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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. TKHMS: —per anmim. in tiliinrr. Adi-rli<u*inrnlM at tli rrgn'ar tli:ujre will be One UnUor *>f one hundred words or less, f,.r tliv flrxt i!*r t..*u. F'fl* Cemu for mtk *ui.*equent insertion. Ail au vertfcem “ts n °* ViclMwtotiiiMi, will foe puUisheii until foetid, aii t charged aco rdingly. A liberal dincouut aiiuvred to th'*w* who advert We fojr flit* venr. Lateral arrangement* mad with County Officer?*, An<-ti**nevrs*. Merchants and others who may wish to make limited contract*. PrelMwitl and Hu*an<v* 4'ard* will he Inserted un dcr this head, at the following rates viz: y„r Five lines per annum, $ r, a0 f..r Seven lines do wo F.r Ten lines do 19 to i N tdrertiaement of this class will lm admitted, vnlen paid 1 for in advance, nor fr a le>* t. rm than twelve months. Ad \erti*eiuents ol over ten ltnci will he charged pro rota. Ail- | veftlaeinentj* not paid lor in advance will be charged at the ! regular rates. iiMiitiin \olicr* of orcr ten liner, will 1* charged at the uud rites. ABMUBcrisrnlt of candidate# f*r office to l*e paid for a the usual rates when inserted. •ales of Laud and Xejcrurw, by Ixccoton, Ad ninistra t r> and Guardian*, are required soy law to lie advcitued In a putdic gazette, forty daya previous to the day of sale. These 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.