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I tE GEORGIA CITIZEN
1 9 ; p r ; tiy morning at *2.50 per annum In
••’ regnlarcharjre w;Mwo< Dollar
a i r„* ~r ittr. fr the drat inser
-1 ]■ ‘ ■-*•* r , all s-ibsequeat insertion. Ail ad
• • . wt!l t. rubi'-shed until
| a ■ ■•’•nl discount allowed
bv the veer.
#9 .. v lllV , f i’vr ;,n liner. Win be dirreeJ at the
. ‘v.- JMates for office to be paid ft>r at
, * ■ y en inserted.
’i \ .: • V.-. e- ur.ty Officer*. Druggists,
, g . . i anus and others, who may wih to make
ifi ~ Ji Virore. It Executor*. Admir.istri-
* Vlrtvitavs previous to the day of sate.
‘ r. the first Tuesday in the month,
| ■ .■ ; e n in tne forenoon and three in tic af
'• ■ • • ..a . . j.a in the county !n which the prop
’ ■ , 1 | i’, Property must he advertised in like
■ rafin.l Creditor* of an Es*ate must be
. . ‘ation will be made to the Ordinary for
m ‘ nJ S’tgroes, must be published weekly for
. • ttem* Ad-ninistrat'on, thirty day?; for
H r v- ... i • oration, monthiv. six months; for
■s* I f*,'u fiuarJianstip, weekly, forty days
■ ‘ „f,. f. -.•el.wina of V -rtsaaew, monthly, four
M . .. ;a; > r-, for thefuli space ofthree
fr, on executors or administrator*
m _s.n given by the deceased, the fuil space of
■ Rt!i;iew t nrd? will be inserted un
-9 oh St the fohowing rates, v ia:
H’ r annum ♦5 00
do 10 00
9, •’ ft!.';? class will be admitted, unless paid
9 - r*■ r a less term than twelve months. Ad-
V.- :? ,'f-ten lines will be charged pro raid. Ad
■ ... ;; ;.i fori a advance will be charged at the
rshs.
hRJJHLSB
■Samuel K. Washington,
I ATTORNEY at L \ IV,
Macon, Ga.
fUL Practice in all the Comities of the MACON CIR
■ *V rext !■ Concert Hall, over Payne's Drug Store.
lAHIER & AHDEF.SON,
IITTORNEYS AT LAW,
I Macon, G-a.,
■ IBACTiCCia ts counties of the Macon Circuit, and to
■r- sos Sumter, Monroe and Jones; also In the
■ jygj, CiiUiti a'. Savannah.
■ .itlEf. A AXI-F.RSOK have also recently become the
■ wfh fallowing Insurance Companies :
■ ~ ? A I A INSi'RANCE AND BANKING COM
>ifl i?which \V. M. D’Actlgnac is President, and C. K.
uv.
p- ALABAMA FIRE AND MARINE IXSUR
!_■ ■ uMI’AN V. Montgomery, of which T. 11. Watts is
-dakind A. Williams la Secretary,
fit'4sand risks on slaves taken at usual rate*.
lT - ■—tt
L. N. WHITTLE,
ATTORNEY AT LAW,
MACOH, QA.
IfT.CEret to Concert Hall, over Taync’s Drug Store.
Mio-ly
LOCHRANE & LAMAR,
Attorneys at, Law,
MACON, G-A.
Office by the Mechanic’s Bank.
ATII’E 1 ’E H’ trlts from BtoIS A. M.. 2 tos P. M. and also
(Isn'tolO P. M.
v rvticein ailthe Conntlesof the Macon Circuit and In
SkCotctksaf Jcues, Monroe and Columbia, and in the Bu
fnet Omnt.
0. A. LOCHRANB. JOHN LAMAR.
n I— lt.
SPEER & HUNTER,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Macon, G-a..
Mm }b Trianjalsr deck, Corner *f Cherry
Street and Cotton Avenue.
WI lave i ciated a? partners In the practice cf Law in
tkrwuntieeof the Macon and adjoining Circuits, and
fjfT>r. in the State by special c. ntriwt—also, will attend
it federal Courts at Savannah and Marietta.
ALEX. M. SPEER,
telS-ly SAMUEL HUNTER.
J 8. QRim.V I W. C. M. DUXSOK
GRIFFIN & DGNSON,
Attorneys at Law.
MACON, G-A.
ncforeiicos :
G*r. T. E. Bmwr . Miile<lgevil!e; Hon. Washington Pee,
L :.i; ; Hor . Wm.L. Xaneey, Montgomery, Aia.: Hon.
T.ELU> .Athens, Ga.; Hon. C. J. McDonald, Mariet;
tafia
he. 10—ly*
•fKK K,—Over h>tri hecker A Co’a Drug Store.
LEOKARD T. DOYAL,
Attorney at Law,
Griffin, Ga.,
AFFICE on Hill Street, between Woodruff's Cariiage P.-
’ ’ poe; ry and Beuhsm’s Furniture Stc r-.
ya. 16-lv Reference, L. T. DOTAL.
JAMES T. ELLIOTT,
Attorney it Coanseliur at Law,
CAMDEN, ARKANSAS,
V; at r.d to all Business entrusted to him in South Ar
knn*an
.■r-.;ai-iK-1y
DOCTOR
I.Dickson Smith,
Practicing Physician,
Macon, C-a.,
WAD attend promptly to all Professional calls made on
.... ~ ‘ T <"sy or sight. either at his office or residence.
tl—Over Mtnard & Burgbard's Jewelry Store, on
J'hMIILM L—At Mr. J.B. Ross’. Jan. 21—tt
BE. A. PIERCE,
Homeopath
Office in Waxhingtou mock.
Cases, ar.J Bo.tks on Domestic Practice for sale.
lures, July j, ms. —ly
M. R. FKEEMAR, M. 13.
IN'Gmt -.med to Macon, offers Lis Professional tervl
;t * citiiviie, and the surrounding country, and Is
•a ‘ . „ ’ ,re ®* their various diseases with innocent ve e
c ,1. **'d hopes that in noHdnatlog of the tact
P l ’’* u. draws no blood, and never destroys
:r ti j®* of P*ttetiU, he will be libe rally pationlzed
‘ ,( ention will be riven to Plantation, and
practice.
ah,-.- :,t the Drugstore of Dr. M. S. Thomson.to
-■Areiers. jan. 7-ly
t. J. ROOSEVELT,
HOHttIPATHic PHYSICIAN,
® ce atuS Ilchltlence, Corner
* and 3rd Streets. Macon, Ga.
medical notice.
iDr. J. L. Large,
I'the public that be has fitted up Rooms,
eiJpj.DTr'“fT sad convenient, to accommod ate Surgical
of Et'WV*Di?* *A kind*—white and black—(the cure
S kts. {.v E ~-> 1 ’iet of CAttCKR not excluded V-
' 0 * nt ‘der cnr-mlc affections, will be bought.
KSSSfto their comfitK*.
(Vs (hi _ to coasult me. can do so by letter, with the
*■&. and I can determine the case pri;r to
and save expease at sending and return
tei p.render sou-e cases lncuraole. I have
Hospital experience, which gives advantage
‘< of cf Phrenic cases. Oflc- and Residence
•sly t Urosd and Abercoxn streets, savannah, Oa.
P r ; Samuel* Tarver,
Net ! t.’* wr<n County,Ga. His Peat Oftct address
h>thetn , ‘.‘‘"vreon County. Particular attention paid
1! *®‘ -ted'oc hronic Diseases. Anv male person wno
*, G~ ~L n
M reh.f iTt’ I,r !?P*y. or PileA may. by sj plvingto me,
Aer t'omamnS ale thatls afflicted with DysrepeU.
*** Cter ! Er?*- , ,p * T - Chloroa's, Amenorrhu-a. Prolap-
P*r6g to ti Pfffitnhai. or piles, may, by tp
?* rby letter, find relief. Pei.nsHv-
PerwrtwoP. . 7 V.*' r f* nntntemeiit of their cases can
barges atswie* Medicine sent to them hy Mall.
___ ““(derate. bo,, is, ,SSB.
H. A. METTABEB,
‘1 dtv ViShJlf *K >l P" no,t hffiesncceseive years in this
55* •ichla V id?? *? !eb Um ' ! he has limited his practice al-
Z*** to tie t ®JS* , T. now reu ectfu ly offer. Ins ser-
? f Muc-.n. and surrounding country. In
°*w (AT * J* *>** profession.
_mjz Citizen,
For the Georgia Citizen.
UNCLE REM’S CA^Ii’OIEET.
IMi STORY.
BY BILLY FIELDS.
“Boys,” said L ncle Den, “did you
ever hear of Dilly 1* ields’ scrape over
here at Rock Spring camp ground two or
three years ago ?”
This question was addressed to a crowd
of youngsters, who were gathered around
Lncle Ben, as he was seated in the town
of Clinton, one evening near sunset. It
was of course answered in the negative,
with a request that he should tell of it.
“ Wall, yer see I and Billy and Jim
Lindsey ’eluded we would go over to
Rock Spring camp-meetin’, three years
ago. Jim and Billy were young fellers,
and both were crazy on the subject of
gals. As for myself, I went thar in a
religious pint of view. Arter wo got
thar, we stopped at the leut of one of
our friends, and arter supper we con
cluded wc would go down to the stand,
and hear the sarmint. Billy got hold of
a little gal, and off he went; Jim hitched
one as weighed nigh onto a hundred and
seventy, and fullered arter them, and I,
notwithstandin’ I had come thar in a re
ligious pint of view, thought it wouldn’t
be hurtin’ anybody to sorter mix the
thing ; so I tuk hold of a young, bounc
in’ bloomin’ widder, —boys, that widder
was about the puttiest piece—but never
mind about that now, —and away we
went, arter the rest.
“\\ all, the preachin’ went on and
closed without anything happenin’, ‘ or
ful and sublime,’ as Stubbs says, ’cept
Jim’s jiuin’ the church and me goin’ to
sleep and cornin’ back without the wid
der. Boys, ’fore God I clear forgot her.
I war sorry for it, but it war no use
talkin’; I couldn’t a toclrher with a ten
foot pole. She war as mad as a hornet.
Billy sail I must ’pologiie; I mought a
done if he hadn’t told me to. He’s a
nice thing to teach me perliteness, aint
he? He aint got sense enough to keep
his mouth shet ’bout nothin’, ’specially
where I am consarned
“Well, 1 and Jim went to bod, and
Billy got a bed in the next room. Jim
soon went to sleep, and I war lyin’ thar
thinkin’ ’bout the widder, when all at
once the gals (the next room was full of
’em) commenced er larfin and gigglin’ in
the next room at a terrible rate. I know’d
they war up to niischif, for thar war three
or four in thar as wild as turkeys, with that
little gal that Billy went out to the stand
with to head ’em, and she war all sorts.
I wanted to know what they war up to;
so I reaches over and shakes Jim. But
then I know’d as Jim wouldn’t do, ’cause
he had just jined the church, and further
more he was the most shamefaced roan I
ever seen. He and Billy were down on
the creek, a long time ago, and they cum
upon a whole pile of gals in er swimmin’,
and Jim like a fool got shamed and hid
behind a stump. Billy looked. —durn
him ! keep him from lookin’ ?—he done
wus, too.”
“ What did he do?'’ asked someone.
“ lie tied up their fixin’s and split, but
the schoolmaster found it out, and the
way he wol loped Billy Fields war a cau
tion to young men as walks on the creek
when thar is gals in the country as have
a notion to larn how to swim.
“Wall, arter thinkin’ over these car
cumstances, I concluded that Jim war not
the man I wanted. So I let him loose,
and let him go to sleep again ; and then
went into the room whar Billy was, and
woke him up and explained to him how
matters stood in the next room. We
determined to see what was gwine on ;
but how to do it war the question. Thar
war no cracks to peep through, and thar
war no foot-hold to peep over; —ye all
know how tents are lixed. W all, arter
studyin’ a while, Billy hit on a plan. It
war this: One of us was to stand on the
shoulders of the other one and peep
over. This war a pretty good plan, but
1 wanted the first peep, and I mistrusted
that Billy couldn’t hold me up—he be
ing such a little feller, and I such an old
gourd, Billy didn’t'like to make the
trial, but ’greed to on the consideration
that I war not to stay up long. 1 war
willin’, ’cause I jess wanted to see cf 1
could cotch a sight of the widder any
how. Well I mounted, and jess cotched
a sight of the little creeters, spread out
in a row on the beds on the floor, when
Billy’s wind guv out and down I cum on
Jim’s paunch, and he fetched a shout and
hollered ‘ glory !’ The durn fool thought
that Judgment Day had come. This
sorter stopped the gals for a while; but
we lay as still as squirrels, that is, ’cept
Jim, who kept groanin’ and twistin’
some. We sent word out to the old
folks that he had the colicky. Bimeby
the gals commenced thar frolicks agin,
that is, ’cept that big fat gal, that war
cry in’ ’cause Jim war sick.
“ Billy eaid it war Jus turn now, and
MACOrsr, GA. MA£LC£[ 25 t 1850.
so it was; but failin’ down had like to
er broke my leg. But 1 thought it
would never do to cut the fellow out of
his fun; so up Billy got and commenced
lookin’. I got mighty tired, but I know’d
it wouldn’t do to say nothin’, ’cause the
gals would hear me and thar would be a
rumpus. But then my old leg com
menced hurtin’; so I reached up and
sorter pinched Billy, as a sign for him
to get down. But he never moved a
peg ; thar he stood, a stretchin’ his neck
and gazin’ over at them gals. A thought
jess then struck me. Sez Ito myself,
‘ Didn’t Billy let ine fall on purpose jess
now ? By jingo I b’lieve he did!’ thinks
I; ‘ I’ll pay you back with interest, old
feller !’ So I reached up and got a good
hold of him, and when he stretched a
little further over I sent him a whirlin’
right amongst them gals. Did you ever
sperience a yearthquake ? Did you ever
dream of kingdom come ? Your orter
been thar when Billy lit! Sich a squall
in’—sich a crawlin’ under beds—sich a
hidin’ under straw, you never did see!
When Stubbs gets drunk he talks about
a young fellow as was named Don Juan,
crawlin’ under some bed-fixin’s at an old
Spaniard’s house; but his fix ivar nothin’
to Billy Fields’ scrape. The old folks
all run up, —one old brother commenced
prayin’ loud enough to be heard from
Dan to Bersheba, —and the way them
folks did give it to that young man !
‘“Clar oat from here, yer nasty rav
ishin’ scoundrel!’ said an old lady as had
a daughter in that room.
“* We will prosecute him!’ said a lit
tle jack-leg lawyer, as never has prose
cuted anybody yet, nor never will, as
long as people has as much sense as they
have got now.
“ ‘ How could you do so, Mr. Fields?’
said the little gal, as has been ’luded to.
“ Thar they stood, all round him, giv
in’ it to him and not lettin’ him say a
word. I bergun to git sorry for Billy,
and I know’d he didn’t have sense enough
to git out of the scrape ; so I walks up
to whar they were standin’; but I never
let on for a while, but stood and listened
without they seein’ me. Biraeby one
old lady spied me out, and sez she,
“ ‘ Aint it er shame, Mr. Johnson ?
Aint it er shame for honest folks to be
’posed on so by this little sneakin’, squiv
erlin— ’
“ ‘ And my gal takin’ on so ’bout him
too ! I’ll show her !’ said another old
’ornan.
“ ‘ And my Nancy givin’ him.a bunch
of flowers this God blessed evening, I’ll
bound— ”
“‘Ladies,!’ said Billy.
“ ‘ Shet up!’ said one.
“ ‘ ’Rest him !’ said another.
“ Sez I, * Ladies and gentlemen !’—
They all stopped and listened to what I
had to say, ’cause yer see I could laud
the tariff on Billy among the old folks,
if he could git me sorter ’mong the
young ’uns. Says I, 4 Ladies and gen
tlemen, I must think, afore I suffer my
self to believe the reports about Mr.
Fields, that it ar all owin’ to a mistake;
as Mr. Fields no doubt would have
showed you if you had only given him
time. Ladies and gentlemen,’ sez I, ‘Mr.
Fields has always been ’flicted with that
distiessin evil of walkin’ in his sleep. —
And this ar no doubt the cause of this
unpleasant accident.’
“ 4 That’s so !’ said fiilly, as he slipped
out to put on his clothes.
“‘ I know’d Mr. Fields would not
have done so on purpose,’ said one little
gal.
“‘ I know’d the Fields family long
ago,’ said one old ’oman, ‘and I know’d
thar blood would not be guilty of such a
thing.’
“ ‘ He’s had better raisin’,’ said an old
bow-begged brother.
“ Billy had now put on his clothes,
and he come in whar we war, talkin’ to
the old folks and ’pologizin’ to the gals
for his adventures, as he called snom
bobolastic. It war now all right, and
all of my own fixin’. Billy forgive me
for throwin’ him over —for gittin’ him
out so putty. Durn him, I wish I could
git him in another sich scrape! I’d git
him out when the cows comc_ home tail
end foremost! I aint forgot his blabbin’
out ’bout that Betsy Trollop scrape
yit!”
Happiness. —Now let me tell you a secret
—a secret worth hearing. This looking for
ward for enjoyment don’t pay. From what I
know of it, I would as soon chase butterflies
for a living, or bottle up moonshine for
cloudy nights. The only true way to hap
piness is to take the drop3 of happiness as
God gives them to us every day of our lives.
The boj must learn to be lwppy when he is
plodding over his lesson ; the apprentice
when he is learning his trade; the merchaut
while he is making his fortune. If he fails
•to learn this art, he will be sure to miss his
enjoyment when he gains that he sigte for.’
You may wish to get a wife without a failing,
but what if the lady, after you find her, happens
to be in want of a husband of the same ciiarac
-1 ter?
O, Bring to me a Golden Pen!
BY LILLIAN ST. CLAIR.
Oh, bring to me a golden pen
Os pure Australian oie,
With a diamond point from Brazilian mines;
I would trace in full and glowing lines,
A tale of beautiful lore.
I would tell of spirits bright that come
To us in the “stilly night,”
When the earth is wrapt in sweet repose,
And the zephyrs fan the cheek of the rose,
And the stars are twinkling bright.
I would toll how their soft hands soothe
The pain in the aching head •
I would tell of their never-failing love,
Os their ministry from the world above,
That land where liveth the dead.
How they tune with joy their golden harps,
When a soul to them is given,
How they sing a glad and joyous strain,
For the soul that is loosed from grief and pain
And born again—into Heaven!
IS luc Eye*.
FROM THE GERMAN, BY REV. C. T. BROOKS.
Blue eyes are full of danger—
Beware their tender glow !
They ’ll leave the heart a stranger
To peaceful hours below !
I warn you, men, give earnest heed !
Let not bright eyes your sight mislead;
And when blue eyes your glances win,
Look not too deep—too deep therein !
Blue eyes with soul are beaming,
They ’ll look thee through and through:
With light and love they ’re streaming,
So mild, and warm, and true.
And when mv heart is sore distress’d,
And sorrow fills my lonely breast,
Let, then, blue eyes my sorrow win—
What joy, what bliss, 1 see therein!
Blue eyes from heaven are lighted
With holy, soul-born glow,
To cheer poor man .benighted,
And charm him out of woo.
And when cold wint’ry clouds arise,
And shroud in grey the sunny skies,
Then let blue eyes my glances win—
I find my sky—my day, therein !
“Are we Rieli Mother ?”
“Mother, are we rich ?”
“Yes, darling, very rich,” answered Mrs.
Lawrence, quietly, as she leaned forwards
toward the window, in the deepening twi
light, to thread her needle once more, for
the last stitch in the garment she was com
pleting. There tyas something in her tone
which made Anna turn and look earnestly
at her. There had been, for past,
an unbroken silence, during which the child
had been sitting in a musing attitude, ga
zing into the glowing fire. The muffled
sound of the embers falling from the grate,
mingling with the low murmur of the wind
without, as it shook the falling snow from
the branches of the trees, only deepening her
reverie. Now her question revealed the
subject on which she had been pondering.
“Do you really mean so, mother? Are
we very rich ?”
“Yes my child, it is true, we are rich;
perhaps not in the sense in which you under
stand the word ; but why does my little An
na ask the question ? Has she not all that
she can reasonably desire?’’
“Yes mamma, surely.” And Anna turn
ed and surveyed the cosy little parlor, with
its blazing fire ; the oldfasbion easy chair,
with its worsted plaid covering, in which, as
she had been told “grandma” used to sit, in
her double ruffled cap and spectacles,reading
with clasped hands, reverently, the Bible on
her knees; the large old clock, which had
stood in its present position for fifty years,
and told the hours now with the same pre
cision as when in its youthful days it was
placed there ; the old mirror, with its shin
ing black frame, which grandpa used to tell
his eldest grand child, had been bought with
Continental money, and cost ten thousand
dollars; the old Turkey carpet, now faded
and threadbare, but neat as household care
could make it—all these with the center ta
ble, covered with its crimson cloth, told her,
that at least they were rich in comfort. But
she was thoughtful yet
“Why did you ask me this question, my
child ?”
“Because, mamma, we had anew scholar,
to-day at school. She told me that her fath
er was very rich and asked me if my moth
er was ? I told her that I did not know,
and she thought that strange. A girl said
that she was proud. Do you think that peo
ple ought to be proud of riches, mamma?”
“No, my child, unless they have made
them the means of substantial good to them
selves, or others. Even then, pride is not
the proper feeling. It should be gratitude to
Him who has given us the ability to acquire,
and the wisdom to use these our acquisitions
aright.”
By th'l3 time the twilight had yielded to
darkness. Mrs. Lawrence laid aside her
work, and stood for some minutes at the
window, looking out pensively upon the
starless nigiit and coming storm. “God
pity the poor!” “God pity the homeless I ’
she prayed in the depths of her heart, and
then, in thankfulness for her own share
the earthly comforts, she let fall the curtains
and turned to tho genial heart cheering
warmth of her own fireside. Seating her
self in the old time honored arm-chair, she
took the little girl of ten years upon her
knee. The darkness grew denser without,
and the fire glowed more and more cbeer
ingly within; occasionally, it sent up a rich
ruddy gleam that lighted up the walls, and
the few old pictures thatjiung there, among
them one dearer than all, that seemed to
smile protection ou the widow and her fath
erless child.
“My darling, I will answer your question
now, more fully. I said, truly, that we are
rich —not in money, or in lands, but in
nometfuDg faj better, We lure in the proof?
of God’s love constantly surrounding us,
in friends and health, in home and hap
piness. Our wants are all supplied by this
good providence, anu I humbly trust, my
child, that we are-rich in gratitude and love
to God and man. You bave been too young,
as yet, to know the story of the past; but
shall hear it now, and understand how
we, the widow and the fatherless, have been
sheltered from the storms oflife, beneath the
“everlasting arras.”
“Your worthy father, whom you never
knew, was once, though not wealthy, in
comfortable circumstances. Prudent and al
ways thoughtful for the welfare of his grow
ing family, he made preparations in the sea
sons of health, for a time when premature
age or sickness might cripple his energies
both of mind and body. His efforts had been
successful; he felt at ease, and happy, in
the sunshine of his home : perhaps too hap
py there, and the brightness of our earthly
dwelling made us all, perhaps, forgetful of
that home “not made with hands, eternal in
the heavens.” There came a season, how
ever, which had its teachings, and called
that other world vividly to our remembrance
“Unfortuuately, the large proportion of
his property was invested in one institution,
where he considered it perfectly secure.
That institution, failed, and a combination of
circumstances followed which suddenly re
duced us from comfort to penury. The effect
upon your father was fearful. The strong
man bowed down, and in a moment, all his
hopes for the future of his family, all his
plans for the education and.improvement of
his children, Were swept away by a whirl
wind. His energies were prostrated. Men
tally nr.d physically, he sunk beneath the
shock, and, like one half paralyzed, he went
daily to his place of business, seemingly un
conscious why he did so. This state of
things lasted for three months ; but his heart
Was broken, and one morning, when he was
entering his room, he fell dead without a
groan.
“Then it was that Infinite Mercy looked
upon my sorrow, and through all the gloom,
I saw, after a time, the hand of a loving
Father, guiding and directing all things to
some great end. Up to this time, worldly
cares, and daily arrangements for my little
houseliold, had too much engrossed me.
Now left alone, with none to share my res
ponsibilities, no earthly arm on which to
lean, I turned with a deep conviction of my
weakness and helplessness, to “One mighty
to save and like a shepherd lie stretched
forth his hand,and gathered me and my little
ones into his earthly fold. There we have
ever since been sheltered, safe, and happy.
“Bat let me show how his lov was man
ifested towards me. I had a brother, always
tender and loving, the dear companion of
my childhood, and now God made him the
instrument of my relief. He resided in a
distant part, and when the tidings of my
sorrow reached him he hastened to my re
lief. When at last we met, I lay upon my
bed of suffering. He took me in his arms,
and comforted me, and I wept on his bosom.
“0,” I said in my anguish, “my children!
my children I friendless! friendless! what
will b.ecome of them ?
“Sister, they shall never want,” he said,
“all that I have is Be comforted.
Trust God —in me.”
“I did —I did my child, and the promises
of God, and of that darling brother, failed not.
From year to year, his liberal remittances
have sustained us. My children have been
fed, and clothed, and educated, by his boun
ty; a bounty inspired of God. As your
brothers and sisters have grown up, his good
judgment has aided them to select their
paths in life, and his assistance has been
vouchsafed, until they were enabled to sus
tain themselves. And now they are mar
ried and gone from their home, except my
youngest treasure,” and she held little Anna
closer to her heart, “his bounty still supports
us in a great degree; for when he died he
left all that remained of his property, which
was never large, to his sister. He has gone
to his reward and we are left to bless his
memory.
“Now, my child, are not our riches better
than gold and silver?—home and friends,
confentment and domestic love! Above all,
we humbly trust, a faith in Christ; a treas
ure laid up in heaven, that fadeth not away.”
“And mother, if I pray, shall I always
have this?”
“Yes, my child. Pray not for riches
which perish in the using; but for love to
God, which will ensure us peace and life
eternal .”
Tiie Evil of a Bad Temper.—A bad tem
per is a curse to the possessor, and its influ
ence is most deadly wherever it is found.—
It is allied to martyrdom to be obliged to
live with one of a complaining temper. To
hear one eternal round of complaint and
murmuring, to have every pleasant thought
scared away by their evil spirit, is a sore
trial. It is like the sting of a scorpion—a
perpetual nettle, destroying your peace, ren
dering life a burden. Its influence is dead
ly ; and the purest and sweetest atmosphere
is contaminated into a deadly miasma wher
ever this evil genius prevails. It has been
said truly, that while we ought not to let
the bad temper of others influence us, it
would be as reasonable to spread a blister
upon the skin, and not expect it to draw, as
to think of a family not suffering because
of the bad temper of ary one of its inmates.
One string out of tunc will destroy the mu
sic of an instrument otherwise perfect, so if
all the members of a church, neighborhood
and family, do not cultivate a kind and af
fectionate temper, there will be discord and
every evil work.
Many a mind is dead to effort,and its epitaph
c*n be written la three word*—helped tp death.
Alexander’* Warning*.
As Alexander was advancing towards
Babylon, Ncarchus who was returned from
his expedition on the ocean, and come up to
the Euphrates, positively declared he had
been applied to by some Chaldeans, who
were strongly of opinion that Alexander
should not enter Babylon. But he slighted
the warning and continued his march. Up
on his approach to the walls, he saw a great
number of crows fighting, some of which
fell down dead at his feet. Soon after this,
being informed that Apollodoru?, governor
of Babylon, had sacrificed in order to con
sult the Gods concerning him, he sent for
Pythagoras the diviner; and, as he did not !
deny the fact, asked him how the entrails of
the victim appeared. Pythagoras answer- j
ed, the liver was without a head. “ A ter- 1
rible presage, indeed!” said Alexander.—
He let Pythagoras go with impunity ; but
by this time be was sorry he had not listen
ed to Nearclnis. He lived mostly in his pa
villion without the walls, and diverted him
self with sailing up and down the Euphra- :
tes. For there had happened several other
ill omens that much disturbed him. One of J
the largest and handsomest lions that was
kept in Babylon, was attacked and kicked
to death by an ass. One day he stripped
for the refreshment of oil, and to play at [
ball; after the diversion was over, the young
men who played with him, going to fetch
his clothes, beheld a man sitting in profound
silence on his throne, dressed in the royal
robes, with the diadem upon his head.—
They demanded who he was, and it was a
long time before he would answer. At last
coming to himself, he said, “My name is
Dionysius, and I am a native of Messene.
Upon a criminal process against me, I left
the place and embarked for Babylon. There
I have been kept a long time in chains.—
But this day the god Serapis appeared to
me and broke my chains; after which he
conducted me hither, and ordered me to put
on this robe and diadem, and sit here in si
lence.”
After the man had explained himself,
Alexander, by the advice of his soothsayers,
put him to death. But the anguish of his
mind increased; on one hand, he almost de
spaired of the succors of Heaven, and on
the other distrusted his friends. He was
most afraid of Antipater and his sons; one
of which, named lolau3, was his cup bearer ;
the other, named Cassauder, was lately ar
rived from Macedonia; and happening to
see some barbarians prostrate themselves be
fore the king, like a man accustomed only
to the Grecian manners, and a stranger to
such a sight, he burst into a loud laugh.—
Alexander. enraged at the affront, seized
him by the hair, and with both hands dash
ed his head against the wall. Cassander af
terwards attempted to vindicate his father
against his accusers; which greatly irritated
the king.
When Alexander had once given himself
up to superstition, his mind was so preyed
upon by vain fears and anxieties that he
turned the least incident, which was any
thing strange and out of the way, into a
sign or a prod’gy. However, upon the re
ceipt of some oracles concerning Hepha?3-
tion, he gave a truce to his sorrows, and
employed himself ia festive sacrifices and
entertainment.
One day after he had given Nearchus a
sumptuous treat, he went, according to cus
tom, to refresh himself in the bath, in order
to retire to rest. But in the mean time Me
diu3 came and invited him to take part in a
carousal, and he could not deny him. There
he drank all that night and the next day,
till at last he found a fever coming upon
him.
In his journals the account of his sickness
is as follows: “On the eighteenth of the
month Diesius, finding the fever on him, he
lay in his bath-room. The next day, after
he had bathed, he removed into his own
chamber and played many hours with Me
dius at dice. In the evening he bathed
again, and after sacrificing to the gods, he
ate his supper. In the night the fever re
turned. The twentieth he also bathed, and,
after the customary sacrifice, sat in the bath
room and diverted himself with hearing
Nearchus give an account of his voyage,
and all that was most observable with re
spect to the ocean. The twenty-first was
spent in the same manner. The fever in
creased, and he had a very bad night The
twenty-second the fever was violent. He
ordered his bed to be removed arid placed
by the great bath. There he talked to his
crcncral3 about the vacancies in his army,
and desired they might be filled up with
experienced officers. The twenty-fourth he
was much worse. He chose, however, to
be carried to assist at the sacrifice. He
likewise gave orders that the principal offi
cers of the army should wait within the
court, and the officers keep watch all night
without The twenty-fifth he was remov
ed to his palace on the other side of the
river, where he slept a little, but the fever
did not abate; and when his generals enter
ed the room he was speechless. He con
fined so the day following. The Macedo
nians, by this time, thinking he was dead,
came to the gates with great clamour, and
threatened the great officers in such a man
ner that they were forced to admit them,
and sufler them a'l to pass unarmed by the
bedside. The twenty-seventh, Python and
Seleucus were sent to the temple of Serapis,
to inquire whether they should send Alex
ander thither; and the deity ordered that
they should not remove him. The twenty
eighth, in the evening, he died.’’ The par
ticulars are taken almost word for word
from his diary.— Plutarch's Lives.
That virtue which depends on opinion looks
W secresy alone, W • wU4’t ita desert.
To Spring.
BY ALBIRT PIKE.
0 thou delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers.
Which fail from clouds tiiat lift their snowy wing
From odorous beds of light enfolded flowers.
And from enniaased bowers.
That over grassy walks the'r greenness Wng,
Come, gentle Spriog!
Tiiou lover of young wind,
That cometh from the invisible upper sea
Beneath the eky, which c ouds, its white foam, bind.
And, settling in the t ees deliciously,
Makes young leaves dance with glee.
Even in the teetli of that old, sober hind,
Winter unkind.
Come to us ; for thou art
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring;
Touching the sacred feeling of the heart.
Or like a virgin’s pleasant welcoming ;
And thou dost ever bring
A tide of gentle, but resistless art
Upon the heart.
Red Autumn from the south
Contends with thee ; alas! what may he show ?
What arc his purple-ataiu'd and rosy mouth.
And browned cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow.
And timid, pleasant glow,
Giving carth-piercing flowers their primal growth,
And greenest youth ?
Gay Summer conquers thee;
And yet he has no beauty such as thine ;
What is his over-streaming, fiery sea.
To the pure glory that with thee doth shine ?
Thou season most divine,
What may his dull and lifeless minstrelsy
Compare with thee ?
Come, s't upon the hills.
And bid the w aking streams leap down their side.
And green the vales witli their slight-sounding rills;
And when the stars upon the sky shall glide,
A nd crescent Dian ride,
I too will breathe of thy delicious thrills,
On g assy bills.
Alas! bright Spring, not long
Shall I enjoy thy pleasant influence ;
For thou shalt die the Summer heat among.
Sublimed to vapor in his Are intense.
And gone forever hence.
Exist no more ; no more to earth lielong,
Except in song.
So I who sing shall die ;
Worn unto death, perchance, by care and sorrow ;
And, fainting thus with an unconscious sigh.
Bid unto this poor body a good-morrow.
Which now sometimes I borrow.
And breathe of joyanee keener and more high,
Ceasing to sigh!
Dr. Bouldiiig’s Love Story.
BY GKOBGIAXA S. PURDUE.
The chamber was luxuriously furnished,
and had an air of comfort, too, that told its
luxuries were made for U3e, and not merely
to be looked at.
By the fire, in his easy chair, sat the doc
tor; seated on a low stool at his feet, her
cheek resting on his knee, was Louisa. There
had been a little gentle chiding on the part
of the doctor, apparently, for a tear stole
from each blue eye down the young girl’s ro
sy cheek. Louisa’s cheeks were always rosy,
but they assumed a deeper hue as, glancing
slyly at the doctor, she said :
Indeed, uncle, I love William as well as I
ever did, but I cannot help thinking he did
me great injustice in falsely accusing me of
flirting with Lionel Renfrew.”
“Stop Louisa,” interrupted the doctor,
“do not say falsely. I watched the whole
affair that has offended your lover so much,
and 1 do not think his jealousy is without
cause.”
Then, changing his voice to one of the
deepest sadness, and laying his hand on the
fair head before him, Dr. Boulding said :
“You, Louisa, just now used the phrase, ‘a
little harmless flirtation.’ Listen, my child,
while I tell you a harmless flirtation
crushed uiy hopes and embittered my life.
“ It must be twenty-two years ago, tho’
to me it seems as yesterday, that I, a thin,
nervous, young medical student, passed my
examination, and obtained my certificate as
a surgeon. Before I established myself as
a practitioner, I resolved to have a week’9
holiday, and therefore went down to Wal
lington to visit a cousin I had residing there.
It was a lovely country village, and to me
who had been studying hard for a month—
scarcely indulging myself in a walk to sniff
the fresh air beyond the boundary us the city
in which I lived—presented a charming pic
ture of rural beauty, and an endless variety
of rural pleasures.
“ I had been all my life so closely tied to
school, to college, to lecture, and to books,
that I felt proud of my sporting skill, when,
on the second evening of my visit, I returned
home with my cousin, bearing a single part
riJge brought down by my gun.
“ We were walking down a shady lane—
I remember, it was called Vineyard Lane—
I smoothing and admiring the soft plumage
of my bird, when Fred, my cousin, directed
my attention to a small cottage standing on
the left hand side of the lane.
“ ‘ There, Charles,’ said he ‘ lives Mrs. Col
lins; 9be is a widow and has two daughters,
Mary and Geraldine. If you like, we will
call; they are pretty girls and you will be
pleased with them.’
“He opened the little gate, and we walk
ed towards the cottage. I thought it the
loveliest place I had ever seen. Roses were
everywhere, China roses covered the walls,
peeped in at the windows, and coquetted
with the chimneys. As we neared the cot
tage, the door opened, and Geraldine ran
out She was very pretty, a lively saucy
style of beauty that you could not be offen
ded with, let her use that sharp tongue of
hers with ever such pert satire. But at the
moment when I first saw Geraldine, she
looked far more dolorous than saucy as, run
ning to my cousic, she said, .‘Oh, Mr. May
nard, we have had such an accident; Mary
was training the rose tree, when her foot
slipped, and she fell off the ladder. Mamma
thinks she has broken her ancle, for she is in
such dreadful pain.’
“‘Then,’ said Fred, we have called just in
time, for my cousin here—Mr. Boulding,
Miss Geraldine Collins—my cousin, who is a
surgeon, will soon examine the injured mem
ber.’
“ ! That is fortunate. lam so glad you
called,’ said Geraldine, as we followed her
into a parlor—such a tiny parlor, half filled
by the sofa which stood opposite the door (I
had cause to remember the sofa) upon which
ivo.
Mary lay. The moment 1 saw her I felt in
clined to quarrel with Fred—l should have
liked to have knocked him dow n—for dar
ing to have called her a ‘prety girl.’ Pret
ty? she was divine; one of those marvel
lous creatures whom .to look at is to rever
ence and to love. After the first look I for
got everything around; all I saw was the
glorious face now drawn with pain before
me. I believe an old lady in black silk
came, and spoke to me; that placed in my
hand her daughter’s injured foot. I have
some indistinct idea tliat I ascertained it to
be merely a sprained ankle; that I ordered
bandages and fomentations; upon which the
lovely patient professed herself relieved. I
also think I made some remarks about the
weather, and ended by entreating Mary’s
acceptance of the partridge I had shot.
“ After that, as long as I remained in the
country, I called regularly every morning at
the cottage to inquire how the ankle was
progressing. My morning visits usually las
ted UDtil dinner time, but I never found cour
age to speak to Mary of the great love grow
ing up in my heart towards her. Instead of
making love, I was wondering what she
thought of my long nose and ugly mouth, or
thinking whether she disliked the spectacles
which I was always obliged to wear, and
whether she quizzed me after I was gone.
I was also very uneasy at the presence of a
certain Walter Harbury at the cottage much
more frequent than I thought necessary, and
who was far more familiar with my Mary
than exactly pleased me.
“However, the last morning visit I made,
I summoned all my courage and declared
my love for Mary—not to herself hut to her
mother.
“ Mrs. Collins was very willing. She
could not have chosen, she said, a more de
sirable husband for Mary. She should be
thankful to see the dear child married with
such good prospects. Mary tvns called. I
stammered out something about the great af
fection I entertained for her. She smiled,
blushed, and—we were engaged.
I went up to town and worked like a
slave. I started in my profession, and wrote
to Mary every other day accounts of how I
was getting on; she sent me in reply little
notes, on rose tinted paper—the most affec
tionate and charming imaginable. I took
a small house and furnished it from cellar to
garret.
“Sometimes I gave myself a treat and
spent the Sunday with Mary—delicious days!
Shall I ever forget the exquisite pleasure of
sitting near her, watching the exquisite-play
of her beautiful features, or listening to the
lively chat that fell from her bewitching lips!
“ We had been engaged three months, when
a circumstance occurred which resulted in
my being suddenly subpoenaed to attend as
a witness in a case that was to be tried in a
county town near to which my Mary lived.
It was only eight miles from Wallington,
and I resolved, after the trial was ended, to
walk over and give Mary a delightful sur
prise.
“ I thought that trial never would have
ended. The counsel was the most prosy,
the witnesses were the most stupid and slow
in giving evidence that it ever was my lot to
listen to.
“ The moment I was out of Court I star
ted off for Wallington. I was not very rich,
so I resolved to walk. Walk, did I say, I
ran—l flew. I paused one moment at the
gate; how beautiful the cottage looked in the
calm evening light, and the centre of my
happiness was there calm and beautiful! No
one was looking for me, so I walked quietly
up to the house, and opened the door of the
little parlor.
“ There opposite me, upon the sofa, sat
my Mary; and, heaven and earth! beside
her, with his arm around her waist, sat Wal
ter Harbury! This was the end of my
agreeable surpiise! This was what I had
flown on the wings of love to see! I stood
perfectly speechless, transfixed. Waiter and
Mary remained in exactly the same position,
and neither uttered a word. I wanted to
speak to reproach her, but no voice came,
and in silence I left the room, walked down
the little garden, closed the gate gently after
me, and returned without a word to Lon
don.
“ For a few days I tied from thought as
from a demon. Os Mary, and Mary faith
less, I dared not think. The fourth day I
blamed my self as a fool for caring about one
so false and coquetish. The fifth ds.y I fan
cied I had been too hasty; if 1 had spoken
it might have been explained—perhaps it was
a mistake, there might be 110 love between
them after all. The sixth day brought with
it a letter from ilary herself. Such a letter
I never read before nor since; 1 fairly wont
over it I had been an ass, an ignoramus, a
scoundrel, to suspect her for a moment; it,
was clearly an optical delusion. So I took
my place in the train that very night, and
went down to Wallington.
“Mary met me at the gate, all smiles and
tears, and looking more beautiful than ever.
‘lt was such strange behavior,’ she said ‘to
come in and look upon her, and then go
away without one word. She Would
thought it a ghost, had cot Mr. Jlarbury,
who was in the same room, saw me too.—
Had not slept since for thinking and won
dering, and she was 0, so glad to see me
again.’
“ Os course I was very sorry and
and Mary behave 1 bea itiiuiiy and forgave
me like an angel, as sue was. ‘She atvyj;-
thought,’ Said she, ‘anything of Walter, he
was just like a brother, they had know n
each other from childhood. As for sitting
beside her, he should never do so again if I _
objected to it.’ So we were reconciled aut|
became better friends and lovers than before.
I was very anxious to be married eow, and