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VOLUME VI. — , , true love nowadays: They mtft ct'bl the baU-roora’fl ftlaro, And only this bad either noted, That he this dark and she was fair, When bicalhless in the waltz they floated* Cut in that ins>; ait Cupid flung A chain that bound their hearts together ; &ke thought that Hybla tipped his tongue Although he only praised the weather. To hhtlhef spirit seemed divine, Though still idio talked but commoii places Iler accents breathed the tuneful Nine,' Her face and figure all the Graces. II ; s coat her critic eye approved ; He owned her perfect in her bdd'ce ; jttlt! if he to her a god be moved,. To him no lers the swam a godde 1, go when they danced it seemed to each Theft bli. > had bummed its lullest measure And when they sat in t inder speech, Life held for them no equal plcdsure.' So sitting pleased and bent to please, Or whirhug through the gallop's ma:n, Uncofaseionsly by swift degree i ITiey s i: pped through all love’s sweet pi as< r i. Ho brought her bou'Uon on the s f v* •; He brought her sandwiches and salad— With lieVe a hint of deep despair, And tlieto a snatch of woetul ballad— With pensive pauses, shifts abrupt, And speak : ng gaps of conversation, And so by turns they sighed and supped, Ai;d slid irorn ices to flirt ilioii. He squeezed her hand, she blushed and siglied; ( Her lips said “Fie !” but not her glances ; lie t’o.il cf lovers that had died, Of cruel maids in okl romances ; He clasped bef* \va : st he side a kiss ; Her eyr: still foiled her lips’ ‘How do v e he !’ They dropi>ed cold “Mr.” and formal A id he was f rank and she was Mary. Fifteen de lJ cious minutes pass and ; Love’s star bed reached its culmination. Twin souls they knew themselves at last, Bom for each other from creation. He swOte, ere half an hour went by, She was his bosom’s only idol is much she vowed ; with rapturous eye The glad youth urged an c .rly bridal. Ah, sweet, coy maiden, shame ! No more Than tb's the modest Muse d'seovers— '• hey parted at tho carriage door, Firth’s loudest pair of plighted lovers ; With kissei, tears, and vows to meet They parted—and Hove’s Ilhnn jail ; Next day sho cut him oia tile lift f eel, And he, the false one, never knew it! MI&UELLAJVY. UNCLE MAURICE’S MONEY. BY S T EPHEN BK'.NT, ‘Well, what is to be done?’ ques tlori'ed A l by. ‘ldo nut know,’ answered Jid‘et* despairingly. ‘I will tell you what to do/ I said. The girls looked at uie inquiringly. I sat on top of the stove—it was cold, oi chursQ —because there were but two rickety chairs ”i the room. I continued: ‘Have you got any rtloney, Abby?’ a dime/ ‘llieii buy a pan of charcoal, and we will let our poor, little, starved sorls float out into ctcir/ly on the smoke. ’ ‘Don’t be a goose, Cl'Turd/ said Juhet, impatiently, while Abby half groaned. 'lf only uncle Jeffreys would send us some money. It it so hard to HaVe to starv'd.’ ‘Never mind, Abby / I said, cheer fully,‘if the rats haven’t eat it; there k a crust of cheese in the cupboard/ Abby looked up ‘ls that really all, Clifford?* ' Vo the best of my knowledge, yes/ an uncomfortable luhip rising in my throat. But uncle M&urice had cast bn'our family just because poor mama had married a poor man. 1 was nine teen and tile youngest of the three gills. A dreary silence fell between us after Abby’s last question about the empty state of the larder. Juliet sat with her head ou the table; Abby gazed drearily but at the window; and I—l was getting desperate when I heard ‘Clio’ coming dp stairs. Clio was Mrs. Jenkins, our landlady’s hired servant, and you would ahVays know when she came up stairs by the clank, clank of her big shoes. She opened our garret door and an nounced: ‘A gentleman to see you’ens l ,’ and looking out I saw tall figure, and a handsome, brown-bearded face beyond her, and 1 was so astonished I forgot to get up olf the stuve, until the gen*> tlernan.uame in and announced himself Hugh Cha!oner,attoruey-at-law/ Then 1 remembered', but it was to'o late, and though my cheeks br *ucd v/’i shame J kept my scat. * (3,np 4*jflfn tiff 2ft tt Mr. Chaloner sat down, gave the miserable little room and three shabby riguios a comprehensive glance, then said: ’You arc Frank Royal’s daughters?' ‘ i said Abby; ‘Tiicn yoti are very fortunate. Y r dur ulicle, Mr. Jeffreys; has left you his foi tune/ Juliet turned white, but Said notb ing, while low under her brealh I heard Abby whisper, ‘Thank God.‘ I was disposed to doubt the statement. Uncle Maurice might be dead, but it seemed impossible that he left us his-property. The mart must be mistaken or only jesting. ‘Are you Sure you are telling us the truth?' [ asked anxiously. Mr. Chaloner laughed. ‘Yes, I am quite sure; and to con vince you I will send Mr. Grambling around with the will.’ c Oli, no, it is not necessary/ I cried quickly, the (act dawning upon my bewildered rumd* that 1. had been very fude. Mr. Chaloner rose to depart. ‘Will you have a check made out this Miss Royal?* turning to Abby. Wes, sir.’ ‘For w hat driionn;?' ‘1 ilty thousand dollars,' answered my eldest coolly. The check was made out, Mr: Chal oner left, and tho three girls fell into each othei’s arms and wept for very joy. For several days I almost refused to believe in our good fortune, think ing it must be softening of the brain. Rut I was convinced when we moved into an up-town palace, and dressed in silk and laces every day. Mrs. Uni son, a aristocratic old lady, lived with us and was our chaperone, Companion and grandmother by adop tion. Our friends w r ero as countless as the sands on the seashore and tbey cherished and pure, disinterested affec tion for us, so they said. Of course, uncle Mam ice's money had nothing to do with i(. The thought was too base for such noble minds as theirs. Abby and Juliet were both angels minus the wings; but T was truly of the ‘earth, earthy.' While they de lightfully fob in love and became en gaged, I flirted and enjoyed my new lile wiln a zest that* was highly amus ing to Hugh Chaloner. ‘How splendid!’ I cried,when I viev. - cd tile case and comfort around me. ‘No more back garrets, bid dresses, and scanty meals, and to think thdt this will last forever,’ and I gave no thought to death, or old age, but tided uy cup of pleasure to the brim. Mr: Chaloner was our lawyer and and if my lace ever flushed or m3* heart-throbs grew quicker at the sound of his voice, no one knew it- One evening, nearly a year aftei* that morning in the garret, Mr. Chaloner asked me to be bis wife. I waved my fan w ith a Grand Duchess air, and said: ‘No, Mr. Chaloner, I do not wish to marry at aud wheii I do, it is my duty to—to— * ‘Make a grand match?’ Wes.* ‘A duke, for instance,’ suggested rny lover, coldly. ‘Yes; 1 think that would do.' Hugh didn't tear his hair or threat en to commit suicide because I refused him. He even had that imperti nence to laugh, and looking down at me said: ‘You absiwd child! I doubt if you will ever see a duke. I shall wait pa tiently, for, of coiuse, we will marry some day. I have felt it since I saw you sitting on the stove that morning.* Now, I had no good excuse for act ing as I did. it was simply contrarie ty. Hugh Chaloner was a noble man ana in mv heait of hearts, I knew I loved him, but Abby and Juliet calm ly contented themselves, longed to see me safely landed on tho shoies of mat* rimony; hence I determined not to marry, but to enjoy my freedom as long as I pleased. We w*ere going to have a double wedding. Abby and Juliet were to bo married on the same day, aud my two sisters were deeply, truly happy. One evening, just a week before the wedding, Mr. Grumbling called looking very grave. ‘I bring bad news, ladies,' ho said, abruptly, ‘and it concerns your uncle.' I felt a cold chill creep up rny spine . ‘Weil/ said Abby. ‘Air. Jeffreys left a later will; it has just been found to-day and be left his property to an orphan asylum/ Then there was a long silence, and I questioned the reality of all earthly tilings. Three white shocked faces confronted (he lawyer. ‘it, cui aot bo true,' I c lei out at last. ‘Uncle Maurice surely was not so wicked.' Rut it was true, and wo were as poor as when we lived ru Mrs. Jeil kins' back attic. Abby aud Juliet accepted this re verse of fortune veiy calmly, but 1 wept and refused to be comforted, and took pleasure in hating uncle Maurice. With a magnanimity worthy of praise ( Mr. Chaloner again came forward and proposed, but pride made me reject him this time. ‘No/ I said pioudly; ‘I woifld not matrv you when I was rich, don't ask mo to now/ Then I went up stab's aud cried un til my noLe was the size of a ted-ciip. My sisters naturally thought I would make my home with them, but I had not the icmotest idea of such a thing. We had a warm discussion on the sub ject one night, and I came off victor. ‘But what are you going to do, Ciifl?‘ asked Abby. ‘I am going down to Pickensville to teach school and wear out all my fine ry/ So alter the wedding I departed for Pickensville. This highly interesting village was composed of two dozen houses, five stores, aud a set ot the most respectably stupid people that I ever saw. The mild dissipation the Pickensvil lians indulged in* when compared to that I had just given Up, was like blue skimmed milk to rich, red rue. My life was a dreary sameness from week to week. If I had kept a diary it would have been as barren of events as Mark Twain‘s on shipboard. Here would have been an entry: ‘Eat my bieakfast, went to school and whipped all the children because they would obey me. Dismissed at five o'clock, went home and put on one of my prettiest diesses, and spent the remainder of the day in the delightful occupation of tormenting Josephus Janes, the village lawyer. Abby and Juliet vVxote regularly each week, and as regularly begged me to give yp my foolish pride and come back to them, but I stubbornly refused. 0 io morn' >g when I started to my daily torture—teaching the youth of Pickensville was a torture to me—l felt so blue and spiritless, I longed to lie down by the wayside, and neVet rise any more. AT through the day I inwardly moaned over my lot, looking back re gretfully to that yeaT of pleasure, that lay like a rift of warm light across the grayness of my life. At recess, when with sever? l dis tinctive yells my unruly scholars de parted for their playgroiind, I put my head down on the desk to have a good comfortable cry. The first tears liad just splashed down when the door opened and Hugh Chaloner entered. My heart throbbed fast with joy, but I dried my eyes and tried to appear as cool and calm as a May morning, but I didn’t succeed far ‘You have been crying, Cliff,’ were among the first words lie said to me. ‘I have not/ I cried indignantly. ‘Well, there are tears on ycur face anyhow/ ‘o—l—that—-is—' ‘You are not good at telling stifles/ lie interrupted with a laugh. Then he looked'keenly at me, and said, ‘301! are pale and thin, Clifford/ *tt is only the cool wind that makes me look pale. I have splendid health and a nice time/ ‘lndeed!* *Yes; Mr. Janes is so kind and agree able/ Mr. Cba'oner laughed. ‘I am glad you are so happy, Miss Royal, but 3*oll must congratulate me now.' ‘What on?’ I asked, feeling m3 7 heaft sinking. ‘The Silver ton bank has broke/ ‘Oh, Mr. Chaloner! And you have lost ail your property? lam so sorry/ ‘I am not if this last gives me what I want,* and then lie suddenly, pas sionately cried: ‘Clifford! Clifford! my love I don’t let pride stand between us any longer. Come and be my wife.’ ‘Well, as you are as poor as I am, I will/ I said slowly, and then ho drew me to him and kissed to the hor ror of old Miss Peters who happened to come in just then. So we were married and went on a modest little trip to the seaside. One evening as our little boat drifted idly over the smooth, shimmering waters of the bay, my husband proposed to me a trip to Europe. ‘But what wiT we go on?‘ I in a bevv Tiered wa.y. EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1878, ‘On land and sea/ was the provok ing reply. ‘But where is the money to come from? 4 Hugh laughed. ‘That is a secret/ ‘Hugh/ I said, a faint glimmering of the truth dawning on me, ‘you have been deceiving me/ ‘I have not/ fe/Yott said your property was all gone/ ‘No: I told you the bank was broke, but I didn‘t say my money was in it/ smiling. Then be berlt over me and tenderly said: ‘My darling, I loved you so truly, I could not let foolish pride part us. Besides, all is fair in love and war, is it not?* And looking into the handsome face, dearer to me than any other ou earth, I confessed that it was. So we sailed out on the broad ocean of life with Faith, Hope and Charity for our guardian angels* and love to shed light on our pathway. Forty in a Duel. The famous duel in which forty or more gentleman were engaged, in 1828, is still remembered in Natchez* Col. James Bowie, the famous fighter and inventor of the knife which bears his name, used to spend a great deal of his time in that city. He was chal lenged by a gentleman from Alexandra, La., whose friends to the number of forty or more ? accompanied him to Natchez to see fair play, knowing that Bowie was a desperate man and had his own friends about him. All par ties went upon the field. Tho com batants took their places in the cen- separated from their friends in the rear or enough not to endanger them with their balls. Behold the battle array thus. Twenty armed Louisian ians fifey yards behind their champion and his seconds and surgeon; and op posite theirq as far behind Bowie and his seconds and surgeon, twenty armed Mississippiaus. Behold the heights of Natchez thronged with spectators, and a steamer ri the river rounded to* its deck black with passengers watching with deep interest the scene. The plan of fight was to exchange shots twice with pistols, and to close with knives, Bowie being armed with his own terrible weapon. At the first fire both parties escaped. At the second the Louisianian was too and took the advantage of Bowie, who waited the word. At this Bowie*s second cried ‘ foul play/ and shot the Louisianian dead. The second of the latter instantly killed the sla3 r er ol his principal. Bowie drove his knife into this man. The surgeons now crossed blades, while, with loud cries, came on the parties of friends, the light of bat tle in their eves. Iu a moment the whole number Was engaged in a fear less conflict. Dirks, pistols and knives Were U3ed with fatal effect until one party drove trie other from the field. I do not know how many were killed and wounded in all, but it was a dread ful slaughter. Bowie fought like a lion, but fell covered with wounds. For months he lingered at the Mason bouse before lie fully recovered.— Mor~ rislduh (Tcnn.) Gazette . Avoid and fill up all the' spaces of thy time with severe and useful employment; for lust easily creeps in at these emptinesses where the soul is and the body is at ease; for no easy, healthful, idle person was ever chaste if he could be tempted. But of all employments, bod.ly labor is the m >st useful, and of the greatest benefit for driving away the dev ! . ° I Shall Do as I Like* There were two lads walking borne together, and conversing about the change that was soon to take place in their circumstances, as they were short ly after to begin business life as ap prentices. One of them, the only sun of a pros perous lawyer, was going an ap* prentice to a manufacturer. The oth er lad was going to leai n a mechanical trade, and he was to maintain himself as well as he could on his small wastes. Each had much to say about his future career. The poorer lad wa§ telling his companion how earnestly he meant to apply himself to his trade, and how resolute he was iu his determination to become skillful in every branch of it. The other, who was more concerned about the opportunities lie should have for enjoying himself, exclaimed, r I shall do as I like V* The month passed rapidly, as did the succeeding weeks which necessa rily transpired before our two young frieuds were duly settled iu their new homes. The difference in their circumstances was even greater than it had been be fore ; but the old school-bo} 7 attach ment drew them into occasional com munication, and at iriegalar and distant intervals the two lads would meet. 'I told you I meant to do as I like, Irank,’ said John Rayner, one evening as they were walking in company.— Tve got to know a jolly set of fellows, nd they've learned me to smoke first rate. Look here/ ho added, produc ing a cigar, which he proceeded to light and smoke. ‘I couldn't have done that at home, old boy, even if I had dared/ Poor lad ! Like many others lie had strange ideas of what constituted true manliness, and in seeking to ‘do as he liked' he was rapidly paving the way to become a slave t > a vile and injuri ous habit. But John Rayner wasn’t content with becoming a slave himself; lie wanted to drag bis old school-fellow into the same course. More than once he tried his persuasive powers, but without avail, until one evening he re minded Frank that tiie morrow was thejfirst anniversary of his (Frank's) being bound apprentice, and that there could be no better time for ‘turning over anew leaf,’ as he described it. ‘Come, Frank/ he said, ‘make up your mind, and try a cabbage-leaf ci gar to-morrow.' Fdf a while Frank seemed disposed to resist, but before the companions seperated be closed the argument by saying : ‘Well, I think I will allow myself just one cigar a day/ ‘Bravo!' exclaimed Rajmer. 'That’s right, Frank—be a man, and do as I do. You know I always told you I meant to do as I liked/ When, once ill a wfoile the two for mer school-fellows met, the interview was brief, though l.iendlv enough.— John generally wanted to know how Frank got on with his cigar a day, and was regularly assured that the allow'- ance was alwavs adhered to, but nev er exceeded. ‘I never see you smoking/ was Ray. ner's remark on one of these occa sions. 'Well, you see,' was the reply, with a smile, ‘I prefer to keep my cigar to myself at home. I can only afford one you know, and I like to make the mo.it of it.' So years passed on, and the appren tice days were ended. Young Rayuer hdd formed extravagant habits, and was heavily iu debt. These things had grievously offended k his father, who refused to risk his money by affording his son the means of entering irto bus iness for himself, and from that time forward John Rayner lived an idle, useless life, consoling hirnself with the thought that his father would not live forever, and that sooner or later the money must become his own, when, once more, he would Mo as he liked.' One day he chanced to meet his old school-fellow, near Frank’s lodgings, and was iuvited to enter and sit awhile. In the conversation that ensued Frank told him of his circumstances, which seemed far more promising than his own. ‘l'm a sort of foreman,’ said he, ‘in one of the departments of the factory the same that I have been all through. I mean to go on and qualify myself for the post of manager, and p rhaps I may some day get a partnership/ •But what do you do w th all those books ?‘ asked Rayner pointing to some well £ h.-d p'elves Up against the wr/L ‘Oh, that library is my 'one cigar a day," was the response* ‘What do you mean V ‘Mean just this : When you bother* ed me so about being a man and learn ing to smoke, I'd just been reading about a young fellow who bought books with money that others have spent in smoke, and I thought I'd try and do the same. . You remomber I said I should allow myself only one cigar a day 1' ‘Yes/ ‘Well, I never smoked. I just put by the price of a two-penuy cigar ev ery day, and as the money accumula ted I bought books; the bonks you sec there.’ § ‘Do you mean that those books cost no more Ilian that? Why there are pounds and pounds of them/ ‘Yes, I know there are. I had six ye rs' more of my apprenticeship to serve when you persuaded me to be a man. 1 put the money I have told you of, which of course amounted at two pence ft day, to <£3 Os. lOd. a year> or, £lB 5s in sirr’years. I keep those books by themselves as the result of my apprenticeship cigar money ; and if you had done as I did you would b} 7 this have saved many, many pounds more than that, and been in business besides/ Each of these youths ‘did asholiked/ The difference wrsthut one liked self indulgence, and the other liked to be careful, studious and industrious. Prescriptions for Fits. Fon a Fir of Passion. —Walk out in the open air. You may speak your mind to the winds without hurting any one, or proclaiming yourself to be a simpleton. “Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry, for anger resteth iu the bosom ot fools." For a Fit of Idleness. —Count the tickings of a clock. Do this for one hour, and 3 7 0 u will be glad to pull off your coat the next and work like a man. “Slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep, and an idle nr 1 shall suffer hun ger." For a Fit of Extravagance and Folly. —Go to the workhouse, or speak with the ragged and wretched inmates of a jail, and andyoulwill be conviuc ed "Who mak i big bread of briatf aud thou Must be couteut to lie forlorn, “Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your la bor for that which satiafieth not?” For a Fit of Ambition. —Go to the churchyard and read the gravestones. They will tell you the end of man at his best estate. “For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appear eth for a little time and then vanisheth away." “Pride goeth before destruc tion and a haughty spirit before a fall." For a Fit of Repining. —Look about r for the halt and blind, and visit the bedridden, the afflicted and the deran ged, and they will make you ashamed of complaining of your light afflictions. “Wherefore doth a living man com plain?" Fur a Fit of Envy. —Go and see how many who keep their carriages are afflicted with rheumatism, gout and dropsy; how many walk abroad on crutches or stay at home wrapped up in flannel, and how many are subs ject to epikqisy and apoplexy. “A sound heart is the life of the flesh. Envy is the rottenness of the bones." A practical joker, a prudent man withal, had gone to a cafe and ordered a three-masted schooner cf beer, when a friend appeals at the door and beck ons to him to go out for a minute. The intending drinker is afraid that in his absence someone may get away with the liquid, when a happy thought strikes and he wraps around the handle of the mug a scrap of paper in scribed, ‘I have spit in this/ With a light heart he hastens to the door, com municates with his friend, and returns to fmd written in another hand be neath his warning, ‘So have 1/ We have known a lady who Was so delicate she could rarely walk more than a hundred yards without com plaining, who would run up a frremeir dous bill (the compositor is requested not to set this word UU) without taks ing a breath. Common shoe blacking mixed with castor oil, also the best black ink mixed with the white of an egg, will give ladies’ fine shoes color and shine with out rubbing off on their dresses. Handsome fire screens, table covers and mantel decorations are made by ornamenting black cambric with pic tu-es and then vanishing the whole A raiuing favorite—an umbrella. ~T . A hanging garden—a jail yard. So to speak Nice tbmg for a hot day—A cool thousand. - ■+* A spirit wrapper—The paper around a bottle of whisky. Bay windows are safe harbors at night for little smacks, ’Women love flowers and birds. They are, however, not so partial to swal lows as the men are. We have all heard of “patience on a monument,” but physicians usually plant their under one.— When the pound master gets 50 cts. for shutting up a vagrant hog, is that animal fees-ance in office ? ■■■■■■ ■ - ■ -■ Did 3 T ou ever see a cow slip ?— Er. Yes, and wc have seen a bull doze, toe. Did you ever see a buck saw ? Au exchange heads an article, ‘Some Good Indians. It must refer to thoso killed a year ago. They arc good enough. As they passed a gentleman whoso optics were terribly on the bias, little Dot murmured : ‘Ma, he‘s got one eyo that don't go. An Indiana girl says sho finds noth ing so good for the complexion as rul Lung her face on a young man's ves The young man must be inside of i though. It is said that Edison is about to thro’ on the market anew corkscrew crimj cr will twist tho hair of trustin woman forty different directions at th same time. The definition of Webster of a lon net as “a covering for the femal head,“ ought to be remodeled into ; “covering for the vision of mau iu tho back 3cat of a theatre, . In ancient days the pitcher went often to the well, but was broken at last; nowadays the pitcher goes to the base ball grounds, but gets his noso broken just as of yore. * . In the lobby of an inn the following inscription is painted on the wall in conspicuous letters : ’‘No person will get credit for whiskey in this house but those who pay money down.' 4 A man may make ten dollars fo bus iness transactions without going crazy with joy, but this ean‘t be said of him when he manages to dodge ahorse car conductor and secures a lide gratis. When a woman rises in the dead of night, nowadays, and brains the fami ly with a bludgeon or an axe, they call it hysteria. The term is preferred to emotional insanity and has the advan tage of not being hackneyed. - - The funniest punctuation mark is the ky-fuD # of course. Next.— White hall Times . The queerest punctuation murk is the peri-odd, to be sure. Next. — Home Sentinel. No, thank yoiq we are not so bold as-ter-nsk in ah fog an other.—N. Y. Mail. In answer to an advertisement in a Chicago paper for a number of steady girls to help on pantaloons, a daughter of Mrs. Partington writes That a feU low who cannot help on his own pan taloons, ought to be ashamed'to advef t : se for girls to do it for him/ An Austin ( Texas) bachelor being twitted by some ladies with his single state, and asked how it w 7 as that he had never married, said: ‘I don't know exactly how 7 it is, but I have al ways felt an indisposition to marriage, and I cant see why it should be, either I sun ly don't inherit, for my father and mother were both inariied. SO. 37.