Newspaper Page Text
—— vcmmm bbmbmbb— ——
VOX ji*
ftiE GEORGIA CITIZEN
I** * frtoy momi*at tS.fiu per annum in
Jtiernilarchar*p will be <h>t Dollar
- < - f-r ti ■ Shi inacr
-aeh witfijTirTit In-r*‘ -n All al
-1 uto tin* 1 , will he published until
;.. A liberal discount allowed
, . : ‘EJe* hv the year.
* ‘j, vnu e* fewer In kite, will be charged at the
I ”„,jinr nt~ of randidat** lor office to be paid for at
- t.i u.a>le ’‘tb county officers, Drnrel sta,
iT". __ / xL.I otherv who may wish to make
..,,1 v.isra bv Executors, Admlnistra-
I . • ‘f U ” . re rured by law to be edrcrUsed in a
I ; r “ IV , revioua to the day of sale,
j 4 [jjij on the IratTaeaoay in the month,
I ai.ll three in the af
jt-house in the county in which the prop-
I I’erMioal Property must be advertised in like
‘ivbp.rs and < redllora of an Estate must be
I ■’ V’ >r will be made to the Ordinary for
I Vr* Nsp we- must be published weekly for
I ft Le‘*ers r f Administration, thirty days; for
I * : i-tntion, monthly, Wt month*; for
I < o„ . -hip. weekly, forty days
I , . iw-Wnc of Mortitasee. monthly, fonr
I tn\<* i 1 * * st papers, for the full space of three
I < from executors or nondnistratore
I ‘ji -ii fiiveu by the deceased, the full space of
| , ,'„.I ..4 Bi'inen* Cards will be Inserted un
■ pri4e->oii fdiiowinit rates, vix:
i •800
I *> ,000
I asa will be admitted, unless paid
i • term than twelve months. Ad
-8 aes will hr charged pro rata. Ad-
I- . rin advance will be charged at the
Hi m BiiEsmis
liaiuel H. Washington,
I lITOItAEY AT 1.1 tv.
Macon, G-a,
■ sill Practice :n all the Counties of the MACOJSCIR-
B* a •jieCo'inuts of Washington, Wilkinson and
I ,it to force ft Hall, over Payne's Drug Store.
I LANIER & ANDERSON,
lITTORNEYS AT LAW,
Macon, G-a.,
In -"Em the counties of the Macon Circuit, and in
■ •... f u-imter, Monroe and Jones; also in the
ItelVuti si Savannah.
| y-r. i AXOF.KSON iiave also recently Income the
Hi fiiiowinv Insurance Companies :
| -TA INSURANCE AND HANKINOCOM
■ ; vt. :W. M. li'Aulignac is President, and O. F.
| Yi.akama fire and marine
3 NI'A.NY. Montgomery, of which T. 11. IN atU is
H A Williams is Secretary.
■ risks on slaves taken at usual rates.
| . -t:
L. N. WHITTLE,
lITTORNEY AT LAW,
I MACON, GA.
I’ y;o Concert Ilali.over Payne’s Drug Store.
I
I LOCHRANE & LAMAR,
m.ttcrneys at Law,
MACON, GA.
I Cice bv the Mechanic’s Rank.
I V ’tr lutb from Stoll A. Jl., i to3 I’. M.andalso
■ Kir. T Id 10 Y M.
m -i v; •* fVranttwnf tbc Macon Circuit amlln
I iroe and Columbia, and in the Su
■o Court.
M. A. LOfURAXI. JOBS LAMAR.
SPEER & HUNTER,
■iTTOENF.YS AT LAW,
Macon., Gn.,
B?. *3 Triaajnlar Ulnck, Comer of Cherry
I Street and Cotton Avenor.
Br ... .• dx< rartnerv In th practice of Law in
11 the Mocoe and adjoining Circuits, and
by j;edal contract—also, will attend
m It savannah and Marietta.
| ALEX. M. STEER,
■ SAMUEL HUNTER.
II ,’- v nN j W. C. M. nussoK
IEUTFIB & BUKSON,
■ attorneys at Xiaw.
M.A- CfOIKT . GAA.
■ Ilcforenccs:
* . M le,Vev!i!e: lion. NVashington Poe,
. iv - 1. y :;vcv, Montgomerv. Ala.; H"d.
- (j.... lion. C. J. Aiellonal.l, hiaiiet
-C-. r-ii lirrker A C.i's Urdu Store.
I LEONARD T. DOYAL,
■ iltorncy at Law,
Gx-irfin, Ga„
. ’•ftwr. n Woodruff’s Carriage Ro
arala sod Btuhsm a Kumilure Store.
to ifVrence. L. T. DOYAL,
f-’AMES T. ELLIOTT,
B l ’ in at Law.
S Ml> EX, AIiKANS AS,
H *-i:-te>i I” him in South Ar
I THE LIVER
ImGOPiATOII!
B?RIP.UIEr> BV OR. SANFORD,
f : S2ED ENTIRELY FROM GUMS,
B Parxitlv-f am! I.iver Mfdicine*mi* N;fore
B .- a ‘ a . rtlc. easier, tuiMer. awl
• -r e known. It i* Dot on
r r . actio* first on the Liver
B . alter, then on the Stomach and bowel* to
B BpMilw two pnrpoee* effec
■ r ruunful experienced in the
■ ‘Vi attics. It strengthen* the *T*tem at
B : P’l-zes it: and when taken daily in mc*l
■ * and build it up with unusual rap-
B ‘• oft! -J • | principal regulators of the
■ * ‘ •# perf rtna its functions well,
B ‘ r> fully developed. Theriom
■ 1 dent on the healt.iy action
■ f per ;erformanceoflt*fnnc*!on*t
w Ithe bowels are at fault, and
B •’ ‘ ‘eonsequer.ee of one or*an—
<: teased - .to do its duty. Forttiedis-
B ‘ the ppiprietor* has made It
■ *’ f dffi ‘moeethan twenty yearx.to
- w>;. t.j counteract the many
Ad ’liable.
-dv m lisat last fonnd.ary person
H” •hi. at CUM i'LAINT, in any es its
‘ r a w tle.smt conviction is certain.
B _ ,**•'• h morbid or bad matter from
A their place a healthy fiow of
B U h. mtisinx food to dl*e!*t
--US BLOOD, giving tune and
nachin-i cry. r.-movies the cause of
B : h„ . , r r ril ‘ Seal cure.
■ ,y h> lire cured. AND, WHAT IS
B - ■ E-! ib) the occasional use of the
■ > ja. 1 1, l-nfEdentto re’deeethertom-
B -from natn* and souring.
**•- *!• re return*, prevents NIOIIT
~ ‘“'t v wa ii*ht, loosens the bowels
■ - - : I nrfam
B • -*r esj m a.eal will cure DTSl'El’
iw ,r,_ I
■ \.Z -IK kpoor.fills will always re
st Ee male obstructions removes
K ‘ _ i mokrx a perfet cure.
H’ ‘ “ ‘ !y relieves CHOLIC, While
B, -at.,; =n i. a *,ire cure fr CHOL
ventativc of CHOLERA.
Bv ‘ W. reeded to throw <iut of the
_ i , <v after a loc* sickneas.
Bf ’• l , r t A UNDICE reiaovea all
•rueoh or fron. the skin.
B ; ‘ - “A -line beforeeatlnc gives vl*-
* - .. ilhoddltcst well.
| ! -’••d 1* cures CHRONIC DIAR
■ while SUMMER and
-M alm.wt to the first dose.
fj| - xw ,attacks causetl by WORMS
’ “ X' mT e |er. safer, or fipectar remedy
t - aee.r m
■'h. *nrea [bl.orST, by exdtin* the
h ‘ ‘- i-r n.endiri* this medicine
■ • f. ‘JE - VEK AND AC,rE.CHILL
■s” re 1 -f a BILLJOUS IYFE.
land thousaiuls are wUlin*to
„ ‘ , ™- W. Itues.
n<iibonuiiLir wu.innuu
[> ~ Ttr - • !"•-
ll 1 ' ir, f\,; r * r,f •‘■'ln* ih-ir unaninicn*
***"‘i: monih wUh the Imtiorw
lusfthrr.
• UVER INVIGORATOR
t* . nIMMVTRY. Mdtoftulv
I, i ; a** to bfcleve. It cure aif *T
r ~ . .. brr>rfU. mr.U wliloni a-.ura
‘■ ‘! ’ iu cure toy Wad f LIVERCum
'v .• , '*xo'lic or Duiptpma to mmon
remit Jt a bisEASEI) LIV
1,5 2 DOLI.au per bottle.
. SASfoitP 4k CO, Ir>pit*t/ini,
_ 3tt Broadway. Sew Ytwk.
L k °lcfxio Agonts:
k V • *'?* : ‘*'• w DyU A S*wa. PkUadet
i . “iti'. . -D*t - •. if. n. Hay A Cos., Portland; 1
AL. - ‘ * Gay-owl * H anmnc<!. dented I
<L.’ :* ;c w£*-: o. J. TVood & Lot-fc:
s - S- Har.ee.
t fold W bolreJ. and Retail by
--a Uius. hd*t * co.
JUcoQ.Oa.
DOCTOR,
J. Dickson I^niith,
Practicing Physician,
Maoozi,Ga.,
WILL at’end pror.pHyto all Professional calls made on
* b’ day or night, cnher at hi* c.iliee or tesirte ,ce.
iMT lCt—Uver Menard A Burghard’s Jewelty bt re, on
Cherry st-eet.
At Mr. J. B. Ross’. jan. !!-.
DR. A. PIERCE,
HOMCEOPATH
Office In
Medicine Coses, and Books ou Domestic Practice for sale.
Ms cox, July 9,1£53. _jy
M. R. FREEMAN, M. D.
Han IXO returned to Macon. < fferv I is Proieesional servi
, cesw, its citireiis, and the tuirroundir g eoin try, :,nd Is
prejared to treat their various dlseaies wivh inneceiit ye e
tabie remeuieih and bs pesttmt in consideration ,-f the laet
that he gives no potton. draws to blood, and neei-r destroys
the coiiKitutions of his patients, he will be liberally cationized
by the sffl.ct .l.
ZW~ IMMieular attention will be given to Plantation, and
other country practise.
tf- 1 (Bee at the Drugstore cf Dr. Sf. S. Thomson, to
whom he reters. (a n . 7 _,y
DU. C. J. UOOSEYELTS
HOKEPATHIC PHYSICIA>,
Office ami Residence, Corner
Walnut nad Urd SlrreS, Nlscob, tin.
jan.Sl-Iy
MEDICAL NOTICE.
13r. J. L. Large,
ANNOUNCES totbe public that hehaslltted up Rooms,
that are airy and convenient, to aocottmiodate Sn*gieal
and fhninio fuses ot .11 kinds — white and black — (tfcecure
of RUPTURE and rettet of CA.Nt'EH not exclud,si >—
Blacks, latxirlng under chronic affections, wiU he bought.
Price according to thelT condition.
Parties whshing to consult me, can do so bv letter, with the
care fully described, and I can determine the case prior to
sending the patient, and save expense of sending and return
ing—as circumstances render some cases Incurable. 1 have
had considerable Hospital experience, which gives advantage
In the care and relief of Chronic cases. Office and Residence
corner of South Broad and Abercom streets, Savannah, Oa.
tuly 9—ts
X3r. Samuel Tarver,
CtONTIXUES the practice of Medicine, frnrcrry rnd
) Obstetric* at l’aikers’ btation. No. 11), on tteOentrai
Rail Road. Jefferson Oounty.Oa. His Post Office address
spier's Turn Out Jeffefwin County. Particular attenlL-n prvid
to the treatment c4f nr nic 1 incases. Pet* is living at n dis
tance, bv riling a statement of t heir ciaee cun have prc-ciip
tions and M‘siicine sent to them by Mail. Charges moderate,
nov. ls.lsJß.-ly*
DR. H. A. METTABER,
HAVING spent a portion of three succeMive years in
this city, daring which time he has limited his
practice almost exclusively to Surgery, now respectfully
offers his services to the citixens of Macon and surround
ing country, in all the branches of his profession. Office
on the South East Corner of 3d and Cherry streets, over
Mr. Asher Ayres’ new Grocery Store,
septfl—tf
J. R. DAVIS,
Land Droker, Collactor & General Ag't.
Business attended to In any county in this State.
Office corner Jackson and Kilts Street, Augusta, Ga.
Tl—tf
J. C. EDWARDS,
Real Estate Broker,
l\r ILL give proa.pt snd personal attention to Buying
IT and re lmg Lsi.d> ami citv pru|*rty t kxstuining ’I files.
ArcerUinir.g the value of Rial Istitt, Rentlrg Pr, perty,
ami Ii hue u"s jertaining toageiera! I'eal khiteAivtcy.
Omrt in Id story r.p stairs, in Dr. Strcheckcr's lAiildiag.
dec. 10—ts
Exchange on
NEW YORK FOR SALE AT THE
MANIFACTrSER S BASK.
mar 29 —ts
mm & MILLER,
(Late PATTO, IHTTOS it Cos.)
Commission Merchants,
SAYA.WAII, GEORGIA.
O. PAI TEN. A. J. MILLER.
July 1 ISAS. —l*
JONATHAN COLLINS,
Late Patten, Collins Si Cos.
Will continue the
Commission Business
VT the Fireproof Bu’.Mlni: bv them In Mac-n,
in amrectlon with sun, W. *\. COLLINS, M 4 re
spectfully the t.ualcrrs of the Pafnms f thelVe flira,
aid of Planter* renerally, p!cdai their undivided attention
to all buxine** taeir care. Advances made on C ot
ton and other produce In store, and orders c-ri fnllv fi:ljjd*
J. CULLIAS <*
Macon. July 1.-d, I‘A- — 1 v
INSURANCE RISKS.
TAKBN FOR
AUGUSTA INSURANCES BANHINGCO.
AND
Alabama Fire Marine Insurance Cos.
by I.ANIEP. a AND ERKIN.
gep 94—ts Affenta, Macotl.
II (RTI OKD IHSI RiXCE
cOMPA N I E S.
The Hartford Incorporated ISIO.
CAnT a t . ssoo.ooo
The Springfield, Capital $150,000.
The at Sprinjrlield,
Cpltl 8130,000.
With * lanre suipln* securely Invested. ...
IVilidre In the a!.>ve first Ci*c* t rpaii'es iwned, and 108
ge* pruii.itly l*y E.J. JuiiNS'IUN ACO.
| toe 18—ts ***
, L ,JAH H. OxXXIXt. AABOM A. nor
cXkHART 4 ROFF,
WHOLESALE BF.GGERS.
DEALERS IN
WISES, LIQrORS,^^D|TOBA€CO,SKGAE?,
A
GROCRRXRS
Os EVESV DIgOSIMIOR.
Macon, ua.
—ts
j. r. \nmtit..T......... j. s. wi.Mtit.
J. F. WINTER, A GO.
ArCTIOXF.F.RS AYD CEVEEAL rOSIJIISSIOV
MERCHANTS.
From Its centnu position, Macon ofera rare fadl tie* for tl.e
prompt oict of
Fltr, frilß, Dry Grcffrirs, Ac.
fVmximrafEt* *re solicited, rxrticuixr Dttcntlcn kiveo to
the p ’.Nlexr.ii privatelc*of Heal Rvtatr. Mocha, llor. i*-
Furnilnrc. Ac.
LIBERAL ADVANCES MADE.
rSP” All busieew entrusted to our care will be promptly
attended to. an
Rferences,
Smith .t Pal rick. Oliver Wetrr.r re, E*q.. New Turk ; PelL
Pr*eti* fit C j..C. A. Lamar, Eeq.. bavaatiah ;w. M.
C. Hsrtln. Uhar!ton ; Harriwti i IMt*. Col'imbu*; MnlUi,
Waidi A On.. Mobile. Ala.: T. P. btovall A O. Anttuda,
1 Ga.; Fari*-y, Jury A Cos.. >rwOr*Bh*, La. octM>—U
Portrait 3Pa.int.mg.
JT rOISI'EXTER. Portrait TaMiter. Mu.Ho Btie
• THanrn'ar RT. rk. Entraim from t-ecuad Street.
Atacou. dec. IT, ls&>.—tt
Tyler, Bradley & Cos.,
dbaiiehs hunt
OYSTERS,
Shad and Black Fish,
AND ALL KINDS OF GAME,
eaxraiizjttli, G.
ILL Otl’i.KS PROMPTLY ITTKJDF.D TO.
ir Colutnlo, Enquirer. Kcc nW. plea*
pabUaii weekly, two utbUi*, aedeted UU to T,e.*W.
MACOTM* GA. PEBRnAIRTT 18, 1859.
i-Utatcllnnn,
From the K.tjlc A Enquirer.
Bp tlir sins F*rffiveii.
u He that is without sin among you, let
him < ast the fir-t stone.”—St. Johx, ebap.
H, last part of 7th verse.
Sobbing through the crowd of hearers,
Came a woman, lean and pale.
With her golden hair dishevei'd,
Stealing round her like avail;
Came she, with her broken spirit
Crushed by penitence and shame,
Came to pray in accents humble,
For a blessing on her name!
Kneeling on the marble pavement,
Meekly at the feet of one
AVhose pure teachings, itveet and lowly,
From her soul, repentance won.
He, the Saviour, pure and spotless—
Man of sorrows, undefiled;
She the beautiful and fragile,
Nature's erring, lovlv child.
She had listened to His accents,
Till the thoughts that o’er her fell,
Os her past and present being
Made her heart with sadness swell;
Bitter, mournful musiugs started
O'r that spirit, steeped in crime—
Kcho'd then her memory faithful,
“Now’ is the adapted time.”
God look’d down with tender pity,
On her tears of heartfelt voe;
Xmr her brother murmur'd loudly,
That the sinner joy should know;
Crowding round the prostrate woman,
Bound the Saviour’s holy form,
Show’d they, by their tone's of anger,
Human passion’s mighty storm.
Stinging words of mad reviling
Shower’d upon the quiv’ring frame, •
’Till the brow was wildly hidden—
Flushed with agony and shame !
Then, above the railing tempest,
Calmly rose the Saviour’s tone,
Stilling, by its accents eurnest,
E’n the sinner’s sutiering moan.
‘•He among you that is sinless,”
Let his vengeance first be shown;
Let the mortal, still unerring,
“Be the fip.'t to cast a stone.”
Silence fell upon their number;
Conscience struck, they turned apart,
Leaving her, unharmed and grateful
For the change within her heart.
Softly o’er the lost one bending,
Spoke the “Teacher” words of love:
“Woman, be thy sins forgiven!”
Angels caught the strain above.
E’n thus, in God’s compassion,
Stronger than our boasted cares,
.Vine rejects the weeping sinner;
He, a home with Him prepares.
Ruth.
[ Kneeling and rocking the cradle. ]
What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt,
Unwritten history!
Unfathomable mystery!
Yet lie laughs and cries, and eats and drink*,
And chuckles and crows, and nods and
winks,
As if his head was, full of kinks
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by eolic and wet hv tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears,
Our little brother will lose two years;
And he'll never know
Wh ere the summers go—
n need not laugh, for he'll find it so!
Who can tell what a baby thinks ?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the mannakin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown,
Blind, and wailing, and alone,
Into the light of day ?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony—
Os the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked witli the harks of little souls —
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide.
What does lie think of his sister’s eyes ?
Whaf does he think of his mother’s hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast?
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight—
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
W hat does he think when her quick embrace
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Os all the birds—
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep—
I can see the sliadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger-tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes !
Down he goes! Down he goes!
[Rising and carefully retreating to her seat,]
See! He is hu-lied in sweet repose.
Important if True.—A recent number of
the Milwauka True Democrat contains a
statement which is of value to the medica;
profession. That paper says:
Some eight months ago, Mr. T. Mason,
who kept a music store on Washington
street, and is brother of the well known
Leweil Mason, ascertained that he had a
cancer on his face of the size ol a pea. It
was cut out by Dr. Walcott, and the wound
partially healed. Subsequently it grew again,
and while he was in Cincinnati on business,
it attained the size of a hickory nut. He
has remained there since Christmas under
treatment and has come back perfectly cur-
I ed. The process is this:
A piece of sticking plaster was put over
the cancer, with a circular piece cut out of
the centre a little larger than the cancer, so
that the cancer and a small circular run of
healthy skin next to it were exposed. The
plaster made of cloride of zinc, blood root
and wheat flower was spread on a bit of,
muslin of the size of this circular opening,
and applied to to the cancer for twenty-four
hour?.
On removing it the cancer will be found
to be burned into, and appear of the color
and hardness of an old shoe-sole, and the
circular rim outside of it will appear white
and parboiled, ns if scalded by a hot steam.
The wound is now dressed, and the outside
run scon suppurates and the cancer comes
out a hard lump, and the place heals up.
The plaster kills the cancer, so that it
sloughs like dead flesh aud never grows out
again. . _
This remedy was discovered by Dr. Fell,
of London, and has been used by him for six
or eight years with unfailing success, and
not a case has been known of the reappear
ance of the vancer where this remedy has
been applied. It has the sanction of the
mo=t eminent physicians and surgeons of
London, but has not tftrril recently been used
in this country, and many of the faculty
with their proverbial opposition to innova
tions, look upon it with distrust,
JLAAY IKYIYk.
George Le.iox was clerk in the whole
sale grocery of Messrs. Moore <!c lleese,
in one of our Eastern cities. George
was an ambitious young man, had many
bright hopes of the future, and was gen
erally in good spirits, though sometimes
the great highway of life seemed dark
ened, and the star of hope shone feebly
on his path. But George was honest,
and Messrs. Moore & Reese had long
since come to the conclusion that he was
just the clerk for them.
Some distance from Messrs. Moore &
Reese’s, away down street —a quarter of
a mile, perhaps, and nearly opposite
George’s boarding-place, was a milliner’s
shop—a real fancy shop, with a hand
some Sign, large windows, with splendid
curtains on the inside, and displaying a
beautiful array of those dear treasures
that so delight the fair, viz,: dear little
beauties of bonnets of all styles trimmed
in every imaginable way, with bright
ribbons and delicate flowers, formed
with exquisite taste by the fair hands of
blooming maidens.
Were not these attractions? Yes,
George never passed the door of Mad
ame Josephine Lavelle, from Paris, with
out easting a glance at the window, or
through those beautiful plate-glass doors.
George did so often, for he often pass
ed on his way to and from his boarding
house ; but it w’as not for the sake of
catching a sight of the bonnets or rib
bons of Madame Josephine, for he could
see them equally as fine at other millin
ery shops in the neighborhood, but it
was to steal a glance and get a good
look as often as possible, at Madame’s
little Jenny Irving, or “queen of beau
ty,” a3 she was called.
Yes, Jenny Irving, the orphan, or
“ poor orphan,” as some termed her, was
Madame Lavelle’s favorite apprentice,
and possessed the first love of George
Lenox. She had caught a prize without
angling for it.
In our hero’s estimation she was the
most bewitching of maidens. Her tiny,
but faultless form, golden hair, bright
blue eyes, dimpled cheeks and dainty
mouth, offered attractions which he couM
not resist; and then her voice, sweet and
musical, was melody itself, and her al
most baby hands, so fair and soft; and
her fairy feet that seemed scarcely to
touch the ground on which she trod, act
ually charmed him and completed the
conquest which Cupid—little knave—
had so artfully planned and so success,
fully carried forward. After having se
cretly admired Jenny for months, George
one day became acquainted with her—
no matter how—though, of course in the
sam? way that all young people get ac
quainted who are struck with each oth
ers’ appearance ; first an introduction at
some party or social gathering, with an
“ I’m happy to make your acquaintance,”
on the lady’s part, and “ allow me to see
you home,” on the gentleman’s, then a
moonlight walk, with a great many silly,
foolish remarks made on both sides, con
cludes the first day’s ceremonies. Os
course this mode of proceeding soon
makes fast friends.
George continued to attend to his
business closely, but his evenings were
generally his own, and then when Jenny
was not busy, of course he had delight
ful times.
Jenny was not by any means without
other admirers. Many a young man in
the neighborhood would discommode
himself to accommodate her, and consid
er himself well paid if he could thus win
a smile or “ thank you ” from her sweet
lips.
But George was the favorite lover,
and he sedulously improved his opportu
nities, until finally it was whispered
around, and pretty freely too, that he
and Jenny were engaged. Such reports
always spread like wildfire, and this one
was not long in reaching the cars of Mr.
Moore, one of his employers.
Now Mr. Moore had a daughter who
took quite a fancy to our friend, and he
w r as aware of it, but could not recipro
cate the compliment. Her father also
knew it, and knew that George was a
smart fellow and would, as he often said,
“ make a star in the world.” lie thought
that George and his daughter would
make a good match, and that the latter
w’ould feel highly complimented by the
proposal. Therefore, soon after Mr.
Moore first heard the foregoing report,
he called George one side and “ opened
the case” to him, concluding by hinting
at a partnership in case matters turned
out favorably.
The old proposal took
George somewhat by surprise ; but as a
young man of principle, he felt in duty
bound to give an immediate and decided
answer.
“ I feci flattered by your preference.
Mr. Moore,’’ said he in reply, “and it is
very gratifying io me to know that you
hold me in such high esteem; but 1 can
not accede to your proposal —1 am en
gaged to another.”
“Will, sir, as you please,” said Mr.
Moore, with a suddenly assumed stern
ness of demeanor; “but you will lose
much by your decision. Allow me to
ask who your intended is?”
“ Miss Jenny Irving.”
“ Miss Irving!” said Mr. Moore, with
feigned astonishment; “ Miss Imng! a
penniless girl ?”
“ Yes, sir, and an orphan,” was
George’s quick reply.
“ Indeed ! an orphan ? ” said Mr.
Moore. “ Well, I pity her, then, as Ido
all orphans; but really, George, you’re
throwing yourself away—you’ll not get
a cent by her.”
“ 1 know it, sir, and I do not wish it,”
replied our hero, with spirit. “ I marry
her for herself, not her money.”
“ Very well, sjr,” said Mr. Moore;
and turning away, he soon left the room.
“ Ah, ha! my lad ! in love with Mad
ame Lavelle’s queen, the little milliner,”
said young Tom Moore, addressing
George, as the former came rushing into
his fatht r’s store, one afternoon, soon
after G< urge’s conversation with Mr.
Moore. “ Ah, ha! in love, eh ?”
“ Well, yes, I suppose I might s well
own up first as last,” said George, with
a smile.
“ Os course you might.,” said the for
mer. “ Well, man, what’s her dower?”
“ Truth, beauty, and a youthful, con
tented mind is her dower,” replied
George, “ and that’s enough for me.”
“Enough! that’ll support you, ch?”
said young Moore, provokingly.
“ No, but will make me happy,” said
George.
“Happiness and poverty are two ex
act opponents, in my opinion,” replied
Tom, “and such as you will find hard
work, I’m thinking, to reconcile to each
other.”
“ I’ll try it,” said George.
“Well, do, if you please,” replied
Tom, sneerirgly, “ and by and by report
progress. I fancied that girl myself, but
I’m sure 1 can’t afford to marry a beg
gar. A wife without money is a poor
prize, in my estimation ”
“Jenny is no beggar,” was on
George’s lips in reply ; but ere he had
time to speak he was summoned to at
tend to a customer.
“Jenny will show them her value
yet,” said a low, musical voice behind
him, and turning, he saw Jenny, wh v
hid glided in noiselessly to bring him
an invitation to a party which she had
just received for him, holding another
also in her hand on which her own name
was distinctly written.
She had unintentionally heard young
Tom Moore’s last remark, and well un
derstood its meaning, much better, in
fact, than George understood the hidden
meaning of her’s, when she said, with
unusual emphasis, “Jenny will show
them her value yet.”
But a few days elapsed ere the story
got around that George had been offered
the hand of the rich Mr Moore’s daugh
ter in marriage, and had declined it for
that of Jenny Irving.
Some wondered at his choice, while
others considered it one of true love, and
consequently of true wisdom.
Time wore away, and a year brought
around the day fixed for George and
Jenny’s wedding.
One evening, but a few days previous
to the time appointed, they were Con
versing together at Jenny’s aunt’s where
she boaraod.
“ \Ve shall be obliged to have a plain
wedding I suppose, dear,” said George,
“ and commence life in a snug way, for
my income is not very large, you
know.”
“ As you please, George,” was the re
ply ; any w r ay that is the most agreeable
to you and in which wc can live the
happiest. But,” sapid she, with a light,
ringing laugh, “are you not going to
take me to church in your carriage?”
“ in a carriage, perhaps,” said George,
“ though probably not in my carriage,
as I have not yet the pleasure of owning
one.”
“Just so,” said Jenny; “well, then,
suppose I send mine after you ?”
“ Yours! that would be a joke for a
milliner girl, hardly out of her appren
ticeship, to set up a carriage of her own,
and send it otf after her intended, on the
morning of her wedding.”
“ Stranger things have happened.”
“ Yes, maybe, but the thing does not
seein possible, or at least probable, in
our case. You were not born to a for
tune.”
“Indeed!” replied Jenny, “your re
marks are not calculated to give me a
very exalted opinion of life; but I will
fiirgivc my future husband this time, as
he has not yet very closely investigated
my personal history. Os one thing I
am now certain, however, and that af
fords me no little gratification ; you did
not marry me for my money, ‘ Jittle beg
gar’ as 1 am, or at least, as Mr. Tom
Moore sees fit to designate me.”
Nothing more was said about fortunes
then, but George had a sudden surprise
in store for him, somew hat startling, and
as unexpected as any event that could
happen to any mortal.
On his bridal morning, as he was
dressing at his boarding house, an ele
gant carriage with a span of milk-white
horses stopped before the door, and the
driver, springing from his seat, rang the
door-bell and inquired for Mr. George
Lenox.
“ What does this mean?” was George’s
first thought. “ 1 engaged a carriage,
not near as elegant one as this. There’s
something wrong here.”
“ You’ve made some mistake in the
name,” said he to the driver.
“ I think not-, sir,” replied the driver.
“Then, who sent you here?” asked
George.
“Miss Jenny Irving.”
“ Miss Jenny ] Impossible !”
“Yes, sir, that’s her name, and this is
her carriage and horses.”
“Jenny Irving,” said George, to him
self, musingly, striving to unravel the
mystery —“ W hat street does she live
on V’
“ Rand street, No. 30, sir.”
“ The same; ah, dear girl,” thought
he, “ she is trying to mystify me a little
by sending round a carriage at her own
expense; for no doubt she pays for it
out of her own hard earnings. Well, I
will gratify her, and take a ride down to
her aunt’s, in her carriage, as the driver
callo it. It is hers, f suppose, while she
hires it.”
So in jumped our hero, and was soon
[Jenny’s door.
“ How do you like my travelling es
tablishment? ’ said she, as George en
tered her room.
“Oh, first rate,” was his reply; “it
is splendid. 1 see you practice ‘wo
man's rights,’ and hire your own car
riage. Welt, there’s no harm in that;
■ it will answer admirably for to-day, and
then the owner will have it, I suppose.’
“ Undoubtedly,” said Jenny, with a
smile.
After their marriage at the church
they returned to Jenny’s aunt’s, and sat
down to await the arrival of some friends
whom they were going to treat to a few
viands prepared for the occasion.
“ Why don’t the driver take that car
riage home ?”
“ Perhaps he is awaiting the order of
its owner,” replied Jenny.
“ Its owner ? where is he?”
“Ilis name is George Lenox, and he
occupies the very place where you now
sit,” said Jenny ; “ is any farther explan
ation necessary ?”
“George Lenox! not me?” said
George, fairly starting from his seat.
“ Yes, you 1 ” was the reply ; “it was
my carriage, and I have now made you
the owner of it.”
“Your carriage! why, Jenny, you
surprise me,” said George; “ how came
you by such an expensive establish
ment ?”
“ I bought it and paid my own money
for it.”
“ Bought it —and—paid—your —own
—money —for—it ?” said George, slow
ly, and pausing slightly before each
word, as if weighing their meaning, for
he was profoundly perplexed.
“ Y"es, my dear,” continued Jenny, “ it
was mine; it is now yours. You are
its owner, and there it stands, subject to
your orders. If you wish,*we will drive
to our country house, just out of the
city, this afternoon.”
“ Country house just out of the city !
I believe you are crazy, Jenny,” ex
claimed George.
“ No, I am not.”
“Well, then, what do you mean?”
said he. “ Explain yourself. There is
some mystery that I don’t understand.”
“ I know you don’t understand it,
dear,” replied Jenny ; “ and now that I
have mystified you a little, I will solve
the riddle.”
And then Jenny, with sparkling eyes
and m her happiest mood, told him how
that her parents had died when she was
quite young, and left her penniless, and
in the care of her aunt, and that four
years before, a wealthy uncle in Eng
land—her father’s brother—had died,
leaving her his large property amount
ing to seventy-five thousand dollars, and
that, as there was so much courting heir
esses for their money, she had resolved
to keep the matter a secret, and pass
among people as dependent for support
upon her own exertions from day to day,
so that if she was wooed at all it might
be for herself and not for her money;
and that for this reason she had served
an apprenticeship in a milliner’s shop.
“ Am 1 dreaming?” exclaimed George,
amazed at a revelation from Jenny’s lips
so astounding and unexpected, and which
increased, if possible, the esteem he al
ready had for her who could conceive so
noble a project and so ellectually carry
it out.
“ No, George, it is not a dream, but a
pleasing reality. You know 1 said Jen
ny would show her value yet. 1 then
referred to my fortune. Os my value
aside from that is not for me to speak.
And now,” said she, looking confidingly
in the face of him whose love she prized
higher than all earthly treasures, “ Jen
ny entrusts to you herself und her for
tune, without any fears for their future
safe keeping.”
George’s income was now amply suffi
cient foa his and J#nny’s wants, but be
ing one who abhoried idleness, he in a
few weeks opened a wholesale grocery
in the city, and was soon engaged in an
extensive and flourishing business.
The Rose and the Nettle.
In a country somewhere in the world—no
matter where—-at the North Pole, probably, or
may be at the South —or percliauee between the
two— there rose a large flourishing city. Its
manufactories were noted for their extent; and
the merchant princes of that place revelled in
the wealth those manufactories produced. On
the outskirts of the town were built two houses
alike in form, iu extent, iu value. “Two peas,”
or “two nms,” or “two pins,” had frequently
described their similarity: Now, in these two
houses lived two brothers—twins —ths only
son* of the builder of those two houses. It had
been a fancy of the old mamo have “the boys,”
as he called them, lodged alike, and his means
being ample, he had the power of indulging his
fancy. “The boys” married, and on the wed
ding day the first stone of their homes was laid.
“Time enough to get them finished,” said the
old man, as he rubbed hishaudsinglee; “won’t
want a nursery for a twelve month,at any rate.
Small house do till then.”
The young brides were present when that re
mark was made. One blushed—and smiled; the
other blushed and frowned. It was the nettle
and the rose again standing side by side.
Six months passed, and the houses were half
up—the old gentleman himself directed all the
arrangements of the building.
“It is good indeed of your father, now an old
man, to take an interest in our comfort,” said
oneof the young wives to her husband. “Ralph”
—that was the husband’s name—“you can nev
er repay him for his kind leeliug and his gener
osity to U3.”
“It was absurdity for your father to play the
a rchitect, and almost bricklayer,” remarked ihe
°ther wife to her spouse, Boya<.ll—his name.
“You should tell him that it is inconsistent with
his calling and his station.
‘•lt is consistent with his pleasure,” remark
ed the husband, “and therefore I am content.”
Twelvemonths and the houses were finished.
“Nursery ready in time,” said the good old
man—“ready in time —ready in time.”
The houses were occupied; in the course of
twelve months thenureenes were occupied also.
“There are unceasiug anxieties in a mother’s
lot,” said the good wife of Ralph, “but unceas
ing pleasures, too.” And she smiled at the in
nocent face of her sleeping babe. *
“llow women can like the bore of children,
I cannot imagine,” remarked her sister-in-law,
as her child was hastily given to its nurse.
Years passed on —as they always do—and
the young wives became middle aged women.
Sons and daughters clustered round them, and
the grandfather, old and feeble, now lent on these
young things for support.
Time had worked a wondrous change in two
brothers— Ralph told of his home stock of hap
pinesss, from which he drew, largely, while
Boydell looked as it content and happiness were
not in the world at all.
At the time, when the famiiles of each were
springing up, and needed money to be spent on
Urcoi, iu educauop, maiawnauce, ft&d the differ-
ent adjuncts of their station, one of those panics
of the commercial world, which ruins thousands,
took place. Unfortunately, Raiph aud hi* Uroth
er had entered into large speculations, which
failing, they were involved in the prevailing ru
in, and found themselves verging on baukrupt
cy. ...
“Be of good heart, Ralph,” said his wife,
“there is bread in the world for all. Our fine
large house, our servants and our carriages, are
not absolutely necessary to our happiness; we
can do as others and without them; and
the children, Ralph! this lesson of adversity
may be for their welfare. Take comfort Ralph!
there is plenty of that left for us in the world, if
our wealth has flown away.”
“Yes,” answered the husband, as he clasped
her hand, and drew her to him, “yes I there is
never failing comfort here, Lucy. God be prais
ed for having given me one so ‘meet to help
me both in joy and sorrow, wealth or poverty.”
‘You should have foreseen this crisis,” re
marked the wife of Boydell, “and not allowed
your children to be brought to beggary at tbeir
age, when just entering on life. Expenses are
unavoidable,unless indeed, they be educated as
the laboring classes —which idea may be worth
your wise consideration.”
She ceased with a sneer on her face.
“Other men would not havebeen so venture
some with their money,” she remarked. “The
Brownings, for instance, and the Smiths, with
drew in time. Lionel Blagdon told me that your
children might thank you only if starvation were
their fate.”
“In mercy cease,” replied the husband, “or
you will drive me mad.”
“I must put your conduct fairly before your
eyes—it is my duty,” she replied.
“Then reserve it until I am likely to appreci
ate your effort at the performance of the duty,”
he answered bitterly.
Poor “Duty!’/ how dreadfully is she mishan
dled by these ascetic dames. “It is a duty!”
and under that plea many a harsh truth is utter
ed. “It is a duty!”—so says the ever-strict
disc'plinari'n, and cold, stern words are driven
forth to tremble on an over-worked and wearied
brain. “It is a duty I” covers the cruel rebuke
and the severe rejoinder. It may be a “duty”
to speak plainly and boldly sometimes —but it
is a duty to choose the opportunity when the
speech may be acceptable, and cot fret and
chafe the wounded heart by a repetition of the
very truths which, silently recognized, are gall
ing it already.
Boydell knew quite well that he might have
foreseen and partially have provided fortlie mel
ancholy event which had taken place. His
conscience reproached him bitterly for careless
ness and his wife’s words were not needed to
add to the self-reprosch which, left to itself,
might have worked some good producing a qui
et determination to abide by the more sober
councils of Ralph in future, for Ralph’s voice
had been lifted against the very speculation
which had caused the joint failure of the broth
ers.
Fretted and galled, and wearied of life and
life's struggles, Boydell knew not whither to
turn for comfort and consolation. His father
had been gathered to the dead; his brother?
Boydell was two proud to betray his lack of
domestic peace to him; his children, imitating
the bad example of the mother, turned against
him instead of clustering round him, in the hour
of woe, openly blamed him for the course he
had adopted.
At last his mind, torn by a tbousad conflict
ing sorrows, gave way; a lunatic asylum became
his home, while his wife and children dragged
on a life of misery, supported by the mere char
ity of relations.
Far different shared Ralph. In the humble
cottage on the outskirts of the town where he
now dwelt a smile always welcomed him when
he came home from the city's toil and dm, tired
with the business of the day, heart-sick with it
disappointments—rest and peace and happiness
awaited him in that little home. His children
drawing their tone fram that good wife and
mother—thought only how they could soothe
the tired wanderer who had returned to them,
and make him forget in the placid joy of the
present the misery of the past.
“Ralph,” says his wife, one day, “I would
scarcely exchange our present lot for the one
we field when first I become your wife. There
is an earnestness in this quiet life of strict utili
ty which is lost in the gilded days of wealthy splen
dor. lam as happy here, Ralph, as if you had
placed me in a palace—happier indeed.”
He stopped her as he looked lovingly into
her gentle face.
“Not happier, Lucy,” he added, “not happi
er, dear wife. Your nature would carry bliss
as perfect as this world can bestow into any
phase of life —not ‘happier,’ Lucy, but as happy
either here, or there, or anywhere on earth
—as happy as such a kindly heart as yours can
and should, and will be anywhere.”
But sorrow, deep sorrow, fell on Ralph. Lu
cy died; and as be saw the mould fall on the
lowered coffin, until it was hidden from his view,
ho whispered, as if to her who lay there—“l
know what ‘loss’ is now, dear wife —I never
felt its meaning belore.”
Boydell also lived to an old age. A partial
recovery enabled him to return to his home—
but he was no welcome gue3t there. Unkind
ness and want of care had the result which
might have been expected—he returned to the
asylum, hopelessly mad, and died there some
years afterwards, to the very evident relief of
his wife and children.
Now in human probability, these two women
worked the sequel to the fate of their husbands.
The one by her gentleness soothed the woun
ded spirit, and in seeking to bless him, sowed a
fall harvest of blessing for herself.
And the other! as truly did she “cast her
seed upon the waters” and “truely did she find
it after many days.” It was likepoisoned Upas
berry, taking root and springing till the deadly
tree cast its destructive influence on those poor
wretches who sat beneath its branches.
“1 WILL TRY.”
A STORY FOR BOYS.
There is a society in London known as the
Society of Arts. Its object is the encourage
ment of talent in the various departments ot
art. Prizes are awarded by the society, some
times to the painters for their pictures, and some*
times to humbler artisans for improvements in
weaving, or in the manufacture of bonnets, lace,
or artificial flowers.
More than half a century ago, a little fellow,
named William Ross, not twelve years of age
,vas talking with his mother about an exhibi
tion of painting at the Society’s rooms. Wil
liam was very fond of paintings, and could him
self paint with remarkable skill. “Look
you, William,” said his mother; “I saw some
paintings in the exhibition which did not seem
to be half so good as yours. ”
“Do you really think so, mother?” asked he.
“I am sure of it,” she replied. “I saw some
paintings inferior, both in color and drawing, to
some that are hanging in your little chamber.”
William knew that his mother was noflatteren
and he said, “I have a mind to ask permission
to hang one or two of my paintings on the walls
at the next exhibition.
“Why not try for one of the prizes ?” asked
his mother.
“0! mother, dear, do you think I should stand
any chance of success ?’’
“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said his
mother; “you can but try.”
“And I will try, mother, dear,” said William.
“I have a historical subject in my head, out of
which I think I can make • picture.”
3VO. 49 f .
• What is it. William?”
“The death of Wat Tyler. Ton bars heard
of him; he led a mob in the time of Richard the
Second. Having behaved insolently before the
king at Southfield, Tyler was struck down by
Walworth, Mayor of London, and then dis
patched by the king’s attendants.”
“ It is a bold subject, William, but I will
say nothing to deter you from trying it.”
“If I fail, mother, where will be the harm ? I
can try again.”
“To be sure you can, William! So we will
not be disappointed, should you not succeed in
winningjtho silver palleite offered by the Socie
ty for the best historical paint’ng.”
Without more ado, little William went to
work. He first acquainted himself with the va
rious costumes of the year 1381; he learned
how the king and noblemen used to dress, and
what sort of clothes were worn by the poor
people and laborers, to which class Wat Tyler
belonged. He also learned what sort of weap
ons were carried in those days.
After having given some time to the study of
these things, he acquainted himself thoroughly
with the historical incidents attending the death
of the bold orater. He grouped in imagination
the persons who were present at the scene—the
king and his attendants Walworth, the mayor,
Wat Tyler himself, and in the back ground some
of his ruffianly companions.
William’s mother was present, of course. She sat
waiting the result with a beating heart. What
a proud mother she was, when, after the trans
action of some uninteresting business, it was
announced that the prize of a silver pallette for
the best historical picture was awarded to the
painter of the piece entitled ‘The Death ofWat
Tyler.”
When it was found that little William Ross
was the successful artist, the applause of the
audience broke forth with enthusiasm. To
see such a little fellow gain a prize over compe
ditora of mature age, was a novelty and surprse.
William was summoned, with his picture, to
the Duke’s chair, and there he received, such
counsel and encouragement as were of great
service to him in his future career. He is now
Sir William Hops, miniature painter to the
Queen, having risen to fortune and to fame by
carrying out, with determination and persever
ance, his simple promise to his mother “I will
try.”
An English Woman’s Opinions
of American Ladies.
Madame Bodiehon, who has recently
published a tract on “ Women and
Work,” expresses her opinion that the
life of most women is a practical denial
of their duties to God. While on a visit
to this country, she was struck by the
utter idleness of the “ lady class” in so
ciety. “ There is,” she says, “in Amer
ica a large class of ladies who do abso
lutely nothing. In every large town in
the United States there are large hotels
or boarding-houses, containing several
hundred inhabitants each. This hotel
population mainly consists of families
who live altogether in hotels; and the
ladies having no housekeeping whatever
to do—have few of the usual duties of wo
men in Europe, and are more thorough
ly given up to idleness and vanity than
any women, I believe, in the w r orld.—
These ladies have not the cultivation
which glosses over the lives of so many
women in Europe, and gives them solid
value in society as upholders of the arts
and literature ; but are generally full of
the strangest affectations and preten
sions. The young ladies, especially, re
minded me of certain women I have seen
in seraglios, whose whole time was taken
up in dressing and painting their faces;
with this difference—the ladies of the
East spend their days in adorning them
selves to please one lord and master;
the ladies of the West to please all the
lords of creation. Which is the noblest
ambition?”
She also notices the fact that there is
in this country as strong a public opin
ion against women working for a liveli
hood as in England. We never hear of
a father in independent circumstances
giving his daughters a professional edu
cation. “If he can live in some style,
he counts on his daughters marrying;
and if he cannot, he probably sends them
to some relative in a city, who receives
them for a long visit, in the hope of ‘ get
ting them off.’ Many thousands of young
girls come to the cities to stay with bro
thers, uncles, or friends, for this purpose.
A worse preparation for any serious life
cannot be conceived. Years of idleness
are often passed in this way; years
spent in nothing but dressing and dissi
pation ; and what does it lead to 1 Mar
riage, probably ; but what sort of mar
riages can be formed by young girls
looking at the world from such a false
position 1 With such a beginning to
life, it is almost impossible the girl can
ever become a noble human being.”—
“In America—in that noble, free, new
country —it is grievous to see the old,
false, snobbish ideas of ‘ respectability *
eating at the heart of society—making
generations of women idle and corrupt,
and retarding the onward progress of
the Great Republic.”
Rot Bad !—A Buffalo lady who claims
to know “what’s what,” proposes that
young men and women be set up in house
keeping before they are allowed to be engag
ed ; that the young woman shall wash and
mend and dust, and that a new bom infant
be procured from the hospital, and that she
have charge of him in addition to her other
duties. She is of opinion that this process
would “disenchant’’ the young people.