? Is my Aladdin vis
ion to be an actual fact ? Oh, Edith !
Edith!”
He clasped both hands over his eyes,
sick and giddy with the thought that
the lovely, far-off star of his adoration
would be brought to him at last by the
magnet, gold. All these years of pa
tient waiting were to be bridged over
by the strange old miser's bequest, and
he might claim Edith now.
llow full of heart sunshine were the
weeks that flitted over the head of the
accepted lover, brightened by Edith’s
smile, made beautiful by the soft radi
ance of Edith’s love. There is only
one lowering shadow—the almost im
perceptible touch of distrust and sus
picion with which stern Dr. Wyllis re
garded'his future son-in-law. Ah, he
feared to trust his only child to the
keeping of any man who had not been
proved in the fier/ furnace of trial.
It was precisely a week before the
day appointed for the wedding, as the
soft lights, veiled by shades of glass,
just lighted in Dr. Wyllis’ drawing
room, where Edith sat among her white
roses and heliotrope, working on a bit
of cambric ruffle and singing to herself.
She was a slender, beautiful girl with
violet eyes, a blue-veined forehead, and
glossy abundant curls of that pale gold
that old painters love to portray.
*; I wonder if Mortimer place is so
very lovely ?” she said to a silver-hair
ed "lady who sat opposite. “Phil, is
going to take me there when we return
from our wedding tour, he says it is
the sweetest place a poet’s fancy can
devise, with fountains and shrubberies
and copses. Oh, shall we not be happy
there.”
She started up with a bright, sudden
blush; for even while the words were
trembling on her lips Phillip Acre came
into the room, bis face looking a little
troubled, yet cheerful withal. Mrs.
Wyllis, with an arch nod at her neice,
disappeared into the perfumed prospec
tive of the conservatory, leaving the
lovers to themselves.
"You arc looking grave, Phillip,”
VOL. II—NO. 45.
said Edith, as he bent over and kissed
her cheek.
“ And I am feeling so, darling, I
have a very unpleasant disclosure to
make to night—our marriage must be
postponed indefinitely.”
“Phillip, for what reason ?”.
“ To enable me by diligent labor at
my profession, to realize sufficient
means to support you dearest, in a
manner satisfactory to your father's
expectations and my own wishes.”
“ But, Philip I thought—”
“ You thought me the heir of Thos.
Mortimer's wealth. So I was, Edith,
a few hours since, but I have relinquish
ed all claim to it now. When I accept
ed the bequest I was under the impres
sion that no living heir existed., I
learned to-day that a distant coasin—a
woman is still living, although my law
yer tells me, in ignorance of her rela
tionship to Thomas Mortimer. Of
course I shall transfer the property to
her immediately.”
“ But, Philip, the will made it legally
yours.”
“ Legally it has, but Edith, could I
reconcile it with my ideas of truth and
honor to avail myself of Mortimer’s
fanciful freak at this woman’s expense ?
I might take the hoarded wealth, but
should never respect myself again
could I dream of legally defrauding the
rightful heir. Nay, dearest, I may lose
my name and wealth but I would rather
die than sulfer a stain on my honor as a
gentleman.”
“ You havq done right, Philip,” said
Edith, with sparkling eyes. “We will
wait, and hope on, happy in loving one
another more dearly than ever. But
is she ? What is her name ?”
“ That’s just what I didn’t stop to
inquire. I will write again to my law
yer to ask these questions, and to di
rect that a deed of conveyance be in
stantly made out; and then, darling—”
His lips quivered for a moment, yet
he manfully completed the sentence :
“ Then I will begin the battle of life
over again.”
And Edith’s loving eyes told him
what she thought of his noble self-ab
negation—a sweet testimonial.
“ Hum !” said Dr. Wyllis, polishing
his eye-glasses magisterially with a
crimson silk handkerchief. “ I didn’t
suppose that young fellow had so much
stamina about him—a very honorable
thing to do, Edith. I have never ex
actly felt sure about Phil Acre’s being
worthy of you before.”
“ Papa!”
“ But my mind is made up now,
when is he coming again ?”
“ This evening,” faltered Edith, the
violet eyes softly dropping.
“ Tell him, Edith, that he may have
you next Wednesday, just the same as
ever. And as for law practicing why
there is time enough for that afterwards.
Child, do not strangle me with your
kisses, keep them for Phil.”
He looked after his daughter with
eyes that were strangely dim. “ Tried
and found not wanting,” he muttered
instinctively.
* * * *
The perfume of the orange blossoms
had died away, the glimmer of pearls
and satin were hidden in velvet caskets
and traveling trunks, and Mr. and Mrs.
Acre, old married people of a month’s
duration were driving along a country
road in the amber, glow of a glorious
June sunset.
“ Ilallo 1 which way is Thomas
going ?” said Philip, leaning from the
window, as the carriage turned out of
the main road.
“ I told him the direction to take,
Phil,” said Edith, with bright, spark
ling eyes. “ Let me have my own way
just for once. We are going to our
new home.”
“ Are we ?” said Phil, with a comical
grimace. “Itisto be love in a cottage,
I suppose ?”
“ Wait until you see, sir,” said Mrs.
Acre, pursing her little rosebud of a
mouth. And Philip waited dutiously.
“ Where are we ?” he asked in aston
ishment when the carriage drew up in
front of a stately pillared portico which
seemed to be not unfamiliar to him.
“ Surely this is Mortimer Place.”
“ I should not be surprised if it was,”
said Dr. Wyllis, emerging from the
doorway. “Walk in my boy ; come,
Edith. Well, how do you like your
new home ?”
“ Our new home!" repeated Phil.
“ I do not understand you, sir.”
“ Why, I mean your little wife yon
der is the sole surviving relative of Mr.
Thomas Mortimer, although she never
knew it until this morning. Her mother
was old Mortimer’s cousin, but an ab
surd quarrel had caused a cessation of
intercourse between the two branches
of the family. 1 was aware of the fact
all along, but I was not sorry to avail
myself of the opportunity of seeing
what kind of stuff you were made of,
Phil Acre. And now as the deed of
conveyance is not made out yet, I do
not suppose your lawyer need trouble
himself about it. The heiress won’t
quarrel with you, I’ll be bound.”
Phil Acre's cheek blushed, and then
grew pale with strong, hidden emotion
as his fair wife, standing beside him
when the sunset turned her bright hair
to coils of shining gold, and he thought
how unerringly the hand of Providence
had straightened out the tangled web
of his destiny.
Out of the darkness had come light.
Hospitable Beyond Means,
A clergyman traveling in the moun
tains of West Virginia put up for the
night at the house of a pious old lady,
who never refused to entertain strangers,
lest haply an angel might be turned
away unawares. Shortly after his arri
val supper was announced, and the lady,
after a blessing had been invoked, began
to rattle the cups and saucers, prepara
tory to the matronly ceremony of pour
ing out and handing the hot, coffee. It
was customary to make the inquiry, and
the good dame, with a gracious smile,
inquired of the guest :
“ Do you take sugar in your’n?”
“ If you please,” replied the hungry
and thirsty evangelist: “and I’ll be ob
liged if you’ll mate it tolerably sweet.”
The old lady began to twist in her
cnau, uujusi ner spectacles, and look
searchingly around, the table. She dip
ped the spoon desperately in the blue
china sugar bowl, but it rattled omin
ously against the sides of the empty ves
sel. At last she summoned courage to
tell the truth. With admirable pluck
and candor she opened her mouth and
spoke, and the words that reached the
ears of her guest were these “ Stranger,
we hain’t it.”
“ Isn’t it Lovely.”
A dry goods clerk on Main street was
showing a lady some parasols yesterday.
This clerk has a good command of lan
guage, and knows how to expatiate on
the good qualities and show the best
points of his goods. As he picked up a
parasol from the lot on the counter and
opened it, he struck an attitude of ad
miration, and holding it up so the best
light would be had,said:
“ Now, there ! Isn’t that lovely? Just
look at that silk. Particularly observe
the quality, the finish, the general effect.
Feel of it. Pass your hand over it. No
foolishness about that parasol, Is there?”
he said as he handed it over to the lady •
“ Aint it a beauty?”
“Yes,” said the lady, stuffing her
handkerchief into her mouth, “Yes,
that’s my old one. I just laid it down
there!”
The clerk was immediately seized
with a severe attack of quickened con
science, and passed right off of the sub
ject of parasols on to the weather.
A terrible story comes from Dixon,
Mo. Mr. Moench, who lives on a farm
near Dixon, on returning from a drive
to town, missed his two little girls, one
8 and the other 5 years old. In search
ing for them his attention was directed
to a large trunk, by the fact that the
tray was on the floor. He opened the
trunk and found the lifeless bodies of
the little girls still warm and limp. He
tried in vain to resuscitate them, and
then telegraphed his wife, a teacher in
one of the St. Louis schools. It is
supposed that the little girls when they
saw their father coming had jumped
into the trunk to hide, and were over
come by the heat. The faces bore no
evidence of pain or suffering, but were
so bright and smiling that the father
could scarcely believe they were dead.
Waiting to be whipped is the most
uninteresting period in boyhood.—J.
Billings.
HARTW ELL, GA., WEDNESDAY. JULY 8, 1878.
The Mirage of City Life.
Throughout this country thousands
of young men look with anxious hearts
to the city as the Paradise of brick and
mortar where their imaginations have
depicted to them glorious visions of
wealth accumulated by honest toil.
All the}’ desire is a chance to earn an
honest living, and their belief is firm
that everything is possible to the de
termined soul. Every year the stream
pours into the city of young, fresh
hopeful hearts to find, alas ! too soon,
that all their bright visions were mi
rages of the city. The avenues for
spending money are greater than those
for making it. Wants are increased,
without the ability to gratify them.
Despondency takes the place of buoy
ancy, and the spirit is crushed beneath
the weight of unsatisfied ambition. A
panic sweeps over the land, and all de
partments of manufactures and com
merce give way under the pressure.
Many are reduced to lower wages or
turned loose without resources or em
ployment. It is well to learn some
useful trade or to fill up the ranks of
the professions. Both are necessary.
Yet a community cannot survive long
when its ranks are altogether made up
of consumers.
In all our great cities there are thou
sands of families living from hand to
mouth—aye, many who barely subsist.
In New York city alone there are said
to be 150,000 persons leading a wretch
ed existence because they cling to a
city life, where competition is over
whelming, prices of everything the
highest, and poverty the most extreme
and hopeless when work and health
fail. Yet the mirage of city life con
stantly looms up before the rural mind,
and the stream continues to flow in. If
thflv could but read the record, as un
folded on the registers of charitable
~B r “i,iiiuß. aim piiouus, uuu jau, or
the unmarked graves -In Potter’s field,
where bodies have succumbed to phys
ical want, and spirits to moral woe; or,
follow the hungry, hollow-eyed wit
nesses to their squalid abodes, they
would deem him no friend who points
away from the cottage home and the
well tilled acre to the mirage that rises
through the smoke and dust of the
stifling hive where thousands toil day
after day, year after year, through all
their lives, and die paupers at last.
Far better were it for the body poli
tic if even the Irish tenantry system
could be adopted, and if the spirit of
communism is crushed out, it must be
not by force, but by giving employment
to the unemployed thousands. Give
them a chance to leave the city with its
thousand sewers of crime and disease
and go to the country where, drinking
in its pure air and untainted water,
they can be of service to themselves,
and the'country.
There are millions of acres of unim
proved land, lying on either side of the
Piedmont Air-Line Road, capable of
sustaining many millions of people.
Here is a field for practical philanthro
py and true benevolence. Where is the
George Peabody or Peter Cooper that
will put the ball in motion by which the
unemployed thousands of the land cah
be supplied, with cheap homes, and
made to feel that they are not Creation’s
foulest blot—a blank. Here is a re
construction policy that might well en
gage the attention of the statesman,
for fully carried into effect, it will bring
in richer returns than all our revenue
laws. Here is a plan more beneficial in
its results than any silver bill that
could be framed. Here is a reforma
tory scheme cheaper and more efficient
than alms-houses and prisons. Give
the unemployed employment and cheap
homes.
All along the Piedmont Air-Line
thousands of acres lie idle. They can
be made to blossoms as the rose. Who
will start the ball in motion ?
A miner in the Black Hills, writing
to a friend in this city, tells a horrible
reminder of the fearful snowstorms of
last winter, and of the perils of those
who were caught out and lost their way
on the plains. He says recently, while
he and two others were crossing the
country, they came upon the skeleton
of a horse, within which was the skele
' ton of a man, with the grinning skull
looking out at them between the ribs if
of the animal, like a prisoner peering
through the bars of his cell. The two
skeletons told the whole story. The
man had killed his horse, cut him open
and crawled inside of him, thinking to
thus escape perishing of cold, but the
flesh of the animal froze solid, and the
man was now as much of a prisoner as
if he had been shut in by walls of iron.
The wolves and carrion birds had strip
ped the greater part of the flesh from
both skeletons. The miner concludes
his description by saying: “It was a
sight I shall never forget. I can see it
now whenever I close my eyes.”—ftr
ginia City Enterprise.
Irish Humor.
A Caijholic Priest, Father H ,in
his mission work in southern Colorado
and New Mexico, met with many ex
traordinary people and incidents. On
one occasion he happened to hold ser
vices in a small out-of-the-way chapel,
where the varied duties of janitor were
discharged by a gentleman of Irish des
cent. During the service a child was
brought forward for baptism. It may
not generally be known that in the Ho
man Catholic ritual, the priest, before
touching the child with water, puts a
little salt in the water in the presence of
the congregation. The janitor, howev
er, hud prepared the water beforehand,
according to his own idea ns to the pro
portion of salt, when the priest, having
omitted to place the salt in readiness,
whispered softly to his attendant: “ Pat,
will you please to go get the salt?”
Pat responded in an audible whisper
from behind his hand: “Sure an’ I put
it in already.”
Father H , not fully understand
ing, repeated his whispered request.
Again Pat replied, more audibly than
before and with slight dudgeon in his
frn A • H Cil an MM/1 T \|ll * W it M
“ But ritual demands that the priest
should perform the ceremony before the
congregation,” explained Father H ,
considerably annoyed at the janitor’s ob
stinacy.
The Irishmam procured the salt, and
handing it to the priest, electrified him,
as well as the congregation, with the re
mark, delivered in a surly growl:
“ Here ye are; bedad ye can make a
pickle of it if ye want to!”
The Columbus Enquirer-Sun has re
ceived from Albany, N. Y., a piece ol
tanned negro skin, and comments on
this fresh evidence of the love of North
ern friends for the man and brother in
thiswise-: “ Yesterday we received by
mail a piece of tanned negro skin from
a gentleman in Albany, N. Y., who
once lived here and made his departure
in 1858. His name we will not give.
He states that this is an evidence of the
love which, in theory the Northern peo
ple profess to have for the colored race.
A negro convict died. The medical
students skinned the body, and tanned
the hide for the purpose of making boots.
This piece of skin is certainly a great
curiosity and we will preserve it. The
same can be seen at our office. This
trophy (?) of the scientists is of the
thickness bf fine calf skin and quite po
rous. The Radicals can howl over this
inhuman act of their students. The
party sending vouches for the truth of
the statement. Nothing so abhorent has
ever occurred in the South, and we want
to see if the Radicals will raise their
hands in pious horror at the atrocious
deed of their young men.”
The other day the President and his
cabinet sat down to a little private lunch,
and the servant in attendance, glancing
from the president to the half-dozeu
cabinet officers, remarked :
“ An’ it minds me ov the ould electo
ral times, intirely.”
“ What does?” asked the secretary of
the navy.”
“ This bit ova dinner an’ the com
pany,” replied the servitor.
“ And why?” asked the secretary of
state.
“ Because, thin,” replied the faithful
servitor, “ there’s seven to ate.**
And the secretary of the interior said
that stumped him, while the postmaster
general made a quotation from the “ Life
and times of the governor of North Caro
lina.” —Burlington Hawk-Eye.
This paper is too cheap to beg, bor
row or steal. Subscribe.
WHOLE NO. 97
REV. ISAAC JOHN SING'S HARVEST.
For The Jlarttoell Sun.
My bredren, frens and ennymies, by
way ob compology I wood jea’ say dat
I beam sum ob de muskadine cullud
perwanion tnk defenoe at my sarment
I preached here las’ winter, an’ I cum
agin to set um all rite.
My texis am in dese words: “ Seben
men am wiser in his own decete dan a
fule ; six days you shall wuk an* labor
wid all your might, an’ res’ de sebenth ;
darfore him dat wont wuk shan't eat a
bite.”
Ef you w’ant to know whar my texis
am at, reed till you fine it, fur I aint
agwine to sareh de bjbul froo flbe huu
durd times to fine a good texis an you
all asleep or a ’possnm huntin' an’ den
tell you whar it is—no, air, dat I wont,
dat’s sartin!
Weal commit singin* an’ hop rite into
de hart ob de subjec’.
Fust, seben men am wiser dan a fule.
Who is a wise man ? A man dat pays
his preecher, an’ keeps his crap clean
an’ plants his corn in de groun’ instid
ob in de moon is a wise man. Who is
de fule ? A man dat gibs all he can
make, an’ mo’ too, fur terbacker an’
whiskey. You ejects to payin’ raq my
quartridge, I fine—you’s a fule. Dat's
de reason you dident like my sarment
las’ winter, is it ? Enny ob you dat
objec’ is a fule.
Secon’, six days you shall wuk.
Sum peeple had ruther go to de debil a
a whistling dan wuk on Satday ebon in’.
No matter how de grass grow, no mat
ter how well de groun’ plow, no odds
how close de wheat an’ oat crap cums
on, all de same. You all hab good men
to lib wid, an’ you know da ar your
frens, and you ort to wuk six days for
um, but you don’t do it. You go mop
in’ along all de week like de dead lice
wuz a droppin’ otren j’ou, an’ don’t half
wuk til Satday mornin’, den you want
half de day, or all day. An’ when you
gits half de day what do you do wid it ?
Why you go to sum grog shop an’
drink nutf pisen whiskey to split your
woolly heads smack open, an’ den be
cause you can’t git rich an’ boss de
white fokes, you wants to git on a ship
an’ git drownded gwine to Lyberry.
You’d better ly berry still whar you is,
or you’ll dy berry soon artcr mu cit
juu luvaiii iuc . vTiiWG jwu
know ’bout defendin’ yoursef ’gainst
Cannibal Hands, Foreign Mtsbunarys
an’ allygaturs ?
(I hates to improve ennyone in de
chuch; but I do wish dat slabsided,
flat-nosed, knockkneed nigger man set
ting ober dar wud quit makin’ such a
noise rubbin’ his rusty bare heel agin
de back ob de bench—its succeedingly
onperlite.)
When you all docs rite den dar will
be no grumblin’ agin de white man.
We rede in de Scripter dat God winked
at de ignancc; hut cf he wus to wink
at all de ignance now, de win’ frum de
lids ob his ize wud blow de sun out.
I don’t mcen de Haktwei.l Sun—l
meen de pulmonary orb ob heben what
gibs lite oil de face ob de yeth. Now,
Ay ink-cullered bredren, and my crow
cullerd sistern, I hab surcharged my
juty wid you, an’ ef you don’t mine
you’ll git to de bad place, an’ den you’ll
feel like a wet dog.
lie tell you de rode to de debil, an*
you can take de oder if you want to, or
go jea’ whar you plees, I don’t gib a
scent whitch. Now lie tell you de
rode, viz : to-wit: naimly : as follers :
Take a bottil ob linker in one pock it,
a gang ob kards in another, a pistol,
den stuff de legs ob your britches in
your butes an’ start ’long de public
rode hollerin’ an’ singin’—
41 1100 ah ! boo ah! hoo ah ! hoo ah l
Pm gwinc away to-morrow,
1100 all,! hoo-o-00-oo !
Gemmen an’ ladies,
Ifoo ah ! hoo ah !
Gwine ter Ole Verginny,
1100, hoo, ah 00-o-oo !”
I say go on in dis stile, an’ ef you aint
got a good way-bill to de debil den I’m
not Rev. Isaac Johnsing. I’ve’livered
you de bes’ sarment in de wurld, put it
in your pockit an’ carry it home wid you,
an’ may debil keep away from you. So
nuffln more at pre sent frum your con
fectionary frien*.
A correspondent sends us a poem.
“ Night’s Silver Moon,” and asks what
we will pay tor it. We can only say
that we no nothing about the night rate
of silver. — Boston Commercial Bulletin.
“Oh don’t you? Well, about two
dimes out of every quarter of it goes for
beer. That’s the night trait of silver.”—
Burlington Hawk-Eye.
“ Paper sir?” asked the newsboy.
“ No, I never read,” was the blunt an
swer, “ Hi, boys, come here,” called
out the gamin; “ here’s a man as is
practisin for the jury !”