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THE AUNT’S WILL.
An old woman, long a sufferer, lay
back on the cushions of an Invalid’s
chair, while before her stood a young
girl, whose face showed sigus of sym
pathy with her suffering.
“ Aunt Jane, you are not comfort
able.”
“ Who told you I wasn’t ?” said the
little shrivelled old lady, as she fairly
glared at hel^fci^ce.
“ I know yonlrti not," said Edith, pa
tiently. wants raising a
little more. ShatJG —”
“ No, you shan’t Go and tell Ann
to come here ; she shall fix me comfort
able.”
Edith rose to obey, walking out of
the room with a perfectly calm' face,
and her head was as erect as ever.
“Graph,” said Jane, looking after her,
“ she’s a smart one—she kqows just
what I want. Sometimes I think she
means what she says—that she really
loves me and wants to show it; but
bah, what an old fool I am! she has
the same smooth, slippery ways of her
father. He could work his way into
anybody’s heart; he did into my poor
sister's and afterwards broke it. Edith
can do the same—work her way into
anybody’s heart; but she won’t into
mine—she won’t into mine ! A penny
of my money, any more than will keep
her from utter starvation, she’ll never
handle. Ann shall be the fine lady,
and Edith will have to work—work is
good enough for her father’s daughter,”
said the old lady, shaking with ire.
Ann and Edith were orphan nieces
of Jane, left to her care by two sisters.
Edith’s mother, before her marriage,
was Jane’s favorite sister ; but she did
not marry to suit Jane, and to the lat
ter lady’s entire satisfaction, the favor
ite, but never-to-be-forgiven husband,
turned out to be a very bad man.
lie came to a sudden end himself,
after sending his wife to an early grave,
and Aunt Jane took little Edith, to ed
ucate and make a lady of her, as her
mother was before her, and then to
leave her almost penniless, and send
her adrift on the world to do for her
self because she was her father’s
daughter.
“ What can I do for you, aunty dear?”
“ Don’t you see anything that you
can do for me f” said irritable Jane.
Don’t yon see 1 am not comfortable ?
The back of my chair wants raising.
Strange that she could see it!”
Ann’s pretty, wax-doll face wore a
very humble, grieved expression.
“ Aunt, my papa was not a sharper.
If I have not inherited a faculty for
seeing everything so that I can play
my points, I can’t help it.
“ There, tliere, child ; I know there
is nothing tricky about you. Raise my
chair, and then you may go.”
The very humble, grieved expression
died out of Ann’s face, and there was a
sneer in the smile that flitted over it as
she stood behind Jane’s chair.
Ann made a great show of affection
for her at times, but Edith placed no
value upon it, for she knew just what
it was worth ; she knew that Ann was
selfish, deceitful, caring for nobody on
earth but herself.
Poor Edith loved her aunt, and
craved her love in return.
She never blamed Jane for being pre
judiced against her; she only allowed
, herself to think how good the old lady
had been to her; she felt so grateful
for her home and education.
“ Edith,” said Jane, when Edith re
turned to the room, I thought you
said my chair was too low. I'm very
uncomfortahle since Ann raised it.”
And Jane fidgeted about.
“ It is raised just a trifle too high,”
said Edith.
t‘ <jh, of course; you think Ann
neyef .does anything right,” snapped
/ane.
While aunt Jane was talking, with
out .asking her permission, Edith turn
ed the screw of the chair half way, and
placed the old lady
at her ease.
“ Never a word against Ann,” mur
piured Jane to herself and when Edith
was leaviug the room, she called ;
“Edith,”
Ediih turned quickly, for she detect
ed a mildness in her aunt's tone that
was never there before when she ad
’ dressed her.
“ Nothing: you may go,” said Jane,
as if she had bravely conquered her
better feelings.
Ann was standing on the balcony
when a splendid pair of horses were
drawn up at the gate, and a handsome
young man handed Edith out of his
wagon.
He held her hand longer than he
ought to. Ann thought, and the exprcs-
The Hartwell Sun.
By BENSON & McGILL.
VOL. FV—NO. 44.
sion of his face, as he bent his head
and said something in a to
Edith, set Ann’s heart wildly
with jealousy.
Ann was in love with llenry>sones,
the gentleman who had just now nriven
away from the gate. * j
Mr. Jones was a tlemauf
made very frequent visits of late. „*'
Ann attributed these fi^queut/visits
to herself, but that look . ojp his fage
when he held Edith’s hand Just no*„
and the happy expression-’on Edith’ d
face, there was no mistaking it.
“ But never mind, she’ll have
hinj if I can help it,” thought Ann as
she prepared herself to meet Edith.
“ Mrs. Anson, now I’ll give you
proo£ that what I’ve been telling you
abopt Ann is true !” cried old Lucy,
land’s housekeeper and adviser, burst
ing into the room. “ Let me draw your
chair over to the window. Lean your
head out a little ; the girls are talking
on the balcony below.”
4
< You are a deceitful-creature, you
are <”
It was Ann speaking in angry~tones,
and Edith listening intently.
“ YoVffrnow you are deceiving Henry
Jones; xon are making him believe
that adnrwill do handsomely by you ;
else he never would have proposed to
you. Mrs. Horier told me that he dare
not take auv/but a rich wife home to
his lady mother.”
“Ann, I* told him that yon were
aunt’s favorite ; that when she died you
were to have everything—l, nothing.
He said that made no difference to him.
I told him\ knew better; that I knew
a poor wife would stand in the way of
his worldly prospects, and it was be
cause I loved him truly that I couldn’t
inarry him. He wouldn’t take that for
my final answer, and oh, Ann, I feel so
happy; I never can be anything to him
perhaps, but it is sb nice to have noma
one love me! Don’t grudge me his
love Ann ; you don’t know how I prize
it! You have had so much love.
Aunt loves—”
“ Oh, who cares for aunt’s love ! The
old thing is only living to torment me.
If she were only dead, and I were only
mistress here, we would see who Henry
Jones would want to marry !”
“Oh, Ann, how can you speak so of
aunt ? I love her, though she will not
let me show it, for what she has done |
for me. How much more ought you to
love her ! Think how we might have
been thrown on the world but for aunt’s :
goodness.”
“ Oil, that’s what you’re always
preaching, and much thanks aunt gives
you for it. I never made any bones of
saying she’s an old nuisance, and she’s
going to leave me all her wealth !”
A week after the above conversation
aunt Jane lay breathing her last.
“And you love aunt, don’t you
dearie ?”
“ Yon know I do, aunt. I wish I
could be buried with you !” cried Ann,
burying her face in her handkerchief.
“ Of course you love me—of course
you wish you could be buried with me ;
I know you do !” and Jane’s dying eyes
fairly glistened. “ And you, Edith;
what are you standing there so white
and silent for ? Why don’t you make
time, like Ann ? Why don’t you tell
me you love me ?”
‘•Oh, if you would only let me,
aunt!” Edith moaned.
“ No, I won’t let you, for I know all
about it; but you may come here and
kiss me once.”
Edith bent over her aunt; the old
withered arms were twisted around her
neck, until she thought she was
strangled.
When I’m gone you'll understand
this,” murmured Jane; and with her
arms about Edith, she expired.
In due time Jane’s will was opened,
and Ann, wlio had assumed command
of tlie house, had to step down.
All tht Jane was worth, with the
exception of a miserable hundred dol
lars a year for Ajjn, was left to Edith.
Ann's feelings can better be under
stood than penned.
Edith was happy; not in the wretch
ed Ann's downfall, but because her
aunt’s will removed the barrier between
herself and Henry Jones.
A light-headed boy will qften make a
heavy-hearted mother.
HARTWELL. GA., WEDNESDAY. JUNE 30, 1880.
AARON BURR.
An lnteretiuit Eil<ml In IIIn Runinrk
nbl A'arrer.
I • Jafktim ( Him.) Clarion.
When Colonel Burr was released un
deWiis’crtvn recognizance to appear bo
rare the Supreme Court of the Territo
ry, hy befcame the guest of Colonol
BenjkfhinQsmun, a wealthy planter re
siding in the vicinity. Ho was a baeli
j elor, had beep an officer in the New Jer
sey line,£fid intimate with Burr. In
politics he was"a high-strung Federalist,
i had been a strong partisan of John Ad
[ ams, and had uo confidence in Jefferson.
Near bv Colonel Osmun lived another
I old military friend of similar political
opinions, the veteran Major Isaac Guion,
and with these two and other influential
gentlemen he had daily consultations.
No sterner and truer patriots lived than
these two veteran soldiers, and they re
posed unshaken faith in the friend
whom they hacl seen so often tested in
the “time that tried men’s|souls;” Col.
Osmun lived at the place now owned by
Dr. Stanton, and Major Guion resided
at the foot of the Half-way Hill, and
there wns a rural path between’the two
places trellised with vine\ and shaded
by cvergreeus. But its refreshing shade
and charming prospect were not the
only attractions. There lived at that
time a widow lady from Virginia, whose
small farm and two or three slaves were
the only remains of a large fortune.
Her husband had converted his proper
ty into money, and on his way to the
Territory had been robbed and murder
ed hy the notorious Joseph Thompson
Hare, a more blood-thirsty villain even
than the celebrated Mason. She hr, t
but one child, Madeline, who must still
be remembered by' a few of our older ci
tizens as a miracle of beauty. In form
and feature, in grace and modesty, she
was all that the old masters have paint
dtl the divine Mntlounn tVv\CyartiHt^
ever dreamed of maiden loveliness.
Those that saw her loved her, yet she
was never conscious of the sentiment
until she listened to Aaron Burr. The
family were Catholics, and there Colonel
Burr went to meet, by appointment, one
of his numerous agents and correspon
dents, the Abbe Veil, a Jesuit priest of
remarkable ability. He was born in
New Orleans in 174 G, studied at Paris
and became a member of the Congrega
tion of the Oratory. At the dissolution
of that body by the French Govern
ment he returned to Louisiana and exer
cised the priestly function in the Parish
of Attakapas. Ho subsequently went
to France. It is probable that Colonel
Burr, in his projected invasion of Mexi
co, contemplated securing the influence
of the religious orders, and for this pur
pose had opened a correspondence with
the Abbe and met him by appointment
at this secluded place.
At leng h after canvassing the situa
tion with Colonel Osmun and six other
confidential friends, Colonel Burr deter
mined to forfeit his bond. One stormy
night in February, 1807, he set forth,
mounted on the favorite horse of his
host. Urgent as was the necessity for
expedition, Colonel Burr halted till day
light at the widow’s cottage, imploring
the beautiful Madeline to be the com
panion of his flight. He promised mar
riage, fortune, high position, and even
hinting at imperial honors, not realizing
even then, a fugitive, and branded trai
tor, the crushing downfall that impend
ed over him. The maiden had given
him her heart; she had listened to his
witchery night after night, and loved
him with all the fervor of a Southern
nature. She would have followed him
to the end of the earth, and to the scaf
fold, and her aged mother would freely
have given her up to the most captivat
ing inan—for they looked on him as a
demi-god—but as with most of our
Southern women, the principles of re
ligion, virtue aud propriety were stronger
than prepossession and passion, and the
entreaties of the accomplished libertine
were firmly rejected. Baffled and dis
appointed, he was compelled to proceed
but promised to return, aud carried
with him the covenant and pledge of the
beautiful Madeline. She was wooed hy
many a lover. The young and gallant
masters of the large plantation!) on f ec
| oud Creek and St. Catherine’s strove in
( vain for her hand. Fortunes and the
' homage of devoted hearts were laid at
Devoted to Hart County.
old hill still lifts its aged brow, wrinkled
all over with traditions, a favorite look
out of Natchez in time of war—the
scene of the daring conspiracy against
the Spanish authority—the rendezvous
of lovers; the hiding place of brigands,
and a depot for their blood-stained treas
ure —mute but faithful witnesses of the
past.
Boss for Five Minutes.
Soon after the dinner hour a speci
men tramp appeared at the door of a
house on John R. street, Detroit, and
before he could be ordered oIF the steps
he began :
“ Sir, I am a tramp.”
“Yes, I sec you are.”
! her feet, but the Maid of the Half-way
Hill remained true to her nskent lover
—the more so because of the rumors that
reached her of his misfortunes and his
guilt. She lived on the reeollection of
hismnnly beauty, and the shades he had
affected were her constant haunts. At
length, when he fled from the United
States, pursued by Mr. Jefferson and
the remorseless agents that swarm
around power and authority —when he
had been driven from England, and was
an in Paris, shivering with cold
and starving for bread—he seems to
have fsty for the first time the bitter
hopelessness of his fortunes. And then
lie wpohrto Madeline, and in a few for
-1 nml released her from her prom
ise. Stating that he would never return
to the United States, lie advised her to
enter a convent, should she survive her
mother. A year or two after this she
went tollavana with Mrs. \V. a highly
respectable lady, who then owned the
property'where the Christian Brothers
I now reside, near Natchez. Her ex
! treme beauty, her grace and elegance,
produced the greatest enthusiasm. The
hotel wlTere they put up was besieged.
If she appeared on the balcony a dozen
cavaliers were waiting to salute her.
When her vithmte was seen on the Pas
co or de Armas, it was escorted
by the "Grandees of the Island. She
was fei'ed by the Governor-General,
serenmiis and balls followed in rapid
succession, and the daily hoinngc to her
beauty hever ceased until the evening
hells sounded the“Augelus.”
Without surrendering her heart or be
ing carried away by this universal admi
ration, die returned to the cottage of the
Half-way Hill. She was followed there
by Mi K., an English gentleman, the
head of the largest commercial house in
Havana, and to him, on his second visit,
she gate her hand.
rovsreA
and borders, have crumbled into dust.
The country lover and the innocent
maiden are long since dead. But the
“ But I am not here to ask for either
food, money or clothing. I have just
had a bite, my clothes are good enough,
and if I had money I should get drunk
and be sent up.”
“ Well, what do you want ?”
“ There are four tramps down the
street, and I know they will call here.
It is now five years since I began to
travel around. I suppose I have been
called a loafer and a thief and a beat
ten thousand times, and I have been
shot at, clubbed, broomsticked and
scalded times without number. Now I
want a change.”
“How?”
“ T ask is that you will let
me represent your house when those
tramps come up.”
This was agreed to. He sat down
on the steps, removed his hat, lighted
the stub of a cigar and was reading a
circular when the four fellows slouched
up and entered the yard.
“ What in Arkansas do you fellows
want in my yard ?”
“ Sutbin’ to eat,” was the humble re
ply-
“ Something to eat. Why }'ou mis
erable, thick robed cadavers, go and
earn it! Do you suppose I have
nothing to do but keep a free hotel for
loafers ?”
“ Can’t get work,” mumbled the big
gest of the lot.
“Oh ! you can’t ? Been looking all
around. I suppose ? Everybody got
all the help he wants, eh ? Want to
be cashiers and confidential advisers,
; don’t you ?”
“ Nobody gives us a show,” growled
$1.50 Per Annum.
WHOLE NO. 200.
the thin! man. r
“That’s it! That's four cue ! No*
body will take jam in with old
rag* and dirt rmj sore heels ami weep
over you, and good,
and put you in sue parlor bedroom and
feed you on chicken broth! I low aw
ful it is that you can’t be put on ice and
laid away when/ you won't imdt!"
“ Will us something?” im
pudently deinitfded tig; fourth.
“ Will I ? You'are just right I will!
I’ll give you fiye seconds to get outside
the gate, and I’ll in addition
that if I yoiLin this neighbor
hood again I’ll tie yo# into hard knots
and hire a sore-eyed dog to bite you to
death! Git up and git! • Move on—
hurry—out with you !”
They shuffled ou|, ns fast as they
could, and when *u\fiy had turned the
corner the tramp pul on his hat. put put
his inch of cigar for another and
said to the
“You have done me
and lam grateful; I alypady feeliSoJfVr
for the change, aiuj 1 s<>louinly Wiieve
that if I could only hafe opt an excuse
to throw ’tufy over the • fYnee ,I.#ould
have been ready Yo reform .•ytf start
out as a lecturer! Good-byq. I shall
never forget your kindness.” Jr*
I See But Two. Jk.
“ Hilly Campbell,” as he is familiarly
called, made much and saved little
money, for he had no idea of its value,
lie endorsed for everybody, and if he
went out into the street with a pocket
full of change he would return without
a cent, having given something to every
beggar he met.
One day, the sheriff, in reply to Mr.
Cam phell’s quest in What’s the uew>?”
said, “Nothing new, sir, but this : lam
sorry to say I had to sell out your
house aird lot tor the debt you owed as
security to Mr. Hill.”
“Oh. that’s nothing,” answered Mr.
Campbell; “the property is not lost; it
has only changed hands.”
Mr. Campbell was an easy-going bach
elor, and had the reputation of being
one of the most slovenly dressed lawyers
in the State. On one occasion as he |
was about leaving borne to attend the
Legislature, his sister informed him that
she had packed a dozen new shirts in
his trunk.
“Now, brother,” she said, “do be
more particular about your dress, and
don’t forget to put on a clean shirt, at
least twice a week. It is very mortify
ing to have you go about looking so
dirty.”
On his return home at the close of the
session, she congratulated him upon his
hearty appearance.
“ Why, you have grown ns fat as a
pig,” she remarked ; “ they must have
fed you well at the capital.”
“ Yes, they take good care of us,” he
replied, for they are all in want of
some appropriation.”
Looking into her brother’s trunk,
and finding but two shirts, she called
out:
“ Where, brother are those new shirts
I gave you?”
‘‘Don’t you find them in the trunk?”
“ No, I see but two.”
‘‘Possibly 1 may have some on me.”
An examination disclosed that he was
wearing six shirts, a fact which account
ed for his apparent improvement in
flesh.
All that tread the globe are but a
handful to the tribes that slumber in
its bosom.
A man has eloped with a Mrs. On
ion. The breath of scandal in this
case will be too much for cloves.
Now it transpires that there isn’t a
fraction of phosphorus in fish. People
in search of brain food will have to
chew friction matches.
Prejudice Kill*.
“ Eleven years our daughter suffered on ;
a bed of misery under the care of several
of the best (and some of the worst) physi
cians. who gave her disease various names
but no relief, and now she is restored to us
in good health by as simple a remedy as
Hop Bitters, that we had poohed at for
two years, before using it. We earnestly
hope and pray that no one else will let
thoir sick suffer ns we did, on account of
prejudice against so good a medicine as
Hop Bitters.”—The Parents.
If you would be a pest to society, be
[ a drunkard ; and you will be avoided as
I infectious.
GUANO ON THE DEFENSIVE:
OtTUK SIA RKTiUY A TkKASVHEK j
Georgia CliEsfltfA’i. Works,
Avgusta, Ga., June 21, 18ho. S
M KSSIJS. K. B. BKSso>f A Cos.,
lIARTWKIX, Ga.
Gents: In looking over True Hakt
wkll Son of the 16th instant, I no
ticed a letter from a man who sign*
himself “I. J. M. Goss. M. D., LL D,”
headed, “ Make Your Own Fertilizers,”
with a note at the hot tom to the effect
that *• Prof. I. j. Goss would give
a free lecture at Hartwell on the above
to the farmers on the night of tire 22d
of June, Ac.”
I know nothing of this Prof. Goss
and care less, but ho has made state
ments in that letter which are positive
lies, and 1 believe he knew them to be
so when Ac made them. It will be
’ found to be the truth that this man is
a peddler of patent receipts for lunnq
facturing cheap fertilizers, so called.
At any rate, a man that would deliber
ately falsify the truth, as he has, will
| bear watching. He says, speaking of
his formula: “ Why not buy the above
“ chemicals, which for enoh two thou
“ sand pounds of the common fertil
“ izers in use would cost by wholesale
l “ about 12 to 15 dollars, but fanners
are paying from S6O to S7O, and
! “ and often getting but little else than
| “ swamp muck or dirt. I have in my
“ possession some half dozen or more
i “ receipts to make a fertilizer for various
I “ crops, and the best fertilizers may be
“ made at a eftst of sls or S2O per ton."
Now, the above is false in every par
ticular. In the first place, no farmer iu
Hartwell has to pay from sf>o to S7O
per ton for a good fertilizer. You sold
“Old B." (as good a fertilizer as was
ever made) at about 450 or 4GO pounds
middling cotton, which will amount to
not over s4l per ton next fall. And if*
the professor (?) has a receipt for mak
ing a fertilizer like the “Old H.,” that
will analyse 10 per cent, available phos.
acid, 3 per cent, ammonia and 2.30
potash, which he will sell and fur
nish ingredients at a cost of sls or
S2O per ton, lie is very unwise to waste
his time and talents retailing formulas
iu the country, as ho could readily ob
tain $50,000 to SIOO,OOO for the same,
by visiting this city, Charleston or lial
\ ttmorc.
lie says, also: “When the fanner
•• purchases a ton of commercial fertil
izers, ho gets thirty dollars of his
“ money in twenty bushels of common
“jnuclc or soil,”
This is an infamous lie. The factory
of the Georgia Chemical Works, under
my management, in this city, where
your “Old H.” is made, i ; at all times
open to the inspection of the public.
Nothing but valuable materials are
used in the manufacture of their fertil
izers ; and I will give the learned Pro
fessor one thousand dollars to prove
the existence of muck or soil— iiv any
proportion —in any fertilizer made by
this company.
Yours, very truly,
M. A. Stovavv, Tr< as.
Bill Lidcll, the ( lock Tinker,
Was in Ilartwell the other day, lie is
i opposed to mineral doctors, fie was
1 raised up under the Thompsonian dis
pensation, and believes a big drink of
concentrated corn /nice will make a
man forget his sickness ‘‘quickcrn a
! cat can lick its face.” He is opposed
|to quacks of the highest rank ; to pay
their fees would break a bank—since
wisdom, science, art and skill seems alt
composed of calomel. When Mr. A.
or B. is sick. Oh, fetch the Doctor and
be quick. The Doctor, he comes with
free good will, but never forgets his cal
omel. He takes his patient by the
hand and compliments him as his
friend ; sits awhile his pulse to feel,
and then deals out his calomel. He
turns upon his patient’s wife—" Dear
ma’am, have you clean paper and knife ?
[ think your husband would do well to
take a course of calomel.” lie then
deals out the fatal grains, with opium
to ease his pains, and bids good e'en
with graceful mieu. In hopes bad hu
mor to expel], she freely gives the cal
omel. The man reclines upon his bed
and o’er the pillow leans his head.
Like the hunted hart upon the hill, he
pants and dies with calomel. Physi
cians of her foolish choice, receive my
council, take advice. He not offended
though I tell I’m not so fond of calo
mel ; and when I must resign my breath
pray let me die a natural death, and
bid you all along farewell, without high
drugs or calomel.
You may talk about your dearest May,
An l sing of Rosalie,
j But the man who pays the printer
Is the kind of man foe we.