' aßsrsaon 8
Will l‘e published eccryS.ITLRD.IY Morning,
.It the Corner of Walnut and Fifth Streets,
IS TIIE CITY OE MACON, UA.
BY H.II, B. HABKISOX.
T E ft M S :
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If not paid in advance, $2 50, per annum.
If not paid until the end of the Year $3 00.
QT ,\dv Ttisanicnts will be inserted attheusu.il
rites—and when the number of insertions de
sired is not specified, they will be continued un
til forbid and charged accordingly.
[FTAdvertisers by tho Year will be contracted
wit!) upon tlie most favorable terms.
ETSalciof Land by Administrators, Executors
or Guardians, are required'by Law, to be held on
thetirst Tuesday in the month, between the hours
of ten o'clock in the Forenoon and three in the Af
ternoon, at the Conrtllou.se of tlie county in which
the Property is situate. Notice ot these Sales must
be given in a public gazette sixty days previous
to the day of sale.
XT*Sales of Negroes bv Administrators, Execu
tors or Guardians, must be at Public Auction, on
the first Tuesday in the month, between the legal
hours of sale, before the Court House of the county
where the Letters Testamentary, or Administration
or Guardianship may have been granted, first giv
ing notice thereoffor sixty days, in one ofthe pub
lic gazettes of this State, and at the door of the
Court House where such sales are to be held.
O’Notice for the sale of Personal Property must
be given in like manner forty days previous to
the day of sale.
Of/’Notice to the Debtors and Creditors ofan Es
tate must be published lor forty days.
Q* Notice that application will he made to the
Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land or Ne
groes must he published in a public gazette in this
S.ate for foitu months, belbro any order absolute
can he given by the Court.
Q. j’Cita rioNs for Letters of Administration on
an Estate, granted by the Court of Ordinary, must
ha published thirty days —for Letters of Dismis
sion from the administration ofan Estate, monthly
for six months —for Dismission from Guardian
ship forty days.
(£j"Rci.k.s for the foreclosure of a Mortgage,
must he published monthly for Font months —
for establishing lost Papers, for the full space of
three months —for compelling Titles from Ex
ecutors, Administrators or others, where a Bond
hasbeen given by the deceased, the full space of
from the Savannah Georgian.
To iny Sister after Her Marriage.
God bless thee, Sister ! —though thy place,
Close by my side is vacant now,
1 often see thy genlle face,
Thy loving smile, thy placid brow ;
lu thought thy voice is on mine car
With all its tenderness of tone ;
God bless thee, Sister ' ever dear,
l ct nearest since thou art gone :
Like vines that.spring from the same spot,
Am! with each other intertwine.
For years we shared a common lot,
My joys, my griefs, my hopes were thine ;
And thou my sadder heart woiild'st cheer
With the sweet sunshine of thine own—
Go I bless thee ! thou wort ever dear,
Bui dearest now, since thou art gono.
New tics are spun around thy heart,
New scenes have opened to thy view,
Ye thou wilt never tear apart
The love that with our childhood grew ;
Though life a robe of bliss should wear,
And speak as with an angel's tone,
The past will seem as bright as dear,
Nay, dearer still, since it is gone !
The impress of our younger years
Fades latest from the human heart,
Its joys, its griefs, its smiles, its tears,
in distant hours remembered start !
The words which we were wont to hear,
The cadence of a father's tone.
To each of us will still be dear,
Nay, doubly dear, since he is gone.
God bless thee, Sister ! not a tic
That hound our hearts is broken yet ;
If life for thee should wear a skv
Os gloom—behold ! my sun is set !
Os brightness—lo ! my sky is clear !
For still in spirit .ve are one ;
God bless thee ! thou wert ever dear,
Yet dearest now, since thou art gone.
To my Sister after Her Xieath.
And thou art gone ! Yes, thou art gone !
U ilbout a word of sad farewell—
Without a parting look or tone
And gone, how far, oh ! who can tell ?
Or say how lone, how dark and drear
Thy pathway to tlie spirit land,
Compunionless—with none to cheer
Or journey with thee, hand in hand !
That thou hast left thy wonted place,
That I no more shall see thy form,
Or gaze upon thy gentle taco,
Or hear thine accents soft and warm,
Oh ! this were of itself a woe
A grief to fill a flowing cup,
For God alone can fully know
How hard it is to give thee up !
But oh ! the grief is sadder yet,
In deeper shadow veils the eye,
Like clouds which, when the sun is set,
Blot starlight from the azure sky,
lo think that thou , the gentle, mild,
The soft, the tender, timid one,
' pon that journey long, and wild,
And terrible, should'st go alone !
Tl'on, made to love, and to he loved,
lolean upon a stronger arm,
W here cr thy gentle footsteps roved—
irn s ~( ( from every harm,
Oh'i'a’' , | t | U,, 'r- , ° ll 'mk that thou
Oh. doubly dear, dependent one!
A path whose horrors n„„e may know,
Or tell on earth,should’st treiid alone !
Act not alone! down, sinful thought,
Fhat still would reach beyond iKe -rave !
Oh . not alone ! since she was tauglit
lolean °n Him who Hied to save
Oh not alone ! His stall'and rod,
Nm firmly held as failed her breath ;
blm Waiked with God, and calmly trod
ne \alc of shadows and of death 1
The sun ,8 bright—the sky j s blue
And mourn tli.ne angel spirit’ gone !
H U. J.
From Peterson's Magazine.
Bread upon the Waters.
liY T. 8. ARTHUR.
A lad was toiling up a hill, near the city, I
under the weight of a heavy basket, on j
the afternoon of a sultry day in
He had been sent home with soma goods
to a customer who lived a short listance !
in the country. The boy was lightly I
built and his burden seemed almost be
yond bis strength. Many times lie sat !
down to rest himself on his way up the
hill. Hut it seemed as if lie would never
reach the summit. Each time he lifted 1
tlie basket it felt heavier than before.—
The hoy was about half way up the hill
u ith his basket, when the gentleman over
took and passed kirn. He had not gone
on many paces, when he stopped, and
itiming tound to the lad, looked at him
for a moment or two, and then said kind
“ 1 hat’s a heavy load you have. Come,
let me help you.”
And the gentleman took the basket and
carried it to the top of the lull.
‘There. Do you think you can get
along now V said lie, as he sat she basket
down, ‘or shall I carry it a little further V
‘Oil no, thank you sir,’ said the hoy,
with the glow of gratitude on his young
face, ‘1 can carry it very well; and 1 am
very much obliged to you.’
‘You are right welcome, my lit tie man,’
said the gentleman, and passed on.
Twenty years from that time a care
worn man, well advanced in life, sat mo
tionless in an old arm chair, with his eyes
fixed intently upon the glowing grate. He
was alone and appeared lo be in a state of
great abstraction. In a lit tie while how
ever, the door of the room opened, and
the light form of a young and lovely girl
‘Papa,’ said a low sweet voice, and a
hand was very gently laid on the old man’s
‘ls that you, dear V he returned with
‘Yes, papa,’ and the young girl leaned
against him, and parted with her delicate
fingers the thin, grey locks that lay in dis
order about his forehead.
T would like to be alone this evening,
Florence, said tlie old man. ‘1 have a
good deal to think about, and expect a per
s n on business.’
And he kissed her tenderly ; yet sighed
as he pressed his lips to hers.
The girl passed from the room as noise
lessly as she had entered. Tlie oilman
had been calm, before her coming in. but
the moment she retired he became agi'a
ted, and walked the floor uneasily. lie
continued to pace to and fro, for nearly
half an 1 lour, when he stopped suddenly
and listened. Ihe street door bell had
rung. In a little while the man entered
‘Mr. Mason,’ he said, with a slightly
‘Mr. Page,’ returned the old man, with
a feeble, quickly fading smile, ‘Goad mor
ning,’ and he offered his hand.
1 lie TTsrtoi g i us j ed the old mails hand
and shook it warmly. Put there vas no
pressure in r eturn.
‘Sit down, Mr. Page.’
The man took a chair, and Mr. Masbn
sat down near him.
‘\ou promised an answer to my propo
sal to-night,’ said the former after a pause.
‘1 did,’ returned the old man ; ‘but 1
am as lit le prepared to give it as 1 was
yesterday. In fact, I have not found an
opportunity to say anything to Florence
on the subject.’
The countenance of the visitor fell, and
something like a frown darkened upon
There i was an embarrassing silence of
some minutes. After which tlie man
called Page, said
“Mr. Mason, I have made an honorable
proposal for your daughter’s hand. For
weeks you have evaded, and do still evade
an answer. This seems so much like tri
fling, that 1 begin to feel as if just cause
of offence existed.’
‘None is intended I do assure you,’ re
plied Mr. M. with something deprecating
in his tone. ‘Put you must remember,
Mr. Page, that you never sought to win
ihe young girl’s affection, and that, as a
consequence, the offer of marriage which
you wish to make her, will be received
with surprise, and it may be disapproval.
I wish to approach her on this subject,
with proper discretion. To be too precip
itate, may startle her into instant repug
nance against your wishes.’
“She loves you, does she not ?’ inquired
Page, with a marked significance of man
‘A child never loved a parent more ten
derly,’ replied Mr. Mason.
‘Give her then, an undisguised history
of your embarrassment. Show her how
your fortunes are trembling on the brink
of ruin, and that you have but one hope
of relief and safety left. The day she be
conies my wife you are relieved from all
danger. Will you do this V
The old man did not reply. Ho was
lost in a deep reverie. It is doubted whe
ther he heard all that tlie man had said.
‘Will you do this V replied Page, and
with some impatience in his tone.
Mason aroused himself as from a dream
and answered with great firmness and dig
MACON, (CA.i) SATURDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 23, ISIS.
‘Mr. Page, the struggle in my mind is
over. lam prepared for the worst. 1
have no idea that Florence will favor your
suit, and not use a single argument to in
fluence her. In that matter she must re
main perfectly fide. Approach her as a
man, and win her if you have the power to
do so. It is your only hope.’
As if stung by a serpent, Page started
from his chair.
‘You will repent this, sir,’ he angrily
retorted, ‘and repent it bitterly. I came
to you with honorable proposals for your
daughter’s hand, you listened to them,
gave me encouragement, and promised
me an answer to-night. Now you meet
me with insult. Sh\ you will repent this.’
Mr. Mason ventured no reply, but mere
ly bowed in token of bis willingness to
meet all consequences that might come.
For a long time after this angry visitor
had retired did Mr. Mason cross the floor
w ith measured steps. At last he rang the
bell, and directed the servant who came,
to say to Florence he wished to see her.
When Florence came, she was sur
prised to see that her father was strongly
‘I have something to say to you that
must not he long concealed.’
Florence looked wonderingly into her
father’s face, while her heart began to
Just then a servant opened the door and
ushered in a stranger. He was a tall,
fine looking young man, just in the prime
of life. Florence quietly retired, hut not
before the stranger fixed his eyes upon
her face and marked its sweet expression.
‘Pardon the intrusion, sir,’ he said, as
soon as the young girl had left the room,
but facts that I have learned this evening
have prompted me to call upon you with
out a moment’s delay. My name is Greer,
of the firm of Greer, Miller &, Co.’
Mr. Mason Lowed, and said—
‘l know your house very well, and now
remember to hate met you more than
once in business transactions.’
‘ Y es, you have bought one or two bills
of us, replied the visitor. Then, after a
moment’s pause, lie said in a changed
‘Mr. Mason, I learned to-night, from a
source which leaves no room to doubt tlie
tru h of the statement, that your affairs
have become seriously embarrassed. That
you are, in fact, on the very verge of
bankruptcy. Tell me frankly whether it
is indeed so ; I ask from no idle curiosity,
nor from a concealed and sinister motive,
but to the end that 1 may prevent the'
threatened disaster, if it is in my power
to do so.’
Mr. Mason was dumb with surprise at
so unexpected a declaration. He made
two or three efforts to speak, but his lips
uttered no sound.
‘Confide in me, sir,’ said the visitor.—
‘Trust me as you would trust your own
brother, and lean upon me if your st rength
be indeed failing. Telime, then, is it as
1 have said ?’
‘lt is,’ was all the merchant could utter.
‘How much will save you ? Mention
the sum, and if within the compass of my
ability to raise, you shall have it in hand
to-morrow. Will twenty thousand dollars
relieve you from your present embarrass
‘Then let your anxiety subside Mr. Ma
son. That sum you shall have. To-mor
row morning I will see you. Good eve
And the visitor arose and was gone be
fore his bewildered auditor bad sufficient
ly recovered his senses to know what to
think or say.
In the morning, true to his promise,
Mr. Greer called upon Mr. Mason, and
tendered him a check of 810,000, with his
note of.hand for thirty days for SIO,OOO
more, which was almost the same as mo
While the check and note lay before
him upon the desk, and ere he had touch
ed them, Mr. Mason looked earnestly at
the man who had suddenly taken the cha
racter of a disinterested, self sacrificing
friend, and said :
“My dear sir, I cannot understand this.
Are you laboring under some error V
‘Oh no. You once did me a service
that lam now only seeking to repay. It
is my first opportunity, and I embrace it
‘Did you a service ! When ?’
‘ I wenty years ago,’ replied the man, ‘I
was a poor boy, and you were a man of
wealth. One day I was sent a long dis
tance with a heavy basket. While toiling
up a hill, with the hot sun upon me, and
almost overcome with heat and fatigue,
you came along, and not only spoke to me
kindly, but took my basket and carried it
to the top of the hill. Ah, sir, you can
not know how deeply that act of kindness
sunk into my heart, and I longed for an
opportunity to show you by some act of
kindness, how grateful I felt. But none j
came. Often afterward I met you on the ;
street, and looked into yitur face with
pleasure; but you did not remember me.
Ever since I have regarded you with dif
ferent feelings from those I have enter
tained for others; ahd there has been no
time I would not have put myself out to j
serve you. Last night I heard of your
embarrassments, and immediately called
upon you. The rest you know.’
Mr. Mason was astonished at so strange
‘Do you remember the fact to which I
refer ?’ asked Mr. Greer.
“It has faded from my eternal memory
| entirely; but your words have brought
back a dim recollection of the fact. But it
was a little matter, and not entitled to the
importance you have given it.’
‘To me it was not a little matter, sir,’
returned Mr. Greer. ‘1 was a weak boy,
just sinking under a burthen that was too
heavy, when you put forth your hand and
carried it for mo-. 1 could not forget it.
And now let me return at the first oppor
tunity, the favor, by carrying your bur
den fir you, which lias become too heavy,
titiiil the hill is ascended, and you regain
your own strength.’
Air. Mason was deeply moved. Words
failed him in his effort to express his true
feelings. The bread cast upon the water
had returned to him after many days, and
he gathered it with words ami thankful
The merchant was saved from ruin.—
Nor was this all. The glimpse which Mr.
Greer had received of the lovely daughter
of .Mr. Mason, revealed ;» character of
beauty that impressed him deeply, and he
embraced tlie first opportunity to make
her acquaintance. A year afterward he
led her to the altar.
A kind act is never lost, even though
done to a child.
Gay Thought a wreath is strung for thee,
Form’d of gifts from the young and free ;
A chaplet made of sweetest flowers,
• Gather'd 'mid the summer bowers ;
An off’ring transient as the snow.
Which melts beneath the sun's warm glow ;
A tribute destined soon to fade,
As life is ting'd with autumn’s shade, /
When youth's bright visions darker grow,
And joy gives place to griefand wo.
The captive quails before thee, Thought !
And, though his chains in steel be wrought,
They burst with a convulsive strain,
As mera’ry wakes sad scenes again,
Os honor, glory, fame long past ;
Os ev’ry hope that's lading fast.
O ! '(is u solemn hour like this,
When lost are former days of bliss,
He feels a wish, a ling nng fear,
Os future life, and drops a tear!
When round the sick man’s dying bed
The giant steals, with awful tread ;
When life’s short dream is closing fast,
And nv'ry breath is deemed his last ;
When future ages meet his sight,
And gently brighten death's dark night ;
When weeping friends and children round
Lager catch each murmuring sound;
The blissful thought of heav’nlv love
llis spirit guides to realms above.
Tint Truth beautifully expressed.
The mere lapse of years is not life. To
eat, and drink, and sleep; to be exposed
to darkness and the light, to | ace around
the mill ot habit and turn the wheel of
health ; to make reason our book keeper,
and turn thoughts into implementsoftrade:
this is not life. In all this, hut a poor
fraction of tlie consciousness of humanity
is awakened ; and the sanctities still slum
ber which make it most worth while to he.
Knowledge, truth, love, beauty, good
ness, faith, alone give vitality to the me
chanism of existence ; the laugh of mirth
which vibrates through the heart; the 1
tears which freshen the dry wastes within;
the music which brings childhood back ;
the prayer that calls the future near; tlie
doubt which makes us meditate ; the death
which startles us with mystery ; the hard
ships that force us to struggle ; the anxie
ty that ends in trust —these are the true
nourishment of our natural being.
Tiif, Quaker Bridle. —A Methodist
and Quaker were travelling in company,
when tlie Quaker reproved the Methodist
for i heir boisterous manner of worship.—
‘Why,’ said he, ‘we can take more plea
sure in our private rooms of meditation,
where we think of nothing worldly during
our stay.’ ‘Sir,’ said the Methodist, ‘if
you will take a private room, stay one
hour, and when you return, say that y<,u
have thought of nothing worldly, I will
give you my horse,’ which proposal was
accepted. After the time had expired,
his friend asked him if he claimed the
horse. ‘Why,’said he, ‘I could not help
thinking what I should do for a bridle to
ride him home with.’
Frightening a Rogue.— ln the St.
Louis Recotder’s Court recently, Alexan
der McManus was fined $5 for stealing
wood from the steamer Hannibal, and
was asked to “fork up” by his honor.
“C-c-an’t do it,” stuttered he, “a-a-aint
got -p-p-pewter, your Honor.”
“Are you a married man ?” inquired
“N-ii-n not exactly s-s-s-so far gone yet,
“Well, I wall have to send you to the
workhouse,” said the Recorder.
“T-t-t-taint nothin t-t-t-to go ih-there,”
said Alick, “I-I-I’m used to it; but when
you t-t-t-talked about m-m-marriage, old
fellar, you f-ff-frightened me !”
Cookery Book —“Has that cookery
book any picture* ?” said Miss M. C. to a
bookseller. “No madam, none,” was the
answer. “Why!” exclaimed the witty
and beautiful young lady, “what is tho use
of telling us bow to make a good dinner if
they give us no plates ?”
marriage and Money.
‘Come—come,’ cried Mr. Lovecash, a
wealthy, miserly man, hut the rather do
ting fatherof Alonzo Lewis Lovecash ; ‘I
sec by the polish of your boots, and the
pai ticular fix of your dicky, that you think
qf riding over to Mr. Philbrick’s to-night
—courting , l suppose, if I must speak
out. Zounds, man ! what upon earth can
make you persist in running after that por
tionless girl Alzina ? I have told you a
thousand times that her father is as poor
as a church mouse—not worth a thousand
in the world—all, all because of her pret
ty figure and face. There is Lydia Screw
and Julia Twist, and deacon Dotham’s
Nancy, all good girls—fathers plenty of
money, and what moro can you want ?
The horses I want early, so you cannot j
have them to ride five miles to-night to \
Philbrick’s. No ! nor ever shall again if j
I can prevent it.’
‘Father,’ replied Alonzo Lewis, ‘I have
once told you candidly that I loved Miss
Alzina Philbrick. Not for her ‘pretty
face’ alone, as you insinuate, hut for those
high and amiable qualities which can only
render us happy in domestic life. She is
modest, sensible, and industrious ; anti
even yourself must acknowledge that she
has a highly cultivated mind and an amia
ble disposition; and this mo
ney is a poor business, and those who
practice it seldom find enjoyment with it.’
‘Pshaw! what of all that moralizing?
The girl it poor, and that is an offset to all
her fine qtalities ; Lydia Screw and J ulia
Twist, it is true, at present have some
gossipping habits, but there is deacon Do
tham’s Nincy, a steadier girl, never trod
shoe leather ; always at home, always at
work, always at church on Sundays; not
to Legated at for' 'her beauty, for she inva
riably wears her veil over her face, and—’
T world wear a veil over my visage,
too,’ cried Alonzo, ‘if X thought it as
shocking as Ido hers. A low forehead,
a pugnote, like a woodchuck, pig’s eye,
no manners, and a look of so much envy,
ill-will, selfishness, ignorance and mean
ness ; Inside being siatlernly with all her
‘Stop, stop young man, I thought (hat
you considered yourself too much of c gen
tleman t* speak so slightly of a lady. A
fiddlestick on your love and admiration of
Alzina Philbrick. These things count
nothing when a man once gets married ;
but a hundred cents always counts for a
dollar. Love can never put you into a
good mercantile business—furnish a house
in style—introduce you into fashionable
society—allay hunger or thirst, or replen
i.-fli a wardrobe. But deacon Dotliam’s
cash can do all this. But hear me, sir—
if you persist in going to Philbrick’s, nev
er look to me for a farthing ! Repentance
of your folly may come too late, and you
may starve on your love and nonsense.’
Alonzo Lewis bit his lips for awhile in
silence, then said—
‘Sir, since it is your wish and desire, I
will go to deacon Dotham’s and see what
transfer 1 can make of my affections to
M iss Nancy.’
‘Now,’ said Mr. Lovecash, you begin
to talk rational. It is but six miles to
Deacon Dotham’s, and the horses and car
riage are ac your service. I shall be out
of town for three weeks, and I wish you
success in arranging your affairs by the
time of my return.’-
At the end of three weeks, Alonzo in
formed his father that his bargain was
closed, and he w as going to marry.
‘I do not know my son,’ said Mr. Love
cash, ‘about your marrying Nancy Do
tham. I have been to the city, and have
found out that Mr. Philbrick has just come
into the possession of one hundred thousand
dollars willed him by a rich relative lately
deceased. Besides, you said that you
loved Miss Alzina Philbrick, and I have
come to the conclusion that lore, after all,
is an important item in the business, ahd
I cannot think you will live happily with
out it. Love is to happiness, what the
main spring is to a watch; without it, in
domestic life, all is irregularity and disor
der. And beside, Nancy Dotham will
not have more than fourteen thousand dol
lars, when her father dies; and Miss Al
zina is an only child.’
‘No, father, no,’ said Alonzo Lewis,
‘you preferred Nancy Dotham with her
money and imperfections, to the accom
plished Miss Philbrick, with her good
equalities, and her poverty. I have now
gone too far to recede with honor. To
morrowevening I contemplate being mar
ried in a private manner at the minister’s
in A., and it is arranged to meet the wed
ding party here immediately after; think
ing it would be a pleasure to you, and that
you will be prepared to receive Miss Do
tham as the daughter of your choice.’
Mr. Lovecash groaned aloud, when he
thought of the splendid fortune he had
lost by his selfishness. Miss Nancy Do
tham he had always despised in his heart,
and his wife and daughters were extreme
ly mortified at the thought of receiving her
as a relative, and were determined to treat
hei so coldly that her stay in the family
would he short. Just at this crisis, a
neighbor came in with the astounding
news that Deacon Dotham had failed, and
had not enough to pay fifty cents on the
dollar. Mr. Lovecash gave his son one
long and despairing look, hut he could not
expostulate. Alonzo stepped into the car
iage and drove off to visit his bride ele«t.
The next evening but one, when all the
invited guests were assembled in the
| drawing-room at the bouse of Mr. Love
cash, and Mrs. Philbrick among the num
ber; but no Alzina, who sent an excuse,
hut it was evident to all that she felt too
much interested to he a spectator of that
happiness in which she could never share,
| and all pitied her disappointment. The
| carriage of Alonzo Lewis at the door, but
but none of the friendly greetings of the
family met them there. They kept their
seats in silence. Alonzo entered the
drawing room with his bride hanging upon
his arm, who wore a thick lace veil over
her face, reaching to the floor.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the bride
groom, ‘allow me the happiness of intro
i (lacing to your acquaintance, Mrs. Alon
j zo Lewis Lovecash.’
| After the formality of shaking hands,
j the elder Mrs. Lovecash whispered toiler
husband and daughters, saying, ‘I think
her a fine figure after all, and she bows
gracefully; but oh! when she removes
that veil, which you praised her for wear
ing; from that hated face, I am faint from
the very thought.’
A look of anguish passed over the fa
ther’' face, and he heaved a deep sigh.—
Soon refreshments were announced, and
Alonzo led his almost silent bride to tlie ta
bles. The mother and daughters whis
pered to each other that her wedding cos
tume become her much, and really im
proved her appearances ; and were she to
keep her veil down, she might be tolera
ted ; but her pug nose, and pig’s eyes, and
ugly look will give us hysteric fits' Just
then she threw back her long veil, and tho
family and guests were paralysed with as
tonishment on beholding the beautiful and
intelligent face of Alzina Philbrick, now
Mrs. Alonzo Lewis Lovecash. Acclama
tions of joy and surprise rang through the
house, aiul even Mr. Lovecash, the father
confessed that lie could love her as a
daughter, even if her father was poor as a
10™ Agcsilaus, king of Sparta, being
asked, ‘What things bethought most pro
per for boys to learn,’ answered, ‘Those
winch they ought to practice when they
come to be men.’ A wiser than Agesi
latts lias inculcated the same sentiment:
‘Train up a child in the way hcshould g<>,
and when he is old he will not depart from
A Hint. —Does your arm pain you
much sir ? asked a young lady of a gentle
man who bad seated himself near to her
in a mixed assembly, and thrown bis arm
across the back of her chair and slightly
touched her neck.
‘No miss, it does not, but why do you
‘I noticed it was considerably out of
place, sir,’ replied she; ‘that’s all.’ The
itrtn was removed.
IG7* When Aristotle was asked, ‘What
a man could gain by telling a falsliood ?’
he replied, ‘Not to be believed when be
speaks the truth.’
r S' When young, we trusted to our
selves too much, and we trust others too
little when old. Rashness is the error of
youth, timid caution that of old age.
03- Ad vice, like snow, the softer it
falls, the longer it dwells upon, and deep
er it sinks into the mind.
I3' ’ Pride is a dainty occupant of our
bosom, and yet ever feeds on the mean
ness and infirmity of our kind.
lO™ He is a great simpleton who sup
poses that tho chief power of wealth is to
supply wants. In ninety-nine cases out
of a hundred it creates more wants than
f Love is the offspring of beauty,
and marriage the child of calculation.
03” YV omen are like flowers—when
their beauty withers, they are deserted.
t W Friendship loves to keep company
with wealth, but does not care about the
association of poverty.
Fir He who has not sympathy for tho
misfortunes of otheis, ’is not deserving of
the name of man.
IC7* Lovers overlook foibles, but bus
bands point them out.
|C7* Getting married is often the cause
of getting in debt, and always of getting
lO™ At a colored party, Sambo asked
Dinah if he should help her to some ofthe
“Now, ain’t you ’shamed Sambo, to
say breast afore the ladies 1 I’ll take a
piece ob turkey bosom.”
Things Lost Forever. —Lost wealth
may be restored by industry ; the wreck
of health regained by temperance; forgot
ten knowledge restored by study, aliena
tion soothed into forgetfulness; even for
feited reputation won by penitence and
virtue. I'ut who ever again looked upon
his vanished boors, recalled his slighted
years, stamped them wilh wisdom, or ef
faced from the record of eternity the fear
ful blot of wasted time ?