Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME 10.
THE GEORGIA CITIZEN
js pruusuEn every Friday morning, bt
L. K. W. ANDREWS.
Orn< * —/ Horn*'* Httiitting, I'terry Street.
T"~” Demrs helmet Third. St rest.
i*’i.OO prr anuiim. in *4ttnrr.
UT'-ni-'-ni'-nta at th* remi’ar <-h:.np* Mil l>* On’ Itnllar
ari-’f w*” hnndrtd wont* or lest l; f r the lii-t i-r
----. a.I t ffv C'olt f"T carh xiMcqocnt in**rtion. Ail ail
,‘ rr i n Dt not a* to time, wi-l tie |>iil>li*he(l un il
f XIIII ami 1 iiaf*ea accvnliugly. A I.U-rai dm'<n it allowed
to th"** who aitvcrtlm- by the yitr.
Lifi-rai mn£tmm*****d* with fount > Officers, Druri.
4 , neem. Sierihant*, and others, who may w ish to matt
liiaitid rontrc*.
I’nifiwiinul and Ihldneo I anil will tv Inaeited nil
*.,!..• head, *t the following rates. vU:
f rr yiv-e lire*. per annnni.. •5 On
ft een line*. *tn ]
f r Ten lines, do liR
v 0 jd- ertisemeat of this class will be admitted, unless paid j
/ ‘ j n juivanee, nor for a less t mi than twelve mo>.ths. Ad
rtivinents at over ten lines Mil be ct.arg.sl pro rata. Ad- i
not paid ior in advsnoew ili 1* charged at the j
vgular rates.
ol.iiunrt V.llre* utoccrt-n will be charg.sl at th.
meal rat- s.
\mioiinrentents <*f landidates h r office to he paid for at |
th. ii'.ial rates, when inserted.
Wales *f I Jind and \egriM-s, IvTiie ,t.n Adm’nistra
t. rs and Guardian*. are requ red bv law to be advertised in a
~ 1 , t • *e- forty davs urevlou* to the day of sale. These 1
sinus* he held un tlie .st Tuesday In ten n*h. twtween
hours of ten In ’lie forenoon and three in the afternoon. ,
it the (,'ourt houae in the county in which the property Is <Uu j
aalre of Pereaaal Pn>|wrt> mast be advertiseil in like
,imt r, forty days
Viler t Debtor* and f'redllor* of an Estate must hr ,
|i.i, .1 forty days.
\i*U*- 1 hit anpliei'hm will tv nenie to the llriliuarv for j
•, . sell Dad and Nignn, must Iv published weekly for
t n months.
I Pali m* for Letters of Adminlslnfion. thirty ilavs; fo r j
j. ... ,u roui Adinii istntion, monthlv, six mouths; for !
p -mission from Guardian'hp, weekly, forty davs.
Rule* for Korrcloelng of Mortenue*. monthly, fur ,
m .t th-; ‘or eslahtWi ng 1 t isuvrs. hir the full space of three j
n’ >ftbs; for roni[vllin* titles from exi-euton or admlatatre 1
tor, where a bond ha- been given by the deceased, the full j
of three month*.
gjjt Citifcii.
Vi>r the t Georgia Clti*cn.
TO MISS JULIA C .
It iauot ‘or thee, thou false-hearted one,
1 hst these -igl s all unbidden, niii-eaeingiy come:
It is not for thee that these tears luuish mirth.
And everything loses its chann upon earth.
Ah. no, thou deceiver; my heart is ss cold
T. s apls the idol II cherished so fondly of old.
That the no on light now resting on yoi der pure snows,
<\.ul,i dissolve it ere I eosdd such weak folly show.
Tis not that my beatt In fun,! love thou hast sl.aken.
My trust in ** earth’s Fiien of bliss*” thou ha 4 taken;
Tis not that 1 never again dutll now dare
To collide my heart’s I. veto another’s vain care.
It is not for this—no, the tear that now fIK
is for time spent to v ainly, that memory recalls.
When the hour* imbed led In fdly were past.
Mhen hope whispered fals. ly my luight dreams woulJ last.
It Is that X th< eight not of blest things atiove.
And lumed coldly away frvmi a Saviour’S put* love;
1 hat ruses were twined in the hands of my hair.
When Jesus the thorns was contented to wear.
This, this is the cause o’ all grief in my heart.
Anil bids the bright sunshine <>f life to depart ;
But In future, when folly and sin* are fnggven,
1 nee more may anile in the ‘•sunlight of heaven.”
J. F. C.
ftPIRITUAL PIIIAOMEXA.
THE SCIENTIFIC THEORIES.
In hi- -ei-ond Lecture Air. Brittan passed
in rapid review the several Scientific Theo
ri- > [1 1 that have been employed with a view
■•f furni'hinff a rational solution of the Alod
mi Mysteries. In the course of his brief
• veniium he observed, that whenever a man
presented his claims to public respect and
■■nfiilence. a* a scientific expounder of any
■ a—of phenomena, he was bound to show
that the agents to which he referred the
tV.it* in quistion were capable ot producing
them. This could only be done by a scien
tific analysis of such agents and their phe
nomenal relations; in other words, an ex
planation of their essential laws, and a eom
[>ar!Noii ~f the duly authenticated fact* with
the acknowledged requirements of those |
law*. This was always the appropriate j
‘Mines* of the theorizer. A decent respect j
t"r the common sense of mankind demands
thi* at his hands. Whoever declines this j
bW in setting up his opinion is no pltilos
j'her. but a mere pretender.
Mho calls hypothesis philosophy.
Vt be>t is but a (>aper financier.
” ho palm- his specious promises for gold.’’
i’>ut the material theorists having neglected
‘heir appropriate work, the lecturer was
willing to perform that labor, and would
■jive them the benefit of hi< services.
MATERIAL MAGNETISM.
1- The assumption that ponderable bodies
> moved by a species of Natural Alagnet
i-'u. resident in the Aledia. was first exam
d- Tlu speaker explained the laws of
Aatural Alagin;tism. The magnet will at
’ract certain substanc*** when the interven
■n? spare. I*-tween it and the substance for
w hi’ hit has affinity, i not too great. Hut j
‘'•hjects so art'if h]K>h are always dr a ten in
• “jkt lint toward the centre and source of
‘b attractive /mwt r. The Spiritual I act*
Wpn* then hrought to trial by this law: and
it was clearly shown that the inanimate ob
jects so mysteriously moved in circles.—and
ften where no circle exists, —every where
*>,bey the known laws of Material Maynet
>. The objects move with equal facility
s'th to and from the milium ; at right-an
cl*-’ with the supposed source of the attrac-
T ve |K)wer: they rise up tow ards the ceil- !
big: they move in circles and with a zigzag *
motion; they dance!•> rapid mu-ie. and of- i
ten u.i-asure the time with the west perfect
prevision. The fact* being at war with the
‘credited law* of Material Magnetism, the
•bole theory i* exploded by simply bring
ttkein into tangible relatie>ns.
ANIMAL OK HfVAX MAOVVTISM.
-. Aninml Magnetism wits the assumed
foundation of the next hypothesis to be ex
amined. The s|>eaker jairsued the same
“• thed in this ease, and proceed i>d to show
f’ u t Animal Mm/ni tisnf trill only act on ani
'’ and human huJUs. There must be a
e-rvous system fn act upen. The subject
■ust possess life and sensation. Where
is no sensorium—no brain to act upon,
dnimal Magnetism will produce no effect,
a- train* are required, it follows that tables
and chairs a re not subjects for Animal Mag*
r ” ’ism. [May net the aWnoe of the afore
'Sl'l prerequisite account for the iuvulnera
‘ilily <d some of the enemies of Spiritual
‘*n'] Bn the agents employed in the
‘lanifsstations act on the living and the in
“‘mate subject with equal sueces... As
‘‘nirnal Magnetism is wholly restricted to
‘knotted nature, it follows that it cannot be
“’ . Muv of the phenomena in question.
fllK IT..VIRVOYANT VISION.
3- The authors and projiagators of the
I material philosophy of Spiritual things,
| have usually referred the mysterious intelli
-1 genee, exhibited in the Manifestations, to
l Clairvoyance, without so much as inquiring
r into the capabilities and limitations of that
! faculty, f ‘laii vfrt/fincr is the jtotcer to see
clearly tciihout the use qf the physical organ
<>f vision. A.- in the exercise of natural
I sight, so in this case, we only perceive what
is. Things that have r.o existence at the ,
1 time, and occurrences yet in the future, can j
! not of course l>e discerned. In spiritual j
| Intercourse, prophetic communications are j
| often made w hich are sui>sequently verified, i
j and the prophecies of to-day become the his- ;
toric record; of to-morrow. This transcends ,
I the limits of Clairvoyance (clear sight),
! which only implies the ability to perceive j
j what really exists.
The speaker observed that the skeptical .
world was always ready to accept the last !
| wonder but one. He well remembered that, i
j but a few years since, nearly every man was
■ skeptical respecting th** subject of Clairvoy
! ance. It was deemed to In* preposterous to
I suppose that a man could see without light
! and independently of the physical organs.
! Very few were willing to believe what was
demonstrated in every ease of Natural Som- i
nambulism. But since the advent of Spirit
ualism those who formerly denounced Clair- j
vovance now seize upon it to account for
the modern mysteries. Clairvoyance is the .
/tack-horse by which they expect to have the ;
facts of Spiritualism taken out of their way.
But this agent would not serve the purpose |
of the unbeliever. The Professor would !
cross-examine this witness, and the opposers i
must take all the testimony. When a party j
summons a witness to the stand it is not his j
privilege to take so much of the evidence !
elicited as precisely suits his purpose, and j
reject the balance. He must receive all that j
the witness sags, even if it be fatal to his
claims to property, libertv and life.
The speaker then proceeded, by a citation j
of facts and arguments, to prove that all j
Clairvoyant Seers profe.*s to, and actually j
do, discern the objects and scenes of the j
Spirit World, referring to Cahagnet's “So- i
erets of the Life to come,’ to other authors, |
and to the facts of individual experience
and general olisorvation to support his state
ments. The testimony of Clairvoyance was
thus shown to be fatal to the claims of the
opposition, inasmuch as all Clairvoyants not
only profess to see Spirits and converse with
them, hut they demonstrate the truth of
their pretension- by the nature of their dis- ;
closures.
PSYCHOLOGY AND THE OD FORCE.
After flaying the Psychological srnjtegoat
—on which another class of skeptics have
placed their chief dependence, and on the
horns of which they were left impaled—-the
I Lecturer gave bis attention to the <>d Force 1
of A’on Keichenbaeh, which was shown to
la* mo force at all. It would not so much as
move the delicate pinions of a single Aus
■ trian fly. At mot it was only a soft lumin- j
I nu* emanation from living bodies, magnets, I
etc., gentle as the light of the moon, and I
powerless a- the phosphorescent illumina
tion of a dead mackerel or a rotten log. — j
The absurdity of assuming that such an :
agent (its existence is not yet demonstrated) |
could account for the irresistible force and |
surprising momentum communicated to
j heavy Inxlies, was forcibly exhibited. At
j the same time, the stupidity of those who
j refer the most startling physical phenomena
j to hypothetical causes—which, if they have
any existence in fact, arc as powerless as
j moonshine—was fully uncovered and freely .
i 1 exposed.
THEORY FOUNDED ON VITAL ELECTRICITY. j
i In conclusion the speaker proceeded to j
i consider the Electrical Theory of the mani- ;
j flotations. It was observed that Dr. Tay-
j lor, of Massachusetts, at a very early period
i in the history of Spiritualism, published his
speculations in £t Boston Medical and Sur
gical Journal, referring the Movements of
Ponderable Bodies and the Mappings to
“ Detached A'italized Electricity.” This
j theory left us to inst-r that Electricity had
just achieved its freedom, and living sud
denly endowed with life, feeling and intelli
gence, had gone out in “the livery of heav
en” to describe the divine abodes and to rep-
resent the ceb-tial inhabitants. The speaker
would like to ascertain what Electricity was
about before it broke loose, or became s*‘de
tached.” How was it restrained and where
was it imprisoned so long’ I)r. Taylor vir
tually insisted that the electricity which bad
performed its part in the vital chemistry
and organic action of the whole animal cre
ation from the beginning, all at once be
came “ vitalized ” and “detached,'’ went out
and entered into the tables, whereupon the I
tables became charged and were moved.— j
The Lecturer w as prepared to show that this
absurd assumption was at war with the
known laws of Electricity. The speaker
! assigned three reasons for rejecting a thoorv
which he regarded as the uncomely off
-1 spring of empiricism, notwithstanding many
people thought it was “a proper child,”
: and ought to be saved—because it had been j
taken into the church and baptized. The
’ reasons for rejecting the electrical theory ,
were,
1. Electricity will always follow the best j
conductor. The human body is a better j
conductor than a piece of seasoned wood.—
Therefore, the Electricity of the living body
will not leave the vital lotteries and enter
into a table formed of dry mahogany, w hite
I due, or basswod.
2. If Vital Electricity would leave the
bndv and enter into the table, - the table would
not become charged, because the floor and j
walls of the building are as good conductor*
a* the table, aud tin* earth still better than
either. Hence the electric fluid would pass
through the table into the floor, down the ,
wall* of the building into the earth, and be i
dissipated as rapidly as it could be gener
ated.
3. If the table* could be charged they !
uyndd never more an inch in ten thousmml j
’ nears. When the Professor of Electrical 1
; Science charges a leyden jar it is never
| known to jump from the table or to move
so much a- a hair’s breadth.
To account for the Lappings Dr. Tay
lor presumed that the contact of positive
and negative bodies occasioned slight elec
! trical explosions. The electric element
passed from one to the other, causing the
1 mysterious sounds. The speaker observed
1 that upon this principle only one, rap could
1 occur between two persons. At the gather-
I ingof the circle the positive members would
j instantly go off, while the negative ones
1 would inevitably l>e stiuck by this small do
mestic lightning; after which, not another
j sound could pov.-ibly occur until the admis
| -ion of another person—in a different elec
trical state from the circle. If Dr. Taylor’s
! hypothe-is were the true one, we might roa
i sonably expect that people would constantly
! explode in the streets and in the market
i place; at the concert, the evening party, in
! the lecture-room, and in church. Young
men and maidens would produce electrical
sparks; saints and sinners would generate;
small thunder: a man of large vitality and
of two hundred pounds’ weight would knock ,
a lean stripling down with a single discharge |
from his battery, while a mass meeting
might occasion an earthquake.
If there was anything ridiculous in this
view of the subject, the speaker desired his
hearers to bear in mind that it was not Spir
itualism that was under discussion, but the
views of the opposition (the scientific theo
ries?) which he had fairly represented.
GENIUS. LOVE AND COURAGE.
nu>V TliiC UkAMA or Vl ini AN MACBIOe.
Mai eii E. Tli s * day I feel triimiphaut as the hunter, j
Who. on the wi and steed that his skill has captured,
Kiflc lu grasp, and bndle rein flung loose,
Darts forth upon the prairie’s waste of empire.
And feels il all his own !
Ci.AßicE. I share thy triumph—
Would share that waste with thee and feel no sorrow,
For all that love foregoes.
M acsics. I take thy promise—
Will try thy strength, thy courage and thy heart.
As little thou hast fancied ! Clarice, dear wife.
With dawn wc leave this city.
Ci-asics. How ; to-morrow ? ’
And leave this city, Norman ?
Maokios. I>ost thou fail me ?
Ci.arias. No ! lam thine! My world is lu thy love ; ,
I wi.-h no nearer and ellins-pla.ee—*ould ask
No sweeter rea mos home! Go. where thou wilt,
I cling to thee as did the Hebrew woman
To him who had his empire In her heart.
M aihu'e. I bless thee for this proof of thy affection;
This is the city ot thy birth and mine.
But that’s our native land alone which suffers
That we take ro-1 anil flourish ;—tho.-e alone.
Our kindred, who will gladden in our growth.
And succor till we triumph. Here, it may he,
Tliat, after weary toil, and matchless struggle.
When strength sulisides In ag •. they will acknowledge
That I am worthy of my bread,—may hid me
Look up and beau alderman or mayor'—
And this were of their favor. The near neighbors.
Who grew with ns, and saw our gradual progress,
| Who knew the lioy. and all his sport* and follies,
! Have seldom faith that he will grow the man
To cast them Into shadow. Well go hence ‘ —
I'luici. Whither. d f ar Norman ?
Mman k. Whither! Doth thou ask?
Both in God's keeping, Clarice—thou in mine!
| I’ll tender thee as the no -st precious treasure.
That city ever yielded wilderness.
Clarice. I know thou wilt; —but what thy means, my
biLshand *
Thou told’st me thou wast poor.
Maurice. Means! I have manhood!
I Youth, strength, and meu say, intellect—
I Clarice. You have! You have!
M aurice. A heart at ease, secure in its affection*.
And still the soul to seek each manly struggle!
Wide Is the World before me—a great people,
j Spread o'er a realm, aiong whose verdant meadows
j The sun can never set. I know this people—
’ Love them—would make them mine! I have ambition
J To serve them in high places, and do battle
; With the arch-tyrannies, in various guises,
I That still from freedom pluck Its panoply,
Dotrrade Us precious rites, and, with vain shadows.
Mock the fond hopes that fasten on their words.
Clarice. Could you not serve them here ?
Maurice. No! No!
Clarice. Wherefore not ?
And O ! they need some saviour here, methlnks !
Maurice. Ay! They do need! But lam one of them,—
Sprung fr >m themselves—have neither friends nor fortune,
And will not stoop, en-reating as for favor,
I When I would serve to save! They lack all faith
i In him who scorns to flatter their delusions,
I And lie them to self-worship. In the West,
I 1 There is a simpl-r and a hardier nature.
That proves men’s values, not by wealth and title.
But mind and manhood. There, no ancient stocks
j Claim power fiom precedence. Patrician people,
That lw>ast of virtues in their grandmothers,
I Are challenged for thelT own. With them It answers.
If each man founds his family, and stands
The father of a race of future men !
Mere parchment, and the vain parade of tide.
Lifts no man into stature. Such a region
Yields al that I demand—an open field.
And freedom to all comers. So, the virtues
Flourish according to their proper nature;
And each man, as he works with will and courage.
Real's the good fruitage proper to his claim ;
j Thither, dear wife!
Clarice. I’m thine!
MY MOTHER’S BIBLE. .
BY GEO. I*. MORRIS.
Tliis bookis all that’s loft mo now:
Tears will unbidden start—
With faltering and throbbing brow
I press it to my heart.
For many generations past,
Here is our family tree;
Mv mother's hands this Bible clasped;
Bhe, dying, gave it me.
Ah ! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear ;
Who round the hearth-stone used to close
After the evening prayer,
And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here they are living still!
My father read this holy book
To sisters, brothers dear;
How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who leaned God's word to hear!
Her angel face—l see it yet!
What thrilling memories come!
And that little group is met
Within the halls of home!
j Thou truest friend man ever knew.
Thy constancy I've tried:
XVhere all were false I found thee true,
Xfy counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasures give
That could this volume buy;
In teaching nte the way to live,
It taught me how to die.
Beecher says that when he gets a letter mak
ing an attack upon any peraoD, and without
signature, “we pitch the letter into the fire,
and fear that the writer will follow, in due
time, unless he repents of the ineffable mean
ness of writing evil of a fellow and and hiding
his name. This is an attempt at assassina
j lion.”
Mr. Shields one of the Democratic Senators
from Minnesota, in the course of an incidental
debate in the Senate, a few days ago styd; “I
think it is not saying to much to declare that
this country has gone faster and farther in ten
years extravagance, than most other countries
I have done in centuries.
MACON, Ci A., FRIDAY, APRIL, 8, 1859.
MY FISST 10VE
CHAPTER I.
At twenty I was considered rather a
handsome man than otherwise; in fact,
whatever may have been the opinion of
certain of the envious and malignant, 1
had myself no doubt whatever on the
subject. 1 was not rich, it is true, but
my family was as old as the conquest,
! my father a baron, and myself a cornet
of the dragoons..
I have no doubt that the generality of
people would consider my position—ex
cepting the fact of possessing an elderly
hrother—an exceedingly enviable one.
They are mistaken. A younger son
with an estate strictly entailed is no
such enviable personage sifter all, as he
himself’soon discovers.
Still 1 was happy. It was Christmas
time, and Lady Maria Templeton was
on a visit to ray mother and sisters.
1 never did, and I never shall again
see such beauty as hers. It shed light
as she walked. She was dazzlingly fair
in skin, and yet her hair was black. She
was tall, slight, and sylph-like, and yet
no man could venture to call her any
other than a haughty beauty. But her
eyes! talk of eyes of most unholy blue, :
of sapphires beaming with gem like spar- |
kies. I know not what to compare hers
to.
There was my hrother Tom, the heir
to the baronetcy, Fanny and Mary, La
dy Maria, and myself. She was our
cousin, and an heiress.
She had five thousand a year. This
I did not know at the time, or possibly ,
much that followed might not have oc
ean ed. 1 was not old enough to be a
fortune-hunter, while my pride would
prevented the chance of my falling in
love under circumstance-’ which might
have made me suspected. But I did !
though, and up to my very ears.
Tom was a hearty fellow, fond of
his gun and dugs, horses and hounds,
and not averse to indulgence in those
baochic revels which, even to this day,
are not unpatronised by some of the gen
tlemen of England. lie was, I have
hoard also, the terror of rural swains and
the admired of every lady within ten
miles of Courtney Chase. But even he
was struck by Lady Maria.
1 met her at eventide. We hud met
before often, but, as mere children, when
we had quarreled and made it up,
and b* en fast friends and bitter enemies
within an hour. But now she was a
lovely woman and Ia cornet of dra-
goons.
I never was so taken aback in my life.
Young as I was, 1 had put down ihe im
pertinence of one or two elder men, wao
thought they had caught a green hand, 1
had made a decent figure at mess, and
I club, and Aimack’s and generally, in
fact, was supposed to4cnow a thing or
j two.
1 lmd stared a lady once out of coun
tenance at the opera, but when 1 step
ped up to Maria, to compliment her as
everybody else was doing, I blushed,
stammered, and finally it ended in my
muttering something about “Happy—
next dance!”
“Certiflnly,” said Lady Maria, in the
most unaffected manner in the world, j
taking my arm as she spoke. “ Now, I
don't look so very woe-begone, Mr.
Thomas, or I shall laugh. So, Harry,
you are in the army. Why don’t you
come down in uniform, spurs and all?”
There was something so easy, so whim
sical, so bantering in her tone, that 1
could not help blushing up to the eyes.
Was that merry, delightful laugh with
me or at me ? For the life of me I could
not tell.
“X'ou are aware, Lady Maria,” I be
gan in a somewhat stately tone, “that,
unless upon state < ccasions. we dispense
with our uniform as much as possible.”
“Oh yes, Mr. Cornet Ilarcourt,” she
replied, “I am fully aware of the etiquette j
of the thing, but then I thought—you
were so new to it —that you might like
to make a sensation for once.”
For once! I, the handsomest man in j
“ours,” to be talked to in this way, and
by a little girl who a year ago had been
in pinafores ! 1 could not reply on the
instant, and so pretended to pull my
gloves on.
We danced. A* we moved to the
soft cadence of the music, my heart be
gan to beat with unusual rapidity. In
the dawn of manhood, while the feelings j
are fresh an 1 virgin, when everything
on earth appears bright and lovely, to
find tine’s self supposing a beautiful
woman in one’s arms, the air balmy with
fragrant odors, lights dazzling, and mus- j
ic intoxicating with its effeminate sounds,
is to dwell awhile in a paradise of which i
we never, perhaps, again obtain so per- !
feet a vision.
And then to talk of her afterwards !
She was so full of animation and life, of
really kind, with all her playful spir.t of
sarcasm, that 1 soon found myself at my
ease, even answering some of her ban
tering remarks.
I was no mere carpet soldier. 1 long
ed for some field on which to distinguisti
myself. 1 burned for fume, for world
wide renown. Lady Maria soon found
this out, and then her bantering ceas
ed altogether; her voice sunk lower,
her eyes sparkled, her bosom heaved, as
in whispered accents, she wished me j
success and fortune.
“You are ot the favored of the earth,
llany,” she said, drawing me on one
side toward the conservatory ; “poor us
can do nothing, but wish you men good
speed. Oh, how 1 sometimes long to be
a man. that I, too, might be a soldier, a
sailor, an oiator, or a statesman. It
seems to me so sad a life to be born in
a station where one can be nothing.”
“Oh, Maria!” cried I, enthusiastically,
“’tis tar better as it is. If we wish to be
. great as soft! iers, or statesmen, why is
it?”
“Tell me.” she said, smiling.
“To win the love of such as you. Re
ly upon it, that is the prize man covets.
I It is the consciousness that woman will
smile, which impels us to great deeds.”
‘'Harry. Harry,” she said, with some
thing of a sigh “at your age I believe
some such feeling does exist, but it soon
fidps away, and man covets success for
its own sake.”
“Some few,” f began.
“Most men—there are those choice
spirits who do great deeds from a sense
of duty, but with most men ambLion is
the sole guiding impulse.”
1 looked at her with surpise. She
spoke warmingly, and yet with secret
! bitterness.
1 “A philosopher in petticoats !” I said,
in a laughing tone.
* 1 have lived more in the world than
you have, Harry,” continued Maria,
smiling “but here comes our brother
Torn to claim his turn. We will contin
ue our conversation by and bye.”
It was my brother Tom, and looking
rather surly, too, at our long tele a tete.
A somewhat vicious glance which he
cast at me convinced me that he was
deeply interested in my beautiful com
panion. As 1 resigned her arm, a feel
ing of despair came over me. 1 knew I
was in love.
I retired behind some fragrant bushes,
and reflected an instant. It was quite
clear to me that Lady Maria was intend
ed for the heir of the baronetcy. He
had, at all events, made the selection,
and what hope was there for me? He
had title, position, a home, and a goodly
income on his side, while 1 was a mere
adventurer, a younger son, an incum
brance on the estate.
And with the law of primogeniture
and the example it asserts, people are
found to wonder at the dearth of early
marriages, and at the fact that so many
never marry at all.
It is not that they cannot afford to
marry, but they cannot keep up the style
they have been accustomed to at home.
A wealthy nobleman’s second son, while
at home, enjoys as many luxuries as the
heir. It is hard, then, in his eyes, to de
scend to the pletfan villa and no car- ,
riage, even though happiness be the re
sult.
The evil law of entail and the agglo
meration of wealth in the hands of the
few, is the great cause of modern indif
ference to marriage. The middle class
es, unfortunately, are too fond of aping
their bitters.
But why moralize, when I have so
much to tell ? I watched them narrow
ly. Tom was grave, even sulky, while
Lady Maria was more than ordinarily
gay. She fairly laughed at him, and
presently the grave eldest son of the
house condescended to smile, and as Tom
was naturally in request, I again joined
her.
“What made my brother so grave ?” I
asked.
“Poor fallow !” she said, with a burst 1
of merriment, “he was lamenting the i
hardships to which eldest sons are sub- |
ject.”
“What!” 1 cried.
“Yes, he really did, poor fellow ! He
is obliged to dance with everybody, and
therefore cannot show me that exclusive
attention which, he was pleased to say,
my beauty, accomplishments, and so
forth deserved.” . i
“He was quite right,” said 1, dryly.
“llow so ?”
“Who can see any one in the room
while you are present ?”
“Et tu Brute *” cried Lady Maria,
laughingly ; “don’t be ridiculous. Be
cause we are old friends and like to talk
of old times, don’t try to flatter me.—
When is to be your first campaign ?”
“There is talk of India.” 1 said, “hut
nothing is decided.”
“India,” she cried, with something of a
start and a blush ; “indeed !”
“I have heard it said, but scarcely wish
it so much as I did.”
“Why?”
“I have met you.”
“Now, Harry do not look so senti
mental, and make such tender speeches,
or I shall laugh. I suppose you mean to
dance; so you had better ask me, as
here comes John Powers bent upon the
same intent ”
1 eagerly led her to her place, to the
great dissatisfaction of the Irish captain,
who did know of her fortune.
I never shall forget that evening. I
had come down to Courtney Chase a
young and happy subaltern in her majes
ty’s service—light-hearted, merry, full
of fun and frolic, without a care or
thought of the morrow. 1 gradually
fund myself becoming anxious, thought
ful—my brow was obscured by care, my
heart beat with painful rapidity. I was
in love. The boy had become a man in
one evening. And yet I was happy.— ;
There was a delicious intoxication in the
sound of her voice, in her soft, white
hand as it lay in mine. There was rap
ture in the waltz when her beaming eyes
met mine, and our very hearts seemed to
beat in unison.
It is an hour ofbliss when the senses
are steeped to voluptuous langour, when
nature seems decked in wondrous love
liness, when all that is in the world smiles
upon us, when emotions new and deli
cious come gushing to our hearts, we
cannot find words to describe.
II is as the opening of the portals of a
new existence—it is love’s young dream.
1 hai.ded her down to supper amid the
groans of one or two es the men, and
not without some spiteful looks from the
dear young cieatures 1 had totally neg
lected. But what cared I.
CHAPTER 11.
The next day, and one or two that suc
ceeded, were spent in riding, driving,
walking, or in home amusements, accor
ding to the state of weather. But, no
matter what the occupation which took
up our time, I continued my assiduities of
Lady Maria, the daughter of a poor earl,
but the heiress to a distant relative’s
wealth and estates.
Tom was equally attentive, hut I am
bound to say his attentions were not
equally well met. Mv heart ‘began to
beat as I found myself he favorite.
Wild visions of the future began to
cross my brain. 1 wanted a few months
of being of age, when I should become
my own master and that of a small pro
perty I held from my mother.
No selfish reflection on the folly of
marrying on three hundred a year enter
sed my head. That was precisely my
income, besides my pay. I thought 1
j could live upon it; and even so blissful
I did the prospect seem, that l actually
I determined to sell out rather than delay
my happiness. 1 was wild with passion;
I reflected on nothing. I believed in
j but. one thing—my love,ardent devoted,
and sincere, for Maria.
Men, and women too, have the cruel
I courage to laugh at these early passions,
and to cover them with ridicule. It is
possible that many, perhaps the majori
ty of youths, are incapable of feeling en
durable and eternal at so early a period
of their career. On this point lam inca
pable t fgiving an opinion. But this I
do know, that in my case it was the
| one passion of my life. 1 felt as keenly,
as deeply, as devotedly, as ever mortal
i man did feel—more keenly, I do believe
than those whose blunted feelings are in
after life attracted by beauty and grace.
Life had no charm, node
light save her. Others thought so too ;
and, as 1 was aware of my brother’s pre
ference, I brought the affair to an issue.
It was Christmas eve. The day was
lovely. The snow was hard and crisp
and dry. Shakspear’s line would truly
not have applied, for no
“Rain and wind beat dark December.”
We had walked out. I, as usual, by
the exercise of a little manoeuvreing had
Lady Maria on my arm. My brother
Tom, who was slower in his movements,
was forced to content himself with sister
Fanny.
I suppose he did not wish to appear
ito watch us; so as we came to Dilcot
Lane he turned to the right as we turn
ed to the left. The paths met about a
mile below. Our path was down aval
ley, with rows of dark firs on either side
—a sheltered and pleasant place it was,
in summer, and not without its attrac
tion in winter, even if its being free from
gusty wind puffs were alone considered.
About a quarter of the distance was
passed over in silence. I could not talk.
Lady Maria tried me once or twice. I
answered in monosyllables.
At length she began the conversation
in a tone so tender and considerate I
i could not but respond.
‘Dear Harry,’ she said, “are you not
! well ?’
‘Well enough in body.’
‘What!’ cried Lady Maria, in her more
joyous tone, ‘something pressing on your
mind ? Can you find no physician ?
! (lan 1 do nothing ?’
i ‘You and you only,’ I said gravely,
j She looked up at me with a keen and
penetrating glance, which 1 shall never
forget. She turned pale as she said so,
and bent her eyes upon the ground.
‘Well, Harry ?’ she said sadly.
‘ Maria, it is no use my disguising the
truth any longer—l love you —I love you
with all my heart and soul. Nay. do not
interrupt me. From the very first even
ing that I came home, my senses have
left me. lam wild with intense earnest
passion. Mine is no boy’s fancy. 1
have east my whole soul upon this one
issue—you or nothing. XV ith you, this
earth would be the most joyous of earths;
without you, a dreary waste. I have
not spoken without reflection. Maria, 1
have said that I wish to succeed in life,
but I begin to fancy that love is worth
all ambition. In a few months 1 shall be
of age ; my fortune is small; but if I
dared to hope that you —you —could but
learn to love me, it would be enough lor
both.’
‘ Harry, is it possible,’ said the lovely
girl, with beaming eyes, ‘ that you know
not of my wealth —of my fortune?’
‘Fortune!’ I gasped, letting go her l
arm, and looking terror-stricken.
‘Go on,’ said Maria kindly, ‘ that
would make no difference to me.’
‘ Dearest beloved girl of m\ T heart, i
pardon my presumption. I had no idea
that you were any other than the por
tionless girl that 1 knew a year ago.—
Had 1 suspected this,’ I added proudly,
‘1 should have crushed the dawning pas
sion within my heart; ’tis now too late
—rich or poor, my heart is irrevocably
gone. I should have delayed—l should
have hesitated, but l feared my brother
might speak first. ITe is somebody—l
am nobody.’
‘ Your brother, Harry, would have
been rejected,’ said Lady Maria, dryly ,
‘ and now, dear Harry, 1 would not wil
lingly offend you, but you mUst let me
think that this is but a burst of boyish
passion.’
I staggered as she spoke.
‘ No! I was boy when I came here —
a happy, merry careless boy—l am now
a man, and you have made me so. It
remains for you to decide whether my
manhood shall be one of glorious happi
ness, or whether I become a desperate
and hopeless wretch, whose career upon
earth Heaven in its mercy will shorten.’
‘ Don’t! don’t!’ she cried, ‘ don’t say
such wicked things!’
‘ They are not wicked, Maria. It is
even so. Like the gambler, I have un
wittingly placed my whole existence up
on the hazard of a die—death or life up
!on a woman’s smile. You may try to
deceive yourself, but you must believe
me. XVhen once a man’s eyes have fix
ed themselves in love on you, it is for
ever.’
* Harry Ilarcourt, said Lady Maria,
quickly, * 1 would not believe it true for
all the wealth ot the Indies.’
‘ Why ?’ said 1 trembling as with an
ague.
‘Because I can never be yours,’ she
continued with a deep sigh.
‘ You do not love me?’ I gasped.
‘ Harry Ilarcourt. why press me on
i this painful subject ? 1 tell you plainly
that I can never—no never be yours !’
‘ But why V
‘ I am engaged to another, and shall be
married in a month.’
‘Ah! I suspected it—my brother!’ 1
shrieked.
‘ No: to one you do not know, and
who*e name, in your present humor, 1
would rather not mention.’
‘Heaven, have mercy on me! Is this
reality or soma horrid dream? Can it
be true ? another !’
‘ 1 am sorry, Harry !’ she said in her
sofiiest, tenderesc tone. ‘ I should not
have come, had l suspected ’
‘ Sorry, sorry !’ 1 cried ; ‘ sorry indeed,
Why, ’tis but a boy’s heart broken—
nothing more. But—but—is the engage
ment irrevocable V
‘ I have been engaged this twelve
month*,’ faltered poor Maria, who really
did feel for me.
‘ And you love him ?’
‘ He is a man of noble character, a
man to respect rather than love. He is
much older than I avid yet I had
looked forward with delight to our union
as of one wise and discreet, promising
great happiness—until just now.’
* Until just now ?’ I repeated.
4 Yes, Harry—if that is any satisfac
tion to you—know that 1 regret my
hasty piecipitancy. I should have seen
more ot the world ’ere I tied myself.—
D<> not mistake me. X'uir passion
takes me by surprise ; but had 1 been
free, gratitude, pride—f<r you are a no
ble fellow, Harry—would probably have
led me to return your generous, your
| disinterested affection. It is now too
late. My word is irrevocably given,
and to talk even of what might have
been is a crime. Not another word,
Harry, or I leave you. Calm yourself,
or everybody will be talking about us.
I shall leave as soon as possible. Would
that I had not coine !’
! I was stunned, overwhelmed, annihila
ted. I felt like some guilty wretch con
demned to die. I knew that hope, there
was none. Lady Maria Templeton would
not have been so hard, but to temper her
refusal. Another’s ! It was fearful to
think of—it was maddening, and it.near
ly drove me mad ! When I joined my
brother and sister I tried to rally. It
was but a faint attempt. It was no con
solation to me to know that that evening
Lady Maria refused him also; i pitied
him; I pitied any one who had to endure
the torture of her smile, and knew it was
another’s.
1 believe earth has no such other pain
as this. How l passed over that Christ
mas eve, and how I endured that Christ
mas day, 1 knew not. 1 heard the siren’s
voice, but understood it not.
It was very late, and the merry party
was about to break up. I had made my
arrangements to start at day break.
‘Lady Maria,’ I said in as stately a
I manner as 1 could assume—it was very
unkind and very ungenerous, but I could
not help it— ‘ lam come to wish you
good by. I leave to-morrow morning to I
join my regiment.’
‘ So soon,’ she replied, raising her eyes
brimful of tears to mine. ‘Why go?
The Christmas merry makings are not
over; and who knows, ’ere the new year
you may he made heart whole or happy.’
‘ Never, 1 must go,’ I said coldly.
‘ Harry,’ she replied meekly, ‘ do not
go. Your father, brothers, sisters, will
all blame me. You were to stay until
Twelfth day.’
‘ I cannot endure this torture. It is
too much,’ I cried.
‘ Harry, Harry, stay so ’my sake—or
rather I will go.’
‘ I will not allow it. My departure is
irrevocably fixed ’
‘lnfatuated boy !’ she said, and turned
away to hide her tears.
Before a week I had exchanged into a
regiment on the verge of departure to
India.
chapter in.
1 spare the reader my campaigns in
India. 1 arrived there in a desperate
mood. I had rejected the advances of
the young ladies who accompanied me
on my journey. I hated the sight of a
woman. I landed a misanthrope—dis
appointed, and glad to follow a career
which promised early death.
1 can safely say that during the four
year’s campaign in which 1 served, the im
age of Maria Templeton was never ab
sent from my mind. Despite everything
I loved her still.
At the end of this time 1 was invalid
ed home. 1 was very ill—wounds and
cholera had laid me as low as they well
could. During the whole time 1 never
wrote home once, and received no letters.
I had my income unspent at my banker's.
I determined to die comfortably, so I
travelled overland to Marseilles, and
thence to Paris. I felt that I had not
many months to live, so I took up my
quarters at the Hotel des Princes. As
an invalid, 1 engaged an apartment on
the first floor—expensive, but very com
fortable.
I was selfish, morbid, valetudinarian,
full of fancies and monomanias ; a tyrant
to my servant, disagreeable to all around
me. W hat cared 1 ? The world and 1
had no farther relation. 1 was dying.
On my arrival in Paris, I had some
spare cash, but drew on my London
agents for more, after advising them on
iny arrival. 1 bade them transfer any j
balance that might be due to our banker ,
in Paris. I received an answer by re
turn of post
‘ The balance due to you and now in
out hands is seventeen thousand some
odd pounds. Are we to transfer the
whole amount to your account, or will
you draw for whatever amount you re
quire? \Ve shall feel highly honored
by the latter course, which will show
your intention of continuing our ser
vice.’
XVhat on earth did they mean ? The
men must have lost their senses.
I turned to the back of the letter
‘ Sir Henry Ilarcourt, Bart.
NUMBER 2.
‘ My father and brother dead V I cried
involuntarily. 1 hastened to iny banker’s.
‘Were you not aware, Sir Henry?*
said L , the banker.
‘ Had not the slightest idea. .Excuse
me. I will call again.’
; And I hurried back to my hotel in a
mood of mind which may be more read
ily imagined than described. My father
and brother had both died, believing me
an undutiful son and a bad brother, when
I was but engrossed in the web of a hope
less passion.
J had sisters, a station to keep up. I
coldly resolved to marry some quiet
English girl, and in the peace and tran
quility of a country life to forget my
sorrow. Or would 1 get Fanny and
Mary married and be the good brother
and uncle. At all events 1 would do
something. Strange that 1 no longer
thought of dying. My head, however,
was in a great whirl, and 1 felt rather
faint. Hurrying on, 1 reached my ho
tel, hastened up stairs, opened the door,
and sank upon a sofa. I believe I did
not faint, but sleep soon overcame me.
It was nearly evening when I awoke,
and I saw’ I was not alone. Two females
sat in conversation by the window’. It
must be my two sisters. I started to
my feet.
‘ Sir Henry,* said a low voice.
I shivered all over.
‘Lady Maria,’ 1 replied in cold and
freezing accents, ‘ this is an honor 1 lit
tle expected, and one which 1 must say
I can scarcely appreciate.
‘ Why, sir,’ said she, a little, and only
a little haughtily, “ it is J who have to
demand an explanation. These are my
apartments. I returned just now, and
you may imagine my bewilderment on
finding a gentleman fast to sleep oil my
sofa—my delight on finding that it was
yotl.’
‘ Delight, madam !’ I said, for I was
firm and collected now ; ‘I. can scarcely
understand your delight at meeting with
your victim, and lest you find an expia
tion of your words difficult, allow me to
retire.’
‘Stay, one moment,’ exclaimed Lady
Maria; though pale, she was more beau
tiful than ever; th.-re was a soft melan
choly in her eyes, which 1 dare not min
utely examine ; ‘one moment, Sir Hen
ry. Have you received no letter from
Fanny ?’
‘ Not one from a living soul, madam.
I did not give my address to any one. I
huiried fr m place to place, and never,
if I could help it, visited the same local
ity, twice.’
‘ Then why have you come here ?’
• To die!’
‘To die! You are as well as you ev
er were in your life.’
‘ Madam, from that hour when in your
seductive society I learned the fatal art
of love, I have never known one mo
ment's happiness or health. In sickness,
in battle, on the field, in the tent—l
could find no rest. Your image was ev
er there. I have chased the tiger and
the wild elephant, in the hope by such
savage amusement to blunt my feelings,
but in vain. Behold, madam ! for once,
a man who for four years has been dy
ing for love—four years ! During this
time w r hat have you been doing?’
‘ Wailing for you, Harry,’ said the
syren, with her soft eyes full of tears.
‘ Waiting for me, madam !’ I cried, in
a towering passion; are you then a wid
ow ? Worse—worse—than a wife?’
‘ 1 never married, Harry,’ she contin
ued, meekly r .
‘Never married!’ I gasped.
‘ Never married, infatuated boy ! \ou
little knew that, young as you were, you
had awakened in my bosom feelings
w hich I dared not avow. 1 was an affi
anced wife. Still I did not give up all
hope. I determined to confess all to
him, to explain frankly your offer and
my altered sentiments, pledging, myself,
however, to fulfil my part of the contract
if he held me to my vow. I could rot
even hint this to you, and yet 1 did not
ask you to wait—l begged you to stay.
1 hinted what might happen. Do you
not recollect? But you wildly disap
peared. Had you paused and reflected,
we might have been a steady old married
couple!’
It was a dream of joy I could not re
alize to myself. I sank on my chair
half fainting. Wh *n I came to, I found
Lady Maria and her aunt, Mrs. Curt,
bathing my temples.
4 But how came 1 here—in your room?*
I said, after some whispered words.
‘ Wait,’ said Lady Maria, blushing. I
read in the Morning Post of your arri
val at the Hotel des Princess, very ill. I
thought you were hurrying home, in ans
wer to a lettei of your sister Fanny’s,
in which I allowed her to tell you all;
so 1 thought as you were very ill, the
nurse you wanted was—was —’
‘ Your future wife!’ said Mrs. Curt,
laughing, while Maria Templeton blush
ed crimson.
‘ Heaven bless you!’ I muttered, and
catching her in my arms, I imprinted ou
her lips the first kiss of love, though the
aunt did frown a little.
I need scarcely add that I did not die.
I am happy, very happy ; perhaps all
the happier for my trials; yet I often
regret the four years of misery I endu
red through my precipitancy. Still I
have great reason to be thankful that
the genuine passion of my life should
have terminated so well, and that, unlike -
so many in this world, my wife should
be My First Love.
It must be difficult tor a lame soldier to obey
orders. The more be ia ordered to inarch the
more he halts.
A man’s mouth ia made to talk and eat, yet
he often hurts lnmse!f dreadfully by talking
and kills himself by eating.
It is with books as with men—much of the
consideration we enjoy in the world is due to
our acquaintance with those of the better sort.
It is, perhaps, a suspicious circumstance,
that, if a lady has a long nose, it is almost in
variably crooked. Ittas to be bent slight y
aside to admit of her being kissed; and so it
grows awry.