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•* w 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