Newspaper Page Text
VOL.- 9.
the GEORGIA CITIZEN
„V yv Lit morning at no per annum In ad
i': V. f paifl • thin three months, or #3.00 if not paid
’ menu at the regular charge will be One D-Mar
hundred vnrde nr Ice. for the first lnser
t • • r,i.< for eaeh subsequent insertion. All ad
‘ • t ipecifled as to time, will be published until
r '* . v red accordingly. A liberal disrount allowed
-rtlV ujvertise by the year.
1 nMtuar Votleea (ocer ten lines, wUI be charged at the
1 . ~ ■ incut* of candidate* for offlce to be paid for at
tnn,> ; rrf rted.
: • et’ 4 made with county officers. Druggists,
.‘.C Merchants, and others, who may wish to make
of Land and V-aroe*.! V Executors. Adminirfrn
-5 u % are required by .aw to be advertised In a
[” . ‘ ~.f rtv lavs previous to the day of sale.
1 „ *•* „ t held on the first Tueadsy in the month.
. “- h us of ten In the forenoon and three In the as
-1 ‘ uthe C :rt-house in the county in which the prop-
■ M ie,..f Personal Property must be advertised In like
Jv,,i, r h Debtor* and t rrdltoraof an Estate must be
I, ,'L. ;• \f- Lcation will be made to the Ordinary for
W'.’ 1 I. ,1 and Negroes, must be published weekly for
**, £*i* ‘ L.tn- i Administration, thirty dap: for
■ 1 .> m A.|mini*ration, monthly, six months; for
... ekl.. t ,rty days.
, ,|e* for Foreclosing of Mortgage*. monthly four
V . ..u.g; -t papers, for the foil spai'e of three
2 si ‘ rs r administrators
■ --.t L g;\ cn by the deceased, the full space of
■>r,>reioiial and Bust new Cards will be iuserted un
■ .t( ad, at the following rotes, viz:
X ■•••41
T 8
L, Su line* do 10 00
I . ted. unless paid
*C . .o months. Ad
■ s will! anedarssßa Ad
K t•! f r ii: advance will l-e charged at the
feaHn^cis:
LANIER & ANDERSON, I
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Macon, G-n.,
tit;i i’ E n tli unties of the Macon Circuit, and In
-f Sur.it. r. Monroe and Jones; also In the
Ccntt* st Savannah.
AXPKRSON hive ale- recently become the
■ . . viiig Insurance Companies :
■ A sTAINSI RANCE AND BANKING COM
■ M D'Antignae President, amt C. K.
I •’ : AMA FIRE AND MARINE IXSUR
■ MI ANY. Montgomery, of which T. H. Watts is
K i A Wi, an.s is Secretary.
■- rules and risks on slave- taken at usual rates.
[dr. h. a. mettauer,
■ 1 . • ent portion ofthree successive years in
I ■ ,;y, luring which time he has limited his
B ■ -> exclusively to Surgery, now respectfully
■- - • es t j the citizens of Macon and surround
l i All the branches of hit profession. Offlce !
i *? uth Ea*t Corner ofßd and Cherry streets, o?er
• ‘ Ayres’ new Grocery Btore.
Aplf-tf
0. Bj_RICE,
ffl. A fffWl REPAIRER
■f PIANO FORTES.
■ --.sumtly located in Macon. may
■ Mtssrs. Virgin’s and at E. J. Johnston A Cos.
t #
J
| Opposite the Pfissenger Depet,
bi ac :m'r -m. •
E. I. BROWN, Proprietor, ,
10 * Meals ready on the arriva.’ of every Train.
■5-9-ts • I
L. H. WHITTLE,
Attorney at law,
I MACON, GA.
■ft? <i- to Concert Hail, over Payne’s Drug Store.
-iy _ _ ___
J R. DAVIS,
pfc Broker, Collector Sl General Ag’t.
Hkw attended to In any county in this State.
■a omer Jackson and Ellis Street, Augusta, Ga.
fIOCHRANE & LAMAR,
■ttorneys.a/t Law,
I MACON, GA..
■lice by the Mechanic’* Bank.
fir : E HOURS from StoIS A. M.. 2tosP. M. and also
■ ‘• :. p y
ih the Counties of the Macon Circuit andln
P fj.nes. Monroe and Columbia, and in the Su
■ LOCHRANE. JOHN LAMAR.
SPEER & HUNTER,
B torneys at law,
Maoon, Ga„
■ Block, Corner of Cherry
‘treet and Cotton Avenne.
■- “.it. da partners in the practice c f Law in
• • • the Maeon and adjoining Circuits, and
WD v -e bv -tpeclal contract—aiso, will attend
A.“• at Savannah and Marietta.
K. ALEX. M. ."PEER,
f SAMUEL HUNTEh.
THE LIVER
■VIGORATOR!
I prepared bv dr. sanford,
■POUNDED ENTIRELY FROM GUMS,
■ . ■ ; and Liver Medicines now before
Kf 1 ’ * a* a Cathartic, easier, milder, and
ti.er medicine known. It is not on
.l. ;a remedy, acting first on the liver
W - t;en on tin- Stomach and bowels to
-> ir.g two purposes effec
” a.nfu’ i:iuig experienced in the
l ‘ Vi.articj. It rtreugtbens the system at
K a;. , gee it; am. when taken dally in mod
'r - ‘' r "’ **!.•and build it up with unueual rap-
p ‘ • Cl.et • irfinciiial regulators of the
| ■’ M perf-rms its functions well,
■ ‘ ar- as fuila developed. Thestom
<ie.,ton .he healthy action
n’ S lerfnrmanceofits functions;
I- are at fault, and
I 1 tg of one organ—
... ~ d a ty. for the dls-
K f _ the proprietors ha* made it
■ . ‘ more than twenty years, to
■§ with tocouuteractthe many
■ Ls at last found, any person
E; -UH * COMPLAINT, in any es its
■ha, wr md conviction is certain.
■ it, _ rbid or :kul matter from
- - £ ltheir place a healthy flow of
ad.. ..using food to dlgeM
I • IhE Mi!BLOOD, giving tone and
■fit* _ -i- . cry. removing uie cause of
1 P* icalcure.
■ ;- .n> are cured. AND. WHAT I?
| and ps by the occasional use of the
Fm •- ‘ /‘f M suflldent to relieve th* stom
. : . °d ™ from rising and souring.
I •ri i retiring, prevents NIGHT
Bf, - :e -- “ ® night, loosens the bowels
k * meal will cure DYSPEP-
Pa:-.V hk “P-yonfuU wIU always re
-4 ‘ rfe M iHa i e obstructions removes
rD . ‘ makes a perfect cure.
■ ■)> ‘ y relieves CHOLIC, while
J* “,-u sure care for CHOL
■ • m-ntartve of CHOLERA.
- W. t..-ede<l to throw out of the
H r cine after a long sickness.
R ‘ rAUNWCi removes ail
[l 4 £ ■ fr- r., the skin.
■ ’ime tef ,re eating gives vig
ixsidigest well.
■ B -ire* CHRONIC DIAR
■ while iTSSER and
■ _ r: Jk Ua.odt to the first dose.
■ -e- wr , itUck , caused WORMS
► - , iur r. -tr, safer, w speedier remedy
by exciting the
■ , !r , v. “ mn,ending this medldne
■ - - . r - -i VKK AN"I> AGUE, CHILL
■ • - tI . ; “af a BiLLIOUS TYPE.—
■
J* u
fai( Jr * re kt.ing liieir uuanunous eati
■h \t A ,.. ,
mouth with ihe Inxlgom-
BITP tm !u Mher.
■ - liver invigorator
■ - L: EDK;aI DISCOVERY, and is daily
, * • , Fr-at u. believe. It cures as if by
■ .. .. *-, giring bcaedt. and seldom more
■ ; cure anv kind of LIVER Com
, ‘ • or Dyspepsia torn common
-ten are the result of a DISEA SED LIV
m. t
I,VE COLLAR PER BOTTLE.
aBl ‘AKFORD A CO, Proprietors.
1W u _ 3*s Broadway, New York.
■ , e **le Agents:
■■ * T urk ;T. W. Dyott * Sons, Philadel
; H. H. Hay A 00-J, Portland;
1 , “ r * t ’ ‘raylord A Hammond. Cleveland;
IL Sr -Lx^f o i o. J. Wood A Co_ St. Louis;
f W S. Hance. Baltimore.-
■fjL and RetaU M
cSlisn-Uimg.
The llcautilul.
Scatter the germs of the beaufifull
By the wayside let them fall,
That the rose may spring at the cottage gate, t
And the vino on the garden wall:
Cover the rough and the rude of earth
With a veil of leaves and flowers,
And mark with the opening bud and cup
The march of the summer Howeri
Scatter the germs of the beautiful
In the holy shrine of home;
Let the pure and the fair and tae graceful, there
In their loveliest lustre come.
Leave not a trace of deformity
In the temple of the heart,
But gather about its hearth the germs
Os Nature and of Art.
Scatter the germs of the beautiful
In the temple of our (rod—
The God who starred the uplifted skv,
And flowered the trampled sod;
When He built a temple for- Himself,
And a home for His priestly race,
He reared each arch in symmetry.
And curved each line in grace.
Scatter the germs of the beautiful
In the depth of the human soul;
They shall bud and blossom, and bear the fruit,
While the endless ages roll;
Plant with the flowers of charity
1 he portals of the tomb:
And the fair and the pure about thy path
In Paradise shall bloom!
For the Georgia Citizen.
THE I'OKTKIIT.
V SCENE IK AN AUCTION ROOM.
In the year IHfJC*, there lived on the
Rialto, in Venice, a great Painter, whose j
name was Antonio Bartolo. He was
not only a great Painter himself, but the !
best judge of paintings in all Italy. A 1
year before this, he had married a beau- I
tiful lady in Boston. Wishing to return
home on a visit to her father, she left
enice early in the spring, to arrive in
England in time to take passage in the
“Home’’—then about to sail from Liver
pool. But when she arrived in that city,
she dreamed, the night before the de
parture of that vessel, that she was,
lost, which so impressed her mind that
she engaged her passage in another ves-’
sel—in which, in due time, she arrived
safely in Boston—to the great joy of
her friends. The “Home” was lost on
her way to New York, every soul on
board having been drowned at sea.
Immediately after her arrival in Bos-;
ton, she wrote |o her husband, Signor
Antonio Bartolo, informing him of her
safe arrival; but received no answer
from her letter, even after the expiration
of three months. On looking over the
“Boston Post,” one day, she saw it an
nounced, under the head of “Foreign
Newt” that Signor Antonio Bartolo was
dead—that he died of grief on account
of the loss of his wife and child, on their
passage to the United States in the
“Home.”
Fourteen years had passed away.—
She was now living with her father in
Boston. Her daughter, who was very
young when she left Venice, was now a
young lady nearly grown. She was ve- (
ry beautiful —so beautiful was she con-1
sidered by all the best judges, that she
was called, ‘’‘‘The Belle of Boston.' 1
Being the fairest of all the beautiful
ladies who adorn the beauties of that city
of civilization, it was nothing more than
reasonable to suppose that her mother
doated upon her almost to idolization—
calling her a Model for a Sculptor —the I
Queen of Beauty of the North!
About this time, there came from the
interior of the country to Boston, a
young man, an Italian by birth, to 6tudy
Painting, who was pronounced, by all
the great Masters of the Art in that city,
a student of the forest promise of any who
had ever visited the Academy.
On visiting the Academy, about a
year after his arrival, in company with
her daughter, Signora Bartolo was intro
duced to this young man by the name of (
Angelo Montani, who, after a little con
versation, engaged to paint the Portrait of
her daughter, Esperanza Bartolo, on this
condition, that, if it did not come up to j
her Ideal, she was to have the portrait
for nothing; but if it did, she Mas to pay
him one hundred dollars. This she ;
agreed to, appointing the next day for
the first sitting.
Faithful to her engagement, she went,.
with her daughter, the next day, to the .
Studio of Angelo Montani. W hen they ,
arrived, they found the Artist, (the poor j
orphan boy of genius') waiting, with anx- j
ious expectation, to begin his “labor uf\
lore” —f or the Angelic beauty of Espe
ranza had filled his soul with the genius
of a God, For ten days, precisely at
the hour of twelve, did she repair, accom
panied by her devoted mother, to the
Studio of Angelo, to have her Portrait
painted—never dreaming why it was
that he requested her to repeat her sit
tings. Her loveliness had taken the souk
of Angelo captive, never to be free
again in time or eternity, but her slave
for ever —if it be a slave to love the
Beautiful wilh a sincerity deeper than
life or death. But he never told his
passion to mortal soul —letting conceal
ment, like a worm in the bud. feed on the
IRose of his heart.
After ten days’ indefatigable labor
inspired by the lofueet rapture* ol ‘b* t
! vine enthusiasm—he dismissed the Idol
of his dreams, the loftiest Ideal of all
his hopes of perfection, to retouch and
finish, to his own eternal loving, the Por
trait, which he did in about a week. He
then carried it home, hung it, according
|to own taste, on the wall in the Draw
ing Room, where it soon became the ad
miration of all the Connoiseurs of the
city —being unanimously pronounced the
finest picture in America.
About a week after this, the father of
Signora Bartolo died, leaving her in the
utmost destitution ; fur it was soon after
found that the old man was greatly in
debt. Not long after this, it as adver
| tised in all the papers, that his books,
furniture, Ac., would be sold at Auction,
in New York, on a certain day—besides,
“cr Portrait of great beauty.’
Nobody appeared to any atten
, tion to this Advertisement, but Siguora
Bartolo, her daughter aud Angelo Mon
tani, who was now in New York, wishing
I to obtain some person with liberality
enough to purchase the Portrait for him,
which he valued at more than millions
of guineas—for his jsoul was there
living in eternal genius, in the deathless
colors of that immortal Painting.
<>n the forenoon of the day of sale,
he entered the Auction room, on Broad-
saw Portrait hanging on
the wall, exposed for sale. Never did it
I lefok so beautiful to him before—for trans
cending every thing of which he had
ever dreamed—looking more like a spir
it from Paradise, than a Beauty of this
earth. VV hile he stood there, gazing on
its Angelic loveliness, rapt into the high
est Heaven of immortal enthusiasm, he
saw two men enter the room—one an
entire stranger to him, the other an old
•Jew, addressed, by the Auctioneeer, as
Dt-uuii 1, a great patron of the Arts,
for he was a very rich man. Presently,
the old .lew. on perceiving the the Por
trait on the wall,walked up within the Poet
ry of Distance, and stood for some time 1
gazing, with rapt attention, on the pic
ture—then suddenly left the room.
But the stranger still lingered looking
at the picture, as if unconscious of every
thing else around him, which, of course,
greatly attracted the attention of Angelo,
for his soul was truly ravished by the
seeming admiration bestowed upon it by
him.
Presently, the house was full of all
sorts of people, who visit Auctions to
purchase goods, cheaply.
The Auctioneer, taking his hammer
in his hand, entered the Rostrum.
‘ Gentlemen,” said he, in a lofty tone
of voice, “we have many beautiful things
to offer you to-day, among which is a
Portrait, painted by a young gentleman
—a self-taught Artist —pronounced by
the best judges, to be the greatest genius
of this age. But, that every man may
be his own judge, behold the picture on
the wall there—all life,all beauty, infinite
loveliness—a being of earth, with all
that the most enthusiasticyof us ever
dreamed of Heaven!”
At this moment, every eye in the
room was fixed on the portrait, every
breast heaving M ith the earnest emotions
of admiration—but not one in all that
assembly knew of the rapture M’hich
thrilled the soul of Angelo Montani.
There stood the stranger, gazing with
the most intent admiration on the picture,
wondering to himself, in what part of
Italy it had been secreted, that he had
never before seen it. “ Mysteriously
wonderful! Surpassingly beautiful
murmured the stranger, in an audible
whisper, Angelo alone overhearing him.
“ Thank God /” said Angelo, to himself,
“here is one true soul who knows what is
beautiful /” when a crystal tear—a pure
tear of love—welled up out of his ach
ing heart and settled, like a drop of dew,
on his eyelid.
“Come, gentlemen,” resumed the Auc
tioneer, “if you have ravished your souls
with gazing on her loveliness, now give
me a bid.”
“Ish she eon An tick!” very impertin
ently enquired Judas Benoni, with an
iron grin stereotyped on his countenance.
“No!” exclaimed the Auctioneer, “we
will have no antics cut here to-day ; but
you may cut just as many as you please
on tomorrow, at the hour of twelve
when m*c will offer for sale Leonardi Da
Vincis “Last Supper ,” where you, and
every body else, can see how expertly
your ancestor, Uncle Judas, betrayed to
death the divine Lord of life and glory.
“One tousand tollars! ’ exclaimed Ju
das Benoni, under the impulse ot the mo-;
ment.
“One thousand cUdla l ' 3 !’* repeated the
Auctioneer. “This will do to begin with.
One thousand dollars I have bid for
beautiful Portrait —one-tenth of its
Why, gentlemen! I know a man, who, if
lie were here to-day, would give ten thou
sand dollars for it, rather than it should
be sacrificed at this rate. 1 have sold
many a Portrait, but, if there is a par
ticle of truth in men, (although I know, i
MACOIV, GA. MAY 7, 183S.
very well , that nobody here would be
fool enough to believe any thing that an
Auctioneer would say) that is the finest
Portrait 1 ever saw! There is some
thing about it which I cannot describe,
(you all can see it as well as can) which
Hfts it above any thing that was ever
done by mortal man on this earth ! Look
at the melting tenderness of those deep
blue eyes! the imagination on those lips!
like that glorious beauty which charac
acterized Ceulia, when 6hc drew the An
gels doum from Heaven to listen to the
sweet strains of her voice! One thou
sand dollars is bid! W T ho says eleven
hundred ¥’
The stranger nodded to the Auctioneer.
“Eleven hundred!” cried the Auction
eer, at the top of his voice. “What
say you, uncle Judas ?”
“ Von huntret mo /” answered Judas.
Twelve hundred!” shouted the Auc
tioneer, looking towards the stranger,
who nodded another hundred.
“Thirteen hundred!” exclaimed the
Auctioneer. “Now is the time, uncle
Judas —redeem your character, or you
are one of the lost ones of the Tribe of
Israel.”
“Two tousand tollars /” exclaimed Ju
das Benoni, lifting up his little black eyes
towards the Auctioneer.
“Two thousand dollars !” shouted the
Auctioneer, in must joyful tones, looking
towards the stranger, who replied in a
low, but audible tone of voice, “Ten
thousand /” /
“ Ten thousand dollars /” exclaimed
the Auctioneer, in a triumphant ecstacy.
“Ten thousand dollars I have bid ! Ten
thousand dollars for the beautiful Por
trait of Esperanza Bartolo! the most
beautiful creature now living!” The
breast of the stranger now heaving M’ith
the most evident emotion. “Come, un
cle J udas, look up! or you’re a lost man!
Ten thousand dollars 1 have bid for the
Portrait of the loveliest woman on the
face of the earth ! Have you all done 1
Who bids another hundred ? AU done?
Going say another hundred, uncle
Judas! What is another hundred to
you ? Have you all done ? I will knock
her down without another bid, if not
given soon T Going— going —. Come,
gentlemen, it’s a pity to let that Portrait
go at the small sum of ten thousand dol
lars l W’ho bids another hundred 1—
Going— going — gone !”
‘‘What name, sir?”
“ Signor Antonio Bartolo,” replied
the stranger, in a low, but plainly audi
ble, voice.
“Signor Antonio Bartolo /” exclaimed
Angelo Montani, approaching the stran
ger.
“That is my name, sir,” returned the
stranger.
“From Venice?” enquired Angelo, in
a hasty voice.
“I am, sir,” replied the stranger.
“Do you know Signor Antonio Bar
tolo, the great painter of that city?”
asked Angelo.
“I am that person, sir,” replied the
stranger.
“What! Antonio Bartolo /” exclaim
ed Angelo, in the utmost surprise. “Why,
we all heard that you tvere dead! Your
wife and daughter—”
“My wife and daughter /” exclaimed
Signor Antonio Bartolo, with the ut
most emotion, “where, in the name of
God, are they ?”
“In Boston,” replied Angelo Montani.
“In Boston ?” asked Antonio Bartolo,
—“not dead ?”
“They live!” replied Angelo, “but
will certainly die on beholding you here
again.”
“Oh, God! take me to them ! exclaim
ed Bartolo. “But let me pay for the
Portrait.”
“That is the Portrait of your daugh
ter!” exclaimed Angelo,
“My daughter ?’ asked Bartolo, in
rapturous surprise.
“Thine own fair daughter—painted by
these hands,” replied Angelo.
Bartolo said no more, for he was dumb
M-ith joy. That afternoon they started
in the three o’clock train, and at mid
night were in Boston. The meeting of
Signor Antonio Bartolo, with his long
lost w'ife and daughter, can better be
imagined than described. ’
In just quo week afterwards, Angelo
Montani was the husband of Esperanza
Bartolo—the beautiful Belle of Boston.
TIIOS. H. CHIVERS, M. D.
Villa Allegra, Ga. Feb. 4, 1858.
Autumn Woods.
At, Hwere a lot too blest
Far to thy colored shades to stray ;
Amidst the kisses of the sott South-West,
To rove and dream for aye.
And leave the vain, low strife
That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,
ihe passions aud the cares that wither life.
And waste Its little hour.
Ambition and Love.
Bnt I am strangely altered now ;
*° ?e nnte the bugle's voice—
Tne rufthmg wave—Ute piuuifiii# prow—
The piounuiu with his clouded brow.
The thunder when the blue akle Dow,
And the eons of God reWce:
I love to dream of tears and aighs,
And ehadowy hair, and half-shut eye*.
m m J . Neal.
The best capital to begin life on is a capi
tal wife.
April Flowerings and Sho” erings.
How beauliiul do all times and seasons, in
their changeful revolutions, expound and il
lustrate the genius of Shapkspeare! And
now, while
“ well appareled April on the heel
Os liuipius: Winter treads,”
how forcefully impresses itself upon the heart
the beauty of the comparison of Proteus, the
“gentleman of Verona”—
“ Oh! how this spring of love rescmUeth
Th’ uncertain glorv of an April dav.
Which now shows all the beauty of the snn,
And by and by a cloud takes all away!”
Portia’s servant, in the casket scene, fitly
describes “an ambassador of love,” when she
tells her mistress that
“ A day in April never came so sweet.
To show how costly Summer was at hand.
As this tore-gpurrer comes before his lord ;”
and Iris, in “The Tempest,” praises “Ceres,
most bounteous lady,” for
“ Those tanks with peonied and ldied brims.
Which spongy April at he. hest betrims.”
Sweetly said Antony when he saw his
Octavia weeping, as she took her mournful
leave of him—
“ The A pill's in her eyes ;it is love’s Spring,
Ami these the showers to bring it on I”
And Shakspeare, too, on April liowers, as
well as April itself —how charming! Violets!
He makes Titania's couch of them:
“ I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where ox lips and the nodding viulet blows.
There sleeps Titania, sometimes of the night,
Lulled in the flowers with flinces aufl delight.”
And thus does the pretty Pedita, in the
“Winter’s Tale,’ discourse of them to the
Old Shepherd and the disguised Camiiio :
“ Here's dowers for youdaffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The April winds with beauty ; violets dim,
llut sweeter than theli I* of Juno's eyes
Or Oytlierea's breath.”
Music, by night, he describes as coming
o’er the ear
Like the sweet South,
That breathes upon a tank of violet -,
Stealing and giving odor ;”
and, as if to rate this modest little flower
highest for fragrance in the blooming par
terre, he declares that
“ To throw a perfume on the violet
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.”
llow prettily and how gallantly does the
Duke of York demand of his newly arrived
son, what court beauties were ascendants
when he left London !
“Welcome, my son ! Wh • ar* the violets, now,
That strew the green tap of the new-come spHiig! M
Laertes describes the professed love of
Hamlet, for (iplitdia.
“ A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent—sweet, no! lasting—
The perfume and suppllance of a minute ;
No more!”
—and hapless Ophelia herself, in her mad
ness, cries:
“ I would give you violets, too; hut thev withered all,
when my poor father died I”
Oh! matchless Shakspeare!
A Fortunate Ilutn.
George Balleton sat in his room in
his hotel. He was a young man six-and
twenty, tall and slim frame, with a face
of excruciating intellectual beauty, dress
ed in costly garments, though his toilette
was but indifferently performed. He
was an orphan, and for some years had
boarded at the hotel. It required but a
single glance into his pale features to tell
’that he was an invalid. lie sat with his
head resting upon his hands, and his
whole frame would ever and anon trem
ble, as though with some powerful emo
tion.
As the youth sat thus, his door was
opened,and an elderly gentleman entered,
“Ah! doctor, you are moving early
this morning,” said Bailer ton, as he lazi
ly rose from his seat and extended his
hand.
“Oh! not early for me, George,” re
turned Allyne, with a bright smile. “1
am an early bird.”
“Well, you have caught a worm this
time.”
“I hope it will prove a valuable one.”
“I don’t know,” sighed the youth. “I
fear a thousand worms will inhabit this
poor body ere long.”
“Nonsense! you’re ivorth half a cen
tury yet,” cried the doctor, giving him a
gentle slap on the shoulder. “But just
tell me, George, how is it with Rowland?”
“Just as l told you. All is gone.”
“1 don’t understand it, George.”
“Neither do I,” said the young man,
sorrowfully. “That Charles Rowland
could have done that thing, 1 would not
—could not —have believed. Why, had
an angel appeared to me two weeks ago,
and told me that Rowland was shaky, I
would not have paid a moment’s attention
to it. But only think : when my father
died he selected for my guardian his best
friend,and such I even now believe Charles
Rowland was, and in his hands he placed
his wealth, and for him to keep until 1
was of age. And, when I did arrive at
that period of life, I left my money where
it was, 1 had no use for it. Several
times, within three or four years, has
Rowland asked me to take my money and
invest it, but I would not. I bade him
keep it, and use it, if he wished. I only
asked, that when 1 wanted money, he
would honor my demand. I felt more
safe, in fact, than I should have felt had
my money been in a bank on deposit.”
“llow much had he when he left?’’
“Plow much of mine ?”
“Yes.”
“lie should have had a hundred thou
sand dollars.”
“What do you mean to do ?”
“Ah! you have me on the hip there.”
“And yet, you must do something,
George. Heaven knows I would keep
you if I could. I shall claim the privi
lege of paying your debts, however.”
“No, no, doctor—none of that.”
“But I tell you I shall. I shall pay
your debt*, but b*yo&4 that 1 can only
help you to assist yourself. What do
you say to going to sea ?”
A faint smile swept over the youth’s
pale features, at this remark.
“I should make a smart hand at sea,
doctor! I can hardly keep my legs on
shore. No, no—l must—”
“Must what?”
“Alas! I know not. I shall die—that's
all!”
“Nonsense, George. I say, go to sea.
You could’t go into a shop, and you
wouldn’t, if you could. You do not
wish to remain here, amid the scenes of
your happier days. Think of it; at sea
you will be free from all sneers of the
heartless, and free from all contact with
things you loathe. Think of it.’’
George Ballerton started to his feet,
and paced the floor for some minutes.
When he stopped, anew life seemed al
ready at work within him.
“If I went to sea, what could I do ?”
“You understand all the laws of for
eign trade ?”
“Yes. You know I had a thorough
schooling at that, in my father’s counting
house.”
“Then you can obtain the berth of a
supercargo.”
“Are you sure I can get one?”
“Yes.”
“And the salary ?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
“Doctor John Claudius Allyne, I will
go!”
George Ballerton walked one evening
to the house of a wealthy merchant, An
drew W T ilton. It wai a palatial dwell
ing, and many a hopeful, happy hour, I
had he spent beneath its roof. He rang
the liell and was admitted to the parlor.
In a few minutes, Mary Wilton entered, j
She was only twenty. She had been
waiting until that iige to be George IJal
lerton’s wife.
Some words were spoken—many mo
ments of painful silence ensued.
“Mary, you know all. I am going
from my native land, a beggar. I cannot
stay long now. Mary, did I know you
less than l do—or, knowing you well, j
did I know you as Ido many —I should
give back your vows, and free you j
from all bondage. But 1 believe I
should trample upon your heait, did I
do that thing now. I know your love is
too pure and deep to be torn from your
bosom at will. Sol say —wait —w'ait!”
“ —sh! You know not again what
you say. There are other feelings in
the human heart, besides love. That
love is a poor profitless passion, which
puts aside all other considerations. We
must love for eternity, and so our love
must be free. Wait. I am going to
work. Ay, upon the sea to work !”
“But why upon the sea ? Why away
where my poor heart must ever beat in
anxious fear and doubt, as it follows
thee?”
“Because, I cannot remain here. Hun
dreds of poor fools have imagined that
I shunned them because I was proud.
They know not that it was the tainted
atmosphere of their moral life that 1
shunned. They gloat over my misfor
tune. Men may call me foolish ; but it
would kill me to stay here.
“Alas! must it be ?”
“It must. You will wait ?”
“I will wait even to the g&tes of the
tomb!”
“Then, Heaven bless and preserve
you !”
The ruined youth was upon the ocean
—his voyage commenced—his duties as
laborer, for his own daily bread, all fair
ly assumed. Ah! it was a strange life
for him to enter upon. From the own
ership of immense wealth to the trade
books of a merchant ship, was a transi
tion indeed ! But, ere he went on deck
again, he had fairly resolved that he
would do his duty, come what would,
short of death. He would forget that
he ever did else but work for his liveli
hood. With these resolves, clearly de
fined in his mind, he already felt better.
At first our supercargo was too weak
ito do much. He was very sick, and it
| lasted nearly two weeks ; but when that
| passed off’ and he could pace the vibra
, ting deck, with a stout stomach, his ap
petite grew sharp, and his muscles began
to grow strong. At first his appetite
! craved some of the many delicacies he
had been long used to; but they were
not to be had and he very soon learned
to do without them. The result was, that
his appetite became natural lu its wants,
and his system began to find itself nour
ished by simple food and in proper quan
tities.
For years he had looked upon break
fast as a meal which must be set out and
partaken of from mere fashion. A cup
of coffee, and perhaps’a piece of dry toast,
or a seasoned and highly spiced titbit,
had constituted the morning meal. But
now, when the breakfast hour came, he
Approached it with a keen appetite, Mid
felt as strong and as hearty as at any lime
of the day.
By degrees the hollow’ cheeks became
full; the dark eyes assumed new lustre;
the color rich and healthful, came to the
face, the breast swelled with increasing
power, the lungs expanded and grew
strong, the muscles became more firm
and true, the nerves grew strong and
steady, and the garments which he had
worn when he came on board had to be
let out some inches in order to make them
encompass his person. His disposition
became cheerful and bright; and by the
time the ship had reached the southern
cape of Africa the crew had all learned
to love him.
Through storm and sunshine, through
tempest and calm, through dark hours
and bright, the young supercargo made
his voyage. In one year from the day
| on which he left his native land, he placed
his foot again upon the soil of his home.
But he did not stop. The same ship,
with the same officers, was going upon
the same cruise again, and he meant to
go in her. He saw Mary Wilton, and
I she would wait. He saw Dr. Allyne,
and the kind old gentleman praised him
for his manly independence.
Again George Ballerton was upon the 1
sea; and again he assumed the duties of
his office, and even more. He stood
watch when there was no need of it;
and during seasons of storm he claimed
a post on deck.
At the end of another year the young
man returned to his home again. He
was now eight-and-twenty, and few who
knew him two years before, could re
cognize him now. Ilis face was bronzed
by exposure, his cheeks full and plump,
his frame stout and strong and erect like
a forest chief. His muscular system
was nobly developed, and the men were
few who could stand before him in trials
of physical strength. When he first left
the city, two years before, he had weigh
ed just one hundred and thirty pounds,
avoirdupois. He now brought up the
beam, fairly, at one hundred and seventy
six. Surely he was anew man in every
respect.
On‘the afternoon of the third day, as
he entered his hotel, one of the waiters
handed him a letter. He opened it, and
found it to be from Mr. Wilton. It was
a request that he would be at the mer
chant’s house at nine o’clock that evening.
“George, said the doctor, after the
youth had given a full aecount of his
adventures : “I should think you would
almost forgive poor Rowland for having
made off with your fortune?
“Forgive him ?” returned George, “oh,
I did that in the first place.”
“Well George,” resumed the doctor,
“Mr. Rowland is here. Will you see
him?”
“See him? See Charles Rowland?
Os course I will.”
The door was opened and Mr. Row
land entered. He was an elderly man,
but hale and hearty.
The old man and the young one shook
hands, and then inquired after each other’s
health.
“You received a note from me some
two years ago,” said Mr. Rowland, “in
which I stated that one in whom I trusted
had got your money and mine with it.”
“Yes sir,” whispered the youth.
“Well,” resumed Rowland, “Doctor
Allyne was the man. He had your
money.”
“How? What?” gasped George, ga
zing from one to the other in bland as
tonishment.
“Hold on, my boy,” said the doctor,
while a thousand emotions seemed at
work within his bosom. “I was the
villain. It was I who got your money.
I worked your ruin, my boy. And now
listen, and I will tell you why :
“I saw that you were dying. Your
father died of the same disease. A con
sumption was upon him—not a regular
pulmonary affection; but a wasting
away of the system for the want of vi
tality. The mind was wearing out the
body. The soul was slowly, but surely,
eating its way from the cords that bound
it to the earth. I knew that you could
be cured; and I knew, too, that the only
thing in the world which would cure you
was to throw you upon your own phys
i ical resources for a livelihood. There
was a morbid willingness of the spirit to
pass away. You would have died ere
you would have mad® an exertion, from
the very fact that you looked upon exer
tion as worse than death. It was a
strange state of both mind and body.
Your fortune rendered work unneeessa
ro, so there was no hope while that for
tune remained. Had it been wholly a
bodily malady, I could have argued you
into necessary work for a cure. And,
on the other hand, had it been wholly a
mental disease, I might have driven your
body to help your -mind. But both were
weak, and I knew that you must either
work or die.
“And norw, my boy, I’ll tell you where
XVO. -ST.
Imy hope lay. 1 knew that you possessed
i such true pride of independence that
you would work. I saw Rowland, and
told him my plans. I assured him that
if we could contrive to get you to sea,
and make you start out into active life,
for the sake of life, you could be saved.
He joined me at once. 1 took your
money and his, and then bid him clear
out. You know the rest. And now r tell
me, my boy, if I give you back your for
tune, will you forgive roe?
Your money is safe—every penny of
it—to the amount of a hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. Poor Rowland has
suffered much in knowing how youJook
ed upon him; but I know that he is amp
ly repaid by the sight of your noble,
powerful frame, as he sees it to-night.
And now, George, are we forgiven?”
It was a full hour before all the ques
tions of the happy friends could be ask
ed and answered ; and when the doctor
and Rowland had been forgiven and
blessed, for the twentieth time, Mr. Wil
ton said— u Waitr*
lie left the room, and when he return.’
ed he led sweet Mary by the hand.
Late in the evening, after the hearts
of our friends had fairly begun to grow
tired with joy, George asked Mary how
much longer she was willing to wait. —•
Mary asked her father, and the answer
was—“ Two weeks.”
The Basque.
Shall it go out of Fashion ?
dress-makers say that the basque is pass
ing out of date—that it is not so much
worn now as formerly, and that it will
soon be discarded in the higher circles.
We seize the first moment to enter onr
protest against this movement. We
gave our heart to the basque years ago.
“W e made the surrender publicly in these
columns. We recognize the eternal fit
ness of things in which the idea of the
basque finds its basis. The trunk and
chest of a woman have a distinct honor,
and perform a peculiar office in the
economy of her existence. They con
tain her heart, her breath, her life, and
the fountains of other life. It is fit,
therefore, that this portion of the frame
be dressed by itself, as it were—that it
be honored as the seat and centre of life.
The skirt is another thing entirely. The
limbs are used only for the purpose of
locomotion, and they are simply to be
ignored by graceful falls of material from
the waist.
Now we protest against this rubbing
out of all distinctions. There is just as
much propriety in attaching the hat to
the neck of the dress as there is in fas
tening the skirt to the waist; and the
whole idea of the old-fashioned gown can
only be carried out by making the bonnet
and shoes a part of it. If we are to lose
the basque, let us go the whole figure,
fasten everything together, jump into the
result, and see how pretty we shall look.
Let the gentlemen imitate the ladies, and
revive the earlier patterns of breeching
which filled all the offices of clothing be
tween the neck and heels. But such an
operation as this would be impossible.—
The coat is a sacred investment. It is to
man what the basque should be to wo
man.
Perhaps we shall be accused of med
dling with that which does not particular
ly concern us. Don’t we have to pay
for dresses 1 Don’t we have to sit with
them evenings ? Does not every caress
of wife, or sister, or cousin, or sweetheart,
embrace this great question of basques or
no basques? Does not the abandon
ment of the basque involve the abandon
ment of all those pleasant varieties of
dress procurable by the simple change of
skirt* ] is it none of our business ?
For whom are these dresses made we
should like to know ? Whose admira
tion are they intended to excite ? What
do ladies wear handsome dresses for ex
cept for the purpose of pleasing “ the
brethren?” We, therefore, take the
early occasion to declare that we shall
hold ourselves bound to admire no wo
man who discards the basque, and adopts
the idea of the meal bag. We will not
place our arm around the waist ot any
>roman who may happen to be in danger
of falling unless she wears a basque.—
W e are determined to frown down the
threatened change with all the power of
a severely corrugated countenance. So,
dress-makers, beware. —Springfield Re
publican.
Bcvfalo Rcm.—lt appears that the liquor
sold in Buffalo is perfectly “orful.'’ The ad
vertiser gives the following description of
it:
“The braDdy is poison, the whisky of that
variety known as “hardware ’ —strycknine
would improve it—and the gin is kept in
glass bottles simply because it would eat
through the staves of a barrel in fifteen
minutes.'’ •
—
It is said “there is a silver limng to
every cloud.” In that case, we should think
some of the men who are “under a cloud’
about these day* would attempt to steal the
lining.