Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 9.
the ceorcia citizen
* rriMj mom in* at #4 JO per annum In
►.•n*’ _____ **t th regular C-harrf will be Owe Doiiar
Jord* ,r fern, tor the •( inser-
eaeh .uheequentluamtloa. Allud
s* time, wUI be published until
K rtliEiT- a liberal discount allowed
0001 ‘ lwm
-fj. of candidate* for oe* to be paid for at
ar **■ 1-u made with county oflcere, Druggists,
acd others, who may with to make
‘S^gs@lS
STR-SSe-e the county la which the prop- j
PM*ar a* be adeartlaad In like
■M*” £** and Crodltore <* am Emu muet be
will be made to the Ordinary for
wire muet be published weekly for
(to Letten Os AdmlnletraUoe, thirty dayi; for
-** •* tltlss Km eaecutora or wJuriwietTmtOTS
by the deceased, the full space of
c 7 ftatirnt 1 end Buaioeae Car da will be inserted an
in”?"” t th* fbUowir * rates, rli :
r„ fin Unto, **■"■* -• <
io hMowt *
CoTenlitra da * 10 00
, , „{UJs darn will be admitted, unit** paid
aorfsr a lew term than twelre mouths. Ad
L^,-uoiortrtsaLues wUI be charaedyno rota. Ad
-2j833 M*F* lft,,n tdvsnee wltH* chnrged at the
MM ISA nans CHIOS
LAIIEB A ANDERSON,
attorneys at law,
Macon, Ghat.,
nil’ TICI in the counties of the Macon Circuit, and In
r oiEtW of Sumter. Monroe and .Jones; also In the
Court! st Ssvsn ash.
XSIfR 1 ANPERSON hare also recently become the
urtt'ftht Wlowtee Insurance Companies :
irOI'STA INSURANCE AND BANKING COM
:ivtttotich W. M. D’Antignuc is President, and C. P.
, A^te :! ALABAMA FIRE AND MARINE INBUR
1> i COUP ANY. Montgomery, of which T. H. Watte Is
ewtetasd A. Williams ts flecrafory.
ft Cussed risks on slaves taken at usual rates.
sfrg-tt
DL H. A. WETTADEE,
TTIHStS spsm a portion of three successive yean la
Q il l city, dona* which time he has limited hi*
nitfee slntst erclusirely to Surgery, now respectfully
dei at wriest to the ciuaeus of Macon and surround
gotutrii in sll the branches of his profession. Oficc
utofeoth last Oorner of Id and Cherry rtreeta, oyer
t ishsr Ayres’ new Grocery Store,
wyff-tf
0. MICE,
REPAIRER
OfPIANO VOX%.*X*:E2S,
itarasnenUy located In Macon. PWNames may
• and Messrs. Virfln’s and at 1. J. Johnston A do.
ud-tr -
lIOWN’S§|hOTE L,
ofp*it the PuMnrer Depet,
E. E. BEOWN, Proprietor,
9” ksais ready oa the arrtra.* of every Train.
Writ—ts
L N. WHITTLE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
MACON, GA.
iira nr. w Concert Hail, over Payne’s Dray Store.
islt-ly
J. R. DAVIS.
lu4 Broker. CUctr & 0.n.r.l Ar't.
I kesns snesded to la any county In this Stave.
I ifcsssreer JacAKn and Ellis Street, AafasU, Ga.
9
LOCHRAHE & LAMAkT
■Attorneys a,t, Law,
MAOON, OA.
I Jice bj the Mechanics Bank.
■ AT. I HOURS from Bto 1J A M.. Jto#F. M. and also
■ V bat is Mr. M.
■, .-vtir rc: the Counties of the Macon Circuit audio
■ - vnittof Joasa, Monroe and Columbia, and In the Bu
■MtCrat.
j 11. 10CHRANE. JOHN LAMAR.
SPEER A HUNTER,
■ htorneys at law,
MaOOU, GrS h...
■ h Maaftiar Block, Cerner es Cherry
I Stmt ud Cottee Avene.
ae aartuerv In the practice of Law la
■ “ •“"-:us..like Macon and adjolnlns Clrculta. and
IJfTf 1 lie State by special :• tttract—also, srtll attead
■ “ “wlCowls st Savannah and Marietta.
■ ..., ALEX. M. SPEER,
■ BAMCEL HUNTER.
I THE LIVER
ISVIGORATOR!
PkIPARED IT DR. BANPORD,
I pWOUNOEO ENTIRELY FROM GUMS,
■}.- ,t yay.-aSaggK'aga
‘ ■“>“ ?7 otter medicine known. It U not on
■ . ... ■ .laLi er remedy, aettn* trvt on the Liver
li- • “-’ then on the Stomach and bowels to
H .‘’ e'compdsi.ia* two purposes effec
'te painful feeiinsa aaparienced in the
H*t U 4 Gharries. Itstrenrtbens the system at
Hti, purjreis it, ar.J when taken daily in mod
’ * •--.ijuiec and build it up with unusual rap-
Htoi • principal regulators of the
wt t M performs its functions well,
H r ‘lonian B fully developed. The stem
H*- _ lent on the healthy action
lb : "! r 8 performance of Its functions:
9t * the bowels are at fault, and
; ‘ •*“* ms vmsequetsce of one organ—
-*“d eased “ lodoits duty, for the dls-
Hv * - °! the proprietors has made tt
Wk- * %sg&S£kSVS
■h ? C * tt fig JAbi*.
| m'??! < at last found, any person
Wr .. U.UVSA * XiMPLAINT. In any of Rs
t:e.and conviction is certain.
rrn*r. , I?K W V -nortHd or bad matter from
m SrSs
* SSSiSTOWHATg
by the occartonal use of the
SrSiJ tm sufficient to relie vs the stosn
■d ,■ ■■ ...1'..-: “ SSSSttS2Tn.
,jUeii tti® ! night loosens the bowels
H ‘ —diliS a DTsr,r.
■ •poonfuis wiU always re
f,“ M male obstructions removes
■ , ia, 1 makes a perfect cure.
■i. - * .y relieves CHOUC, while
‘^CWV** 2 '’• *’■ * sure cure for CHOL-
H. ‘I . entail ve of CHOLERA.
Ha- t “reded to throw out of the
due after a ton# sickness.
-T - * - f, '. r JAUNDICE remove* all
low kto. m or from the skin.
*• .r.b i. 7j^ rt ; time before eating gives vig-
Bh: ‘dtsS ad food digest well.
Wv ■l.v, “ X eutoe CHROMIC DIAR
■ - 1 vkiie SUMMER and
Bt b'•* W 7, ft almost to the #t dose.
SC ‘ ‘ f ;re * w attacks caused by WORMS
ts, i as*-- ~
m <nu | TiROPST, by exdting the
comisiadlag this madiclne
E -il: *&■*
C’ | f are willing to
u tlng their uuaulmous wtl-
H ■!*•* with the luvtgora-
B,‘ LlVEfi INVIGORATOB
91.~ l ;t MaareS?* 10 AL DISCOVERT, and Is daily
K Hr 7% rret to believe. It cures as if by
Ha llrin 9 fenritl. and seldom more
K. . * tie i,J “Z kin<i of LIVER Com-
‘•’•‘lofwhSk au, *^ ict or DvVepsio to a consmon
“tharetk, result of a DISEASED LTV
lc * °E dollar pkr bottlr.
H SAMTORD A 00, I roprietors,
9 MS Broadway, New York.
HS**®*®** l © Agent.i
K !*•. j T - W Dyott A Sons, Pklladel-
HreJS i-'lada^., 8 H • H. Hay A Oo_ Portland:
Hv* ‘ °y‘rd a Hammond, Cleveland ;
O- J. Wood A Co,At. Louis;
[From the Louisville Journal.
The Two Angels
>t asixis acxDT.
A bov at midnight ret alone.
And quick throbs o’er his being rtote.
-1 th0 *” to trever manhoo- known
_ When high resolves are in the soul.
Tmo winged anga’s softlv leave
The brightest star In all the sky.
And one is ns fair as rinleas Rye —
The other has the serpent’s eye.
th V softlv glide.
fold their starry wltgs unseea.
Then rest thsm. one on either side.
And watch him as he si's between ;
Esch angel helds within her hand
_ A scroll of purest white,
ror God has tent thsm with command
To wilts the bay’s resolves that might.
“I will be great!”—his hot cheek burned—
“ That men dial! shout in ecstacv,
WTosn frrt their wandering souls have lamped,
now like the goda a man mav he.”
The angel on the left hand smiled.
And wrote It with suspended breath :
She knew amhltfon oft beguiled
To stn. and seertdee, nod death.
htrs fore, as greatness bath,
WkJteV may be Its brilliant si'here.
But I will sweep them from mv path.
Or maim their pun v souls with fear.”
The angel on the left hand caught
And wrote the proud boas twith a sneer;
The auge! on the right had naught
Upon her page, but one bright tear.
“Love, still the Poet's chosen theme.
Shall be a thir g abjured by me;
And yet—my ehiWbond’s happiest dream
Came to me on my mothers knee,
My mother’s knee 1 Whv, what is this.
That on my lips is trembling now ?
A prayer ? I almost feel the kiss
_ Her dying Ups left on my brow.”
“She’d rather hear her name and mine
In some poor creature's night prever told
Than have the proud world rear a shrine
And write it therein burning gold.”
The angel on the left awhile
Seemed r.alf In doubt mod half In rage ;
The other smiled a warm bright smile
That dried that tear upon her page.
“I will be brave and ask each heart
That faints In life, to lean on mine,
And stnv to do that better part
That makes a mortal reel divine;
And, |e my faults should win a foe
Relentles* through all coming time.
I*ll pity one who may not know
Coopareloo stakes this life sublime. ’
The bey looked upward to the sky.
But ere his vow was half-wav done.
And ere the light passed from his eye.
1 he angel on the left had flown ;
The angel on the right was >bere
And for one joyful moment stood.
Then waved her bright wings on the air
And bore her message back to God.
[Frosn the Dublin University Magazine.
The Burial of Moses.
“And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over
against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his tepuiehie to
this day.'—Drerr. uxrv. *.
By Nebo'a lonelv mountain.
On this iM* Jordan’s wave.
In a vale In the land of Moah,
There lie* a lonely grave :
And no man dug the sepulchre.
And no man saw it e er;
For the Angels of God upturned the sod.
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral.
That ever pass'd on earth ■
But no man heard the tramping,
x£,T<ZwVs?£y t fis:
Comes when the night ts done.
And the crimson streak en the ocean's cheek
Grows Into the great sun.
Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure waves.
And all the trees oa ail the hille
Open their thousand leaves;
So. without sound of music.
Or rokt of thorn thut wept,
Silently down from the mountain's crown
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eag'e
• On gray Beth-poor's height.
Out or hu rocky eyrie.
Look'd on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking.
Still shuns that hallowed spot i
For beast and bird have sees and heard
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth.
His comrades in the war.
With arms reversed, and muffled drum.
Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken.
They tell his battles won :
And after him lead his masteries# steed.
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the mge to rest.
And give the bard an honor.d place.
With costly marble dress'd.
In the great minster transept,
Whea light* like glories fall;
And the choir rings, and the organ rings.
Along the emblaton’d wall.
This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword.
This the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word ;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced with his golden pen.
On the deathless page, truth half se sage
As he wrota down for men.
And had he not high honor ?
The hill side for his pall.
To lie In state while angels watt.
With stare for tapers tall;
And the dark rock pinei like tossing plumes
Over his bier to wave.
And God's own hand. In that lonely land.
To lay him la the grave *
01 lonely tomb in Moab * land ‘
O ! dare Beth peor's hiU ‘
ft peak te these curious hearts of ours.
And teach them to be still.
Qod hath his mysteries of grace.
Wavs that we cannot leu:
He hides them deep—like the sacred sleep
Os him he loved so well.
[communicated.]
t alon of Kindred Minds-
Who can estimate the value of a true
mate SPIRIT ? Who tell its worth ?
Who can reveal, how much of noble deed
and daring, how much of great achieve
ment, how much of every good, is lost
to nan—lost to society, for want of that
energy and power of accomplishment,
which can only result from the union of
two true kindred minds ?
Ournaturesdemand connubial compan
ionship, they imperatively ask for union
not in form merely—but a real fellow
ship of minds; one in which likes and
dislikes, sentiments and sympathies, so
combine, as to produce domestic harmo
ny. Nothing less than this satisfies the
true man or the true woman, who alone
is capable of the highest love. The ratio
of agreement being the measure of their
eujoyment.
When the harmonic action of the Law
of Affinities conjoins two true and good
minds, it secures them the greatest oon
nnblal felicity, which is the most perfect
earthly happiness. And when man learns
io form his matrimonial alliances, in
obedience to this divinely established
law, then will the sweetening, refining in
fluence of love —pure and good—bless
the generations to come.
But the world has not yet learned
how to form these roost important rela
tions. Indeed, so imperfectly is the sub
ject understood, that fools and philoso
phers, seem alike fortunate or unfortu
nate in wedlock, as the case may chance
to be : neither knowing enough to guide
infallibly his choice.
Do we turn to the sciences for light ?
There is nothing in all the areana of sci
entific discovery, that inspires intelligent
trust. Phrenology pretends this wisdom,
talks of its developcments, and invites
to its teachings : hut is quite at fault in
revealing the mystery. At most it can
|ely H* to Ito eigiSr. gre to Me
MACOIV, GA. SSPTSMJBHIR 24, 1838.
instructions. Perhaps it has shed a pen
cilling of light in the right direction ;
yet of this, there is much to doubt.
Turn we to Religion for guidance ?
Here we are met by the devoted zealot,
with the assurance, that the good effects
of religion—embraced after his style of
faith—is sure to restore the harmonious
action of these disturbed connubial for
ces. If he reasons correctly, there is
little need of choice in Wedlock : select
any one, no matter who, so he or she be
a Christian, and religion wiU perfect their
union ! Unfortunately for this theory,
the personal cases of its advocates give
but too frequently the negative. Cheer
fully do we accord to pure religion, its
power to subdue and control our vicious
propensities, and so improve our natures
and manners, that incongruous and dis
similar minds may endure, patiently, the
restraints and inconveniences of an illy
arranged wedlock, but we need not hope
tor religion to secure connubial union
between two discordant and unsuited
minds. Nothing produces love’s best
estate, contrary to the God ordained
law of affinitibs. True religion may
add to the completeness of their enjoy
ments, who are united in obedience to
this law, yet it ihould never be expected
to give wedded bliss to those who are
otherwise joined.
But who can instruct us, as we go forth
to seek a companion for life—how we
may surely find a true mate spirit ?
Who teach us this desired knowledge?
Who solve the problem—involving so
much of human happiness—of human
destiny ? Echo only answers, who ?
He that unravels this mystery —that
masters its solution; he who discovers
and reveals the law of God for forming
matrimonial alliances, will hold proud
eminence among the first benefaotors of
the race. Philanthropists and reformers,
in other departments, but mend and im
prove the superstructure —this would
complete and secure the foundation of
the social fabric.
Surely we may indulge the hope, that,
when the enquiring philosophic mind
shall be satiated with its knowledges;—
when the varied arts and sciences are
more fully known, and the maximum of
many attained—when the lap of man
is enriched with the accumulated discov
eries of centuries ; he may then, serious
ly and with good intent, address himself
to the investigation of such mental phe
nomena, and of whatever else that is nec
essary, to aid the more fully in learning
the law of connubial affinities. And
light will will reward his efforts. Some
mind —illumined by Divine rays—will
receive the great truth; and so impart
it to his fellows, that the simplest may
know—practically know—how to reach
its advantages.
Then, what an untold world of purest
happiness—of earth’s best and holiest af
fections—would wake to harmonic action
at the mention of the word Home. What
a loadstone of attraction—how it would
bind to the home-hearth every heart—
husband, wife, child, iriend— all would
feel the power of its magic influence.—
How society would be improved—mor
ally and physically—the ills of life miti
gated ; and crime, in its multiplied and I
frightful forms, almost disappear.
A jurist once said, that crime oould
often be traced to badly governed chil
dren—that intemperance was not the on
ly cause of vice. He might added
with great force that badly trained chil
dren and habits of intemperanoe, were
both too frequently the legitimate off
spring of disquiet and want of oonnubial
harmony at home.
W’hen all is harmony and love at the
family fireside, the man goes forth to do
and dare in the great ocnflict of life, fully
armed for the highest attainments of
which genius is capable. He pursues the
cherished object of his ambition, with a
zest and power of success, that bids de
feat defiance. He makes his Axil mark.
He fill his cycle. His impiess is felt.—
He has not lived in vain.
The star of glory that shone so brightly
upon the ambitious career of Napoleon
Bonaparte, soon began to dim, after he
parted with his own loved Josephine.
The woman equally shares the good
of such connubial harmony. A more
cheerful and lovely wtmanhood is hers,
when she dwells in tho constant atmos
phere of such home unities. Her finer
points of character are more fully ex
pressed, and shine forth in a stream of
purest light and love, chastening and
9weeteuiug all around, as only well de
veloped woman can do.
Because the world does not yet un
derstand bojv to wed aooording to the
highest style of love, shall we thence
conclude, that a single or unmarried state
is to be preferred ? By no means. We
are advised in the sacred oanons, that it
i9 not good for mau to be alone—to be
without a mate to share his hopes and
| fttrs—to assist his aims and efforts
Mm Near if ** ms
more fully attested in human history.
Wedlock is called by some a lottery.
Suppose we grant the claim, still it may
be replied, that it differs from all other
lotteries in this, that there are but very
few blanks—nearly all are prizes ; dif
fering if you please greatly in their rela
tive value, but yet all are of some worth.
N<jne are entirely destitute of good qual
ities. There are degrees of oonnubial
enjoyments. We should not refuse the
lower or more moderate, because we are
not certain of the highest.
If to wed, is to buy a chance in a lotte
ry, to remain single, is to purchase un
certainty in a more unpromising scheme;
where there are no valuable prizes, and
where there is nothing—almost nothing
to be expected—but a cold and cheerless
blank! LINDEN.
Macon, Ga., Sept. 1858.
A Belle Aligators.
Were you ever down on lower Red
River, reader mine? If not, all of the
“elephants” that you’ve seen lacked the
ivory. My first experience there was
pleasant, very—l may detail it perhaps j
for’you, some time or other. It occur
red in consequence of an advertisement
for an editor for the “Alexandria Whig,”
adding as an inducement, that the salary
was large, pistols,ammunition and bowies
provided, and only six editors had been
killed in the previous three years.
Whether I accepted the situation or
not, has nothing, however, to do with
this story. But it was only a few weeks
after that advertisement met my eyes,
that the srae eyes were blessed with a
first “sight” at sweet Clara B ,’ dear
Clara B . And as a first sight al
most always brings a dear shot, so I got
a plumper right into my heart when I
saw her.
The glossiest of curls danced about
the rosiest of cheeks, and down upon
shoulders as white as magnolia leaves ;
the most kissable of rubient lips, open
ed to reveal the pearliest of teeth—her
eyes twinkled like dew-drops on a sunny
June morning—her voice sounded like
the cooing of a dove when it answers its
mate ; her form was plump, yet fairy
like in its proportions, her dear little
foot encased in a gaiter boot was annex
ed to a faultless ankle, in short, Clara
was a beauty and “nothing shorter.”
She was the life of a ball room, the
queen of the parlor, and on horseback,
why, “Di Vernon” would have waited
before her, 1 mean the Di V. of Sir
Walter Scott—not your own gifted cor
respondent. Fond of equestrian pleas
ure, as I was, it need not be wondered at
that I often volunteered to accompany
Miss Clara on her rides, and hunter born
and bred, as 1 am, it need not be thought
strange that 1 should frequently take my
six shooting rifle along, the more especi
ally as our rides were through a “game”
country, in the literal sense of the word.
Many a buck and many a prime turkey
fell before my unerring aim in these rides,
even though my hand trembled the more
that she was by my side, and many a
pretty doe bounded away in safety, be
cause Clara asked for its life.
Ah 1 Clara, how could you be false to
one who loved you so ? And one who
did for you that which is “hereinafter
stated,” as the lawyers say !
One day, how well I remember it,
Clara and myself took a long, wild gal
lop away up along the banks of the Red
River, and only paused when we reach
ed a deep and sluggish bayou which ex
tended out from the river some ways,
and here, in the shade of some tall mag
nolias, we dismounted so as to rest our
horses, which had come at full speed for
miles.
Like mo9t of the bayous in that sec
tion, this was full of aligators, which lay
lazily snoozing here and there upon the
water, some of them half out of oozy
banks, where they could find a sunny
spot to “lay off” in, like a Wall Street
Broker, watching for a streak of luck in
the wakes of a crisis.
Across this bayou to the opposite shore
a roost dangerous bridge extended, at
least a perilous one to an experienced
foot; for it was a long and slender pine,
nearly branchless, which had been top
ped over by some hurricane.
‘What’ll you wager that I dare not
cross on that pole ?’ said Clara, as she
glanced at the slender tree.
‘l’ll wager all thzt I possess that you’ll
not make the attempt in my presence !’
I replied. ‘lt would be as foolish as it
is dangerous!’
‘Then the more pleasure for me !’ she
cried, starting up from the mossy bank
whereon she had reclined.
‘For the Lord’s sake, stop,Miss Clara!’
I cried, ‘just look at the aligators in the
water!’
‘ W ouldn’t I create a sensation among
them ! she cried, with a silvery laugh,
and before I could prevent it, she was oh
the fallen tree and advancing.
My heart wa*fiwrl y immy mouth now,
fcrlM sot d*r to mmk to her—
w
the slightest nervousness or mis-step
would be sure to precipitate her down to
the dark waters, where the great raven
ous fresh-water sharks lay, looking at
her with eager eyes, perchance fancying
what a delicious morsel she would make.
But grasping my oft tried rifle in my
hand, I advanced to the edge of the bank,
and almost breathlessly watched her pro
gress. All went very well—her step ae
free and firm as it had been upon the
flowery sod, until she had reaohed a point
nearly two-thirds of the way across.—
Then the cracking of some of the top
branches on the other shore caused the
tree to waver and settle. She became
alarmed, lost her 9elf-possession and the
next instant, with a wild scream of ter
ror, losing her balance, she fell into the
water.
I had been scared before, had been
some troubled when I was surrounded by
over twenty yelping Comanches, and had
to fight my way out alone, or dye in my
tracks, but was never quite so much ‘put
out’ as now. I was in the act of spring
ing into the water to her rescue, when I
saw that drowning was the least danger
which menaced her. Several of the huge
and hideous aligators were moving to
wards her with open jaws, for her cloth
ing prevented her from sinking instantly.
I had no time to lose. In a second my
rifle was at my shoulder, and a ball from
its muzzle penetrated the eye of
the nearest monster. But scarce
had it plunged down into the foaming
waters, when another was almost upon
her. Another bulltt from my rifle and
it, with a horrible bellow, went down,
another and another followed until the
water was filled with blood, and lashed
into foam by the wounded monsters,
and worst of all, my last charge was ex
pended and there was no time to reload.
Clara, had ceased to scream, but she
was now sinking, for her clothes had be
oome saturated and no longer served to
buoy her up. One glance at her sweet
pale face, and her imploring eyes, deci
ded me to ‘go in,’ and either save her or
perish with her. So I threw down my
rifle, loosened the bowie in my belt, and
rushing out upon the tree, plunged into
the water by her side.
Fortunately for us both, nay heavy
weight brought the tree down to the
water, and when I rose and clasped her
by the waist, it was within my reach.—
Fortunately, I may say indeed, for the
water was now fairly alive with the hid
eous creatures, who, maddened with the
smell of blood, made the forest echo
with their dismal bellows. How I got
her up on the fallen tree, and how I
clambered after her, or how we reached
the bank, and there, covered with blood
and slimy mud, sunk exhausted upon
the earth, is more than I am able to tell,
or ever fully to comprehend.
But there we were, full ten miles from
home and in a pretty condition to ‘see
company.’ Both of our horses gone, for
they had broken their bridles and fled,
terrified almost to death by the hideous
noises which they had heard.
And the first thing which that witch
of a girl did while we lay there, was to
burst out in a fit of laughter.
‘Didn’t 1 create a sensation among
those aligators ?’ she asked.
‘I think this no time for joking, Miss
Clara!’ said I, half angry at her levity.
‘You have escaped from the very jaws
of death !’
‘From the jaws of the aligators, you
mean !’ she cried with another laugh.
‘What a figure you are, Colonel, you
look as if you had been swimming
through a battle!’
‘lf my appearance displeases you, Miss
Clara, I hope you will excuse my further
attendance!’ said I, now as completely
riled as the bayou was. And 1 started
up to leave. •
‘Forgive me, Colonel,’ she cried, and
a sad look usurped the smile on her pret
ty face. ‘l’m so full of fun, it seems as
if neither water, blood or murder, or
even the presence of death can dampen,
or chill my spirits—forgive me, dear
Colonel; 1 shall never forget that you
have saved my life—never, never !’
Did I forgive her ? Did a donkey ev
er refuse hay, or a born toper turn away
from a julep ? 1 did forgive her! More
than that, I knelt down there on the
flowery sod, and in all the glory of my
muddy habiliments, and swore that I
loved her harder than an untamed mus
tang could kick, swore that I would live
for her or die for her—angel that she was
—and she—she—what do you think she
said, while there I knelt and held her
little hand in mine ?
That she reciprocated my passion ?
No, sir ! she didn’t do any such thing ?
She only said—“ Colonel, couldn’t you
say it better if you had dry trowsers on ?’
I caved! What I should have done, l
know not, but just then a darkie hove in
view who had caught our runaway hor
aad tltr rffbeof that nigpsr mv#£
roe from any immediate act of despera
tion.
We remounted and I escorted the lady
back to town in a humor on a par with
; my condition.
Just a month after that 1 received an
’ invitation to attend Clara’s wedding with
Ketchme dad a little creole,
half French and half American, that
wasn’t fit to carry curl papers for her
hair, when compared to me. But who
can account for woman’s taste ? Not I,
nor will I try! only should one of you,
fair readers, fall in love with a rough
hunter like me, I would be astonished !
and perhaps agreeably so—for I’m tired
of following the trials of life without any
music to keep step to !
The Telegraph too Slow.
In the regular Thursday afternoon edi
tion of the Tribune, we printed news
copied from the London papers of Wed
nesday, of peace with China, and also
reports of the sailing of steamers. Very
important and highly interesting new*,
which was sought after and read with
much earnestness, and with general sat
isfaction. There was one exception.—
An excitable individual, hearing the boys
crying, “News by the ocean telegraph,
direct from London,” stepped into the
Tribune office and snatched up a paper
in great haste, looking to see whether it
is worth his while to invest two cents in
the purchase of a paper. Os course it
did not take him long to read the des
patch (ocean telegrams are. and we hope
ever will be, more brief than some that
go over the land lines,) and then he
threw down the paper with an air of dis
gust, exclaiming, as he turned away dis
satisfied : “Thunder, what cheats. The
boys said it was right from London. It
is a day old I thought it came from there
to day. O, pshaw !’
This reminds us of an anecdote an
old friend of ours used to tell us of the
first line of magnetic telegraph ever op
erated, that from Washington to Bal
timore, and that only sixteen years ago.
When it was first established there was,
of course, a great deal of talk about
“instantaneous communication between
the two places.” A Yankee, who had
some matter before Congress, upon which
the fate of nations, in his opinion, stood
trembling, left Washington one afternoon
in company with a friend, bound East
ward by the express train. On the way
to Baltimore, he recollected that he had
forgotten to tell his lobby agent to
be sure and say twedledee or twedledum,
we forget which, to the member from
“our district,” and he was in a peck of
trouble at the important omission. He
could not go back, for there was some
other equally important matter to attend
to somewhere about Boston. Our friend
suggested to him the use of the telegraph
at Baltimore. “It would be possible for
him to run into the office, transmit his
message, and get to the Philadelphia
boat in time.”
“I’ll do it—l can get an answer back,
I suppose ?”
“Well, yes, if your friend is not too
far off.”
“I’ll do it. Just the thing. Thank
you. Thank you for the suggestion.—
Just the thing.”
And at work he went with his pencil,
writing over about a page of letter pa
per, to transmit “instantaneously.” He
was so excited that he wanted to leap
from the cars and outrun them when they
come to the slow speed of horse power
traction, and would have done so, per
haps, if he had known the way to the
telegraph office—a waynotas well known
in those days as now. Our friend agreed
to pilot him, and so he agreed to wait
with what patience he could. Os course
he entered the office in a hurry, thrusting
his manuscript in the face of the opera
tor, said ; “There, I want that sent to
Washington, and an answer, right off.
How long will it take 1”
“Half an hour, perhaps;” was the
quiet reply.
You would have had a study of the
human face under a feeling of disappoint
ment, if you could have seen his at that
moment, when he jerked out the words :
“Half a—! Why, I thought it wouldn’t
take half a minute.”
It was the theme of that man’s conver
sation all the evening, that “the telegraph
wa9 a humbug. Half an hour, to be
sure, when a man is in a hurry. If they
can’t make it work quicker than that,
what’s the use ?”
Sure enough, what is the use. News
printed in London on Wednesday, and
in New fork on Thursday, is already
too slow. Can’t we have it a little
quicker ? “Half an hour! Can’t we
have in half a minute V’ Who will to
tally annihilate space?— Tribune.
Religion is like the firmament; the
more it is examined, the greater number of
stars will be discovered: like the sea
—the more it is observed, the more it
appears to be immense; like fine gold
the more it is tried io the furnace ,the great
erw>tt twite luftnr
The Overflowing Cup.
A oompany of Southern ladies were
once assembled in a friend’s parlor, whftn
the conversation chanced to turn on
earthly affliction. Each had her story of
peculiar trial of bereavement to relate
except one real bad looking woman,
whose lustrous eyes and dejected air
showed that she was a prey to the deep
est melancholy. Suddenly arousing her
self. she said in a hollow voice, “ not one
of you knows what trouble is.”
* Will you pleaue, Mrs. Gray,’ said
the kind voice of a lady, who well knew
her story, ‘tell the ladies what you call
trouble.’
‘ I will, if you desire,’ she replied, ‘ I
have seen it. My parents possessed a
competency, and my girlhood was sur
rounded by all the comforts of life. I
seldom knew an ungraiified wish. 1 was
alway.sgay and light-hearted, and married
at nineteen one 1 loved more than all the
world beside. Our home was retired,
but the sunlight never fell on a lovelier
one, or on a happier household. Years
roiled on peacefully. Five children sat
around our table, and a little curley head
still nestled in my bosom. One night
about sundown, one of those fierce black
storms came on which are so common in
our Southern climate. For many hours
the rain poured down incessantly. M< .ru
ing dawned, still the elements raved.—
The whole Savannah seemed afloat. The
little stream near our dwelling became a
raging torrent. Before we were aware
of it our house was surrounded by wa
ter. 1 managed, with my babe to reach
a little spot, on which a few wide spread
ing trees were standing whose dense fol
iage afforded some protection, while my
husband and sons strove to save what
they could of our property. At last a
fearful surge swept away my husband,
and he never rose again. Ladies, no one
loved a husband more—but that was not
trouble.
* Presently my sons saw their danger,
and the struggle for life became the only
consideration. They were brave, loving
boys as ever blessed a mother's heart,
and I watched their efforts to escape with
such agony as only mothers can feel.—
They were so far off that I could not
speak to them but I could see them dos
ing nearer and nearer to each other as
the little island grew smaller and smal
ler.
‘The sullen river raged around the
huge trees; dead branches, upturned
tranks, wrecks of houses drowning cattle,
masses of rubbish, all went floating past
us. My boys waved their hands to me
then pointed upward. 1 knew it was a
farewell signal, and you, mothers, can
imagine my anguish. I saw them all
perish, and yet that was not trouble.
* I hugged my babe close to my heart,
and when the water rose to my feet, I
climbed into the low branches of the tree
and so kept retiring from it, until an all
Allpowerful Hand stayed the waves,
that they should not come any further.
I was saved. All my worldly posses
sions were swept away ; all ray earthly
hopes were blighted—yet that xoas not
trouble.
‘My baby was all that I had left on
earth. I labored night and day to sup
port him and myself, and sought to train
him in the right way ; but as he grew
older, evil companions won him away
from me. He ceased to care for his
mother’s advice ; he would sneer at her
entreaties and agonized prayers. He
left my humble roof that he might be un
restrained in the pursuit of evil, and at
last, when heated by wine one night, he
took the life of a fellow being, and end
ed his own upon the scaffold. My Hra
venly Father had filled my cup of sor
row before, but now it ran over. That
was trouble , ladies, such as I hope Ho
mercy will spare you from ever experi
encing.”
There was no dry eye among her lis
teners, and the warmest sympathy was
expressed for the bereaved mother, whose
sad history has taught them a useful les
son.—New Brunswicker.
How to make good Cider.
There is hardly a tithe of cider made
now as compared with forty years ago.
Many of the old orchards have died out,
and the temperance reform has prevented
their renewal. The market for the fine
fruits has greatly expanded, and nearly
all the trees now planted are for the pro
duction of market apples. It took eight
bushels of apples to make a barrel of ci
der, and the barrel sold for only $1. —
Apples now bring every year from 50
cents to $1 a bushel. Fruit growers can
hardly be expected to lament the change
that is so much for their pecuniary inter
est.
Yet cider is still made all over the
country in small quantities, some for the
apple butter, some for vinegar, and still
more for a beverage. When bottled
and properly handled it is as patetafcie,
id awk nwr whoUsoge,
wro. 27.
the wines of commerce. In affections of
the kidneys It is an excellent remedy,
and should have place in every well ap
pointed cellar. It is a matter of some
j importance that what cider is made
: should be made in the best manner.
i The apples should be well ripened,
| but not in the least decayed. Every ap
ple with the least speck of rot in it should
be removed, if you wish a first-rate bev
erage. The decayed and inferior ap
ples may be res rved for making Vine
gar. Perfect cleanliness should be ob
served in the grinding process, which
should be performed two days before
pressing, and the pomace be permitted
to stand and mellow in the vat, until it
acsuines a deep red color. Clean dry
straw should be used in forming the
cheese. If the straw be musty, flavor
will be communicated to the juice. If
water be added, it will make it hard and
unpleAvant to the taste. The casks also
in which it is put for fermentation should
be thoroughly cleansed and finished ofT
with a fumigation of hr must >ne. This
is done by burning inside the barrel a
few strips of canvas, dipped in melted
brimstone. The fumes will penetrate
all the pores, and dstruy the must and
correct the sourness.
After the fermentation is over, draw
off into e'ean barrels and clarify it. This
can be done by mixing a quart of clean,
white sand with the wihtes of half dozen
eggs and a pint of mustard seed, and
pouring it into the barrel. It may stand
in the barrel, or if a nice article is want
ed, it should be put into quart bottles
and corked.
This cider will be fit to drink in case
sickusss, and will always bear a good
price in market. It retails'at twenty
five cents a bottle, and would bring at
least two dollars a dozen, by the quanti
ty. This is much better business than
to make a poor article from decayed ap
ples, in a slovenly manner, and sell it
for two dollars a barrel.— Arnr. Agr.
Lord Byron’s Terrible Secret.
The unhappy character of Lord Byron
may perhaps be traced to the secret of
his terrible deformity, the extent of i
which was never suspected even by his
nearest friends and which is now reveal
ed to the world for the first time by his j
friend, Mr. Trelawney. The little van
ity which was one of the illustrious po
et’s saddest weaknesses, made this a
source of continued irritation during his
life; and his death he exacted from his
confidential servant a solemn promise
that no one should see his body, in order
that the secret should descend with him
to the grave. How the dying injunction
of the noble poet was defeated is told by
the Athenaum:
Mr. Trelawney was not with Byron at
Missolonghi when he died; but he ar
rived while his friend lies dead in the
house. By a stratagem he sends the
ti usty Fletcher out of the room in which
his dead master lies—that Fletcher
whom the dying poet has commanded
no account whatsoever to allow his body
to be uncovered after death—and, vre
grieve to say it, Mr. Trelawney, con
trary to the poet’a wish, uncovered his
friend’s feet. What does he find ?
“ I asked Fletcher to bring me a glass
of water. On his leaving the room, to
confirm or remove my doubts as to the
cause of his lameness, I uncovered the
Pilgrim’s feet, and was answered—the
mystery was solved. Both his feet were
clubbed, and his legs withered to the
knee, the form and features of an Apollo,
with the feet of a sylvan satyr. This
was chaining a proud and soar
ing spirit like his to the dull earth. It
wsf g.-rif-ra'ly thought this halting gait
•>rl£iualr*d in some defect of the light
toot or ankle—the right foot was the
most distorted, and it had been made
worse in his boyhood by vain efforts to
set it right. His .-hues were peculiar
very high heeled, with the soles uncom
monly thick on the inside, and pared
thin on the outside —the toes were stuff
ed with cotton wool, and his trowsers
were very large below the knee, and
stiapped down so as to cover his feet.—
The peculiarity of his gait was now ac
counted for; he entered a room with a
sort of run, as if he could not stop, then
planted his best foot well forward; —
throwing back his body to keep his bal
ance. In early life, whilst his frame was
light and elastic, with the aid of a stick,
he might have tottered along a mile or
two; but. after he had waxed heavier, he
seldom attempted to walk more than a
few hundred yards, without leaning
against the first wall, bank, rock, or tree
at hand never sitting on the ground, at
| it would have been difficult for him to
get up again. In the company of stran
gers, occasionally he would make despe
rate efforts to conceal his infirmity, but
the hectic flush on his face, hit swelling
veins, and quivering nerves betrayed him
and he suffered for many day s after swab
exertion*”