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BY J. P. SAWTELL. E.H. PURDY, Manufacturer of Sate, Harness and Trnnis, And Wfidietide and Retail Dealer in All kinds of Sadlery Ware, Comer of Whitaker and Bryan St*., SAVANNAH, Ga. fy Orders for Bobber Belting, Hoee and Packing) also, Stretched Leather Belting, filled promptly. sepl7-6m L, iy OOILMABTINt JdHN Ff.ANNKRT. 1. j. GUILMARTIN & CO., Cotton Factors, AMD General Commission Merchants, Bay St., Savannah, Oa. * Agents for Bradley's Super Phos phate of Lime, Powell’s Mills Yams and Domestics, etc. flagging, Hope and Iron Ties, al ways on hand. tw U.ual Facilities Extended to Customers. A. J. MILLER & CO., FURNITURE DEALERS, 150 Broughton Street, SAVANNAH, GEORGIA. WE HAVE ON HAND, and are con tinoally receiving,'every variety of Parlor and Bedroom Sets, Bureaus, Washstamls, Bedsteads, Chairs, Kockcra, Wardrobes, Meat Safes, Cradles, Looking Ola.-ses, Feathers, Featherbeds, Pil lows. etc. Hair, Moss, Shuck and Excelcior Matrasses on hand, and made to order. Jobbing and Repairing neatly doce, and with despatch. We are fully prepared to fill orders. Country orders promptly attended to. All letters of inquiry auswered promptly. sepl7-6m. MARIETTA MARBLE YARD. J AM peep abed to furnish Marble, Monuments, Tombs, Head and Foot Stones, Vaces, Urns, Vaults, etc., At very reasonable terms, made of Italian, American and Georgia M A R B L £2 . IRON RAILING Put Up to Order. For information or designs address me at this place, or DU. T. S. POWELL, Agent, Cuthbert, Gu. Address, A. BISAAER, gepl7 Cm Marietta, 6a. GEORGE S. HART & CO., Commission Merchants, An! Wholesale Dealers in Fine Butter, Cheese, Lard, etc., 39 Pearl aud 28 Bridge Sts., N. Y. . RT Batter and Lard, of all grades, pot up in every variety of package, for Shipment to Warm Climates. sepl'-fim* REED & CLARKE, JTo. 23, Old Slip, New York, DEALEIIB IN PROVISIONS, Onions, Potatoes, Butter, etc. •ept!7-6m ELY, OBERHOLSTER & CO., Importers and Jobbers in Dry Goods, Jfp*. 329 tfc 331 Broadway, | | p tlorner of Worth Streat, Hew York. figgs tffJmTER WHEEL, Mill Gearing,Shafim£&Pulleys ?oo!i*m)!^%riMoß^' I george PAGE & CO. So. & Jsr. Sehroeder St., Baltimore. Manufacturers of PORTABLE AND STATIONARY Steam Engines and Boilers YATgNT IMPROVED, PURTABI.K Circular Saw Bill •Gang, Mulay and Sash Saw Mills, OriM Mills, Timber Wheels, Shingle Ma vhines, Dealers m Circular Sawa Belt and MiH snpplies generally, and manufac tilreT’s agents for Leffet’s Celebrated Turbine Water wheel and every description of Wood Working Machinery. Agricultural Engines a Specialty. «r Send for descriptive Catalogues A Price Lut*. »epl7ly. CUTHBERT 111 APPEAL. ®j[t Sppwl* Terms of Subscription i One Yeab. ...$3 00 | Six Months. ...$2 00 INVARIABLY la advance. pjT No attention paid to orders fbr the pa‘ per unless aecotnpaoied by the Cash. df Advertising ; One square, (ten lines or leSs,) f 1 00 for the first and 78 Cents for eaCh subsequent inser tion. A liberal deduction made to parties who advertise by the year- Persons sending advertisements should mark the number of times they desire them inser ted, or they will be continued until forbid and Charged accordingly. Transient advertisements must be paid for at the time of insertion. Announcing names of candidates for office, $5.00. Cash, in all cases Obituary notices over five lines, charged at regular advertising ra*es. All communications intended to promote the private ends or interests of Corporations, So cieties, or individuals, will be charged as ad vertisements. Jon Work, such as Pamphlets, Circulars, Cards, Blauks, Handbills, etc., will be execu ted in good style and at reasonable rates. All letters addressed to the Proprietor will be promptly attended to. 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.