James Milton Jones enjoyed only such moderate advantages in the way of education as were afforded by the common and high schools of the day, and by the classical and English school of the late lamented and most accomplished educator, H. D. Beattie, A. M.; but his memory was good, he was a close student, and he therefore readily and easily familiarized himself with the studies in which he engaged. He early manifested unusual taste and fondness for composition, and his inclination and talent in that direction were much cultivated and improved by assiduous study of the best standard works in prose and poetry. On leaving school he became interested as a partner in the marble manufactory of T. Jones & Sons, and acquired a practical knowledge of the business, but never applied himself very closely to its duties. He joined various literary and forensic societies about the year 1850, composed of some of the best literary and professional talent among the young men of the city, where essays, poems, and discussions on all topics of the day were embraced in the order of exercises; and he soon became marked for his thorough preparation of and familiarity with the subjects of debate, and regarded as a speaker of more than ordinary promise. He became a frequent contributor, (but never in his own name,) in prose and poetry, to the literary, as well as the daily papers of the day, and especially to the daily Plain Dealer, of which the late J. W. Gray, Esq., was then the accomplished and witty editor, and by whom Mr. Jones was much encouraged, and his contributions frequently commended. As specimens of his poetic contributions, we give the following. It should be noted that with his entry on the actual duties of professional life, Mr. Jones bade a final adieu to the muses: Woodland Reveries. In this deep shady dell, Where the soft breezes swell, And beautiful wood-sprites by pearly streams wander-- Where the sweet perfume breathes, O'er angel twined wreaths, Luxuriantly blooming the mossy trees under-- Here, beneath the bright vine Whose leaves intertwine, I'm dreaming of thee, my lost Angeline! Oh! I think of the time-- Of the warm spring time, When with thee I've wandered, and with thee I've dallied; E're my soul had once dreamed That the roses which seemed So fadeless, could leave thy warm cheek cold and pallid, Or thy dear form decline, From its radiance divine, To press the cold grave sod, my own Angeline! While the pale starlight laves, With its shadowy waves, A brow, that with memory's anguish is throbbing; Each quivering leaf, Seems trembling with grief, That's borne on the zephyr's low sorrowful sobbing. For that dear form of thine, So oft pressed to mine, My angel-claimed lost one, my own Angeline! As the stream leaps along, And I list to its song, It sounds like the surging of sorrow's dark river;