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VOLUME I. | BY C. R. HANLEITER. iiffiISIEIIO ASS’ 3K2>2FI§E3 9 Tiif. above is one of the handsomest buildings in the beautiful town of Madison. It is situated on the corner of Monroe and Jack son-streets, and was opened as a Hotel by its present Proprietor, Colonel Joseph M. Evans, on the first of January, IS4I. It contains, besides a spacious Bar and Dining Room, a comfortable Ladies’ Parlour, and eight sleeping apartments, on the first floor. On the se cond floor there are twenty-one Bed-rooms, most of which are commodious and airy. The Dining Room is sufficiently capacious to accommodate one hundred and fifty persons. There are three large rooms in the basement story, one of which is occasionally used as an extra Dining Room. Attached to the “ American” is a Livery Stable, under the superintendance of Mr. Judge VV. Harris, where Horses and Vehicles are constantly kept on hire, and Drovers and Travelers are accommodated with provender and stabling for their horses. ___ P© [ET E3 Y„ *• Much yet remains unsung.” “ L’AMOUR SANS AILES.” BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Love came one day to Lilia’s window And restive round the casement flew’, She raised it just so far to hinder Hisjwinps and all from coming through. Love brought no perch on which to rest, And Lilia had not one to give him; And now the thought her soul distressed— What should she do? Where should she leave hint ? Love maddens to be thus half caught— His struggle Lilia’s pain increases; “He’ll fly—he’ll fly away 1” she thought, “Or beat himself and wings to pieces. His wings! why them Ido not want, The restless things make all this pother!’’ Love tries to fly, but finds he can’t. And nestles near her like a brother. Plumeless, we call him Friendship now; Love smiles at acting such a part— But what cares he for lover’s vow While thus perdu near Lilia’s heart ? ©MLHOT WATLTB. THE TWO BARONS, Or the $ p irit sos the Mi nc. nv LEITCII RITCHIE. There is a story current in the Black For est which might be turned into a capital melo-drama, if one knew how to do it. Sup pose that I dash down a few notes, just to keep the action in my head. I have already attempted sermons, talcs, travels, essays, and poems—at least verses—who knows but I may yet soar to a drama, and get my friend Stanfield to paint the scenes ? The story was told me on the spot it re ferred to. I was wandeiing, as usual, alone and on foot, exposing my mind carelessly to external impressions, and gathering in, with out examination, what it received, good, had, and indifferent, just as it came. The scene was a forest, partially cleared in two spots, forming the bounds, at opposite sides, of the visible horizon, which the nature of the ground rendered very confined. These spots were eminences resembling the Lilli putian “mountains” of the Rhine, and each was surmounted by the ruins of an old cas tle. On one side, the broken lines of these monuments of the olden time were sketched firmly and yet delicately on the golden sky, where the light of departing day still linger ed like a memory ; and on the other, the dark mass stood indefinite and dream-like, resembling a phantom, of whose presence the imagination is conscious, without being able very clearly to separate its outline fiorn the shadows aroued it. The scene was suf ficiently striking toiuduce the inquiries which drew from a peasant, in whose hut I took up my quarters, for the night, the following Memories pour servir a un Melo-drame. Long, long ago, when Europe was yet steeped in her morningtwilight, theredwelt in these two castles two rival families.— How the rivalry commenced I cannot say, nor is it necessary to inquire. The jarring elements of society had not attained the form of civilization to which we are now accus tomed; the People were unborn ; the kings were merely the chief nobles ; public justice Was unknown ; and all men governed them selves by that good old rule, “ the simple plan— That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.” The two families, instead of growing rich, aif SXtmpwcv : mmtXt toJUtcraturc, afiricttltturr, Education, jForeCfiu atrtr ©omrstic tutrlUfitucc, stt. like their neighbors, by robbing those who had any thing to lose, hung upon one anoth er’s throats, till they threatened to realize the story of the Kilkenny cats. Their es tates wasted away—their lands remained uncultivated—they were overwhelmed with debts—and it seemed tolerably certain that in a very little while longer the houses of Wolfenhausen and Schwartzwald would re lax from the struggle out of mere exhaus tion, and expire of inanition. In those days, the women, although they did not take an active part in the private wars that desolated the country, were yet fully as much interested as the men in their event. They were brought up in the here ditary loves and hatreds of the family, and were taught to interweave curses with their earliest prayers. Sometimes it happened, no doubt, that an old feud yielded to poli cy and expediency, and was terminated by a marriage between the rival houses; but in this case the young lady was a mere po litical agent. Indeed, to love the enemy of her house, was in general not only morally, but physically out of the question ; for un less his head happened to be stuck upon her father’s gate by way of a trophy, she had no oppoitunity of even looking upon his face. Forinstance, the fair Amaliaof Schwartz wald had reached hertwenty-fifth year with out having once set eyes on her neighbor’s son; and Christian of Wolfenhausen had never seen, even in adream, the daughter of his enemy. That Amalia had reached so respectable an age, and still 11 Sat lonely in her castle hall,” need not be amatterof wonder, for marriages were managed in the iron age pretty much as they are iu ours. The heiress of Schwartz wald was, in fact, only worth her value as a pretty girl, her inheritance demanding more mouths to keep it than it could well feed. At the age of twenty-five, however, Ama lia should not be called merely a pretty girl. It has always surprised mo that the roman cers and melo-dramatists should pitch upon seventeen or eighteen as the heroic age of woman. Beauty is not a mere physical for mation, as they suppose ; it is made up of thought, sensation, passion, hope, memory, regret, delight. Till the character is form ed, the eyes opened, and the heart unsealed, the girl is only progressing towards beauty. Beauty is womanhood ; and its ora com mences about twenty-five, and extends to But this is digression. Nor was Amalia so much to he pitied for her long spinsterhood.forshe loved all God’s creatures. The first pet was a kitten, and when this grew into a cat, even then she lov ed it. After puss, came a puppy, arid then a full grown dog, and then a horse. The horse died when she was twenty-three, and after drying her eyes, she took up a book, for Amalia was one of the most accomplish ed young ladies of her time, being able both toreadand write. Her heart was vacant; she had time for study, and needed consolation, so she read on. By degrees reading became a pleasure and a habit—her book was the new pet. In those days the favorite literature treat ed of alchemy and the other hidden powers of nature; it detailed the process by which gold might be found in the bowels of the mine ; and it named, numbered, and descri bed the various spirits whose province it is to keep watch over the hidden treasures of the earth. This was strange reading for a young lady ; but Amalia was an enthusiast in her way, and besides, after a time, her studies were made holy by the feelings of a daughter. Her father waxed poorer and poorer ev ery day; his countenance grew grimmer, and his hair whiter; the knight, indeed, was at that point when long disappointment and exasperation harden into despair. Yet still MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, NOYEMBER 19, 1842. lie kept up his baronial state, so far as out ward appearance went, for to lay this aside, would be to yield to his enemy. The pre cious wine of the Necker still sparkled on his board, hut sparkled only to the eye, with out being allowed to cheer the old man’s heart. One by one bis usual indulgences, and at last even comforts, were laid aside on some hollow pretence, that sounded like a mockery, and Amalia, with a timid look ana cnoKea voice, in vain Desought lier fa ther to taste the morsel which once was dear to his palate. “ Gold, gold 1” cried the maiden of Schwartzwald, on such occasions, as she started suddenly up from the table, and flew with a bursting heart into her study ; “give me but gold, ye spirits that keep the keys of the earth, and—save in aught displeasing to Our Lady—l will be your handmaiden forever!” She studied, she pondered, she dreamed. She knew that a vase of Roman coins had actually been found in the neighborhood by her preceptor, the late Father Gottlieb—and found through the knowledge imparted by his hooks. This had occurred when she was a child ; but well she remembered the glow of enthusiasm which lighted up the old man’s face, as‘ turning his eyes toward the spot, he exclaimed—“ There are more be hind !” “ To what spot?” she demanded in her meditations—“O that I could find it!”—but here her memory failed iter. She could only conjure up a confused mass of crumbling walls; and the idea occurred to her like a dream, that the good father was angry when he saw her, as he emerged from a small doorway, and chid her away from the spot. Proceeding upon these data, however, she came to the conclusion, that the doorway must have been within the walls of the cas tle, since she herself had never at that time been without, and that it must have led into some subterranean passage communicating whh the forest. In the middle of the forest, half way be tween the two castles, she was aware there existed the ruins of a mine, said to have been wrought by the Romans. It was there, no doubt, that Father Gottlieb had found his vase of Roman coins. She even remem bered a tradition, that thismine wastlie orig inal bone of contention between the houses, and a nursery rhyme, which declared that the fate of both lay hidden in its womb.— So many sanguinary conflicts had taken place, and so many assassinations been committed, within the fatal precincts, that at length the spot was left to the custody of the demons of the mine; and well did they keep their charge. The place was a desert, sacred even from the footsteps of war. No sound had been heard there for half a century, save the laughter of the goblins, who held their sabbaths there every stormy night, and no human foot had dared to invade its mys teries—save only that of Father Gottlieb. If a priest could achieve the adventure, why not a woman 1 Avarice only could have instigated the holy father; while her motives would be respected by the good angels themselves. Amalia’s determination was taken. While exploring the ruinous parts of the castle, her recollection of the localities re turned gradually, being called up by the as sociations around her ; till at length she re cognised so distinctly the very spot she was in search of, that she could almost have fan cied she saw her late preceptor standing at the little doorway. The timber of the door was by this time decayed, and a few shakes were sufficient to remove the barrier. As it fell down, a hollow sound, resembling a groan, broke upon her ear, and died rum bling away in thedistance. She looked into the aperture; it was as black as night; some hideous faces seemed to grin at her through the darkness, and among them Father Gott lieb, arrayed in white, as she bad seem him in his coffin, glided shadowlike through the gloom. Amalia was in her own room again, ami on her knees before a crucifix, before the arrested pulses of her blood could have beat a dozen. In the blessed light of the sun she could be a heroine; but she had not been prepared for darknesg. And yet, what was darkness to her more than light ? Did she fear spirits, who sought to compel them to her power ? She became ashamed ot the baby fancies that had peopled the cavern with shadows. It was evidently a subter ranean passage communicating with the for est without; hence the groan-like noise of the falling door as the sound echoed through the vault. The next day she provided her self with a lamp, and inserting between the leaves of a missal a paperinScribed with the names of the most famous spirits both of earth and air, and the incantations necessa ry for summoning their assistance, she set out on her adventure. The visionary faces were less numereous at this visit to the cavern, although she still saw in the distance the white grave dress of Father Quulicb, and heard the toot ol the phantom as it paced slowly before her. It is true, she conceived it just possible that the appearance might be only some project ing point of the wall, or roof, touched by the flitting light of her lamp, and the sound nothing more than the echo of her own foot steps ; but her heart, nevertheless, beat au dibly, a cold perspiration broke upon her brow, and her skin began to creep with cold. She stood still, and looked back. All was dark behind her, as dark as all before. She was, perhaps, in the middle of the subterra nean passage, and might get into the light of day as easily one way as the other— “Returnirg were as tedious as go o’er,” So on she went. There is hardly an old castle in Germa ny, where the ruins of some such subter ranean communication are not seen to this day. In several instances they seem to have f.Alenueu irom one castle to another, or from a castle to the neighboring town; and Amalia, as she proceeded, terrified at the length of the passage, began to think at the end of it she should find herself in the dun geons of Wolfenhausen. As this idea oc curred to her, she saw a small light in the distance, like that of a lamp, and stood still in dismay. The light was stationary like herself. If held by an enemy he must already have per ceived hers, and an attempt to fly would only attract the danger she sought to shun. Was it not more reasonable to suppose it the lamp of one of the goblin miners, whose society she courted ? The idea made her skin creep, and yet it fortified her resolu tion. Gasping for breathy and quaking in every limb, she resumed her journey, with her eyes fixed upon the distant light, as if by the power of fascination. The light grew larger as she went on,and to her inexpressible relief she found that it was the light of day, shining through an opening in the cavern. This opening, how ever, was in the roof, and altogether inac cessible ; while it showed her that a few paces farther, the artificial portion of the passage ended, and a natural vault, or what appeared to her so, commenced. The un hewn stones amidst which she now clam bered were piled upon one another in the wildest confusion; sometimes she was obliged to climb to the very roof of the vault, and sometimes to thread her way through a deep and narrow fissure at the bottom, like the bed of some primeval tor rent. At length the passage all on a sud den widened, and she found herself in what appeared to her to be the palace of the genii of the mine. It was partially lighted at the top by some straggling sunbeams darting down here and there through the interstices of the roof; but these only revealed enough to excite the imagination without gratifying the curiosity. The vast area before her seemed to be di vided into compartments like the chambers of giants —I say seemed to be, for nothing was distinct. A sombre twillight reigned at the bottom of this abode of mystery, while the rich crystals and stalactites suspended from the roof gave a gorgeous yet grotesque air to the whole scene. Here and there a gulf of black water yawned at the feet of the adventuress. The perpetual plashings of the numerous drops, us the sound was modified by the substance on which they fell, resembled continuous strains of music, and the rushing of a distant toirent bound the whole up, as it were, into harmony. Amalia gazed and I'stened with a delight, mingled with and exalted by awe. She for got her errand ; and as she stood there mo tionless on the point of the rock, must have seemed like some enchanted princess of eastern romance. Suddenly a hollow shout rung in her ears, followed by the noise of a sledge hammer, and she started, half in joy, half in terror, from her dream. The gob lin miners were at work! “ Tetragrammaton !” cried the heroine, “ Sweet Mary, help me ! I call upon thee, Adonai ! Holy saints, if it be a sin !” The hammer slopped, and another wild shout broke from the lips of the demon, and rang through the abysses of the cavern. “ By the name Schemes Amathia !” con tinued Amalia, in a fainter voice. *By the name I’rimeammadon, I command thee ! come!—appear!” A mar like thunder shook the mine ; its foundation seemed to rend ; the colossall walls began to split ami rock ; and the portion immediately before tot tered over as if it would overwhelm her,and then sank groaning into an abyss at her feet. Amalia (stunned and terrified.) Merci ful Mother, I repent me ! O save thine er ring child ! Where am I ? All is changed around me —what a gulf is there ! Blessed saints, it is surely the entrance to the pit of darkness itself! hark! was that a voice I A voice from the gulf. Help, queen of Heaven ! Amalia. The demon mocks me. Shall I answer him again 1 Come forth ! (looking down into the gulf.) Can this be a fiend f he is like an angel. Come forth ! appear ! Voice. Most blessed and most beautiful! I cannot obey thee. The rock is as smooth as steel; I hove no hold for my hand and no purchase for my feet. Fling me but a single hair of thy divine head, and it shall he the cable of my salvation. Amalia. Hah!* is it so? Get thee behind me ! If thou art a spirit thou requirest not my assistance. Voice. And if thou wert the Blessed Virgin thou woujdst know that T nn spint. But even if the unearthly mistress of the mine (and surely thou const not he less,) forgive my boldness in prying into thy secrets; 1 sought but a little treasu-ie, and for no had purpose. Alas ! help me, or I sink ! my footing gives way—help ! help ! Amalia. There, take my baud, while with the other 1 cling to the rock—but stay. Holy Mary, if it should be a fiend after all! Tell me, what man ait thou ? Voice. Quick, or lam gone. Amalia. What will thou give me for thy life ? (Aside.) If be is a fiend be will promise largely. Voice. It is a woman, nnikno spirit. I can give thee nothing hut the poor service of my sword. I will be thy knight, and thy upholder against all gainsnyers. I will com pel the world to worship thy beauty, or fall a martyr to the faith myself. Amalia. And whose honor dost thou r i: 0 >,% a- iiitu t voice. lam Christian of Wolfenhausen. Amalia. Sacred Heaven ! the deadly foe of our house! Out, scorpion ! thou who hast stung my father to the death ! Perish—for I am Amalia of Scliwartzwald ! Voice. Amalia of Schwartzwald ! then my hour is come. By the holy saints, if I had known what nest this ladybird of para dise had risen from, I’d have died like a wolf without a howl! If thou art generous, Amalia, let my father know that 1 have not perished by the hand of a woman and a foe. Now, farewell. Amalia. Hold ! I must save thee wert thou a fiend ! There—(she raises him out of the gulf)—Sir Christian, thou art my knight arid my father’s foe. Christian. Lady Amalia, thou hast bought me with a price ; I am the friend of thy friends, the enemy of thy enemies, and thy own true knight’ Two days after this adventure the Baron of Schwartzwald was sitting alone in the apartment which now-adays would he term ed a study, as it was appropriated to solitary meditation. He was unarmed, and Wrap ped in a loose gown, but in his black and stern visage one would have read of any thing rather than peace. “ The measure is full,” said he, aloud, through his clenched teeth ; “ land and re venue gone, and now my daughter—praised he the saints, they have left me room to die! Unhappy girl! child of an unhappy father! if I could hut know thy fate ! but it is bet ter as it is ; for 1 would fain retain my sen ses to the last. And yet how can they have seized her? I have threaded every inch of the subterranean passage, and what was once an open communication with the mine is now sealed up by the fall of the rock. Be sides, if they had discovered the passage, instead of stealing a harmless girl, would they not have surprised the castle, and put us all to the sword ? Can it be that my in fatuated Arnalia has come to an ill end through her studies ? No woman ever pros pered either in this world or the nexf who understood Latin. On the day she disap peared the earth shook, and a roar filled the air like the laughter of a thousand demons! Well, well—with her my last hold of the world is gone, and to morrow I shall find both vengeance and the grave.” He was interrupted in his meditations by the en trance of his esquire, who came to announce that a stranger desired to see him. “ Has he no name ?” “ None that he will disclose.” “ What sort of man is he in person ?” “A soldierlike man enough, and an old man to boot; but he wears his vizor down.” “ No matter ; he is but one—let him en ter and the baron arranged himself on his chair so as to assume an appearance of dignity, which in more prosperous times he cared nothing about. The stranger strode into tho room, and, with scarcely an obeisance, took a vacant scat by the table, to which the other point ed. He then drew off his gloves, flung them carelessly upon the floor, laid down his helmet upon a chest before him, and striking his elbow upon the table, leant his chin upon his clenched hand, and looked the baron in the face. The baron recoiled, hut almost imperceptibly ; and the only sign which betrayed more than usual emotion was his grasping, as if with the pressure of a vice, the arm of his chair on which his hand rested. | NUMBER 34. W. T. THOMPSON, EDITOR. “Baron of Schwartzwald,” said the Ba ron of Wolfenhausen, “ where is my son ?” ” I demand of thee, rather, where is my daughter?” “ I know not of the maiden, arnl I am not here to trifle. My son is the last branch of my roof-tree. If thou hast slain him, al though I came not here with thoughts of violence, yet will I spill thy blood upon thy own hearth-stone. Nay,stare not —my sword is undrawn, and if the youth still lives, it shall ramain so. lam in thy power: a sin gle shout, if it did not save thy own life, would sacrifice mine. But lam a desperate man, and have come upon a desperate ven ture. Restore my son, and name tby terms.” It may be conjectured that the two old men were not long in coming to an under standing. They were not smooth enough either to intend or suspect fraud ; and, in the spirit of the time, they at once arrived at the conclusion that their children, who disappeared on the same day, bad bee:; spirited away by the goblins of the mine. The entrance of the cavern on both sides having been completely blocked up by the mimluiiw t gpm uyfJns pi s Sir Christian had caused, or perhaps only hastened, in the interior, it was necessary to dig an opening through the earth. This was at length effected through the united exertions of the retainers of both houses who had never met before, within the memory of man, except on tbe field of battle. When the light of a hundred torches at length streamed into the cavern, the chil dren-of the two enemies were seen seated on the rock; Amalia pale and exhausted from cold and want, and Christian hanging with distracted fondness over her fading form. Need it he arid that the feud was at an end from that day; and that although the churlish spirits of the mine had despised the incantations of Amalia, yet peace and in dustry were worth whole vases of Roman coins to the two barons 1 IL A N THE PRICE OF AN OPINION^ In a cold night of November, in the year 1835, a man enveloped in a large cloak, rap ped at tbe door of one of the most distin guished advocates of Paris. He was quick ly shown into the chamber of the learned lawyer. “ Sir,” lie said, placing upon the table a large parcel of papers, “ I am rich, but the suit that has been instituted against me to day will entirely ruin me. At my age, a fortune is not to re-built; so that the loss of my suit will condemn me forever to the most frightful misery. I come to ask the aid of your talents. Here are the papers, as to the facts, I will, if you please, expose them clearly to you.” The advocate listened attentively to tbe stranger, then opened the parcel, examined all the papers it contained, and said, ‘‘Sir, the action laid against you is founded irt jus tice and morality; unfortunately, in the ad? mimble perfection of our codes, law does not always accord with justice, and here the law is for you. If therefore, you rest strict ly upon the law, and avail yourself, without exception, of all the means in your favor—’ if, above all, these means are exposed with clearness and force, you will infallibly gain this suit, and nobody can afterwards dispute that fortune you fear to lose.” Nobodyinthe world,” replied the client, “ is so competent to do this as yourself; an opinion drawn up in this sense, and signed by you would render one invulnerable. I am hold enough to hope that you will nqt refuse it me.” The skilful advocate reflected some mo ments taking up again the papers that he had pushed away with an abruptness pecu liar to him, said that he would draw up the opinion, and that it should be finished the following day, at ihe same hour. The client was punctual to his appoint ment. The advocate presented him witb the opinion, and without taking the trouble to reply to the thanks with which the other overwhelmed him, said to him rudely, “ Here is the opinion ; there is no judge who, after haviug seen that, will condemn you. Give me 3,000 francs.” The client was struck dumb and motion less with surprise. ,l You are free to keep your money,” said the advocate, “ as I am to throw tire opin ion into the fire.” i iu dim So speaking, he advanced towards tbe chimney ; hut the other stopped him, and declared that he would pay the sum de manded ; but that he had only half of it with him. . I'i He drew, in fact, from his pocket book 1,500 francs in bank notes. The advocate with one hand took the notes, and with the other threw the opinion into an indrawer. “But,” said the client, “lam going if you please, to give you ray note for the bal ance.” “ I want money. Bring me 1,500 more francs or you shall not have one line.” There was no remedy, and the 3,000 francs were paid. But the client, to re venge himself for being so pillaged, hasten ed to circulate this anecdote; it got into tbe papers, and for a fortnighjt there was a de luge of witticisms of all kinds upon tbe dis interestedness of the great advocate. Those