Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1891-03-18
For the SPECTATOR ]
MOTHER.
BY WIN. W. LONG.

In the Pennsylvania penitentiary an old
man died short time ago, who had been
prisoner for fifty. one years. His name
was VIM. Stanford. In 1881 he became
suddenly insane, and committed murder.
He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to
life imprisonment, aud for eighteen years
he was chained down to ths floor. Just
think of it, chained to the floor for eigh-
teen years. God pity the man or woman
who passes through the doors of peniten-
tiary for life. For them charity, sympathy,
love. are dead. Hope deserts them upon
the threshold, and one long agony of tort
urous existence follows.
This man was eighty-one years old when
he died. Free, happy mortal, pause and
think of it for a moment-eighty-on years
old, and ffty-one years in the penitentiary.
In the whole range of human thought, hu-
man existence,is is there anything more terri.
BILE? Eighty one years old, fifty. one years in
the penitentiary, and chained to the floor
for eighteen years. God, have mercy
Christ, have mercyl
Can you find anything in the conception
of Shakespeare, Dante, Milton or Byron,
as terrible? Is there anything in the his.
tory of the expiation of CRIME that can sur
pass itf Fifty-one years in the peniten-
tiary, and chained to the floor eighteen of
them. God pity, God forgive poor, un-
sympathetic humanity.
"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn"
In all his long life ef wretchedness, mis-
cry and woe, he never once referred to his
past life-his childhood, his youth, his
manhood, all we're blauk to him. In his
widest moments he never once mentioned
them. The innocent pleasures of his boy
hood, the joys and hopes of his young man
hood, never once crossed his lips.
But he is dying nov. An old, white
haired man, eighty one years old, fifty-one
years in the penitentiary, chained to the
floor eighteensyears, is dying now. Note
the quiver of his dim eyes, the twitch of his
shrunken lips, the shudder of his aged
body, as the Death Angel in pity aud love,
touches him with his unseen hands. Rsst
is comiog-rest has come-after eighty. one
years waiting, and fifty one of them in the
penitentiary. Stone walls are about him;
bolts and bars Of iron have held him in
from the world for fifty-one years-but
rest, peace, love, happiness, have all come
at last. Upon his iron ribbed pallet he lies
silent now;his wild rawlings, his foo lish bab
blings have ceased. But see! he raises
himself up with death struggle; smile
crosses his wan lips; his face puts on a look
of sanity; a sweet tenderness crosses it,and
softly he murmurs, 'sMotherl' Then. with
a radiance upon his aged sountenance sur
passing earthly beauty, he sinks back
dead.
Mani pause for moment in your mad
rush for wealth, for fame, for earthly ag-
graudizements, and take this dark picture
of reality home tn vour heart In the wear
and tear of business, in the dash and whirl
gotten "Mother." Pause, and let memory
go back to the sinless past. Here lies a
poor mortal who has suffered all the misery
that this cold, heartlsss world of ours can
give; placed beyond the pale Of love, SYM
pathy, home life snd family ties, eighty
one years old, fifty one years in the leni-
tsntiary, remembered "Mother''at the end.
All tho misery, inhumanity and cruelty of
his dark and bitter life slipped away from
him, and aged, weak, weary, insane, he re-
membered Mother
Mother is the rruest, best friend we have
in this world. No matter how far we wan
der from the home nest, no matter how
deep into crime and degradation we sink,
Mothers" arms are always open to re
ceive uS.
Boy, girl, man, womao, no matter how
far you go from the roof-tree, no matter
how high you iise in the world, no matter
how low you fall in sin and iniquity,
"Motber" never gives you up. She never
forcets the bsbe she gave being, and nurs-
ed into life upon her siuless breast; and as
yoa hope for SUCCESS here, aud rest, peace
and happiness beyond the great mystery,
forget uot 'fM other,'