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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.