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Volume LIZ. MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA,' TUESDAY, MAY 23, 1871. Number 20. THE ^eutbern fUmtUt. BY R. A. HARRISON, OEME & CO. bascoji myrick, Editor- Terms, $2.00 Per Annum in Advance KATES OF ADVERTISING. 2 a > 5C K ff. * <0 pr 4 weeks. 3 months. 6 months. Vj © p 1 l $1.00 1.75 $2.25 5.00 $7.50 12.00 $12.00 18.00 $20.00 30.00 2.00 7.00 16.00 2800 40.00 3.50 9.00 25.00 35.00 50.00 4.00 12.00 28.00 40.00 60.00 leojl 6.00 15.00 34.00 50.00 75.00 10.00 25.00 60.00 80.00 120.00 lcul| 20.00 50.00 80 00 120.00 160.00 legal advertising. Ordinary's. —Citation 8 for letters )f ad ninistration, guardianship, &c. ij Flomestead notice..••••••••••*---•* X.pplicationtor distn n from adm n~ Application for dism'n ofguard’n Application for leave to sell Land S'otice to Debtors and Creditors Sales of Land, per square of ten lines Sale of personal per sq., ten days Sheriff’s—Each levy often lines, Mortgage sales of ten lines or less.. Tax Collector’s sales, (2 months £k r £’ s —Foreclosure of mortgage and other monthly’s, per square Astray notices .thirty days Sales of Land, by Administrators, Execu- orsor Guardians, are required, by law to >e held on the first Tuesday in the month, ictween the hours of ten in the forenoon nd three in the afternoon, at the Court- iouse in the county' in which the property s situated. 3 00 2 00 5 00 3 50 5 00 3 00 5 00 1 50 2 50 5 00 5 00 1 00 3 00 Notice of these sales must be published 40 ,ys previous to the day of sale: Notice for the sale'of personal property ust De published 10 days previous to sale Notice to debtors and creditors, 40 days. Notice that application will be made to e Court of Ordinary for leave to sell land, weeks. Citations for letters of Administration, nariianship, &c., must be published. 30 lT8 —for dismission from Administration, onthly six months, for dismission from guar- insliip, 40 days. Rules for foreclosure of Mortgages must s published monthly for four months—for tablish ng lost papers, for the full space of ret months—for compelling titles from Ex- utors or Administrators, where bond has sen given by the deceased, the full space three months. Application for Homestead to be published vice in the space of ten consecutive days. CHANGE OF SCHEDULE. MACON & AUGUSTA S. R- PASSENGER TRAINS GOING EAST DAILY. Lsave Macon at -...6. a. m. Arrive at Milledgeville 8.14 a. m. “ “ Sparta ..9.24 a. m. <• “Warrenton H.00 a. m. Connect at Camak with up train on Geor gia R. R. for Atlanta. Arrive at Augusta 1-45 p. m. PASSENGER TRAINS GOING WEST DAILY. Leave Augusta. 12 00 m. Arrive at Warrenton — 2.00 p. m. “ “ Sparta 4.20 p. m. .* “ Milledgeville 5-30 p. m. “ “Macon ....*....7.10 p. m. TRI WEEKLY FREIGHT GOING WEST MONDAY, WED NESDAY AND FRIDAY. Leaves Camak .....6.00 a. m. Arrives at Warrenton.. —........6.30 a. m *• “Sparta 9.24 a.m. “ “ Milledgeville.......... 11.20 a. m. •* “ Macon ...3.35 p. m. RETURNING—G O I N G EAST TUESDAY, THURSDAY AND SATURDAY. Leave Macon ...6.00 a. m. Arrive at Milledgeville 10.00 a. m. “ “ Sparta 12.00 m. “ “ Warrenton.. : 2 00 p. m. * “ Camak.... 3.00 p. m. Change of Schedule. GEN’AL SUPERINTENDENT’S OFFICE, CENTRAL RAILROAD, Savannah, January 20, 1871. O N AND AFTER fcUNl-AY, 22D INST. Pas«enger Trains on the Georgia Central Lailroaa will ran as follows ; UP DAY TRAIN. Leave Savannah...... .... ?:00 A. M. Arrive at Augusta-..- .... .... 5:38 P. M. Arrive at Macon....- - -. .5:40 P. M* Connecting at Augusta with trains going North, and at Macon with trains to Columbus And Atlanta. DOWN DAY TRAIN. Leave Macon................... .7:00 A. M. Arrive at Milledgeville........ 9:35 A. M. Arrive at Eatouton...... ........11 -35 A. M. Arrive at Augusta............ 5.38 P. M. Arrive at Savannah.... ...........5:25 P. M. Making same connection at Augusta as above* NIGHT TRAINS GOING SOUTH. Leave Savannah............ ......7:00 P. M. Leavo Augusta .............8:15 P. M. Arrive at Milledgeville ,....9:35 A. M. Arrive at Eatonton..............11:25 A. M. Arrive at Macon 5:05 A. M. Connecting with trains to Columbus, leav ing Macon at 5:20 A. M Trains leaving Augusta at 8:15 P. M. arrive in Savannah at 4:40 A. M. NIGHT TRAINS GOING NORTH. Leave Savannah...... ..........11:00 P. M. Leave Macon...... .... •••• ...... 11:31* P. M. Arrive at Augnsta ......... .....7:40 A. M. Arrive at Savannah.... ...... ....9:10 A. M. Making close connection with trains leaving Augusta Passengers going over the Milledgeville and Eatonton Branch will take day train from Ma con, night train from Augusta, and 7 P.M. train from Savannah, which connects daily at Gordon (Sundays excepted) with Milledgeville *nd Eatonton trains. WILLIAM ROGERS, General Superintendent: May 5,1861, 1 tf. i&acon &&bertiscmtnts. B. F, UILLEWIX & SOX, niHUFACTCKERS fcBerilRERS —OF— BOOTS AND SHOES. IN BASEMENT OF F,L. GROCE'S SHOE STORE, HOLLINGSWORTH BLOCK MACON, GA. R March 21,1870. 11 3m. *. STRONG. Wholesale and ZLetail Dealer IN No. 52 SECOND STREET, MACON, GA. R March 21, 1871. 11 3m. CROCKETT IR0X WORKS, MACON. GA- Build Iron Railings for G-rave IiOtS and Public Squares, &c. Make HORSE POWER SAW MILLS, GRIST MILLS, Portable Engines, and Iron and Brass Castings of all kinds. E* CROCKETT. R March 21, 1871. 113m. T MARKWALTERS ><\ Broad St., Augusta, Ga. MARBLE MONUMENTS, TOMB STONES &C., &C. Marble Mantels and Furniture-Marble of all kinds Furnished to Order. All work for the Country carefully boxed for shipment, p M’ch 12 ’70 ly. r Feb 1, ’71 ly T. W. WHITE, MILLEDGEVILLE GA, WILL FEAC1ICE HT THIS AHD TEZ A2JCE7IN3 COUNTIES. CF* Applications for Homestead Exemp tions under the new law, and other business before the Court of Ordinary, will receive proper attention. January 1 1871. ly- STER EOSCOPE S VIEWS, ALBUMS, CHROMOS, FRAMES. E. & H T. ANTHONY & CO 591 BROADWAY, N Y. Invite the attention of the Trade to their ex tensive assortment of the above goods, of their own publication, manufacture and impor tation. Also, PHOTO LANTERN SLIDES and GR4PHOSCOPES NEW VIEWS OF YO SEMITE. S. dl H. T ANTHONY 6c CO 591 BroadWAv, New York, Opp osite Metropolitan Hotel importers and manufactures OF PHOTOGRAPHIC MATERIALS. P March 11.61 6m. R March 14, 10 6m. NATURE’S UII RESTORATIVE. Ulisctlluraus. Free from tlie Poisonous and Health-destroying Drugs us ed in other Hair Prepara tions. No SUGAR OF LEAD-No LITHARGE-No NITRATE OF SILVER, and' is entirely Transparent and clear as crystal, it will not soil the fiuest fabric—perfectly S AFE, CLEAN and* B FFICI15 N T—desideralums LONG SOUGHT FOIt AND FOUND AT LAST ! It restores and prevents the 11air from be coming Gray, imparts a Soft, glossy appear ance removes Da druff, is cool and refreshing to'.he head, checks the Hair from falling ofF, and restores it to a great extent when prema turely lost, prevents Headaches, cutes all hu mors cutaneous erupt ions, and unnatural Heat. ASA DRESSING FOR THE HAIR IT IS THE BEST .ARTICLE IV THE MARKET. DR. G. SMITH, Patentee, Groton Juuotinn, Mass., Prepared only by PROCTOR BltO III- ERS, Gloucester, Mass. The Genuine is put up in a panuel bottle, made expressiy for it with the name of the article blown in the glass. Ask your Druggist for Nature’s Hair restora tive, and take no other. For sale in Milledgeville by L. W. HUNT &CO. In Sparta, by A. H. BIRDSONG & CO. p July 2 ly. it Feb28 ’71 ly. (77i« following Story, written by a gifted Southern writer, is entered as a competitor for the $100 00 P T * z e offered by Messrs. It. A- Har rison Bro., for “The best original contri bution" furnished their papers, during the pres ent year. MISTRESS ELSIE. ( Concluded.) PULASKI HOUSE Savannah, Ga. WILTBERGER & CARROLL, Prop’. CHAPTER XIV. Whilst T was sheltered in my place of refuge unconscious of the mighty things going on around me, the sav- ages had been warned ot the. return of the hunting party. Some fore boding of evil had come upon them so strongly that, despite the need for food, they had gone a day’s journey into the forest, and had turned back again, forced by the conviction that all was not well. Signs of disturb- ance struck them as they drew near er home, and they made the greater haste. It was near midnight when a glow was discovered tinging the cloudless sky in the direction of Jamestown, and on their reaching an high hill overlooking it, to their dis may they beheld the curling tongues of fire leaping up from the spot where their all was cradled. Like men driven to desperation, they for got fatigue and cold, and with swift feet came upon the savages before they were prepared for their return at all. Then ensued a sharp strug gle, and when the sun rose again on the little village the fires were smol dering slowly—the foe was van quished, and in more than one house there was some one dead or dying! whilst the snow, upon which count less stars had shown on Christmas night, was tracked with blood and trampled under, foot. I wist that a wail of greater anguish never went up from more desolate hearts than ascended from the stricken house holds of Jamestown that morning ; and in this latter day when the Lord doth smile upon the people and the country. I bethink me often, how He laid his hand upon them and visited them for a season with sore trials. Nan saith that during the conflict, she lay hidden in her house, which, from some cause, the savages had not molested—and so soon as they were driven away, she ran with all speed to see how we were faring; lor in her heart she was troubled ori our account. None heeded her as she went down the streets, and when she saw the cottage fire yet burn* ing, she ran faster—for she had mis givings we were needing help sore ly—nor rested to gain breath, until she stood directly by the box. Then, for the first time, she saw the snow stained with blood, and her eyes fell upon the motionless figure of the In dian, lying with his face up-turned and his weapons beside him ! For a moment fear overwhelmed her and she did not realize that he could not harm bet ; but she gathered all her courage to look well at him, and then she saw that he vas dead, and from the blood which had trickled down, knew that cold and loss of blood had killed him. How to move him,she did not know; but she felt that if we were benealh ihe box, no time could be spared; she even dreaded she was too late—that we were already frozen! Whilst she turned about for help, two men pass ed, and on her calling loudly, they came to her assistance. First they lifted the dead man away, and then came back. When they found us the child was very cold, but sleep ing, and I was fast nearing that world whither my feet shall shortly lend. I was sitting upright, and my arms were frozen in their clasp about the child. With ail their might they strove to recall life in me; and after they had borne me to Nan’s house and had done all that could be done, 1 came back to consciousness and fell into a gentle sleep. That was the third day since An thony had gone. Toward the dusk of the evening I wakecLand found that my hard couch had been exchanged for a belter rest ing place; and as I thought thereon, sudden fears for the safety of the child came to me and I arose from bed and with faltering steps crept to the door to see if it was in the next room. As I iooked through the door way I saw in the gray light, a long couch in the centre of the room, and on either side one sat as though watching. “I have been carried to some house of mourning,” I said in my mind. The remembrance of the night be fore was distinct, and I knew that there were many to mourn for, who had fallen beflic the blow of the tomahawk. Yet I did not see the child, and I thought mayhap some Indian had borne him away whilst I was cold and lifeless ! “Hath any one seen my little child ?” 1 asked of the two watchers. Through anxiety for his welfare, and pity for the afflicted, my voice was very low. “He is well cared for by Nan Murray,” they answered ; and both looked with pity in their eyes upon me, as they spoke. “What hath become of the sav age folk ?” I said again. “The men came haply from the hunt, and they have fled.” Being satisfied concerning the child and relieved in mind about ihe foe, I looked toward the couch before me and thought the dead might perchance be one of those poor mothers whom they had slain whilst begging mercy ; and with mine eyes exceeding heavy with tears, I drew nearer and inquired, “Whom watch ye—some poor mother taken from her household yesternight ?” “Nay,” they said, and looked at one another. “Then whom?” I asked again; but they seemed to hesitate, looking often toward the door, as though ex pecting one more competent to speak, and without further question ing, I took the chair they bade me sit in—marveling in my mind what all this mystery might be, but too weak to make it a ma’ter of much thought or care. I had not sat there long before the door open ed and Nan came in. I saw a startled look upon her face as she caught sight of me ; but to my eager ques tioning, she replied that all was well with the child, and came over to see for herself if I needed aught. Finding me so much better, she held a few words, in private, with the watchers; and presently, she lead ing them, they began to speak of the recent attack and victory. Like one in a dream, I heard them tell how the men had returned from the for est—guided it might seem by the hand of Providencq—and had put the enemy to contusion, in the midst of their wicked work of plunder and and bloodshed. I heard them speak of those who had fallen, and pity the wives that were left with no husbands to pro vide for them during the cold and famine. They dwelt much upon their sorrows and upon the loss the colony sustained, when good men and brave, fell at the hands of the Ind.ans; and scarcely knowing what I did, yet with a strange sense of evil upon and before me, I rose solt- ly from my seat, and whilst their eyes were turned away I drew’ near to the couch and with mine own hand lifted the covering: It was even so! The strongest arm and the boldest heart in all the town was as still as the figures cut from stone! and no matter where we turned, there was no one left to care for the child and me. “Come rest upon my bed, good mistress Elsie,” Nan said, when at length she saw me. “Nay,” I cried, “1 will bide where I am, only go fetch the little child that I may see him !” And thus it was that we were left in that far off land. The winter continued to be very cold, ’yet we never lacked food or shelter; for Nan and her husband gave us both, and other folk were very kind—ministering to our neces sities as though they were claim e- nough in themselves to make them share their scanty meals and warm us by their firesides. Yet, I knew that we could not alway expect such care. The memqry of Anthony’s kind deeds— the story of his valiant ones, would fade in time from the hearts and minds of his people; and I never ceased thinking what I could turn my hand to, by which to gain food and clothes for us. When the Spring came, bringing ease from perplexing cares to so many, it found me heavy- hearted and weary, searching the future in my longing to see beyond my present misery, and forgetting tu my deep dejection He whom I might have seen had I lifted my eyes aloft instead of mourning the rugged path I had to tread ! He whom I might have heard, had not mine ears been vainly listening for the foot steps of the good man who had been wont to shield me from all trouble— gone out forever ! At length—more because I could not help mine own self than from a- ny grace I had—I folded my hands and strove to wait patiently. Grad ually greater faith came to me. And even, whilst I sat at His feet—who seemed to will it so—I learned how beautiful a thing it is to trust the Word lhat saith, “He careth for the widow and the fatherless.” During the Summer days, I had not strength to work at all, and was often prostrate from low fevers; but the child waxed strong and large beyond our expectations ; and often I saw Nan and her husband leaching his small hands to hold the weapons his father had used before him, and if he showed some sign of special courage for his age, cry out, “Look how he showeth master Anthony’s spirit!” or, “Saw anyone ever a child so bold !” whilst, day by day, they grew the fonder of him. Toward the early Fall a ship came from England fetching sup plies and more colonists ; and with her came a letter sealed with mourn ing, for me. Nan gave me it, and waited by my side, with adimhope that there might be some message in it to her from her father’s home. The news was all for me; and ere I rejoiced at the providence thus timely sent, I said—“God grant I rejoice not that my uncle is dead, but solely that we have henceforth the means of living.” Then I made known to Nan how that the letter said my uncle had died in great peace and charity with all mankind, but was tormented, even to the d<*or of death, by the remembrance of his lack of love to me, and of his broken fahh to his sister! That he had made all the requital he could ; had giver, me the half of his worldly goods and besought me, as I hoped for grace myself, to bear him no ill- will, else he could not rest at ease within his grave. Furthermore, the letter said my aunt had gone back to her old home in the north coun try, bearing her widow’s dower; and that my portion remained in London, whither I must go to claim it. The ship would return so soon as she had undergone certain repairs and had received her cargo. And after consulting with Nan’s husban^l, I made up my mind to go back m her. I saw that gloom hung over the little household—heard low whis perings between Nan and himself— which seemed to be upon some weighty ma‘ter, and finally was told the cause. They were weary of their present life and unwilling to endure another winter of hardship and suffering; and if I would be willing to take them into my house hold would tend upon me as they bad done since my husband Antho ny’s death, and be faithful alway. So the matter was settled, and unto this day they have been to me wil ling ones, in whom no cause of com plaint could be found. As the time drew near to leave Jamestown, a feeling well nigh akin to remorse took possession of me; for albeit, I had striven to do my best toward Anthony, and hail known his worth as none other did, yet in our short lives together, he must have been of ten minded of how much I might have been, which I was not; and though uo spoken word gave me to know he thought of 6ucb, I felt that often be had known, and borne with patience jnore than any one knew, saving himself, who felt what he lack ed ! And I said in my heart (taking the little child’s hand in mine) as I sal Ly his grave, that I would honor his memory all the days of my life. Be fore I left the spot which, in all hu man foresight I was never to see more, I made the child kneel down and I taught him to clasp his hands and S3y that he would never forsake the land of his lather’s choice, but would make lhat father’s name to be honored and remembered for aye— a vow which it was my part to teach him to fulfill, and which—God hav ing helped tne—I have done, as some slight token of my mind toward his father. It was a good thing and pleasant to the eyes, to see how Nan rejoiced on the homeward voyage. How of ten she wondered if the children had out-grown their old-time love for her; and how she taught slow, easy Murray the different fashions of her kindred from his own, that he might be less awkward and please them the belter. As for me, I strength ened much upon the trip, and was more like mine own self when I land ed in London town. Never had I cause to dread fam ine or cold again, for my patrimony was enough and to spare. After making such investment of it as was best, I set my heart upon some qui et country home, where I might weave in peace my crown of charily and love towards my neighbors—my crown to wear some day! and in thought for others forget myself. My aunt I never saw again ; but I heard she rested ill during her lat ter days, though her tablet in the parish church says “all was well with her!” which surely savors of great peace. One day, before we set out from London, I heerd sounds of a voice at the entrance door, and then some one caress the child. Full well I knew who was without, and I stretch ed out my arms toward a sorrowful woman who was even then com ms into the room where I sat. “Dear little mistress,” she said, and then gave way to a burst of tears. “Janet,” I exclaimed, “this is a sorrowful meeting, but not so bitter as the parting was—tell me how it hath fared with thee.” Then she told me how Donnel had died and left her so lonesome and sorrowful; but that the kindness ot my uncle had provided for her old age, so that she wanted for no \» orld- ly goods. Then she left her chair and coming over to mine knelt down and said— “Sweet lady, let me tell thee how he died." 1 ’ “Whom, my uncle?” And her eyes looked at me full of reproach. “Nay, dear mistress, but master Gray.” For a moment—it was but a mo ment—I seemed to see a prison house I once had known, and a face pressed against the grating, whilst the full moon shone on both ; then I spoke earnestly— “For the sake of the little child’s father, who lyeth in Jamestown cburch-yard, I pray thee do not re call it.” She iooked at me as though she thought I had forgotten! There is little more to tell. Liv ing as I have lived beyond the busy world, my life and hope seemed for years to have no other outlet than was Anthony, my son. To make him all that I wished him to be, I have tried faithfully to be’all that I myself should be; and in these lat ter days, when ihe fire on the hearth stone burns brightly, and the dews of evening art falling gently, it seem eth to me that he is such as I have tried to make him—such as his fa ther Anthony was ! And when his days are ended and they two meet upon the other shore, I pray God hat my husband may see the motive that led me to make his son like him in all things. script, and as I reach the close, my unworthy pen longs to record what traditions are in the family of the right good and wise Mistress Elsie Morris, and of her peaceful end. Her life was spent in constant tendance upon, and in many chari ties to, the sick and poor ; and it be came known to all how sweet and gracious a lady she was. Old age came gently upou her; and the ho liness of her life seemed in the hour of her need, to fold itselflike a man tle about her to ward off suffering. On the evening that she died, her household were gathered in silent sorrow about her couch. She bade them each farewell—tenderly, as a mother, to her son, who knelt by her; sweetly, kindly, as a friend and mistress to Ann Murray and her husband and some other domes tics ; and, as if her last earthly act was over, she laid in peace to await her summons. It came ere long. They saw a strange bright light settle upon her face! A look of almost youthful love liness overspread it, and her hands were raised in eager greeting; whilst a voice of such ringing sweetness— like the chiming of delicious bells, filled the room. “Hast come, dear love? Let Elsie lean on part thy staff.” And as she sank away, the words 11 Forever and forever /” sounded as a whisper. “Thinkest thou it wasvny father ?” But Nan shook her head, she did not know who came for the spirit of her mistress, only she knew she had not gone alone! Be Social at Home. Let parents talk much and talk well at home. A father who is hab itually silent in his own house .nay be in many respects a wise man, but but he is not wise in his silence.— We sometimes see parents, who are the life ot every company they enter, dull, silent, uninteresting at h->me among their children. If they have not mental activity and mental stores sufficient for both, let them first pro vide for their own household. Ire land exports beef and wheat, and lives on potatoes ; and they fare as poorly who reserve their social charms for companions abroad, aud keep their dullness for home con sumption. It is better to instruct children and make them happy at home than it is to charm strangers or amuse friends. A silent house is a dull place for young people—a place from which they will escape if they can. They will talk or think of being “shut up” there; and the youtfi who does not love home is in danger. (The words of Mary Morris,— gentlewoman added in all respect.) :o:——— I have re-written this old manu- Married Hen. Married men are of two kinds— good and bad. The bad are truly horrible; the good, very good in deed. The bad married man ill- treats his family in every way, and generally ends by running away and leaving his wife to earn a living by needle-work. But the good mar ried man—well, he is not madly in love any more, but he believes there never was such a woman as his wife. He does not see Time’s chan ges in her face; she is always young to him. Every baby binds them closer to each other. There is an expression in every married man’s face that a bachelor’s can mt have. It it indescribable.— He is little nearer the angels than the prettiest young fellow living. You can see that his broad chest is a pillow for somebody’s head, and lhat little fingers pull bis whiskers. When some one has said Husband, and some other Papa, a little seal is set upon his forehead. No one—no woman, at least—ever mistakes the g< o 1 married man for an instant. It is only the erratic one who leaves you in doubt. The good one can protect all the unprotected females, and make himself generally agreea ble to the ladies, and yet never leave a doubt on any mind that there is a precious little woman at home worth all the world to him. Rev. Dr. West, of New Bedford, once heard that his choir would re fuse to sing on the next Sunday. When the day came he gave out the hymn: “Come we that love the Lord.” After reading it through he looked pp very emphatically at the choir, and said: You will begin at the second verse, “Lei those refuse to sing who never knew our God.” The choir sang. Near Chicago is a steam garden of two acres, covered with grass, and a network of pipes laid beneath the beds, supplied with steam by a powerful engine and boilers, to sup ply warmth and moisture.