The Cuthbert appeal. (Cuthbert, Ga.) 1866-1884, August 06, 1870, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Texta S'* APPEAL. BY SAWTELL & JONES. CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 6, 1870. VOL. IV-NO. 38* Cfje €utl)bcrt Appeal. Terms of Subscription: One Year #3 00 | Six Months $2 00 INVARIABLY IX ADVANCE. of Advertising: 'O lines or less,) $1 00 for the preach subsequent insertion, follows : 3 ModAu; G Month? 12 Months *25 00 40 00 50 00 $45 00 75 00 90 Ou S 75 00 100 00 150 00 Obituaries, $1 00 per square. LEGAL ADVERTISING. Ordtxaribs.— Citations for letters of ad ministration, guardianship. Ac, $4 00 Application for letters of disaission from administration 5 00 Application tor letters of dismission from guardianship 4 00 Application for leave to sell Laud, 4 00 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 4 00 Administrator’s Sales, 4 00 Suekiff's—Each levy, ... 4 00 4i Mortgage ti fa sales 5 00 Sales of Land by Administrators, Executors, or Guaidians, are required by law to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours often in the forenoon, and three in the after noon, at the Court House in the county in which the property is situated. Terms of sale must be Mjjatcd. Notice of these sales must be given in a public gazette 40 days previous to the day of sale. Notice for the sale of personal property must be given ia like manner, 10 days previous to sale day. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published *10 days. Notice that application will 1« made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell laud, must be published for one mouth. Citations for letters of Administration, Guard ianship, Ac., must be published 30 days—for dis mission from Administration, three months ; for dismission from Guardianship, 40 days Rules for foreclosure of Mortgages must b<- published monthly tor four months—for «*stab- lishing lost pajfTrs, for the full space of three months—for compelling titles from Executors or Administrators, where bond has been given by the deceased, the full space of three months. Publications will always be continued accord ing to these, the legal requirements, unless Oth erwise ordered. 44 Hoe Your Own Ilow.’ 5 I think there are some maxims Under the sun, Scarce worth preservationj But here, boys, is one So sound and so simple, J Tis worth while to know; And ali in the single line, Hoe your own row I If yon want to have riches. And want to have friends; Don't trample the means down, And look for the ends; Cut always remember Wherever j ou go, The wisdom of practicing, Hoe your own row ! uonr jnsrsit and pi ay. Fdr increase flf your More, But work ; who will help himself, Heaven helps more. The weeds whifc you’re sleeping Will come up and grok*, But if you would have the Full ear, you must hoe ! Nor will it do only To hoe oat the weeds. You must make your ground mellow. And put in the seeds ; And when the young blade Pushes through, yo i must know T.iere is nothing will strengthen Its growth like the hoe i There's no use of saying What will be. will be ; Once try it, my lack-brain, And see wbat you'll seel Why, just small potatoes, And few in row ; You'd better bike hold then, And honestly hoe ! A good many wo*-’ _*n» I’ve known in my time— Seme builders of houses, Some builders of rhyme ! And they that were prospered-, Were prospered, I know. By the intent and meaning of Hoe your owu row ? ► I've known, too, a good many Idler?, who said, I*ve right to my living, Tiie world owes me bread! A rvjht ! lazy inbber ! A thousand times No ! Tis bis, and his only Who hoes his own row. --■Utr? Cary. The Newspaper.—In a recent ser mon by one of their Presbyterian min isters in Cincinnati on the secular and religions press it was said : \Ve can get along without coffee for breakfast better than we can without our paper. Not only as a vehicle of news is the paper powerful ; not only because by tbe paper does Flora Mc- Flimscy do her day's shopping and the merchant his day’s buying, but especial, ly because it does the practical thinking of a large part of the people. They are too busy or too indolent to do it for themselves, so they get a man to sit up nights, state the facts, and draw tbe conclusions and advocate a theory for them, do the whole up in a convenient package and slip it under tbe front door. In hall an hour, while they sip their coffee, they have not only learned wbat is going on in the world, but ex actly what they ought to think and how they ought to feel about the mixed up business in this great rushing world of ours. It is idle to say a newspaper is a very ephemeral thing, or a very unreliable thing, and that people do not believe what is in newspapers. It is ephemeral only as the leaves of summer are ephem eral, easily trampled, but forever re newing and exerting their influence on the face of the world from generation to generation The paper you had to day, is easily thrown under the counter, but the power it speaks of is one you would not care to grapple. And as to not believing the papers, while there is n great deal of that kind of talk, I be lieve that half of the business commu nity, nff.cting to patronize the picss, believe in it with a surrender of faith Flirting With Cousin John. BY CABBIE D. BEEBE. My father loved the sea—It was his home. And when he married be pur. chased and furnished to my mother’s taste, the old house by the rocks that bis vessel often passed, and there I was bom. Tbe building was of brick, its walls cold and bare, for the wmds.that swept from the sea in winter, destroyed both shrubs and flowers. A few dwarfed cedars dotted the lawn, their branches bending back from the sea. My mother died while on a voyage taken in the hope of restoring her wan ing health, and She sleeps beneath tbe waters of the southern sea. And when my childish heart refused to bo comfort ed, because I sorely missed the gentle song that always before had lulled mo to slumber in pale evening light, my lather whiepered that my mother would still sing; to me through the waves. I listened to their low murmuring melody, my grief was soothed, and I slept. My father took me home, and there I remained in charge of my mother’s maid Janet, until I reached my thir teenth year, when I was sent to an ex cellent school. At eighteen I graduated, and return- egj home, spending my time by theses, or in the pleasant rooms that, through my father’s indulgence, I was allowed to call my own. They had been my mother’s, and though beautiful when she occupied them, yet each time my father returned he brought Something new to beautify them. Books, paintings, stat uary, dainty shells, rare flowers, birds with shining plumes, and others with sweeter songs, a brilliant-toned piano, and a low voiced harp, while the carpet, skillfully woven to represent tbe waves of tbe sea, sank beneath the slightest foot-full, uDtil I almost dreamed 1 was treading od real waves, in some mer maid's ocean bower. An aunt of my father folind mo thus, and insisted upon my spehding the winter with her at her city homo, and as my father gave his consent, I bade adieu to my home, and accompa nied her on her return. She was a childish widow, reported to be wealthy, and possessed a hand some house in it fashionable street.— Her income, however, was not large, and it was by careful economy, and ju dicious expenditure that she maintained her place among the leaders of faBliion. She gave a party scon after my ar rival. My dress was a white feathered lace, that looked like gauze with snow flakes scattered all over it. The sleeves were caught up with coral sprays, and I wore coral in my hair. I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Everything was new to me, yet strauge to say, I felt perfectly at home, and bein/ the latest my heart's content. • Aunt Helen was more than pleased, and pronounced my advent a success. T am proud ol you, Christie,’ she said, ‘you seemed to attact universal ad miration, and I never saw Frank Wil ton so perfectly devoted to any one be fore, and that is saying a great deal, for he is a notorious flirt. So guard your heart, ray dear, until you are sure ol bis." ‘Never fear for me, aunt. I do not intend to fall in love with Ur. Wilton.’ ‘Don’t misunderstand me, my dear, he is of good family, wealthy, and very witty', in fact, and an excellent match for any oue.’ I did not agree with Aunt Ilellen, but concluded to pursue the subject no further. He did possess'a ready wit, which at first pleased me, but before the evening was over I perceived that he possessed neither depth of mind nor force of character. He proved to be most agreeable escort, however, wheth er at a ball, theatre, or spending a so cial evening at home ; being the life ot the party, and uutiring in devotion to me. One evening, toward the close of the season, I was unusually tired, and beg god Aunt Helen to excuse me from go ing out with her. After aunty had gone, I went into the library, and cnrled myself up in an arm chair before the grate. Naturally, my thoughts were turned to the party, and I wondered who was there, and if Frank would miss me. The mantel clock struck eleven, I be gan to feel sleepy, and was about to retire, when some one entered the room and Frank Wilton stood beside me. ‘I was disappointed because you were not at the bull,’ said he, ‘and I come to ask permission to spend the evening with you here ’ He took a seat and sat abstractedly gazing into tbe fire. Then after a few attempts at conversation, he abruptly asked me to become his wife. My conscience smote me. I did not love him, and could only refuse his offer in as delicate a manner as possible — ‘Do not blame me,’ I said at the close. ‘Why, Christie, are you sitting up for me ?’ It was m3- Aunt Helen’s voice. Quito bewiidereo, I started up. ‘Where is Frank ?’ I asked. ‘He was at the ball, when I left; you have been asleep anil dreaming, child!’ So I bad. But I was wide awake now. Aunt Helen sat down. ‘Christie, she said, gravely, ‘I never asked year confidence before; I would reallytlihe- more absolute by far than they give to the bible. **4?" There are twelve hundred-guests at the White Sulphur, aud the arrivals, iucreasiiiff sL,i!y. to know if you love Frank Wilton I** ‘No, I do not. Why do you ask ?’ ‘There was a dashing belle from the West at the ball, Miss Kane, and Frank was all devotion I assure you. It caus ed universal remark, and many wonder ed how he would act if you were there ’ ‘The wretch !’ ‘Why, my dear, you just said you did not care for him.’ ‘Neither do, I but one doesn’t like to be snuffed out so cooly, after all, aunty.’ Very true. But wnat can we do ?’ I’m sure I don’t know.’ Something must be done, that is cer tain. If you only had some ‘gay gal lant’ to play off against Miss Kane, it would bo just the thing. Cousin John might do, but he is rather old for you, and besides he is so grave and dignified, I doubt if lie ever fli r tcd in his lire.’ ‘Who is Cousin John ?’ ‘Didn’t I tell you ? I received a letter from him this afternoon saying that he was coming down to the c'ty on busi ness, and would be here to morrow.’ ‘Aunt Helen, do tell me who lie is ? Is he a cousin of mine too T ‘O no, he was my husband’s’ favorite cousin. When bis father was living we used often to visit at bis house. He was a farmer in comfortable circum stances, and had a most amiable wife, and several children.’ ‘Cousin John V ‘My dear, I was speaking of his fath. er. John is a partner in a dry-goods firm in Nelson, a country town near the old homestead. His brothers and sis ters are ail married.’ ‘Is he rich, auntv?’ ‘I think not.’ What is his last name—Smith T ‘It is St. George. I think under the circumstances, we bad better persuade him to remain, and escort ns to tbe ball at Mrs. Graham’s ou Friday evening. He is an acquaintance of Mr. Graham’s I know. If he consents, all will be well, for he’ll be polite to yon, at least. But it is late, and we must retire, my dear.’ How ridiculous ! thought I. He is an old bachelor, poor, his name is John, he is giave and dignified—and I am to flirt with him 1 and I marched off to bed. Tbe next day was stormy, and I bus ied myself with practicing on the piano and arranging music for binding. I had been down in the dining-room searching the closets for goodies, and I ran through the hall singing : ‘Tin jilted, forsaken, outwitted ; Yet tbiuk not I'll whimper or brawl— Tbe lass is alone to be pitied Who ne'er has been courted at all.” Just tlied Aunt Helen opened the parlor door, and I called out : ‘Aflnt Helen, it is nearly time for TJn- cle John’s arrival, isn’t it? I'm going up stairs to dress, for, as I am going to flirt with him, I shall want to appear my best. And I sincerely hope that he won’t be troubled with the rheumatism, it would be so dreadfully inconvenient, if I should happen to want to dance with him ' I cast a side long glance at Annt Hel en, as I was rattling on and ascending the stairs at the same time. Her hor rified look stopped me. I comprehen ded the situation—Cousin John was in the parlor! I weDt to my room, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry. ‘Poor old geDtleman 1’ thought I, how vexed he will be with me for roy rudeness 1 1 must apologize. ‘Do please hurry Ja net and brllsh my hair,’ said I, deter mined to get through the unpleasant affair as soon as possible. I dunned my plain black silk with a trailing skirt, and fastened a lace collar with a diamond brooch, I descended to the parlor. I opened the door and looked around for Aunt Helen ; she was not there, but a gentleman advanced to meet me.— He was very tall, and would have been slender, but for an extraordinary breadth of shoulders, which, with a broad fore head, gave him a commanding air. ‘This is Cousin Hellen’s niece, Miss - - , . f : 1 1—, ..Ktian.^ Ulo Land. Of course I was taken by surprise, but I managed to give him my hand, and murmur, ‘Mr. St. George. Then my curiosity getting the better ol iny em barrassment, I looked into his face and saw that though his mouth was firm, his eyes were fairly dancing with laughter. It might not have been lady like, but I burst into a loud laugh, in which he joined. ‘Pardon me,’ I said, ‘but I thought you were an old gentleman; I cannot tell how it was that I imbibed the idea, unless it was because you are auntie’s cousin.’ ‘Why, Christie 1’ said Aunt Helen, who entered the room at that moment, ‘I am not surpised that von should think Cousin John rather ancient, when you never saw him before: but that }'ou should consider me old, completely as tonishes me. ‘0 aunty, I did not mean that, but—’ Here I broke down like a bashful school boy, who, overawed by the gaze of his teacher, cannot recall a word of the lesson he has conned so carefully.— Mr St. George’s eyes were looking me through and through, and I grew moie confused every moment. ‘Never mind, Christie dear,’ said Aunt Helen, ‘let us go down and discuss the question over our dinner.' Du ring the evening, Mr. St. George asked mo to play for him. I bad spent much time in practicing, and was con sidered a good performer, but to night, I stumbled over some of the most beau tiful passages in a manner that was fear ful *o hear. ‘Sing something, Christie,' Raid Aunt Helen, ‘Perhaps Air. St. George will assist you. I know you used to sing, Cousin John.’ ‘Yes,’ he. replied, ‘years ago, when wo w.-re all at homo together, but I doubt if Alias Nain has ever beard the songs we used to sing.’ Ho mentioned tbe name of several; with some of them I was familiar, ami we sang them together, to Aunt Helen’s delight. After this, Mr. St. George read aloud at her request, as we were all seated around the eentre-table — How cosy and homelike it seemed, and for the fiist time I wondered how i could have remained so long contented a/one, almost, in the old house by the sea. At the close of the evening, Mr. St George engaged to accompany us to the opera on tbe following night. Bus iness would occup3' his tune throughout the day, he said, but he would return yearly as possible. On Uie next eve ning, it it pleased us, he would escort us to the party, at Mrs. Graham’s; be had come down to the city almost on purpose to attend it, as Air. Graham and himself were warm friends. went to my roum, and took a survey of myself in the mirror. ‘You are look ing well, to-night, Aliss Nain,’ said I, ‘if you did play so dreadfully* and lose the use of your tongue every time you were-expected to say something bril liant.’ ‘Christie!’ said Aunt Helen, putting her head inside the door. ‘Come in, Aunty.’ ‘I was thinking,’ said she, as she clos ed the door, ‘that we couldn’t have plan ned anything better, if we had tried for a lifetime. If cousin John is half as attentive at Mrs. Graham’s, as he was to-night, I shall have no reason to com plain. He is very much pleased with you, I know. ‘I don’t see why he should be pleased with me, for I’m sure I never was so stupid before in all my life.’ ‘I don’t think so dear, but good night.’ Next momiDg when I awoke, tliesuu was ehming brightly. I looked at my ‘watch, it was half past eight. Break fast time, and Aunt Helen so pnnctual. I rang for Janet to help me, and asked why I had not been called; she said that aunty came into the room, bnt I was sleeping so Boundly she did not waken me, as she thought I was fever' isb. I dressed hastily, and went down.— Aunt Helen was just showing Mr. St. George out the front door. He waited, bat in hand, as 1 slowly descended. ‘Good morning, Miss Nain 1’ he said. ‘I was afraid you were sick, Christie,’ said Annt Helen, ‘your cheeks were al most scarlet.’ ‘Probably, because I Blept so soundly, auntie.’ ‘No, I noticed they were uncommonly flushed all hut evening.’ I glanced toward Mr. 8t. George; his eyes were dancing again What did Aunt Helen mean ? If I bad been ber aunt, instead of her neice, 1 should certainly have boxed ber ears With a graceful bow, Mr. St. George left us I went into tbe parlor and peeped through the curtains as he walked throngli tbe street. How tall he was, and yet so graceful I It was late in the afternoon when he retained. I waited a few moments be fore I went down. I opened the door softly; Aunt Helen and lie were sitting in the back parlor, and as I entered, a remark of hers caused me to pause.— She was giving Cousin John a detailed account of my flirtation with Frank Wilton and its result. Fortunately, neither of them noticed my entrance, and, olosing the door noiselessly, I went to my room in a state of nnnd difficult to describe. Carelully locking tbe door, I threw myself upon the bed preparato ry to having an‘awful cry.’ I was just about finishing, when tbe bell rang lor dinner. There I was, with disordered hair, swollen eye-ids and a red nose. First, I thought I would send word that I had a headache. But Aunt Hel en knew my head never did ache, and would insist that I was sick and must send for the doctor; so choosing the lesser evil, 1 hastily bathed my face, ar ranged my hair and went down. Aunt Helen was so much occupied that she did not observe my flushed face, but Mr. St. George did. lie qui- elly led tbe conversation on interesting topics, and bis voice and manner, when he addressed me, were very gentle.— This would have been grateful to me, if I had not thought he supposed 1 was grieving for Frank. ‘He pities me,’ I said, and feeling exceedingly mortified, I was more reserved than usual. Be fore I was aware of it, however, my vexution had vanishefl, aod I went up stairs to dress for the opera. Janet was there before me, and had already brought out a brighthued silk, und my white astrachan sack. I was pleased with her selection, and thanked ber, as siie helped me dress. Dear, mo KTui. ^i,.i. oi.o had been a mother to ine almost, alwa3‘s petting 111* when 1 was in trouble, which, to be sure, didn’t often happen. Auntie soon made her appearance, and stepping into the car riage, we were whirled away, and in due time pleasantly seated listening to Aliss Kellogg’s delightful rendering of Violetta, in ‘La Traciata.’ I was too much engaged with the music to look about me, until Aunt Helen spoke. ‘Christie! eve-ybody is out. Frank Wilton is here, with Miss Kane, in the box opposite.’ True enough, there they were. Aliss Kane was Ver3’ large, very showy, and gayly attired. Frank looked like Lilliputian beside her And as 1 looked np to where Mr. St. George's eyes were smiling on me, I noted the difference be tween the two. The next day was pleasant, and be fore dinner I rode out with Mr. St. George. ‘O Aunt Helen 1’ I cried, as the carriage stopped at the door.— ‘IVbat a handsome turnout. How can Cousin John afford so much s'.vfc), when he is poor.’ ‘He is not really poor, my dear, and I’ve no doubt he iniyht have been rich, if he was at all miserly.’ We had a delichtiul drive through the park. Mr. S™ George displayed his skillful horsemanship, and I was not a little proud of him as we dashed along, meeting scores of acquaintances. After dinner I turned my attention to my dress for the evening, which Janet bad been arranging through tbs day.-- It was a rich, lustrous silk, from a Ly ons loom, of that peculiar shade of pup pie which inclines to crimson in the eve ning, and with it I was to wear a white lace fichu, of delicate design and frost- like fineness. Aly jewels were rare amethysts in a setting of Etruscan gold, necklace, bracelets and bandeau.— Janet arranged my hair, calling upon Aunt Helen to witness the effect. It was ‘just tbe thing,’ they decided at last, and auntie said it was ‘fortunate that crimps were lashionable, they were so becoming to me, especial^ - with the ban deau.’ It ‘gratified pride and vanity are the acme of wumuu’s happiness,’ then that night must have been the most delight ful one of my life. Air. St. George, who was very attentive, created quite a sensation, though courted more by the gentleman than the ladies. Miss Kane, the personification of good nature, was there, and Frank, who watched me closely. Evidently I was a puzzle to him. He usually danced attendance to the latest belle, and when he dropped one lor another, he expected the first to become entirely extinguished. In this, I had proved an exception, and he was at a loss to account lor it. ‘Such a complete triumph, I never saw before,’ said Aunt Helen, as we rode home. ‘Why, -John you were the lion of the evening, and the way in which you queened it over that horrid Miss Kane, Christie, was beautiful to see.’ I was well pleased, but somehow, when Air. St. George bade me good, night, I cared more for his look and the pressure of his hand than all the rest. I felt a little sad tbe next morning, but well knew tbe reason why. Air. St. George was to loave tho next day, and I was not in the least like the lady who woke one morning to the fact that sbe had been in love with her next door neighbor for years and never dreamed of it before. Tbe afternoon was cloudy, and the twilight came early. We were all sit- ting quietly in the parlor, when Aunt Helen asked: ‘John, didn’t yon play tbe piano once ?’ ‘I learned the accompaniment to a er^:he cedar song or two when I was a boy, and my sisters were taking lessons, but I never fancied seeing a gentleman play tbe pi ano unless he has a remarkable talent for il, and I have not tonehed tbe keys in years.’ ‘Cannot you remember anything ?’ I asked ‘Tberejs a simple song, a song of the sea, that perhaps I can remember; and he took his seat at tbe piano H« touched a few chords—they sonn- ded strangely familiar—sounded like a voice^f-mg to me, in the only words of my mother that I remember, ‘Close your eyes, darling and I’ll sing for you.’ I closed my eyes—the angel of memory gently opened tbe gates of the past I forgot the present, and entered. The days otariy,childhood came back to me —“Rr'f" was chair uK arms,.mid sbe was singing the same dear old song. I remembered a portion ol the air only, and had never heard it except from her own lips until now, for it was tbe same. ‘What a beautiful little thing that ia, John, sad and low, like the waves-. But I believe it has not Christie to sleep.’ I was glad it was in the twilight, for my eyes were filled with tears. ‘It has soothed me to sleep many times, Aunt Helen,’ I said, at last; ‘mother used to sing it in the old house by the sea, and 1 have never heard it since she died, un til now.’ There might have been the least pos sible quiver in my voice, for Mr. St. George cose quickly, and came and stood beside my chair. Laying his hand lightly upon my hair, he stooped and kissed my forshead, then turned slowly, and left the room. I could feel no indignation because of the caress ; he was no stranger, no im pulsive boy, but a man of thirty-five, upright aud honorable, as Aunt Helen well knew. I think my eyes were a trifle humid, next rtfiiniing, when be said good by; and I believe he observed it, lor he took my hafld the second time, leaving a kiss 011 the finger tips. ‘I will return as early as possible,’ he said, as he left us. On that very afternoon, father came to take me home. ‘I shall remain lon ger than usual he said, and of course I could not think ot stuyiog there without you, little puss.’ I was overjoyed at sseing him, al though I did not like the idea of going home *6 soon; but, concealing my ie- luctance, I packed up, hoping it would bo for the best, and two days alter, found myself in the old house by tbe sea. I was glad to be horn* again, to see my pets, to bear the sea, but its song luied to soothe me afi before. One day while in my room, father called tae. ‘Come dawn, Christie! 1 have sag| .liing for you.’ lie handed i^e tv^^Rri's. addressed to himself.— your Aunt Helen, and the other from Mr. St. George, enclosing another for yourself. I received them with a trembling hand, and took them to my room to read. Aunt Helen’s extolled Mr. St. George to the skies, and finished by saying, that if papa and 1 were willing, they would be at our house on Thurs day next, in the five P. M. train. I cannot tell what the other letters said, hut they were manly, earnest and affec tionate. That evening father and I had a long conference, and on the following mor ning lie dispatched two letters, assuring the recipient of each a hearty welcome. Thursday evening caine, and father went to the depot in the carriage. I had been in a state of unrest through out the day, aud as twilight approached, the skies were so beautiful I threw a light sVhwl around me and went down to the tea side. TheAvestern clonds were golden, but the skj overhead was of a deep rose, that softly faded into gray iu the east.— The delicate rosy hue was reflected in tbe ocean, reflected everywhere, until it seetned as though air sea and sky were inspirited with the delicate tint, and possessed a subtle, soothing power. The south wiud was sweet scented and mild, and I draok in the glorious beau ty of tfry scene as a fiwoet and' refresh ing draught. I was aroused by a footfall upon the path, a foot step that I knew, soon as it reached my ear. I turned, and met the eyes of him I had so lately learned to love thc-best ou earth, gazing earnestly and lovingly' upon me— for a moment only—then I was clasped to a warm heart, while his voice, full of tenderness, said: ‘Christie ! I cannot live without yon. ‘‘Bill Arp.” Letter from the Great Georgia Humoriet— He louche* Some Men and a few Meat ure*. From the Atlanta Daily San. Mr. Editor.- I’m sorry I can’t fill my promise to cal! on yon. I’m goin home, I am. I’m tired of this everlasting fuss. There’s sum develment up, and I’m ju- bus about it. I’ve heard lots of war talk in tbe Legislature to-day. There's signs of fight. 1 don’t think 9 dollars a day would provoke such hostile lan guage. One feller said they was just rarin and chargin.for their constituents, and that it was all 9 dollar gas, b didn’t smell like gas to me. Tbe got here there was shootin, and a man killed. Then agin I sec tbe members bu^^ all 1 I know tbey’il stand between me and all danger. I tell you, Mr. Editur, there’s trouble a brewin’. Says I, ‘Mr. Mackworter, you are the Speaker, you know it ali lrom the steeple to tbe sellar; you have capacity and sagacity, and vivacity, and the like of that, a la ‘barbecne,’ that is, from tho snout to the tail—tell me, do you think there will be a fight ?’ ‘Yes, sar,’ sals he, ‘yes, stir ; they will fight shore. They arc obliged to fight. Old Bonaparte can’t get out of it, and Pismark has got a chin just like Joe Johnson. France wants a blood lettin’ like we had—’ ‘Is that fur off?’ saisl; ‘I tbot it was to begin in Atlanty to nite.’ ‘Oh, no,’ says he, and went on. I got sum comfort from my old friend, ,nooa came OSCE 10 me, a[jd , he outsid e„ div idin up in little j ?°. V ' T f hornloE ' « r ‘> d that if ‘»'cy I 0 the years 1303-4 a man would s sitting in her favorite ds about at night and ^vhisperin J,d .** ? * th ! ° ! have crossed, dry shod, ovei the river* sadar trees. I was in her and „? rnn , in(r wonldn t be into it much, except the - - L generals, for that Hot Summers i From the published records kept- ia Nuremburg, in Bavaria, we translate-, says the Detroit Free Presj, the following interesting facts relating to extremely hot seasons in times past: In the ydhr 1132 the earth cracked by reason of the heat, the wells and streams in Alsaco were all dried op, and the bed of the river Rhyne wm dry. In the year 1152 the heat was *0 great that sand exposed to the sun’* rays was hot enough to cook an egg. In 1160 great numbers of soldier* in the campaign against Bela, died from the effect of the heat. In 1276-7 the crops of hay and oata failed completely. a Thoct.ht Ha Could no Better.— Some forty years ago there lived in this town an old man whom we shall call Bi igirs^vho bad a propensity for hook ing smanSnd portable articles that came in his wiiY^As he was poor and past labor, aor^wetl known about town, no furtfiernoriee was taken of bis pecula tions Ilian to keep a sharp lookout w hen he was around. A dealer had a quan tity of ifry’TiRh landed on the wharf at an hour too late to get them into his store, and as he was about covering them with an old sail-cloth, he espied old B j_anparently roconnoitering. Se lecting a couple of fish, he said, ‘Here, Briggs, I must leave these fisii out here to-night, and 1 will give you these two if 3’ou wifi not steal any.’ ‘That is a fair offer, Air. A., but—well—I don't know,’ with a glance at the oflered fish and then at tho pile, ‘I think 1 can do hotter !' Dickens wrote : “There is noth ing beautiful and good that dies and is forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, dying in the eradie, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, play its part, though its body be burned t>* ashes or drowned in tbe deep eat seAr - There is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven but does its bles sed work on earth in those that love it here. Heath ! oh, if the good deeds ol human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear; for how much charity, mercy, purified affection, would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves!' The New York Tribune sa}'s: “Tbe home education ol children i» a duty all but universally shrieked in this couutry. Children are no longer brought up—they are trumped up ; it is done by machinery. We have plenty of little men and little-women in Amer ica, but no buys and girls.” and jugglin and pirouting around.— They are plottin agin sotnebod}’ I know. I heard one feller say ‘prolongation,’ and another said ‘hell,’ aud another ‘dam,’ and I heard jaw teeth grit. I was a private in Corputs battery, and 1 know what a prolong is. It’s a big hemp rope, with hooks on the ends, what hitches the cannon to the powder box. There’s goin’ to be shootin cer tain, and somebody’s goin to be hurt, and 1 want Captain Corput to under stand that I've resigned. I lienrd an other crowd lalkin about State aids. I suppose they are to be on the Govern ors staff. Brown had many a oue in ’63 and ’4. Hal said be had 700, and Hal ought to know. A Stait Aid is a good thing. He can see tbe battle from afur off’. The further tbe bettei; for me. I heard a member say he was afeered all the State Aids would be killed, bnt that lie sbould fight mity hard on the road from Alacon to Knoxville. Anoth er said lie should do his fightin between Rome and Columbus. If a man can pick his ground it’s a good thing. Mr. Editur, there’s 11 heap of fuss generally. A man tawked 2 days in the House about the penitentiary and the conviks, and whippin an slashin and delicate parts, etc. I thought he thought a good deal of hisseif. 1 was sorry to see the members asleep while he was speakin, for i think it very dis- respekful. 1 man said that the epeakist didn’t care a dam for the conviks, but was jess playin bis last card agin the Govnor, mid that he was then going to sink down betwei 11 Silla & Karybdis, unknelled, uniionored and unsung. I notised his tawk ail about kulord con- viks; he didn't seem to be sorry for a white roan. A man in the gallery was powerful mad with sum editur—maybe it was you, I don’t know—but lie axed a man whether lie should whip the editur or not. The man said he didn’t know and couldn’t say, for he hadn’t read the piece, but that as a genral thing in the abstract il was right to whip ’em. El I wq6 you I would carry a wcepin some soart, even el it was only an um- berell. 1 got tired of all Ibis, and wauked over to Whitehall for peace. A friend (I suppose he was a friend) found me and said he wanted to see mo pertiklar- ly. He took me away back and hauled out sum little thumb papers full of fig ures, and said iie wauled me to insure my life. That skeered me worse than anything, for it looked like I was in danger, and lie had just found il out.— I axed him if he thought there would be n fight. He expluinod things to me, and I felt relieved, and declined to in sure for the present. You see I felt mity well, and couldn’t see the necessity. At tbe next corner I met another friend who seemed glad to see me exceedingly. He held my hand in his several mo ments. lie axed me if my life was in sured. He said be was agent for the very best company in tbe world. 1 axed him bow iong a man would live under his company. He then explained to me that a man might die at any time; that they didn’t undertake to keep man irora dyin. So I declined, but ex pressed my gratitude for his interests in tny welfare, and promised to buy a poli cy as soon as I got right sick. Jnst as I left him I beard him call some feller a dam phool. W ben I got to the hotel there was feller waitin’ for me on the same bisness. He talked to me about an hour about the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death. I thought, perhaps, he was a missionary. lie seemed much concerned about my wife and children, and once or twice wiped his e) r es with a white pocket handkerchief. I knowed he was a friend, and told him I would reflect seriously about the matter. 1 believe that company is a purely philanthropic institution, and would lend a poor fellow a few dollars if he wa» sufferin.’ 1 think I will try to borrow a little from their agents to morrow.— This morning the first one corne to see me agin, and I concluded I was looking mity bad, and axed him to excuse me as I was not feelin’ well. I went to Dr. Alexander and got a dose of salts. He axed me iT I was sick. I told him I supposed I was, and the reason why.— He then told me all about it, and said there was about 100 of them fellows iu town, and they all had augurs, long au- gnrs, and they bored about half aa inch at the first interview and an inch at the second in the same hole, and so on, un til tlrcy got to the hollow, and the pa tient gave in and took a policy. I don’t know about that, but I will say they aie the friendliest, most sjmpathizeD and kind-hearted men I have ever struck ; only I don't like so much talk about coffins and grave-yards. I dident take the salts. But, Mr. Editur, I tell you there is trouble a brewin.’ I saw old Rock aud General Gordon and Colonel Styles a talkin’ together, and old Tige wasent fur off; old Rock's gray beard was a wagin ominously, and old Gordon's scars was a jumpin’ abont all over his face; styles looked like be wanted to cat somebody. I heard him say some thing about ‘Orgean Stables,’ I suppose that is where lie keeps his war horses. Scott came up and said something abont the rear guard, lle’6 tbe devil on rear guard, and the army knows it. Jim Waddell dropped in and remarked he had 'jnst as leave die as live if old Rock said so.’ At this moment a feller come along a singin’ ‘•I feel, I feel, I tecl like > Gr'.ffa Star,” ‘ Awl if there's fitin’ tu bo, why then, why then I'm tbar." Shoo, fly, don’t bother me. The whole party looked like Gattys burg, and old Tige was just a waitin’ for old Bock to tree' God bless ’em tho original, consis tent Union men, like Josh Hill and Dun ning, and Torn Saffold and old man Stewart, and Ackerman wou'd make short work of it. He said ttiey were mity slow men to get mad, and it had taken ’em about ten years to git to tho bilin’ pint, but that such-fitin’ as they would do now the world nor the flesh nor the devel never saw. He said I would whip a thousand and pul ten thousand to flight. 1 hope so. I like a mail who takes ten years to git mad. Yours truly, Bill Aep. P. S. I heard several fellers talkin’ abont 9 dollars, and about tho offices, and a man told me that was what was the matter with Hannah. Air. Editur, who is Hannah, and what is the matter with her ? I hope she ain’t dangerous B. A. N. B. I am now satisfied there won’t be a fight here. Do you think there’s any truth in the report that Josh Hill, Saffold & Co. are goin’ to Prusshia ? A man said that when it took a man ten years to get mad, he was bound to fight something or take spontaneous combus tion. I reckon they’ll go. B. A. Stick to One Thing. “Unstable as tho water thou Blialt not succeed,” is the language of one of old. Whoever expects to succeed in any undertaking must enter into it with a hearty and earnert will to do his very best. When a trade or profession is chosen, obstacles, 6e they large or small, must not be allowed to stand in the way of mastering that trade or pro fession. However much <ve depreciate the old custom of indenturing apprenti ces, the system in its practical results operated almost always for the lasting good of the apprentice. Generally it insured to him a good trade and • a wholesome discipline that fitted him for success for business. At the present time very many young men undertake to acquire a trade, and nfter a short Er\ trial abandon it because there are un- of ’pleasant duties to he perfonned and oh. j S. Stacies to be overcome. They consider! themseives accountable to no one, and go and come at the biding of caprice, or au unsettled, uneasy mind. The result of this is, to send out into the world young men who have not half learned their trades, of unstable character, who drift from post to pillar, and who sue. ceed in nothing but strewing along the highways of life melancholy wrecks of men. We would earnestly entreat ev ery youDg man, after he has chosen his vocation, to stick to it; don’t leave it because hatd blows are to be struck or disagreeable work is to be performed. The men who have worked tbeir way up to wealth and usefulness do not be long to tho shiftless and unstable class, but may be reckoned among those who took off their coats, rolled up their sleeves, conquered ali their prejudices against labor, and manfully bore the heat and burden of the day. Whether upon the old worn-out farm, where our fathers toiled, striving to bring back the soil to productiveness, in the ma chine-shop or factory, or the thousand other busy places that invite honest toil and skill, let the motto ever be persever ance and industry.. The hsby training of tbs nursery was good in its place, but it won’t answer all the demands of an active life. This is not a baby world. We must expect to be jostled and knocked about in the stern conflict, and get run over if we are not on the look out and prepared to meet the duties of life with a purpose not to shirk them, bnt fulfil them. A young man with a good trade or honorable profession, as he goes forth into the world with his mind made op to stick to his trade or profession, ia not obliged to ask for any favors. He will Jiew his way to success, while tbe shiftless will grow tired, de spair aDd fail. Seine, Loire, Rhine aDd Danube. In the years 1293-3 a multitude of animals perished by means of tbe heal, which was so great that the barreat dried up. In 1440 tbe heat wss extriordioarf In the years 1538, 1539, 1540, 1541, all the rivers were nearly dried up. In 1556 there was a great drouth, which extended over nearly the whole of Europe. In 1615-16 there was, in Italy, the Netherlands and France, an overpower^ irig heat. In 1648 there were 58 consecut'Te days of extreme heat. The year 1678 was vety hot, and aa wore tbe first tnree years of the eigh teenth century. In 1718 it did not rain a single tim* from April until October. The growing grain was bnrnt, the rivers dried np, the theatres (but wherefore is not sta ted) were closed by command of the police. The thermometer showed 36 degrees Reaumer, equivalent to 113 de grees Fahrenheit. In irrigated garden* the fruit trees bloomed twice. In 1723.24 there was very great heat. The summer of 1746 was very hot and dr}’, the growing grain being abso lutely calcined. It did not rain for many months. The years 1753, 1754, 1760, 1767,17- 78 and 1773 were also years in which the summers were extremely hot. In the famous comet year—1811—tbe summer was very warm, and the wine produced that season was considered very precious. I11 the years 1818 the theatres had td be closed on account of the boat, the highest temperature being 35 Reaumer, or 111 Fahrenheit. During the three days of tbe Revolu tion of J uly, 1830, the thermometer stood at 36 degrees Centigrade—about the same as 98 Fahrenheit. In 1832, during the uprising of th* 5th and 6th of July, the temperature was about tho same. The Seine was nearly dried up in 18- In June, 1860, when the cholera ap» poared for the second time, the tempera ture was only abont 75 Fahrenheit. Tbe highest dogree of heat that man can withstand for any lengthened peri od varies from 140 to 122 of Fahrenheit scale. But with a much lower temper ature numerous deaths occur. Stimulant vs Nourishment. In a late number of the London Lan cet was an able article by Dr. Wilkes on the subject of nourishment for tlie sick from which we extract the follow ing. Z3T True bopo is based on energy of character. A strong mind always hopes, and has always cause to hope, because it knows the mutability of bu man affairs ; and how Bligrft a circum stance may change the whjle course of events ! Such a spirit, too, rests upon it self; it is not confined to partial views, or to one particular object And if at last, nil should he loBt, it has served it self—its own integrity and worth.— Hope awakens courage, while despond ency is the last of all evils; it is the abandonment of good—the giving up of the battle of life with dead nothing ness. He who can implant courage in the human soul is its best physician. £3T Alligators are becoming recon structed, like everything else in the South, for a planter near Alidway, in South Carolina, about seventeen miles from Augusta, bas cultivated his entire farm this year, so far as ploughing is concerned, with an alligator. The ani mal is an unusually large one. weighs three hundred and fifty pounds, and is perfectly docile and domesticated. He is said to work splendidly in plough har ness, and is far superior to mules or b >r. ses. Those who wish to believe tiiis sto ry can do so. Destroy the Catebpii.laes.—An ex change says : Bum sulphur in the fields early in the night, is said to he a good remedy for the caterpillar and the fly that lays the egg. Wet the sulphur, dip in the solution old rags, wrap them around sticks and when dry, stick up in the fields at convenient distances and set ou tire. Will some of our farmer* give this a trial ? X3T Men's lives should be like tbe day, more beautiful in the evening; or, like the Sommer, rich with promise; and like tbe Autumn, aglow with the golden sheaves, where good works and deeds have ripened on the field. Now, what do I constantly-witncss in private practice ? The patient I visit i* a young lad or young lady, and the doctor and myself perfectly agree as to the nature of the case, the course it will run and the treatment required; further, to insure the fulfillment of hie orders, the services of two nurses have been procured ; one of them is in con stant attendance with a devoted mother and sister. Now, what is the condition of the patient who huB been ill a fort night with enteric fever ? He is ex tremely wasted, Lis skin list and dry, restless, wakeful, or delirious, tonga* parched, and his pulse 150. I am in formed that the patient has bad plenty ol nourishment, and am shown the table before me covered with cups and beef tea, jelly, brandy bottles, physic bottles, and wine decanters. I am further as sured that the patient has had three or four cups of beef tea, daily, some jelly, eight or ten ounces of brandy, five of six glasses of champagne, and his medi cine containing five grains of amonis every four hours. To prove the regu larity ol the administration of these dif ferent things, the nurses display their written papers and vouchers. It is now evident that the patient is dying of star vation and stimulation. No mortal man conld be in any other condition who had been attempting to live on a little beef tea and jelly for a fortnight sup plemented by brandy, champagne and ammonia. In fact, I scarcely know a beeter formula to produce wasting, hot skin, parched longue, irritable heart, restlessness and delirium. I am not overdrawing the picture, and as for modifications of it, I 'see them every day-. I have no objection to wine or brandy iu their proper places, and when judiciously administered; bnt I do strongly object to the assumption that they can be for any lengthened period taken as a substitute lor food. I con fess, too, to be almost overcome with regret when I see my hospital patient* doing well, and see the young people in a rich man's house literally dying of starvation and stimulation.—[Dr, Wilkes in Loudon Lancet. Jjssie Williams had been doing something which her mother told her she musn't do. She had been eating currants, of course, she got her moutli all stained. That’s the way she got found out Mrs. Williams said: “Yon know you were forbidden to eat cur rants !” “But mother, Satan tempted me 1” “Why didn't you say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan ?’ ” “I did say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ and he w< nt and got behind me and pushed me right into the currant bushes !’’ 9Q» An Irishman, describing the tra ding powers of the genuine Yankee, said :—Be dad, if he was cast away on a desolate island, he’d get up the mor. nin’ and go round selling maps to the inhabitants. jC3r‘Dnd, have you been to tbo mu seum V said a ten year old boy. * No ( my son.’ * Well go, and mention my name to the doorkeeper, and he’ll tak* you round and show you everything•* U- I J

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The Cuthbert appeal. (Cuthbert, Ga.) 1866-1884, August 06, 1870, Image 1