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Vol. VI.
the GEORGIA CITIZEN.
Thf, tm voli'hie of this ioi k> ai„
voted to Literature, Politics, Domestic Economy, Oen
-_iNews,sod state and National Ainericniiisni”
r , in .|ic ‘t on the Tth of April. Terms %2 50, invariably in
jmilf. Ten copies to Clubs for * 20. The Citizen Is a
. r , ,-ia.j Family Newspaper—independent in tone and char
,r ~l|h iisUeai weekly iu Macon, Ga. by
L. F. W. ANDREWS.
Jftisfdlang.
Tell flr, Ye Winged \Yin<l a.
Tell me, ye winged winds,
That round mv pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more—
Some lone and pleasant dell.
Some valley iu the west,
Where free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest ?
The loud winds softened to a whisjver low,
And sighed for pity, us it answered—“No!”
Tell me, thou mighty deep,
Whose billows round me play,
Know’st thou some favored spot,
Some island far away.
Where the weary man may find
The bliss for which lie sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,
And friendship never dies!
The loud waves, rolling iu perpetual flow,
.Stopp'd for awhile, and sigh’d to answer, *‘No!”
And thou, sere nest moon,
That, with suthh.dy face,
Dost look upon the earth,
Asleep in night’s embrace,
Tell me, in all thy round,
Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man
Might find a happier lot?
Behind the cloud the moon withdrew in wo,
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded—“No!”
Tell me, my secret soul.
Oil, tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting place
From sorrow, sin, and death ?
Is there no huppierspot,
Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rust ?
Faith, lb pe, and I.ove, best boons to mortals given,
Wared their bright wings, and whispered—" Yes, in
Heaven !”
ILDO STERNBERG.
TALE OF • CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.”
BY PA El. LEAN.
There was a certain heart-sinking look about
the seedy stranger as Mr. Talbot told him lie was
in need of no help in liis wareroonis, which caused
that gentleman to look up again from his ledger
an 1 eye tin* young man more closely.
With a half audible sigh, and with an air of
hopeless, utter despondency, the object of his scru
tiny had turned to leave the counting room.
’ Stay a moment, young man—what can vou
do?” . ‘
“I hove never been accustomed to any kind of
business except that of secretary, but T possess an
excellent education, and sufficient energy to un
dertake and persevere in any pursuit that may of
fer itself.”
l ucre was a certain something in the young
mans manner that interested the good Mr. Talbot.
So he told liitn to take a seat beside him and an
swer a few questions.
ihe young man pleased Mr. Talbot. A mutual
confidence springing up between them, the stran
g r confided to the good merchant his pressing
necessities.
He was a Pole by birth : he had been despoiled
ci home, fortune and country at one blow, lie
h;i l served as private secretary for several years
?1 an English nobleman, but a misunderstanding
occurring between them he had come to this
country, and had been here several months, but
Not being able to get anything to do, he had
s P’' nt his last penny, and had not tasted food for
two days.
ilr. Talbot did not read him a lecture on the
uncertainty of human prospects, but he put his
‘ and :nto his pocket, and handing a well filled
T''diet to the stranger, bid him go and make liirn
first comfortable with good cheer, and then
presentable with good, clothes, and then to return
to counting room, that he would take him in
ds own employ for the present, and that the con
tents of the wallet were but a part of his salary.
W ith an expression of gratitude the stranger
‘‘■ft. Mr. Talbot, wallet in hand. There was a
something in the lustre of his large, earnest, grey
rye, that told the worthy merchant he had not
misplaced confidence.
Udo Sternberg entered into his new occupation
“’ith a zeal and comprehension that shewed Mr.
1 albot had not over-estimated either his moral or
mental capacity.
bternberg was employed to write all Mr. Tal-
s most confidential letters and to attend to his
most private accounts; lor the merchant at that
’mie was deeply involved in several complicated
speculations, all of which, if successful, were to
nefit the whole system of commerce.
Alter several months of unremitting labor, the
reheines ended in a sudden failure. After honor
b satisfying the calls of all creditors, who were
s “'olved through the unfortunate speculations,
‘■ Talbot was enabled to continue his regular
“■'mess, though on a very much reduced scale.
A professional friend of mine wishes a secre
*'ir ’ • you accept the situation, lido ? The
-alary j s good — far better than anything I can of
r you, for just now, alas! I can offer you noth
f” 1 mentioned you to my friend, telling him
old not find one more capable and more un
tXl eptionable in every way than yourself.”
I cannot sufficiently thank you for your good
opinion of me and of your care for me,” replied
warmly. “I will accept your friend’s
J ( b whatever it may be, on your recommcnda-
n ’ 1 hope - the result will prove your good
r 'l lor me not an unjust one.”
Kedfield, the professional gentleman, with
■ ■''ternberg now took up his abode, was a
dwoii ’ °*. rf ‘P u te, practising in the city, and
tr „ mg in much style, a short ride in the eoun-
Ta *e care of yourself, lido, my boy/’ said J*,-.
A Weekly Family Journal,...Devoted to Literature, Politics, Domestic Economy, General News, and State & National Americanism.
1 albot, shaking Sternberg’s extended hand and ]
looking upon him with the fondness of a father.
I Hope you will not forget your old friends for ;
your new ones,” said Miss Talbot with a pretty
blush. “Father and I shall expect to see you as
often as you can make jt convenient to give us a
call.”
Fanny Talbot’s bright eyes lingered with him
as he entered his new abode. They looked up i
from the paper on him, day after day, as it lay be- i
fore him upon his desk. They accompanied him !
in all his outgoings and incomings ; their light |
had become the guiding star of his life. But yet,
in his numerous visits to the merchant’s house,
lido preserved the same respectful distance of be
havior toward the bright Fanny that had marked
his conduct from the first.
Mr. Talbot was once more prosperous, and learn
ing wisdom from experience, he pursued the beat
en path to wealth, leaving chimeras to the unini
tiated.
It had grown to be toward the close of summer
when Udo Sternberg entered the office of Mr*
Redfield one morning somewhat later than usual, j
and told him he eould no longer remain in his em- i
ploy. In vain Mr. Redfield urged him for area- !
son, he would give none, merely saying he had
made up his mind to go to South America.
In about an hour after Udo left the office, Mr.
Redfield was summoned home ; his eldest daugh
ter had been found dead in the grove of woods by :
the seaside, which had ever been her favorite
walk. Her sister had seen her start in the direc- j
tion of the grove in the early morning, and had |
also seen young Sternberg take the same path a
short time after, seemingly following in her foot
steps.
Isabel Redfield was a belle ; a dark, wilful beau- j
ty. full of headstrong passion, and from her wit !
and sparkling playfulness was the idol of her fath- !
er and the imperious mistress of both father and
mother and in fact the entire household. Some
of the field laborers had seen Sternberg elosolv
conversing with the beautiful Miss Redfield in the
j grove, and as soon as the news of her death reaeh
; cd them, (for it spread like wild fire) they came
forward to give in their testimony. One of the *
laborers said that the young lady seemed verv 1
much excited in her manner and spoke angrily, j
and that Sternberg seemed to be expostulating !
with her. supplicating her to do something that
she seemed very resolute in refusing.
The testimony crowded in so closely against
Sternberg, that a warrant was issued to apprehend
him. and so rapid had been all the proceedings
that he was taken on board of a South American
packet, within five minutes of the time of sailing.
“Suspected and apprehended for murder /” ex- |
claimed Fanny Talbot. “The murder of mv friend j
Isabel! oh, papa, how horrible! but he is inno- !
| cent. He never could commit murder. The eourt
j will find the real murderer and will acquit ldm,”
I and Fanny Talbot spoke confidently.
“I hope so, my child, but appearances are strong
ly against him.”
“But, papa, you do not believe him guilty ?”
“Mv child, I will not say what I be'ieve, I dare
not believe anything. My good wishes are for the
youth, but I fear it will go ill with him at the tri
al.”
“Oh. papa,” responded Fanny, fervently, “do
not say so even if you think so.”
Meantime, the day of the trial approached. Fan
ny Talbot had watched the tide of public opinion j
to discover that the universal voice was against the |
ungrateful young man who could murder his lib- j
eral employer’s daughter. Fanny also watched
her father’s countenance to gain some consolation
from him as to lido’s chance of acquittal, but she
could glean nothing there.
“To-day the trial takes place, dear father?”
“Yes, my daughter.”
“You are to sit in the jury box—one of the
twelve ?”
‘“Yes, dear Fanny.”
‘“lt is a dreadful thing to decide upon the fate I
of a human being, and terrible must be the re
morse of him who sentences a brother to an igno
minious death, and afterwards—when it is too
late—finds the murdered man as innocent as the
one he was thought to have murdered!”
“How strangely you talk!” exclaimed Mr. Tal
bot, startled by her words and maimer.
“Father, lido Sternberg is innocent”
“Very likely,” gloomily replied the father.
“And, dear father, you must not permit his
death; if all the others insist, you must refuse to
be convinced. They cannot hang him without
your sanction.”
“But, child, my friendship towards him is known
—my reputation will suffer, may be ruined in con
sequence.”
‘“But, then, you will have saved an innocent
man from a frightful death. And, dear father, no
one can suspect you , who are so upright, of partial
ity.”
‘AY ell, dear child, we will see what can be done
to save him.”
“Father, you must promise me,” exclaimed Fan
ny Talbot, with unwonted vehemence ; and then
she poured into her father’s cars the deep, abiding
interest she took in the young man, also her deep
seated convictions of his truth and innocence, and
the grounds of those convictions, saying that if he
were hung and could have been saved by her
father, she could not live to bear the horror of the
thought
Deeply affected by his daughter’s pleadings, Mr.
Talbot left her to attend the trial, with a solemn
promise to do all in his power to save the prisoner.
The trial proceeded—the evidence was all con
vincingly against the young Pole. His own words
were few and pointed : he declined any explana
tion of the case, but distinctly and firmly pro
nounced that he was natguilty of the awful charge
preferred against him.
His calm majestic manner did much toward es
tablishing his innocence in the minds of gome.
But all the evidence being so strong and decided
against him, the presiding judge closed his speech
w ith pronouncing the prisoner “guilty,” and re
commending the jury to remember the responsi
bility resting oa {hero and their duty to society.
MACON, Oa. SATURDAY, MAY, IQ, 1033.
The impatient multitude without and within a
j waited the decision of the panel for twelve long
hours. At length they returned and the crowd
were hushed into silence.
“We cannot agree,” was the response of the
foreman, to the usual question,
i The bench was perplexed. The president went
all over the whole of the evidence, again dilating
| upon the points which proved so conclusively the
! prisoner’s guilt.
The jury again withdrew, and thirty hours this
j tune passed before they pronounced a second de
cision, and then the verdict of eleven was “guilty”
whilst the twelfth juror firmly persisted m the be
lief of the prisoner’s innocence, and solemnly a
vowed that he would suffer death himself before
he would assist in his condemnation.
Finding this man so solemnly impressed with
the prisoner’s innocence, and his arguments in his
favor still sounding so convincingly in their ears,
to the astonishment and indignation of all present,
the eleven unanimously concurred with the one
in a verdict of acquittal.
The prisoner being therefore set at liberty, nar
! rowly escayed the Lynch law of the infuriated
! mob without. A strong police guard alone pro
tected him.
Once more Iklo Sternberg stood upon the deck
of a vessel bound for South America. A boy
! whom he recognized as one in the employ of Mr.
j Talbot, approached him and placed a letter in his
hands. The Captain’s orders meantime had been
i given, the anchor was drawn up and the brigun
; derway. With a cat-like spring the agile messen
j gerjumped upon the parting wharf, receiving a lus
ty cheer from the jolly Jack Tars who witnessed
I the feat.
Udo leaned his head mournfully upon his hands
and gazed abstractedly upon the receding shore.
Suddenly he bethought him of his letter. He
opened it. and to his surprise a roll of bank bills
fell from it. He glanced upon them ; they were
all bills of large amount. The letter merely said :
“You will not refuse the enclosed from one who
believes in your innocence. When you make the
fortune I know your energy xvill achieve in the
i new country to which you are going, vou can re
j pay them, if you like, to your
Sister Fanny.”
Three years after the above occurrence, a young
| man lay sick to death upon his bed, raving in his
delirium, to see Mr. Redfield, the father of the
murdered Isabel.
Mr. Redfield stood beside the dying couch of
the man who was to have been the husband of his
daughter.
“I am sorry to see you so low, my poor Augus
! tus,” said Mr. Redfield, kindly.
“Oh, speak not to me 1 It was 7 who stabbed
| Isabel!” exclaimed the young man wildly.
All were horrified at these words. His moth
er and sister imputed them to the delirium of dis
ease ; but when he grew more calm, and.solemn
ly repeated his asseveration, they were forced to
believe him.
Before his death, he narrated all the particulars
of his unnatural deed.
It seems that the proud Isabel, from the time
the handsome Sternberg entered her father’s house,
had smiled less graciously upon her affianced, Au
gustus Raymond. Stung to madness, by jealousy,
he had watched them together, had heard Isabel,
the evening previous, appoint the grove as a meet
ing place, that she had something very particular
| ly to say to Sternberg.
Augustus repaired himself to the spot before
! day-dawn, secreted himself-—heard the conversa
tion ; saw the reluctance of Sternberg—heard the
passionate Isabel avow her love for him, and urge
him to make her his wife. Sternberg refused her
gently but firmly. At first she was angry, but lie
soothed her into quiet, and left her after confess
ing to her that he loved another. She acquitted
him of attempting in the slightest to gain her love,
and as he turned to depart, she smiled sweetly up
him, and said she would try to forget him except
with the love of a sister, but none other could ev
er supply his place in her affections.
Perfectly infuriated with passion, Augustus
Raymond stood before her upon Sternberg’s de
parture, and reproached her more like a demon
than a man, with her perfidy.
Her manner was so haughty and indignant, that
insane with jealousy and passion, her discarded
lover plunged the fatal steel into her fair bosom,
and then dashing into the thicket made his escape
with the cunning caution that eluded the eyes of
all, and locking the fearful secret up in his own
breast, he escaped without being supected even of
the foul deed.
The repentant lover died, and the father of the
murdered girl wished to make reparation to the
falsely accused Sternberg.
Finding the turn affairs had taken. Fanny Tal
bot confessed to her father, with a countenance
suffused with blushes, that she knew the hiding
place of the acquitted lido. She had correspond
ed with him faithfully in his exile.
A few weeks more, and the now happy Stern
berg returned to his friends more highly in favor
than he had ever been before.
It was with a proud and exultant heart that the
fond father placed his daughter’s hand in that of
lido Sternberg, who, under an assumed name, had
won both fortune and fame during his exile,-who
had also proved himself in all ways so worthy of
the trust now reposed in him, —the sacred trust of
the safe-keeping of a loving woman’s heart and
happiness.
A Magic Pen.
Os this new invention the Independent says:
“We hold in our hands a pen which allows our
thoughts to flow from its point as freely as they
list, without the interruption of dipping it into
ink every alternate moment. Indeed, our
thoughts sometimes run dry sooner than the pen.
Our readers may judge something of its capacity,
when we inform them that we can write six col
umns ot this journal, or twenty pages of a sermon,
or five hours on the stretch, with one filling of our
fountain pen. It is slight, graceful, easily regula
ted, and in all respects a complete and well finish
ed axiicle. The pea feed? its elf without any care <
from the writer, who only needs to busy himself
about his words. To the merchant or clerk in
taking orders, the accountant in making his long
entries, the editor in scribbling paragraphs, the
lawyer in drawing instruments, the copyist in
transcribing, the minister in writing sermons, and
the traveller in jotting down items, it will be alike
serviceable in the economy of time and the free
dom from the anuoyauce of ink-dipping, blotting,
and wiping. It may be had of the trade generally
under the name of Prince's Fountain Pen.
This admirable article is sold by Fowlers and
Wells, New York, for three dollars, and may be
sent, prepaid, by return of the first mail, to any
post-otliee in the United States.
For the Georgia Citizen.
Lament for the Loved Ones at Home.
Sot. LA JIOBTK, IL MIO PIANTO PUO PINIU !
1.
High on the banks of that Beautiful River—
“ Far, far away—”
Dwell the bright souls that I sigh for, forever,
Living in God’s bright Day ;
While here all alone in this Valley of Sorrow,
“Weary I roam,”
Waiting, every day, in the hopes that to-morrow,
I may go to those blest Ones at Home!
All the wide world here around me is dreary—
“ Everywhere I now roam,”
Pale Death stands beside me ! my soul Is a-weary,
Sore-traveling towards those loved Ones at Home!
2.
Ye desolate Winds of the Wintery weather t
Moan now with me !
Come, weave all your Groves of green Willows together
In one Sorrowful Tree.
Then plant it alone in this Valley of Sorrow,
Deep where I roam ;
Then strike from its boughs, while I listen to-morrow,
A Lament for those loved-oues at Home !
Tell the wide world I am weary—l’m weary—
“ Everywhere I now roam—”
Say lam sad! lam desolate —dreary—
For the want of those loved ones at Home!
3.
I go where the wild Roses blossom—
Mine could not bloom !
A Death-worm I find in each bosom,
Building its tomb!
I go where the bees gather honey—
Hiving their comb—
From the flowers in the South-land so sunny—
As once when my loved-ones were Home !
But, alas ! I am sad ! I am dreary!
“Everywhere I now roam,”
Even Spring looks like Winter, because I am weary,
Awaiting for those loved-ones at Home !
4.
As Spring takes what Winter has withered,
Out of the sod ;
So has Christ all my little ones gathered
To grow in the Gardens of God.
As the beautiful lliud of the Morning,
Scenting the gale,
Knowing the Hunter approaches, takes warning,
And flies from the Vale ;
So they tied from the Valley of Sorrow,
Where I now roam,
Into Heaven, where I hope, on to-morrow,
To lie down with my loved ones at Home !
Then come,Cyrenean ! come, carry this burden
Beucath which 1 roam ;
Till I cross on the Christ-side of Jordan,
And lie down with my loved-oues at Home!
T. H. C.
Boston, April 16th, ISSB.
THE MINISTER’S DINNER PARTY.
The Rev. Mr. W was an officiating clergy
man who had charge of a little Hock in the State
of Massachusetts. He was possessed of an excellent
temper, generous feelings, and a well cultivated
mind; but he was eccentric even to oddity, lie
was a powerful speaker, and his ministration was
blessed to the conversion of many souls. At the
age of thirty-four he became convinced that it was
not good for “man to be alone,” and for the pur
pose of bettering his condition he made proposals
to Mary 13 , a beautiful light hearted girl of
seventeen, daughter of one of his wealthiest par
ishioners. and who imagined that to refuse the
hand of the minister would be a sin bordering
hard upon the unpardonable. In due time the
marriage was consummated, the bride’s snug por
tion paid, and the happy husband, as husbands in
their first love are apt to do, gave up to the hu
mor of his wife, and accompanied her to several
festive parties given by his wealthy neighbors in
honor of his marriage.
One evening toward Spring the happy couple
were sitting together in their comfortable parlor,
the reverend gentleman deeply buried in the
study of the venerable Bede, and his wife equally
intent upon the plate of fashion, when she sudden
ly looked up with a mingled expression of hope
and fear, and thus addressed her companion :
“My dear husband, I have one request to
make.’’
“Well, Mary, anything consistent.”
“You do not imagine that I would make an in
consistent request, surely ?”
“No, not a request that you would consider in
consistent. But come, what is it ?”
“Why, my dear,” and her voice trembled a lit
tle, “we have been to several parties among the
neighboring gentry this winter, and now, I think,
to maintain our position in society, we should
give a party also.”
The minister looked blank.
“What sort of a party, Mary ? ’ he at length
said.
“Why,” she replied, “such a party as those we
have attended. We must have an elegant dinner,
and dancing after it.”
“Dancing in a minister’s house!” exclaimed Mr.
W in surprise.
“Why, yes, certainly,” replied his wife, coax
ingly. “ You will not dance, the party will be
mine; and then we have been to similar parties
all winter.”
“True, true,” he muttered with a perplexed air,
and sat silent for some time. At length he said,
“Yes, Mary, you may maks a party, givea dinner,
and if the guests desire it, you may dance.”
“Thank you, love, thank you,” cried his delight
ed wife, throwing her arms around his neck, and
imprinting a kiss upon his cheek.
“But I have some stipulations to make about
it,” said Mr. W ; “I must select and invite
the guests, and you must allow me to place some
of my favorite dishes on the table.”
“As you please, love,” she answered, delighted
ly ; “but when shall it be 1”
“Next Wednesday, if you please,”
“Dw our jurniiore window drapene*
very old fashioned. It is now time we had new.”
“I should think it hardly necessary to re-fur
nish our rooms, Mary. All our furniture is excel
lent of its kind.”
“But our smooth carpets, white-draperies, and
cane chairs, have such a cold look. Do consent
to have the rooms newly fitted; we can move
these things to the unfurnished chambers.”
“And of what use will they be in those rooms
which we never occupy ? Besides, it is now near
ly Spring, and to lit up for Winter seems super
fluous.”
“Well, I would not care,” she persisted, “were
it not that people would call us parsimonious and
ungcnteel.”
“Oh, if that is all,” he said, gaily, “I will prom
ise to spend one thousand dollars on the evening
of the party, not in furniture, however, but in a
manner far more gratifying to our guests, and
profitable to ourselves, and which shall exonerate
us from all imputation of parsimony; and you
may expend in dress, eatables and desert just what
sum you please ; and do not forget the wines.”
“And so the colloquy ended. The minister re
sumed his studies, and his wife gave her mind to
the consideration of the dress which would be
most becoming, and the viands that were the
most expensive. Then next she went busily a
bout her preparations, wondering all the time how
her husband would expend the thousand dollars;
but as she had learned something of the eccentri
city of his character, she doubted not that he
meant to give an agreeable surprise ; and her
curiosity grew so great that she could hardly sleep
during the interval.
At length the momentous day arrived. The ar
rangements were all complete, and Mrs. W
retired to perform the all-important business of ar
raying her fine person in fine attire. She lingered
long at the toilet, relying on the fashionable un
punctuality of fashionable people ; and at length,
when everything was complete, she left the room
arrayed like Judith of old, gloriously, to allure the
eyes of all who should look upon her, and full of
sweet smiles and graces, notwithstanding the un
comfortable pinching of her shoes and corsets.—
Her husband met her in the hall.
“Well, iny dear, our guests have all arrived.”
he said, and opened the door of the receiving room.
Wonderful! wonderful! What an assembly!—
There were congregated the crippled, the maimed,
and the blind, the palsied and the extreme aged.
A group of children from the alms house were also
there, who regarded the lady, some with mouths
wide open, others with both hands thrust into
their hair, while others peeped out from behind I
the furniture, to the covert of which they retreat
ed from her dazzling presence. At first she was
petrified with astonishment, then a displeasure
crossed her face, till, having run her eyes over the
grotesque assembly, she met the comically grave
expression of her husband’s countenance, when
she burst into a fit of laughter, during the parox
ysms of which the bursting of her corset laces
could be distinctly heard by the company.
“Mary !” said her husband, sternly. She sup
pressed her mirth, stammered an excuse, and add
ed,
“You will forgive me, and believe yourselves
quite welcome.”
“That is well done,” whispered Mr. W ; ‘
then turning to the company, lie said :
“My friends, as iny wife is not acquainted with i
you, I will now make a few presentations.”
Then leading her toward an emaciated creature
whose distorted limbs were unable to support his
body, he said: “This gentleman, Mary, is the
Rev. Mr. Brown, who in his youth traveled much
and endured much in the cause of our common |
Master. A violent rheumatism, induced by colds |
contracted among the new settlements of the West, j
where he was engaged in preaching the Gospel
to the poor, has reduced him to his present condi
tion. This lady, his wife, has piously sustained
him, and by her own labor, procured maintenance
for herself and him. But she is old and feeble, as
you now see.”
Then turning to a group of silver locks and
thread-bare coats, he continued : “These are sol
diers of the Revolution. They were all sons of
rich men. They went out in their young strength
to defend their oppressed country.
“They endured hardships, toils and sufferings,
and such as we hardly deem it possible for men to
endure and live. They returned home at the close
of the war, maimed in their limbs, and with bro
ken constitutions, to find their patrimonies destroy
ed by tire or the chances of war, or their property
otherwise wrested from them. And these men
live in poverty and neglect in the land for the
prosperity of which they sacrificed their all. These
venerable ladies are wives of those patriots, and
widows of others who have gone to their reward.
They could tell tales that would thrill your heart
and make it better.”
Then turning to another he said : “This is the
learned and celebrated Dr. M. who saved
hundreds of lives during the spotted epidemic;
but his great success roused the animosity of his
medical brethren, who succeeded iu ruining his
practice, and when blindness came upon him he
was forgotten by those whom he had delivered
from death. This lovely creature is his only child,
and she is motherless. She leads him daily by
the hand and earns the food she sets before him.
Yet her learning and accomplishments are won
derful. She is the author of those exquisite poems
which appear occasionally in the Magazine.
“These children,” said he turning to the group
of juveniles who gathered at the other end of the
room “were orphaned in infancy by the Asiatic
cholera, and their hcaits have seldom been cheered |
by a smile, or their palates regaled by delicious j
food. Now dry your eyes, love, and lead on to j
the dining room.”
She obeyed ; and notwithstanding her emotion,
the thumping of coarse shoes, and the rattling of j
canes, crutches and wooden legs behind her, well
nigh threw her into another indecorous laugh.
To divert her attention she glanced over the ta
ble. There stood the dishes for which her htts
rb*d had stipulated in of two
| homely looking meat pies, and two enormous plat
; ters of baked meats and vegetables, looking like
: mountains among the delicate viands which she
had prepared for the company which she expect
ed. She took her place and prepared to do the
table honors : but her husband, after a short
thanksgiving to a bountiful God, addressed the
company with. “Now, brethren, help yourselves
j and one another, to such as you deem preferable,
j I will wait upon the children.”
A hearty and jovial meal was made, the minis
j ter setting the example* and as the hearts of the
i old soldiers were wanned with wine, they be
came garrulous, and each recounted some wonder
ful or thrilling adventure of the Revolutionary
war ; and the old ladies told their tales of priva
tion and suffering, interwoven with the histories
| of fathers, brothers or lovers, who died for liberty.
Mrs. W was sobbing convulsively when
her husband came round. He observed it, and
touching her lightly upon the shoulder, whisper
ed :
“My love, shall we have dancing?”
That word, with its ludicrous association, fairly
J threw her into hysterics, and site laughed and
wept at once.
When she became quiescent, Mr. W thus
addressed the company :
“I fear, my friends, that you will think mv
wife a frivolous and inconsistent creature, and
I must therefore apologize for her. We were
married only last Fall, and have attended several
| gay parties, which our rich neighbors gave in hon
j or of our nuptials, and my wife thought it would be
j genteel for us to give a dinner in return. I con-
I sented on conditions; one of which was, that I
j should be allowed to invite the guests. So, being
a professed minister of Him who was made so
lowly in heart, I followed the words of command ;
“But when thou makest a feast call in the poor, the
lame, the maimed, and the blind.’ You all recol
lect the passage. Mrs. W , not knowing who
her guests were, was highly delighted with the
ruse. I had provided ; and I do not believe that
there has been so noble and honorable a compa
ny assembled this Winter. My wife desired new
! furniture, lest we should be deemed parsimonious.
I pledged myself to expend one thousand dollars
in a manner mote pleasing to our guests, and
which should obviate any such imputation.
“And now to you, patriot fathers, and these
nursing mothers of our country, I present the one
thousand dollars. It is just one hundred dollars
to each soldier’s widow. It Is a mere trifle. No
thanks my friends.”
i Then addressing the children, lie said :
“You will each be removed to-morrow to ex
, cellent places ; and if you contiune to be industri
ous and perfectly honest in word and deed, yon
will become respectable members of society.”
To Dr. M he said:
“To you, under God, I owe my life. I did not
know your locality, neither had I heard of your
misfortunes, until a few days since. I can never
repay the debt I owe you ; but if you and your
daughter will accept the neat furnished bouse ad
joining mine, I will see that you never want a
gain.
“You, Mr. Brown, are my father in the Lord.—
j Under your preaching I first became convinced
’ of sin, and it was your voice that brought me the
j words of salvation. You will remain in my house.
I have a pious servant to attend you. It is time
that you were at peace, and your excellent lady
relieved of her heavy burden.”
The crippled preacher fell prostrate on the floor,
and poured out such thanksgiving and prayer as
found way to the heart of Mrs. W , who ulti
mately became a pious woman a fit help
mate for a devout Gospel minister. And strange
to say, she dates her conversion from the day of
that comical, but not unprofitable, dinner party.
For the Georgia Citizen.
An Eplatle to Alexander Speer, Etf.
M v bold, aspiring, honest muse,
(Despising ceremonious views)
Ambitious in her thirst of fame,
And glorying in a friendly name,
Has urged me with intruding speech,
To soar above my humble reach;
I would have checked her daring flight,
But she, all fire, by this good light!
Declared she’d leave me to my fute,
And grovelling I should rue my state,
If I presumed to stop her speed:
She willed it, and I must proceed;
I dare no more; this her own lay,
By stern command, I have penned to-day :
Beseech you to her faults be blind,
For as a man you love mankind.
Xo the f.ndy of IK* above gentleman* oa
her little daughter Isabella.
Mirth, good-nature, sprightly ease.
As much as tender years can please;
Reason’s early dawn displayed,
In your little favorite maid ;
And I wish in honest rhime,
Every graceful charm with time;
Duty’s call in every stage,
May your little fair engage;
Os perfections grant the mind,
Nor can ought so surely bind ;
Dear to all, her parents most,
Every year a grace to boast,
Such I wish mv little toast.
JOHN GIERLOW.
Early days of Silas Wright
AS IXCiDKST.
A friend, who was an old acquaintance of the
late Hon. Silas Wright, related so us an anecdote
of that distinguished man which he received from
his own lips, and as we have never seen it in print,
although it may have been, we give it to our rea
| den:
} Mr. Wright left home at an early age to “seek
1 his fortune,” having, by way of earthly posscs
j sions, a fine horse, saddle and bridle, a pair of
j saddle-bags, a small stock of clothing and five hun
| dred dollars in money, which was in bills and
| was deposited in his saddle-bags. He took a
| western course, and in travelling one day he over
took a man with a wagon and furniture and an
old span of horses, apparently emigrating* There
was nothing particularly attractive at first view
in the person or equipage, but upon a closer in-
Mr. W r.jjtii tkscbvered the- dbughtee o
the emigrant, a most beautiful young lady, evi
dently refined and intelligent. They journeyed
onward toward Geneva, chatting cosily together,
when suddenly the old gentleman recollected that
he wished to get his money changed at the Gene
va Bank, and to enable him to reach that place
before the close of bank hours, ho proposed that
young Wright should take his seat beside the’
beautiful daughter, and allow him to mount
Wright’s horse and hasten forward. Ardent and
half smitten by the charms of the young lady, Si
las gladly accepted the proposition,. and leaping
from his horse allowed the old man.to mount and
make oft’ with all his earthly possessions, money
included, without a thought.
Rapidly the hours of Thalaba went fey, while
these two young and gifted beings pursued their
course, quite leisurely, it may be surmised, toward,
their journey’s destination.
On arriving at Geneva, Mr. Wright drove up te
the principal tavern, left the lady, but theta for the
first time, a shade of anxiety crossed bis mind for
the safety of his fine horse and his money. He
went to all the other public houses, but could
hear of no such man as he deeribed; he beat up
to the quarters of the cashier of the bank, and
learned to his additional concern, that such a man
had called at the bank and endeavored to get some
money changed, which he declined doing, as the
notes he presented were counterfeit 1 Our future
statesman then came to the conclusion that he had
made a crooked start in life. About fifty dollars
worth of old furniture, a dilapidated wagon and a
span of worn out horses, for anew wardrobe, fine
horse, and five-hundred dollar?! Aye! but then
there was the pretty daughter—but her he could
not keep as personal property without her own,
consent, and without money he hardly wanted a
wife. He was at his wit’s end, and had just con
cluded to make tire best of a bad bargJHft, when
the old man made his appearaace with horse and.
money all safe. It turned out that die money
which the cashier hail thought to be counterfeit,,
was not so, and the mistake had given the old
man the trouble to go some distance to find an ac
quaintance who might toocL for his respectability
in esse of trouble, and this occasioned Ids mysteri
ous absence. In the sequel, tlie beautiful daugh
ter became afterward the wife of the future states
man.—Detroit A dr.
From the Lunina Ate. Eagtr.
A “Wild-Wood” Wedding:
BY FI’BBS.
Being honored with an invitation to a wedding
in our settlement some years since, I sprufd myl
- up. “armed and equipped’’ as custom directs.
—and the limited state of wardrobe would allow,
—for the occasion, confident that we would have
a rich time. Arrived at the scene of action,, which. l
by-the-wav. was at the house of a brother tb the*
bridegroom-elect, I found a “considerable sprint*
ling of youngsters and youngsteresses. all iia a
most restless state of anxiety; for the groom was
gone after the “Squire,” and being noted for no
particular desire for haste, length of memory, or
steadiness of purpose, conjectures were frequent.
an<l various were the probable reasons for tHiq
vexatious delay.
But at last the cry was heard, 1 Behold f the
bridegroom cotnethand they hastily went forth
to “meet him.” W Ith a rueful phiz he informed
them that he had been unable to “get the ’Squire.”
This piece of intelligence was received by all pre
sent with manifest signs of disappointment. I say
all. bat am sightly mistaken, for there was one in
that crowd who never let the demon, disappoint
ment. blanch his ruddy cheeks; and being of a
temperament to extract the greatest amount of
fun from the sharpest pangs ever endured fey mor
tal, his ready-wit saved them from a dilemma this
time.
“Pshaw, boys,” said Gus—for it was that re
doubtable knight of mischief—“pshaw, that don’t
matter; the old parson can do it, if Zekeishis
tt
son.
After much persuasion, the old gentleman, who
was a minister of the gos—l mean of his church
doctrine, consented to officiate, and the parties
were duly ranged on the floor, lacing the worthy
minister, who began in thofollowing manner:
“My onhants and congregation, (impressive
pause.) we are now’ called upon to celebrate the
holy banes of mattennony between Mis-—hem*—
Miss—hern—ah. I’ve forgot her name.”
Here he was prompted by someone in the
crowd.
Ah. }cs. My ordiantg and friends, (another
solemn pause.) we are now called upon to cele
brate the holy banes of mattermony between Miss
Lurany Dotwell. of one and the first part, (the old
gentleman had a dim and indistinct knowledge of
law forms, and delighted in showing off his legal
lore.) and Mister Ezekiel Wheat, of the other and
second part ah! my dear friends, you dunno
how orphul it makes enny ’mi feel to be called
upon to unite one’s own child to enny \m else -
o-r-r, at l;*ast, one hotch in my own net ”
W all, parson, where there is any doubt exist
ing, you—”
“Shetyour mouth, Gus! you needn’t be so
smart—no doubts about it, sir!” here exclaimed
the old lady, in a snappish tone.
The parson and his wife looked daggers at the
youngster, aud then, with a pious look upward,
Uk* former proceeded;
“Do you (to the groom) take this lady which
you hold in the right hand to be your lawful and
wedded wife; meanwhile solemnly promising and
agreeing before me and this ordiants that you will
be to her a faithful and ‘fectionate husband; quit
tin all others but her and her alone; and that you
will nourish and cherish, love, honor and obey
so long as you both shall remain on the top side
of the ycth—do you, Mr. Zekiel Wheat?”
The groom here made a desperate effort to an
swer affirmatively, but succeeded only in giving
forth a prolonged gutteral sound, resembling that*
of an overheated porcine animal when aroused
trora bis wallow in a mudhoie in August,
These questions being asked of tbc- bind-;.,
bride, and the same answers “**“*'£
the parson e&id: - biare,
KTo. 6.