Newspaper Page Text
vol.. a.
the GEORGIA GITIZEN
. Kriiiay rooming xt #2.00 per annum in ad
, , ! w ti.iu tliree month*, or 9-ZjOO if not paid
I ’ .MUfuiirntH at the regular chan# will be One Dollar
I ‘ t., for the Srst inser-
I .--nt lnaertfioa. All ad
• - iSed as to time, will be published until
\ ri . , -c-ortlinelv. A liberal discount allowed
IM v r;,e i ir.
. , #ry >,,!iccs or over ten line*, will be charged at the
emeu l- of candidates for office to be paid for at
I H ’ ‘ when inserted.
..■vs made with county officers. Druggists,
. v snts, and ethers, who may wish to make
f I..in I and \rtnirs by Executors, AJmitistra
■*’ ‘ by law to be advertised in a
. .)av nrerlous to the day of sal*.
If s held a the first Tuesday in the month, j
; - ten in the forenoon and three in the af- ‘
t!. ise in the oounty hi whidi the prop- I
M ~„f Personal Properly must be advertised in like
I l j,.,! to Debtor* and Creditors of an Estate must be )
H * inn'icatioa will be made to the Ordinary for
i . : Negroes, must be published weekly for i
I ! . . 1 “t- f Administration, thirty days; for j
I 1 \ --rattan, monthly, six months; for j
... forty days. j
I . Foreclosing of Mortgage*. monthly, four
I ‘ v -t papers, for the full space of three
titles from executors or administrators j
,-n by the deceased, the full space of j
I mid Riwtnes* t aril* will be inserted un
..l at the following rates, viz:
pcs, per annum 6 00
■ 8 00
■ iooo 4
■ ~t ;netC of tliis class will b< admitted, unless paid
avi - term than twelve mouths. Ad-*
[M rata. Ad-
H rged at the
5 :: 'ISfiMIISSCAMSt
LANIER & ANDERSON.
IfTORNEIfS AT LAW,
Macon, Gn„
ICE ir. t e .unties of the Macon Circuit, and in
: > liter, Monr. and Jones: also in the
■■ - an k;;si>n have also recently become the [
. iwiug I .eurance Companies :
“ A ’V A P ‘IRANCE AND HANKING COM
PA fwt: WM. D Antignac is President, and C. F.
: a: \ma fire and marine insur 1
if i . h.WattaUj
|B - , i- ;’.ave taken at usual rates.
■DR H. A. METTADER,
Hit ING s: • a:■ irtion ofthnee successive years in
. this city, during which time he has limited his
pra a ~ vely to Surgery, now respectfully
B-’ s*'v the citizens of Macon and surround
tng the branches of his profession. Office
at A East Corner of 84 and Cherry street#, over *
■ ■ .•.-res’ new Grocery Store.
10. B. RICE,
REPAIRER
poutes,
( .Ttnanentty located In Macon. Names may ‘
t it Mi--rs. Virgin’s and at E. J. Johnston A Cos.
RnwrsjjHCTE L,j
wpp -tie the Passenger Kpet,
In tik at 2 • Bt •
E. E. BROWN, Proprietor,
■P” Meals ready on the arrival of every Train.
L. N. WHITTLE,
■ATTORNEY AT LAW,
MACON, GA.
next to Concert Hall,o7er Payne’s Drug Store.
H■ : —.j
J. R. DAVIS,
La:: Broker. Collector & General Ag't.
Kt cess attended to in any county in this State.
If ‘orcer Jackson and Ellis Street, Augusta, Ga.
■rni-tf
ILOCHRANE & LAMAB,
Attorneys at Law,
MACON, GA.
| Office by the Mechanic's Bank.
IE HOCKS from Btol2 A. M.. JtoBP. M. and alao
■ M.
• - .t.:3 Counties of the Macon Circuit and In
• J—es. Monroe and Columbia, and in the Su-
I A. LOCHRANE. JOHN LAMAR.
SPEER & HUNTER,
TTORN EY 8 AT LAW,
Macon, Gra.,
ob Trianzulgr Blotk, Corner of Cherry
Street and Cotton Avenne.
I ■ as- iated as partner? in the practice cf Law in
o’ the Macon and adjoining Circuits, and
Btate by special contract—also, will attend
. Sa. anr.ah ana Marietta.
ALEX. M. SPEER,
SAMVEL HUNTER.
THE LIVER
ImGORATOR!
PREPARED MY DR. SANFORD,
WOUNDED ENTIRELY FROM GUMS,
est Purgative and Liver Medicines now before
that acts as a Cathartic, easier, milder, and
* .. than anv other medicine known. It Is not on-
I ;t a Liver remedy, acting first on the Liver
- , after, then on'the Stomach and bowels to
it matter, thus accomatishing two purposes effee
* * vof the painful fkelings experienced in the
*t'cathartics. It strengthens the system at
hai !t purges it; and when taken daily in mod
w.. at.e..gthen and build it up with unusual rap
fthel • principal regulators of the
w . i it mm performs its functions wed,
-1- u. an (fi fullv developed. The stem
depen- dent on the healthy action
per ft
w are at fault. and
tfers in n,i.sequence of one organ—
I ™ to ■to its duty. Forthedia
. e ‘ f rhe proprietors has made it
. ‘i • -of more than twenty years, to
w re- with to counteract the many
’ wn-chitis M liable.
-'■ •nedv’ Is at last found, any person
LIVER m, COMPLAINT, in any of its
W tie, and conviction is certain,
.van „ morbid or bad matter from
‘■ i in m their place a healthy flow of
- . • t.. a ‘h. cauMng food to digest
VC ‘, THE BE BLOOD, giving tone and
if Ta hir.- cry. removing the canse of
„ * r .fC a rail- idii cure.
? • ATTACKS are cured. ANX>. WHAT IS
-'•EVENTED c* Iby the occasional use of the
• IV. ‘IORATOR. k!
- - *cr eatirg is ‘ sufficient to relieve the stom
", the t od ■*; from rising and souring.
NU- abefore retiring, prevents NIGHT
I’’ v~e taker, at ® night, loosens the bowels
- > COS- r - tFvENESS.
: .ich m ir.eal will cure DYSPEP
w j.-a- spoonfuls will always re
■ I r f*’ mm male obstructions removes
. and- -ar and j make* a perfect cure.
s iv relieves CHOLIC, while
: :a a sure cure for CHOL
i “ •’ * i -re ■.-enative of CHOLERA.
1 ‘ i.- ’S. needed to throw out f the
t- i: _ ieine after a long richness,
t f r JAUNDICE removes all
’ r. col- ft tor from the skin.
I . r.. r “ time before eating given vig
i •■■ctnakft. -u > flood digest well.
ted SC cures CHRONIC DIAR
’ : ~ while SUMMER and
•s eld sss almost to the fine dose.
--S ;res MF j attacks caused by WORMS
- ’ vur- r er. safer, r speedier remedy
a- , ’'-t never l it * fails.
’ e* cure* “DROPSY, by exciting the
f. tL V£R ANPAOUELCinLL
t EVERs ft C f a BILLIOCS T> PE—
uiir.t v, i a;4 thouaanii ar; wiUlng to
’ ’ Yaejfn! vir f, Itues.
b * r *’ * s '!n* their unanimous ostl*
i aii S ‘ “, a, *‘ r in the mouth with the Invlgora
both together.
, IHE UVER invigorator
n ‘‘HC MF.IMCAL DISCOVERY, and Is dally
um.jst too great to believe. It cures as if by
-• fining tenedLandseldommc.se
■ ilo cure anv Lina cf LITLR Com
< Jaunniee or to a common
which are tie result or a DISEASED LIV
ICE ONE DOLLAR PER BOTTLE.
SANFORD t CO., Proprietors,
IXr *t* Broadway, New York.
” ll °losalo Agents :
, it L E K - York ;T. T. Dyott Jr Sons, Philadel
,“J *.Co, Bostoa; H.H. Hay AOo.. Portland;
. f tncinnati; Oavlord A Hammond, Cleveland;
U- H e ‘’’Avia. Chicago ; O. J. Wood A Cos.. St. Louis;
I Y*er, Pttuburgh ; S. 9. Hance, Baltimore.—
>T ki. Ltrngguts. Bold Wholeaale and RetaU by
hifc* ZEILLN. HUNT ACO^
Misrillmn],
For the Georgia Citizen.
.Stanzas 1 .Urn. 1.. 8.
Long may you :ive to love him, your proud and fearless Joe,
l n . t ,7i" e .t ini ‘ ,ke ~u’u ’ IV F. wherever he murgo ;
, HtT “*f •***> ■•ak-tre*, t*. your c .nflding Leirt,
As at the camel promised, -until deatii ur do put.”
?T? *DI ciiulnish his tender earnest ho e,
i wiU have a spr eg tiro* freshness, like cr oing of the dove,
„ “ e n; er the season cornelli, in which your tryst was made
By the pale moonlight sitting, in the mign.illa’s shade.
And yon will make life’s iouruey. you twain a pleasant one
Like ehiidr*n iv The brookside, refoiclng a--- they run ;
And when this journey s over you will wander up above.
In the same blessed union, whose God, himself, U love.
“There’s nothing like affe itlon.” an absent tioet sings.
Happy are they it visit# with healing in Its -Inga.
heard it oft repeateh but neverlnev lowtrue. I
Till proved by the devotion of that other soul to you.
For the Georgia Citizen.
SORROW.
I have wept through many a bitter pain,
F rotn some unknown bow driven;
I have sighed, as I wish not to again.
O’er hopes that jtow are riven.
T have dropped the tear of sorrow.
V ilh its dew-like weight of pearl,
0 er many sail scenes of horror.
Iu Hi is inconstant world!
I would I had the power to charm.
The path of life with joyous pleasure—
Guard it free from care or harm,
And pour forth Heavenly treasure;
But ah, the ills of life may turn,
To ceaseless bliss unto this heart—
In Heaven, where no sorrow, no spurn,
Can send their pois’nous dart.
The tears of bitter anguish tom,
May change to smiles of love—
When from the Earth I’m borne,
To the ethereal realm above!
And yet, oft I sadly weep alone,
O'er the torture of an hour;
In silent grief I mourn,
Like the drooping flower !
¥AyO*, G 4. ROSALIE.
For the Georgia Citizen.
IS R AFE lu.
BY T. H. CHIVERB, M. D.
The violin by night. The wailing of (
the Barbitcn by midnight. The voice of I
an Angel, speaking comfort to your soul, |
about your future destiny in the Land of I
the Hereafter.thatcousoiaiiuii.concerning i
which, you had been the ntost interested
of any thing in this world-—sealing up
the ovei it oi % vour SOU J l
to every doubt—filling it with the infin
ite calm of the serencst peace of bliss,
Tj\x you ever near the soul of-a truly I
inspired man, uttering itself through the
ligneous lip> of a time-worn, tear-bapti
zed, century hallowed, artist-loved Stra
diarius, by the clear moonlight of the
love-inspiring month of June l
The voice of Eternity sounding the
unutterable name of Qod ! unsealing the !
illimitable mysteries of Life, while un
folding the deeper, more Incomprehensi
ble occultness of the übiquity of Death!
The pavilionsof Eternity unfolded to your
eyes, just opened to behold habitations |
of the Cherubim—your ears unstopped
to hear the melodious hyinnings of the
golden-lipped Seraphim!
If you have never heard all this—nev
er seen all this, y r ou have never known
what it is to live—to die—to relive
again, by being resuscitated out of the j
grave of mortality into the beatipc bliss j
of the immortal life of God in Heaven!
I once heard this —all this —one moon
light night in the month of June, about
ten years ago, iu Bond street, New York.
This I heard—saw all this—rapt into
the highest Heaven of enchantment, one
moonlight night in the month of June, |
when I was full of enthusiasm—over- 1
flowing with ambition —restless to be
come the incarnation of ray own Idol—
heard the soul bf a truly God-inspired
man utter itself through the ligneous lips
of a Barbiton, played on at midnight—
alone—certainly a musician—most posi
tively an Artist —a Poet of the highest l
order—a Shakspeare, a Bryan, a Shelly, j
a Horne of a musician—a Raphael, a
Michael Angelo, a Claude, a Guido of a ,
painter of all passions—all loveliness —
all beauty —all pleasure—all pain—all
happiness —the miseries of this life,
the glory of the life to come—pathetic j
colors of the deepest wailing, .Eolian I
plainingsof the sweetest sighings—ew’eet
er far than the most frequent sighings of
the tenderest love, the odorous whisper
ings of the sweetest peace —revelations 1
of the most ecstatic joy,
All this, more than this, 1 once heard
one moonlight night, in the flowering
month of June. On first hearing him,
I tipped my window and listened —lis-
tened silently, attentively, liitened long,
could have listened forever to the out
pouring of his soul through the ligneous
lips of his enchanting violin } oh ! Arch
angel of the woods! Seraph from the |
bower of Paradise! bathing my soul in
the crvstal Rivers of his immortal elo
quence—ravished now out of the finite
into the infjnitp, out of death into life,
out of time into eternity, out of Hell
into Heaven!
I listened long, fttentively, listened
ardently— rapt into the highest Heaven
of enchantment by the ravishing ter.CG
of that man’s violin —am listening now
—will listen thus forever to the wailing
utterances which are now vibrating
through my soul in the most pathetic
tenderness —telling me o? the hereafter,
telling me of the eternal, telling me of
the life everlasting.^
* Never had I heard music before. I
had haard all the greatest musicians m
the w’orldj but I had never heard music
! before.
I his man wasnot serenading,but mere
ly playing for his own delight—regaling
himself, rejoicing in his* own life, love,
hope, aspiration, the unutterable rapture
of his heart— weeping for his lost love !
This music, then was the only true
music, intuitive, fortuitous, revelations
of himself, melodious heart-histories—
soul-music, made solely for the enraptur
ed ears of the Angels in Heaven.
I listened, the moon seeming to shine
brighter and brighter, the longer he play
ed ; the stars glistening with the fiery
; splendor of the divinest splendor. God,
too, seemed to listen, entranced, to hear
the unearthly outbursts of his melodious
plaints, his blissful wailings, his ever
ascending transports.
Presently he came directly undvr my
window, the moon shining deep down
into his race—there he paused, playing
with the utmost rapture.
Was this man mad ? Was it an An
gel or a man who played 1
Such wailing, such mourning, such
weeping, such sighing, 1 never heard be
fore in all my life ! \\ as it my own soul
that was siuging to me of the Halcyon
Days of the beautiful honeysuckle time?
the -Eolian winds of the days of my youth
weeping over the grave of the murdered
Eros?
Was it my own soul w riting its own
history to the stars? For who, in this
world, ever : uflered, ever lovrd, ever |
serro vyed aa j iiad done l —echo answered
ONE—wiy oi"'i soul!
How he wa l ’d, how he groaned, how
he cried, will never be/icnown in this
world 1 /
Presently the music ceased, the silence
making the music which 1 now hear.
“Vs j.ut ia thy name ?” asked my own
soul.
‘•Nc
‘‘Whenve art thou?” asked my own
soul.
“From the everlasting NO!” answer- j
ed he.
“To what country art thou bound V”
asked my own soul,
“For the everlasting YES!” answered
he.
Presently, while I was still leaning
over the window-sill, waiting to hear him
resume his enchantment, I heard a voice
from Heaven—sweeter than tjie sighs oi
es,rly jaye—saying to me—“lsrafkl is
DEAD !”
The Mother's Lesson.
‘Oh, but I will, though.”
‘No, no Laura; you must not speak
in that manner.’
‘And why not? W hy, mother, to hear
you talk, one wo.uld think that I was
about to enter a nunnery instead of be
ing married. No, I tell you, no husband
rules me. I shall be my own mistress;
Laura Burke was a happy crea
ture, just on the very eve of matrimony,
and, like thousands of others, she looked
upon the pleasure of the future, and laid
her plans only for the greatest qrqount of
enjoyment that she might secure to her
sel, independent of all other circumstan
ces. Her mother, Mrs. Amantha Burke,
had not yet passed life’s autumnal equi
nox, for not ever eight and thirty had as
yet been hers. She was a woman of
strange beauty, and thoqgh the flood of
life was yet warm and vigorous, she was
still moved by a spirit of doep melan
choly that had moulded her features to
its own cast. * Upon her pale brow there
were lines of sorrow ; in her deep blue
eyes there was a light that seemed to
turn all visions upon the soul; and over
her whole countenance there were shed
the unmistakable shadows of thought
and feeling, that could only spring from
a heart that had become the home of
the most powerful experience,
‘Ah, Laura,’ said Mrs. Burke, ‘I fear
that you are looking into the future with
blinded eyes. You are picturing to
yourself that only which may flee from
; you ere you can grasp it. You forget
that the life you are about entering is
1 one o| important duties.’
‘O, mother,’ cried Laura, with a light
: ringing laugh, ‘don’t talk to me of duty,
i Goodness knows, I’ve always had enough
lof that. Oh, no; halcyon days are com
ing. If William marries me, it must be
for what I am, and not for what I’m go
ing to b.e, A truce to your soberness,
: mother,’
‘Laura, Laura, be serious now, and
listen to me, for I can see the rock upon
which your bark of happiness may be
wrecked.’ Mrs. B.urke spake with
a serious air, ami the shade that passed
’ over the countenance, showed that she
1 felt deeply what he said. ‘You must
know that your happiness for the future
must depend upon your own exertions,’
, she continued ; ‘and just so far as you
use vour own endeavors for the peace
and happiness of your husband, will
| your own be gained. Laura, you are
to# willful, and I fear that vn to your
MACOW, GA. JU3VE 11, 1853.
husband you will betray thatunhippy
trait in your disposition. *
‘■But, tell me mother, would you have
me the slave of a husband ? Am f going
to be married just for the sake of having
a man to rule me ? By no means. I
know my rights better. He may be as
sured that I shall maintain all the privi
leges that belong to me. But, in sober
earnest, my dear mother, I can not see
what there is that should so frighten you.
William Withington is not the man to
look for a mere drudge in his wife.’
‘My child, you misunderstand me.’—
You misconstrue my meaning. You
i know your husband becomes responsible
1 for your support.
‘That’s his own choice, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly, and he does it because he
i hopes he shall be happy in your society.
A good husband looks for all that is kind
and gentle in his wife. His home is
his refuge from the cares and the busi
ness of life, and there he looks for the
sweet peace and content which no other
spot on earth can aflord, and if he find
it not there, where then shall he look?
O, Laura, tremble lest you should forget
all this.’
Now, mother,’uttered the half thought
less girl, ‘you really provoke mo. What
is the use for making such a mountain
out of nothing.’
“Hush, Laura. Look for yourself up
on what occured last Sabbath evening.
Then you betrayed a temper that made
William truly unhappy.’
‘ Well,and didn’t he provoke me to it ?’
‘No, by no means, He only wished
you to wear a more suitable dress to the
lecture.’
‘And I should like to know what busi
ness it is to him what dresses I wear?’
‘A great deal, Laura. He only re
quested that you should wear some
thing more around your necx aha*i*n
devs —something that would protect you
against the cold ; and surely a husband
has a right to do that.”
- ‘Then let him wait until he is my hus
band, and then I’ll teach him that he must I
not expect to rule me. 1
Mrs. Burke gazed a moment into the
handsome features of her daughter, and
then a tear came to her eye. She knew
that Laura loved William Withington
with her whole soul; but she saw that
that love would fail to make her what a
good wife ought to bej
‘Mother, dear mother,’ exclaimed Lau
ra, springing to the side of her parent,
and throwing her arms about her neck,
“what makes you weep? Forgive me
tor what I have said, if it can affect you
thus!’
‘Laura, sit down by my side, and I
will tell you something that I have hith
erto kept from you. I will open to you
a page in my life book that I meant to
have kept forever closed in my own
heart.’
The fair girl sat down by her mother’s
side, and looked wonderingly up.
‘lt is of your father I would speak.’
‘He died before 1 can remember.’
The tears gathered more thickly in
the mother’s eye, and it was some time
ere she could speak, but at length she
commanded her feelings, and laying her
hand upon her young daughter’s brow,
she commenced:
‘Laura ; listen to me now, for I can hold
up a mirror within which you shall see
what may be your own future. I was
scarcely eighteen when I gave my hand
to James Burke. He was a man of kind
feelings and a warn', heart, and 1 know
that he loved me truly and faithfully;
yet his feelings were impulsive, his sense
of right and wrong was keen and un
mistakable, and in all his emotions he
was sensitive in the extreme. lie held
his honor sacred, to small things he stoop
ed not- Let me tell you that William
Withington is almost his counterpart.
‘When I married my husband I knew
his disposition and feeling; and yet, 1
had resolved upon no pains to meet hjs
wishes and make his home happy. I for
got that lc\ve has its imperative
that the mere marriage relation may be
made the most miserable on earth, in
stead of the most happy. I forgut that
my own happiness depended upon the
happiness of my husband, and that he
could not be very happy unless I too was
happy. Avery small amount of cool
reflection would have shown me all this,
but 1 gave it little heed. I did not re
flect that the wife’s dominion was the
home of her husband, and that home
.should be her earthly heaven. 1 only
| looked upon the surface of the marriage
[ relation, and when 1 entered upon its du
. ties, I only felt that I was freed from re
j straint, and that I had nothing to do but
1 to grasp at the transient pleasures as
they flew past. ‘
1 ‘Gf course the first few months of our
j marriage life were happy, but clouds
1 flew across ouv way that should uever
have gathered there. At last 1 came to
forget some of my duties in the presence
of my husband, and I was some times
morose and sullen. He gently chided
me ; but I was governed by a false, wil
ful pride, and I would not own that I had
been wrong, and I often accused him of
being unfeeling towards me. He was
neve-x harsh, never unkind, and though
I have often seen the big veins in his
temple swell with internal emotion, yet
he never forgot himself so far as to use a
word that he would wish to recall. O,
God! how my heart sinks within me as
I think how blindly I trifled with the
man’s feelings. He did all in his power
to make my home comfortable—my eve
ry wish was answered so far as it could
be justly done, and he was as careful of
my health and peace as he could have
been of his own.
‘At length you were born. I called
God to .witness that 1 loved you most
dearly, but your innocent cries and your
tax upon my time and care, I allowed,
sometimes, to worry me, and when my
husband would beg of me to remember
the precious charge of my infant, and
smile upon care, 1 met him with sullen
looks and bitter words. Not long after
you were born, rny husband took a stand
iu the political field, an ! his talents soon
placed him firmly in the respect and good
will of the people. lie was chosen a
member of the State Assembly, and he
Lag*- much of histhiieto the
duties wtueh ms fidlow citizens had pla
ced upon him. Instead of taking a pride
in the talent of my husband, and lending
him aid, f'onlV found fault that he was
away from home so much. Hu told pae
of the duty he owed to his country, and
spoke of the trust his fellows had confi
ded to him. and ghat while we owed our
freedom and social happiness to the just
laws of the land, it behooved all citizens
to do what they consistently could to
maintain those laws and provide for
tf.o.- n..t i understood noth
ing of the matter, and I did not sympa
thize with my husband fn his patriotic’
sentiments. This was, to him, the un
kindest eqt of ail,*
Unco when we were in company, a
gentleman spoke to me of the high posi
tion my husband had gained, but even j
then I treated the idea of my husband
neglecting his business for such things
with a Bueev. He heard me. He knew
that James had never neglected his busi
ness, and yet 1 said so. When we re
turned home he reproved me for what 1
had done. I was only angjy. He beg
ged me to iemember his feelings. lie
told me I was making him miserable. I
didn’t care. Then he assured me that he
would not live with me if I continued to
behave as I had done. I allowed this to
make me more miserable than ever, and
I determined not to give up that I had
been wrong, and bade him leave m 6 as
soon as he pleased.
‘Lauva, 1 cannot tell you all that fob
lowed—how I taunted that noble hearted
man, how I trifled with his feelings, and
how blindly, recklessly I uuriveted the
strong links that bound his heart to me.
I saw that a change had come over his
countenance—that it was deadly pale,
and that his lips quivered. He went to
the cradle where you were lying and took
you in his arms. lie pressed you to his
bosom and kissed you. Then he laid
1 you back in the cradle and left the room,
lie came not back to me that night.—
The next day 1 received a letter from
him, in which he informed me he had
placed tan thousand dollars in the hands
of a trustworthy person, and that 1 could
draw the interest semi-annually for my
support, 1 was frantic with grief; my
heart was almost broken; my head whirl
ed, but I could obtain no intelligence
further. From that moment, Laura, I
—l—never saw my husband again.’
As Mrs. Burke ceased speaking, her
head sank upon the bosom of her daugh
ter, and she wept aloud.
‘Aud you saw him not when he died V
murmured Lsura, winding h°r arms about
her mother's neck, an J sobbiug with grief.
‘I know not that he is dcaJ, uiy child,’
returned Mrs. Burke, and as s-ho spoke
she sank upon her knees and prayed that
her child might Uo avod.
With her whole soul in the word,
; Laura uttered ‘Amen.*
Laura Burke stood by the side of Wil
liam Withington aud her right hand rest
ed within that of the young man. It was
evening, and she stood there to be mar
ried. There was a deep happiness upon
her features, there was a happiness calm
and serene. Thought reigned over her
countenance, and even the bridegroom
gazed wonderingly upon her as she ap
peared so deeply impressed by the sol
emnity of the occasion.
The clergyman who came to perform
the ceremony, was a stranger in the place,
having come from a distant part of the
country, and at the time had assumed the
duties of the pulpit for one Sabbath,
while the regular clergyman was absent
from town.
The magic words that made William
and Laura man and wife were spoken;
and the couple awaited the parting ad
vice and counsel of the minister. He
: spoke of the important duties they had
taken upon themselves—of the responsi
i bilities they had voluntarily assumed.
Then he fixed his eyes on the fair bride,
1 and while his lips trembled aud his eyes
gathered moisture, said:
‘To you, my fair child, I would fain
give a word more of counsel. You must
! remember ‘that the Home-Altar is un
, der your administration; and O! fail
, not to see that the purest of your affec- !
I tions are kept burning there so they
i shall ever light with a joyous brilliancy j
the life you have chosen. O! could |
■ you but know what earthly bliss hangs j
iipon your course, you could never— i
■ never—-Vi<* ui Imj
The clergyman stopped. His eyes
filled with tears,and his utterance choked.
At that instant a low cry broke from the
lips of M rs. Burke. The minister turn-;
ed and caught her eye. All present j
wondered at the strange scene, but when, 1
in a moment, more, the mother tottered j
forward and sank upon the bosom of the i
clergyman, they were lost in amazement. ’
‘Amantha !’ whispered the man as he ‘
bowed his head ; ‘Amantha !’
‘My husband! O, my husband ! J
have you come to forgive me?” *
“Yes, yes, my wife ! Is there not hap
piness yet for us on earth ?”
The mother would have spoken, but 1
she could only cling more frantically to
her husband, and bless him that he had
come back to her. None were there j
but w’ho wept at the scene ; atid Laura
left the. side of her new made husband ,
to seek the embrace of her father.
At length the mystery was explained
to those who had wifrtesled the novel j
scene. But to his w’ife and child alone
did James burke tell all he had suffered, .
Huw wiuulureG from place to j
place, and how, at length, he became a :
preacher of the gospetf ‘ TTfe told how
his heart had yearned to see his wife aud j
how he had forgiven her for all she had ,
done ; aud also, that he had determined j
to see her once more, and had eome baok
for that purpose
Years have pa>sed away since that
evening, and James Burke and his wife
still live, and their old age is happy— |
happier far than the days of th6ir youth.
And Laura, she is indeed a noble, true
hearted wife. Her ‘mother’s lesson’ was
her salvation. It sank deep into her
heart, burying forever all of the evil that
lurked there, and sending forth, into
an active life, all those charms and graces
of the female character that most adorn
the true and virtuous wife.
Tlie cod of a Belle.
It is a carious experiment to try, to
count up the pecuniary value of a mod
ern (or for that matter, an ancient) belle
—feathers, furbelows and all. The fol
lowing catalogue, or price-list, shows very
ludicrously what some ladies are worth :
I saw her dancing in the ball. Around
her snowy brow were set twenty-five hun
dred dollars; such would have been the
answer of any jeweler to the question,
“What are those diamonds!” With
the gentle undulation of her bosom, there
rose and fell exactly one hundred and
fifty two dollars, fifty cents. The sum
wore the guise of a brooch of gold and
enamel. Her fairy form was invested
in fifty dollars, represented by a slip of
lilac satin ; and this was overlaid by one
hundred and fifty dollars more in two
skirts of white lace. Tastefully down
each side of the latter were three dollars,
which so many bows of ribbon had come
to. The lower margin of the skirts were
edged with fifty-five additional dollars,
the value of some eight yards of silver
fringe a quarter of a yard in depth. Her
taper waist, taking zone and clasp to
gether, I calculated to be confined by one
hundred and fifty dollars. Her delicate
ly rounded arms, the glove spotless
kid being added to the gold bracelets
which encircled the little wrist, may be
said to have been adorned with one hun
dred and eleven dollars and thirty-seven
cents, and, putting the silk and satin at
lowest figure, 1 should say she wore three
1 dollars and thirteen cents on her feet.-
Thus altogether was this thing of light, this
( creature of loveliness, arrayed from top
to toe, exclusive of little sundries, in
We are happy to believe,however, that
the great majority t)f belles are worth a
groat deal nlore than that, independent
of all extraneous adornments. — Golden
Prize.
A Mt73loai Bkdu--Blessed be he who drat
invented sleep !—but shall, not the inventor
of this lux (triors bed be thrice blessed ?
The last novelty fVocn Germany is a musi
cal bed, whi6h receives the weary body
and irrmediateTy “laps it in Elvsium.” Tt is
an invention of a mechanic in Bohemia, aud
is so constructed that by means of hidden
mechanism a p#4*ssure upon the bed causes a
soft and gentle air of Auber to be
which continues long eaough to lull toe
mo9t wakeful to sleep. At the head is a
clock, the hand of which being placed at the
hour the sleeper wishes to rfbe, when the
time arrives the bed plays a march of Spon
tooi, with drums and cymbals, and, in abort,
with noise enough to rouse the Seven sleep
era.
For the Georgia Citizen.
RoNin the Bow,
As originally composed hy Beau “Wilson.
I have wander’d this country all over,
And now to another I’ll go—
For I know that good quarters are waiting,
To welcome “Old Rosin the bow.”
In the varied rounds of life I l ave revel’d,
Nor shall I behind leave a foe;
And whilst my companions are jovial,
They’ll ne’er forget—Rosin the bow.
And when I am dead and laid on the counter,
The people will all want to know—
They’ll raise up the lid of mv coffin,
To look at—Old Rosin the bow!
And when, that mv corse it is passing.
The Ladies all anxious to kaow—
They will run to the doors and the windows,
Saying, “there gees Old Rosin the bowl”
Then shape me a couple of Dorrics—
Place one at my head and my toe,
And do not forget to scratch on it,
‘The name of Old Rosin the bow.
And the women! with whom I once fondled,
Will sorrow to see me thus go—
Aud they’ll have a lone sigh, as they linger,
By the grave of Old Rosin the bow!
Then give me a crowd of good fellows,
Aud let them all stand in in a row—
To drink, from the o’er flowing bottle—
Farewell to Old Rosin the bow!
Aud the stranger will for me inquire—
He’ll also be wanting to know;
Aud he’ll point to my grave as he passos,
Saying, “here lies Old Rosin the bow!”
Lei him rest ’neath the silent enclosure,
Where, at length, we will all have to go,
And the breeze, it will aigh a lone requiem,
Round the grave of Old Rosin the bow!
Tli Logic of Dollars—Our Pa- 1
rifle Railroad.
The total amount of land granted to
I the Illinois Central Railroad Company
was 2,595,000 acres. The company has
built 704 miles of railroad, now in oper
ation, at a cost of $25,940,544. It has
i sold 865,211 acres of its lands for $lO,-
j 713,228, and has still on hands 1,729.789
acres, which, by the average value of it
sales last year, and worth $29,386,746 !
Here is the logic of dollars which every- I
| body can understand.
Our Pacific Railroad through Texas i
will be 783 miles long, and has a grant 1
! of 8,017,000 acres and a loan of $6,000
, p§r mile from the State. You will search
j iu vain the records of Railroad legislation
1 and Railroad . companies 011 this conti
i nerit for any parallel to this. Placed by 1
the side of the Southern Pacific Railroad
j the prospects any other Railroad com
pany that can be named in this country
I sink into insignificance, because abso
! lutely contemptible. Taking the average
price of the Illinois Company’s lands as a
basis, the lands of the Southern Pacific
Road will be worth more than $120,000,-
000 ! Anybody can make the calculation
for himself.
That the lands will be worth more
than the Illinois lands, we havo not the
least doubt. They are among the richest
lands in the world, in a delightful climate,
and capable of producing anything from
cotton and figs to potatoes and oats. —
With the market they will have at this
city, within a day’s ride on the road, can
any man set bounds to their value? Tlie
fact is, the more we consider this road
the greater does our astonishment be
come at the vastness of its prospective
wealth, without counting what the road
itself, when completed, will earn at all.
The boon offered by Texas was not gen
erally known or duly considered, other
wise there would have been half a dozen
companies in the field contending for it
If managed with energy and wisdom, as
we cannot now doubt it will be, the com
pany will be one of the richest in the
world.
Eight million acres of land is easily
pronounced and written but does the
reader comprehend the quantity repre
sented ? It is greater than the combined
area of Rhode Island, Deleware, and
Connecticut! It is nearly twice as great
as Massachusetts aud New Jersey togeth
er, greater than New Hampshire or Ver
mont ! The latter, one of the New Eng
land States, contains but 6,535,680 acres.
It is not strange that the stock of this
company is taken by thousands of shares
at a clip, as we learn is the case. —New
Orleans Bulletin.
Law of Xewspapera.
1. -Subscribers who do not give ex
-1 press notice to the contrary, are consid
ered as wishing to continue their sub
scriptions.
2. If subscribers order the discoutiu
uance of their newspapers, the publisher ,
may continue to send them until all ar
rearages are paid.
) 3. If subscribers neglect or refuse to
i take their newspapers from the office lo
i which they are directed, they are held
. responsible until they have settled the (
, bill and ordered them discontinued.
4. It subscribers remove to other pla
j ees without informing the publisher, and
the newspapers are sent to the former di
| rection, they are held responsible.
5. The courts have decided that re
, fusing- to take newspapers from the officey
or removing and leaving them uncalled
for, is prima facie evidence of intention
al fraud.
6. The United States Courts have also
repeatedly decided, that a postmaster
who neglects to perform his duty of giv
ing reasonable notice, as required by
the Post-office Department, of the neg
led of a person to take from the office
newspapers addressed to him, renders
the postmaster liable to the publisher for
the subscription price.
3VO. 12.
! Losing All— A Family Scbne.
There is something exceedingly tender,
as well as instructive, in the following,
which we take from the Child’s Paper:
A few days ago, a merchant failed in
i business. He went home one evening,
in general agitation:—
i ‘'What is the matter?” asked his wife,
j “I am ruined, lam beggared. Iliave
i lost all!” he exclaimed, pressing his
hand upon his forehead as if his brain
were in a whirl.
‘ ; AIH” said his wife; “I am left.”
“All, papa!” said his eldest boy ; “here
I am F.”
“And T too, papa,” said his little girl,
running up and putting her arms around
| his neck.
‘Tsc not lost, papa,” repeated little
Eddie.
“And you have your health left,” said
his wife.
“And your two hands to work with,
papa,” said his eldest', “and 1 can help
you.”
“And your two feet, papa, to carry you
j about.”
“And your two eyes to see with, papa,”
j said little Eddie.
“And you have God’s promises,” said
grandmother.
“And a good God,” said his wife.
“And a heaven to go to,” said his little
girl.
“And Jesus, who came to fetch us
there,” said his eldest.
“God forgive me!” said the poor mer
. chant, bursting into tears. “I have not
| lost my all. “What are the few thous
ands which 1 have called my all, to
those more precious things which God
has left me ?” and he clasped his family
to his bosom, and he kissed his wife and
children with a thankful heart.
Ah, no, there are mafty things more
precious than gold and bank stock, valu
able as they may be m their place. When
the Central American was foundering at
sea, bags and purses of gold were strewn
about the deck, as worthless as the mer
est rubbish. “Life, life!” was the pray
er. To some of the wretched survivors,
“Water, water!” was the cry. “Bread!”
was worth its weight in gold, if gold
could have bought it.
The loss of property must not cloud
the mind with a forgetfulness of the great
blessings which are left behind. No
man should despair, for no man has lost
his all until he has lost his integrity, lost
the mercy of God, and lost his hope of
heaven at last.
Sixpence a Day.— A London paper fur
nishes us with the following interesting an
ecdote, which we wish our young friends
would read and think about. What is said
about sixpence spent daily for one thing that
is useless or hurtful (strong drink, for exam
ple) may be said of the same sum spent for
any other hurtful or pernicious thing, (to
bacco, for example.)
There is now an old man in an almshouse
in Bristol, who states that for sixty years he
spent sixpence a day in drink, but was nev
er intoxicated.
A gentleman who heard this statement
was somewhat curious to ascertain how much
this sixpence a day, pnt by every year, at
five per cent, compound ; interest, would
amount to in sixty years.
Taking out his pencil he began to calcu
late. Putting down the first year's saving,
(three hundred and sixty-fivfl sixpences,)
nine pounds sterling eleven shillings and six
pence, he added the interest, nine pounds
sterling eleven shillings and two pence, and
and thus went on, year by year, until lie
found that in the sixtieth year the six pence
a day reached the startling sum of three
thousand two hundred and twenty-five
pounds sterling nineteen shillings and nine
pence. More than fifteen thousand dollars.
Judge of the old man’s surprise when told
that, had he saved his six pence a day, and
allowed it to accumulate at compound,inter
est, he might now have been worth the
above noble sum; so that; instead of taking
refuge in an alms house, he might have com
forted himself with a house of his own, cost
ing three thousand five hundred dollars, and
fifty acres of land, worth two hundred and
t fifty dollars per acre, and have left the lega
cy among his children aud grand children, or
used it for the welfare of his fellow men!
Hints for the Farmer. — Dig your
potatoes when the ground is dry ; you
can then gather them free from dirt, then
stow them away under cover, where the
frost will not touch them.
Toads are the best protection of cab
bage against lice.
Plants, when drooping, are revived
by a few grains of camphor.
Sulpiiur. is valuable in preserving
grapes, etc., from insects.
Lard never spoils in warm weather, if
it is cooked enough in frying out.
In feeding com, sixty pounds ground
go as far as one hundred pounds in the
kernel.
Corn meal should never be ground
very fine, it injures the richness of it.
Turnips of small size have double the
nutritious matter that large ones have.
Rats and other vermin are kept away
from grain by sprinkling of garlio when
packing the sheaves.