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on seeing her mother-in-law the Marquise
tie Livry, who now stood before them.
“ Are you satisfied, sir,” said she, turning
to D’Herbanne, “ I am ruined 1”
“ You are astonished to see me,” said the
Marquise, in a severe tone ; “ but I am no
less so to find you here, madame; for though
an anonymous letter stated such was the
fact, it was necessary to see it with my own
eyes to make it possible to believe it.”
“An anonymous letter! Alas ! then I
have enemies.”
“ On the contrary, it is a service has been
rendered you. There, madame, see to which
of your fiiends-r-pet haps 1 should say lov
ers —you are indebted on this occasion.”
Pauline tremblingly threw her eyes over
the note that the Marquise handed her, and
recognised the writing of Madame de Mel
couit. The note ran thus:
“ The Hotel de France is at this moment
about to be visited by a search-warrant —
Pauline is there. The Marquise de Livry
is the only person who can save her, without
M. de Livry being informed of it.”
“ Come.” continued the Marquise, “ come,
madame, follow me. There ought to he—
the hostess, who happily has received many
favors from my family, tells me —a door
which opens from that room to a hack stairs,
and of which she lias given me the key.—
We will go out by that door, and in that
way, my son shall not be dishonored in the
eyes of the world.”
“ Unhappy being that lam,” murmured
Pauline, covering her face with her hands.
D’Herbanne at last thought it incumbent
on him to speak.
“ Madame,” said ho, “ I can swear before
you, to the conduct of your daughter-in
law.”
“ Sir,” replied the Marquise, drily, “I had
not the honor of addressing you then
turning to Pauline, she said —“Go, madame,
go; if yon have any explanations to give,
this is not the place to give them.”
Pauline raised her head, dried her eyes,
and then with a tone of desperate firmness
said—
“ Yes, madame ; on the contrary it is here
—in the presence of this man that l must
justify myself. No matter how horrible be
the truth, I prefer to tell it you, than allow
you to think of me as you do. It weighs
upon my heart —it oppresses me —it chokes
me. I must te’l it, or 1 die. No, nridame,
I am no more capahloof dccieving you than
of deceiving your son.”
“ What did you say ?” replied the Mar
quise, sneeringly.
“ I say,” persisted Pauline, “that this man
holds in his hands my honor, which is that
of Ferdinand —and the life of Ferdinand,
which is mine; and that it is to save both
one and the other, that I have come here.”
“ What are you doing 1” .interrupted D’-
Herbanne impatiently.
“Let me speak, sir,” said Pauline, in an
imperative manner. “It is too late now,
and it is you who wished it—every body
must know it. Pei haps, madam, you can
remember when I told you my history, that
I was confused, abashed—that I could not
go on. Then Ferdinand came to my relief;
but to deceive you, he told you about an old
friend of my father’s —the Duchess of L—.
It was not with her I went to England; it
was with that man.”
Here the old lady could scarcely suppress
her indignation, and Pauline, pale and trem
bling, coa-,-.>* fur a moment, hut soon con
tinued—
“ By what means I was ruined would be
too long to toll you. Young, ignorant of
the world, with no other riches than an ed
ucation far above my station; and, worse
than all, sold by her who should have pro
tected me. 1 did not awake until after my
fall, when it was too late; and, heaven
knows 1 would not have survived my shame,
hut for the little being that was dependant
upon me. When your son met me at the
Duchess of L ’s, I had been separated
two years from that man; 1 preferred labor
and misery to the shame of living with him.
For his misfortune—for mine—how much
for mine!—your son loved me. More in
dulgent to me than 1 was to myself, lu; insis
ted on it, that I had atoned for my fault by
my remorse ar.d tears; and lie told me that
repentance like mine was sufficient to prove
me virtuous. 1 know I should have fled
from him to save him from himself. But
what could Ido ?—I loved him. I know
that in accepting his name, l committed a
still greater error than my first; hut 1 would
have been more than woman to resist such
love as his. Now, madam, I have told you
all; perhaps my confession will prove to
you that I am not unworthy your esteem.
Your son is dearer to me than all the world.
You cannot suppose that I could forget my
love to him. which, alas, is now iny only
virtue. 1 have told you all my faults—you
will not accuse me of crime.”
This recital had made a visible impression
on the Marquise ; but there was one point on
which she was not satisfied ; and she could
not avoid saying—
“But after having been so long a time
without seeing this gentleman, what motive
could be sufficient strong to bring you here!”
“ Alas, madame, be camo to demand my
son—the child M. de Livry bad named his,
and you were about to call yours. You can
conceive all the consequences of such a step.
What would the world say ? What would
Ferdinand think ? Ferdinand, who should
learn at the same time, that 1 had seen him
whom lie believed dead—him whom lie de
tests for the past, and who now threatens
him for the present and for the future. It
was to ask mercy of that man 1 came here,
and 1 have not obtained it.”
“ Does she speak the truth, sir l” said the
Marquise to DTlerbanne.
“ Madame de Livry should have added
that it is my uncle who demands my son,
and not I,” replied D’Herbanne, quietly.
“And if you do not obtain him !”
“ Then, madame, I shall be forced to use
my rights.”
“ Your rights ! pray what at e they 1 that
you abandoned liim for five years.”
“ My rights, madame, are in a correspon
dence which I have complete in my bands
—letters written by your daughter-in-law,
signed by her hand; if they force me to
bring the matter into court, it will be easy
for me to prove that the mother of my son,
now Cointesse de Livry, is no other than
Pauline Butler.”
“ Pauline Butler !” cried the Marquise,
passionately, laying her hand on her daugh
ter-in-law’s arm ; “ what! and you are Pau
line Butler!”
The young woman bowed tremblingly
before her.
“ Yes, inadame,” said she, dark-red from
shame; “ yes, 1 am that unhappy creature.
Yes, it is true; rather than bring disgrace
upon the humble but honest name of my
father, 1 assumed a foreign name. I would
not, even in my guilt, be supposed a French
woman.”
“ But,” said the Marquise, “if you ho
Pauline Butler, his name must also be a false
one. He is D’Herbanne !”
Pauline bowed her head in assent.
“ D’Herbanne !” cried the Marquise ;
“ the justice of heaven itself lias brought
him hither. Lift up your head, madame;
this man has dared to make terms with us
—it is for me to dictate to him.”
A smile of mockery curled D’Herbanne’s
lip, and was his only answer.
“ Oh, sir,” cried the Marquise, dropping
j her voice into a tone of clear distinctness,
“ mistake me not; not in myname do I make
this threat, but in that of your victim—Ma
dame de Lostange, at this moment in Tou
louse on her way to Bayonne, to acquaint
your uncle with a certain transaction you are
well informed on. You threaten us with cx-
I posure in open court —we accept tlfe chal
j lenge. If you have in your possession my
daughter-in-law’s letters, M. de Lostange
has others of yours ; and let me add, that
there are such tilings as men call speculation
on the ‘ Bourse’—which the judges of the
| land inay designate by another title—which
I will not utter. I see you understand me:
follow me, sir. It should not be before my
daughler-in-law this interview should take
place, and you shall learn what I require of
you.”
At the same moment she seized D’Her
banne’s arm, and hurried him into the ad
joining room before he, pale and horror
struck, could utter a word in reply.
Scarcely had they gone, when Pauline
fell upon her knees, and, burying her head
between her hands, poured forth her prayer
of thankfulness. She remained thus for
some time, when on lifting her eyes, they
fell upon the figure of Ferdinand de Livry,
who, pale and with a haggard look, gazed on
her in silence.
“ Ferdinand,” cried she, in a voice of
agony.
“ M. de Livry threw on her one look of
withering contempt, and then, in an accent
of the deepest bitterness, said—“ What!
you here—you in this man’s room! If you
had not uttered my name, I would not have
believed my eyes. It is but a few hours
since that with that, very voice you swore to
me that you loved me, and that you were
innocent. How you must have laughed at
my credulity.”
“ Ferdinand,” said she, sadly, “ I am not
at liberty to speak, nor are you in a condi
tion to hear me. Your passion will make
you say that which yOJI will repent all your
life, and which I never c. q n forget. Give
me your arm—let us leave this.”
“ No, madame,” replied de Livry, with a
roar of passion, “ you shall stay. All! your
lover, pet haps, is listening to us—be it so.’
before I tell him he is a coward, I rejoice
that he knows what I think of you.”
“Enough, enough,” stammered Pauline;
“ do not say more.”
“ Ah ! it is for his life you fear.”
“Alas! I came hither to protect yours.
Ask no more, hut lead me home. -I ap
peal to your mother if she believes me guil
y”
“ You hope then thus to give your lover
time to escape!”
“ Sir!”
“ When did you know this man—before
or since your marriage ! Answer me this
question.”
“Oh !” cried Pauline, in a voice of agony,
“ have mercy on me.”
“ Yet what matters it,” continued de Liv
ry, with passion ; “ in either case you have
deceived me. I might have expected it;
and this is the worthy recompense of every I
sacrifice l have made for you. beginning
with my honor. When 1 married you I for
got all. Ido not complain. I have but what
1 deserve. But you —you, madame, I now
repeat your own words : ‘There is no name
for your infamy.’ ”
At this moment the endurance with which
she so long bore up against the unjust re
proaches of her husband at once gave way,
her teaiful eyes became suddenly dry, her
trembling lips grew steady, and in a tone of
firmness she said—“ This is too much. I care
not what inay be the consequences ; I must
now justify myself. Stay, sir, stay; it is
your turn to listen to me. Ferdinand,” add
ed she,drawing still closer to him, “ to prove
my innocence, I need but speak one word,
but I warn yon, it is a dreadful word, which
once spoken will render all happiness im
possible ; a man’s life bangs on it. Do you
still demand it ?”
“ I do,” said de Livry, with a hollow voice.
“Be it so. The report which announced
I D’Herhatine’a death was untrue. He is
i alive. 1 came hither to implore him to leave
j me my child.”
“ What! D’Herbanne!” cried Ferdi-
I natid ; “ that man, lie still lives! and you,
I Pauline, you are not deceiving me ; you
] could not do so. What liaVe I said ! what
l have I done ? Can you forgive me 1”
“ Yes, Ferdinand, I forgive you, and I
love you, and I forgive all that is pastand
as she spoke she fell into his arms.
“ And now,” said Ferdinand, endeavor
ing totear himself from her embrace, “my
part begins.”
As he spoke, the Marquise entered the
room.
“1 said,” cried Pauline, “your mother
! should he my judge.”
“ Ferdinand,” said the Marquise, as she
kissed her forehead, “ this is still my daugh
ter.”
“ And you still my own dear mother,”
said M. de Livry ; “ be kind to and comfort
each other. Farewell.” •
Pauline bowed her head.
“ My son,” replied the Marquise, “ we
j are saved ! There are all your wife’s letters
—and us to M. de Fontenay, I can le
ly on his silence.”
j “ What signifies his silence I” cried Fer
dinand, passionately ; “what care I for these
SXDUVKIIIiRS! SB U 8 <O-IB IL lb ASt 7
letters 1 It is his life I want. Where is he?
where is he ?”
” Gone,” said the Marquise.
“Gone !”
“ For ever. He is never to return to
Toulouse—never to enter France.”
“And you supposed that I could not fol
low him ! So long as that man lives l cannot
taste of happiness; nor is Pauline avenged.
Hold mo not!”
As he spoke, a servant of the hotel enter
ed the room—his face pale and haggard.
“M. de Fontenay !” cried he—“ where
is M. de Fontenay ? The horses are ready
and he can’t he found anywhere. At the
very instant of his departure a gentleman
came for him, and since that, he is nowhere
to he found.”
“Oh,” said Ferdinand, “let me try if I
can’t find him.”
As he spoke, the double crash of fire-arms
was heard from the garden behind the hotel.
A cry hurst forth from Pauline and her
mother-in-law.
“He has killed himself!” cried she. ..
“ No. There were two shots,” said Fer
dinand : “it was a duel. Who has dared
to take my place ?”
He tore open the shutter, and by the deal
moonlight, which rendered every object
palpable as the sun at noonday, M. de Liv
ry saw beneath him in the garden the figure
of Clodion, standing, pistol in hand, above
the body of a man, who lay stretched upon
the ground, his face turned upwards towards
the blue sky.
“ What ! is it you, Clodion ?” cried De
Livry. “ Fool! what have you done ?”
“ A piece of awkwardness,” said he cold
ly. “ I have forced this M. de Fontenay in
to a duel, and, without intending it, have
contrived to hit him.”
“ Is he wounded ?” cried Ferdinand, has
tily.
“ Dead,” said the other.
“ Dead !” repeated the three, in accents
of horror, and a silence sad and awful fol
lowed the words. At last Ferdinand at last
drew near his wife and said—
“ Your son is mine—lie shall never leave
us.”
“ What!” cried Clodion, entering, abrupt
ly—“ What ! then it was not Madame de
Melcourt, after all ?”
“ Hush, nephew!” said the Marquise—
“ we have been all mistaken.”
* * * *
In about two months later, M. Clodion
Dufour led a blushing bride to tlie altar of
St. Sernin—no other than the handsome
widow, Madame de Melcourt.
The unimpeachable accuracy of his wed
ding costume was the admiration of all Tou
louse. The report even goes, that lie was
the first person who wore his hair “ en Ti
tus,” probably in compliment to the good
emperor, because, like him, “he had much
to forgive.”
©UD©Q M h (L □
For the “Southern Miscellany.”
THE VON SLAUS FAMILY.
Deidrich Von Slaus was hard of hearing,
and so was Mr. Von Slaus, and though they
loved and married partly on that account,
yet ibis was not the only congeniality be
tween them —in action they were tlie same,
in mind tite same?, and in temperament the
same. They had knotvn each other from
their earliest recollection ; an.'? though noth
ing definite had ever passed between them
on the subject, yet it was generally unuC. I '-
stood by their acquaintances that they were
born for each other—and they believed it.
They were so well satisfied on that head,
that they never troubled their heads about
it—each looking forward to the time when
Deidrich should be so established in the
world as to he able to support a matrimonial
establishment.
The time arrived. Deidrich had gather
ed together a sufficient stock of miscellane
ous plunder to fill a small store in Falim
street, (not far from the spot where once
stood an old tread-mill,) and after having
procured the necessary articles of household
and kitchen furniture, which he did at odd
times, and rainy days, when he had little or
nothing to do in the shop. He announced
his state of readiness to his Caty, who re
ceived the intelligence with the same de
gree of characteristic indifference with which
it was announced. “ I’rn all fixed, Caty,”
says lie : “ Well, I’m ready, Deidrich,” re
plied she, and tucking up her hair and throw
ing on her shawl, they set off'to the preach
er’s house where the matrimonial knot was
tied hard and fast. Not a word passed be
tween them, either going or returning, until
Mrs. Von Slaus was installed in her new
home, in the rear of the shop. Here they
both found their tongues ; but owing to the
inconvenience attending their conversation,
from having to speak very loud, they man
aged to dispense with the use of many words,
and to makesigns and lookstheirmedium'of
conversation. Caty cried a little, andDeid
rich’s countenance relapsed into something
between a look of satisfaction and a smile ;
but he never smiled outright but once in bis
life. We leave them seated by the bridal
hearth, and pass over a series of some eight
or ten years.
* # # * #
Savannah had changed materially in the
interim. Many of Deidrich’s contempora
ries had grown rich—some had grown poor
again—all had changed but Deidrich and
his wife. They were the same ; the shop
was the same; the little back-room was the
same. Time had wrought no changes in the
Von Slaus family, save that now there were
some three or four little Von Slaus tumil
ling about, and squalling, in the back-yard,
| or hanging to the skirts of Mrs. Von Slaus
as she proceeded with her household drudg
ery—which she had perfojmed from the first,
rather than suffer the confusion and vexation
j of either understanding, or making herself
| understood by a “ dumb nigger,” as she
j called the species.
Mrs. Von Slaus was a tidy woman, of few
j words; her domestic affairs progressed
j smoothly ; she never stormed herself, or
! heard the storming of others. Her children
never cried to trouble her, though they often
opened their mouths very wide, and made
very ugly faces, in her presence. Mr. Von
I Slaus kept the shop, read the paper, attend
| ed auctions, and smoked his pipe. He could
generally sec what people wanted, and when
it came to haggling übout prices lie could
hear a little ; but for the most part, the noise
of the world disturbed him very little; in
deed, he was known to distinguish the ring
j of a half dollar when he did not hear the toll
ing of the fire-bell. He was remarkable for
punctuality, regularity and industry, so far
as watching the shop and waiting on custo
mers was concerned. On week-days he rose
with the sun, and though he was never known
to let his business drive him from bis uni
form measured gait, yet he drove a thriving
business,late and early. On Saturdays, Mrs.
Von Slaus put things to rights in the rear,
while Mr. Von Slaus, with a pondrous brush
broom. kept for the purpose, swept the pave
ment in front, removed his weather-beaten
show goods, locked and bolted the doors,
counted his money, and closed the business
of the week. Before retiring, (and after the
children were deposited in their bunks,) he
usually read a chapter in his Bible to him
self, while his wife read her prayer hook ;
after which she read a chapter and hea pray
er, and, in silence, they retired for the night.
In the morning the same process was repeat
ed until Church-time, when they usually at
tended the morning service. After dinner,
it was their custom to take an airing upon
the Bay—on which occasions they usually
took the little Von Slauses with them to see
the ships, and the river, and the steam-boats*
for which they had a great taste.
Mr. and Mrs. Von Slaus would walk slow
ly along, side by side, and if no one was
near, would occasionally utter a word to
each other ; but usually their “ social con
verse” was carried on by means of nods and
winks and other significant signs which long
habit bad made familiar. The little Von
Slaus were in the habit of straggling off and
getting lost before they were missed, which
often interrupted their enjoyment; to obvi
ate the recurrence of these annoyances, and
for the accommodation of his children, Deid
ricli had constructed a go-cart, into which
ho packed Yilliam, Jacob and Susanna, the
three youngest, and drew them after him in
perfect security. In this manner Mr. Von
Slaus anti his faithful spouse vvete wont to
take their holiday recreations ; on which oc
casions they jogged along in social silence,
without so much as heeding the little ones,
from the time they started until they return
ed, except that lie occasionally veered a lit
tle from his straight course in order to avoid
a rough place in the pavement, which might
jostle his precious cargo.
~ *
The incident which our engraving is in
tended to illustrate occurred in this wise :
Deidrich, with his wife and his wagon load
of babies, had strayed far from home, to the
region of the Old Fort, and after whiling
away an hour or so.i'rt the neighborhood,were
returning home, deeply engaged in their
mute communion, when, on pass.’Pg over a
part of the ground that was considerably
rough and broken, the hind axle gave way,
precipitating the incumbent generation of
little Von Slauses on to the ground. Like
their parents, the little ones were slow to
break silence, though when they got their
pipes pitched, the neighbors were of the
opinion that they could squall as well as the
best. On went the stately Deidrich and his
wife, deaf alike to the clatter of the broken
wagon, or the loud wailing of the deserted
trio, who now set up a most doierous con
cert. On trudged the unconscious parents.
People who met them, stared and laughed
to see the empty wagon trailing behind ;
some half suspected the catastrophe, while
others were filled with wonder at the strange
exhibition. One or two of tlieir acquain
tances ventured to enquire about it.butDeid
ricli was unusually deaf, and could hear
neither laughing or questions. On arriving
at his own door, himself and wife both turn
ed to help out tho “ dear leetle toadies,” as
they called them ; when, on surveying the
wrecked and empty vehicle, they both start
ed back aghast, and stood gazing into each
other’s faces for some minutes the pictures
of amazement and tenor. At length Deid
rich was enabled to exclaim, “ Mine Got,
Caty!” “ Where is the childers, Deitrich ?”
was the anxious mother’s reply. Then there
was another pause of some minutes, in which
they looked unutterable things, such as fear,
suspicion, doubt and despair.
“Mine Got,” repeated Deidrich, “where
isli I spilled dem ?” and away he started on
the back-track, in a pace, and with an ani
mation of countenance that betrayed the
intense anxiety of his mind.
Poor Caty could not resist the natural im
pulse to follow. She was another being ;
every sense was quickened in both, and the
good couple were seen to hasten down Fulim
street, past “ Battle Row,” and along the
Bay towards the Fort, in a gait such as they
had never before been known to practice by
their old acquaintances. Os every one that
passed, Deidrich hurriedly enquired, “ Did
you see mine childers ?” but scarce pausing
to hear the reply, he passed on till he came •
near to the Mariner’s Church before lie was
able to derive any information concerning
them. Here he met a waggish sort of a
customer, who had been loitering about in
the neighborhood, and who had witnessed
the spilling of the little Von Slaus—
“ Is you seed mine childers ?” enquired
Deidrich, his every feature contorted into
the shape of an interrogation mark.
“ Were there three of them 1”
“ Yaw.”
“ With red clothes ?”
“ Yaw !”
“ Little ones : two boys and a girl ?”
“ Yaw—yaw!” replied Deidrich eagerly.
“ Yes, I saw some hogs about to eat them
up, down at the Fort,” replied the other,
very coldly. “ I expect they are finished
by this time.”
Deidrich did not hear the concluding re
mark, but exclaiming, “ Ach ! Gott im Him
mel!—die Siiue such noch !” he redoubled
bis pace in the direction of the Fort.
The information caused Caty to gasp for
breath. Broken English no longer answer
ed as a medium for the expression of her
agonizing thoughts; but faultering as she
spoke, she exclaimed,
“ Lauf, Deidrich, Inuf! mit alien deinen
Kriiften ! O, neine at men Kinder!”
Away flew Deidrich, his good spouse in
close pursuit; and such was the intensity of
their parental solicitude that they were en
abled to hear the cries of tlieir little ones
long before they reached the spot where they
had been so unceremoniously “dumped.”
It was a rapturous meeting : an era in the
lives of the Von Slaus. Deidrich, unable
to restrain his joyous emotions at finding his
little progeny all grouped together, safe and
sound, on the ground upon which they had
been left, practising one of those little do
mestic concerts, in which children are wont
to indulge on such occasions, for once in his
life smiled aloud ;
“ Gome to yer sadder, boor leetle toadies;
de vagon vas done broke, and you vas tura
ple on de grount vor de big hocks to coine
eat you ; boor leetle vones J”
But this affectionate speech was nothing
to I hat of Mrs. Von Slaus, who all the while
ran on in a strain of hysterical delight—half
in broken English, half in her mother
tongue —while she grasped them up one af
ter the other, and impressed a mother’s kiss
upon their tear-bedewed faces. Then, ta
king the youngest in her arms, Deidrich
caught up the other two, and home they
trudged with tlieir precious burthens, not
trusting them out of their arms until they
were once more safely under the paternal
roof. The circumstance is said to have
wrought a decided improvement, both men
tal and physical, in the good Dutchman and
his wife for the balance of their days.
ALLIGATOR.
Savannah, Georgia.
For the “Southern Miscellany.”
“ GEORGIA ILLUSTRATED”—THE
“ ORION.”
Mr. Editor : A periodical, when issued,
becomes the property of the public, atul any
one has the right to scan and criticise its
contents. If it be worthy the public praise
and patronage, let these be cheerfully award
ed ; if not, let them be withheld, and the
public condemnation and censure fearlessly
given. 1 bold the doctrine, that no man
should be allowed, without rebuke, to vio
late his contracts. In the commercial world
the forfeiture of a contract amounts to the
loss of credit; and even while I write, our
own Government is suffering under the lash
of European journals—and justly too—be
cause some of our States have repudiated
their debts, and others liavs failed in the per
formance of their contracts. The same rule
should be applied in the World of Letters;
the same doctrine should be inculcated a
mong literary journalists, and editors of pe
riodicals, ct id, omne genus.
Our age has been dubbed the “ age of
humbugs,” and in no depaitment of the va
ried pursuits of men has the propriety of the
christening been more clearly proven, than
in the department of letters ; atul no class,
in my humble judgment, are more obnox
ious to the charge of humbuggery than the
“ getting up” of a great many of the week
lies and monthlies of the day. There are a
few honorable and noble exceptions, whose
works are far above the vapid mass of stuff’
ever issuing from the press, deluging our
land, end draining our purses.
But I did not set out to write an essay,
but simply to call the attention of the public
to the work or works, the titles of which
stand at the head of this article ; and now,
since the two volumes are closed, and the
work, for the present, suspended, I have
thought it would be a matter of some little
interest to the patrons of “ Georgia Illus
trated” to enquire, whether tlie work j|as re
ceived, is such an one as they had a right to
expect ? Whether they have in good faith
received what they trustingly paid for in ad
vance ? Whether the terms, on the part
of the editor, have been fulfilled? and wheth
er the editor lias, or has not, violated pledg
es frequently and voluntarily made ? These
questions they have a right to ask, and to
demand answers ; and though they may not
have the legal right to arraign the defaulter
before a judicial tribunal of the country, in
an action for damages, on account of edito
rial laches, still I bold the right a just one
to investigate, before the public, the fulfil
ment, or neglect, of promises made prospect
ively by an editor, upon which promises sub
scriptions are taken and money received.—
If these promises are kept on bis part, the
contract is fulfilled, and the obligation ceas
es ; if not, then we have a right to enquire
into the causes which have led to the failure.
If he could not do what he promised, from
causes subsequently occurring over which
he could not exercise control, he may he un
fortunate, but is blameless. If he could, but
would not, then he is a swindler to all in
tents and purposes, and deserves the exe
cration of the public.
I shall now proceed to examine into the
facts connected with the publication of
“Georgia Illustrated,” and endeavor to as
certain how nearly these accord with the pro
fessions made on the part of the editor. In
the year 1840, the prospectus for a “ New
work to be entitled Georgia Illustrated, in
a series of original views, engraved on steel,
with letter press descriptions,” was publish
ed, the object of which work was—as may
be seen from the prospectus — professedly
the illustration of the scenery of Georgia.—
Two of the conditions — or promises —were,
Ist. “ Georgia Illustrated will be issued in
monthly parts,” &c. 2d. “ Each part will
contain two highly finished engravings of
Georgia Scenery,” See., “Price, five dollars,
in advance.
I subscribed, or rather paid in advance,
for “Georgia Illustrated”—to be illustrated
yet J —expecting, as I had a right to do, that
I should receive one each month for twelve
months. Well, on the first of January, ’4l
the first number was issued, in which the
editor, in his “Salutatory,” congratulates
his patrons on the publication of number
one, and takes occasion to inform them that
he “ has the vanity to be pleased with the
result of his labors.” Os this self-adulation
Ido not complain. The sample he gave us
of the work was a good one ; and we believ
ed the other parts would be as fine.
No. 2, for February, appeared in March
as well as I now recollect, in which theedi
tor says, in reference to his prospects, ty e
are enabled to inform our friends that our
expectations of success were not too san
guine.” “Our course is right onward.”
Humph!
No number in March ! none in April ff
none in May!!! none in June !!!! none in
July !!!!! In August, the third and fourth
parts —united—make their appearance, in
which, the editor says, his engagements in
February were such that he could not make
preparations for the timely issue of the third
part, but that it should “ be issued with part
four in Apr il;” and yet strange to say these
did not make their appearance till August
tlnee months after April, and three months
after what the editor had written (as above
extracted) had been published—or, in other
words, these numbers were more than three
months arriving from New-York, where they
were executed—or else, what the editor
says in the above extract cannot be account
ed for, except we believe that it was penned
with the design to deceive the disappointed
patrons of his work. But in a printed slip
accompanying these numbers, dated at Pen
field, in August, tlie editor says, that “cir
cumstances entirely beyond his control de
layed the present issue, and he can only say
that if precaution will prevent it, a similar
delay will not hereafter occur.” We pass
over this, however, as we have such fine
promises of future punctuality. He says,
“ the Artist is now in New-York, where he
will remain during the issue of tlie future
parts to secure tlieir seasonable appear
ance.” Mark that! Again he says, “Our
patrons may rest assured that the work will
be completed, although the times are ruin
ous to such an enterprize. We will finish
it, moreover, in the style in which we are
now executing it” Will you ? indeed, I
should like to see a circumstance of it!
“ and in order to give the engravers time to
finish the plates in the finest possible style,
we shall in future publish double parts at in
tervals of two months instead of single parts
monthly. Parts 5 and 6 will be published
early in October.” In this extract we have
several very fine promises, which were well
calculated to raise the sinking hopes of con
fiding patrons ; promises, too, made delib
erately and voluntarily, even in the midst of
“ times ruinous to such an enterprize.”—
How were they fulfilled ? We shall see.
The sth and Gtli parts were received—not
in October, as was promised, but much later,
as one may perceive by a glance at the title
page —dated 1842! Well, we can pass over
that. But, lo ! all the rest of the fine prom
ises are as badly kept, for, instead of finish
ing “ it in the same style,” it is to assume
an entirely new shape, and take on an en
tirely new feature. It is to become a “ lit
erary magazine,” and “ Georgia Illustra
ted” “to I loot.” Don’t promise so much,
Mr. Editor of “Georgia Illustrated ;” these
are not what we, your paying patrons, bar
gained for, and we have already seen that
they are exceedingly cheap—easily made,
quite as easily broken—and you should have
known ere this that a frequent failure to com
ply with promises voluntarily made, will,
after a while, impair one’s confidence in the
veracity of the maker ; ’tis an old saying,
that “ debtors full of promises are generally
short of cash.” But to Nos. 5 and 6.
The editor congratulates his patrons upon
the completion of half the work. He has
finished in a year what lie promised to do
in six months. Better late than never. He
congratulates them also upon certain chang
es which he contemplates in the publication
of the balance of tlie work. What are these
changes ? It is to assume the character of
a literary magazine, and to retain the char
acter of an illustrated (mark that!) work,
lie says, “ Besides tiie attractions of beauti
ful engravings, we shall present,” &c. So
the engravings are to be kept up—Georgia
is to be illustrated yet —though the number
of plates are to be fewer than before, still
they are to be quite as nice ! His “ vanity
whispers be will apjiear in his new dress, as
in bis old, unrivalled .” ‘Twas a glorious
thought that, the construction of safety-valves
tor the escape of an excess of steam ; it is
no less serviceable to human machines some
times.
But to the promises respecting the new
and improved dress which seems so much
to have tickled his vanity. “Our new garb
also will completely obviate the delays in
the issue of volume 1, which have annoyed
ourself (save the mark !) no less than our
patrons.” “We shall issue the 7th number,
or No. 1, 2d series, at as early a day as pos
sible, after which it will be mailed punctu
ally (we shall see) on the first day of every
month.”
Now, Mr. Editor, you will perceive that
after the expiration of one year—after the
patience of the patrons of “ Georgia Illus
trated” had well nigh been worn out —with
hut six numbers of the work published —we
are again humbugged in and
promissory style, übout changes, improve
ments, and various other things “tootedious
to mention.” We are kindly informed that
the engravings have cost far more than the
uninitiated can imagine, and that the puhlit
taste is not sufficiently elevated and refined t 4
appreciate such a work. Well, now, that is
too had ! Because he, the editor, has failed
in his contract with his patrons, and has found
out that it costs money to have engraving
done—though one would suppose he should
have been initiated—and that every body is
not so green, alias “ verdant,” as some oth
ers of us have been, why, forsooth, he —an
imported Georgian —flatly avers that the taste
of our people is not elevated and refined
enough to demand such a work as his. Ob,
spare us, if you please, Mr. Editor of “Geor
gia Illustrated!” Now, you should have re
membered that truth is a very arbitrary
thing—about which it will not do to quarrel
—and tliut the Georgia folks, if desirous to
be lectured and lashed fur a want of t9slc