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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 !”