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VOL. 9.
the GEORGIA CITIZEN
Fr:.: o morning at #2.00 porannnm in *4-
; .. . i it< “nthree months,or #3.001f not paid
I. , ix'urnt* .it the regular charge will be Ont Dollar
n.Jrft iaxnU “t (ms. for the first Inseo
••■for each subsequent Insertion. All ad
• tied a- to time, will be published until
, _ : accordingly. A Hbeml discount allowed
f advertise by the year.
| Voices at over ten lines, will be charged at the
I ,„ ni „iM.-enienU of candidates for office to bepaid for at
H ‘ -ate*, when inserted.
. ;ts ina<le with county officer*. Druggists, I
H . v ts. and others, who may wish to make
H
■ .of Ijiiul and Xegroes, by Executor* Adminjatr*-
■ . -re required by law to be advertised in a I
•’ rt lays previous to the day of sale.
■ on the first Tuesday In the month. I
H. rs of ten In the forenoon and three in the af
• ( luit-hoos* in the county in which the prop
s’ .. ,~f Personal Property must be advertised in like
’ -f itydsn.
V > ~-r t.- llobior* and Fredltors of an Estate must be
. .ifirtvdavs.
. . iciticiv. will be made to the Ordinary for
■ ; o ‘ .c l Negroes, must be published weekly to r
Bi itsiMs i.ctt r- “f Administration, thirty days; for
A i : \.-tration. monthly, six months; for
. i, . irdlanship, weekly, forty days.
His . |..r Foreclosing of Mortgage* monthly, four
;. .t papers, for tbs full space of three
.. • g tl'ies fr .in executors or administrators
K . given by the deceased, the full space of
Proicwionnl and Business t'ard* will be Inserted un
5. . A. at the following rates, vix:
8 00
. t,i. iines, do , 10 00
. tied, unless paid
- .. .nor for a leas U nr. than twelve months. Ad
rill b* charged pro rata. Ad
-- —ments not paid for in advance will be charged at tlie
IFESSIM AID BBsSimi,
LANIER & ANDERSON.
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Maoou, G-n.,
D|) ,a ■’ E ‘ *he counties of the Macon Circuit, and in
t ■ ■ f Fuinter, Monroe and Jones; also in the
f., a. Courts at Savannah.
; V * Ki; A- ANDERSON have also recently become the
f • .wing Insurance Oovnpantea:
> i A INSURANCE AND BANKING COM
■ •A:'. - a: ! f. K.
AMA FIRE AND MARINE IXSUR-
I f ‘ bidkT. H. Watts is
i 1 - < Se retary.
t - -and risks on slaves taken at usual rates.
DR. H. A. METTAUER,
fcjA'TNG spent aportlen ofthree successive years In
■ I tfc y, during which time he has limited his
■ • cite exclusively to Surgery, now respectfully
B • rr.ces to the citixens of Macon and surround*
B. ry n all the branches cf his profession. Office
I East Corner ofßd and Cherry streets, over
Bfr. Asher Ayres’ new Grocery Store.
I ie*27—tf
0. B, RICE,
ar'ljj ‘
‘. ; NER AND REPAIRER
DfPIA.NO FOTITES,
-manently located in Macon. ffN imrs may
rt Messrs. Virgin’s and at E. J. Joluiston A Do.
i.ovd—tf
L,
Opposite the Passenger Depot,
v.% cu.v9 • j .-m •
E. E. BROWN, Proprietor,
0F” Meals ready on the arrival of every Train.
spr!9—tf , 1
L. N. WHITTLE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
MACON, GA.
i mefi next to Concert Hall, over Payne’s Drug Store.
| anlit—ly
J. R. DAVIS,
Land Broker, Collector & General Ag’t.
Bminees attended to in any county in this State.
Off •-: omer Jackson and Sills Street, Augusta, Ga.
nvl—tf 1 : ]
~LOCHRANE & LAMAIL |
Attorneys at. Law, i
MACON, GA..
Office by the Mechanic's Bank,
0- FIFE HOCRS from 8 to IS A. M., 5 to 5 P. M. and also
from 7 to W P. M.
1 : all the Counties of the Macon Circuit and In
‘.f Jwlsa, Monroe and Columbia, and in the Su
preme Court,
0. A. LOCHRANE. JOHN LAMAR.
SPEER & HUNTER,
ATTORNEYSAT LAW,
Maoou, Ga.,
Oflife on Trian2ilr Blotk, Corner of Cherry
Street and Cotton Avenne.
\V- ■ ss.* elated as partners In the practice cf Law in
*’ :'unt:-s it the Macon and adjoining Circuits, and
1 the State by special contract—also, will attend
: Am! C iirts at Savannah and Marietta.
ALEX. M. SPEER,
SAMCEL HUNTER.
THE LIVER
IN'V IGOR ATOR!
rRSPARED BY DR. &AK7ORD,
IMPOUNDED ENTIRELY FROM GUMS,
I’ etest Purgative and Liver Medicine* now before
that acts a* a Cathartic, easier, milder, and
* • iai than any other medicine known. It U not on
■ “ but a Liver remedy, acting first on the Liver
-bid matter, then on the Stomach and bowels to
Trtat matter, thus accomplishing two purposes effec
v v of the painful feelings experienced in the
■ ’ ! u.oat Catharttp. It strengthens the system at
* ’> at it purges ll: and when taken dally In mod
will strengthen and build it up with unusual rap-
principal regulators of the I
L**rfrms ite functions well,
full* developed. Thestoro
.lent on the healthy action
performance of Its functions:
the bowels are at fault, and
consequence of one organ—
[to do its duty. For the ais
the proprietors has made It
more than twenty years, to
with to counteract the many
I liable.
is at last found, any person
COMPLAINT, in any of Its
tie. and conviction U certain,
morbid or bad matter from
j their place & healthy flow or
aeh, causing food to digest
; BLOOD. riving tone and
cry. removing the cause of
lie*! cure.
are cured, AND. WHAT IS
by the occasional use of the
sufficient to relieve the stem
from rising and souring.
retiring, prevents NIGHT
-1 r ight, loosens the bowels
.TIV EX ESS.
meal will cure DY3PlP
spooafuls will always re
male obstructions removes
j makes a perfect cure.
■ ly relieves CHOLIC, while
!U a sure cure for CHOL
ventative of CHOLERA,
r.eikied to throw out of the
cine after a long sickness.
JACNDICE removes all
or from the skin,
time iiefore eating gives vtg
fooddigest well.
Lcurts CHRONIC PLAR
whlie SUMMER and
almost to the first dose,
i attacks caused by WORMS
I cr. safer, er speedier remedy
|DROPSY, by exciting the
commending this medicine
VER AND AGUE, CHILL
of a BILLIOUS TYPE.-
and thousands are willing to
tues.
T LIVER is one oftbel
; jnd vbw it*,
•’ -re of the y4enart| i
’ almost entirely dpen4
1 ‘*a Lher for the properl i
v r -*r.he stomach U at fault I
..
- ■ :.ut organ, one On
in a mm of; 1
.'ia* remeiiv where-]
- ‘V-ieLe!.ti to which It I*
. T : .itaetthij remedy I 1
* and with LITER!
-■I *■ ‘-■* hut to try a bot-l
Tu-s, Gums remove #ll
‘ “O'gthe *tom-j
KIFYTNQ THE I
~u. . the whole mchln-i (
■ - ise—effecting a raii-l
:!: <rs attack?!
“V ■ ER. PRETEXTED
-H iWIGORAT'OR.I
r Ae after eating 1#;
prevent the lood!
jj -a ‘e do taken before I
!-■? one dose taken at
tad cures COS-,
te- dote takei-. after each:
t®” l tee dose of two tea-
K HEADACHE.I
1 trie taken for fe ,
•-c of the disease. and
’ ■he doss Luikiediale-t
re often repeated!
’ , ORBCS, ana a pre
l* y one bottle is
. ce eut-cts of medi-l
* * >'.e bottle taken for
or unnatural col -
1 ‘ -■* takep a short’
: ■ ■-tc.acd makes
t,U , • re often repeated
r'vr> ‘ • * “vt forms,
•*EL complainte yield
. : two doses cures
’ . - -en; there is no sur
— world, as It necerj
* , A rewb-.tties cures
~ “ Like pleasure In re
r, -c. ‘•'“•atlvr for FE
:. r - ‘ ER,ana all FEVERS
-■ -cat.-s with certainty,
WK -‘y to its wonderful vup-,
Si P OK irsLll E It INVI O It % T O It.
‘ll who use It are giving their unanimous eatD
noth In Us fa* or
‘” ‘]'* Water In the mouth with the ImUora
• ail( iswallow both together. v
THE lIVEE IIfVIGORATOR
\ s A ‘'tKNTIFia MEDICAL DISCOVERY, and Ddally
i cut\ almom too gr*at to telieve. It cures as if by
’ • th •’ riret dv+e giving benefit, and seldom more
~ ‘be Is required io cure any kina of LIVER Com*
V r r ‘T:;the m*--rst Jaundice or DyApepwia to a common
V-j . all of which are the result of a DISEASED LIV
PRICE DUE DOLLAR PER BOTTLE.
r i*il*OßD A UO.. Proprietor*
S-iS Broadway, New York.
Wholosale Agents)
r* .* Park, New Y rk ; T. W. Dyott A Sons, Phlladel
\ Purr A Cos, Boston : H. H. Huy il'o. Tart land;
c : I‘urk, Cincinnati; Gaylord A Hammond, Cleveland;
, A I>avk. Chicago O. J. Wood A Cos, St. Louis;
ri ;** H. Keyser. Pittsburgh; 8. 8. Haute. Baltimore.—
A - • retailed by all Druggist*. Sold Wholesale and Retail by
.M iXIUN. HUN^AOO^
Home and Refit.
Child do not fear:
We shall reach our home to-night,
For the sky is clear,
And the waters bright; -
And the breezes have scarcely strength
To unfold that little cloud,
That like a shroud
Spreads out its fleecy length.
Then have no fear:
As we cleave our silver way
Through the water clear.
Fear not, my child!
Though the waves are white and high,
A nd the storm blows wild
i hrough the gloomy sky;
On tlio edge of the western sea
See that line of golden light
Is the heaven bright
Where home is awaiting thee.
Wnere, this peril past,
We shall rest from our stormy voyage
In peace at last.
Be not afraid;
But give me thy hand, and see
How the waves have made
A cradle for thee.
Night has come, dear, and we shall rest;
So turn from the angry skies,
And close thine eyes,
Lay thy head upon my breast:
Child, do not weep,
In the calm, cold, purple depths
There we shall sleep.
f Househokl Words. v
• For the Georgia Citizen.
myrtle cfttiigs,
For the Editor's Garden.
love in a cottage.
To lie in bed of a winter's night,
In a good, warm, cozy place,
An and list to the whistling winds without,
While the rain leaks in your face!
“The most curious thing in the world,
is a woman that is not curious.”
Curious, as we have the name of be
ing, when you show us an intelligent, un
selfish man, who has not, nor never had,
an admiration for the “curious” sex, we
will have seen the ninth wonder of the
the world ! Woinan's curiosity is a sub
ject that has long been harangued, dis
cussed, barked at and bra) ed at, by ora
tors, j li:losoj*hers, small dogs and don
kies, until it has become as familiar as
“house hold words,’ but still they like,
respect, admiie and love us. They can’t
do without us, “curious” as it seems.
A AV estern Editor, beaming furious
at the repeatad calls for “more copy,”
took his pen and dashed off the following
“neat paragraph:”
Frost Bitten: —The limb of a large
mulberry tree, standing in front of our
sanctum , was so badly injured by the
late frosts, that amputation was thought
to be necessary. The operation was
performed, in a skillful and scientific
manner, by , and we are happy to
inform our readers that it is doing finely
and promises to do better.
tATTLEBfi.
If you think you’ve lost your appetite,
And no reason have to doubt it,
. Just call upon these knowing ones,
Then you'll find out all about it.
“The best work a woman can do is to
raise her children.” And the best work
man can do is to help her.
There is a bachelor in our town who
says that the legislature should pass an
act, prohibiting the ladies from elevating
their dresses while promenading the street
“because it makes a fellow feel like he
wanted to get married!”
That fellow must be ducked! Will
the Council please see to it?
An old lady speaking of her son’s In
genuity said, “My boy has made a fiddle,
all out of nis own head, and got wood
enough left to make another!” The old
lady’s son must have been something of
a block-head.
“Pray, why are we called the ‘weaker ?
vessel V ” enquired a lady.
“You know, madam,” began a pious
gent, trying to explain, “that woman first
transgressed. Eve disobeyed the divine
command, by eating the forbidden fruit
and giving it to Adam.”
“Yes,” interrupted the lady, “and Ad
am ate it, and then, man like, he laid all
blame on the woman !”
For the Georgia Citizen.
Letter to a Friend.
Till a Allehra, Ga, )
June 12th, 1858. J
My Dear Sib:—You request me to inform
y#u whether or not in my opinion, there will
ever arrive a time when the culture of “Cotton
in India will rival that of America ?
In order to be able to answer you as succinct
ly as possible, it will be necessary for me to
give you a little scientific information on this
subject.
During the Exposition in the Palace of Art,
in Manchester, England, a company was organ
ised for the express purpose of ascertaining all
the most available points in the world from
which Cotton could be obtained; the object of
which is very obvious to the mind of any man
at all acquainted with the consumption of the
raw material in that country.
The peculiar species of Cotton indigenous to
America, is the Gossypium Btrbaden.se, which is,
also, cultivated in the “West India Islands, while
that of Brazil, Peru and South America, is the
Gossypium Pemvianurn. The Gossypium Bor-
Itaderuse was introduced into the Mauritius and
the Isle of Bourbon, and, thence into India, in
1829.
The Gossypium Jjnaicuia, is the species which
is indigenous to India—now pretty extensively
cultivated at Akra, near Calcutta.
Cotton was spun and woven twelve hundred
years before the Christian Era, as may be learn
ed from Sanacript writings.
Tbe discovery of Cotton to aaoioot Peruvian
tribes, proves that it -.vas cultivated as early as
3,000 years ago.
Now, what the difference between the
American au<i Indian species ? as, by answering
this very important quesliou, I can only answer
the principal one propounded by you.
The principal difference consists in this, that
the staple of America is longer, and, therefore,
more easily woven, than that of ludia—conse
quently its superiority —the strength of any fi
bre depending upon the length of its numer
ous filaments, The American species is indi
ginous to America, that of India to India. The
American species, from this very fact, can never
he cultivated in India as in America. This is
the reason, why planters in India have always
failed, up to this very hour, to rival those of
America. The American Cotton is a species
perfectly adapted to America; whereas, that of
India belongs alone to the East—hence the dif
ference between the two plants. No improve
ment in agricultural knowledge can transform
the American into the Indian species, nor can
any amount of the same wisdom eliminate a
short staple into that of a long one. This is
the reason why the American will for ever re
main superior to the Indian. The Indian being
of an inferior staple—rendered so by the very
nature of the climate in which it is grown— can
never demand the price of the American. Then,
again, the waste in the Indian is much greater
than that of the American. It is, therefore,
obvious that the time will never come when In
dia will compete with even Arkansas in the
cultivation of Cotton—a .State which, if now
cleared, would be capable of producing four
millions of bales.
This will show how very useless it is to es
tablish Conventions in order to regulate the
price ot Cotton—the Cotton itself being its best
regulator. All the Cotton making countries
in the world will never, in all time to come, be
able to compete with America in the produc
tion ot an article superior, in every quality of
usefulness, to all others.
Yours, very truly,
THOS. H. CHIYERS.
For the Georgia Citizen.
4 Slight Tribute or Thanks,
Jb Mr. J. F. W.
FOR A SUPERB BASKET OF FLOWERS.
That basket of beautiful flowers,
Sprink led o'er with drops of dew ;
vur emblem or luxuriant bowers,
Where, in loveliness, they grew.
’Twas wrought as with an artist skill,
Its varied colors blending sweet;
Kind thoughts it did instill—
As I gazed upon the “ treat .”
Rich D with their crimson hue,
Smil’d ‘mid the many, all so fair;
While delicious odor floated through,
Richly freighting the soft air!
Thanks for your charming flower basket,
I will treasure it with care—
I'll press their leaves in memory's casket,
And watch them fading, with a tear.
MaOOK, June 7. ROSALIE.
For the Georgia Citizen.
Fashion.
Fashion is the Tyrant of most prevail
ing power; the contrast of the former
and the present age, shows but too plain
ly, that it is far more powerful in its sway.
Tyranny of Fashion is the bane of the
Tniverse, the all-govermng passion of the
world. It is to fashion’s fancy freaks,
that al!, both youthful and aged, succumb,
and the most horrible reflection that can
be cast on a sensitive girl, is the very
common phrase of “She is not fashion
able /” Beauty and grace are minor, in
significant points, attributions unsought,
attractions left unnoticed, if the all pow
erful wish to be “ Fashionable ” can be
but realized. The greatest praise, which
is ever bestowed, now-a-days, is the very
flimsy remark, “You are le bon ton,”
Fashion! ah! too long have we felt
i*s truly devasting infringement, in our
Southern cities, and vainly have we look
ed for a less scrupulous adherence to it.
The child in its most infantile years,
grasps, with delighted gaze, at its fancy
forms of attraction. The young, the old,
all worship It with a Pagan-like idolatry !
Fashion moulds the sentiments to its own
suiting, and truly may it be said, a warm,
feeling heart cannot with glorious fashion
abide. No! the noble, high toned, im
pulsive heart, richest gein—the casket
containing all the better qualities of the
human mind—cannot exist with fashion.
But alas, we must turn to its gentle voice
a deaf, unheeding ear, and thrust aside
all its gentle pleadings, crushing with an
unfeeling hand, its sympathetic gushings,
bury it away and leave it all alone to des
olation, while we use a heart of marble,
cold and inhumane.
Dress to the tip of the style ; be care
less of every one’s (no matter how very
dear) feelings; add to this an entire want
of sensitiveness for your own, and truly
have we a most perfect outline (nay,
quite a finished picture,) of a devoted
follower of the reigning Tyrant, a la
mode.
We would deem it a task, scarcely ever
to be accomplished, to attempt portray
ing the many phases of the one word
fashion. It is the despot of most un
limited power, and dispenses with an
eager, anxious hand, its many frivolous
ideas. Ah, yes, with as much suprema
cy and power as her Imperial Majesty
sways her sceptre over her willing sub
jects. Yet let them be ever as insignifi
cant as they may,they wield their schem
ing, hideous forms with superior predom
inancy, and are dearly, fondly, fostered
by an overwhelming majority !
lAh, Fashion! Fashioni is toe cry,
A# ts they war* half of *A
MACON, GA. JUNE 18, 18S8.
Oh! what’s the style, mon am i,
Tissue or Berage ?
With majesty it decks the form,
In its gorgeous plumes of pride;
Ah, much better, if long since—
Glorious Fashion had but died!
It guilds the coach in blazing glare,
And builds the mansions grand,
It spreads its spirit everywhere—
From Ocean tide to Land!
Oh! may it waft its power.
From off our domains, fleet,
And leave us like the flower,
In simple guise, yet neat!
Macon, Geo., ’ Rosalie.
A CASE OF JEAEOTSY.
DISCHARGED—CCRED.
Fred Kennedy is my best friend. We
were in college together, and deep in one
another’s confidence. lie studied law,
and commenced practice in the city; I
studied medicine, and opened an office in
the country. But Fred got in love and
forgot me, until about three months af
ter his marriage, when I received a letter
from him which troubled me very much.
It was full of vague hints of sorrow, and
anger, and despair. lie wanted to see
me. He must see me and tell me what
he could not write. It was -a week be
fore I could leave a patient that was dan
gerously ill; but one afternoon, after
three nights of watching, I threw myself
and my carpet bag into the cars, for the
city. I slept all the way, only disturb
ed by two punches in the ribs and an
equal number for my ticket, and at eight
o’clock found myself ringing the bell at
the door of Fred’s pretty residence on
street.
A trim servant girl answered to my
summons. I knew by her look that she
had heard of me, and suspected who I
was. Mr. Kennedy was at home, she
said, and was in the parlor, the door of
which she swung opon to me, after 1 had
laid aside my overcoat. I entered the
door, but the parlor seemed to be empty.
I looked about the walls, hut the only
tiling which fastonpj my attention was
the exquisite portrait of a beautiful wo
man, almost enveloped in the misty bri
dal veil—a very marvel of painting—
through which shone out the most golden
ringlets, and a face of sweet beauty and
rare intelligence. It seemed strange that
the parlor should be lighted so brilliant
ly and be without an occupant, and 1 ad
vanced towards the portrait, without no
ticing that a deep easy chair, its back
towards me, was planted before it. T
soon perceived that it was occupied, for
an embroidered slipper peeped out from
one side, toying lightly with the air, as
if the heart of the one who wore it
were absorbed in happy contemplation.
I coughed slightly, and in an instant
Fred Kennedy was on his feet, and 1 was
in his arms. I never saw him so extrav
agant in his demonstrations of delight.
He shook my hands a dozen times, slap
ped my shoulders, caught me by the arm
and whirled me around the room, poked
the fire and laughed as if he were insane.
“By George! Tom Conway, lam glad
to see you,” he said, at last, fairly puf
fing with the demonstration he had made.
“I had beguu to suspect something of
that kind,” I replied, rubbing my shoul
der. “I think you must have been culti
vating your affections lately.”
“Well, I have. What do you think of
that?” And he turned me around and
pointed to the portrait.
“Exquisite!” I exclaimed,
“Magnificent, isn’t it V’
“Mrs. Kennedy?”
“Mrs. Fred Kennedy.”
“Very pretty, she is painted.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha !”
“Now, Fred,” said I, seriously, “sit
down. You are too much excited. It
will be the death of you. I have come
to see you professionally. Your letter—”
“The letter!”
“It’s a clear case of insanity,” I con
tinued. “If lam favored with an inter
view with the original Mrs. Kennedy, I
will reprimand her for leaving you alone.
Your letter betrayed the most distressing
symptoms. I was afraid that I should
find you had committed suicide, but I see
there has been a reaction.”
I said this in a bantering way, but I
noticed that Fred’s countenance changed,
until its expression was one of mingled
vexation and pain.
“No more cf that, if thou lovest me,
Tom,” he replied, and then he added,
“After you have had supper I will tell
you all about it. Jane is a good crea
ture, and has gone to the sewing circle.
Those things bore me, and she insists
upon my staying at home. We shall
have a good hour together before her
return.”
Fred sat almost silent with me, in his
snug little dining room, where I did jus
tice to my appetite and his hospitality;
then we returned to the parlor, and I
gave myself up to slippers, a cigar and
Fred’s story.
“When I wrote you that letter,” said
Fred, “I was a fool, but I was very mis
erable, nevertheless. You see, before 1
was married, there “was a young man in
the city, of the name of Benton. He
loved Jane; I found it out, and hated
him. He wasa quiet fellow, with a dark,
soft eye, a romantic air, and I can’t ex
press the contempt I felt for him. He
seemed to me to be a perfect milk sop.
It was before I was engaged, and I used
frequently to meet hiip with Jane, at her
father’s house. I saw that he was in love,
head and ears; and what vexed me be
yond every thing else was, that Jane
would always treat him respectfully.—
After he had parted from us on one oc
casion, and she had treated him with the
usual consideration, I was determined to
bring matters to an end. I proposed be
fore I left, and received the assurance that
I was the chosen man.
“Well, Benton continued to call. I
do not think he knew of the new position
of affairs, but it made no difference. I
determined to cut him, and l did. I met
him in the street, in broad day, and cut
him dead. Who should I find that night
with Jane but this contemptible Benton ?
He had risen to leave the.room with ago
ny depicted upon every feature of his
face. 1 saw it all at a glance, he had pro
posed and been rejected. All the devil
there was in me rejoiced. 1 have no
doubt that I grinned maliciously upon
him as he passed out. I could heartily
have added a kick to the repul.-e he had
received. But Jane was distressed. She
was sorry far him! She wouldn’t have
it happened for the world! She respect
ed Mr. Benton so much!
“ ‘Mr. Benton is a fool,’l said. ‘Don’t
wast your precious sympathies on such a
creature as he.’
“‘Mr. Benton is a gentleman,’ replied
Jane, and the poor girl turned pale, the
tears swam in her eyes, and she hid her
face in her handkerchief, and sobbed hys
terically.
“I saw that I had been unjust—that I
had been mean and cowardly—that my
wprds and bearing had boen hateful anH
contemptible—that there was not the
slightest ground for my feelings, but I
was too proud to confess it, so 1 approach
ed and kissed her forehead, and asked her
to forget the matter.
“I met Benton in the street frequently
after this, and was wicked enough to re
joice in his woe-begone appearance. I
was stirred to this partly because he had
once or twice called upon the family, and
had been treated with the most consider
ate cordiality. The fact was, I loved Jane
almost madly, and somehow I could not
bear to have any other man think of her.
Cards were distributed for the wed
ding, and one was sent to Mr. Benton.
But this gratified my malice. It seemed
cruel to invite a man to witness the con
summation of the ruin of his hopes; so
I was pleased! I doubted whether he
would come, but he was there, so calm
and gentlemanly, that 1 could not help
feeling how mean I was, in his pres
ence, and this, of course, did not help
the matter. I was now more offended
with him than ever. 1 could almost have
quarreled with my wife on the wedding
night, became she treated him with such
marked attentions. I determined, at any
rate, that I would cure her of her liking
for him, and was almost maddened to
hear her express the hope that he would
not forget her when she become settled
in her new home.
“A few weeks passed away, and he
called at my house —at my house ! And
Jane very coolly informed ine of it. ‘I
hope you had a pleasant time with the
gentleman,” T said, drily. I saw the fire
flash in Jane’s eyes as she replied, ‘Mr.
Benton is always pleasant.’ There was
an emphasis on the word ‘always/ that
offended me. I will not tell more of
that foolish scene. Enough, that I was
thoroughly discomfittcd, and came out
of it hating Benton the more, as I was
convinced that he was a better man than
myself. 1 could not bring myself to
command my wife not to see him, with
out a single reason, so l took my satis
faction in behaving liko a bear, and ma
king her miserable for a week.
“Some days had passed away, when
one evening a party of merry friends
came in, and Jane's bridal array became
the subject of conversation. A lady of
the party expressed a wish to see some
article of ornament belonging to the dress.
Jane endeavored to change the conversa
tion. I saw that she was troubled, but
repeated the lady’s request. She replied
that the article was not at home. I in
quired of her whom she had lent it to.
She replied that she had not lei it it; and
her lips trembled, and her cheeks burned,
as she said it. The lady saw that some
thing was wrong, and immediately turn
ed attention from the subject.
But I was aroused. In my excited
and suspicious state of mind, I fancied a
hundred things, and somehow, they were
all associated with Benton. I determined
to ascertain where the article was gone.
First, I took occasion, during my wife’s
absence from home, one afternoon, t> as
certain that there was not a single arti
cle of her bridal attire in the house. I
knew that the whole would make a for
midable package, which she could never,
or would never, have carried away.—
Who did carry it ? Somebody, proba
bly, who belonged in the house. I called
the girl whom you met at the door, and
aked her whether she carried from the
house, lately, a package or band-box be
longing to Mrs. Kennedy. She color
ed deeply, and acknowledged that she
had. I inquired as to where she had
carried it. She was very humble, and
deprecated my displeasure, but very
positively declined to tell me. I coaxed
her, undertook to bribe her, and threat
ened her, but all to no purpose. Nor if
I were to cut her in pieces would she
tell me.
“My suspicions were thoroughly
aroused, and I believed, from the bottom
of my soul, that the detestable Benton,
somehow, was connected with the matter.
It now became me to put on a smooth
and affectionate exterior, for I had a se
cret to fathom. I received Jane, on her re
turn, with the old fondness, and we pass
ed an evening full of misery to me, but
overwhelming with happiness to her.—
W here to begin investigations, I could
not tell. I was afraid the servant would
tell Jane of our conversation ; but, as
she thoroughly loved her mistress, she
promised that if I made no difficulty
about it, she would not'tel! her.
“T had no recourse now but to watch.
The next day, instead of going to my
office, I took a cigar in the reading room
of the hotel, and seating myself by
a window that gave me a view of mv
residence, I kept my eye on the door. I
had sat there perhaps half an hour, when
Jane’s most intimate lady friend, (Miss
Kate Stephens,) went tripping down the
street and entered the house. A few’
minutes passed away, when she and Jane
emerged; both were bonnetted and
eloaVcd. T slipped out and followed
them, at a distance, through half a dozen
streets, until at last they turned in at an
open doorway, I marked the number and
then went to my office. I was in a fever
of excitement. That was evidently no
place for ladies to call. That door open
ed into a blind looking stairway. There
was no name on the door.
The next thing for me to ascertain was
the name and character of the person
occupying the rooms above. I went to
my dinner as usual, and played the care
less and happy to the best of my ability.
My wife was in a gay mood, and seemed
almost hatefully charming and brilliant.
I kissed her and bade her good evening,
pleading business as my excuse for leav
ing her alone. My steps almost invol
untarily took the direction of the morn
ing walk. I was moving briskly along;
when I discovered a familiar figure be
fore me. I knew it was Benton the mo
ment I fixed my eyes upon it. I uncon
sciously took his pace, keeping at a
safe distance, and followed street over
street by that same path upon which I fol
lowed my wife. As we approached the
suspected door I fairly held my breath.
My blood curdled, and every hair on my
head seemed to rise with apprehension.
I was not mistaken. He mounted the
steps, and turning on his heel, coolly
paused to pick his teeth as 1 ground mine
together and passed by.
I could not yet bring myself to the
humiliation of doubting my wife’s truth
to me. The fact that her friend accom
panied her certainly did not tend to this
conclusion; but the consciousness that
she still retained a warm respect for
Benton, and that she had met him in an
obscure room for any purpose, distracted
me. But 1 had prudence enough to de
termine- to wait for the denouement , and
in the meantime to maintain as strict a
surveilance of both parties as was pos
sible without endangering detection.
Three days passed away and nothing
occurred to prove that the visit had been
repeated. In the meantime Jane was as
happy as a lark. I watched her some
times while she sat at her kneedlework,
and frequently saw a peculiar smile on
her face. On one occasion I abruptly
asked her what she was thinking of, and
though I importuned her with some de
gree of severity, I could get no satisfac
tory reply.
The matter very soon began to wear
upon my spirits. I was frightened by
my haggard aspect whenever I looked in
a mirror. Jane noticed the fact and be
came extremely anxious for me. Her af
fectionate attentions were more assidu
ous than ever, and I was made ashamed
of my suspicions, for I could not doubt
the genuineness of her solicitous appre
hensions. Still the facts would recur,
and I passed many a sleepless night in
revolving them.
One day, while sitting in my office, my
perplexing thoughts overcame me, and 1
penned the letter which you received
from me. 1 could keep still no longer,
without telling someone of the weight
which oppressed me. 1 took the letter
to the office myself; and os I felt that
Solitude w’ould only render me more
miserable, I did not return, but kept
along through the streets. Involuntari
ly, almost, I so directed my r steps as to
take the street which contained the secret
which was tormenting me. I selected
the door at the idstance of a block ; and
my heart sank within me as I saw a gen
tleman taking leave of a lady upon the
steps. Who could they have been—
they w'ere no other than my wife and the
miscreant Benton. There was no lady
with her. I could 9ee that they were
laughing, merrily.
I had a revolver in my pocket, loaded
and capped, and my hand sought it, and
was glued to it, as I approached the spot.
But Jane did not see me, and tripped off
in the opposite direction. Benton re
mained in the doorway, and with an eye
fixed madly upon him, I approached him.
He did not shrink from my look, but re
turned it with a smile that puzzled me.
I knew not what it was, but there was
something in the mild, pleasant eye of
the man, and his unruffled and unsuspec
ting look, that disarmed me. The near
er I approached him, the more disconcert
ed I became, but as I had evidently aim
ed at him in my progress, I felt that I
could not avoid him ; and I determined,
moreover, that I could not, and would
not, bear the suspense any longer.
“Good morning, Mr. Kennedy,” sftid
Benton.
My voice was startlingly husky to
myself, as I returned the salutation.
“You are just too late to see a very
beautiful woman,” said the man, with
the slightest tremor on his voice.
My blood took fire at once. “Sir,”
said I, fiercely, “you are a scoundrel!”
“What—can—you—mean,—sir V’ in
quired the man, opening his eyes with
wonder.
“You are a damnable villian, sir! that
is what I mean—an infernal, smooth
tongued hypocrite. I have found you
out, and before I part with you, you
shall in some way give me satisfaction.”
The man’s eyes actually filled with
tears. He trembled from head to foot,
and I thought he would fall. I saw guilt
in every look and movement, and saw
that I bad him, and believed that I could
do what I chose with him.
“Have you a room in this building,
sir V* I demanded.
“I have.”
“Lead me to it.”
There was hesitation in his look, and 1
repeated my demand with an oath. He
stood irresolute for a moment, and then
said if I would wait a moment, until he
had adjusted some affairs in his room, he
w;ould comply with my demand. This
added new food to my suspicions, and I
cursed him for his artfulness. He could
not deceive me, and I reiterated my de
mand that he should show me to his
room at once.
I did not think that up to this time
the shameful nature of my suspicions
had really been apprehended by him. —
When these dawned upon him, there was
a fire in his eye, and a quick, painful
swelling of his muscles which I pray God
I may never see again. Pain, indigna
tion and determination were all there,
and I felt in a moment that I had aroused
a nature whose depth and strength I had
failed, hitherto, to measure. W ith great
self-control, however, he sf.id:
“Mr. Kennedy, you are unjust to a
woman whose happiness, 1 fear, is dear
er to me than to you. Did I feel at lib
erty to disregard her peace, I would soon
er hug a dagger to my heart than yield
for a moment to your insolence. Even
now you can only enter my room on my
conditions. Stand here for a moment,
and I will call you.”
“Take your own course,” I doggedly
replied.
He passed up the stairs, and I, to avoid
suspicion, looked up at the sky. It was
one of those calm winter days that show
a heaven as pure and blue as if a storm
had never stained it. I had stood thus
hardly ten seconds, when Mr. Benton de
scended a few steps and spoke my name.
I followed him up the stairs through a
dim passage, into a room, chaste in its
appearance, but filled with a light as
soft and pure as if even the glorious day
without had been refined by passage
through some rare medium. In my state
of mind I could hardly comprehend the
objects before me, at a ‘glance. But I
I knew that 1 was in an artist’s studio.
Benton was silent, but my eye selected,
at once, the prominent painting in the
apartment. I looked, and was struck
with a fit of shivering. It was the por
trait of my bride—my darling Jane—l
was dumb. I could not have spoken had
it been to save my life.
I have no idea how long I stood thus,
when Mr. Benton approached me and
took my unresisting hand.
“Mr. Kennedy,” said he, with achoak
ing sourd in his throat, “I knew of no
proper way for me to contribute to the
happiness oj one \ have loved as I can
NO. 13.
never love another, except by doing a
pleasure to the’ man whom she has hon
ored with her love. 1 thought it would
be pleasant to you to have a portrait of
your wife as she appeared in her bridal at
tire, and at my solicitude she has been hore
a number of times to sit for her picture.
Her friend, Miss Stephens, has been here
with her, and your servant had just pass
ed from sight when you came up, with
the package containing the drets. If I
have done wrong, forgive me} But I
thought it would makejrou all so happy.*#
Ashe closed these words, uttered with:
h meat emotion, every one of which w snt
like a dagger to my heart, I found strength
to lift my eyes to his. The big tears were
hanging to his eyelids, and his face, in
that exquisite light, was as beautiful as
if it had been the face of an angel. We
looked at one another a moment, and
then, moved by a common impulse, threw
ourselves into one another’s arms, and
cried, sir—cried like two babies.
O, my God! Tom, that was the hard
est thing that ever happened to me. I
was killed—killed by a magnanimity too
great for my mean heart ever to fathom.
I seized him by the hand at last, led him
down stairs, and took the way to my
own house. You know my impulses,
and you know I could not stop until I
made a clean breast of it. 1 went straight
to my house, kissed Jane a dozen times
told the whole story and made myself
ridiculous. Poor Jane! She was asham
ed of me, and I do not think she has got
over it yet.”
“And Benton,” I suggested.
“Benton remained and drank tea with ,
us. in accordance with my earnest wishes,
and sent the picture home the next day
but he has not been here since. I doubt
whether he will ever come again. The
fact is, vour friend Fred Kennedy has
never felt so humble as he has since that
day, and I have wondered how Jane, who
knew as both well, could have made the
choice she did between us.”
“So have I,” 1 most emphatically re
responded.
“Well, now I am bothered to know
what to do with Benton. He is too proud
to receive any favors of me. 1 cannot
offer him money, I cannot offer him any
thing. I’ll tell you what I have been
thinking about, and you tell me how it
strikes you. You see what a fellow I
am. I shall tear myself all to pieces in
a few years, and 1 have brought myself
to this. Before I die, I will make a sol
emn request of Jane to marry Benton
for a second husband.”
At this moment Mrs. Fred Kennedy
appeared, her cheeks flushed to Vermil
lion with the effect of the cool evening
air. 1 did not wonder at the’ennobling
influence of such a pure beauty as her’s
upon Benton’s sensitive mind. Fred in
troduced me, and somehow, we all found
ourselves before the portrait at once.
“I’ve told Tom all about it,” said Fred
to his wife.
Mrs. Kennedy gave him a look of
wounded reproach, and said to me, in a
way which spoke volumes—
“ You know Fred.”
Fred has become an humble man, and
bids fair to put off the day of Mr. Ben.
ton’s happiness to a very indefinite future.
Besides, his family has been increased to
that degree, that it would be doubtful
whether the artist would be willing to
take the bereaved Mrs. Kennedy with
the “incumbrances.” Still, I have no
doubt that. Fred’s imaginary sacrifice
has served the purpose in restoring, in
some degree, his self-respect.
Print it in Letters of Gold. —A
father whose 6on was addicted to some
vicious propensities, bade the boy drive
a nail into a certain po9t whenever he
committed a certain fault, and agreed
that a nail should be drawn out whenever
he corrected an error. In the course of
time the post was completely filled with
nails.
The youth becoming alarmed at the
extent of his indiscriminations set about
reforming himself. One by one the nails
are drawn out, the delighted father com
mended him for his noble, self-denying
heroism, in freeing himself from his
faults.
“They are all drawn out,” said the pa
rent.
The boy looked sad, and there was a
whole volume of practical wisdom in his
sadness. With a heavy heart he replied,
“True, father; but the scars are still
there.”
Parents who would have children grow
sound and healthy characters must sow
the seed at the fireside. Charitable insti
tutions can reform the man, and perhaps
make a useful member of society; but
alas! the scar 9 are there ! The reformed
drunkard, gambler and thief, is only the
wreck of the man he once was, he i9 cov
ered with scars— dishonorable scars—
which will disfigure his character as long
as he shall live.