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BY SAWTELL & JONES. <JI)C tttutljbcvt Appeal. Terms of Subscription: Owe Year *3. UO | Six Months $2 00 in advance. Rates of Advertising ’• One sqjiare, (ten line* or leas.) $1 00 for the first and 15 o .oU (o- each subsequent insertion. Contract advertising as follows : '**'. <i * j:t 1 00 S (5~oT» $75 00 ~ A Hr.. .idiSktlq - 7:> 00 100 00 do 00 0o i.*>o 00 WfiSmmtr square. .LEGAL ADVERTISING. Ordinaries. —CitatiiTHS for letters-of ad ministration, guardianship. &c, $4 00 Application for letters of dismission Irom administration .' 5 00 Application tor letters of dismission from guardianship 4 00 Application for leave to sell Land 4 00 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 4 00 Administrator’* Sales, 4 <0 ■* 00 Mortgage fl fa sales 5 00 of Land Uy Administrators. Executors, are required by law to be held on ■’ Tu s lay in the mouth, between the hours the forenoon, and three in the after- Vnt the Court House in the county in which is situated. Terms of sale must be of'these salrsm .st be given in a public for tlie sale of personal property must Be given in like manner. 10 days previous to sale Way. 'Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be putdisbed 40 days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell land, must be published for one month. Citations for letters of Administration, Guard ianship, &c., must be published 30 days—for dis mission from Administration*, three months ; tor dismission from Guardianship, 40 days Rules for foreclo.siire*of Mortgages must b published monthly tor four months-for estab lishing lost papers, for the full space ot 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 oJi-- erwise ordered. The Doomed Man. There is a time, we know not when, A point, we know not where. That marks the destinj of men, To glory or despair. There is a line by us unseen That crossed every path ; The hid len boundary between God's patience and his wrath. To pass that limit is to die, ■> To die as il by stealth— ' it does not quench the beaming eye, Or pale the glow ot health. The conscience may be still at ease, " The spirits light and gay ; That which is pleasing stilt may please, And care be thrust away. But on that forehead God has set Indellibly a mark— I Unseen by man. for man as yet, Is blind and in the dark. Anl yet the (loomed man’s path below Like Eden may have bloomed— He did not, does not, will not kr.ow Or feel that he is doomed. lie knows, he feels, that all is well, And every fear is calmed ; He lives, he dies, he wakes in hell, Not only doomed, but damned. O ! where is this mysterious bourne, By which our path is crossed. Beyond which. God himself bath sworn That he who goes is lost ? How far may we go on in sin t How long will God forbear ! Where dees hope end. and where begin Tie confines of despair ? An answer from the skies is sent— Ye that from God depart While it is called “ to-day,’’ repent, A«d harden not your heart. Eating Without Ahpktihs. —lt is wrong to eat without appetite; for it shows there is i)o gastric juice in the stomach, and that nature does not need Tood, and not needing it, there being no fluid to receive and act upon it, it would remain there only to puirify, the very tW-lght of which should be sufficient to deter any man from eating without an appetite for the remainder of his life. If a ‘tonic’ is taken to whet the appe tite, it is a mistaken course; forfits only result is t<> cause one to eat more, when already an amount has been eaten be yond what the gastric juice supplied is stole to prepare. , . The object to be obtained is a larger supply of gastric juiCe, not a larger sup tafy of food, and \VhateVer fails to accorn lalish that essential object, fails to have lily efficiency towards the cure of dys Identic disease; and as the formation of gastric juice is directly proportioned to tbjo wear and waste of the system, Which is to be the means of supplying, ifitiA tbrn wear and waste can only take place as the result of exercise, the point is reached again that toe efficient reme dy for dyspepsia is work—outdoor work—beneficial and successful in di rect proportion as it is agreeable, inter esting ahd profitable. Hard Conditions Maks a Man.— Gibbon says ‘Every person has two education?, one which he receives from otheis, and one moro important which he gives himself.’ Hard eouditions draw aut a man, and you and I Are bet ter for such au education. A man needs to be hackled and spun just as much as raw coUoh does. And the best giu for him is, first, dxy-gen (gin) for bodily health, and secondly the gib cSf grinding circumstaiVste tp make a mental oitt of him. He needs to be pulled through nar row places, as much as the wire, before bo will be tit for bridging the great gor ges and chasm of life which swallowed iup the bloated and the capon-lined. if a man were offered ten times as niaDy gold eagles as be could carry, he had-betler send them many miles frdtti home and swear that ho will never Use one ot them except upon the condition that he walks back aud forth again for each oneby one, before he speuds it. A dollar is never worth a dollar to a man until he has giveu a dollar’s worth of work for it by hand or brain. fgr- Let the salty of yesterday make A Peep Behind the Scenes. 'Such a bargain, aunt Fanny! Lay aside your worn and express your ad miration. Haifa dozen of these pretty linen collars for one dollar. 80 nicely scolloped and stitched; just the thing for the morning, are they not ?’ ‘Exactly, Julia. They are a very de sirable addition to your bridal ward robe. But I cannot but regret that they were not higher priced.’ ‘Why, aunt Fanny ! you astonish me. I had no idea that you were one of those ladies who think nothing worth paving unless it cost an extravagant splice.’ « ‘And you are much in error if you think so much, Julia. But in looking at your cheap collars my sympathy is called forth for the poyr seam stress, whose weary fingers performed the task which was to procure her a wretched substance.’ ‘Mercy, aunt Fanny 1 How deep you look into things. It is enough for me that I got the qpllars cheap. I shall not trouble my head as to the maker of them. I B-sides,’ continued the lively young lady, as she noticed a cloud upon the brow of her auditor, ‘you have for gotten the sewing matches. They do all the work now a-days.’ ‘Not quite my young friend. I have hud a peep behind the scenes. The scolloped collars are not stitched by the machines; weary fingers as I said be fore, perform the task, for a compensa tion wuich will hardly sustain life. You must remember that when the collar reaches your possession the wholesale and retail dealer have both secured their profits, and still you justly regard them as cheap. Only think then what a mere trifle must have been paid for the making.’ ** ‘O, it is very true, aunt Fannie; and I am sure I pity the poor as much as any one; but as long as this evil exists I may as well reap the benefit of it.— You know it is an ill wind that blows nobody good.’ Aunt Fanny shook her head gravely as she replied. ‘You speak lightly, Julia. May you never have reason to Know the suffering which springs from this want of uoion of the interests of the employer and the employed. But enough of this. Let us speak of your approaching marriage. It is long since you have sought ray quiet room.’ ‘Too long, aunt Fanny ; but my time has been so much occupied. My neg lect has not been from wujtt of affi-ck tion, for you know that I love y #\i its well as you had a right to the naf&e by which I love to call you.’ ,i' ; _ . - ‘I know it, dear. I, did -uot mean to complain. And now tell me whep/ the wedding is to take place,-find afi, about it.’ 1 ‘ ‘ln two short weeks. I am to be murried at my guardian’s, of course.— You kflow lie does not qujte approve of the marriage; or, at leiht, he would prefer that we should wjpit until; Henry is established 114 business; but I have coaxed him into good lnfUjor. You know he might as well submit with jj, good grace, for I He tfigflteeta oh my wedding day, and my little property comes into my own hands.’ ‘1 our guardian has been a faithful friend to you since the death of your patents, my dear Julia I trust you will be guided by his advice ’ ‘Not entirely, aunt Fanny. He would pieter investing my money in some sale and profitable way, for my futuie bene fit, but I intend to have the present good of it. Let the future take care of itself, Henry will be rich, I have no doubt. Bo wc shall begin life in the style which we intend to keep up. A handsome bouse, well furnished, and in a pleasant part of the city. You shake your head, but will see that it will all end well.’ ‘I hope 60, my child, but it strikes me as impudent. Commence in a moderate way, live within your husband’s income, let your own property be reserved for the hour of n< ed.’ ‘My guardian’s exact words 1 But you know I was always a wayward girl, and must have my own way. And now say—will you grant the earnest re quest of Heniy and myself, and mak your future home wuh us ! I shall need an adviser, and you shall bo my second mother.’ ‘My dear child 1 your kindness brings the tears to my eyes. Lint I cannot ac cept your invitation —at least, not at present. A few days ago I received an urgent request from an aged re.ative in England to come to her and be her companion and friend lor the remainder of her life. She is wealthy, but lonely in her riches, and being nearly blind, is much dependent upon the kindness of those around her. At present there are none but servants to administer to her wants. She was the sister of my own dear mother, and I feel it my dut3’ to go to her and do what I ean for her comfort I sail in the next steamer.’ “Before the wedding! Why, aunt Fanny, jmu will not ieave us so soon ?’ ‘My prayers will be with you and yours, dear Julia, but it necessary that I hasten my departure as much as possible. Do not forget your old friend, aud in the midst of your happiness sometimes remember the words of ad vice which she has often spoken-’ With many tears the young maiden bade adieu to oue who, though in reality no relative, bad long been a valued fr.end. 1' Julia Howard had become an orphan in early childhood. Her father’s dying charge placed her under the care of one who iu many respects was worthy of the trust, and bad well performed the duty which devolved upon him, but he was a bachelor, and could not supply a mother’s place to his orphan ward.— The want of female influence was deep ly felt. There was no one to watch over each developing trait of character —to cherish the good and gently and carefully to remove the evil. Some thing of this was done at times by aunt Fanny; who had been an early friend of Julia’s mother; but her opportuni ties were limited, and the lovely girl grew to womanhood a creature of im pulse rather than fixed principles a luxuriant arid beautiful but an unre*- strained, iinwedded plant. At seventeen she became attached to Henry Lawrence, a young man of good family and unblemished, character.— Her guardian heartily approved fne con oexion, but as Julia stated to aunt Fanny, preferred that the young couple should wait until Henry was well es tablished in business, but this prudent jidyicq was not followed. Henry’s pros _ **- •* pects were good—Julia had a few thousands. Why not begin the world at once ? So on the very day, when by a peculiar coincidence, the bridegroom was twenty-one and the bride eighteen, they stood at the altar and plighted those holy vows which bound jg gether for weal or for woe. AH was sunshine then. The present was delightful, and the future bore the rainbow tints. Years passed ere the dark clouds oi adversity gathered round them, but alas! they did gather , and the bright sunshine faded away until scarcely one beam found its way to those once happy hearts. Affection for each other still remained—but even this was chilled and repressed by their earthly misfortunes. In some few in stances the spirit may rise triumphant" over the trials of the body, but in far the greater" portion of mankind spirit and matter are indissofi||£|e, aud the afflictions of one .must unavoidably If feet the other. We.wiff'pasfi over tlreirain of mis fortunes which had at length reduced the youn - couple and (rant. living, failure hi business, long and se vert- ilmess, were the producing causes. Few would have recognized in the anx ious, care worne looking husband, and the feeble, desperated wife, the exulting bridegroom and happy bride of former days. There were others also to share the sufferings. Three lovely children hatl been born to them. One had passed to the spirit world, the others remained to enduie the t[ial« ol earth. Sad was the father’s heart as be gazed upon them, and the tears stood in the moth er’s eyes as she pressed them to her bosom. The eldest, a sweet girl of "seven years had a distinct recollection of a happier home; and, although with a prudence and sensibility beyond her years, she n. ver reverted to it —yet her devoted affection, aud her peculiarly quiet and somewhat melancholy disposi tion evinced her sympathy with the triuls of her parents. The boy was much younger, and knew of naught but pov erty. Affliction should have drawn the husband and wife nearer together— but, on the contrary, as we a 1 ready said, misfortune seemed to chill and repress the love they had borne to each ottier. Unaccustomed to self control, or to the denial of selfish gratification, Julia was ill prepared .0 bear the rigid sys tem of economy which was now neces sary She became irritable and morose, and thoughtlessly added many a drop tp-tbe bitter cup which her husband was ""drinking. •Is there no hopo of your obtaining the situation with Mr Markham which you mentioned some days ago ?’ she suddenly asked, as her husband rose from their frugal meal, oue cold morn* ing in tha early part ot winter. ’Ndhe at-hll,’was the reply. ‘The present clerk has decided to retnaio.’ ‘Then we tmfy make up our minds to starve,' vvas the despairing reply. The gentle-little Fanny drew nearer ,lo her.{pother, ajid clasped her hands fond I})wflHe'the tn**tw ad'replied ronth ly : ‘Not so bad as that, Julia. Even my present situation is better than nothing. TrjSe hundred will keep us from star ving.’ Mt were better to die, Henry, than trtdive in this way Life has lost ail its charms for me, and 1 would gladly be at rest.’ ‘But our children, Julia. Think of them and keep up your courage a little longer. The day may yet dawn upon us,’ ‘Never, never. My own folly has brought this upon me. My guardian warned me ugaiost marrying one nut well established in the world, blit 1 slighted his advice. Thank God, he is not here to see how bitterly I have lived to repent my rashness.’ ‘And do you really regret it, »ulia? We may regret the imprudence in our former syle ol living, and we may sor row for the misfoitunes which have come upon us, but we ueed not repent of our marriage.’ ‘Was not that the cause of all ?” was the bitter reply. “It is of no use to disguise tne the truth.’ Deeply grieved the husband turned to leave the house. On the thresold a gentle touch detained him. ‘Mamma is sick and sorry,’ whisper ed the soft v -ice of Fanny, in its most pleading accents The appleal was not to be resisted, and tbe lather stooped to kiss her white forehead as he replied : ‘I know it, love. Do all you can to comlort her.’ The cloud had passed from his brow aud Fanny was satisfied, but it was more difficult to quiet the self-reproach of the mother. The day was a sad one— and when an hour or two before the usual time for his return, Henry was borne into the house by two men, and the unhappy little family were told that an accidental fall on the ice ha*i resulted in a broken leg, the last~drop seem to have been added to the already oriui ming cup. From the night of agony which fob. lowed, Julia was a different, and, in some respects, a better woman. Hith erto ihtre had been a lingering feeling of pride which had prevented her from coming forward at nei’- husbanu 8 side to struggle against the miafortui.cS which had come upon them. 8n« had shrunk back despairing and powerless Now she was roused into energy. Her husband, her children would look to her for bread. It would be long ere Henry could resume his labors, and their slender means would soon be ex haosted. Something must be done, and with the consciousness of what de volvt-d upc n her, came an earnest prayer for strength—a look upward which was not ber wont. Her education had been somewhat showy, but far Irom thorough, and she felt quite incompetent to teach any of the various branches to winch she had attended. Nothing presen ed to her mind but plain sewing, and this she was well aware would afford them but a miserable pittance. Still it would be better than nothing, application was at once made to a kind neighbor, aud through her influence work was speedily obtained. It was soon evident that this exertion was not Uncalled ,lor. The puiu yt the broken limb and the anxiety of mind produced by his situation, brought ou a fever, and for m#Dy weeks Heqry Law- CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 23, 187* rence hovered bn the border of the grave. The grief of the wife was overwhelm ing as she-watcued over him and lis tened to the wild ravings of his deliri um. He was again the lover of her youth, the husband of happier years. %»ch hasty word, or unmerited re proach carne to her ears with fearful distinctness, and earnestly did she prav for at least one look of recognition, one word of forgiveness and love But the hand of the destroyer ww stayed, and feeble as an infant, the Hus band and the father looked once more, upon his little funify and bade them bless God that life was spared, and that re. son again resumed her throne exhausted in body and mind, rift‘With a heart filled with thankful ness. Julia redoubleijypfer exertions for their maintenance, moment of leisure during the day, aoij|Auny'weary hours of the night ployed in finishing those garmtftfljjyßir which the compensation was so smal that it hard ly sufficed to supply their absolute ne cessity. _ ,1 Often when employers wouhjjl urge her to abate a few pennies on Thp usual price, and assured her thutnt was for her interest to work cheap, she would sigh deeply as she remembered her own feelings ir. former days, and the truth of aunt Fanny’s words forced itsell upon her mind. The sufferings proceeded from the want of union of the employer and the employed were now her own. And where was aunt Fanny during the lapse of years ? FaithfuPy and unweariedly had she performed the du ties which she had taken upon herseif. That task was now ended. That aged leiative, t-» whose wants she had so ministered, had at length gone home. Once more Fanny’s heart lurned to her native land. Friends of her earlier years rose before hep, and she longed to meet them agaiu face to face. The few necessary arrang-ments were soon made, and eie many weeks had passed she had o.;ce more crossed the broad ocean, and was welcomed with kindly greetings by many whom she had known so long. One of her first inquiries was for Ju lia, for it was very long since she had heard from her. News of the failure of Mr Lawrence in business had reached her, and rumors of various undefined misfortunes had from time to time come t-» her knowledge, Ijait n -t one word of direct information. CTlie mother of Ju lia had been a very dear friend, and aunt Fanny felt a yefirningTor her child. Al first it seemed to trace them, for mtHjt of Jos\r former aequain tance had lout aigSt of them in the hum ble sphere in which they were now mov ing. But aunl Fanny was indefatiga ble, and the difficulties of the task oDly gave vigor to her resolution. ‘Mrs. Alcott must be able to give me some information,’ she said to herself, as she ascended the steps of a handsome house in one of the most fashioable streets of the city. ‘I recollect tiiat she was a great friend of Julia’s. I will take the liberty of calling upon her.’ *Nt»t at bofpe, madam/ said the spruce looking waiter who answered* her ring at the boll. An echo of the words met her ear as she turned Irom the door. ‘Not at home! I thought it was the poor only who were not at home.’ The simplicity of the words caused her to observe the speaker attentively. A little girl of seven or eight years stood gazing wishfully towards the ele gant mansion. Her large dark eyes, clustering ringlets and delicate skm formed a strimng contrast to the misei able garments which served as a scanty protection against the chilling breeze. And yet there was an effort at neatness and even gentility in her dress, which could not escape the observation of an attentive observciyfftid which gave evi deuce of better days gone by. Irresistibly drawn toward her, aunt Fanny paused near where she stood and said in a kind voice: ‘And why did you think that it was the poor only wbo were not at home, my-ohild ?’ The little one hung her head, but an swered mi-desly : ‘Because I never feel at homp. now that we.are poor, and I kn--w that moth er never ft-els at home, nor fathe-’.either. It is like staying in a strange place.— But then if we are all good we -hall go to God’s home. Is not that a comfort? As she asked tins question she raised her eyes and looked with great earnest ness in aunt Fan.iy’s face. Tears dimmed the the eyes of the kindhearted old lady as she replied ; ‘lt is indeed, my child. But tell me y<»ur name and where you live, for I should like to be a friend to you.’ 'Oh, thank you, ma’am. And per haps you would be a friend to my poor fathe,r now he is so sick, and my mother works so hard. My name is Fannie Lawrence, ma’am, and [ will show yon where I live if you will come with me.’ A few brief enquiries convineed aunt Fanny that she had found the object of her searcti, and giving her hand t -her little, guide, with a voice trembling with enio tion she bade h<M' lead her to her m >th er. The day had been a discouraging one for Julia, even more so than usual. A little exertion had brought on Henry’s fever again, and the physician who was summoned to attend him had spoken iu siring terms of the absolute necessity for perfect rest and freedom from ex cite merit. Row was this possible when hour after hour he must lie upon his back and see his wife toiling beyond her strength for their maintenance ? And tiien it Was something difficult to pro cure wurk/Stnd Julia absolutely trem bled as she tfituight of the sufferings they must uflhjrip&sliould this means of -upport be cut oflv Some kind neigh b*»r had advised her to apply at a collar manufactory near by, where inuuy wo men and young girls found constant em ployment. She had done so with sue cess, and at the moment her old friend entered she was gazing mournfully up«>n a dozen collars which she had taken on trial They were nicely stitch ed by a sewing machine, and she*had engaged to bind them and uaake three huilou holes in each for the Mnall sum of one cent a piece. *A starving price,’ she murmured to, herself, and she s6eiri ed lost iu jp wfd%verie, from which she was aruu»e|kby the,.soft voice of FanDV. ‘ MarttmaT a lady to <*e you. She will be our friend.’ Julia looked up iu suprise as Fauny spoke, but to an instant her wonder was joy. and twining ber arms aroupd aunt Fanny’s neck she sobbed like a child. Composure was at length restored, and tfieu there was so much to tell and to be told, that the good lady took oft her bonnet, aud said she would make quite at home, aud pass the eve ning with them. ‘You -annot be at borne here,’ said Fanny, ‘because it is not pretty enough fc^home.’ &fjjlulia sighed as her child spoke, but aunt Faijny answered: /'‘HoJie is wheramr we find those we ToreJl PrttTe oucjjfffof- matters little in wfiAt place we fidSHerai; So this is my home fajr the eysfjpf, and now, Julia, as yout^husbup3|3Beds attention, just give ? itic your.iwc and I will sew for you.- My thirffyle is in my pocket a9 Visual. You see I retain my otf&afeits.’ ‘You are still the sairne auJH||p(&’ was Ug; reply. ‘Here is my r v«|pJsjia, bind jLp# collars. Do you our JfrvarsatioD the day cheap collars frxyiery my rnin,d I w.at, jVugt&sf^hen—butt O, JSunt TfannwPr ton have had a peejlUlehind the tcenee^mk^^p-*' ‘Yijtf&jpire, indeed, my poor child; but to your husband, and when he is eoni f ortably arranged we will sit to getbi r by his bedside and have a quiet chat. ; J, • The ti-ents of the years were soon talked fiver, and ere aunt Fanny rose to bid t tem good night, she said: ‘Ail now, my dear young friends, I am yiaJy to accept your former invita tion and become an iumate of your tam- r > ‘O/T iaunt Fanny,’ exclaimed Julia, ‘we'ja’ve no longer a home to offer you. Thiajis the hardest trial of all.’ ‘listen, my child. I ainr becoming infirijo, and shall soon need the care whiiiluXrhave bestowed upou others. — There are none who seem nearer to ine thap yourself. My means are ample, for my generous relative has added largely to my little fortune. We will look for a suitable dwelling, and you will l»e to me as affectionate children.’ Tears were her only answer, but these were sufficient to speak the ieel- heart. In after years neither party had cause to regret this arrangement. — Closer intimacy only served to endear them still more to one another. In the midst bf her happiness Julia forgot the uses of affliction, and would often feel irfgly reier to her peep behind the sceneß. Thinking. —Thinking, not growth, makes perfect manhood. There are some, who, thought they are done growing, are only boys. The constitu tion may be fixed, while the judgment is immature; the limbs may be strong, while" the reasoning is feeble. Many who can run and jump, and bear any fatigue, ean not observe, can not exam me, o ijp not reason or judgo, contrive or essSbte—they do not think. Accius tom yourself, then, to thinking. Set yobrself to understand whatever you see or read. To run through a book is task, nor is it a profitable a fiW'.v pag*s is far better than to read the whole, where mere reading it is all. If the work does not set you to thinking, eith er you or the author must be veiy defi cient. It is only by thinking that a mao can kow himself Yet alj other knowledge without this is splfcodiil ignorance.— N<lt a glance merely, but much close examination will be requisite for the for miug of a true opinvm of your own pow ers. Ignorance and self conceit always tend to make you overrate your person al ability; as a slight degree of knowl edge may make a timid mind pass upon himself too humble a judgment. It is only by thinking, and much impartial observation, that a man can discover real disposition. A hasty temper onfy supposes itself properly alive; an indolent indulger. imagines be is as act ive as any one;- but by close and severe each may discover tome " thipgPearer the truth. Thinking », in- H&I the very germ of »the source from which all vital infiu- turn arm like pce springs. Thinking will do much for fhiiict've mind, even in the abseuce of books, or living instructors. The rea. jojung faculty grows firm, expands, dis cerns its own powers, acts with increas ing.. facility, precision and extent, under all its Where there is no pfivatiou, help from former tinkers, how much may we not expect fom it! Thus great characters rise.— While lie who thinks little, though much ref#, or much he sees, can hardly ctfl anything he has his own. He tiitdes with borrowed capital, and is in tlie high road to literary or rather to Rental bankruptcy.^, ) |®“ The other day, in Paris, a lady returned from promenade at dinner time ti her house. She rfent to the kitchen to see if everything was all right there, and as the inspectfrm did jnot have the wished-for result, she sent Justine, to buy some moro pro -41kon. Suddenly Ahe door bell ting, iTOt when the lady opened the door, a San rushed in and menacingly brand led a knife, uttering the words, “your plate or your life!” Perfectly dumb founded, the lady pointed to a large clothes-press standing in the kitchen ; perhaps her intention was only to gain time; for the plate was not there at all The robber hastened to the clothes-press and opened it; but to his terror, and to t(ie great surprise of the lady, there stepped fiom it a tall granadier, who disarmed the robber and took him to dlie station house ; previously saying to tlie lady, ‘excuse me madame, I was waiting there for Justine.” A Scale by Which to Measure Crime. {le who steals a million is a shrewd financier. He who steals a half a million is a de faulter. He who steals a quarter of a million is an ‘irregular financier.’ He who steals a hundred thousand is a rogue. tie who steals fifty thousand is a knave. But he who steals a pair >f hoots «r a loaf of bread is a scoundrel of the deepest dye, and deserves incarceration iu prison 1 . g££r O Tommy 1 that was abominable in you to eat vour ljttle.sisier’s Bhare of the cake 1” ‘‘Why/’SaidTorpmly, “didn’t you tell me, ma, that l was always to take her part?” Prom tbe Eufaula News. Combat with A Battle-Snake— Death from its Bite- Mr. Editor. —Last Saturday morniDg I was the witness of such a scene as I pray God I may never see again. I be held a comoat between a young man and a rattle snake, in which the former was bitten and died iu ten minutes thereafter The particulars of the ter rible affair, are as follows: On Friday last, a young man named Gray nor, asked me to spend tbe with him and go coon hunting the next morning, to which request I readily ns* seated. We started out about 3 o’clock, A. m., and near day tbe dogs opened ou a trail in the swamp of Bear Creek.— J cat after sun-rise, the deep baying of tbe dogs informed us that the- game had taken a tree. We proceeded to make our way through the bogs and tangled brush and vines in the direc tion oi the dogs, until we came to a £inall space of firm ground, which was 'Covered with a low growth of oak bush tp. Here we halted a moment to listen far the dogs. i * '} '"We had barely nlenwe were startled by a sound issuing from beneath a low, thick hush within a lew feet of us. Though I had never heard that peculiar noise before. I knew instinctively that it was a rattle-suake, and I sprung back in ter ror, remarking, ‘Graynor, let’s leave here.’ ‘What, S ,“ said he, ‘are you afraid ?’ ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘lm a afraid.’ ‘Well, S ,’ he coolly remarked, ‘I am going to kill the snake; it would be a pity to leave such a fine fellow here. So, here goes.’ While Graynor was speaking, I caught a glimpse of the snake, which, as nearly as I could judge, appeared to be about eight fe. t in leng'h, and three inches in diameter in his larger part He was lying coiled up iu perfect cir cles, with his head drawn back in a ter ribly graceful curve, his small black eyes sparkling, hisslender forked tongue darting swiftly back and forth, and his brown neck swollen with fatal wrath whiie ever and anon he twirled the warning rattles in the air, with a harsh, blood-curdling sound. * ‘For God’s sake, let’s go,* said I, shuddering at the terrible sight. ‘Don’t get scared,’ said G. ; ‘just climb a tree, and he won’t bite you. It ain’t every day that a fellow meets with such a fine, large snake as this, and it wouldn’t do to lose him.’ He had picked up a small stick about a yard long, and while speaking, was drawing back the bushes from above the snake so as to get a sight of him. He threw his foot around over the bushes, and tramped them down in such a man ner that the monster was fairly exposed to view ; but just as lie did so, and be fore he had time to strike, 'the snake made a sudden spring at him, and I turned away my face in horror. The next instant, Graynor exclaimed, ‘l’ve got him, by George !’ I turned to look, and with his right hand he was grasping the snake by the neckjn such! a manqer that he could 0 t bite, while the monster was knashfng his teeth most; furiously, and twisting and writhing iu huge folds around G.’s arms. All of a sudden iu some unac countable manner, the snake ireed his head, and quick as lightning plunged bis deadly fangs into G.’s right cheek : when, dropping on the ground, lie gli ded a few paces and again coiled him self up, keeping his head erect and ring ing his fearful rattles. G. turned death ly pale, paused a moment, and theD with a little st : £k advanced toward the snake. As he did so the snake made a spring at him, but G. struck him with the stick and knocked him back. A second time the snake sprung at him ; and he again knocked him off with the stick; before be could strike a third blow, the suake had made another spring and inflicted another wound in ; Graylor’s arm. This time Graylor managed to seize the monster by the neck; and, dropping the stick, he drew forth his knife with one hand, opened it with his teeth, and then de liberately cut off" the snake’s head.. — Blood spurted from the trukn, and G. still grasping the snake whose huge folds flapped and writhed around him, turned towards me, staggered and fell. I rushed up to him and asked him, - ‘What in the name of God can I do for you ?’ ‘Nothing’ said he calmly, ‘I am dying. Tell them good———’ and his features became frightfully contorted, his eyes rolled over as if starting from their sockets, and his black swollen tongue protruded Rom his mouth. Then he fixed his red, wild, staring eyes upon me, and heaved a deep piercing groan; a shiver passed over his frame, and then all was still. I was alone with the dead. Marking the place as well as t could, I hastened to a house we had passed on the road, some half a mile distant from the fatal tragedy. Runners were sent thro’ the neighborhood, and in the course of two hours, some twenty of the neighbors had gathered. We pro ceeded to the place which I found no difficulty in pointing out. Good heavens! what a sight met our view. The face and body had turned to a deep purple, and were swollen to three times the natural size, presenting the most horrible appearance I had ev er witnessed. The snake lay where he had been thrown, and was still writhing A litter of boughs was hastily con structed. and with heavy hearts we took our way to the residence of his parents. I will not attempt to describe the heart' rending scene, when they saw the body Grief like tbeirs cannot be portrayed. This was my fWt encounter with a Rattle Snake, aud I pray God it may be my last. L A. S. Clop too, Ala., 1870. t&T Loafers toil uot, neither do they spin, yet they inacage to keep soul and body iogether without working, which is a very fine art. tST A woman’s life has two eventful periods. One when she wonders who she will have, the other when she won ders who wiU have her. 14 What i« the dittereuce twixt a watch and a fedder bed, Sam ?’’ “Dun* fio, gin it up.” “Because de ticken ob de watch is on de inside, and de ticken ob de bed is on de outside,” tfby fHerjcj hai a friend, and tfey froad’s friend liai a friend—be di«reet. A Brkvo Girl* Our heroine lived in Bartlett, N. H . and was a descendant of the old Craw fords. Her father was a Crawford, and followed the profession of guide among the mountains. Ber name Was Bessie, and she was the only daughter remain ing at home—a dark-eyed, brown-haired girl; of slight, but compact frame; just entering her nineteenth year. He** mother had been dead several years, and upon her devolved the whole care of the household. One day, late in the summer, Mr. Crawford went, with a party of travel ers, away to the head-waters of one of the many mountain streams that empty into the Baco, and Bessie was left alone. Even the dogs had all gone with the pleasure seekers. Near the middle of the afternoon, while the girl was sitting by an open window of the front room, engaged in sewing, a man came up from the road, and asked hei if she would give him a drink of water. Bessie had seen this man before, and had not liked his looks. He was a stout, broad shouldered, ill-favored fellow, and the bits of "moss and spikes of the pines, U|K»n clothes, indicated hall slept in the woods. But Bessie did HTit hesitate. She laid aside her work and went to get the water. When Bhe came back the man had entered the room. She did not like this, for she was sure he had come by the window ; but she handed him the tin dipper without remark. The man drank, and tließ set the dipper down upon the table Then he turned upon the girl, and drew a broad-bladed knife from his pocket. ‘Look ye, my young lady,’ he said, ‘1 know there’s money in this house; and I know that you are alone. Show me where the money is ! If you don’t, I shall kill you and then hunt it up my self ! I’m in earnest, and there ain’t no time to waste, Don’t make a fuss, or if you do you'll feel this knife quick !’ Bessie shrank back, and looked into the man’s fm e, and she could see that fie meant whut he had said. ‘lf 1 show you where the money is will you proemse not to do me bartfl V ‘Sbow mo, honest, and 1 won’t harm you.’ ‘Then come with me. But you will take only the,—you won’t take father’s papers ?’ ‘Only the money girl.’ Bessie led the way to a small bed room on the ground floor, where there was an old mahogany bureau, the up per drawer of which she unlocked.— The man, when he saw this, thinking, doubtless, that Crawford's gold was within his grasp, shut up his knife and put it into Ins pocket. The girl opened the drawer, and quick as thought, drew foilh a large navy revolver—one which she berself had killed a trapped bear— aud cocked it. ‘Villain 1’ she exclaimed, planting her back against the wall, and aiming the weapon at his bosom, ‘many a wild beast have I shot with this good pistol, and I’ll now shoot you if you 4JO not iustantly leave this house! Uwwjl give you cot even a second 1 StaTLlr# I fire!’ . Tibe* ruffian 4501)1$ as well as could the maiden, and. Imj could read very plain§Bp» the fiim-set lips, and in the flalTfmgeyes—but more clearly in the steady hand that held the pistol—that she wuuld not only fire, as she had promised, but that her aim would be a sure and ‘atal one. And he backed out from the bed room—backed iato the sitting room then leaped from the open window, and disappeared, Bessie kept her pistol by her side un til her father and his guests came home; and when she had told her stoiy, search was made for the ruffian. But he was not found. Our heroine had so thor oughly frightened him that he never eatne that way again. A Tough Storx. —A Philadelphia pa per says: There is a doctor in the northwestern part of this consolidated city who is especially remaruable for being, as the women term it, ‘short and crusty.’ A week or two since he was called to visit a patient who was laboring under a severe attack of cheap wliskey. ‘Well, doctor, I’m down, you see— completely floored. I’ve got thd tre mendous delirium, you know !’ ‘Tremens, you fool ! Wher’d you get your rum ?’ ‘AU over in spots; broke out promis cuously, doctor.’ ‘Served you right.’ ‘Father died of the same disease; it took him under the short ribs and car ried him oft" bodily.’ ‘Well, you’ve got to take something immediately.’ ‘Your’re a trump, Doc 1 Here, wife, I’ll take a nip of old rye.’ ‘Lie still, you blockhead ! Mrs. B. if your husband should get worse before I return, which will be in an hour, give him a dose of that trunk strap, may be that will fetch him to a sense of his fol ly.’ The doctor sailed out grandly, and within an hour sailed in again, and found his friend of the ‘tremendous de linum’ in a terrible condition, writhing and struggling with pain. His wife, a female of the kind, but ignorant school, came up, aod laying her hand on the doctor’s arm, said : ‘Doctor, I gave him tbe strap, as you directed.’ ‘Did you thrash him well ?’ ‘Thrash hirn ?’ exclaimed the aston ished woman, ‘no 1 I put the strap into hash and made hiiT) swallow it!’ ‘Oh, Lord, doctor 1’ roared tbe vic tim,‘l swallowed tbe leather, but—but’ ‘But—what ?’ ‘I swallowed the whole strap, but I’m darned if I could go the buckle !’ The doctor admimsteicd two bread pills and evaporated. BS3L. The loss of tastes for what is right, is the loss of all right tas'e. The credit that is got by a lie only lasts until the truth comes out. I®. Silence is more significant than tlie most expressive eloquence. If you would know a bad Jius band, look at h is wife’s countenance. The greatest glory is not in never falling but ib rising every time we fall Wof-k is the Wfeapon of honor; and he who iadks the weapou wilt uev ! er triumpb, VOL. IV—NO. 36 A Quill Driver Essays to Drive a Mule. Major Napier Bartlett, of tbe New Oi leans Times, gives to the readers of that journal his experience in an attempt to plow a mule, near that city : Becoming enamored, along with every body through this country, in the culti vation of cotton, I occupied my last dad in Columbus in guiding tbe plow and in urging through the furrows a long eared and stubborn mule. A dozen men, wo* men and children were in the field to keep me companj’, and throwing the whole of my weight upon the beadles, spradling over newly-turned ground and whooping and halloing at my slow paced team in the manner pursued by the brothers, I was soon up to my knees ift work. Still the faithful animal that acted as principal in the experiment bad his theories about the matter, which were not thoso laid down by Virgil, and from time to time gave Utterance to his dissent in discouraging cri«& Prac' tical experience soon began to prove that it was just as difficult Jfor. scribes to keep from working fuEMwH. as it was with straight sentences, and H that anew -pair of hnnt« might he on closed in the success off the expAsSttent, not to speak of occasionally puiw|| up’ small stumps with the bottom of yopr pants. I found it was annoying to be bit by the flies and to melt with perßpi ration under a sweltering sun. Lastly, the mule became goaded to the sight of a sassafras I cut with the object of explaining my opinion to him. Without waiting far tbe conclusion of the explanation, ha set off at full speed for the stable, and I have had no curiosity to see him since. Young Mbn. —An exchange truly says : ‘Thousands of young men are to-day drifting helplessly about on the ocean of life, vainly hoping that ere long some favorable breeze will spring up and drive their vessels into some safe harbor. Where that safe harbor is they have no idea ; because they have no def inite object in view. They have never decided upon any course of life j but permit their actions to be shaped and moulded by the circumstances of the hour. Is it any wonder that disasters follow each other ? More men are ruined through indecision than from a wrong decision. Few men will deliberately lay out and pursue a plan of life that will ultimately work tbeir rum. Most young men of the present day enter the batt’e of life without any well de fined system of warfare, and consequent ly spend their best days in aimless put-' suits. Indecision is the bane of our existence. Could we look into the world of spirits we would find but few souls in the dark region of woe that had resolved to reach that goal; nearly all who are there, and those who are hastening the e, are in their presentcon disiood becaqstyiever decided whither t their indecision has ia, CiiElMagte . PeupljC—God bless the afifesflul poop] or child, nI#V young* illllerat'eor educated, 'haudapyie or ijj Qwr andLabova ~iv.»ry ovfier so.inT'-WwrSiaßds Tbecrr ralntjss. What the sun is to nature— what God is to the' stricken heart which knows how to lead? upon? Him—are cheerful persons in the house and by the go unobtrusively, un co; iseiou«l|^oid.u*'riheir silent mission, biighteiimguip soejety afouud them with ths happiness beaming from their ■faces. We love to sit near them ;we love the nature of their eye, the tone of their voice. Little children find them out, oh ! so quickly, amid the densest crowd, and passing by the knitted and compressed lip, glide near, and laying a confiding little hand on their knee, Tift their clear young eyes to those loving faces. Lean on Yourself.—Half at least of the disappointed men one meets are vic tims of ill-grounded hopes and expects* tions, pei sons who lnve tried to lean upon others, instead of relying upon themselves. This leaning is poor busi ness. It seldom pays. Energetic men (and they are the classes generally look ed to for aid), do not like to be leaned upon. If you are travelling in a rail road car, and a great hulking fellow lays his head against yonr shoulders and goes to sleep, you indignantly shake him off. It is the same in business. The man who does not at least at\mtpt to hoe his own row, need not expect any* one to hoe it for him It is noqscttsS for any man to pretend to the digni ty/of bei ig unfortumte, who has depended upon others when he might have cloaA a way to fortune for himself. “What do you mean by\cat‘aod dog life ?” said a husband to bis anjpry wife, “Look at Carlo and Kittyftnßbo rug asleep; I wish men lived half a* peacefully with their wives.” said the lady; “tie them together,aud see how they will agree.” C3T An old lady lately refused to let her niece dance with a young grad uate, because she bad heard that be was a bachelor of arts, whereby she Under stood him to be an artful bachelor. Youth repentant, butinpoherent, over bis dissipation, signed the fondling pledge : “I solemnly promise to abstain from the use of all intoxicating bevera ges, otherwise than as a drink; anil pro fanity, unless subsciibod by a physician, at four times a day, excepting cider.” tar An old hotel.keeper, in Wash ington, once posted on his dining-rßom door the following notice : ‘Members of Congress will go to the table first; and then the gentlemen. Rowdies and blackguards must not inix with tlje Con gressmen, as it is had to tell thera%rom / the other.’ _ tfgr An old lady bougfit a shroua iW her husband the other day, remarking, th;.t be wasn't dead yet, or particularly ailing; but she dicjii’i .t.Hiifii that she should ever be able to buy it so cheap again. A lady who had been a widow but three months recently carried to a jowcller’s shop in New York, the gold pb te of the false teeth of her late hus band ordering It to be made into rings to be used lipon the occasion of her marriage with the foreman of the coach factory of her deceased husband. tar a Cl itic says of a famous singer that ‘she sings a few airs and puts ou « great many.’