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BY GARDNER & BARROW. TSII'i GEORGIA RIRROR, Is published every SaturJay, in Florence, 'tewurt county, Ga. at THKKE DOLLARS a year, if paid in advance, or FOUR DOLLARS, n' not paid until the end of the year. Advertisements will be conspicuously inserted at One Dollar per square, (15 lines) the first, and r,O cents lor each subsequent insertion. Nothing under 15 lines will be considered less than a square. A deduction will be made for yearly ad fvtisements. Vll advertisements handed in for publication without « limitation, will be published till forbid, aud charged accordingly. Sales of Land and Negroes hy Executors, Ad • . . „..,i ouardlaits, are required by law to be advertised in a public Gazette, sixty days previous to the day of sale. Tin- sale of Personal property must be adver tise- 1 in like manner forty days. Notice t:> Debtors and Creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land and Ne croes, must be published weekly for four month.-,. QT 5 * All Letters on business must be dost raid to insure attention. JOB PRINTING. (~1 ONNECTED with the office of the AIIR- J R< )R, is a splendid assortment of And we are enabled to excute all kind of Job work, in the neatest manner and at the shortest notice. of every description will constantly be ke]it on hand, such as INDICTMENTS, DM CL N. RATIONS, SUBPU'.NAS, JURY SUMMONSES, EXECUTIONS. COST EXECUTIONS. SHERIFF’S RILLS OF SALE, do DEEDS, l\nd DEEDS, JUS. SUMMONSES, do EXECUTIONS, MORTGAGES, LET. A DMINISTRATION, do TESTAMENTARY, do GUARDIANSHIP, And a great many others for Justices of the Peace, Administrators, Executors, &c. \CC( )RDING to a few days notice by the __u Trustees of Florence Academy, a public examination of the Students was desired, and the exercises of the first Term closed this day, and ihe citizens who attended, were much delighted, with the improvement of students, and tho Trustees present take great pleasure in giving this public te timonial of their approbation for the able and impartial manner in which Mr. A. W. Gris woki has discharged his duty as an instructor; and without any hesitancy we would recommend Parents and Guardians to place their Children and wards under Mr. Griswold’s care; whom we consider second to none, a- an instructor in the English and Latin languages. The second term of thfe in iitution will com mence on Monday the 25th day of June, under the charge of Mr. G. with the, same rules and regulations as the term just ended. We xvou'd remark that Florence lias been en tirely healthy, and settled with good society, hoard may be had at customary rates in Town ur neighborhood. WM. STAFFORD, ) J.T. It. TURNER, | JOSEPH REESE, } Trustees. JORDAN REESE, | 11. W. .TERN I GAN, J Florence, June 15,1338 12 CAUTION. [FORWARN all persons from trading for any of the notes hereinafter described to wit : the amount of s.'loo in small notes payal'e to Breen B. Ball or bearer, and hearing date some time in this instant; some of the above notes are signed Jeremiah Cutts He William Johnson and same signed William Johnson Ac Jeremiah Cutts; and two notes given by myself to Harris De maid, amounting to 837 and bearing date some tim * about the first of this instant; also one given to W. He I>. May for Sl7 and some odd cents, bearing date some time about the first of Febuary last, and "ne for $5 bearing date in April or May last given by myself and payable to James Johnson; and many others iu the same situation now not recol lecteiL All of said notes having been paid off and fully settled by me, that they are all illegally detained bom my possession, and I am determined not to !«>’ said notes the second time unless compelled by law. WILLIAM JOHNSON. Jmimpkin Ga. June 7, 1838. 12 4t__ STRAYED OR STOLEN. A bright BAY MARE, about VT five feet six inches high, long tail, AM has some white hairs about her right hind foot, no other marks Collected. The said Mare either Strayed or was Men from my house about the 20th of March, hiy nformation will be thankfully received or Ln Dollars Reward will be given for her delivery me, near Roanoke, Stewart Countv Ga. T. H. CORBETT. Florence, June 16, 1838 17 12 rihORGIA GUARDS, parade at Lumpkin, on Saturday, 23 inst. armed and equipped the law directs. Bv ordor of the Captain. Junes) U J. P. MATTHEWS, O. S. From the Philadelphia Visiter. THE GROOMSMAN, A talc founded upon incidents in real life. BY H. If. MOOUE, AUTHOR OF “MARY MORRIS.” ( Concluded.) CHAPTER VI. Mr. West, when he married Julia Graham, lov ed her—no; according t t e general acceptation of the word—but with a fervor approaching idolatry. His feelings towards her were of the most exalted kind—delicate and tender in their nature—pure as the chrysial streams of waters, and as sweet as the tones of an yEolian harp. A s over the strings of the harp the summer breeze trembles, with its dy ing cadence and its rich deep tones —melting—mu- sical; so it was with Theodore’s love—all gentle ness—devotion—fondness ! To him a wiie seem ed something more than an earthly being—some thing purer—something holier!—Besides, he was in a great measure, the creature of impulse, and born with sensibilities natura ly superior to those ordinarily characteristic of the human species, why he became so easily the dupe of misrepresen tation, is a conclusion not at all difficult for us to arrive at. His fault in the present case was the er ror of hasty judgment, acted upon by the lightning like feelings of a warm and youthful heart—youth is necessar ly without experience. But this only serves iu some degree to palliate the circumstance —no to excuse it. Ilad he paused, as he should have done, for reflection, lie would have acted dif ferently—his wife would not have been obliged to leave him, as -lie did, nor would lie have experi enced those conflicting tortures of the mind be neath the lash of which ne washourly writhing. Bv tiie side of his dying child he watched, un remittiiKily, ti 1 it breathed its last, and when final ly convinced that the spark oi life was extinct, his grief was excessive,—vehement —and even blas phemous! To this succeeded despondency. Al ter the storm of pission the gloom of despair—in its repose more awful than in the violence of com motion. Upon the bed beside the corpse he sat, with his eyes fixed upon the inanimate form, nor could anv entreaties prevail on him to leave the room. He was finally taken out —not exactly by force, but with the utmost reluctance. During this scene Clark was standing in the chamber, a little apart from the groud, smiling with mali cious satisfaction as he witnessed the griet his master displayed —the whole remind, ig us ot a scene in Shakspeare's Othello, aud off orrest and Booth iu their masterly deliuiations of the Moor and iairo. Monday, the third day after the child's decease, was fixed upon for the burial. The hearse, with its dark hangings and mute driver, stood before the door. Friend after friend gathered around the mansion, from the city in carriages, and lrom the neighborhood on foot. Mr. \\ t-st refused to at tend the funeral—refused, nor could he assign any reason—thev persuaded, but i;o, ho would not— aud the train was consequently obliged to proceed without him. Previous to his starting, Clark whispered in private to his fellow-servants the ex pediency of someone remaining with him in the absence of the rest. “In his present disordered state of mind,” he said, “it will not be prudent to 1-ave him alone. He may possibly be tempted to suicide. Once before he' attempted his life, and in order to prevent a result of the kind, i will my self volunteer to remain.” It was accordingly agreed that Clark should stay. As the funeral left, the parent of the child about to be buried, stood under the piazza, watching the slow and solemn train till it disappeared from his sight.— Turning into the house he was billowed by Clark, and giving way to his despair, call -d tortile cup ot intoxication. “Wine! wine!’’ he exclaimed.— Give me the glass— these miseries are more than 1 can bear!” As ho spoke, he pressed his hand convulsively aj aiiist his forehead, and his heavy breathings betokened the weight of sorrow under which he labored. “My child! my child!” he bitterly exclaimed, and‘continued to repeat her name with words of affection and regret. “1 have lost her' but her!” were his words, and deep and passionate the accents of his grief. “Mother and child both gone—both irotn my sight—and I am left a wreck amidst the barren waste of life! For a moment he paused, subdued, by the inten sity of his sorrow, and bursting into tears, wept like a child. A smile. Spread over the countenance of Clark—the triumphant one of successful vil lainy ! His victim again called for wine. Glass after glass of it he continued to swallow—his sen ses forsook him—he staggered—reeled-—and in hysterical convulsions fell prostrate upon the floor. . , , , “Now—now I triumph,” cried the malignant Clark, who had been careful to ply his victim with the inebriating draughts, expecting the present re sult. “I triumph now! Like diuk-eyed Zanga over Alonzo’s prostsate body I stand-—like Zi atiga too, I must awake my victim into horrors ! What, ho! arise,”—jerking the other by the coat collar and endeavoring to rouse him from his stupor. It is painful to speak of Mr. West in the situa tion he is here before tlie reader. But disagreea ble as it is. it is unavoidably necessary. The thread of the narrative exacts it. Intoxicated and insensible as he was, such was the vehemence of Clark’s language, that it startled him ; and halt opening his eyes, he encountered the other’s de moniacal gaze. “Your child died by poison—” “Poison!” “Ay, sir—poison!—and I administered the fatal drug.” “You!” “Yes—me! Behold me!” lie cried, tearing ofi his whiskers and false hair, display ing the light colored ringlets he naturally possessed, instead of the jet black curls of a wig—and revealing to the astonishment of his hearer — “Byard?” “Y’es—Byard—-vour wife’s cousin, and your own eternal enemy ! ’Twas I that poisoned your child, —’twas T that murdered it,—” “You for what?" FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1838. 1 “For revenge "’—thundering out his words, and forcing a laugh of fiendish exultation, whilst his mouth foamed with the excitement ot his passions —“for revenge! revenge!” Here a momentary pause ensued,during which they intently aud ear nestly gazed at each other—the one tremulous with awe—the other scowling with the dark and vindictive spirit of wicked determination. Mi. West rose to his feet, and was for leaving the room, but Byard intercepted him, placing him self against the door, and imperatively bidding the other to remain where he was. “Hear me, he said, or rather vociferated. “You married mv cousin -Julia Graham. I loved her! and when her preference was fixed upon you, 1 felt the de mon rankle in my bosom—-the demon that actu ates me now. However, 1 managed to smother my feelings at the time, and even officiated as groomsman at your nuptials. But your increas ing happiness 1 could not bear to witness, and so departed for Europe. There i planned the scheme 1 have since executed. After the ab sence of a year I returned to the United States— intent upon one thing—the destruction ot your felicity. In the first place, to arouse your suspi cious, I loitered about these premises, night after night, with the flute and guitar, playing, at times, accompanying the instrument with my voice. In your Spanish servant, Manuel Garcia, I found a ready abettor for the gold 1 supplied him; and at my desire, he whispered in your ears the lying taie that so easily fired your breast with jeal ousy.” . . , At this barefaced confession, it may readily be supposed Mr. West was thunderstruck. Jle was so; and with speechless amazement and impa tience awaited while Byard continued as follows : “AVorn out as it were, by your harsh treatment, her affection for vou seemed to lie suspended, and to leave you became the prevailing desire of your wife’s bosom. Manuel discovered it—-disclosed to me the secret, and at my bidding, proffered his assistance, which she unhesitatingly accepted of. A plan for her escape was then agreed upon, and a night not far distant appointed to put it into ef fect. She was to be rowed across the river, there to take a carriage which was to be in waiting. The night settled upon arrived. 1 had a schoon er I hired, ready at anchor in the stream, a mile below, and dressed in the garb of a sailor, 1 waited with a boat at the designated spot. She came down with Manuel, entered the boat, and was en trapped on board ol the vessel. We got under weigh, sailed immediately from the river, and as soon as we got out at sea, I attempted— ’ “Impossible!” “Yes—l did—but own that 1 found her virtue impregnable. My endeavors she resisted—-it en raged me—and rather than she should ever get again to your arms, 1 determined to ay! and now she sleeps beneath a watery grave ! “Dead ?” “She is—she is!—murdered !” At the announcement of this, an exclamation of horror escaped from the lips of Theodore, and his uplifted hands were clasped with the energy <>! despair! His wife’s innocence was now declared bevond a doubt, and as he thought over the wrongs she had received—of the sorrows he had himself been the cause of—he groaned with renaotse ! Remorse ! remorse! and his groans were music to the exulting villainy of Byard. But at this cri sis—in the very midst of his triumph, the door, of the room was burst open, and Garcia, witi several police officers, entered. “ J here he is—seize him—” “Ila! traitor!” cried Byard. Drawing a load ed pistol from his breast-pocket, he levelled it at Garcia and fired, who instantly fell upon the floor, drenched in blood! The officers secured the per petrator of the deed, who made no resistance, as he knew w ell enough it would be fruitless to do so. “Hear me,”—gasped the dying Spaniard faint ly, at the moment recovering sufficient strength to to raise himself on one hand—“l am the murder er of the tavern keeper—killed—Baltimore— year—eighteen—twenty-five—” uttering which, he sunk back and expired. Byard was conveyed to prison. The coroner was sent for, and a v v lict given over the corpse of Manuel, which was then taaeu to the city for burial. CHAPTER VTI. Owing to the shock he received at the certainty of his wife's death, and the confusion of crowded incidents treated of in the preceding chapter, Mr. West was taken sick. Before three days he was very low indeed ; so much so, that tire skilful phy sician, whom we have previously had occasion to notice m the course of our narrative, had actually fears for his safely. He recognised no one—not even his most intimate acquaintances. \l bile in slumber liis breathings were long-dravn, and ap parently painful. Thus he lay (or months—four months—upon the verge of the grave as it were, but fortunately, and much to the joy of those a round him, he all at once began to get better, lie had lain in a dream, comparatively speaking, from which he was suddenly awakened. During the sickness he was mentally insensible; and his re collections of what had occurred, even after his convalescence, were at first imperfect; but as the renewal of his health continued, the facts gradual ly unfolded themselves—the flight of his wife— liis daughter’s death—Bvard’s revenge—and Gar cia’s fate, these and the circumstances connected with them. Amidst it all, too. he remembered seeing, at intervals, when his sight was open, but his reason less clouded, the form of afemale mov ing noislessly and with care around his bedside. — He remembered boras a vision—seen—but in distinct. Where was she now ? lie was as yet confined to bed, and it wnsrequi site that sonic one should constantly he at his side. “Eliza,” said he addressing a servant girl in atten dance. “Sir—” . . . “Who has been nursing me during my sick ness ?” . “The seamstress, sir,” was the reply to his ques tion; an answer, unexpected indeed, and Mr. West was unable to comprehend it Thinking he might possibly have been misunderstood, he re -1 peated the mterrogatory, to which, however the same response was returned. “The seamstress! who is she?” “Indeed, sir, 1 cannot say. Your wife s rela tives recommended her here, but ever since she entered the house, instead of pursuing her occu pation, she has faithfully devoted her attention to you.” • “How long has she been here?” “Bite came two or three days after you were first taken sick, and has remained since then. Here then w as a pause of silence and of thought on the part of Air. West for a minute or two, then broken by him with auother inquiry. “A seam-' stress you say she is ?” “Yes, sir.” At this moment, as it will often happen, the door was opened and the person they were speak ing of entered the apartment. Eliza left the room. The seamstress, as she encountered the ardent gaze of Air. West, trembled,—a crimson blush spread over her pale w hite cheeks, and site paused in confusion. Recollecting herself, she i'alteiingly advanced to the bedside ot the invalid, and with a trembling accent inquired after his health. “I am better—much better, T thank you—and to your kind nurture during the hours ot suffer ing, am 1 indebted for the restoration and relief.— It must have beeu wearisome to watch so loug by the couch of peevish sickness; and lor the sake of administering to my comfort, how much ol per sonal inconvenience you must necessarily have overlooked.” To these remarks of his she unhesitatingly re turned a negative answer. The performance of the for which he thus, without flattery, comtnencred her, was not felt as a trouble—no— but, were the disinterested promptings ol human ity, which a tender solicitude will always suggest to an affectionate heart. Air. West admired! — Upon the intellectual countenance of the seam stress his eyes were riveted, and it seemed as if the lineaments were not unfamiliar. There was sadness pictured in those expressive sobs ! sorrow and resignation blended, like tlie colors, the lights and shades of a finished painting. He noticed that she was dressed in mourning, too, and asked if she lamented a near relation. “Yes, —” was the faltering reply,—“my .child!” “Your child /” “Yes,—my own child !” Tears streamed over her cheeks, and she asked to be excused as she left the chamber, to conceal the rising emotion# of her bosom, to weep in secret! Air. Wast was of course, sorry that he had so abruptly broached the subject, and w as upon the point of calling her back to apologize, but was at a loss for her name, he had forgotten to ask it. The servant girl again entered the room and he appealed to her. “What’s the name of the seamstress, Eliza?” “Airs. Bennett,” was the answer. “ Do you know any thing about her child—how long it lias been dead ?” “No, sir.” “Is her husband alive ?” “Indeed, sir, I cannot answer you positively— but 1 believe she is a widow. “You have heard so ?” “No, sir, 1 have not. I judge from incidental impressions, altogether. 1 may be mistaken — she may have a husband.” “When in conversation, have you ever know n her to revert to the child ?” “Never, sir—when she first came I merely un derstood she was in black for a daughter she had recently lost.” “Daughter! the child she lostw’as a daughter then it seems.?” “So 1 understood, sir. As to knowing any thing about her, she associates so little with us, that w e've not the opportunity to discover for our selves. With the old housekeeper, Margaret, she is intimate, but w ith none of us.” “Tell Margaret 1 wish to speak with her.” The girl accordingly left the room to obey the order, and her master, leaning back upon the pil low, v.as immediately involved in a labyrinthian train of thought. Airs. Bonnet!.the name was not familiar—but the face aud the tones of the voice were. A seamstress, she had been recom mended bv his w ife’s relations in that Capacity so said the girl—but since her entry into the estab lishment, had devoted her time entirely to the care of himself. There was surely kindness in that— was there not alfectian ? Being a seamstress, she was consequently dependant upon her own la bors for a livelihood. But what of that ? Life is full of changes, and to be poor reflects no dis grace. Louis Philippe, a king, and the wealthi est of men, was once obliged to teach an humble school in the wilds cf America, for a living. Re verses in life are daily occurring, and those that are. now rolling along in the luxury of a carriage, may soon be begging for bread. Such most likely was the case of Airs. Bennct —she had experi enced a reverse. Her manner and conversation avouched it. The outline of her face, the high forehead, and the soft blue eye, resembled his late wife’s, but there the likeness ended. Mrs. Bon net's smooth dark hair, so modestly retiring beneath the snowy w hiteness of her cap, corresponded not w ith Julia’s auburn curls, nor the almost spiritual paleness of her cheeks with Julia’s mantling bloom. Besides, she looked older than Mrs. West. 11 is thoughts were here interrupted by the en trance of the housekeeper, Alargaret, whom he had sent for—an old woman who had been in the service of his father before Theodore was born, and who was considered more as a relative ot the family than a hireling. At the period of Mr. arid Mrs; West’s domestic differences, she was the on ly one of the household that sympathised with tiie latter. When her master finally insisted upon having separate sleeping apartments, she took tae Hberty of remonstrating against it, and even went so far as to upbraid him with injustice. After the departure of Airs. West, the others would throw it up to Margaret as a confirmation of guilt, but tho old woman would not hear to it, and on all oc casions faithfully defended the character of her former mistress. W lien asked by any out her Vol. I.—No. 13. reasons for thus insisting on the innocence of he ( master’s wife, her exclamation would be, —“guilty • she guilty! no—she is too good-—too amiable! “Well, Alargaret,” said Air. West, as she en tered the room, asking her some trifling question as a matter of form, and desirous ot humoring her old ago before he ventured upon the subject for which he expressly wanted her. Taciturnity was, by no means a quality of hers, and when pleased she was talkative enough. Old maids are generally starched, stiff and formal— precise in ev ery thing they do or say, and at the age of fifty and upwards, with as'many wrinkles in the face as there are crimples in the Elizabeth-like collars round their veiny necks. Alargaret was an ex ception—there are exceptions in all things. She was hale, happy and bustling. Her younger day s had been tainted with the breath of calumny, but her latter years were unimpeachable. “I am well, 1 thank you,” was the reply she gave to a question he asked. “As long as 1 keep upon my feet I have no fears, but when an elderly per son once becomes bedridden, lile’s not good tor much, it’s more a torment than a pleasure. I was forty odd when J first came to live with your fa ther—l’ve outlived him aud your mother these fif teen years, and if 1 survive them till next tall I shall be sixty-four.” “You may outlive me too,” said the invalid, smiling. “I hope not,” replied She seriously. “Your parents 1 followed to the grave—your sweet little daughter too—and your wife is now Ah, sir, you have lost a treasure in her that you can never replace. She loved you, and she has—— “Died for me ! She has, Margaret, she has ! 1 know it—the truth of what you sa v 1 am aware cf, and till the last moment of my existence shall I repent in the bitterness of my heart ; ’ “I always told you that she was innocent.” “You did, but 1 would not believe it, and now, alas ! it is too late to repair the injury done! She sleeps—not in these arms as once she did—but in the sleep ol death—the long cold silence of an ocean-grave—to wake on earth no more !” Alter given utterance to these words, he lay back upon his pillow for several moments without speaking, and Alargaret, under tiie impression that lie was desirous of repose, advanced to the door and was about leaving the room—but Air. \\ es motionpd her to remain, and after a second intermission ot silence asked, if she did not think there was a strong resemblance between the seamstress, Airs. Bennett,and his late lamented wile? “Why, yes, there is a likeness,” said Margaret. “I had not observed it before, but now that you speakof.it, I think she does look something like the portrait in the drawing-room. But Airs. Ben net has got dark hair, and she’s very pale too—my mistress you know, had light hair, and always a high color ?” “Yes, but still the resemblance is great, so much so, that I am on the tiptoe of curiosity, as it were, and anxious to know more about her. She seems far above her present situation in life; and from what I have already seen of her, 1 am satis fied she has hitherto moved in a higher sphere than the humble orbit in which she now revolves. What do you know of her?” “Me!” exclaimed Margaret. “Why, what should 1 know of her? There was some linen to be made up, and she was recommended here as a seamstress—-1 know that” To this followed successive questions and an swers. Were the replications returned by Alar garet equivocal or not ? Mr. M ost gave it no thought, and of course did not susppet they were, but merely considered it her usual odd way, which it was indeed very similar to. Finding he was not likely to gain any further information, he dropped the subject, and Margaret afterwards left the a partment. Still Air. West’s curiosity, or rather his impatient desire to become acquainted with the past history of the seamstress was not a bated, but sharpened by the obstacles it incurred. She came into his room the next day, solicitously inquired how lie felt, and taking a seat at his bed side, composedly joined in a conversation with the recovering invalid. This continued for several forenoons, and the after part of the day was con sequently dull and tedious to him for the want of her presence. The more he saw her the more he liked her; and one morning as she was about leav him, he asked if she would not come in in the af ternoon and read a few pages for him in a volume he named. She answered that she would with pleasure, and did so. This was repeated, and she was subsequently at his side for the most part of the day. ft was not long before A f r. West was able to walk about bis room, and shortly afterwards to be out of doors leaning upon her arm as they promcnafed around the piazza, or leisurely strolled down the gravel walk. How often-would their eyes meet—hers bent on him with looks of ap parently the sincerest affection,' and his on her with a*gaze of admiration—admiration mingled with respect and reserve—reserve, however, which gradually wore off, and they eventually became more intimate, but still not enough so to warrant his making the inquiry he wished concerning her former life and present connexions. Frequently was he upon the point of adverting to the subject, but the tears she shed when bespoke of her child, recurred to his memory nod his heart would in variably fail him. The next meeting he would certainly speak of it, but the same hesitancy would then occur; he would postpone it till the next, and so the time slipped by. Alas! the human heart! how susceptible!—for it can no longer bo concealed that his affections were hourly cement ing themselves with the form, the thoughts and beauty of the seamstress—w ho was indeed a per son every way meritorions—a person whose pure sentiments were mingled with a generous regard for the opinions of another, and whose affable de portment at all times commanded admiration and esteem. CHAPTER ATI!. Still the time slipped by—aud still the seam stress remained at the mansion, the same accom plished and amiable being, the courteous Compan ion of Mr. West, and the delight of the house hold. Each day she put forth a budding virtue,