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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. RATES OF ADVERTISING —IN THE THE GEORGIA OOLLEGrIAN. NO. SQR’S: l MO 3 MOS. 3 MOS. 6 MOS. 12 MOS. One $ 2.50 .$ 4.75 $ 7.00 510.00 $16.00 Two 5.00 8.00 10.50 15.00 22.00 Three 7.50 11.00 14.00 21.00 30.00 Four 10 00 15.50 IS 00 25.00 3S 00 Half Col. 11.00 16.50 20.00 30.00 40.60 One Col. 18.00 25.00 30.00 3S 00 50.00 Doub. “ 3