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VOLUME 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
14 PUBLISHED VERY FRIDAY MORNI.VG BY
L. F. W. ANDREWS.
Office —In Horne’* Rtrihling , Cherry Street,
Tiro Door hehur Third Street.
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Adi-rli<u*inrnlM at tli rrgn'ar tli:ujre will be One UnUor
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vertfcem “ts n °* ViclMwtotiiiMi, will foe puUisheii until
foetid, aii t charged aco rdingly. A liberal dincouut aiiuvred
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Lateral arrangement* mad with County Officer?*,
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PrelMwitl and Hu*an<v* 4'ard* will he Inserted un
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ABMUBcrisrnlt of candidate# f*r office to l*e paid for a
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•ales of Laud and Xejcrurw, by Ixccoton, Ad ninistra
t r> and Guardian*, are required soy law to lie advcitued In a
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1 jolt* mud be held on the first Ttte?*l:iv in tlie ntom h. between
the tours of ten in the fonwooß and tim e in the afternoon,
at the Comt-house in the county in whk-h the property is stu
flhL
Hales of Personal Property must be advertised in like
man air, forty days
\ntfre to DrMon and Creditor* of an Estate mnst lie
published forty days.
Sol for that application will le made to the Ordinary for
leave to tell Land and Negroes nmut be pntdWhed weekly for
two months.
Citations for Letters of Administration, thirty day*; for
Dismission trom Administration, monthly, six mouths; for ,
Dismbakffl from Guardianship, weekly, forty day*.
Itulcs for Forerlow ing of Mortimg***. monthly, sou
m nth*; for establishing 1-st paoers, for the full space of thru
ninths; for compelling titles from executors or administra
where a iond has been given by the deceased, the full !
| pace of three months.
-
- The following VC fitnl in tlie Xoncafk Ga
zette, It is a gem in it* way. If l*r. Hill ran throw
art *ih li scintillation* as this, he had better keep on,” ‘
So says the liui tfuni CburtuU, amt so say we.
The Little “Trundle-Bed.”
IIT OR. A. IIILL.
We liave found a little treasure,
Joyous and bright as tint morn.
Loved without stint or measure,
Kver since it was horn :
’ I’is a dear little girl, and her golden hair
Kalis in ringlets bright o’er a forehead lair.
And close by the siile of our bed,
This precious little liumlle
Every night is laid
Snug in her little ‘-trundle
Smiling so sweet, that it sometimes seems
bond angels must talk to the child in her dreams. ;
And every night she comes,
Weary ’< >f frolic wild play.
Then softly her vesper hums,
And kneels liy her bod to pray;
And then, as soon as her prayers are said,
Stic nestles right down in her “trundle-bed.’’
The clothes are all folded neat.
In winter all snugly tuck’d in.
The “coverlet,” blanket, and sheet.
Drawn under tin* darling s chin;
Then all you can see is lier Imby-head,
As she sleeps for the night in her ‘-trundle-hed.'’
And often we come to kneel
Where our little treasure lies
And prayers such as parents feel,
We send up to the skies:
For we hear of dnitk. ami we come to dread.
The loss of our child from her -trundle-lied.'’
We think—yes. often we think.
And what if tlie child should die !
The heart fora moment will sink.
And a tear-drop moistens the eye;
Fond hearts are now Weeding as others’ have Wed,
While they gaze on a vacant, but dear lit lie l til.
Affection hath rear'd her shrine.
By the lowli* -t things of earth.
And the holiest things entwine
Round the spot tliat gave us Wrtli:
Thus we love the place where our lby sleeps.
And affection her nightly vigil keeps.
* ‘Tis a plain okl-fashioned thing.
That little baby bed,
Where love doth her offerings bring.
And angels tightly trend:
let a cord )ilay la- touch'd by the merest toy.
I'liat shall deluge the heart with a tide of joy.
We love it: and who shall dare.
These holy feelings deride?
Like that precious “-OW Arm Chair,”
And a thousand tilings Is-sule.
wliether our child Is* living or dead.
•I dear tittle thing is tliat “"tonwl/etirtl.”
For the Crrifis.
CACtiHT 111 A LAI OH!
BT AUNT JENNIE.
It was a lovely morning in the “ lealy
month of June.” I was sitting by the open
window knitting, wheu my nephew, Charlie
Vernon j entered the room, threw himself j
upon a lounge, heaved a profound sigh, and t
exclaimed in tragic tones, “Aunt Jennie, I
am miserable! Sometimes I think I will go,
like Judas, and hang myself!”
I laid my knitting in my lap, arranged the
strings of my cap, and calmly looked over
my glasses at this ‘miserable’ specimen of j
humanity—this six feet of suffering. Charlie
was a good looking fellow—even his own
sex allowed that,while the ladies p.ononnced j
him a perfect Adonis. 1 don’t know that 1
ever saw Adonis, either ‘in the flesh’ or in ;
marble, but Charlie seemed to me as hand- i
some, and clever a young man as one would
wish to see, albeit he was like most of his
sex troubled with a chronic admiration o!
his own perfections. 1 coolly surveyed him
a few moments and replied, “No need to
hang yourself, Chatl.e—perhaps if you will
wait patiently the official functionary ap
pointed for that office, will save you the
trouble—but what’s the matter? Your
moustache seems to be in good order, (be
stroked said hirsute appendage with much
complacency.) you look in good health— has
your pointer balked—or your horse stum
bled—or your gun flashed—or— ’’
“Aunt Jernie,” interrupted Charlie, “yon
talk to me as if I were a child, whereas I
am twenty-two years old, (not quite said I)
well nearly so. Tlie fact is I’m tired of lead
ing this useless sort of a life. I’m tired ol
myself, and of every thing, your heartless
*ex included. Why,” said he, raising him
self in his earnestness, “Last night, Dora
actually refused my company from church,
and accepted the arm of that unmitigated
Puppy, Joe Stanley. This morning I called
on her—she gave me a decidedly cool re
ception—in fact there's no accounting for
women and young steers, and—in short we
■’'•are broken off our engagement! I know
}ou will be glad of it, for you never liked
*-.Ta and to tell the truth, my heart is not
>te broken at this catastrophe.” and Cliar
-8 mj achievous eyes looked like any thing
- those of a broken-hearted swain.
Charlie,” said I, “I am glad ol it, for
! °‘ a is a vain, frivolous, insincere girl—not
“• a - Ue sort of a woman I would like for
■ ou ’ wile and now listen to my proposi
tion v-i J r r
to Leal your sorrows, a change of scene
would be beneficial If you remain here,
a ‘ ■"V-jcinations might lure you back.
er , he emphatically interrupted,) so sup
week!’’* 1 conc ' ut * e to 8° North with me next
“The very idea,” exelsimed he, jumping
I U P his excitement, and overturning mv
I work-basket, and treading on the cat’s tail,
who with a squall jumped through the open
window. “I'll go home now- aud tell ‘Dil
sey’ to get my shirks ready, and call on
father (Charlie, unlike many ‘fast’ young
men did not style his paternal relative, ‘Gov
ernor,’) for auy amount of money,'’—and he
, departed.
Charlie had been somewhat spoiled by
prosperity—but there was much sterling
worth hid under that light exterior. Ilis
father was rich—he an only child. With
more than ordinary talents, health without a
Haw, and that active, buoyant temperament,
W’orth more to its possessor than a fortune.
I prophesied bright things for Charlie's fu
ture. aud meanwhile loved him. “faults and
a! 1 ,” with a love like unto that of David for
Jonathan ; and in return the boy made iae
his confident, and loved me as well as young
men of his age can love anything except
their precious selves.
The following week, our ‘crowd’ (which
in Georgia veuaeular may mean two, or a
hundred, as the case may be, but which upon
this occasion included Charlie aud myself,
and Mr. Tompkins and lady going North on
a pleasure tour.) Started lrom , well,
no matter where, but we took the cars, and
ou Thursday, p. arrived at Savannah, and
put up at the Pulaski House, where they
gave us rooms something less than a mile
from the basement. Mr. Tompkins and
Charlie went out to see that all was right
about our state-rooms on the “Knoxville,” {
which had been previously engaged, and
Mrs. Tompkins and myself made ourselves
as comfortable as we could, so near the sky.
Friday morning, Charlie and I went out
to view the beauties of the city and do some
shopping. On our return as we were lei
surely promenading, we saw immediately
before us a middle-aged gentleman, and a
girl in a ‘flat’ The gentleman made a re
maik, and the young lady replied, and then
laughed. Such a silvery, clear, ringing, joy
ous laugh I never heard. It w-as so indica
tive of a happy, buoyant heart, and invol
untarily echoed it, while Charlie convulsive
caught my arm, exclaiming, “Aunt Jennie,
did you ever hear such a laugh “Avery
good laugh I think, sir,” I replied, “but if
von please, don't pinch my arm so unmerci
fully. ’ “A good laugh,” said the young man
contemptuously. “It was the very poetry
of laughter. She’s an angel I know—l love
her already.” Igave a significant grunt “It’s
my opinion tliat you have no more senti
ment than that monument,” and he pointed
to that splendid affair near the Pulaski House,
around which children and their nurses do
congregate in summer, “but let me tell you,”
continued he, “I never heard such a laugh
before. Id give ten dollars to see lier face,'’
and the impetuous gentleman hurried me on
after the couple who proceeded to the Pulas- !
ki House, and disappeared iu the vestibule.
We followed—but were detained by Charlie's
slopping at the office for my door key, and
we lost sight of the gentleman and lady.— i
Proceeding up stairs, Chat lie saw, aud picked
up a pocket-book, which he opened, and
found to contain notes and money to a large
amount, and the owner’s name stamped on
the inside, in gilt letters, lie proceeded at
once to find said owner, whom he presumed
to bo the gentleman in company with the
girl who affected his susceptible heart with
her merry laugh. In about a half an hour
he rapped at my door—entered with a radt
ent face, and exclaimed, “Aunt Jennie, I'm
the luckiest fellow in the world—no doubt
of that fact. The pocket-book belonged to
that respectable old gen letnn,as I surmised.
His name is Johnson, and the young lady is
his neicr—her r.ame is Mary Smith—isn't it
a sweet name ?” “Very,” said I, “and so
uncommon!” Charlie turned up his nose, but
continued, “Mr. Johnsou lives at the South,
but bis neiee is a Yankee—she lias been out
to visit her cousin?, and uow her uncle is
taking her home to Massachusetts. He says
we must get acquainted, as we are all going
together ou the “Knoxville,” and we are to
meet in the parlor to night.”
Accordingly after supper, we rssembled
in the parlor, and had a very lively time.—
Mr. Johnson was agreeable and social—a
gentleman in the best f-ene of that much
abused word. As for Miss Mary, really,
when I looked at her sparkling brunette face,
full of hope and animation, and beautiful
will) youth and health. As I listened to her j
sensible, unaffected remarks,there was some
thing so piquant, so or ginal about the girl, ;
so unlike the stereotyped edition of board
ing school Misses, and College graduates.—
I did not wonder in the least at Charlie's
evident admiration. T think if I had been
a young man, I should have fallen in love
; with her myself.
She played on that old piano that was
J (and perhaps is) at the Pulaski House, and
sang sweetly and with expression. She
talked rationally and spiritedly, evincing in
| her remarks considerably more taste, thought
< and reflection than is usually found in the
conversation of ‘bread and butter Misses.’—
j Aud occasionally she laughed, tliat same
j clear, bell-like, good laugh which bad struck
I the susceptible Charlie so wonderfully. One
could plainly see that the young man was
captivated —his heatt entirely gone ‘off with
the old love, and on with the new.’ Fickle
Charlie! so unlike most of hts sex ! As for
Miss Mary, I thought before we parted for
the night, that she looked upon her admirer
with no unfavorable eye; and according to
wont,l built a fine ‘Chateau d'Espagne,’ with
Charlie and his wife, occupying prominent
places in the airy structure.
Saturday at 11 o’clock we assembled on
the ‘Knoxville.’ After the usual amount of
bustle we got settled and set sail In the
course of a few hours Mr. and Mrs. Tomp
kitis retired to their state-room, held with a
1 tight grip by the monster sea-sickness. Be- i
MACON, 6A., FRIDAY, AUGUST 12, ISs<>.
’ ing quiet, amiable, inoffensive people we did
I not miss them. The balance of our party
j were exempt from nausea, and we enjoyed
I ourselves accordingly.
Asa general thing Ido not take kindly
to stranger?, but Mr. Johnson was so tho
j roughly genial, kind and intelligent, and his
| neice so affable, po untutored in the sins and
\ sorrows of earth, I was pleased with the
• chance meeting. Charlie was the life of the
party. I had no idea the boy could be so
I fascinating, witty, polite and sociable to all
He devoted himself particularly to Miss
Mary.
From Mr. Johnson I learned that he was
a brother of Mary’s mother—she had died
in Mary’s infancy. Mr. Johnson came South
when a young man, as a clerk in a mercan
tile house in Savannah. He married a South
ern girl, and had become a planter. He said
Mr. Smith, Mary’s father, was a man of one
idea, liaised in Boston, the hot-bed of aboli
tionism, he entertained a firm convic'ion,
which nothing could shake, that the ‘down
trodden’ colored population of the South
were for the most trivial misdemeanors,
broiled over hot coals; and burnt at the stake
after the manner of John Rodgers, and other
ancient martyrs.
I learned too, from Mary, that her father
wanted her to many a Mr. Weston, of Bos
ton, rich and red-headed, whom she detested,
and she informed me confidentially, the
second night we were on board, after we
retired to our state-room, that she could not,
would not marry him—no indeed, if she died
an old maid—and she looked very heroic
when she made the tremendous resolution.
Every one knows how last a traveling ac
quaintance, when agreeable, can ripen into
intimacy, so it will surprise no one to know
that we all became very friendly in a short
length of time. Any thing like the ease
and facility with which Charlie and Mary
made love to each other I never saw. Their
long sweet silly talks, and loving looks were
eddying to witness—and Mr. Johnson and
myself looked on with immense satisfaction.
Mr. J. was acquainted with Charlie's father, j
and did not look upon the young man pre- i
cisely in the light of a stranger. He watched
him closely, however, and questioned him
keenly, and Charlie bore the scrutiny well.
It was evident that the old gentleman had
taken an especial fancy to the young man.
Arrived at New Yoik, we put tip at the
St. Nicholas. Mr. and Mis. Tompkins.much
the worse lor wear, left the next day for
\ e’rmont. The rest of ns remained a week
m Gotham shopping and sight-seeing. Char
lie and Mary as fond ns two turtle doves. —
They were ‘engaged,’ and Charlie was lo
visit her in a lew weeks and propose for
mally for her to her father.
Finally we started from New York, trav
eling as far as Hartford in company. There
we seperated. The parting between the
lovers was heart-rending indeed—though
the hope of a re-union in a few weeks kept
them from being entirely overcome at the
sa<l event. Arrived at our destination, at
my brother lft-zeki&h’s in Vermont, we met
with a kindly welcome from said dear
brother, one of the best men in the world.
IDs farm was in the Connecticut River Val
ley, in a pleasant and romantic location, and
Charlie entered with some zest for a few
days, into the mysteries of haying, fishing
for pike in the beautiful Connecticut, and (or
mountain trout in the neighboring brooks; ;
but tin* novelty of these pursuits having i
worn off he became restless, scribbled ‘Mary !
Smith’m tlie family Bible, and in a private
chat with myself, pronounced Yankeedom a
bore, so lhat at the end of a fortnight I was
glad to see him leave for Boston.
Arrived at that city, he proceeded at once
to Mr. Smith’s house. Mary's reception was
all a lover could desire, but she informed
him that matters had not progressed smooth
ly. Mr. Johnson had mentioned Charlie in
terms of praise, and Mr. Smith had replied
with his usual invectives upon slave-holding
Southerners. Mary had told her father that
the young man would visit them when he
came to Boston, and lie gruffly replied,
“He’d hotter stay at home and help torture
the poor down-trodden slaves.” So Mary
felt rather dubious about Charlie’s reception
with her sire.
While discussing the matter Mr. Smith
entered the room—was presented to Charlie,
“and really” said lie, when relating the cir
cumstances to me afterwards, “his reception
was not flattering in the least! He looked
at me crossly, accosted me in a savage tone,
told Mary she’d better lie at work, and left,
banging the door alter him.” But Charlie I
was not to be daunted. The next day he
called again in company with Mr. Johnson—
desired an interview with Mr. Smith, and
formally proposed for his daughter’s hand.—
Then there was a scene. “No, Sir,” said
the amiable Mr. Smith, “You cannot have
Mary. My daughter shall not marry a man
who holds immortal beings in bondage. I
detest the South and her ‘peculiar Institu
tion’ as I do the devil!” and his philan
thropic face was red with passion, the veins
swelled in his forehead: and he looked as if
he entertained a Nero-like wish, to have all
Slavery down under his puissant lieeL “Be
sides,” he continued, “Mary is going to
marry a man of my choice, a man worthy
of her—one who detests slavery and tyran
ny,” (Ob, thought Charlie, ‘consistency is a
jewel,’certainly, Mr. Smith.) “Is this your
final answer, Sir,” said Charlie, his eyes
blazing, but with the coolness and gentle
manly bearing which so seldom desert the
true Southern gentleman. “Yes, sir,” re
plied the worthy sire, “Mary should not i
marry a Southerner to save her soul from
perdition. I'd sooner see her lie cn the
rack.”
“Very well, Sir,” said Charlie, “ I love
Mary, and she returns my love. I have
j offered her the affection of a manly aud
I honest heart, and she has accepted it. I
have discharged my duty in asking your
consent. You have refused if, not in the
most delicate manner, and now with your
pretended hatred of slavery and tyranny,
you intend to compel your only child to
marry a man she detests. I consider white
servitude worse than black, and I shall en
deavor topreventsucha catastrophe asseeing
Mary a white slave to a white master false
ly called her husband.”
Charlie ceased —and Mr. Smith turned
scarlet—then the hue deepened to a rich
royal purple, til! he was threatened with
apoplexy—however, some words which
were not blessings, fell from his lips, which
relieved him, and he told his would-be son
in-law to leave—and he left. Now this was
an unpleasant episode, and Charlie was quite
unused to being crossed—but he was far
from being in despair.
The following p. m , Mr. Smith informed
his daughter that he had made arrangements
for her to marry Mr. Weston the next week.
In vain she wept—iu vain she told him that
such a ceremony would be a sacrifice and a
mockery. What were a few tears of a love
sick girl to vvea'th, and man’s will? He did
not relent, and I’m glad he didn’t, for what
is a tale worth where the course of true love
runs smooth ?
In fact, dear reader, I fear tics story is
not altogether as thrilling as I anticipated
when I commenced writing it, but really
with the mercury at 100 deg. more or less,
one must be excused if he is dull—particu
larly as people are prone to fall asleep at this
time of year, even when reading the last
speech, or listening to a sermon. But to re
sume— Mary, finding argument and entreaty
useless, finally refused flatly to marry her
father's favorite, and informed her sire that
she intended to marry Charlie Vernon, or
live single. The result of which resolution
was, Mr. Smith locked her up in her room,
and told lier he should hurry matters —that
the next day Mr. Weston should be at the
house, and then and there, nolens volens , she
should become his wife! Now I flatter my
self that my heroine is in a dilemma which
will entitle her to the sympathy of all right
minded young people ! Such things don’t
happen often at this prosaic day, but theie
are occasionally tyrants to be lbund both
North and South. And incredible as it may
seem, even in our angel sex I have seen
cruelty and tyrauny equal to that of Cali
gula.
Well, Mary passed a dismal lime. She
wept till her head ached, and her eyes were
red —then she looked out ol’ the window to
see if she could escape. Not that she ex
pected to marry Mr. No indeed,
she had too much Yankee spirit to imagine
such a thing, but she knew her father's ob
stinacy, and Weston’s unbounded influence
over him, and she dreaded the scene that
would occur the next day. Could she but
escape and find her uncle, all might be well,
for he loved her dearly, and liked Charlie, :
and disliked Weston.
.She thought of lier betrothed, and won
dered if he was as miserable as herself. She !
hoped not—then she hoped lie was, then
she wept again. j
At midnight she was restlessly walking
the floor, feeling reckless and despairing
enough lbr any heroine, when she heard a
low tup at the door, she listened breathless
ly—it was repeated, and she placed her mouth
at the key-hole and whispered, “who is it?”
No reply was vouchsafed, lint a paper was
slipped under the door. She seized it, and
read as follows, in her uncle’s w riting:
“Mary, your lather is possessed of the
devil, I believe! He will not listen to one
word of reason, but is determined you shall
many Weston to-morrow. Now I know
Westou to be a scoundrel, and can prove it
in a day or two; but, meanwhile, you must
not be sacrificed. 1 liave written South—
made enquiries about Charlie. The accounts
are satisfactory. I should not tear to trust
one ot my girls with hirn. Now Mary, I
may be nil old fool to counsel the step, and
I do generally think clandestine marriages
fruitful of evil. But to save time, and avoid
a stormy scene to-morrow, I have consented
at Charlie’s earnest solicitation, to aid and
abet you two foolish lovers in a mn&way
match! Think of it—and if you decide to
elope (of course you will tho’!) be ready in !
an hour. I will be at your door with a key
to open it.”
Below’ was written, “Darling—you will
not refuse to accede to what your uncle
sanctions. Ever your own, Charlie.”
Mary told me afterwards ‘hat she was in
a maimer crazed. Shg ‘cried’ a little—and
then the tiflair si ruck her in a comical way.
This running away with her lover and uncle
too, ar.d she laughed hysterically; hut it was
a serious matter after all, and she got a good
deal excited about it, but in the end she con
cluded to do what I hope, and presume no
young lady reader would do, viz : to elope.
To take Charlie for bettei or worse, without
the usual amount of preparation and cere
mony.
The hour passed. Mr. Johnson came soft
ly to the door—applied a key to the lock—
opened the door, and taking her hand, led
lier all trembling and excited, but with noise
less steps down the stairs, and out of her
father’s house. Charlie met her at the front
door, gave her one little kiss, asssisted her 1
into a carriage, placed himself at her side. —
Mr. Johnson followed shem —a signal was
given, and the carriage drove off. Within ,
the next hour the two were made one, and
Charles pressed to his heart his ow r n loving I
and beloved wife.
The next morning at breakfast a servant
was sent to Mary’s room, and returned with
the astounding intelligence that the bird had
flown. Mr. Johnson was present. It is not
necessary to repeat the elegant remarks made
upon the occasion by Mr. Smith. Suffice it
to say he very impartially abused Mr. John
son, Charlie and Mary.
Mr. J. remained unmoved, howeve'-,
through the storm, which was no more
severe than he had anticipated. He had
nearly exhausted his fury wiien the young
couple entered the room, and with the ut
most nonchalance Charlie presented his wife.
Ti.e exasperated man stormed anew, and
finally bade them leave, and never enter the
house again.
They accordingly departed. Mary wept
a good deal, but Charlie started that” day
with her for Vermont; and we all did our
best to console the bride, aud she soon be
came her own dear cheerful self.
Mr. Johnson remained in Boston until he
was able lo bring proofs of Weston’s dis
honesty and meanness, which he did so con
clusively that Mr. Smith was literally over
come, and forced to confess that Mary had
had a fortunate escape—for with all his faults
he was an honest man, and detested mean
ness and trickery with his whole heart.—
Mr. Johnson finally pleaded the cause of the
young coupie, and really Mr. Smith was not
such a bad old fellow after all, for after a
week’s dignified resentment he became mol
lified, and wrote a half scolding, half forgiv
ing letter to the offending parties, and invi
ted them to return to his house. They did
so, and before the end of the Summer he
became very fond and proud of his son-in
law, and when we left for Georgia the fol
lowing October, he returned with us and
spent, the Winter.
After seeing the ‘down-trodden’ as they
are, he became thoroughly disgusted with
his former hobby, abolitionism; ami he liked
the manners, customs and climate of the
South so well, that he sold his property in
Boston, bought a plantation in Georgia, and
is now a slave-holder, and declares that
‘niggers’ are the happiest class of people in
the world, when they have a kind master—
and I presume few people South of Mason
and Dixon’s line will dispute the sentiments
on this subject of the ex-a’ olitionist.
I suppose there is a good moral in this
tale, if one had the skill to find it—at any
rate it ended well, id esf, the elopement;
though I would not advise any one to make
it a preccd lit. Charlie and Mary enjoy the
usual amount of matrimonial infelicity—
Pshaw ! I mean felicity ; and Charlie is be
ginning to be talked of as a rising young
man in his profession as a lawyer, and a man
of talent and principle. Tn due course of
time he will no doubt be elected to Congress,
which maj’ be a stepping stone to some
tnore honorable office! Toct Assez.
Inclined to be Quarrelsome.
The Tehama (lazetle tells tho following
story of one G.udner, a Georgian, “a little,
slun-built fellow, rich as a Jew, and indepen
dent as tlie devil,”
Riding along the highway he overtook a
man driving a drove of hogs by the help of
a big, raw-boned, six-feet two specimen of
humanity. Stopping the last named indi
vidual, he accosted him :
‘ T say, are these your hogs?”
“No, sir, I’m to work by the month.”
“What pay might you lie getting, friend?”
“Ten dollars a month,and whisky thrown
in,” was the reply.
“Well, look here, I’m a weak, little, inof
fensive man, and people are apt to impose
upon me, d’you see. Now, I will give you
twenty-five dollais a month to ride along
with me and protect me,” was Gardner’s
reply. “But,” he added,as a thought struck
him, “how might you be on the fight?”
“Never been licked in my life,” rejoined
the six-footer.
“Just the man I want. Is it a bargain?”
queried Gardner.
Six-footer ruminated. “Twenty-five dol
lar--—double wages—nothing to do but ride
around and smash a fellow’s mug occa
sionally, when he's sassy.” Six-footer ac
cepted.
They rode along till just at night they
reached a village. Dismounting at the door,
they v ent in. Gardner immediately singled
out the biggest man in the room, and picked
a fuss with him. Alter considerable prom
iscuous jawing, Gardner turned to his fight
ing friend and intimated tliat the licking
of that man had become a sad necessity.—
Six-footer replied, went in, and came out
first best.
The’next night, at another hotel, the same
scene was re-enacted; Gardner getting into
a row with tlie biggest man in the place,and
six-footer doing the fighting.
At last on the third day, they came to a
ferry, kept by a huge double-fisted man who
had never been licked in his life. Whilst
crossing the river, Gardner, as usual, began
to find fault and “blow.” The ferryman na
turally got mad, threw things around kind
o’ loose, and told them his opinion of their
kind.* Gardner then turned to his friend
“from the shoulder,” and gently broke the
intelligence to him, “that he was sony, but
that it was absolutely necessary to tnrasli
that ferryman.” Six-footer nodded his head,
and said nothing. It was plainly to be seen
that he did not relish the job, by the way lie ,
shrugged his shoulders, but there was no
help tor it. tso, when they reached the
shore, both stripped, and at it they went.—
Up and down the bank, over the sand, into
the water they fought, scratched, googed,bit
and rolled, till at the end of an hour the fer
ryman caved. Six-footer was triumphant,
but it had been tough work. Going up to
his employer, he scratched his head lor a
moment, and then broke forth :
“Look here, Mr. Gardner, your salary sets
mighty well, but—l’m—of—the —opinion—
that you are inclined to he quarrelsome. —
Here I’ve only been with you three days,
and I've licked the three biggest men in the
country! I think this firm had better dis
solve; for you see, Mr. Gardner, I’m afraid
you’re inclined to be quarrelsome, and I
; reckon I’ll draw!”
Good Rucks for Acc.—Profane swear
ing is abominable. Vulgar language is
disgusting. Loud laughing is impolite. ,
. Inquisitiveness is offensive, Tattling is
mean. Telling lies contemptible. Slan
dering is devilish. Ignorance is
graceful and laziness is shameful. Avoid
all the above vices, and aim at useful
ness. This is the road in which to be
come respectable. Walk in it. Never
be ashamed of honest labor. Pride is a
curse—a hateful vice. Never act the I
hypocrite. Keep good company. Speak
the truth at all times. Never be dis
couraged, but pejsevere, and mountains
will become inolc hills.
I Sat Thinking.
I st ilimkimr—ldly dreaming
< if tlie friends my heart on< e knew
Till my fancy brought tiieir beaming,
I-HUghing faces back to view.
Olden pleasures, scenes of childhood,
Passed before in shadowy train:
Till I roamed once more tlie Wildwood,
And I was a boy again.
Hack through years of sin and sorrow.
< i'er bright hopes that could uol last.
Till my heart did eager borrow
Sunlight from the buried past—
As these phantoms hv me glided.
In the twilight dimly there,
I heard again the voice, that guided
Mine so oft in infant prayer.
Quickly turning, to be grasping
Her pure hand within my own.
Naught la-fore me—nothing clasping
For the vision fair Inal Mown.
O, my mother, years may vanish;
Disappear in Time's dark sea?
Naught of earthly grief can banish
Thy remembrance dear from me.
Head, Pause and Reflect.
If you wish to become a fool, be a
j drunkard ; and you will soon lose
your understanding.
If you wish to unfit yonrself for
rational intercourse, be a drunkard ;
for this will accomplish your pur
: pose.
If you arc resolved to kill your
self, be a drunkard ; that being a
sure mode of destruction.
If you wish to be robbed, be a
j drunkard; which will enable the thief
i to do it with more safety.
If you wish to blunt your senses,
; lie a drunkard; and you will be more
stupid than an ass.
If you wish to be always thirsty,
be a drunkard ; for the oftener and
more you drink, the oftener and
more thirsty you will he.
If you seek to prevent your friends
raising you in the world, be a drunk
ard, for that will defeat all their ef
forts.
If you would effectually counter
act your own attempts to do well,
be a drunkard, and you will not be
disappointed.
! f you wish to repel the endeavors
of the whole world to raise you to
character, credit and prosperity, be
a drunkard, and you will most as
suredly triumph.
If you are determined to be poor,
be a drunkard, and you will soon be
ragged and penniless.
If you will be hated by your fami
ly and friends, be a drunkard; and
you will soon be more than disagree
able.
If you would be a pest to society,
be a drunkard, and you will be
avoided as infect ion*.
If you do not wish to have your
faults reformed, continue to lie a
drunkard, and you will not care for
good advice.
If you would smash windows,
break the peace, get your bones l>ro
ken, tumble under carts and horses
and be looked up in a watch house,
be a drunkard, and it is strange if
you do not succeed.
If you wish all your prospects in
life to be clouded, la* a drunkard, and
they will be dark enough.
If you wish to destroy your body,
be a drunkard, ns drunkenness is tlie
mother of distress.
If you would wish to starve your
family, be a drunkard ; for that will
consume the means of their support.
If you would lie imposed on by
knaves, be a drunkard; that will
make their task easy.
If you would expose both your
folly and secrets, be a drunkard, and
they ‘'ill soon be made known.
If you are too strong, be a drunk
ard; you will sot in be subdued by so
great and powerful an enemy.
If you would be a nuisance, be a
drunkard ; for the approach of a
drunkard is like that of a dunghill.
“Old Hss, UnTe Too l.ate!”
!
An Arkansas correspondent of the Saint
Louis Herald gets off the following:
This is a great country tor jokes, and we
have just had one which is too good to keep.
Early this morning there wa* added to onr
company of travelers a pair who looked very
much like runaways; tiic man a tall, raw
boned specimen of the half horse, half-alli
gator clas, and the woman a full match for
him. Among the passengers from Napoleon
is a solemn-looking individual who had all
along been taken for a preacher. About 1)
o’clock last night, 1 was conversing with the j
“reverend” gentleman, when a young man
stepped up and said to him, “We’re going to
have a wedding, and would like to have you
officiate.” “All sir,” he replied laugh
ingly. anti we stepped into the ladies’ cabin,
where, sure enough, the couple stood wait
ing. There had been some “kissinggames,”
and several mock marriages gone through
with during the evening, and I supposed
that this was merely a continuation of the
sport, and so thought the “preacher,” who,
I could see, had a good deal of humor in
him. anti was inclined to promote general
good feelings anti merriment. The couple
stood before him a great ileal more solemn
thsn was necessary in a mock marriage, I 1
thought, and the “preacher ’ asked necessary !
questions, anil then, proceeding in the usual
way, pronounced them “husband and wife.” 1
There was a good deal of bin afterwards,
and when it was over I left the cabin, and
so ditl the “preacher,” who rematked to me
that he liked to see young folks en joy them
selves, ami always took much pleasure in
contributing to their fun ; but he didn’t un
derstand why the young couple he had just
“spliced” should have selected him to play
the parson. Just then someone called me
aside, ami the old gentleman stepped into
his state-room, which was next to mine.—
When I returned, the door stood open, and
the “preacher” stood just inside, with his
coat and vest off, and one boot in his hand,
talking with the gentleman who had acted
the “attendant,” and who, as I came up, re
marked, “Well, if that’s the ease it’s a good
joke, for they’re in dead earnest, ami have
retired to the same state-room.” The old
gentleman raised both bis hands, as he ex
claimed, “Good heavens! you don’t tell me
me so f” and rushing just as he was, boot in
hand, to the state-room indicated,commenced
an assault on the door as if he would hatter
it down, exclaiming at each blow, “ For
heaven’s sake don’t ! I ain’t a preacher!”
The whole cabin was aroused, every state
room flying open with a slam; when the
door opened, and the Arkansas traveler,
poking out his head coolly remarked, “Old
boss, you're too late J”
Rules for Home Education.
The following rules we commend
to patrons ami friends, for their ex
cellence, brevity, and practical utili
ty. They are worthy to be printed
in letters of .gold, and placed in a
conspicuous position in every house
hold. It is lamentable to contem
plate the mischief, misery, and ruin,
which are the legitimate fruit of
those deficiencies which are pointed
out in the rules to which we have
referred. Let every parent and
guardian read, ponder, and inwardly
! digest:
1. From your children’s earliest
infancy, inculcate the necessity of
I instant obedience.
2. Unite firmness with gentleness.
Let your children always understand
that what you say you mean.
!>. Never promise them anything
unless you are quite sure you can
give them what you promise.
4. If you tell ti little child to do
something, show him how to do it,
1 and see t hat is done.
5. Always punish your children
! for willfully disobeying you, but ne
ver punish them in anger.
(i. Never let them perceive that
they can vex you or make you lose
your self-command.
7. If they give way to petulance
and temper, wait till they are calm,
and then gently reason with them
on the impropriety of their conduct.
S. Remember that a little present
punishment, when the occasion aris
es, is much more effectual than the
threatening of a greater punishment,
should the fault lie renewed.
9. Never give your children any
thing because they cry for it.
10. On no account allow them to
do at one time what you litive for
bidden under like circumstances, at
another.
11. Teach them that the only sure
and easy way to appear good is to
be good.
12. Accustom them to make their
little recitals with perfect truth.
1-L Never allow of tale-bearing.
14. Teach them that self-denial,
not self-indulgence of an angry and
resentful spirit, will make them
happy.
If these rules were reduced to
practice—daily practice -by parents
and guardians, how much misery
would be prevented—how many in
danger of ruin would be saved—and
bow largely would the happiness of
a thousand domestic circles bo aug
mented. J 1 is lamentable to see how
extensive is parental neglect, and to
witness the bail and dreadful conse
quences in the ruin of thousands.
The Happy Boy.
And now to prove that happiness
does not depend tin the places you
are in, or tine things you possess, 1
will tell you a true story, J once
knew a little boy named Joseph. He !
was nearly an orphan; his mother!
was dead and his father became a
poor drunkard. Beside this Joseph
was lame. One leg had been in jured
and it was slowly withering away
with.much pain, so that our little
friend had before him a lilt* of pain
and poverty, or dependence. And
yet he was the happiest boy in our
school. All the hoys loved to be I
with him, because he was not only
happy himself, but made everybody
else happy. He was always kind
and generous. Everybody knew
that this noble boy would do them a
favor if he could. His cheery smile ;
seemed like a gleam of warm sun- j
shine. He appeared never to think
of himself, and so everybody thought j
of him anti for him. Even stern men
loved him, and many a time have 1
seen them turn from their business
and return his lively greeting, and
laugh at his pleasant wit. Honest
as daylight he was, and men trusted
him everywhere. He grew to be a
young man, and bis pure, earnest, |
and cheerful spirit made him still
everybody’s friend, which is only
another way of saying tliat every
body “as bis friend; and when at
last worn out with sufferings, he
died, the whole town mourned as if’
their own son or brother had gone.
I doubt whether many who live even i
to old age enjoy as much in a long
life as Joseph did in a few years, or
have made so many others happy.— 1
Noble and generous boy ! many a
tear starts now at the remembrance
of his name. Would that the world
were full of such bright spirits.
L-l Hrhifjnn Jour, of HJiimtion.
Family Likknessks. — Southey in a
letter to Sir Egefton Brydges, says :
‘T)id you ever observe how remarkably
old age brings on family likenesses,
which having been kept as it were in
obeyance while the passions and business
of the world engrossed the parties, come
forth again in age (as in infancy) the
features settling into their primary char
acters before dissolution ? I have seen j
some affecting instances of this; a broth- j
er and sister, than whom no two persons
in middle life could have been more
unlike in countenance or in character,
becoming like as twins at last. I know
see my father's lineaments in the lookin”
glass, where they never used to
pear.”
The Silence of the Biui.e— There
is such fulness in tliat Book, that of
tentimes it saj’s much by saying
nothing; and not only its expressions
but its-silences are teaching, like the
dial, in which the shadow as well as
the light informs us. — Boyle.
Indolence is the rust of the mind and
the inlet of every vice.
He only is independent who can main
tain himself by his own exertions.
NUMBER 20.
Celcbrities-How they Look.
-The lively New York correspond:u(.
of the Springfield (Mass.) Republican,
after saying that men of modern talents
are accustomed to make a show of all
their intellectual powers, remarks :
As far as my personal knowledge ex
tends, those who stand in the lirst“rank
of intellect in America do not belong to
this class. r I hey carry no stark sign on
face or garment, declaring—“l am a ge
nius,’” “Behold the eighth wonder of the
universe.” Emerson looks like a refined
farmer, meditative and quiet. Longfel
low like a good natural beefeater.
Holmes like a ready-to-laugh little boy,
wishing only to be “as funny as he can.”
Everett seems only the graceful gentle
man who has been handsome. Beecher
a ruddy, frollicking boy. Bancroft a
plain, negative looking man. W hittier
the most retiring of Quakers. Bryant a
plain, serene looking man, dressed in
gray. And thus I might name others.
Not one of these gentlemen can be called
handsome unless we except Beecher, who
might be a deal handsomer. In this re-
I spect they can bear no palm away from
any intellectual woman, who have al
ways been called very homely. There
is nothing in a dominant intellect, in con
tinuous, lar-reaching, wearying thought,
to favor the curves of beauty ; it con
sumes a greater quantity of tissue and
fluid than it supplies. It dilates the eye,
but deepens the lines, sharpens the
bones, and often wears the nerves to a
torturing quickness. So this is one rea
son why intellectual women should car
ry their quantum of ugliness.
Let us look at them as they pass. Mrs.
Sigourney, the grandmother of Ainerif
can “female” literature, in her prime (i
----we may believe her portrait) was quite
handsome. Catherine Beecher Stowe, is
so ordinary in looks she has been taken
for Mrs. Stowe’s “Biddy.” Mrs. C. M.
Kirkland is a fat dowager. Mrs. E. F.
Ellet looks liken washwoman. Marga
ret Fuller was plain. Charlotte Cush
man has a face as marked as Daniel
W'ebslers’, and quite as stiong. So has
Elizab th Blackwell. Harriet llos , r
looks .i K• a man. Mrs. Anne S. Steph
ens, h ivy and coarse. Mrs. Oakes
Smith s considered handsome. Mrs.
Jullia Ward llowe has been a New
York belle. Francis L. Osgood had a
lovely, womanly face. Amelia F. \Vel
by was almost beautiful. Sarah J. Hale,
in her young days, quite, unless her pic
ture libs. The Davidson sisters, as well
as their gified mother, possessed beauty.
If we cross the ocean, we find Madame
deStael was a fright: but Hannah Moore
was handsome; Elizabeth Fry glorious;
Letitia Langdon pretty; Mrs. Hemans
wondrously lovely ; Mary Ifowitt fair
and matronly; Mrs. Norton really
beautiful; —but alas ! she who has the
largest brain of all, with as great a heart,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in physique
is angular, and though she has magnifi
cent eyes, her face is suggestive of a
tombstone. But if we look at British
men of first-class—Shakespeare and Mil
ton were handsome ; Dr. Johnson was
a monster of ugliness; so were Gold
smith and Pope; Addison was tolerably
handsome; and Coleridge, Shelly, Byron,
Mooie, Campbell, Burns, all were un
commonly so. Sir Walter Scott looked
very ordinary in spite of his fine head.
Macaulay is homely. Bulwer nearly
hideous, although a dandy. Charles
Dickens is called handsome but 1 must
be allowed to oilier, arid, covered with
jewelry, ho can but look like a simple
ton. I might go on almost ad infinitum
—but, after all, in proportion, is this
class any homlier than any other ?
“ The Lost Arts.” —The Hartford
Press mentions that in tearing down
the old Willy’s mansion, on the Char
ter Oak place, in that city, an old
manuscript receipt book was found
between the partitions, where it bad
fallen many years ago. Some ex
tracts are given which are not enu
merated among the Host arts:”
to kHI meet or anything so as to
have the meet sweet let the new
moon Ixj five days old.
to cure you from stuttering take a
a piece of lead arid wear it in the hol
ler of your neck.
to ska re Rats away Rite a paper
ami command the rats to quit your
house and go somew here else forth
with, grease the paper well and leve
it in the suller they will eat the pa
per up.
to cure corns on your toes; fnst
cut your corns then take a rat skin
bind it on your toes.
fr deafness take a nine of pork
and put it in your ears aud keep it
there.
for witchcraft get sweet farm (fern)
and tie it about y our neck and wear
it a long time.
for deafness find one old Brown
Wood picker, kill him and get his
brans (brains) aud put it in your ears
and war it in your ears.
tor : .veeke peeple take a frog
and cut lum in two and Bind him on
your stomac split open so on one al
ter another.
Two Ski lls —At a. social gathering
of the members of the New School
Presbyterian General Assembly, Rev.
James Eells of Cleveland, said that he
remembered seeing in his travels a di
minutive skuN, evidently that of a child,
preserved with great care. Upon ask
ing, the guide informed him that it was
the skull of St, Patrick. Passing along
atill further in the same place, he with
another skull, evidently that of a full
grown man. “Whose skull is this V’ he
asked. “That is the skull of St. Pat
rick, was the res|onse. “But did you
not tell me the other was the skull of St.
Patrick ?” “Oh, yes! thal was the skull
of St. Patrick when he was a baby.”
The true aim of satire should be like
that of our guns, to make a od report,
but woundiug no one.