Newspaper Page Text
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 1870.
No.40
Sjjj»rfl5.V * ROBERTS,
Lessee Editors & Proprietors.
OR®® 13 Editor
*2,1)1) per annum, in Advance.
fiiTISISG—Persquare often lines, each
,'sl !, 0. Mercnauts and others forall
leruis
IP?
1 1 „o^ tsJV6r
$*45,tweuty-hve per cent.off.
legal advertising.
, —Citationsior letters of ad-
-onguardianship ,<fcc $3 00
V 'lZd notice 2 00
1 . tumiorietters of dism’n fromadm’n 5 00
^^■'•stioafor letters of dism’u of guard’n 3 50
••ation for leave to sell Land 5 00
' to Debtors and Creditors 3 00
N "‘.of Lind. per square of ten lines 5 00
" personal, per sq., ten days 1 50
fs—Each levy of ten lines, or less.. 2 50
a ies of ten lines or less 5 00
00
v< Each levy of ten lines, or less..
V e sales of ten lines or less
M ’ : Collector's sales, per sq. (2 months)
l Jl .. ’.[.'oreclosure of mortgage and oth-
'lr monthly’s. per square
trm y notices,thirty days
"■.batesof Respect, Resolutions by Societies,
claries, &c. • exceeding
1 00
3 00
f raoo n '
be property ■
, „nries.ot.c., c »— 6 si* fines,to becharged
“irausient advertising.
*Vyjjalesof Land, by Administrators, Execu-
orsor (juardians, are required by law, to be held
on the
at the Court-house in the county in which
erty is situated.
duties of these sales must be given in a public
* tte 40 days previous to the day of sale
' Not ; c efor the sale of personal property must be
; ‘n inlike manner 10 days previous to sale day.
* y 0 .i ce jto debtors and creditors of an estate
nit also be published 40 days.
\otice that application will be made to the
’ t of Ordinary for leave to sell land, must be
L ishel for two months.
Citations
for letters of Administration, Guar
J'^nshi' 1 . Ac.,must be published 30days—for dis-
‘i*. ou frotn Administration, monthly six jnonths ,
®‘^missionfrom guardianship, 40 days.
Rales for foreclosure of Mortgages must be
, ished monthly for four months—for establish*
? T J j J3 , papers,for the full spaceof three months—
(•oinoelliufi files from Executors or Adminis-
# tors.where bond has been given by the de-
r *,ed the full space of three months. Charge,
jpH) per square of ten lines for each insertion,
’pl ications will always be continued accord
‘ 0 t bese. the legal requirements, unless otb
.raise ordered.
CHANGE OF SCHEDULE.
f.ESERAL SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE,
Atlantic * Golf, k. k. company,
Savannah, January 7, 1870.
O N AND AFTER SUNDAY, the 9th instant,
Passenger Trains ou this Road will run as
01 °"' S ‘ NIGHT epxpress train.
Leave Savannah every day at 4.30 P M
Arrive at Jesup junction, M & B
RR at 7.30 P M
Arrive at Live Oak every day 2.20 A ^
Arrive at Jacksonville every day ' -02 A M
Arrive at Tallahassee every day 7.07 A M
Arrive at Quincy every day 9-lu A M
Arrive at Bainbridge Mondays ex-
cepted 6.15 A M
Leave Bainbridge, Sundays excepted.930 P M
Leave Quincy every day 6.2o 1 M
Leave Tallahassee every day o.xo £ ™
Leave Jacksonville everyday 8 i
Leave Live Oak every day l A. M
L»ave Jesup every day in to a m
Arrive at Savannah every day IO.oO A M
MACON & BRUNSWICK ACCOMMODATION
TRAIN.
Leave Savannah, Sundays except- t> jq p M
Arrive at Jesups Sundays except*
e j 5.00 P M
Arrive at Bruns wick daily at 8.20 P M
Leave Macon daily at • -- -8-30 " 5 J
Leave Jesup daily at 6.W P M
Arrive at Savannah daily at 9.30 P M
On Sunday this Train will leave Savannah at
7 15 A. M., connecting with Trains for Macon of
Brunswick, and connecting with trains from Ma
con and Brunswick will arrive at Savannah at
9.30 P M.
DAY TRAIN.
Leave Savannah, Sundays except
ed at 7.15 A M
Arrive at Jesups, Sundays except
ed at. — —
Arrive at Live Oak, Sundays ex-
cepted at. .. 7.00 P M
Arrive at Macon duly at
Leivo Live Oak, Sundays except-
Leave Jesups, Sundays except-
Arrive at Savannah .Sundays ex-
cepted at - $.35 P M
FT Passengers for Macon take7.1o A M train
from Savannah, leaving daily. .
Passengers for Brunswick take 2.10 P M. train
from Savannah.
Passengers leaving Macon at 8.30 A M connect
at Jesup with express train for Florida and West
ern Division, anu with train for Savannah, arriv
ing at 9 30 PM. _ , ...
Passengers from Brunswick connect at Jesup with
train for Savaunah, arriving at 5.3o P M except
on Sundays, when it arrives at 9 30 P. M at Jesup
w ith Express Train for Savannah, arriving at
1W 50 AM.
Connect at Macon with Train for Atlanta, leav-
at 9.00 P M.
SOUTH GEORGIA &.FLORIDA R- K. TRAIM.
h*ave Thomasville Tuesdays, Thursdays and
Saturdays at 8.0U ,
Arrive at Pelham, Tuesdays Thursdays and Sa -
nrdavs at 9 55 A “
heave Pelham, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Satur
days at 3 4» P M
Arrive at Thomasville, Tuesdays, Thursdays and
J H. S. HAINES,
General Superintendent.
Jauuuary 1 1670 3 tf
CHANGE OF SCHEDULE.
SoUTH*WK8TERN RAILROAD COMPANY, (
Office, Macon, Ga., Jan. 13tn» lc7 . >
Fufaula day Passenger and Mail drain.
Leave Macon t'on p' M*
Arrive atEufaula B . £r
Leave Enfaula IfOA.M.
Arrive at Macon
Sight Freight Sf Accommodation Train.
Leave Macon 6:25 P M
Arrive at Eufaula 11:00 A M
Lear*Eufaula 7:18 P M
A.rrire at Macon...« ------- 9; 10 A M
Col imhus
.10.45 A M
7.00 P M
7.50 P M
6.00 A M
2.16 P M
CHANGE OF SCHEDULE.
WO CHAXfQB OP CAA8 BE
TWEEN SAVANNAH, AU
GUSTA AND MONTGOM-
EAY, ALABAMA
TRANSPORTATION OFFICE, CET. R. R. >
Savannah, August 14, 1868. * J
0 N AND AFTER SUNDAY, 16th inst., Pas
seuger Trains on the Georgia Central R. R
will run as follows :
UP DAY TRAIN.
leave arrive.
Savannah 8:00 A M
Miicou 5:38 P M
Au ,7 U J sta -- 5:38 P M
Milledgeville 8:58 p jj
Latouton n.oo P M
Connecting with trains that leaves
Augusta 8:45 A M
DOWN DAY TRAIN.
Macon 7 : 00
Savannah 5.30 p
Augusta 5CJ8 P
Connecting with train that leaves
Augusta 8:45 A
UP NIGHT TRAIN-
Savannah 7:20 P M
Ma cou 6:55 A M
Augusta 8:13 A M
Connecting with trains that leaves
Augusta 9:33 p M
A DIAMOND ROMANCE.
BT MRS. MART J. HOLMES.
M
DOWN NIGHT TRAIN.
Macon 6:25 P M
Savannah 5:10 A M
Augusta 9:13 A M
Milledgeville 4:30 P M
Eatonton - 2:40 P M
Connecting with train that leaves
Augusta 9:53 p M
A M Trains <rom Savannah and Augusta, a
P M Train from Macou connect with Milledg
ville Train at Gordon daily, Sundays excepted.
1* M. Train from Savannah connects with thro'
mail train on South Carolina Ksilroad, and P. M.
train from Savannah and Augusta with trains on
South-Western aud Muscogee Railroads.
WM. ROGERS,
Act’g Master of Transportation.
February 1, 1870 5 if
NOTICE.
Atlantic & Gulf Railroad Co., »
Savannah, December 15, 1869. )
O N AND AFTER THIS DATE, BY AGREE
MENT, the rate of Freight between Savau-
nan and Macon, by the Atlantic and Gulf and Ma
con aud Brunswick Railroads, will be as follows :
First class per pound-.--. $2 30
^Second class per 100 poffcids 1 40
‘Third class per 100 potmds I 00
Fourth class per 100 pounds 80
Eifth class per 100 pounds 70
Sixth class per 100 pounds 50
Seventh class per 100 pounds 45
Eighth class per 100 pounds -35
Ninth class per 100 pounds.......... ...... 30
Cotton per 100 pounds ......... ; 50
Salt per sack -30
Guano per 100 pounds ... .... J5
Freight received for all Stations on Macon and
Western Railroad, Atlanta and points bevond.
H. S. HAINES,
General Superintendent.
February 1, 1879 5 tf
Schedule of the Georgia Railroad.
SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE, )
Georgia Railroad Company, /
Augusta, Ga., December 23, ’69. ,
O N AND AFTER SUNDAY, 26th inst., the
Passenger Trains on the Georgia Railroad
will run as follows:
DAY PASSENGER TRAIN.
Leave Augusta at 7.00 AM.
“ Atlanta at - 5.00 AM.
Arrive at August at .3.45 P M.
“ at Atlanta 5.30 P M.
NIGHT PASSENGER TRAIN.
Leave Augusta at*---- :10.00 P M.
“ Atlanta at 5.45 PM.
Arrive at Augusta .... .... .3.45 A M.
‘ Atlanta 8.00 A.M.
S. K. JOHNSON,
Superintendent.
January, 18 1870 3 tf
Mail Trdn.
Leava Macon....................) 7:25 A M
Arrive at Columbus.... ....... 1.22 A M
Leave Columbus.................. J2sJ5 P M
Arrive at Macon . .. -—6:05 P M
Columbus Night Freight Sf AC vtfn Train
Leave Macon ...: .... -- 'V) P M
Arrive at Columbus.... ....... • ■ 1 *Ni A M
Leave Coltimhns-... --- -- 7.(\p M
Arrive at Macon 4:4l^ M
“Albauy Train” connects at Smithvill with
Eufaula Trains and Arrive at Albany at 3:1 M
and Leaves Albany at 9:35 A M—Regular N|ai 1
^raiu. . \
Accommodation Train connects three time
week.
“Fort Gaines Train," connects at Cuthbert
Leave Eort Gaines at 7:05 A M and Arrive a
Port Gaines 3:40 P M.
Accommodation Train connects twice a wees,
on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
W. S. BRANTLY, And
February 1,1170 5 u
Schedule Macon & Brunswick R. R
January, 7th, 1870
R EGULAR THRO’ PASSENGER TRAINS
will commence running on this Road on
Sunday, the 9th inst., as follows :
Leave Macon at-- -p- 1 ** A
Arrive at Brunswick at 10.20 r M.
Arrive at Savannah at 10.00 P M.
Leave Brunswick — 4.30 A. M.
Arrive at Macon 6.15 A. M.
TRAINS TO IIAWKINSVILLE.
Leave Macon 3.0ft P M.
Arrive at Hawkinsville 6-30 A. M.
Leave Hawkinsville -7 00 A M.
Arrive at Macon 10.25 A M.
This train runs daily Sundays excepted.
RETURNING :
Leave Brunswick at - 8.00 A M.
Leave Savannah at 7.15 A M.
Arrive at Macon at 7.o0 P M.
Trains make direct connections at Jesap,
both ways, with trails for Bainbridge, Thomas-
the crossing of the Atlantic and Gulf Road,
ville and all points on that Road, a* welljas with
those for Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and all sta
tions on the Florida Roads.
Fare to Savannah and Brunswick $ 8 00
Fare to Jacksonville |2 00
Fare to Tallahassee 17 OU
Fare to Bainbridge )J uu
Fare to New York, Philadelphia or
Baltimore, by steamers 27 00
Under recent arrangements made with the At
lantic & Gulf Road, freights to and from Savan
nah and New York have increased dispatch.
The Southern Express Company wil operate on
this line to Brunswick, points in Southern Geor
gia and in Florida, commencing on Monday, tue
10th instant. R0 BERT SCHMIDT.
Master transportation.
January 18,1670 3 ^
T. W..WHITER
MILLEDGEVILLE, GA.,
Will practice in this and the adjoining counties.
iy Applications for Homestead Exemptions
under the new law, and other business before the
Court of Ordinary, wili receive proper attention.
October 13. 1668 41 «
W ANTED.—A Northern man—friendly to the
South, and a believer iu the old Jefferso-
idea of government—a College graduate, de-
res a situation as Teacher in some Southern
ite. Satisfactory references furnished^if desired.
.ddress, stating terms, “CLASSICS,
Publishers’ Box No. 7, Dayton, Ohio
»rder Office.
jer 19. 1869 »
“The boyg muslin’t look at the girls,
and the girls must look on their books,”
was said at least a dozen times by the
village schoolmaster, on that stormy
morning when Cora Blanchard and
1—she in her brother’s boots, and 1 in
my father’s sock3— waded though drift
alter drift of snow to the old brown
school house at the foot of the long,
steep hill.
We were the only girls who had
dared to brave that wintry storm, and
we felt amply repaid for our trouble
when wc saw how much attention we
received from the ten tall boys who
had come— some for fun—some be
cause they saw Cora Blanchard goby,
and one Walter Beaumont, because he
did not wish to lose the lesson of the
day. Our teacher, Mr. Grannis, was
fitting him for college, and every mo
ment was precious to the white-brow
ed intellectual student, who was quite
a lion among us girls, partly because
he was older, and partly because he
never noticed us as much as did the
other boys. On this occasion, however
he was quite attentive to Cora, at least,
pulling off her boots, removing her
hood,and brushing the large snowflakes
from her soft wavy hair, while her
darkbrowm eyes smiled gratefully upon
him as he gave her his warm seal by
the stove.
That morning Cora wrote to me
slyly on her slate: 1“ don’t care if
mother does say Walter Beaumont is
poor as poverty —I like him best of
anybody in the world— don’t you?”
I thought of the big red apples in my
pocket, and of the boy who had so
carefully shaken the snow from off my
father’s socks, and answered “No”—
thinking, the while, that I should say
yes, if Walter had ever treated me as
he did my playmate and friend, Cora
Blanchard. She was a beautiful young
girl, a favorite with all, and possessing
as it seemed, but one glaring fault—a
proneness to estimate people for their
wealth rather than£their worth. This,
in a measure, was the result of her
home training,for her family,though far
from being rich, were very aristocratic
and strove to keep their children as
much as possible from associating with
the “vulgar herd,” as they styled the
laboring class of the community. In
her secret heart Cora had long cher
ished a preference for Walter, though
never until the morning of which I
write, had it been so openly avowed.
And Walter loo, while knowing how
far above him she was in point of po
sition, had dared to dream of a time
when a bright-haired woman, with a
face much like that of the girlish Cora,
would gladden his heme wherever it
might be.
Thai noon, as we sat around the
glowing stove, we played as children
will, and it came my turn to “answer
truly whom I intended to marry.”—
Without a thought of the big apple,
the snowy socks, or of any one in par
ticular, I replied, unhesitatingly, “The
one Hove best,” and the question pass
ed on to Cora, who was silting by the
side of Walter Beaumont. He had
not joined in our sport, but now his
eye left his book and rested upon Co
ra with an expression half fearful, half
expectant. She, too, glanced at him,
and as if a spirit of prophecy was up
on her, she said : “I shall not marry
the one I love the best, but the one
who has the most money, and can
give me the handsomest diamonds.—
Sister Fanny has a magnificent set,
and she looks so beautiful when she
wears them.”
Instantly their fell a shadow on
Walter Beaumont’s face, and his eye
returned again to the Latin lettered
page. But his thoughts was not of
what was written there ; he wns think
ing of the humble cottage on the bor
ders of the wood, of the tag carpet on
the oaken floor, of the plain, old-fash
ioned furniture, and of the gentle lov
ing woman who called him “her boy,”
and that spot her home. There were
no diamonds there—no money—and
Cora, if for these she married, would
never be his wife.
Early and late he toiled and studied,
wearing his threadbare coat and coarse
brown pants—for an education, such
as he must have, admitted of no use
less expenditure, and the costly gems
which Cora craved were not his to
give. In, the purejunselfish love spring
ing up for him within his heart, there
were diamonds of imperishable value,
and these, with the name he would
make for himself, he would offer her,
but nothing more ; and for many weeks
there was a shadow on his brow, tho’
he was kind and considerate to her as
of old.
As the spring and summer glided
by, however, there came a change,
and when, in the autumn, he left our
village for New Haven, there was a
happy, joyous look upon his face,while
a tress of Cora’s silken hair was lying
next his heart. Every week he wrote
to her, and Cora answered, always
showing to me what she had written,
but never a word of bis. “There was
too much love, she said, “too much
good advice in his letters for me to
see,” and thus the time passed on, un
til Walter, who had entered the senior
class, was graduated with honor, and
was about to commence a theological
course at Andover, for he had made
the ministry his choice. He was twen
ty-one now, and Cora was sixteen.—
Wondrously beautiful was she to look
upon, with her fair young face, her soft
brown eyes, and wavy hair. And
Walter Beaumont loved her devotedly
believing, too, that she in turn loved
him ; for one summer afternoon, in the
green old woods which skirled the lit
tle village, she had sat by his side,and
with the sunbeams glancing down up
on her through the overhanging boughs
she had told him so, and promised
to be his wife. Still, she would not
hear of a positive engagement, both
should be free to change their mind if
they wished, she said, and with this
Walter was satisfied.
“I have no diamonds to give you
darling,” said he drawing her clo.^e to
him and Cora, knowing to what he re
ferred answered, that “his love was
dearer to her than all the world be
sides.” Alas, that woman should be so
fickle.
The same train which carried Wal
ter away brought Mrs. Blanchard
letter from her daughter, a dashing
fashionable woman, who lived in the
city, and who wished to bring her sis
ter Cora “out” the coming winter.
“She is old enough now,” she wrote,
“to be looking for a husband, and of
course she’ll never do anything in that
by place.”
This proposition which accorded ex
actly with Mrs. Blanchard’s wishes,
was joyfully acceded to by Cora, who
while anticipating the pleasure which
awaited her, had yet no thought of
proving false to Walter, and in the let
ter which she wrote to him informing
him of her plan, she assured him ol
her unchanging fidelity, little dream
ing that the promise thus made would
be so soon broken. Petted, caressed,
flattered and admired, as she was in
the circle of her sister’s friends, how
could she help growing worldly and
wain, or avoid contrasting the plain,
unassuming Walter with the polished
and gaily dressed butterflies who
thronged Mrs. Burton’s drawing room.
When the summer came again, she
did not return to us as we had expected
but we heard of her at Saratoga and
Newport, the admired of all admirers ;
while one, it was said, a man of higli
position and untold wealth, bid fair to
win the beautious belle. Meantime
her letters to Walter grew short and
far between, ceasing at length alto
gether; and one day, during the sec
ond winter of her residence in the city
1 received a package from her con
taining his minature, the books he had
given her, and the letters he had writ
ten. These she wished me to give him
when I next saw him, bidding me tell
him to think no more of one who was
not worthy of him.
“To be plain, Lottie,” she wrote,
“I’m engaged, and though Mr. Doug
lass is not a bit like Walter, he has a
great deal of money, drives splendid
horses, and 1 reckon we shall get on
well enough. I wish, though he was
not quite so old. You will be shocked
to hear that he is almost fiby, though
he looks about forty. I know I don’t
like, him as I did Waller, but, after
seeing as much of the world as I have,
I could not settle down into the wife of
a poor minister. I am not good enough
and you must tell him so. I hope he
will not feel badly—poor Walter. I
June, was to be ordained in the old
brick church,before whose altar he had
years ago been baptized, a smiling in
fant. On the Thursday afternoon pre
ceding the ordination, a large travel
ing carriage, covered with dust and
ladened with trunks, passed slowly
through our village, attracting much
attention. Seated within it, was a
portly, gray-haired man, resting his
chin upon a gold-headed cane, and
looking curiously out at the people in
the street, who stared as curiously at
him. Directly opposite him, and lan
guidly reclining upou the soft cushnns,
was a white, proud-faced lady, who ev
idently felt no interest in what was
passing aiound her, for her eyes were
cast down, and her thoughts seemed
busy elsewhere. I was sitting at my
chamber window, gazing out upon
them, and just as they drew near the
gale, the lady raised fipr eyes—the soft
brown eyes whice had once won the
love of Walter Beaumont,and in which
there was now an unmistakable look
of anguish, as if the long eyelashes,
drooping so wearily upon the color
less cheeks, were constantly forcing
back the hidden tears. And this was
Cora Douglass come back to us again
from her travels in a foreign land!—
She knew me in a moment, and in her
face there was much of her olden look,
have kept the lock of his hair. I could
not part with that; bui, of course, Mr.
Douglass will never see it. His hair
is gray ! Good by ”
This was what she wrote, and when
I heard from her again, she was Cora
Douglass, and her feet were treading
the shores of the Old World, whither
she had gone on a bridal tour.
In the solitude of his chamber, the
young.man learned the sad news from
a paragraph in a city paper, and bow
ing his head upon the table, he strove
to articulate “It is well,” but the flesh
was weak, warring with the spirit,and
the heart which Cora Blanchard had
cruelly trampled down, clung to her
still with a death-like fondness, and,
toilowing her even across the waste of
waters, cried out, “How can I give her
up »” But when be remembered, as
he ere long did, that ’twas a sin to love
her now, he burried his face in his
hands, and, calling God to help him in
this, his hour of need, wept such tears
as would never again tall for Cora
Blanchard.
The roses in our garden were faded
and the leaves of autumn were piled
upon the ground ere he came to his
home again, and I had an opportunity
of presenting him with the package
which many months before had been
committed to my care. Hi9 face was
very pale, and his voice trembled as
he asked me, “Where is she now ?”
‘tin Italy,” I answered ; adding that
her husband was said to be quite weal
thy.
Bowing mechanically, he walked
away, and a year and a half went by
ere 1 saw him again. Then he came
among us as our minister. The old
white-haired pastor, who for so long
had told us of the Good Shepherd and
the better land, was sleeping at last in
tha quiet grave-yard, and the people
had chosen young Walter Beaumont
to fill his place. He was a splendid
lookingman—tail, erect, and finely
formed, with a most winning manner,
and a face which betokened intellect
of the highest order. We were proud
of him, all of us—proud of our clergy
man, who, on the third Sabbath in
as, bending forward, she smiled
greeting, and waved toward me her
white, jeweled hand, on which the dia
monds flashed brightly in the sun
light.
The next morning we met, but not
in the presence of the old man, her hus
band. Down in the leafy woods, about
a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Beau
mont’s cottage, was a running brook
and a mossy hank, overshadowed by
the syeaniore and elm. This, in the
days gone by, had been our favorite re
sort. Here had we built our play
house, washing our bits of china in the
rippling stream—here had we watch
ed the little fishes as they darted in
and out of the deeper eddies—here had
we conned our daily tasks—here had
she lisiened to a tale of love, the mem
ory only a mocking dream, and here,as
I faintly hoped, I found her. With a
half joyful half moaning cry, she threw
her arms around my neck, and I could
feel her tears dropping upon my face
as she whispered, “Oh, Lottie, Lottie,
we have met again by the dear pld
brook.”
For a few moments she sobbed as
fher heart would break; then sud-
lenly drying her tears, she assumed a
calm, cold, dignified manner, such as I
had never seen in Cora Blanchard.—
Very composedly she questioned me of
what I had done during her ab
sence, telling me, too, of her travels,
of the people she had seen and
the places she had visited, but never a
word of hitn she called her husbaud.
From the bank where we sat the vil
lage grave-yard was discernible, with
its marble gleaming through the trees^
and at last as her eye wandered in that
direction, she said : “Have any of our
villagers died ? Mothers letters were
never very definite.”
“Yes, I answered, “our minister Mr.
Sumner, died two months ago.”
“Who takes his place ?” she asked ;
and, as if a suspicion of the truth were
flashing upon her, her eyes turned to
ward me with an eager, startled
glance.
“Waller Beaumont, he is to lie or
dained next Sabbath and you are just
in time,” I replied,regretting my words
the next instant ; foi never saw I so
fearful a lool> of anguish as that which
swept over her tace, and was succeed
ed by a cold, hard, defiant expression,
scarcely less painful to witness.
She would have questioned me of
him, I think, had not an approaching
footstep caught our ear,sending a crim
son flush to Cora’s hitherto marble
cheek, and producing on me a most
unpleasant sensation, for 1 knew the
gray-haired man within a few paces
of us, was he who called that young
creature his wife. Golden was that
chain by which he had hound her,and
every link was set with diamonds and
costly stones, but it had rusted and eat
en to her very hearts core, for the most
precious gem of all was missing from
that chain—love for her husband, who,
fortunately for his own peace of mind,
was too conceited to dream how little
she cared for him. He was not hand
some, and still many would have call
ed him a fine-looking middle aged man,
though there was something disagreea
ble in his thin, compressed lips, and
intensely black eyes—the one betoken
ing a violent temper, and the other an
indomitable will. To me he was ex
ceedingly polite—rather too much so
for my perfect ease, while toward Co
ra he tried to be very affectionate.
Seating himself at her side, and
throwing his arm around her, he called
her a “little truant,” and asked “why
she had run away from him ?”
Half pettishly she answered, “Be
cause, I like sometimes to be alone;”
then, rising up ard turning toward me
she asked if “the water still ran over
the old mill-dam in the west woods
the village. Scarcely, was he out of
sight, however, when, seating herself
beneath a tree, and throwing herselt
flat upon the ground, Cora announc
ed her intention of not going any fur
ther.
“I only wished to be alone. I breathe
so much better,” she said, aod when I
looked inquiringly at her, she contin
ued, “Never marry a man for his
wealth, Lottie, unless you wish to be
come as hard, as wicked and unhappy
as I am.
John Douglass is worth more than
half a million, and yet 1 could give it
all if I was the same little girl, who,
six years ago, waded with you through
the snow-drifts to school on that stormy
day. Do you remember what we
played that noon, and my foolish re
mark that 1 would marry for money
and diamonds? Woe is me. I’ve won
them both and her tears fell fast on
the sparkling gems which covered her
fingers.
Just then I saw in the distance a
young man whom I knew to be Wal
ter Beaumont. He seemed to be ap
proaching us, and when Cora became
aware of that, she started up, and
grasping my arm, hurried away, say
ing, as she cast back a fearful glance,
“I would rather die than meet him
now. I am not prepared.”
For tha remainder of the way we
walked on in silence, until we reached
her mother’s gate, where we found her
husband waiting for her. Bidding me
good morning, she followed him slowly
up the graveled walk, and I saw her
no more until the following Sabbath.
It was a gloriously beautiful summer
morning, and at an early hour the old
brick church was filled to overflowing,
for Walter had many friends, and they
came together gladly to see him made
a minister of God. During the first
part of the service he was very
pale, and his eye wandered often to
ward the large, square pew, where sat
a portly man, and a beautiful voung
woman, richly attired in satin and jew
els. It had cost her a struggle to be
there, but she felt that she must look
again on one whom she bad loved so
much and so deeply wronged. So she
ame, and the sight of him standing
there in his early manhood, bis soft
brown hair clustering about his brow,
and his calm pale face wearing an ex
pression almost angelic, was more than
she could bear, and leaning forward
she kept her countenance concealed
from view until the ceremony was en
ded and Walter’s clear musical voice
announced the closing hymn. Then
she raised her head, and her face-
seen through the folds of her costly
veil, looked haggard and ghastly, as if
a fierce storm of passion had swept
over her. By the door she paused,
and when the newly-ordained clergy
man passed out, she offered him her
hand—the hand which he held it last,
was pledged to him. There ware dia
monds on it now—diamonds of rare
value, but their brightness was hateful
to that wretched woman, for she knew
at what a fearful price they had been
bought.
“Will Walter Beaumont marry Co
ra now
just as it used to do,” saying if it did
she wished to see it. “You can’t go,”
she continued, addressing her husband,
“for it is more than a mile, over fences
and plowed fields.”
This was sufficient, for Mr. Douglass
was very fastidious in all matters per
taining to his dress, and had no fancy
tor soiling his white pants or patent
leathers. So Cora and I setoff togeth
er, while he walked slowly back to
I had asked myself many a time,
without, however, arriving at any def
inite conclusion, when a little more
than a year succeeding Mr. Douglass*
death, she wrote, begging me to come
to her, as she was very lonely, and the
presence of an old friend would do her
good. 1 complied with her request,
and within a few days was an inmate
of her luxurious home, where every
thing indicated the wealth of its pos
sessor. And Cora, though robed in
deepest black, was more like herself
more like the Cora of other days, than
1 had seen her before since her mar
riage. Of her husband she spoke free
ly and always with respect, saying he
had been kinder far to her than she
had deserved. Of Walter, too, she
talked appearing much gratified when
I told her how he was loved and ap
preciated by his people.
One morning when we sat together
in her little sewing room-, she said,
have done what you perhaps, will con
sider a verv unwomanly act, I have
written to Walter Beaumont, Look
—andahe placed in my hand a latter
which she bade me read. It was a
wild, strange thing, telling him of the
anguish she had endured, of the tears
she had shed, of the love which through
all she had cherished tor him and beg-
ging him to forgive her if possible, and
be to her again what he had been years
ago. She was not worthy of him, she
said, but be could make her belter, and
in language the most tonching she be
sought of him not tn cast her off or
despise her because she had stepped
so far a side from womanly delicacy
as to write to him this letter. “I will
not insult you,” she wrote in conclu
sion, “by telling you of the money for
which l sold myself, but it is mine aow
lawfully mine, and most gladly would
I share it with you.”
“You will not send him this^?” 1
said, “You cannot be in earnest!”
But she was determined, and lest
her resolution should give way, she
rang I lie bell, ordering the servant
who appeared to take it at once to the
office. He obeyed, and during the 1
day she was unusually gay, singing
snatches of old songs, and playing sev
eral lively airs upon her piano, which,
for months had stood unopened and
untouched. That evening, as the sun
went-down, and the full moon
over the city, she asked me to walk
with her, and we, ere long, found our
selves several streets distant trom that
in which she lived. Groups of people
were entering a church near by, and
from a remark which we overheard,
we learned that there was to boa wed
ding.
“Let us go in,” she said, “it may
be some one I know.” And entering
together, we took our seats just in front
of the altar.
Scarcely were we seated when a
rustling of satin announced the ap
proach of the bridal party, and in a
moment they appeared moving slowly
up the aisle. My first attention was
directed toward the bride, a beautiful
young creature, with a fair, sweet face
and curls of golden hair falling oyer
her white, uncovered neck. " 4,1
“Isn’t she lovely?” I whispered ;—
but Cora did not hear me.
With her hands locketl. tightly to
gether, her lips firmly compressed,
and her cheeks of an ashen nue, she
was gazing fixedly at the bridegroom,
on whom I, too, now looked, starting
quickly, for it was our minister, Walt
er Beaumont! The words w$re few
which made them one, Waiter and the
young girl at his side, and when the
ceremony was over, Cora arose, and
leaning heavily upon my arm, went
out into the open air, and on through
street after street, until her home was
reached. Then, without a word, we
parted—I going to my room, while
she, through the livelong night, paced
up and down the long parlors where
no eye could witness the working of
the mighty sorrow which had come up
on her.
The next morning she was calm,
but very, very pale, saying not a word
of last night’s adventure. Neither did
she speak of it for several days, and
then she said, rather abruptly, “I
would give all I possess if I bad never
sent that letter. The mortification is
harder to bear even than Walter’s loss.
But he will not tell of it, f’m sure.—
He is loo good—too noble,” and tears
the firSt she had shed since that, night,
rained through her thin,white fingers.
It came at last—a letter bearing Wal
ter’s superscription, and with tremb
ling hands she opened it, finding, &s
she bad expected, bis wedding card,
while on a tiny sheet was written,
“God pity you, Cora, even as I do.-*-
WALTER.”
“Walter ! Walter !” she whisper
ed, and her quivering lips touched
once the loved name which she .was
never heard to breath again.
Fiom that day Cora Douglass faded
and when the autumnal days were
come, and the distant hills were bath
ed in the hazy October light, she died..
But not in the noisy city, for she tia’d
asked to be taken home, and in the
pleasant room where, we had olten sat
together, she bade me her last good-
by. They buried her on the Sabbath,
and Walter’s voice was sad and low
as with Cora’s coffin at his feet he
preached from the words, “I .am the
Resurrection and the Life.” His young
wife, too, wept over the early dead,
>xbo had well nigh been her rival, and
whose beautiful face wore a calm,
peaceful smile, as if she were at rest.
There was a will, they satd^and in
it Walter was generously remembered
while to his wife was given an ivory
box, containing Cora’s diamonds,* neck
lace—bracelets, pin and ear-rings—
all were there, and Walter, as he look
ed upon them, drew nearer to him liis
fair girl-wife, who, but for these, might
not, per chance, have been to bias
what she was—his dearest earthly
treasure.
Out Door Expbrikncb.—It i§ owing
mainly to their delight in out door exer
cise that the elevated clases in England
reach a patriarchal age, notwithstand
ing their habits of high living, of wine
drinking, and many other health-dea-.
troyiag agencies; the death of thrip
generals, therr lords, their earls, aqd
(heir dukes are chronicled almost ev^ry
week, at seventy, eighty and hiobty
years; it is because they wid be" on
horseback, the mosi elegant, rational 5
and accomplished of all forms pf-mecw
exercise, both for sons and daughter*.
But the whole credit of longevjiy^p.
these classes must not .be given.to tbqir
love of field sports ; it must be divided 1
with the other not less characteristic
trails of any English nobleman—he wili*
take the world easy, and could we as
a people, persuade ourselves to do the
ime thing, habitually, it would add tea
years to the average of human hie, and
save many a broken fortune and brok*
en constitution.”—Journal of Health.-
A man in Kansas City, Missouri, pays
his wife s regular salary of four dollars
par wash ts.keap her month shut. Every 4 *
time she apeaks to hiai, except when ab- '
•oletely necessary, bs “docks” her one.
cent a word.
Joha Condors, a mild-spoken citisen of
Janesville, Wisconsin, believes that wires
will not ba dutiful unless they are oeca-
sionally whipped. To such an extent,
has be carried oot the idea upon his owin'*
wife, that the poor woman recently thre#
herself int# a cistern three times in suc
cession to destroy ber life. >r
The proprietors of the watenng-
place hotels are footing up the profits
of the season. Cape May did very,. weR
for them. The Stockton cleared &60g- f
000; Congress Hall, i-50,b00; the
Columbia, $5,000, and so on. fivetyc.
body made money.