The Georgia mirror. (Florence, Ga.) 1838-1839, June 30, 1838, Image 1

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BY GARDNER & BARROW. THU GEORGIA TIIKRO3S, I Is published every Saturday, iu Florence, ? tew art county, Ga. at ITIIIEE DODLARS a year, if paid in advance, or FOUR DOLLARS, if not paid until the end of the year. Advertisements will be conspicuously inserted at Oue Dollar per square, (15 lines) the first, and 50 cents for each subsequent insertion. Nothing under 15 lines will be considered less than a square. A deduction will be made for yearly ad ertisements. All advertisements handed in for publication without limitation, will be published till forbid, and charged accordingly. Sales of Land and Negroes by Executors, Ad ministrators and Guardians, are required by law to be advertised in a public Gazette, sixty davs previous to the day of sale. The sale of Personal property must be adver tised in like manner forty days. Notice to 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 groes, must be published weekly for four months. 05** All Letters on business must be i*os paid to insure attention. JOB PRINTING. C CONNECTED with the office of the MIR- J IvOR, 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 kept on hand, such as INDICTMENTS, DECLARATIONS, Sl T ISP(ENAS, JURY SUMMONSES, EXECUTIONS. COST EXECUTIONS. SHERIFF’S BILLS OF SALE, do DEEDS, L \ND DEEDS, JUS. SUMMONSES, do EXECUTIONS, MORTGAGES, LET. ADM INISTRATION, do TESTAMENTARY, do GUARDIANSHIP, And a great many others for Justices of the Peace, Administrators, Executors, &c. TOWN COUNCII7~ (frdivnvces of the town of Florence, parsed by the Board of Commissioners, June 18, 1838. BE it Ordained, That no person or persons shall bathe in the Chattahoochee river, with in the incorporated limits of the town of Florence, above‘Centre street—any person or persons so of fending, shall be subject to a fine of One Dollar. And it it further Ordained, That if any per son or persons shall fire guns or pistols within the corporate limits of the town of Florence, he or they shall be subject to a fine of Two Dollars. And be it further Ordained, That if any white person or persons shall run horses, mares, geld ings or mules, through the streets of Florence, he or they shall be fined in the sum of One Dollar; and if any slave or slaves shall violate this Ordin ance, he or they shall receive twenty lashes on the bare back. R. W. WILLIAMS, Intend’t. Tho. Gardner, Sec . June 18 13 CAUTION. I FOR WARN all persons from trading for any of the notes hereinafter described to wit: the amount of S3OO in small notes payable to Green B. Ball or bearer, and bearing date some time in this instant; some of the above notes are signed Jeremiah Cutts & William Johnson and some signed William Johnson & Jeremiah Cutts; and two notes given by myself to Harris Dennard. amounting to $37 and bearing date some time about the first of this instant; also one given to W. & B. May for sl7 and some odd cents, bearing date some time about the first of Febunry last, and one for $5 bearing date in April or May last given by myself and payable to James Johnson; and many others in the same situation now not recol lected, All of said notes having been paid off and fully settled by me, that they are all illegally detained from my possession, and I am determined not to Pay said notes the second time unless compelled by law. WILLIAM JOHNSON. Lmnpkin Ga. June 7, 1838. 12 4t STRAYED, ySoSi From the subscriber in Lumpkin fSr faiwlF* about the first of May last, a BAA FILLY, between two and three J&sdSLj** years old, she is supposed to be still in the county, any information respecting hes will will be thankfully received, or a liberal reward will be given to any person who will deliver her to me. WILLARD BOYNTON. Lumpkin, Ga. June 13, 1838 12 ts OR STOLEN. A bright BAY MARE, about five feet six inches high, long tail, Cnr has some white hairs about her right hind foot, no other marks The said Mare either Strayed or was stolen from my house about the 20th of March. Any information will be thankfully received or Ten Dollars Reward will be given for her delivery to me, near Roanoke, Stewart County Ga. T. 11. CORBETT. Florence, June 16,1833 L3 nim THE MARRIED MAN'S FARE. A PARODY ON THE “BACHELOR'S PARE.” Happy and free are a Married Man’s reveries, Cheerily, merrily passes his life, ile Knows uot the Bachelor’s revelries, dcvilres, Carressed by, and blessed by his Children and Wife, From lassitude free too, sweet home still to flee to, A pet on his keee too, his kindness to share, A fires de so cheery, the smiles of his deary— O this, boys! this is the Married Man’s Fare! Wife kind as an angel, seeks things never range ill, Busy promoting his comfort around; Dispelling dejection, with smiles of affection, . Sympathizing, advising, when fortune has frown’d Old ones relating droll tales, never sating,— Little ones prating, all strangers to care; Some romping, some jumping, some puucliing, some munching, Economy dealing the Married'Man's Fare. Thus is each jolly day one lively holiday ; Not so the Bachelor, lonely, depressed; No gentle one-near him, to home to endear him, In sorrow to cheer him, no friend if no guest. No children to climb up—’twould fill all my rhyme up, And take too much time up to tell liis despair: Cross housekeeper meeting him, cheating, him, beating him— Bills pouring, maids scouring, devouring his Fare. He has no one to put on—a sleeve or neck but ton— Shirts mangled to rags! drawers stringless at knee^ The cook, to his grief, too, spoils pudding and bee too, With overdone, underdone,—undone is he! No son still a treasure, in business or leisure ; No daughter, with pleasure new joys to pre pare ; But old maids and cousins, kind souls, i - ush in dozens, Relieving him soon of his Bachelor’s Fare. 11c calls children apes, Sir (the fox and the grapes, Sir,) And fain would he wed, when his locks are like snow; But widows throw scorn, out and tell him he's worn out, And maiden’s deriding, cry, ‘No, my love, No !’ Old age comes with sorrow, with wrinkle, with furrow; No hope in to-morrow, —none sympathy, spares; And then unfit to rise up, he looks to the skies, up— None close his old eyes up—he dies—and who cares! How to Have Hoses at- Christmas.-- Select from your rose-tree such buds as are to bloom, tie a piece of thread around the stalk of each. \ou must take care not to touch the bud with your hand, or even the stalk any more than you can avoid. Cut it carefully troni the tree with the stalk two or three inches in length. Melt some sealing wax and quickly apply it to the end of the stalk. The wax should only be so warm as to be ductile. Form a piece of paper into a cone like shape wherein place [the roses; screw it up carefully, so as to exclude the air from it; do so by each; then put them all into a box and the box into a drawer, all of which is intended to keep them from the air. On Christmas day, or any other day in the winter, take them out and cut ofi'the ends of the stalks, place them in a flower pot, with lukewarm water. In two or three hours they will bloom as in summer, retaining all their grateful fragrance. lloic to remove a potato from the throat of « choah ing cou\ Fasten the head of the animal, stand- firmly to a post. Let a strong man w ith his hand completely stop the windpipe by his grasp just above the potato, and keep a firm hold for a minute ortwo, until the animal gives an involun tary spring forward. Should the first experiment not succeed, let mere be made. Reason-—The wind, obstructed in its passage through the wind pipe, expands or largely opens the other pipe be low the potato, and when the animal makes a viol ent effort, the potato goes downward. This is a fact worth knowing to farmers, and, upon inquiry, I find that a few do know it. I had a fatting cow thus choking with a potato. After trying in vain several methods commonly known, 1 sent fora butcher to kill the cow at once. He came ; but instead of killing, in a few moments relieved the creature in the manner I have described ; and informed me that in the same way he had saved a number of cattle before.-- Yankee Far. Terian Legation.— The lion. Memuean Hunt, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the Republic of Texas took his departure from Washington on 23d May, leaving F- Catlett, Esq. Charge de Affaires. —Gen. Hunt, during his residence in this c“ity, won the regard and tespect of men in private and public stations, by the urba nity of his manners as a gentleman—and the dig nity and propriety of his deportment as a Minister. He deserves well of his country;-for while he pressed the object of his mission with a zeal commensurate with its importance, he has not compromised the dignity ot his Government, or the chivalry of its-people, by the least appearance of entreaty or unseemly importunity. In every respect—in his private fond public relations, he has conducted himself much to his own credit, and »he honor of his country. He leaves this community with the esteem and respect of all. We understand that, previous to his departure, a special invitation was given to him, by the dis titiguised men in Congress of all political parties, to u flipper with them, which was accepted. ’ Chronicle, FLORENCE, GA. SATURDAY, JUNE 30, 1838 jets aaatawamoiraA From the Southern Literary Messenger. THE BACHELOR’S DEATH-BED. Mr. Ethclwaite sick ! exclaimed I, hastily leav ing my bed. What is the matter ? I saw him this afternoon, and he seemed unusually well. “I don t know,” said the little bov, “but mam my lieered him groauin’, and did’ntlike to go and see, ’cause he always looks so cross a: her; so she sent me down to call you.” Poor man! poor man! filled my sighscontinu ally, until 1 had completed my preparations for braviug the inclemency of the weather. But let me not torget my readers are unacquainted with the individual so abruptly introduced to their notice. On a fine morning in the month of IVLy, a mes sage came to one of our church elders that a stranger wished to see him. “Indeed!” said the good man, putting ou his best coat in some little contusion ; fora stranger was a rare phenomenon in our village, and those who did visit us were of a class seldom disposed to trouble the elders,—except, indeed, tcgull their simplicity with some proverbial “notions.” But the trepidation of the kind elder had no effect on his politeness. Down he wept, to meet the unexpected visitant, with as much gravity as if he had in mind the apostolic injunction, “let your deacons be grave,” yet as cordially as if he felt liimsell equally enjoined to be “given to hos pitality.” Ihe stranger exhibited, in manners and dress, the model ot a finished gentleman. He was, per haps, fifty years old, apd dressed in black, with extreme neatness. A pair of gold spectacles did not obscure the expression of his calm blue eye, and his gold-headed cane was grasped by a hand of most aristocratic proportions. Bowing to the elder’s complimentary welcome, he observed, “In passing your little village yesterday 1 was so much pleased with its neatness and quiet, as to be temp ted to stop and examine it closely. The result is, 1 have been taken with the idea of terminating in it the span of my existence. Will you be kind enough to inform me if there are any vacant pews iu your church?” “\V e have several,” replied the pious elder, almost revering the devotion that made God’s worship the first care of its possesor—“we have several, but they are in a lonely, unfrequented P*“* tlio fKnrrh. r- JLigrAiiahle to you. But my own is too large for my family, and I need not speak of the pleasure it w ill afford me to have you aid us in filling it. The insignificance of the offer emboldens me to make it, and my gratification will be so great as to make your ac ceptance of it a personal favor.” “Pardon me,” said the stranger, his eyes glis tening as if the voice of sympathy was an unwon ted sound; “I appreciate y our kindness, but if the pews you speak of are lonely, they will present fewer objects to withdraw us from our motives of entering them. Even the house of God is not sacred from the world, and if I have not begun to justify, I have ceased to condemn their weakness, who attempt to exclude it from their heaits, by secluding from it their senses. The good elder said not .mother word, but, ta king his hat, they quietly walked towards the church; one, with his eyes lifted in praise to heaven that he had at last found an Ararat for the ark of his wanderings, and the other, with his bent to the ground in humility, to think how far his concep tions of devotion and charity were surpassed by those of his companion. Nothing occurred to disturb their meditations, until the rusty key gra ted in the lock of the old church door, when they passed down the aisle, to examine the pews. J ust as the stranger had selected one for his use, he happened to cast his eyes back towards the pulpit, and was startled to observe beside it a marble slab, sacred to the memory of Dorcas Lindsay—who had been, indeed, a Dorcas to our village. With out stopping to read the catalogue of her virtues, he rushed out, leaving the worthy elder, who had not observed the cause, almost petrified with as tonishment. Even the little bovs snatched up their marbles and ran to hide themselves, as he brushed down the street, striking the ground violently with his cane, and muttering, “Now may God forgive these worse than heathen, who defy him in his own temple with a graven image, and beside the elevated stand of his ministering servant, record the qualities of a human idol; that the virtues of the one, as recorded on the dead marble, mny bo set over against the perfections of the other as proclaimed by his living oracle—and that idol a woman! The world has long ago sickened me with its man-worship—but jwmflw-worship !—I had thought that left for the fools of France.” Reader, our devout, godly stranger w as not only a misogynist, but a monomaniac. I had been at the hotel, visiting a patient, and was leaving it, when he entered. There was that in his quivering lip, slightly frothed, and his hur ried toue as he demanded his horse of the land lord, that not only excited my curiosity, but awakened my sympathy. 1 paused at the door, in anxiety to see more of one whose agitation was so unwonted. Scarcely had I been there a mo ment, when he came out and stood on the sidewalk before me. Never had 1 seen our village look so lovely. The long row of china-trees on either side glowed with an unwonted freshness. The balmy breath of spring was laden with their per fume, and groups of children were sporting under their shade, like cherubs in the garden of inno cence. The scene went to the singular being be fore me, and when he turned to countermand his order, it was w ith the same bland expression in which he was first introduced to the reader.— Since the harp of the shepherd-king w as removed to heaven, man has found no music like the laugh of childhood, to calm the whirlwinds of the soul. Its silvery echoes break upon us amid the clouds of life, and we almost fancy a voice above us, say ing, “Come up hither.” its world is, indeed, a world above our own. Like the topmost of Baby lon’s hanging gardens, it is canopied by heaven’s serenest blue. The dew falls upon it in all its freshness, The bright sunbeams dance on its foliage, and ytay upon the brows of its sjlph-lifc? i inhabitants lighting them to enjoyment, us to toil. Never is man so happy as when he can leave the world below him, join their innocent re vels, and fancy himself a denizen of their world in miniature. 1 lie most hardened must melt, — the most profligate must be abashed,-—the proud est must be brought low, in the presence of those, ol whom, “such is the kingdom of heaven.” It is needless to recount how my acquaintance began with this singular individual; how it was ripened into friendship, or from friendship into the most deep-rooted affection. It is not difficult for sympathy to gain the attention of its object under auy circumstances, and especially of one so alive to its yearnings as he of whom we are speaking. It was not immediately that 1 ascertained either the existeuee or extent of his malady, but our subsequent intercourse displayed it to me in all its features. I might win a smile by depicting the ludicrous extremes to which it often carried him; but to this day his memory rests upon me like a pall, and laughter at liis expense would sound like the laughter of demons. A year had rolled by, during which my atten tions to our unfortunate invalid had been most as siduous. 1 had seized every pretext of giving him such medicines as would have a sympathetic influence on his mind, and easily persuaded him to regulars course of diet nr.d exercise. Hitherto lhad forborne any allusion to the topic of his aversion, and been very careful to avoid, in his presence, the mention of even the feminine pronoun.- But by this time 1 felt warranted to experiment on the success of my measures. Some kind ladies to whom I had mentioned the fact of his derangement, were in the habit of send ing him, in my name, occasional presents of fruit. On the day after liis reception, in this way, of a fine saucer of strawberries, w hile he was ex pressing his sense of my kindness, I casually pro posed a walk to the garden whence 1 had obtained them. He immediately assented, and the follow ing afternoon was fixed upon for our walk. This garden was delightfully situated in our suburbs, and belonged to the miller of our village. His wife, in their respective concessions of “suum cuique," had received it as her special cl. rge, and made its beauties her special boast. To this good lady 1 bent my steps, with the in formation of our intended visit. She expressed her gratification in the most lady-like terms, both on account of our proposed call, and that I had thus see that none of the girls should inadvertent ly intrude upon us. Thanking her for her kind ness. and observing that her suggestion in regard to the girls had anticipated my chief design in waiting upon her, I withdrew, feeling in my breast the alternations of hope and fear— “ Like light and shade upon ti waving field, Coursing each other, when the flying clouds. Now hide, and now reveal the sun.” At the appointed time we started on our proposed walk. He was a most interesting companion, and well versed in general literature. Our way was so beguiled by bis fine fund of anecdote and ju dicious remarks, that the beauties of the garden broke upon us before we had imagined our walk half completed. This, of all others, was the very thing I most desired, and to prevent his mind from being suddenly called off, 1 engaged him so deeply in the discussion pending between us, that we were delightfully seated in the shady arbor, be fore lie seemed even to notice that we had entered the garden. When he realized the little paradise into which we had entered, and saw before us a table on which were placed some delicious straw berries, his admiration knew no bounds. While he was expressing liis sense of the kindness dis played by the owner of the garden, I interrupted him by saying—Well, we shall make but a poor return, unless we pay some attention to the straw - berries her bounty has prepared for us. Afraid to give him an opportunity of replying, or even speak ing, I hastily handed him the sugar and cream, which, to my infinite delight, he took without re mark. It is as impossible for me to describe, as it is to forget, the sensations of joy that almost con vulsed me. when 1 observed that my allusion to the sex of our hostess had fallen from me unno ticed. Afraid lest my emotions should betray themselves, I hastened back to the topic that hail occupied us on our entrance, and found him as ready to renew the discussion as myself. It is unnecessary to tax the reader’s patience by a detail of the daily visits we continued to make to the same place. Suffice it to say, that I con tinued to make casual mention of the sex, and was daily more and more pointed in my allusions. I could observe no change in him on these oc casions ; he only seemed not to notice my remarks. Yet it was a matter of delight to me that he would at all suffer them to be made in his presence, since, formerly, the least mention ofthe feminine gender of a«y species whatever, would produce upon him a sensible expression of disgust—an allusion to a woman, had never failed to call forth a torrent of invective. I pursued my original plan with him for weeks. Every opportunity of introducing the subject was embraced, and with more and more satisfying re sults. At length I ventured, occasionally, to touch upon instances where women had proved signal blessings to the world. He would listen to me—andlthat was all. One afternoon the miller himself made one of our party in the little summer-house. Just as he was becoming warmly engaged in conversation, a servant came with a message requiring liis person al attendance. He left us, expressing his sorrow that he was called away so soon, and begging that we would not let his departure effect our stay. — Scarcely had he gone, when Mr. Ethelwaite re marked, “How rarely do wa meet- with such un affected urbanity in the lower walks of life.” Ah, said I, he owes every thing to his wife. He was once a degraded sot, but her affection and her prayers won him back to the paths of duty. She in turn owes every thing to one who has entailed a debt of gratitude upon us all. I mean Dorcas Lindsay, to whose worth the marble in our church is a feeble tribute. I do not like the practice of blazoning forth the virtues of the creature in the tcmjdes of the Creator, but Miss Lindsay was of Vol. I.— No. 14. so pure and saintly a nature, that we could hardly reckon the/atmosphere of earth her natural ele ment. Fearing that the culogium into which I had been drawn would make him impatient, I changed the tone of my discourse, by remarking—Her manner of coming among us was rather myste rious. We had long felt the want of a good fe male teacher, and the trustees of our female ac ademy advertised for the purpose of obtaining one. Shortly after the publication of the advertisement, a letter was received from a lady stating that she had but lately arrived in this country from Lon don. On her voyage she had suffered shipwreck, and was now a stranger among strangers, and des titute. She left England because she was friend less, and it had been her design to engage i:i teaching from choice, even if shipwreck had net made her anxious to do so, from necessity. The delicacy of language in which the note was couch ed, and here and there a tear, which had b! its pages, together with unfortunate cir* stances of the writer, won ihc sympathy. the trustees, and they sent for her immediai It is thirty years since she can e amo: z ns. i remember her first appearam e as s ,t w■ • r terday. She had the brow of a <, black eye, that might once have flashing—but sorrow had softened , chain around her neck was attach. <1 ti a ture almost concealed by her belt. This was ;ht only earthly treasure the w aves had left her. I had never been in the habit of looking at Mr. Ethelwaite, when conversing with him in this way, lest he might suspect some design; but a deep groan hastily arrested me, and turning tow ards him, I saw the very soul of agony depicted on liis features. The veins of his forehead stood out like cords, and were swelled almost to bursting. His eyes seemed starting from’ their sockets—his mouth was slightly open, as if to drink in every word that fell from my lips. Shocked beyond the power of speech, I took his arm to lead him home. Hastily repulsing my attempt, he gasped out “Dorcas Ad Lindsay?—Go on.” My dear sir, 1 have no more to say. She lived among us like a saint, and died as she lived. Let me lead you home, you arc unwell. “The miniature?” She carried it with her to her dying day, and by her ow n request 1 had it buried with her in her “Was it this?” grasping my arm, fixing his hair in a particular w av thatdisplayed a large scar, and glaring upon me with his eyes as if he would pierce my very soul. The miniature certainly had a scar upon the head, but it was of quite a young man. Do let me lead you home. “Wasit this?” dashing his hand into his pock et and out again, with a miniattire which he held full before my eyes, his own glaring upon me, as before. What could I say ? The miniature in his hand was fellow to the one I had buried with Dorcas Lindsay. He rightly interpreted my silence. Gradually liis muscles relaxed, till he sunk upon his seat with a deep groan. I took his arm, and led him forth like a child to my own house. All that night, all the next day, and all the night following, he was in a raging fever. On the morning of the se cond day he fell into a sleep so hushed, that my wife, who was standing with me by his bedside, gently felt his pulse. The touch aroused him; and opening his eyes he grasped her hand, saying, in a subdued voice, “Dorcas, have you come back to me ?” His brain was still confused, but his senses were gradually returning. When they were more fully restored, he recognized me, and spoke of the long, long dream he had had. From this time he gradually recovered. I would fain have prevailed with him to contiuuehis abode at my house, but no; he had become at tached to his little room, and expressed himseli anxious to die there. Taking an affectionate leave of my wife, and venting his gratitude to her by a tear, he started, myself accompanying him, for his solitary residence. “You will show me her grave,” said, he, as he pressed my hand, at parting. I bowed assent, and the next day complied with his request. Al ter this, I visited him daily for three days, and al ways found him writing. It was on the night ol the third day, that the little boy, came for me, as above. With a mind full of solicitude, T reached his door. I could hear him pacing the room in vio lent agitation, and venting, at intervals, groans that came from his soul’s deepest chambers. I rapped, but received no answer. I rapped again, but still no answer was returned. I mentioned my name; still lie continued walking to and fro. 1 repeated it, louder. The sound arrested him. He suddenly unlocked the door, and then went on pacing the room and groaning. I entered, and what a sight met my vision! There w-as Mr. Ethelwaite, his coat soiled and muddy, his fea tures worked up to the highest pitch ol anguish, and ever and anon, venting those unearthly groans that even now chill my blood. He held two min iatures, one in each hand, at which he alternately gazed, after which he would groan out —“Too true! too true!” He took no notice of my entrance, nor of my entreaties that he would he down. At length he suddenly turned to me and said vehemently, “God has sent you here. Too true! too true! This night I entered her grave, and found the minia ture that was to be, to'her, my type, during iny ab sence. She was too happy as she gazed on r the fiends of hell first envied, and then stole der joy. Oh! —ray—Go—” The rush of thought choked his utterance would have fallen, but 1 caught and bore the bed. His breath became harder and L ■ his groans less and less audible—u p raising himself,he grasped my hand v ' \ effort—said faintly,—“You will --fi, plained—in—that—l followed v. the motion of his hand, as he pointed ,o ; writing desk, and when I turned them c g again, ho was dead,’ jj. j,.