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BY J. P. SAWTELL.
E.H. PURDY,
Manufacturer of
Sate, Harness and Trnnis,
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Comer of Whitaker and Bryan St*.,
SAVANNAH, Ga.
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AMD
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E-S-Q.
I wonder wbat the letters mean !
I wonder if they Bhow
That some are stationed high in life,
And some are standing low !
If yea, I wonder which they mark !
I cannot tell—can you ?
Whether ’(is honor or disgrace
To be an E s q.
’Tis true that iu another land .
They do a meaning own.
And note the faintest ray that’s shot
From the scintillant throne ;
But sending for a bootblack here,
I cannot tell—can you !
Why I should, would, could ought to write—
“ Sam Johnson, EB-q.”
And writing to a man of parts,
Whose claims to honor flow
From mighty deeds or stirring words,
What do the letters show ?
That they will lustre cast on him
leannot think—can you?
We nothing add, sir, though we write
Addendum : “ E-s-q.”
“ But we must some distinction make!”
Indeed 1 ’Tis very right;
But quite as easy for the blind
To tell tbe.dark from light.
What court shall sit upon the claims?
I would not dare—would you?
Say who shall be a simple Man,
And who an E-s-q.
If thou would’st challenge men’s respect,
So labor that thy name
May glisten with an inborn light
Upon the scroll of fame ;
Our very schoolboys, sir, would laugh—
And so. I think, would you—
O'er “ Commentaries, written by
J. Caesar, E-s-q.”
1 really wonder men of rank,
And men of genius, too.
Don’t drop forever, and at onoe,
The senseless E-s-q.
See, gentlemen, we nameless folk
Are aping after you ;
I marvel that you still will use
Plebian E-s-q.
I’m no reformer ; would not choose
To make myself a mark
For Custom's arrows, wbi’e her curs
In stupid chorus bark :
Follow the fashion, it you please—
It may be meat for you—
But let me sboot for rarer game
Tbau common E»q.
FVom the Waverley Magazine.
The Husband Reformed.
BY MRS. ELI.IS.
In a small apartment, on the
ground floor, opening by an old
fashioned lattice through a perfect
bower of roses and sweet briar, up
on a little orchard green, where his
children were accustomed to play,
sat Dr. Frederick Bond, accusing
himself, for the thousandth time, of
having through mal practice, super
induced by his besetting vice of tip
pling, caused the death of a worthy
lady, iu whose case he had beeu
recently called to prescribe. Op
pressed with the anguish of his
mind, he at last threw open the
window and looked out. lie had
heard young voices speaking in
their pleasant tones of innocence
and joy, and he now beheld his chil
dren, with their mother, seated
around a little breakfast table, un
der one of the old trees which grew
mear the house.
It was a beautiful picture, but it
did not escape his eye, that they
were all eating the coarsest bread,
served in the humblest manner,
though they had every appearance
of enjoying their m'eals as much as
if it had been of the most costly de
scription. For a long time he had
leaned’ against the side of the win
dow, and gazed with fixed atten
tion on this scene without the little
party being aware that he was a
spectator; but no sooner did one of
them make the. discovery, than it
was whispered to the rest, and al
most instantaneously something like
a shadow fell upon them all. Their
cheerfulness subsided, their laugh
ter died away, aud the pleasaDt
schemes they had been forming for
all that was to be done in their
mother’s abseuce, and the promise
they were maxing her, sunk iuto
silence on their lips; while they
ate the remainder of their break
fast without a word or smile.
Frederick Bond shrunk back into
his room; be would willingly have
shrunk into the centre of the earth.
“ I am so horrible a monster,” he
exclaimed, “ that I cannot look up
on my own children without with
ering their joy!”
As he said this, he caught a
glimpse of his figure in the glass ;
and his wonder, if he had felt aDy,
might well have ceased. His face
was sallow, his cheeks had fallen
into deep hollows, his eyes were red
and glaring, bis black hair was mat
ted iu separate locks, that seemed as
if starting from his head. He was
wrapped in a loose dressing-gown,
and all his movements were accom
panied by a certain degree of mus
cular distortion ; especially his face,
which was -once handsome, but
which had been lately disfigured
by coovulaive at which
CUTHBERT, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 22, 1870.
the younger children * laughed,
while the older ones were afraid.
“No wonder,” sa\d he, “they hate
and shun me, I envy them the pow
er of escaping such a monster ; but
how shall I escape from myself ?”
He then swallowed his accustom
ed morning draught, and before
his wife had come to take leave of
him, he had begun to feel more than
master of himself.
“Frederick,” said Eleanor, return
ing again after she bad bid him
good bye, “this is the first time I
have left you and the children
alone; for their sakes —for mine,
may I ask of you one kindness?”
“What is it?”
“Will you abstain—will you en
deavor to be your better-self, until
my return ?”
“Impossible! Heaven knows I
gladly would, if the power was in
me; but you know, Eleanor, it is
impossible.”
“All things are possible with
God, Frederick. Will you ask him
to help you ?”
“I dare not.”
“Os what are you afraid ? Surely
there is more to dread in the daily
violation of holy law than in the
simple act that he has himself en
joined—the act of coming to Him
in simplicity of heart, to ask his
pardon for the past, and His aid in
resisting temptation for the future.”
“But my sins are beyond all hope
of pardon.”
“They are, while persisted in;
not otherwise.”
“You forget that I am a murder
er.”
“I do not forget that you believe
yourself to be so. Yet for the
murderer there is hope of pardon.
Do not dear Frederick, attempt to
measure your culpability by the
opinions of man. 1 have heard you
say yourself, that it is the simple
nature of sin, as such, which makes
it hateful iu the sight of God ; and
though some sins may be more of
fensive than others, all are equally
forbidden by divine law. If, there
fore, we would in reality take the
Bible as our guide, we must believe
that the murderer is not more guil
ty than the man who appropriates
his neighbor’s goods; the drunk
ard, than he who cherishes in the
secret of his heart the spirit of en
vy or revenge.
“Take courage, then, 3ear Fred
erick-some of us are surely beset
with temptations of many kinds.—
You have one prevailing temptation.
Direct, then, all your elforts against
this enemy, and when once effectu
ally conquered,it will be conquered
for life. Farewell, dear Frederick ;
if you find yourself lonely when I
am gone, remember that God
near you, waiting to be gracious.—
And now, once more farewell.—
Take care of the dear children ;
and may their heavenly Father bless
and protect you all.”
With these words Eleanor de
parted, and her miserable husband
was left, as it appeared, to him,
without one cousolation, or one
hope. Tormented with perpetual
restlessness, he went into the little
parlor where he was accustomed to
breakfast, and found his eldest
daughter seated at her sewing.—
She started up on seeing him enter,
and immediately brought in his
breadfast. It was a choice and sa
vory repast, such as Eleanor always
had in preparation for him, when
ever he chose to partake of it; and
he could not help this morning
comparing it with the homely meal
he had seen his wife and children
eating in the garden some hours be
fore. As soon as his little daugh
ter had placed it on the table, she
sat down to her sewing again, and
only looked up occasionally, to see
whether her father wanted any
thing she could bring.
Gladly would Frederick Bond
have sharpened his appetite fliis
morning, by adding to his coffee
the usual proportion of brandy,
with whicn he was accustomed to
strengthen it, but there seemed to
him, in the presence of the quiet
little girl who sat beside him, en
deavoring to supply her mother’s
place, a sort of sacredness, which
he was nbl jet so hardened as to
violate.
“AJary,” said he, “do you always
eat that brown bread for your
.breakfast which 1 saw you eating
this morning ?”
“Yes, always.” .
“And have you always those
wooden bowls for your milk ?”
“Oh, yes; we like them better,
because they never break.”
“And does your mother always
eat the browu bread and milk with
you?”
“Yes, when sho eats anything;
but she sometimes goes almost
without breakfast at all.”
“Do you think she likes the bread
and milk ?”
“I don't think she does like it
much ; no more did Henry and Isa
bel at first, but we are all getting
to like it now-; and mamma is always
trying to persuade us to eat the
simplest and cheapest food, because
she says we shall have to do so some
time, and it is better to do it now
while we are young and healthy,
and happy, than to wait until we are
forced,and may neither be so strong
nor so well able to eat coarse food.”
Frederick now recollected that
his children never dined with him,
and the idea struck him that per
haps they lived through the day on
the same hard and homely fare.—
He recollected that his wife gener
ally made excuses when she sat
down with him, that she had previ
ously dined with the children,
thinking it best to keep order
i amongst them, by her own presence,
and he recollected, too, that his own
little board was spread with dain
ties—with the game that was in
season, or with some choice viands,
cooked so as to tempt his failing
appetite, and always served up in
such a manner, as to avoid remind
ing him that he was not a gentle
man stilL
“And these poor creatures,” said
he to himself, “have been all the
while living like the paupers of the
parish !” He could scarcely swallow
the morsel he had put into his
mouth; and if ever man loathed
himself he did so at that moment.
By way of diverting his thoughts,
however, he made an effort to
change the subject of conversation.
“Whom are you working for,
Mary ?” he inquired.
The child blushed deeply, while
she answered, “I am making a shirt.”
Her father asked the question
with the most perfect indifference
as to any answer she might make;
but her embarrassment awakenea
his curiosity, and he went on,
“Is it for me, or for your broth
er? »
“Oh, it is too large for George,”
said Mary, endeavoring to smile
away her blushes.
“It is for me, then, I suppose.—
Why don’t you answer me, Mary?”
The child burst into tears, “it is
a secret,” said she, “my mother
charged me not to bring this work
into the room where you were; but
1 felt sure you would never iiotice
it, and so I disobeyed her com
mands, and now she has hardly
been gone an hour,and my j udgmeut
has come upon me.”
“But what secret can you have,
Mary, about a shirt?”
“Ob, don’t ask me, father. I
dare not tell a falsehood, and yet 1
must not betray my mother’s se
cret; she has kept it so long.”
“Poor child !” said Frederick, in
a voice so kind and so unusual, that
Mary’s little heart was melted,
and looking up though her tears
sho said, “Pm sure you’d like my
mother better if you knew, aud
yet, 1 hardly dare tell you.”
“Well, Mary, I will leave it to
you. If your mother bus charged
you not to tell me—if you have
promised you would not —1 cannot
urge you to break your trust.”
“No she has never charged me at
all; she has never even mentioned
the subject directly, but she has
been so studious to keep it from
you, that we all know her wishes;
aud ought we not to regard them
as much as her word ?”
“Certainly you ought; but in
this instance 1 do beg you will tell
the whole truth; it may be of the
utmost consequence both to your
mother aud to me.”
Mary looked anxiously at her
father and then began her story:
“VV ell, then, we take in a great
deal of plain sewing: my mother,
and Eleanor, and Isabel and I. We
all get up at five every morning,
and a slurt is sometimes made be
fore breakfast.”
“And do you this for pay ?”
“Ob, yes; and mamma tells us
all about housekeeping, and how
much it saves to eat such and such
things, aud to wear our common
frocks, until sometimes she smiles,
and says she is afraid we shall be
come lovers of money.”
“Aud what do you do with all
that you make and all that you
save T’
“Why, first, there is George’s
schooling, about which mamma
thinks a great deal, and all the
housekeeping; and Isabel’s doctor’s
bill; aud the wages of the servant
—all- these take a great deal of
money to pay, and there is also an
other thing which mamma keeps a
great secret.”
Frederick was afraid to pursue
the subject farther; but the child
having once plunged into her mo
ther’s secrets, thought it just as
well to tell the whole as a part.—
She therefore went on:
“ I am sure you will love mamma,
as we all do, when I tell you that
for years 6he has been trying to
keep a pony for you, for she persists
in it, that you are not in good
health, though we all think that
you are a great deal better than she
is herself. Yet she says it would
do you much good to ride out ev
ery day; that it is a hard thing for
a man who has been accustomed to
riding to do without a horse, that it
would give you more respectability
in the neighborhood, and many oth
er things that we don’t quite under
stand. However, we all work for
this great object; and last winter
we had nearly accomplished it,
when there came in at Ghristmas,
that long, long bill from the cruel
wine merchant, for things whieh
my mother never knew of, but
which she said must be paid before
we thought of the pony. I shall
never forget how she cried that
day. - Indeed we all cried to see her
so distressed; and the worst was,
poor George could not go to school
for a whole quarter, because there
was not mon.y enough to pay his
master and the wine merchant too ;
so he grew quite idje and mischiev
ous, and lost more than he had
gained for three months before.”
And thus the child went on in
her simplicity, disclosing more and
more of the details of her mother’s
economy, little dreaming that eve
ry word she uttered went like a
dagger to her father’s heart. He
had dropped his knife upon his
plate, his coffee remained untasted,
and he sat with his elbow resting
on the table, and his forehead
shaded by his band, apparently oc
cupied with the patteru of a uapkiu
which he was folding and unfold
ing, wholly unconscious of what he
did.
“You may take away these
things, Mary,” he said, when he
felt that he could bear no more.—
And as soon as the child had disap
peared, he rushed into his own
room and bolted the door.
“Have I been such a wretch !”
he exclaimed. “Yes, I have eateu
my children’s bread, and reduced
my wife to the grade of a common
beggar! a village seamstress! a
taker-in of plain work! —She who
was once so elegant in all her tastes,
and who ought to have been cher
ished as tlie only treasure of my
life.
“If they had shut me in dunge
ons, had fed me with loathsome
food, I could have borne it; but I
have been a pampered ingrate, fat
tening on the luxuries whieh want
has purchased ! Where, where shall
Ffind an ocean that shall \v r ash me
pure from this pollution !”
The shadows of evening were far
advanced that day, while the miser
able man was still pacing the round
of his little chamber. Mary had
knocked gently at his door many
times during the last few hours, and
she now knocked again, to say that
her younger brother was now un
dressed and going to bed, and
wished to bid his papa good night.
- Frederick opened the door, aud
the little cherub sprang into his
arms, and at the same time looked
anxiously around the apartment, as
if he had expected to find his mo
ther.
His father kissed him and bid
him good-night, but still he did not
seem satisfied to go.
“ What does he want ?” asked
the father.
“He has been accustomed,” re
plied Mary, “ to say a little prayer
before he went to bed; and as mo
ther is not here, and he always says
it in his room, perhaps you will let
him kneel beside you just for a mo
ment; he will not stay long.”
It was a novel situation for such
a parent to be placed in ; but Fred
erick almost mechanically seated
himself iu the old nursery chair,
and the child knelt down at his
feet, with its little rosy hands fold
ed on his knees, its blue eyes raised
and its golden tresses thrown back
from its snow white temples, over
the infant neck and shoulders,
which its half undress had left un
covered.
The prayer of one whose experience
has been long in this world,is neces
sarily clogged with so many associa
tions and recollections, that it seems
at best but a struggle of the soul
to make itself heard. But the
prayer of a child is like the unsophis
ticated voice of nature, passing from
its pure bosom at once into the
skies.
There are few hearts so hardened
as to resist the impression made by
this innocent and artless appeal ;
and Frederick Bond was peculiarly
disposed, on the night we have de
scribed, to be softened into more
than common tenderness. He laid
his hand upon the shining tresses of
his child. He bent his head over
him, and his lips also uttered an in
voluntary prayer against which the
of mercy were not closed.
He slept not the whole of that
long night; yfct restless, anxious,
apprehensive as he was, he was en
abled in the midst of a host of mid
night horrors, to abstain from his
besetting sin. The next morning
he breakfasted with his children
around him ; and if he did not join
them in their humble fare it was
simply because after many unavail
ing attempts, he found that he had
lost the power to do so. This day
appeared, if possible, still longer
than the night. He could not read.
He could not think to any purpose.
He could only feel, and feeling had
lately been the bane of his life.—
His children were all busy at their
different occupations. He knew
not what to do; but still he was
able to abstain.
On the following morning he
was so fortunate as to form a
scheme with which all the young
spirits around him were so elated
that he could not refuse to rejoice
in their gladness. He projected an
excursion to a neighboring hill, a
dinner in the woods, and a walk
home in the cool of the evening.—
however was only happiness
for others. This brought little sat
isfaction to him. The third day
was one of peculiar trial. The re
membrance of Lady. Monford’s
death came freshly back upon him
with the first dawn of the morning,
aud haunted him through the whole
day. Still, however, he resisted,
for though he believed it would be
impossible, with this load upon his
mind, to support the burden of con
sciousness through the whole of his
future life, yet having already pass
ed three days without his accustom
ed stimulus, he determined to await
the return of his wife; and thus to
prove how much his affection for
her could enable him. to accomplish.
In this manner his weary life was
passed, sometimes hoping, some
times even praying, but far more
frequently sinking into a state of
utter despondency and horror, until
nearly the expiration of the time
his wife expected to be absent. It
wanted now but one day until that
of her return, and the children rose
early with that happy .word “ to
morrow ” perpetually on their lips.
Even he himself felt a secret spring
of joy as lie walked with them in
the little garden which surrounded
their cottage, and watched them
plucking out weeds that might oth
erwise offend their mother’s sight,
sweeping away the leaves from her
favorite walk, and peeping with ex
pectant eyes at the fruit, which
they hoped would be fully ripened
by the hour of her return.
In this manner they were all en
gaged, when their attention was at
tracted by the sound of a carriage
wheeling down the lane, and down
by the corner of the garden, until it
stopped at their own cottage door.
“Itis my mother. It is herself
come a day -earlier,” was echoed by
all the happy voices at once.
And so indeed it was. She
sprang frofti the chaise, embraced
as many of her children as her arms
could contain at once, and walking
up to her husband, looked keenly
into his faee; for the eye of affec
tion is not easily deceived, aud she
could not but perceive that some
blessed change had taken place.
“ Come with me, Frederick, will
you ?” said she, “ and help me to
unfasten my trunk.”
They went together into the bed
room. She then bolted tjie door,
and placing her arm affectionately
over his shoulder, said in a voice of
subdued ecstacy, “ I have seen Mr.
West, and I have welcome tidings
to tell you. Iu a few days it might
nave beeu too late. We had a long
conversation about you. He was
surprised aud shocked at your sus
picions ; and bade me assure you in
the most solemn manner that you
had nothing whatever to do with the
death of Lady Monford. * indeed, 5
said he, * I took care myself that
no injury should be done, for when
I saw the situation your husband
was in, I undertook the operation
myself. But the case was worse
than we had anticipated, and her
previous habits—her spirits having
been for sometime almost entirely
supported by , stimulants—would
under any circumstances, have ren
dered her recovery doubtful. Tell
your husband,’he added, ‘he has
nothing to fear from the past. It
is with the future he has to do.—
And may God in his mercy
strengtheu and protect him for the
time to come.’ ”
Frederick Bond had listened to
this intelligence with clasped hands
and eyes upraised. He uttered not
a word, but siuking on his knees
beside the bed, with his wife press
ed close to his bosom, he breathed
a solemn vow that if God would
mercifully grant him the power to
resist, he would never again trans
gress His holy law,by touching again
that which had beeu the bane of his
past life.
This vow, made as it was with
out presumption and self-depend
ence, he was enabled to keep. He
did not, as so many thousands have
done, venture to play with the poi
son he had forsworn, but renounced
it wholly aud forever#
The effects of this resolution, re
lating to temporal affairs, were soon
visible in the happiness of his fami
ly, in the restoration of his respect
ability, and in his peace of mind.
For the more lasting effects of
that resolution, which Divine mercy
’prompted him to make and enabled
him to keep, we must look to the
regions of eternal rest, and count
one blessed spirit the more amongst
those who dwell forever in purity
and light.
How Josh Billings Describes
an Effeminate Man. —The effem
inate man is a weak poultice. He
is a cross between a root beer and
a ginger pop, with the cork left out.
A fresh water mermaid found in a
cow pasture with hands filled with
dandelions. He is a teacupfnl of
syllabub—a kitten in pantelettes—
a sick monkey with a blonde mous
tache. He is a vine without any
tendrils—a fly drowned in oil—a
paper kite in a dead calm. He
lives like a butterfly —nobody can
tell why. He is as harmless as a
cent’s worth of spruce gum, and as
useless as a shirt button without a
hole. He is as lazy as a bread pill,
and has no more hope than a last
year’s grass-hopper. He goes
through life on tiptoes, and dies
like cologne water spilt over th'e
ground.
—A good joke is told of a young
man who attended a social circle a
few evenings since. The conversa
tion turned on California and get
ting rich. Tom remarked
that if he was in California he
would, instead of working in the
mines, waylay some rich man who
had a bag full of gold, knock out
his brains, gather up the gold, and
skedaddle. One of the young la
dies quietly replied that he had
better gather up the brains, as be
evidently stood in more need of
that article than gold. Tom subsi
ded.
—An apple tree shook its blos
soms on the earth and made it
bright and beautiful, and yet the
tree was not impoverished, but
soon replenished its “branches with
fruit it could not have produced
had it retained the blossoms.—
Whoever will, may his life
the tree, and scatter the flowers of
happiness all over the earth.
“Why don’t you limit your
self ?” said a physician to an in
temperate person. “Set down a
stake that you will go so far and
no farther.” “I do,” replied the
other, “but I set it so far off that I
always get drunk before I get to
it.”
“What would you be, dear
est,” said Walter to his sweetheart,
“if I were to press the seal of love
upon those sealing-wax lips?” “I
should bo stationary.”
For the Appeal.
Little Boys.
Little boys, little boys I
Synonym for strife and noise,
Mines of unexploded fun ;
Veins of mischief never done.
Rents and tears, aud blows and rackets;
Muddy shoes and worn out jackets ;
Buttonless shirts and kneeless trousers,
Os the house the recklessTousers.
Always searching missiug hats ;
Terror of the hapless cats ;
Followed close by worthless dogs,
Catching chickens, running hogs.
Robbing nests of birds and hens;
Pockets filled with odds and ends ;
W hooping, whistling, bragging, shouting,
Surly, sulky, mad and pouting.
Always ready for a race,
Give the fleetest pony chase.
Always teasing little sister ;
Longing so to be a—mister.
Ever ready for a fight;
Always sure, he’s in the right.
Haling so to go to school,;
Questioning all right to rule.
Not troubled much with sentiment,
Tlio’ sweetheartless he is cooteut;
And yet, when no one else is aigb,
Will kiss a fair girl on the aly.
“ Afraid of nothin' 1” no, not he,
Yet something often makes him flee.
Would charge a regimental boat,
Yet trembles at one fancied ghost.
Little boys, little boys,
Embryo men with all their noiso,
In life’s scenes to act their parts ;
Faithlessly or with true hearts.
Deeds to do of honor, shame,
Earning fair or tainted name ;
Lives to live, and hearts to still ;
Souls to save, and graves to till.
_ Wee Wee.
A BilL
To be entitled An Act, to extend
the lien of set off' and recupe
ment as against debts contracted
before the Ist day of June, 1865,
and to deny to such debts the
aid of the Courts, until the taxes
thereon have beeu paid.
Sec. 1. Be it enacted by the Gen
eral Assembly of Georgia, That
iu all suits pending, or hereafter
brought in or before any Court of
the State founded upon any debt,
or contract, or cause of action,
made or implied before the Ist day
of June, 1865, or upon any other
debt or contract iu renewal thereof,
it shall not be lawful for the plain
till to have a verdict or judgment
in his favor until he has made it
clearly appear to the tribunal try
iug the same that all legal taxes
chargeable by law upon same have
been duly j>aid for each year since
the making or implying of said
debt or contract.
Sec. 2. Iu all suits now pending,
or hereafter brought, it shall be the
duty of the plaintiff within six
months after the passage of this
act, if tlio suit be pendiug, and of
the filing of the writ, if the suit
be hereafter brought, to file with
the Clerk of the Court or Justice
an affidavit, if the suit is founded
on any debt pr contract as described
in section first, that all legal taxes
chargeable by law upon such debts
or contracts have been duly paid,
or the income thereou for each year
since the making of the same, and
that he expects to prove the same
upon the trial; and on failure to
file such affidavit as herein required,
said suit shall, on motion, bo dis
missed.
Sec. 3. In suits upon such con
tracts in every case the burden of
proof showing that the taxes have
been duly paid shall be upon the
party plaintiff without plea by the
defendant, aud the defendant may
upon this point cross examine wit
ness, introduce proof in denial and
rebuttal to the plaintiff’s proof with
out plea.
Sec. 4. Iu every trial upon a suit
founded upon any such debt or
contract a& described in this act,
provided that said debt has been
regularly given in for taxes, and
the taxes paid shall be a condition
precedent to recovery on the same,
and in every such case, if the tribu
nal trying is not clearly satisfied
that said tuxes have beeu duly giv
en in and paid, it shall so find, and
said suit shall be dismissed.
Sec. 5. No execution founded on
any debt or contract shall proceed
to levy or sale until the plaintiff or
owner thereof shall attach thereto
his affidavit that all legal taxes
chargeable by law to him have beeu
paid from the time of making or
implying of said contract until the
day of such attaching of said affi
davit, and any defendant or claim
ant of property levied ou by said
execution may stop the same, as in
cases of affidavits of illegality, by
filing his affidavit denying that
said, taxes have been paid, aud said
affidavit shall be returned aud tried
and have effect as iu other cases of
illegality.
See. 6. Iu all suits now pending,
or hereafter to be brought in any
court in this State, founded on any
such contract, or upon any debt iu
renewal thereof, it shall be lawful
for the defendant to plead and
prove, in defence and as an offset
to the same, any losses the said dc
fendant may have suffered by, or in
consequence of, the late war against
the United States . by the people of
the Southern States, wheiUer said
losses be from the destruction or
depreciation of property, or in any
other way be fairly caused by said
war and the results thereof.
Sec. 7. No plea or proof under
this act of damage or loss as afore
said shall be held as settling up
damage too remote or speculative,
if it only appeared that it was fair
ly and legitimately produced, di
rectly or indirectly, by said war or
the results thereof.
VOL. IV—NO. 44
Sec. 8. Net set off pleaded under
this act shall entitle the defendant
to any judgment in his favor for
any sttch damages, only so far as to
, e same against the plain
tiff s claims.
Sec. 9. In all cases where any
debt, as described in the first sec
tion of this act, has been reduced
to judgment and is still unsatisfied
it shall be awful for the defendant
to set off against said judgment
said loss or damage against the
same as a credit on the same in the
same terms, as is provided in this
act, when the debt has not been re
duced to judgment, as follows: in
term time the defendant may move
in open court to have said credit
made, setting forth in the notice
the grounds of the samoj upon this
notice the plain tiff may join issue,
and the issue shall be tried by a
jury whose verdict shall be final on
the facts.
Sec. 10. If execution be issned,
and be proceeding, the defendant
may file affidavit setting forth his
claim and the grounds thereof, it
shall be returned and tried, and
shall operate as is provided by Jaw
ui case of other illegalities: provi
ded, the said affidavit shall set forth
that such credit was not plead or
allowed m the original trial: the
tact that the said credit or set off
exited at the date of the judgment,
snail be no objection thereto; and
provided further, that if the defen
dant in said judgment has already
had the said debt reduced under
the relief act of 1868, the set off
or credit under this act shall not be
allowed in the same.
Sec. 11. When a judgment is
proceeding against property which
the defendant has sold, the owner
thereof may set-off against the same,
his losses or damages by said war,
on the same terms as are provided
in this act for the defendant.
Sec. 12. In all suits now pending,
founded on any such contract as
described in the first section of this
act, the same shall not be ready for
trial until the affidavit of the plain
tiff required by the several sections
of this act shall have been duly
filed, in the Clerk’s office, or notice
thereof given to the defendant at
least three months before the trial.
Sec. 13. And be it furthor enac
ted, That nothing contained in this
act shall apply to, affect or hinder
any judgment or execution, issued
from any of the courts of this State,
when on the trial thereof, the lie-,
lief plea, allowed under the act of
1868, was filed and sustained by
the court, the facts submitted and
passed upon by the jury, nor to any
note given in renewal of a note
given prior to June, 1865, when
that debt was reduced to the equi
ties agreed upon by the parties un
der the Relief act of 1868.
Sec. 14. Nothing in this act shall
be so construed as to affect any
claim due -any widow or minor, con
tracted prior to June 1, 1865; but
such claims shall be settled upon
the principles of equity, taking into
consideration the relative loss of
property sustained by the plaintiff
and defendant.
Sec. 15. Be it further enacted,
That nothing in the foregoing sec
tions of this bill shall be so construed
as to extend the relief contemplated
in the foregoing sections to any de
fendant or defendants who may be
at the time of the commencement
of such action, or who may have
been at the commencement of such
actions heretofore brought, in pos
session of the property for the pur
chase of which said contract was
entered into ; nor shall any admin
istrator, executor, guardian, or trus
tee, be entitled to the benefits of
this bill who may have acted fraud
ulently in such capacity, or who
may jiavo wilfully or negligently
mismanaged the property in their
charge; Provided , The defendant
may elect to give up the property
in his possession for which said con
tract was entered into, and such
election shall be a full discharge of
indebtedness.
Sec. 16. Repeals conflicting laws.
—All registered letters in the fu
ture are required to have a card on
them, requesting their return to the
sender if not called for within a cer
tain number of days to be stated by
the sender.
The law went into effect the first
of the present month, and is not
generally understood.
A young lady about to be
married says she will not proiniso
to “love honor and obey,” but in
stead, “love, honor and be gay.”
What kind of essence does a
young man like when he pops the
question ? Acquiescence.
A man lost in the capital of
Rhode Island consoled himself by
remembering that the ways of
Providence are past finding out.
A little girl was heard to wish
the other day, “that she was a boy
so she could swear when she dropped
her books iu the mud.”
An improved telegraph—Place
a line of women fifty steps apart,
and commit the news to the first
one as a secret.
A live Yankee being awakened
by a captain of a steamboat with
tho announcement that he musn’t
occupy his berth with his boots on,
replied. “Oh ! the bugs
hurt ’em much, I guess ; they are
an old pair—let them rip/’
Would it not be well for p<*K
pie of a fiery temperament to oarry
about an extinguisher.
A man ever ready to scrape au
acquaintance—the barber.