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BUSINESS CARDS.
SXHxauonD." Henr A. ANTHO ? T
JOHN D HAMMOND & CO.
Saddle, Harness, Trunk, and
Collar Mann fa ctnrertt,
Wholesale and Retail,
S6l West Baltimore Street, (Opposite the
Eataw House",) _ „
BALTIMORE.
R. E. BEST,* of N. C.,
with
• HENRY SONNEBORN & CO.,
Wholesale Clothiers,
21)7 W. Baltimore street, corner of
Liberty,
BALTIMORE.
11. Sonneboru, E. Bliuiline.
Nov. 1-Cm.
Carlin, D. O. Fulton,
J. F. Bradenbaugh,
CARLIN & FULTON,
Importers of
ISardwar*,- Cutlery, Gutiß,.&.c.,
]N'o. Soutli Howard street,
BALTIMORE.
Special attoutiou given to orders.
Nov. 1-tfin.
WINGO ELLEIT & CRUMP.
Dealers in
Boots, Shoes, Trunks &c.,
13U8 MAIN S-FREhT
' RICHMOND VA.
North Carolina trade a speciality
Srice«:guaranteed as Ibw as any House
[orth or South. .
June 16 187 a 1-y .
JTk^TLMEIT
, , Wholesale and Retail Dialers in
General Merchandise, Dry
Gooda, Notions Groceries, &c
Boots and Shoes a speciality.
Winston N* C.
Julv 15th 1875, 1-y.
W. WU*>n, Jr. V. Barm, Jr. V. 11. Burns
B- W. HILL,
'F- WITH
* WILSON, BURNS & CO.
Wholesale Grocers and
Commission Merchants,
, 30 8. Howard Street, Cor. of Lombard,
' BALTIMORHJ.
We keep constantly on hand a large and
well assarted stock of GROCEBIBS, suitable for
' tihe Southern and Western trade. We solicit
j«on»igm»eatß of ConnTBT PRODUCE, such as
VdtUn, Fathers, Ginseng, Beeswax, Wool,
Dried Fruit, Fi.rs, Skins, &c. Our facilities
, fot doing Business are such as to warrant
>4 sick Bales and prompt returns. All orders
will have oar prompt attention.
J** WM. S. ROBERTSON,
.. WITH
'* WATKINS & COTTRELL,
MPOETJBES AND JOBBERS OF
Hardware, Cutlery, &c.
fiADLERY GOODS, BoUing Cloth
Gum Packing and Belting,
1807 MAIN STREET,
Cfc|-i * RICHMOND. VA
' Sam'l A. 8. Kyle, Sam 1 1 P. helms,
Lamar llMyday, S. L. Duvall.
Win. S. RAMSEY, North Carolina,
. JDinsmore & Kyle,
x WHOLESALE
Grocer's and Commission
IM e rlc h a nit s,
No. 1560 st Pratt Street, •
BALTMOJiE, MD.
May'Ut jiff 12-nv \
Devoted to the Development of the Social and Material Interest* of this Section.
DANBURY, N. C., THURSDAY JANUARY 27, 1870.
ONLY A VOICE.
f ___
It was only a voice that swept through the
htfl,
In accents responsive to somebody's call,
Prom a form that 1 did not see;
But the door stood ajar, and the sound made
way,
As its musical rhythm asserted its sway,
And fetel'ully floated to me.
At first it was n thrilling surprise,
Inviting the soul from its slumber to rise,
After toil of a tedions day ;
And the paper and pencil seed tired, too,
And sttffgetted the artist's labor was through,
Till lit by the morning's ray.
Sfrr&e flp&f of tWat voioa tmf* ,iotff>t
And its musical cadence rose and fell
In dreams and in day's ecstacy j
Till the brain gave heed to no other tone,
And the soul was in bondage to this alone,
Nor mourned for its lost liberty. ,
We have never yet met —but that
clear
With its marvelous melody smote my ear
As Love's own reveille ;
And till heart-throbs are silenced by Death's
tattoo,
That voice I shall hear, and the long sleep
through
Be the call to eternity!
Marah Anderson's
Work.
BY "FRIO."
CHAPTER I.
The villago of Wycofif was thrown
into the wildest excitement; and no
wonder, for a crime had been commit
ted in their very mids: — a MUUDEB !so
attrocious and appalling, that every
heart in the community stood still with
horror at ita recital.
Already the murderer had been
seized and taken to tho common vil
lage prison ; and, although his proud,
white lace wore a look of pained in
nocence, not one of the vast crowd
that followed but believed him guilty.
WUen iVywff . wuia in i*s it,
had, like most villages, it 3 groat man.
Peter Anderson was looked upon as
the "moving spirit," in all matters of
interest. His opinion was, indeed, the
"leaven that leaveneth the whole
lump."
At his death his vast farm, his old
home—which was stately and grand—
and his great wealth, went to his two
sons, Robert and Gershom. Robert,
the younger, was a quiet, stay-at-home
boy,' while Gersham was exactly op
posite—of a wild and wayward dispo
sition, it was hard for the boy to sub
mit to the iron rule that existod in his
father's household; and many and
bitter were the words that passed be
tween father and son.
At the old man's death the brothers
separated ; Robert settled down at the
old place, but Gershom sought other
lands.
After living in the old house for
years, Robert deolared the large rooms,
so heavily wainscotted and hung with
gloomy drapery, had no charm for
him—that he must find his brother,
and make him come back and share
his time with him. So he closed his
house, put the keys and his business
into his lawyer's hands, and went in
search of the absent Gershom. lor a
year he wrote back regularly to nis
friends ; then his letters ceased sud
denly, aud then oame no more com
munications from him. Summer and
winter came and went three times
without news from the wanderer; and
thon people began to look at the closed
doors of the old, silent house, and
whisper to each other that harm had
come, no doubt, to the absent master.
But without even giving his law
yers notice, he returned and settled
down onoe more at Wycoff. He hid
been unsuccessful in regard to his
brother. A man answering Gershom's
description had been killed in one of
the drinking-saloons of an Eastorn
city ; and, believing his- brother dead,
he had returned to his Aativo town to
spend the remainder of his life.
Ho brought with him a shy, girlish
looking wif«, and an infant girl, of
twelve months. As is the case all
over the world, tbere,j»fSi much ouri- J
osity evinced, especially by the fe
males, in regard to the ®ew coiner.
No time was lost in callipg at the
"Hall." Mrs. Anderaon was kind and
gracious to all, and siwti the most un
charitable among them were farced to
admit that she was a perfect lady, and
as sweet and gentle as beau
tiful. Yet there was a reserve, a si
lenced in regard to her former lii'e,
which they by no means liked, because
it defied the °' + ie
number. The changew 0 An
derson, too, puzzled them" rk)t a little.
He was no longer cheerful and socia
ble, but stern, cold and inoyose. He
spent most of his tjpe with his wife,
or shut up in his office, poring over
musty books that had not been opened
before since his father's death.
These 'matters, as much as they
troubled his friends, seemed to give no
uneasiness to his wife. She was as
light-hearted as possible, and loved
her husband and their beautiful babe,
to adoration.
LitMe Marah was indeed a child to
be proud of, for she was as perfect a
cherub as ever filled a poet's dream;
in fact, "as pretty as Mrs. Anderson's
baby" became a household phrase,
and even the father's sternness changed
into ineffable tenderness as he felt the
soft, pink cheek of his baby against
his bearded one, and lor the moment
he was as gleeful as his little wife.
Time passed on. Mrs. Anderson
crept more into the hearts of her neigh
bors, and Marah was a pet with all.
Then, to their surprise, the Anderson
family grew distant and reserved.
They no longer mingled with their
neighbors. _ Thoir w
abroaa, and only the summers were
spent at Wycoff. The old servants
were dismissed and others, from the
city, installed in their places. Little
Marah was kept in almost utter seclu
sion, rarely ever going beyond her
father's grounds, except for a stiff)
formal visit with her mother, to the
few friends that still clung to them.
During their stay at \\ ycolF, it was
whispered that Robert Anderson was
not kind to his wife—that the family
machinery did not run as smoothly as
it should. At first this was only a
rumor, then, as time passed, it became
a certainty Mrs. Anderson grew
white and thin, and great, black rings
settled under the sad-looking eyes.
She would start at even her husbaud's
step. It is true she did not complain,
and if her life was bitter sbe bore it
with a sweet, touching patience. Even
the servants were strangely reticent,
or else knew nothing to tell; for with
all their being catechised so much,
nothing could be learned from them.
Thus matters stood, up to the night
that made Marah twelve years of age.
The family had just been home three
months, and on her birth-night had j
given her a little party. The.children I
were busy with their cfaucing and
games. Mrs. Anderson sat apart with
a few old friends who had been invi
ted, with their little ones, to partake
of the supper. All was merriment,
and Mr- Anderson, with pardonable
pride, fixed her» eyes lovingly upon
her little daughter, who stood just be
fore her. Just then her husband came
up to her chair and whispered a few
words in her ear. Her face changed
instantly, aud with a irightened look
she followed him from the room.
In the midst of the musio and danc
ing there arose on the night's air a
scream of pain, and Mrs. Anderson's
voice shouted: "Oh! my husband*
have meicy !" Then the report of a
pistol rang out with startling clearness.
The children huddled, with terror
hushed breath, close together; but
the few fathers and mothers who A ere
present called quickly for lights, and
hurried out to where the shot had been
heard. When they reached the back
piaaza a scene met their gaze which
lroze the blood in their veins.
Stretched on the floor at their feet,
her light, summer dress stained with
warm, crimson goie, was their hostess
—dead ! The shot had entered just
above the ieft eye, penetrating the
brain, and killing her instantly.
Her husband knelt beside her, sup
porting her on his leit p.rm, while in
his right hand he still hold tfie pistol
which had done ita. fearful work so
mm-*
He seemed to be paralyzed at his
crime, for when they gathered around
him, with horror and indignation ex
pressed in their voices, he only looked
at them in a blind, despairing way.
The screams of his daughter, as she
threw herself on the bosom of his
murdered wife, roused him to, per
haps, a sense ot his danger, for he
turned as if to fly; but the news of
the murder had flown on the wings of
the wind, hundreds having already
gathered in, and ere he had taken half
a dozen steps he was seized. "To
jail, to jail with the wretch !" was the
cry of the enraged men, and in spite
of his struggles, he was borne forcibly
away.
My story opens just two weeks after
the murder. The wretched fathefwas
still in the county jail, awaiting his
trial. The body of his wife had been
carried to the family vault. His
daughter, for the present, was domes
ticated with Dr. Fentris' family. They
had been the first to offer her a home,
and she went with them to stay until
her father's trial should take place.
Poor Marah; she would ait for
hours, her hands folded idly in her lap,
iixft in hor dark «yos, whoa«-
depths burned and flashed, half quos
tionally, half defiantly, upon all who
intruded themselves upon her. She
shrank from sympathy, no matter how
delicately offered; and nover spoke of
her sorrow to others.
Day after day she walked to the
gloomy prison, was admitted by the
stern, grim, old jailor, and remained a
short time with her father. Then she
would kiss him and try to whisper
some worda of cheer —step out into
the passage and watch tho pondrous
door swung back, the heavy bolt 6hot
to its place, and then, with a weary
sigh, crush her hat lower over her
curls and hurry away.
She haunted the old place; others
avoided it, but not she. With her
pencil in her hand she sat upon the
porch, dark and stained with her moth
er's blood, aud strove to conjure up a
face—a face only seen for the space of
a moment, yet it had burned itself
upon the child's memory forever. It
waa ever present with her—waking or
sleeping it haunted her still; yet she
could not put it upon paper. When
ever she strove to do so, the features
' became indistinct and the face floated
away her, until she gave up in
l despair.
[CONTINUED NEXT WKEK.]
Wealth and Its Il3e.
When Wm. B, Astor was called
to rest from his labors, the world oc
cupied itself at once with attempting
to reckon up the sum of his wealth.
Society said, with a throb of pride,
that ho was the richest man who
; adorned its ranks. It looked back
upon the history of the family for the
last century, and naw in the rearing
of then? colossal fortune a new illus
j tration of the old warning against
| making haste to be rich,
j Society was right. The same news
'! papers which contained the first ti
: dings of Mr. Astor's death gave the
' news also that a gallant soldier, who
' had won his star under Sherman, had
been found guilty of fraud against the
Government, and, with others of his
companions in office and dishonesty*
■would bo sentenced to fine ami im
NUMBER 5o
ptisonment. His wa9 the old, old
story. A salary sufficient for com
fortable support was Lot enough. He
was in haste to begoino rich, and to
his impatient craving for wealth he
was content to sacrifice his honor. To
yield to the first whisper of the temp
ter was ruin. A man of his experi
ence sh6uld have known it. There is
no possible path of safety out of dis
honesty. Yet General McDonald and
his associates in tobpv#
[ millions of the country's, revenue they
could retire and take their ease, with
their plunder. They made haste to be
rich, and lost everything. —[Republic.
Another Life.
Those who admire the writings of
Mr. George D. Prentice will be plefcssd
to reAd the following extraot again:
"It cannot be that earth is man's
only abiding place. It cannot be that
our life is a bubble cast up by the
ocean of eternity, to float a moment
on its waves, and sink into nothing
ness. Else, why is it that the high
and glorious aspirations, which leap
like angels from the temples of our
hearts, are lorever unsatisfiel? Why
is it that the rainbows come over us
with a beauty that is not of earth, and
then pass off and leave us to mnse on
their loveliness ? Why is it that -the
stars which hold their festival around
the midnight thrones, are set above, the
grast of our limited faoulties, forever
mocking us with their unappreaohable
glory ? And finally, why ii it
bright forms of human beauty are pre
sented to our view, and taken from us,
leaving the thousand streams of our
affection to flow back like Alpine tor
rents upon the heart ? We are born
to a higher, destiny than of earth-
There is a realm where the rainbow
never fades, where the stars will spread
out before us like the islands {hat
slumber on the ocean, and where the
beautiful beings which.pass before us
like shadows will stay in bur presence
forever." j
In Ha3te to Marry.
In Bussian Poland lately it was
given out, and believed by all, thai the
Czar had sold six thousand of the un
married women of the province to. an
Arabian prince, and that agents .were
at hand to select them and take .them
away. The effect was instantaneous.
The girls did not run away or attempt
to conceal themselves, but their fear
of the Turkish harem was so i groat
that they laid their hands indisorftni
nately on the young men Kod made
them marry them,. Candidates;-for
matrimony were so num&rous that, the
process was continuous,,and from press
of business many couples had tiWbe
put off till the following day before
their aspirations could be entitled.
Neither courtship, inclination, not pru
dence ,\vere given aay consideration in
the matter. All that each girl wanted
was a husband, and she was ready> to
seize upon the first single man ijut
cauie within reach to meet the emer
gency. To such an extent did thisjgo
that at last the authorities had to in
terfere to save the young ladies ftsm
that repentance which the world says
follows hasty marriages.
At Pompeii they recently Ifound a
curious record. It waa scratched on
the stucco of the kitchen wall, and haa
been thus translated; "Lighted Ilia
fire, cooked his meals, and swept his
house for him 28,000 times to the day,
and he reiuaee to take me to the cir
cus." Beneath this in a different hand
• ~T V 1 AQ
is written: U \Y omeu are never satis
fied." ' ' ' " , -'
Queen Elizabeth always displayed
her worst temper in her beat clothes,
tthe was dreadfully rutfted then.'
■ I 'Hi- •
A square inch of religion will mak
a cloak large enough tor any tuan.