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ing him, to tho earth, and seized him
by the throat; but as I did so, he
unsheathed a knife, and raised his
hand to plunge it in my side. Quick
as thought 1 released ray hold and
grasped hrs arm ; we grappled for
knife; 1 wrested it from him and
thrust in his breast. His heart’s
blood drenched my hand. With a
terrible groan, he fell back and diedi
What remains can be soon told, P
offered myself up to the chief of the
police, and was soon set at liberty.
The body of Harry Mohon was ta
ken homo to be buried. In one short
week, his mother was placed beside
him. __ ,
The physician informed Miss Ask*
leigh as gently as he could, of her
lover’s fate. She abondoned the gai
ty of society to find solace in allevia
ting the distresses of the unfortunate
foor. She still remains true to the
memory of Harry.
Years have passed My life, with
all its noble aims, has been wrecked.
The beautiful dreams of my boyhood
vanished forever on that terrible eve
when Halgrave fell by my hands.—
’Twas done in honor and in self-de
fence; but my hands are stained with
the blood of ray fellow-man. I can
still hear that dying groan; and his
ghastly form yet pays its midnight
visit to my sleepless couch. Mohon’s
wrongs are avenged. But the hor
rible deed, the awful crime of hurry
ing Halgrave unprepared, before his
God, recoils on me. I dread to meet
my Judge; and'yet, weary with the
slow, lingering step of a purposeless,
hopeless life, and tired of the unre
mitting stings of the worm that dieth
not, I long to die.
For the Georgia Collegian.
Old Bachelors.
Os all the miseries of life, that of
being an old man, and no longer able
to make love, is tho most miserable.
You may roast a man over a slow
fire, or break the icy crust of a river
with him on a cold December night,
and leave him to freeze, but they’re
nothing, absolutely nothing, to being
forced passively, to look on younger
blades going off with the sweet fai
ries to a sleighing party, or a pic nie,
or a moonlight sail on a calm, crys
tal lake, or any of the modern conve
niences for love-making, while you
are bellowing like a bull of Bashan
with the gout, and drinking barley*
water as a pennanfce for your short
comings Such is the state of feel
ing that is ever fretting the souls of
that unfortunate class of men known
as old bachelors.
Every claps of men has some re
deeming qualities for its vices, except
bachelors; they have sought to avoid
responsibilities, by refusing to pair
off, in consequence thereof, have laid
THE GEORGIA COLLEGIAN.
heavier responsibilities on their shoul
ders. The old bachelor is vorily an
annoyance to society, a burden to
himself, and a black sheep in the flock
of humanity. He is one of the pieces
in the great system of society that
contributes notlto its harmony; ho
is a clog on its wlfeels, and therefore
offers a resistance that must be over
come by the increased energies of
Such parts of tb/i machinery as do the
work; Occasionally, you
w\lfindpjr. and whom tho world calls
rich, abd who is ever ready to con-
to all benevolent institutions;
whose purges, and home is always
open ; but the truth is, you seldom
find such men at home. They never
meddle in other people’s business,
and but rarely in their own; never
know when the sugar, or coffee, or
flour is out; and have to borrow
more things than all your neighbors
put together. He is emphatically a
weight on his own shoulders; he
finds no happiness in his den, and
meets with none in the society of
others; the boys and girls are too
young for him; he blushes all over
his head at eight of an old maid ; and
as for married people, he is not inte
rested in them. His so-called homo
has no attractions for him ; he meets
no smiling wife at the door; no
childish laugh greets bis ear; no
smoking tea and toast await him >n
the cozy little sitting-room ; all is
dark and gloomy, like his misguided
life; blue and spicy wreaths of cigar
smoke circling up to the ceiling; old
newspapers under the table; castile
soap in the tiny, bronze card receiv
er ; slippers on the mantle-piece, and
general confusion everywhere. And
yet the poor deluded mortal thinks
the most perfect order reigns.
Whence comes all this misery? Is
it from choice? The first bachelor
may have been pardonable in choos
ing such a life; but there’s no apolo
gy for it now, when men have the
sad experience of so many old bach
elors as now flood society. Can it
be from necessity ? Surely not. I
am of that class who believe that no
man is forced to this state of misery;
but believe that every man, at some
period of his life, has an opportunity
of forming a happy alliance with
some woman. The icy grasp of
Death may wrest his heart's idol
from him before he tastes of the
sweets of married life ; but how ma
ny widowers can testify to the gen
uineness of a second, third, or fourth
love ? He may meet the fate of an
unfortunate rival; is it manly to
mourn forever over his loss, and re
fuse to be comforted? Ain’t there
as good fish in the sea as have been
caught out of it ? Parents may bo
unwilling, and she may be conscien
tiously dutiful and scrupulously obe
dient; can’t he try other parents’
daughters, who are willing? Are
there any circumstances that can
force a man to be a bachelor? None.
Then why are there any such beings
in the world? It is to be traced, I
think, to that direful malady that has
so widely infested society—that mo
dern amusement called flirting —that
amusement for men of taste; not
quite reckless, heartless, everlasting
flirting ; but that preparatory play
before marriage. It reminds you of
the savory smell of viands before
dinner ; the reckless wheeling of an
eagle before he darts upon his prey.
He wants a littlo more fun, as he
calls it; one more quarrel and make
up; ho wants to try her metal once
more, and see if she will submit to
have him flirt a little'with another
girl; and if she has any metal at all,
she will let him slide out of love
quicker than he slid in. This is an
evil under the sun that did not hap
pen in Solomon’s time, or he cer
tainly would have warned modern
ages.
Man and woman were made for
each other; one is the supplement of
the other, and it takes both to com
plete the circle. There’s a woman
for every man, and they ought to
marry. 0, these bachelors; there
should be none. The world is not
old enough to take care of such a su
perabundance of aimless, misguided
beings. Marry, young men, by all
means; marry your first love, if you
can get her; if not, marry y our se
cond or third, or fourth, or fifth, or
hundredth; go on till you find one
you can get. Don’t fail to accom
plish the second great issue of your
life. • Tim.
Letter from “Once Before.”
Dear Collegian It has been a
long, very long time indeed, since you
ana I have seen each other; for, to tell
the truth, I thought that you imagined
yourself included in the list of my remar
kable visitors. But you were mistaken;
and although I may have forever lost to
myself the charms of your delectable
conversation, still candor forces the ac
knowledgement that I am not sorry.—
You must mend your ways, Dear Colle
gian; for you have grown proud and
stiff of late; you have taken unto your
self the conscious satisfaction that people
like to write for you, so that they may
appear in print and make a reputation
as journalists; and on that account, you
begin to be scrupulous, and reject many
contributions, and no doubt the best
ones too. You are in great error; for
when my contribution created such a
sensation, and made so many desperate,
especially one senior who reminds me of
Dr. Blimber’s Toots, I immediately left
off writing for you, in order that I might
hereafter exhibit myself, a living illus
tration of modesty. But to conceal the
wondrous effects of my (?) effort would
not only bo an injury to my character,
but also would it destroy the object I
had in view—“ the regeneration of popular
taste."
Now as to whether you know who I
am, I shall not in the least trouble my
self abeut it. But I have still a great
many visitors; and their object seems to
be to discover whether they were tho
ideals at which I was striving to attain,
when I last wrote to you. Os course, I
told them no ; but desiring notoriety of
some kind, they have been so earnestly
striving to sit for the portraits I sketch
ed, till I am constrained to conquer my
regard for truth, and declare to them
that they are wonderful successes.
My very intellectual friends have con
descended to converse with me about
every day affairs, though now and then,
their old flame will burst out here and
there, and like furnaces, will they sigh
for a clwt about Puffendorf, the insolu
ble Problem. Historic Doubts, and
those other unintelligible suggestions I
told you about in private; my stupid
visitors have succeeded, through the
sage advice of a Doctor Sangrad's friend,
in reading some pleasant little fairy tales,
so that we can chat very pleasantly for
an hour or two, wishing we had some of
the diamonds Sinbad found in that fa
mous valley, wonderihg if the crockery
stores have Aladdin’s lamp for sale, anil
thanking our stars, that we don’t live
near the Caliph Harounal—Rasckid.
Oh ! how we linger in rapturous ecsta
cies over Robinson Crusoe, and marvel
at the good things in Gulliver. Go on,
oh! most exemplary students, in your
labors to succeed; with such enthusiasm,
you can scale the flinty Caucasus of per
fection, wrench tho rivetted bolts from
the sufferer’s heart, and give freedom
again to Prometheus of old, that men
may learn what jealous gods do know.
But my gay friends.—With tearful eyes
do I regret my words, and ever and
anon, the voice of my heart whispers the
immortal verse of Hemans:
The boy— oh ! where was he ?
They have stopped their mad career—in
their despair, they call me “ Venice, a
sea Sodom, then Gehenna of the waters,”
and curse the bitter folly of being nine
teenth century Bruramels. Several have
taken orders; some have gone to parts
unknown; and worst of all, some have
reformed—relapsed, and now, are be
yond all hope—in a matrimonial point.
So you see, Dear Collegian, that my
work was no quack effort; the startling
results of its application demonstrate
the infallibility of future success.
But while I have been noting the dis
appearance of many faults, much to my
sorrow, I have seen some modest young
men, in attempting to avoid the errors I
suggested, entangle themselves in woful
dilemmas. Lately I observed, Miss
Becky Sharp, of Crawley notoriety, gave
a select entertainment; while I was qui
etly enjoying a talk with Mr. Deuceace,
Mr. Jinks was presented, who imme
diately began rushing through tho rooms
to say good evening to Mr. and Mrs.
Sharp, asking everybody for God’s sake
to tell him, swearing that he had just
learned the rule in the American Gentle
man's Good Behavior , and scorning the
sniffles of the lookers-on. You must tell
Mr. Jinks to imitate the famous English
orator, and practice before a glass, be
fore he exhibits again in company. For
Mr. J. is a clever young man, who parts
his hair in the middle, and wears a cane
that his brother walked with all over
Europe.
There are several little failings which
I would notice. But seeing that I may
write often, I shall make my letters brief,
so that when, as my friend says, “ I come
again, you will he glad to see me, know
ing that I shall not stay long.”
Very truly„ yours.
Once Before.
P. S.—Some jealous plagairist has
been telling the good people of Athens
that I’m somebody else. It is totally,
meanly false. o. b.
How to Write Eight.
Write, we know, is written right,
When we see it written write;
But when we see it written wright,
We know ’tis not then written right;
For write, to have it written right,
Must not he written right nor wright,
Nor yet should it be written rite,
But write—for so ’tis written right.
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THE GEORGIA OOLLEGrIAN.
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Four 10 00 15.50 IS 00 25.00 3S 00
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Doub. “
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