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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.