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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.