Newspaper Page Text
Mol. LII.
MILLEDGEVILLE, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 7, 1871.
No. 5.
THE
SOUTHERN RECORDER.
BY
0R31E & HARRISON.
B B SASNBTS Editor
gjscoa MTRICIi ASSOCIATE EDITOR
Ttrnis—$2,00 per annum, in Advance.
advertising—Per square often lines, eaeii
insertion, $1 HO. Merchants and others for all
amount sever $ "25, twenty-five per cent.off.
legal advertising.
Ordinary'*-—Citations (or letters of ad
ministration, guardianship ,&c.
Homestead no tice.
Application!
5 00
1 r>o
2 r.o
5 oo
5 oo
$ 3 00
2 00
itor letters of dism’n fromadin’n 5 00
Anniicationfor letters of dism'n of guard’n 3 50
Application for leave to sell Land 5 00
Notice to Debtors and Creditors 3 00
Lies of Land, per s 'l nare °f Un lincs
S-ile of personal per sq., ten days
grid’s—Each levy of ten lines, or less..
Mort^e sales of te.i t<ncs or less
n',x Collector’s sales, per sq. (2 months)
L ^—Foreclosure of mortgage and oth-
L er monthly’s, per square 1 00
v .tray notices, thirty days 3 00
Tributesof Respect, Resolutions by Societies,
OuTuaries,.'fce.,exceeding six lincs,to be charged
„ s transient advertising.
;-s*S vlesof Land, by Administrators, Execu-
nr Guardians, are required by law, to be held
on the first Tuesday in the month, between the
’ jurs often in the forenoon and three in the af-
prnoon, at the Court-house in the county iu which
the property is situated.
Notice of these sales must be given in a public
g uette 40 days previous to the day of sale.
Notice for the sale of personal property must oe
•*,, n i alike manner 10 days previous to sale day.
n Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate
riust .,130 be published 40 dajs.
Notice that application will be made to the
Court of Ordinary for leave to sell land, must be
published for two months.
F Citations for letters of Administration, Guar-
diauship. &c.,must be published 30days—for dis-
ission from Administration, monthly six months ,
for dismissiontrdm guardianship, 40 days.
Rn!- s for foreclosure of Mortgages must be
published monthly for fou r months—for establish
i n ,r 1 os■ papers, for the fall space of three months—
tor conipelliug titles from Executors or Adminis
trators. where bond has been given by the de
ceased, the full space of three months. Charge,
til 00 per square of teu lines for each insertion.
I'tib i itious will always be continued accord
j,,,» to these, the legal requirements, unless oth
erwise ordered.
t7w. white,
fl! fai l tiei£-a
MILLEDGE VILLE, GA.,
Will practice in this and the adjoining counties.
J-?* Applications for Homestead Exemptions
under the new law, and other business before the
Court of Ordinary, will receive proper attention.
October 13.1.-458 41 tf
Superior to Any thing of the Bind
Heretofore Offered,
a indy of this vicinity has compounded a sauc e
ilk. lor meats, fish, game &c., which she denom
inates “Magnolia Sauce’ (or pride of the South,)
and which, at the suggestion of numerous compe
tent judges, she offers to the lovers of good things,
as superior to any now in use. It may be found
on sale at the stores Messrs Conn and Haas.
Milledgevi'ile, April 12 1870 1 5 tf
[The following Story, written ly a gifted
Southern writer, is entered as a competitor for the
£100 00 prize offered ly Messrs. R. A. Har
rison § Bro., for 11 7he Lest original contri
bution ’ furnished their pages, during the pres
ent year.
Hearts Versus Dia
monds,
Or Which Shall Be Trumps.
By Annie R. Blount.
CHAPTER, V.
For tlie Speedy PLelief
AND PERMANENT CURE OF
Consumption,
IBroiA.olA.itis,
ASTHMA,
t J VC W W- U if 3
AND ALL DISEASES OF THE
LUNGS, CHEST OR THROAT !
f I HIE EXPECTORANT is composed excln-
J- sively of Herbal and Mucilaginous products,
very ^stance of th Lungs,
which
Feuneati
causing them to throw of the acrid matter which
collects in the Bronchial Tubes, and at the same
time terms a soothing coating, relieving the irri-
tatiun which produces the cough.
object to be obtained is to cleanse the organ
impurities; to nourish and strengthen it
' v ;fc i J h has become impaired and enfeebled by dis-
e 1 ' u " : to renew and invigorate the circulation of
the blood, and strengthen the nervous organiza-
tmn. 1 lie EXPECTORANT does this to an as-
tonistiing degree. It is active but mild and con
genial, imparting functional energy and natural
sticngth. It affords Oxygen to vitalize the blood,
•*uu Nitrogen to assimilate the matter—
Jl equalizes the ‘‘nervous influence,"
Producing quiet and composure.
TO CONsTTiIPTIVES
*' is invaluable, as it immediately relieves the dif-
E uit bieathing and harassing
feuds the disease.
cough which at
I OK ASTHMA
lti
tre,
a ut rejiose.
>s a specific—one dose often velievin
tressinw chok
_ the dis.
rnd producing calm and pleas-
F<m utocp
No
], ’ , , l .;:> l, e r -hould be without a bottle of the EX-
.LJok’aNt in the house. We have numer
al? ' ts having relieved, almost in-
j'",V'fhe little sufferer,when death appeared al-
< n °st inevitable.
niOTHEUS BE ADVISED!
T) . Keep it on ilauti!
"^^ead disease requires prompt action; as
ti, ,' ls , hoarse, hollow cough is heard, apply
’ ‘ m, 'dy. and it is easily subdued ;
r ,{l 5 DELAY IS DAIVGKIIOES !
'ff Ti ' e properties of the EXPECTORANT
heaiii 6 ™' 1 j ent ’ nutr * t ' ve > balsamic, soothing and
(].,* * 11 ^ buices the nervous system and pro-
s pleasant and refreshing sleep.
IT EXHILARATES and relieves
gloominess and depression.
Containing all these qualities in a convenient
and concentrated form, it has proven to be the
UOST VALUABLE LUNG BALSAM
tv, ‘ r offered to sufferers from Pulmonary diseases.
Prepared by
W. H. TUTT & LAND,
.... n AUGUSTA, GA
8# ‘f By Droggisis Everywhere.
October 18,1870 4* 6o».
“Mr. Chester, I have sent for you
to inform you in the presence of
these, my friends, that your so-
called marriage with my daugh
ter was a mere farce. The child
is not of age ; she is a Roman
Catholic ; she married you without
the consent of her parent or guardi
an, and without the sanction of Holy
Mother Church ; and by the advice
of the good Father here, I pronounce
the marriage null and void. You
have no legal claim on Miss Gran
ville,and I command you to renounce
all imaginary ones. You shall never
see her again, so it will be useless to
seek her. Will } r ou not then, as a
gentleman, declare her free from all
further persecution from you ?
“Mrs. Granville, you are very
cruelI love your daughter, she
loves me. She is my wedded w'ife
in the eyes of the law as well as in
the sight of Heaver. L tell you now,
once for all, I will never give her up
unless she herself asks me to do so.”
And looking more manly and digni
fied than ever before in his short
boyiih life,Cecil turned with a proud,
triumphaut smile lo Jiis tormentor—
a smile which said : “I have alluded
to an impossibility—I can trust hei,
and she is mine forever.”
“Then, sir, you shall hear it from
her own lips,” thundered Father O’
Hara speaking for the first time.—
“Mr.d, reckless boy, who has wiled
away an unhappy child from her duty,
the curse of the church will rest upon
you. Go, sister Ignatius, bring forth
our misguided daughter, and let this
wicked, defiant young man hear her
decision.” In a few moments the
stern white-faced nun returned, lead
ing Bertie by ihe hand. She walked
like one in a dream, and when Cecil
would have rushed to her with open
arms, something in her strange, far
away glance checked the impulse.
While and cold, seemingly helpless
as a statute, she stood with folded
hands in the centre of the apartment,
like one awaiting her death sentence.
Cecil could scarcely credit Ills sens
es—was this snow-wraith, this mar
ble girl the same impassioned bride
who had nestled so confidingly in
his arms a few evenings ago ? She
seemed so far away from him ; sure
ly he had never kissed those deli*
cately chiseled lips.never heard them
murmur: “My Darling.”
“Bcrlha Granville” with an em
phatic stress on the surname: “tell
this foolish young man that you are
sick of your folly ; that you have
committed a great wickedness which
the Holy Church will never pardon
unless you do severe penance for
your sin, and renounce him forev
er.”
Parrot like, as tho’ repeating a
by rote a lesson learned before,
Bertba’s pale lips murmured : “Ce
cil Chester, give me back iny free
dom. I was very foolish and wick
ed, and deeply repent an act which
has brought misery on those I love,
and who love me. They tell me our
marriage is not legal, and I am glad
of it. I will never live with you as
your wife, never acknowledge you
as my husband, we are virtually
dead to each other. Here is your
ring—give me mine, and the farce is
ended.”
“Bertie—my Bertie ! do I hear
you aright? You wish me to free
you Like ice pellets fell the words
“I do.”
“God of Heaven ! do I live to
hear you speak like this, and to me !
If you have ceased lo love me, Ber
tie, God forbid that I should seek lo
fetter you by a galling chain.” This,
with a mournful dignity that im
pressed even the frozen-hearted
nuns. “The chain which binds
hearts in marriage should be woven
of Bowers not made of leaden links.
Tell me, and I charge you in God’s
name, as we shall oue day meet at
the tribunal of Heaven, to speak the
truth. Bertie, have you ceased to
love me ?” There was profound si
lence for a moment. Bertie, for the
first lime, showed signs of emotion ;
her lip quivered ; her bosom heaved;
but catching the stern, menacing
look of her priestly father, she an
swered, tho’ in a shaking voice : “I
have—give me my freedom.” “Then
falsest of women, farewell. You
have cheated me out of every hope
of human bliss ; you have poisoned
my heart—henceforth I would not
believe an angel. You have ruined
my life, false, heartless, peijured
girl,and may God forgive you for it,
for I cannot. Adieu madam,” with
a mocking smile that must have cut
her to the heart. “You are as free
as I can make you. I willingly give
you back your false vows, as for the
rest,settle it with God and your con
science.” And with a low bow,
Cecil Chester walked proudly from
the room, nor cast one glance behind
at the fair, frail women wiohad
blighted his young life in its open
ing May. What arts had been
brought to bear upon her ; by what
means they had practiced upon her
superstitious fears, and tortured her
into perjury, lie knew not, cared not
lo know. It was enough ; she with
her own lips, had bade him renounce
her. There was no possibility of
misunderstanding, her own voice
had spoken the cruel words : “I love
you no longer.” Poor lad, it was a
miserable sequel to his happy young
love dream. For months he had
revelled in Paradise, but now an
angel with a flaming sword, stood at
the gale and warned him away ;
and he felt himself a wanderer and
an outcast on the face of the earth.
One week after this momentous
interview, Bertie, accompanied by
sister Ignatius, who was bound for a
foreign convent, and took charge of
her quandam pupil on the voyage,
sailed for Europe. The chapter of
her girlish romance was ended ; and
ruthlessly severed from her young
husband; taught to believe their
marriage a mere mockery, she was
to become an inmate of a fashidha-
“finishing school” in Paris. A little
scented billet containing a white
rosebud, a forget-me-not, and a sprig
of arbor vita? with the words:
“Faithful unto death,” she contrived
to send Cecil. But he tossed it con
temptuously in the fire, with a mut
tered curse, and prayed God that he
might never see her fair false face
again.
senses about me. There have been
several roberies lately, and it be-
nooves me to be very careful.”
“All right, old fell; but there’s no
danger. You are well armed, so am
I, and I will keep you company.
Besides, a few glasses will not in
toxicate us.” And lifting the bottle
to bis lips with the words, “Here’s
luck,” he imbibed a large draught
of the potent spirits. “I have a cup
in my carpet-sack, like Benjamin ol
old, so I will get it for you as you
are too fastidious to drink from the
bottle.”
CHAPTER VI.
“Feel I not wroth with those who place me here?
Who have debased me in the eyes of men,
Debarring- me the usage of my own,
Blighting my life in “boyhood’s career.’’
Bvron.
“But Colonel, just think of the risk
I run. Suppose lie should wake and
catch me just at the identical mo
ment, you see I would be the only
sufferer, no one would dream that
Col. Glover had any connection with
the affair.” The speaker, a rakish,
dissipated looking youth, with wa
tery blue eyes, and a sort of shabby,
genteel look, twirled his cane with
impatient motion.
“You want more money,eh? well
I tell you now, you will not get it.
1 have paid your debts, kept you
out of jail, have given you fifty dol
lars in advance, and when the work
is done, will give you two hundred
more, not another penny.”
“Well, Colonel, I will try it, but
it’s awful dangerous. Then again,
suppose he refuses to drink.” “That
is your look out. Carry out your
part of the programme, and you
shall be well paid for it.”
The scene changes to a Railroad
car. In one of the carriages sits
Cecil Chester alone, his head leaning
thoughtfully on his hand, his face
pale and care-worn. He is sadly
changed since we saw him first,and
yet he has gained rather than lost
by the change. The boyishexpres
sionhas gone forever—sorrow has
made him a man. Presently Rob
ert Powers, the man whom wo have
seen in conversation with Col. Glov
er, entered, and drawing a valise
close to where Cecil sat, took from
one of the capacious pockets of his
overcoat,a bottle labelled “Brandy.”
“I say, old fellow, here is a bottle ol
the genuine stuff, best Apple Bran
dy. We’ll have a night of it, and
drown our sorrows in the ‘flowing
bowl,’ Pm partial to the ‘flowing
bowl.’ I am.”
“NoL to-night, Powers, you must
excuse me. I have charge of a large
sum of money, and I must keep my
Powers walked lo a corner of ihe
car-carriage, opened a carpet-sack,
look from thence a .small silver mug,
and, unobserved by Chester, who
had his face turned from him, slyly
removed a folded paper from his
pocket, and hurriedly emptied a
white powder in the cup. Coming
back, with a cunning smile on his
half imbecile tace, he poured the cup
full of brandy, with the words:
“Drink of this cup my boy, you’ll
find there is a spell in it to chase
away the blue-devils. Come, cheer
up, you are as savage and down in
the mouth as a she bear who has
been robbed of her cubs.” Cecil
yielded lo the temptation, poor boy ;
he felt sad and desperate anyhow,
and once having yielded, gave him
self up to the humor of his compan
ion.
“Cecil, old boy, I want you lo tell
me the truth, you know an honest
confession is good for the soul; did
that old she devil of a widow Gran
ville part you and your wife,or were
you ever really married ? Some of
them say you dispensed with the ser
vices of the parson, and hence the
good lady’s wrath.”
“It is a base falsehood, Bertie
Chester is as pure as an angel. She
is my lawful wife, but I never ex
pect lo see her again.”
“How on earth then did they sep«
arale you ? I’d have hung on to her
like a buir to a beggar’s rag.”
“Because she is a Catholic, and
we were not manied by a Catholic
Priest, Mis. Granville and her ad
visors declared the ceremony was
not binding, and by some means
worked on her religious superstitious
until they induced her to give me up.
But please lets change the subject,
it is an unpleasant one to me.”
“All right, pass the bottle.” So
they drank,sung,and told anecdotes,
while the iron horse plunged on
ward through the darkness ; and
towns and villages faded from sight
like the shadowy figures of a dream.
At length the subtle drug began to
take effect ; Cecil grew drowsy,and
his words were broken and incohe
rent : “What in thunder is the mat
ter with me, Powers ? I can not
keep my eyes open. That infernal
split-head brandy, of—yours—has—
has mounted to my head. It will
never do for me to go to sleep,”
rousing himself with a terrible effort,
“an Express messenger must keep
awake when he has charge of such a
large amount of money. I say,
Powers, Powers, why hang me, if I
don’t believe the fellow has gone lo
sleep, l’lljust lay iny head down
on this shawl a moment, and—and—”
The struggle ended ; Cecil’s head
fell backwards, and in a moment he
was sound asleep under the influ
ence of a powerful narcotic. Pow
ers half opened nis eyes, and called
Cecil softly by name—no answer—
a little louder—the same result. He
then shook him roughly by the shoul
der, but Cecil, without waking,
murmured in hi$ sleep: “Ab, Ber
tie, you were cruel to treat me so—-
cold—false—cruel.”
“Poor fool,” sneered Powers, “if
I am not very much mistaken it was
your Bertie, as you call her, who has
brought you into this snare. I’m a
thinking from what I have caught
from him, that the obstropolous old
Colonel is jealous ol your good looks,
and wants to put an impassible bar
rier betwixt you and her. He is
afraid she may relent, and take y’ou
afier all; and if you had not been
the softest man in six Slates, you
would never have let that bellerin
old heathen, the widow Granville,
with her high-strikes, and that cun
ning old Priest, who wants to make
a nun of your lady-love, rob you of
your wife. But after this, my thick
headed donkey, your stolen bride is
lost to you forever. No one, be she
ever so romantic, would want a thief
ior a husband.” His band stole soft
ly into Cecil’s pockets, one by one
he searched them. At length he
found what he sought, a small bunch
of keys. Slyly, and looking stealthi
ly around with a scared air, for his
guilty conscious magnified every
noise into a coming footstep, he ap
proached the small iron chest which
contained the treasure. He applied
one key after another, until he found
one, a small, peculiar looking key,
which fitted the lock to a nicety. A
moment later, and his greedy eyes
were dazzled by the glitter of gold,
silver, and rows of crisp bank bills.
The unconscious young man slum
bered on, while t^e thief dexter
ously removed gold, silver, and
notes to the amount of three thous
and dollars ($3,000.) He then se
creted the money about his person,
and in Chester’s carpet sack and after
carefully locking ihe chest, restored
the bunch of keys to their former
hiding place, while Cecil, in his deep
sleep, never once stirred. The con
ductor of the train chanced lo pass
through this box as they neared the
city, and fou.id both Chester, and
his companion apparently wrapped
in heavy slumber. He looked sig
nificantly at the nearly emptied bot
tle, and with a shake of the head
and the words: “Careless youngster,
thus to slumber at his post,” he pro
ceeded good-naturedly to awaken
the Express Messenger. The young
man roused himself and stared
around stupidly. His head ached
as though it would burst, and his
eyes felt like they were full of sand,
his throat was parched, and he had
a dozen.stupid feelings. He looked
at the chest, it remained as he had
left if; he felt in his pocket for the
keys, they were safe, he then turn
ed to awaken Powers, but it was
some lime ere he succeeded, At
last that worthy himself, gave his
body a shake, and swore lie felt “as
stupid as a dead Jackass.”
When the cars reached their des
tination Powers was the first to
alight. “Good-bye Chester, old fel
low, come round to my room to
night.”
“So far, so good, now if I can
only get into his boarding-house
without being seen by that Argus-
eyed old landlady, the deed is done,
and hurrah for the two hundred dol
lars, and a silk dress for my Julia.”
The evil one favored the wretch, he
found the front door of Chester’s
boarding-house wide open, and r.o
one was visible. Softly he stole up
the stairs, and reached the desired
room withoiit difficulty. It was the
work of a moment to deposit the
stolen money between the mattresses
of Cecil’s bed. “Now, my haughty
chap, the evidence is complete. If
you can cut your way through the
web I have woven for you, you arc
a smarter lad than I take you for.
They say the devil takes care of his
own, and I believe it!”
In a few hours the city rang with
the account of the bold robbery.
Cecil Chester was arrested, and
the circumstantial evidence was so
strong that even his best frends be
lieved him guilty. As portion of the
money was found in his carpet-bag,
and the rest secreted in his room.
Powers was one of the witnesses
against him, the Conductor, another.
The former swore that when he de
clared his intention of keeping him
company, Chester had insisted on
their having a drink together; that
he firmly believed the liquor was
drugged, as he had never in all his
life slept so soundly. The Conduc
tor, very unwillingly, for lie liked
Cecil, testified as to the condition in
which he found them.
The very night, that Cecil Ches
ter, disgraced in the eyes of all, and
feeling himself forsaken of Cod as
well as man, was consigned to the
cold, damp cell of a Prison, his
young bride, clad in silk and jewels
shone forth the brightest star of a
fashionable assembly, in the aristo
cratic saloon of Countess Mont-
morenci, and halt the Parisian world
raving of her beauty. Life is made
up of sharp contrasts.
perfect by the teachers of Madame
’s finishing school, made her
debut. Although with the freedom
allowed by ber American mother,
she had several limes attended par-
lies, still she was merely a school
girl. Now however, the monoto
nous school-room was deserted, and
Bertie emerged a full fledged belle.
Many a penniless French nobleman
would gladly have exchanged his
title for Bertie’s hard American dol
lars, but Madame had spread the
report that her beautiful ci-devant
pupil was betrothed to a wealthy
American milord; and the rumor was
confirmed when Col. Glover, who
had gone ovet to Paris to escort her
home, followed the charming girl
like a shadow.
Poor Bertie! tho’ she shuddered
at the touch of his hand, she did
not, as she had once done, openly
show her antipathy. She had learn
ed to look upon this man as her fate,
and although her youthful lover was
by no means forgotten, yet he was
under the ban of society—a convict;
and whether ne was innocent or
guilty was forever branded in the
eyes of all honest men. So, she
resigned herself to what she believed
to be h$*r destiny, and drifted on
ward with the current.
(to be continued.)
Sleeping Seventy Summers.
THE KIP VAN WINKLE OF THE TALMUD.
CHAPTER VIL
Heart* are triumphant, the Diamonds are
bright,
So down with the curtain! and out with the
light
The very day that Cecil Chester
was condemned to States Prison for
a term of three years, Bertie, who
had been polished, and pronounced
The story of the Rabbi Coniah has
been reproduced, for the Jewish Mes-
senge r, and is chiefly remarkable
for its resemblance in one or two
particulars to ihe world-renowned
story of Rip Van Winkle, which
Washington Irving gave to the
world, and which has been revived
in the drama by Mr. Joseph Jeffer
son. The Rabbi was learned above
his peers, and many reverenced him
for bis wisdom and erudition. But
he perceived not the necessity for
that charity and forethought which
should induce individuals lo make
provisions for those coming after
them, and therefore he received the
stern lesson.
An old man was [Ranting a carob
tree, and displayed a heartiness
which seemed to indicate that he
expected to enjoy the results of his
labor. Coniah regarded him in as
tonishment and a certain degree of
contempt, tor it is a tradition of the
Talmud that a carob tree does not
bear fruit till seventy years after it
lias been planted.
“Do you expect to eat of the fruit
of this tree ?” the Rabbi asked, with
a shrug of disdain.
“Rabbi,” answered the old man
meekly, but with dignity, “when I
was a little child this field abound
ed w’ith carob trees laden with fruit.
My fathers had planted them for me ;
I plant this tree for my children.”
Coniah turned away murmuring :
“For his children. Blind, how blind
we are. We live in this world but
a brief period, and yet presume to
provide for those that will come af
ter us. They must die as well as
we. Our existence was not given us
merely (or this world. Every man
ought to consider his heavenly life,
and forego all care or interest about
the few days that he and others will
spend here. What is our lot. or the
lot ofour children, is of little account.
Wc ate destined for heaven and
that is enough.”
While he was meditating in this
manner, Coniah laid down upon the
ground. Feeling the sensation of
hunger, he drew forth from his
pocket a piece of bread, ate, contin
uing his reflections. Presently he
became drowsy, and fell asleep.
He awoke not all during that day,
nor during that night The day re
turned, and the night begun again,
but still he slept. Thus passed many
days and nights, during which he
awoke not. A wall of stone was
erected over him by a miracle, and
shut him from the sight of man.
Thus lor years he lay incarcerated
as in a tomb. Generations passed
away, and numerous events occured
to change the aspect of the world.
Finally seventy years were ac
complished, and the stony sepulchre
removed, restoring Coniah to the
light of day.
He awoke as the sun ascended
the meridian and exclaimed :
“Verily, I have slept long. It
was a little before the dust of even
ing when I lay down, and now the
sun is midway in the sky.”
He arose and walked to the place
where he had reproached the old
man who planted the tree for pos
terity. Behold, it was fully grown,
and a boy stood near eating of its
fruit.
Coniah accosted him:
“My young friend, who planted
that carob tree ?”
“Not I,” replied the youth, “for
it requires many years for such a
tree to mature and yield its fruit.
My father declares to me that my
grandfather planted it.”
Coniah heard this with a feeling
of horror.
1 “There can be no mistake,” said
he to himself.
“Here it was that I rebuked the
old man, and there I laid down and
slept. The tYee bears fruit, and I
have been sleeping for seventy
years.”
Full of anxiety, lie directed Ins
footsteps toward the city where he
dwelt. But he soon paused in sad
bewilderment. The old path was
gone, and the familiar trees and
landmarks had disappeared. The
houses had put on an unfamiliar ap
pearance. Everything around him
was strange and new.
At length he discovered the way,
and he came to the city. A multi
tude swarmed in the streets. Coniah
looked sharply, but no face could he
descry that had ever been known to
him. Once he had a host of ad
mirers ; but now he was not recog
nized by any one. For him was no
welcome, uo word of greeting. A
terrible scene of isolation came over
him. He was alone in the midst of
that crowd, as much so as had he
been in the solitude of a desert. Bit
ter was the anguish of that hour. A
faint hope only remained to mitigate
the fierceness of his despair.
“No more,” said he to himself,
no more have I friends and ac
quaintances. But my family yet
remains to me. With them I may
yet find a home, and consolation and
peace.”
With throbbing heart he hastened
to the house where he had dwelt.—
But as he went along his confidence
abated. He could not recognize his
home, neither the walls nor the roof.
Everything was new. With a feel
ing of hesitation he entered. Chil
dren were at play ; the mother aid
ed in their sports, while the father,
a hale middle-aged man, wa3 at
work. The moment that Coniah
was perceived all were still, and re
garded him with apprehension and
looks of suspicion. Addressing him
self to the man, he said :
“Call for me the son of Coniah.”
“The son of Coniah!” exclaimed
the man in astonishment; “he has
long since slept with his fathers.”
“Who, then, are you?” Coniah
asked.
“1 am the grandson of Coniah.”
Overjoyed, Coniah extended his
arms to embrace him, exclaiming:
“I am your grand-father!”
“You my grandfather? No! I
never saw you, and I know you
not.”
The distracted Coniah began to
tell the stoiy of his wonderful sleep
and to entreat for the affection of his
grandson. But the latter shook his
head, and answeied:
“You may remain here wfith me
and do what you please; but do not
ask my love. I have never seen
you before, and I know you not.”
So Coniah remained. But his
life was wretched. There was no
memory lo connect him with his
family and endear them to each oth
er. He was in solitude, although
surrounded by living persons; for
they had never seen him before,
and their hearts were not opened
toward him. He was never more
than a stranger who abode with
them.
He visited the elderly men of the
city, but no one could recognize
him. They temembered the name
of Conia, the great rabbi, but when
he attempted to make himself
known they repulsed him angrily,
saying:
“You are imposing upon us. Co
niah has been dead for many, many
years.—Y ou cannot be he.”
So he wandered about with his
terrible sorrow, seeking some kins
man or friend to love and comfort
him. But it was in vain. He could
be received nowhere without a name
and when he insisted upon his own,
he was scouted as an imposter.
One day he entered into the col
lege where once he had been accus
tomed to teach and receive honor.
To avoid reproach, he forebore to
mention his name or speak of him
self. A learned discussion was go
ing on, and he listened with his old
eagerness. As each man argued he
would quote Coniah, his rules, his
examples, his opinions, as men speak
of one for a long time dead.
There sat the living Coniah, and
dared not utter a word. It was in«
tolerable; he wept bitterly, and his
cheeks flowed with scalding tears.
When he left the college his an
guish was more than he could bear.
The changed faces around him, the
terrible solitude in the midst of his
fellow-men, the absence of every tie
between him and them, overpower
ed him. Falling to the ground he
turned his face to the sky and cried
to the Lord:
“My God, I am deserted! Give
me, I implore Thee, the society of
men, or let me die. I am alone in
the world! O, take me hence to
Thee!”
His prayer was heard. Weak**
ness came upon him, and in a few
days he expired.
The planters of Middle Georgia
generally express themselves as dis
gusted with the cropping experience
of the past season. A majority of
them propose to ieduce the area of
the cultivated lands, and give^ their
attention largely to grain, which is
certainly a sensible conclusion.