Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME 10.
For the Georgia Citizen.
A Trip to I'he Boon.
BY BILLY FIELDS.
I hail just arrived home from seeing a
balloon asoensioa ; I had, for the second time
iff my life, seep a man ascend to the clouds.
I had taken quite an interest in the sulject
lately, and had made myself as familiar a
possible in so short a time, with the means
of inflation and management. Alter eating
a hearty supper I lay down upon a sofa in
the front piazza, and lighting my segar, re
signed myself to the discussion, mentally, of
the practicability of balloon voyages. It
was a soft, beautiful moonlight night in the
month of August—the stars were out in all
their beauty, and the 3oft languid feeling so
well known to every one upon such nights,
stole over me. And then the thought came
over me—it was a wild, curious thought—
what a grand trip it would be upon such a
night as this to sail majestically through the
heavens—to look from the giddy height
back upon tLe world beneath me. The
thought fired me; what would I give? The
question suggested an experiment, a daring
one for a novice like me. Next door was
staying an aeronaut who had a balloon in
the city, I would engage it from him, inflate
it with his help, and, alone on thi3 beautiful
night, I would make my trip; I would pay
him what he a*ked, bind him to secrecy,
and without being troubled by the expos
tulations of friends, or the>tears of relations,
I would start; the thought elated me; I
hurried nervously to the room of the aero
naut; I cannot describe my feelings as I
made known my object, tie saw that 1
was excited, and attempted to reason with
me. He hesitated; I was a novice, I might
fall a victim to curiosity; I begged, entreat
ed, prayed; he consented on the condition
that I should permit him to accompany me.
1 answered, I rather noL He then positive
ly refused. I insisted. A thought struck
him—
“La Montain is here,” said he, “and he was
speaking to-r.ight of what a glorious night
it would be in the air—aeronauts, you know,
had rather be ‘up’ than on earth on such
nights as this. He. perhaps will acc n.pj
ny you.”
“What! La Montain here? the great
aeronaut? I had not heard ot it—impossi
• r
“He arrived on the cars to-night”
“Do you know him?”
“I was not acquainted with him,” be an
swered, “but he carne and introduced him
self to me.”
“Are you sure that he is La Montain?” I
asked, doubtingly.
“From his knowledge of ballooning. I am
certain.”
“Will he go with me?”
“Id > not know, we can see him. La
Montain is a bold, daring, fearless maD, with
a spice of romance in his disposition. I ex
pect that he will go.”
“Well, see him,*’ said I, “and if lie wishes
a trip, I would rather go with him thau make
the ascension alone. Let it be dime se
cretly.”
We went to the hotel, and on being shown
to the room of the stranger, I was introduc
ed to a tall, middle-aged man, with datk
hair and black, piercing eyes. We made
known the object of our visit, and I was
pleased as well as surprised to find the prop
osition eagerly accepted by the illustrious
stranger.
The aid of two negro men were secured,
and at midn'ght the balloon was in course
of being inflated. I sat by, willing that La
Montain and the owner should superintend.
I was greatly entertained and instructed list
ening to La Montain as he discoursed of
gasses and their peculiar properties and pow
ers. Ilii knowledge of ballooning seemed
unbounded, and I was congratulating my
self open having obtained his service? instead
of making the fool-hardy attempt that I had
at first intended. I was interiupted in tuy
cogitations by La Montain who now told
me that everything was ready and the trip
was before me.
He took his seat, and smilingly invited
me to enter, which I dd with delight. The
word was given, the ropes were cut, and
we shot heavenward with the velocity of a
rocket. The emotion was so new aud eve
rything so unfamiliar, that we were neatly
two thousand feet h : gh before I thought of
looking down; and when I ft, a strange,
ecstatic feeling seized rne; the sight was
grand beyond description. There before
me, as if upon a map. lay spread dwellings,
creeks and fields. We went higher, h'gher
yet —the sight became more grand, the feel
ing was more ecstatic, I could contain my
self no looger, and I shouted, and the echo
rang through the air and on the earth be
neath me. I spoke, and found that my
voice was softer than when on earth—the
mind seemed to frame thoughts with more
acuteness, and the tongue spake them more
clearly. I turned to see if my companion
shared the pleasure which I frit. He was
just in the act of emptying a couple of bags
of sand overboard. I heard the tinkling of
the sand, and felt the balloon jerk and shoot
higher up.
“Ooe more,” cried I, and over it went
‘ Two more,” cried be, “and another, and
more,” spoke the determined voice as the
ballast went overboard as fast as be could
lay his hands upon it.
“Stop, La Montain, stop,” cried I, alarm
*d; “don't throw over all the ballast
“Ha ha ha,” laughed be. Higher yet,
over, over, and the balloon jerked, turned
jerked, and shot a thousand feet higher. We
were over two miles high.
“How high do you wish to go ?” I asked.
“To tle moon,” shouted he, as the last
bag of sand w ent over.
Oh God! tbe lioiror of that moment, the
truth flashed upon me; tlie owner of the
balloon bad been duped, I had been deceiv
ed, and 1 was three miles in the air with a
cr*zy man who wanted to go to the moon.
He looked at me, his eyes glared wildly
around in the basket. With a hollow voice
lie spoke, “All tlie ballast is gone, and now
yon must go.” I begged, I piayed, but nil
iu vmil He ad vaiieed towards me, la<d Lis
hind on my shoulder, and then the strug
gle commenced. It was a life and death
struggle with me—it was a life and death
slmggle with him. Slowly, but firmly, he
boie me over the side of the basket; lor an
insraut I wa-> leaning over the side pressed
by his firm hand; the next moment I felt
myself whizz-ng—and awoke. I was lay
ing still on the soft at home—the stars were
peeping sweetly down, and the pale moon
was smiling at my folly.
Uonu lliil—A l*i‘lurc from
(Seal Life.
Not long air.ee 1 had occasion to visit
one of our courts, and while conversing
with a legal friend, i heard called the
name of John Anderson.
•’There is a hard case,’’ remarked my
companion.
1 looked upon the man in the prison
er's dock, lie was slaudiiig up, and
plead guilty of lie was a tall
man, but bent and infirm, though not
old. Ills garb was torn, sparse, and
filthy; his face was all bloated and
bloodshot; hi- hair matted with dirt,
and his bowed fimi quivered with de-
Kriutn. Certainly, 1 nver saw a more
pitiable object. Surely, that man was
not born a villain. I moved my place
to obtain a fairer view of his face. He
saw my movement, and he turned his
head. lie gaz-d np *n me a single in
stant, and theft, covering his face with
his hands, he sunk, powerless, into his
.-eat. “Good God! ’ I involuntarily
ejaculated,starting forward. “Wil
1 had tuff’ ppofcen his name, whert he
quickly rah-cd his head, and east upon
me a look of such imploring agon) Unit
my tongue was tied at tmeb. Then he
covered his ftce again. 1 asked my le
gal friend if the prisoner had counsel,
lie said he had not. I then told him to
do all iu his power for the poor fellow’s
benefi*, ar.d 1 would pay him. Ht*
promi-ed, and i (est. I could not re
main and see that nun tried, ‘fears
came to my eyes as i gaz -d upon him.
and it was not until I gained the street
and walked aome distance that 1 could
breathe freely.
John Anderson! Alas! he was
ashamed to he known us his mother's
son. That was not his real name; but.
you sdi-ril know him by no other, i
will call him by the name that stands
upon the records .f the court!
Jultn Anderson was m> schoolmate,
and it was not many years ago —not
over twenty —that we left, the academy
together; he to return to the home o!
wealthy parents—l, to sit down for a
few years in the dingy sanctum of a
newspaper office, and then wander off
across the ocean. 1 was g>*n** sum ■ f >ur
years, and when I relumed I found John
a married nun. His faih r was dead,
m.J had left Ins only son a princely for
tune.
“Arid, C ,” he said to me, as he
met me at a railway station, “you shall
see what a bird 1 have caged. My Ellen
! is a lark, a robin, a very princess of all
birds that ever looked beautiful or sang
sweet I v.”
He was enthusiastic, hut not mistak
en, for [ found his wife all he had said—
simply omiting the petry. She was
one of the most beautiful women i ever
saw. And so goid, too—so loving and
kind. Aye, she so loved John, that she
really hived ail of his friends. What a
lucky fellow to find such a wife, and
what a lucky wotmu to find su-.h a hus
band; for John Anderson was as hand
some as she; tail, straight, manly, high
j browed, with rich chestnut curls, and a
; face faultlessly noble and beautiful as
j artist ever copied. And he was good,
too ; and kind, generous and true.
I spent a week with them, aud I was
happy all the while. John’s mother
lived with iheni, a fine old lady as ever
breathed, and making herself constant
joy by doting on her ‘‘darling boy,” as
>he always cal ltd him. I gave her an
’ account of my adventures by sea and
land in foreign climes, and she kissed
me because I loved her darling.
1 did not see John again for f uir yeirs,
In the evening I reached his hou-c. He
was not in, but Ins wife and mother were
there to receive me, and two curly-head
1 ed ttoy s were at play about Ellen's chair.
’ ! knew at once they were my friend’s
children. Everything seemed pleasant
until the little ones were abed and
aslerp. and then I could see that Ellen
was troubltd. She tried to hidu it, Init
a face so used to the sunshine ofsmdes,
could not conceal a cloud.
At length John came. Ilia fa"e was
flushed and his eyes look'd inflamed.
He grasped my band w.th a hippy,
laugh, called me “old fellow,’’ “old <fog,’
said I must come and live with him, and
many other extravagant thing*. llis
wife tried to hide her tears, while his
mother shook her head and said :
“He’ll Sow his w ild oats soon. My
daring never can be a bad man.”
“God grant it!” I thought to myself;
and I knew that the same prayer was
upon Ellen’s lip-.
It was late when we retired, and wo
might not have done so even then, had
not John fallen asleep in his chair.
On the following morning I walked
out with my friend. 1 told him I was
sorry to see him as I saw him the night
i before.
‘ Oh,” said he with a laugh, “oh, that
was nothing. Only a little wine party.
We ha-1 a glorious time, I wish you had
been there.”
At first I thought I would say no
more, but was it not my duty ? I knew
his nature better than he knew himself.
His appetites and pleasures bounded his
own‘vision. I knew how kind and gens
MACON, ; A., FRIDAY, OCTOBER 2#> 18 50.
erms he was—alas! too kind, too gen
erous.
“John,” could you have seen Ellen’s
face ia-t evening, you would have trem
bled. . Can you make her unhaj py 1”
He stopped with—
“ Don’t be a fool. Why should she
be unhappy 1”
“Because she fears) ou are going down
hill,” I told him.
“Did she say so?” he asked, w ith a
flushed face.
“No; I read it in her looks,” I said.
“Perhaps a reflection of your own
thoughts,” he suggested.
“Surely, 1 thought so when you came
home,” I replied.
Never can 1 forget the look he gave
me then, so full of reproof, o f surprise
of pain.
“C , I forgive you, for I know you
to be my friend ; but never speak tome
like that. 1 yo'uuj dutru lull! you know
better. That can never be. 1 know
my own power, and 1 know my wants
My nxitfter knows me better than Ellen
does.”
Ah, had that mother been as wise as
she was loving, she would have seen that
ths “wild oats” which her son was sow
ing would grow up and ripen, to furnish
only seed for re--owing ’ But she loved
him—loved him almost too well, or I
shou'd say, too blindly.
But I could say no more. I only
pray* and that God wyuid guard him, and
then we conversed *>n oilier Suhj.*cts. I
could spend but a day with him, but we
promised to correspond often.
Three more ) cars passed, during which
John Anderson wrote to me at least
once a month, and oftener sometimes;
hut at the end t f that time his letters
ceased coming, and I received no more
for two years, when 1 again found my
s* If in his native town, ll was early in
the afternoon that 1 arrived, and I took
dinner at the hotel.
I had dliushe I m v meal and was loung
ing in front < f the h .tel, when I saw a
fiilierd proces-’fn winding into a dis
tant chneehvanf. I asked t lie landlord
whose fuweoi?t, wss.
“Mr?. Anderson's,” he said; and ns
!,*• spoke, i noticed a alight dr-*oping of
the head, * j it’ it ent him o-ay so.
Join Auder-.„ s‘wife?” 1
v. mured.
“No,” he s-dd, ‘it i- his mother, ’ and
as Tie t’l me dfs. h * turned away. Bat
a g*-iifh'iirt:i near i> . who In I overhcaid
opr Coinersatmu, a’ once took up the
lh‘*- ”**.
M)ar hot don't seem inclined to con
verse upon that subject,” fie remarked,
with a shrug.
“Did you know John Anderson?”
“lie was my school mate in bo) hood,
and my bosom frieml in youth,” 1 told
him.
lie tli >n led me to one side, and spok
as follows;
“Poor J< hn ! lie was the pride of
the tow n six years ago. This man opened j
his hotel at that tins 1 , and sought custom
by giving wine suppers. John was pres- j
• tit at many of them—the gayest of the
gay, and the most generous ofthe party.
In fact, he paid f>r nearly all of them.
Then h<> began to go down hid, and has
continued t< go down ever since. At
times, true friends have prevailed on
him to stop, hut his stops were of short
duration. A short season of sunshine
would gleam upon his home, and then
the night came, more dark and dreary
than before.”
“lie raid he never would get drunk
again ; hut still he would take a glass of
wine with a friend! That glass of wine
was but the gate that let ill the flood.
Six years ago In* was worth sixty th->u
sand dollars. Ypsterday, he borrowed
the sum >f fifty dollars to pay his moth- j
er s funeral expenses ! That poor moth j
er bore up as long as she could. She !
saw her son —her “durling boy,” as she ;
always tailed him— brought home j
drunk, n many time*. And she even)
bore blows from him! Hut now she is
at rest. Her “darling” wore her life j
away, and brought Iter gray hairs insor- j
row to the grave. Oh, 1 hope this may !
reform him! ’
“ Hut his wife 1” I asked.
‘ Her heavenly love lias held her tip
thus fir, b it she is only a shadow ofthe
wifi she was six years ago,” he re
turned.
My Informant was deeply affected, J
and so was f; Consequently I asked no
more.
During the remainder of the after
noon I debuted with m; s-!f whether to
call upon John nt all. But finally I re
solved to g, though I waited till after!
tea. I found John and his wife alone.
They hitd both been weeping. though I
could see at a glance that Ellen’s face
was beaming with In *>e and love. But,
oh! she was changed—sadly, painfully
s.. They were gla-1 to see me, and my
hand was shaken warmly.
“Dear C , don’t :•/ a w.*rd < fihe
past,” John urged, shaking my hand a
second time. “1 know you spoke the
truth five years ago. I was going down
hill. But I have gone as far as I can—
here I stop at the foot. Everythihg is
gone but my wife. I have sworn—and
mv oath shell be kept—Ellen and I are
going to be happy now.”
The poor fellow burst into tears; El
len followed suit, and I kept them com
pany. I could not help crying like a
child. My God, what a siyht! The
once noble, true man, so fallen—become
a mere broken glass—the last fragment
I only reflecting the image it once bore;
a p->or suppliant, at the foot of hope,
begging a grain of warmth for the
hearts of himself and wife! And how I
had honored and loved that man, and
how I loved him still ! Oh. how 1 hoped
—aye, more than hoped—l believed that
he would be saved. And, as i gazed
upon that wife—so trusting, so loving, so
true, and so hopeful, even in the midst
of living death —1 prayed more fervent
ly than 1 ever prayed before, that God
would hold him up —lead him back to
the top of the hill.
In the morning 1 saw the children—
grown to two intelligent boys; and
though they looked pale and wan, yet
they smiled and seemed happy,* w hen
their father kissed them. When I went
away, John took me by the hand, and
the last words were:
“Trust me. Believe me now ; I will
be a man henceforth while life lasts!”
A little over two years more had pass
ed, when I read in a newspaper thed* ath
of Ellen Anderson. 1 started for the
town w here they had lived as ‘ soon as
possible, thinking I night help some
one! Afeaif.il presentment possessed
hiy mind.
“Where is John Anderson?” 1 a<ked.
“Don’t know, I’m sure. He’s been
gone these three months. His w ife died
in the madhouse last week. ’
“And the children ?”
“Oh, they both died before she did.”
1 staggered back and hurried from the
place. 1 hardly knew which way 1
went, but instinct led me to the church
yard. I found there four graves which
had been made in three years. r l he
mother, wife, and two childien, slept in
them.
“And what has done this?” I a-ked
myself. And a voice answered from the
lowly sleeping place:
“The demon of th* wine table!”
Bat this was not all the work. No,
no. The next Isa God!—was
far more terrible! 1 saw it in the city
rourt room. But that was not the last
—not the last.
I saw my legal friend on the day fol
lowing the trial. He sad John Ander
son was in prison. 1 hastened to st c
him. The turnkey conducted mo t. his
cell—tin: key turned in the large Jock;
the ponderous door with a sharp crack
swung upon its hii ges, and I saw a dead
body suspended by the neck from a
grated window. I looked at the horri
ble face; I coil'd see nothiig of John
Anderson there, but the face I had seen
in the court room was sufficient to eon
mat the two; and I knew that this was
all that remained of him whom I had
inv* *1 so vveli.
And that was the ls-t of the demon’s
wo!k : tin* Is—t act in ihe terrible drama.
Ah, from th- first sparkle of the red
wine it had been down, down, down!
mitii the foot of the hill had been finally
readied.
When I itirned away from the cell,
and once moru *. H.k*-n amid the flashing
saloons and level had*, I wi-he.l that my
voice had power to thunder liio Jife
-tory of wh’eh 1 had been a witness, into
he ears of all living men !
Front, the Xnr York Dispatch.
THE GIPSEY’S REVENGE;
on,
The Stolen Child.
HY ALOYSIA.
‘Welcome, welcome, Aunt Eila,’ cried a
group of pretiv, merry girls, as a sweet be
nevolent-1 >okiug woman entered the draw
ing-room where iliey were conversing. ‘We
were just speaking about you, and wishing
you were here to tell oue of your delightful
stones.’
‘Most willingly, my dear girls, would I
< bhge you, but indeed I feel so sorrowful
to night, I tear my talcs would fail to inter
est you.’
‘No tear of that, Aunt Nellie, but as you
are so sad, we will wait uutil some other
evening.*
Bit she, dear kind auntie, seeing we were
disappointed, said, ‘girls, I will tell you the 1
cause of my depression this evening; but in
imagination I Carry you back to the days
when I was a laughing, light-hearted girl
like yourselves. Full ot life and gladness,
I tripped gaily along the pathway of iife,
plucking flowers of affection from every
bower, little thinking that my bright dreams
would soou be dispelled by the dark clouds
of bitter misery.
‘Our house was a perfect paradise; content 1
and happiness beamed on every mmute s
face. Une evening a.i we were enjoying the
pure pleasures of the social circle, a tap was
heard at the door, ami a servant entered, an
nouncing to nry father that a stranger desired
to see him.
‘He instantly rose, and upon leaving the
room was met by a tall dark man, wrapped !
in a heavy cloak.’
‘I presume you are Dr. Austin,’ said the i
man, looking earnestly at my lather, who !
graciously smiled assent.
‘Well, Doctor, my wife is dangerously ill, ■
and I want you to come with all posible 1
haste to see her.’
‘ls she very ill?’ inquired my father, who
did not relish the idea of leaving home on
such an inclement night.
‘Yes, very,’ replied the man, sternly, ‘go .
for God's sake be quick, Doctor, or she will
be dead before we reach my home—home
he repeated—once indeed it was a happy
one-—earth’s choicest gilts were mine—but |
now, ruined and desolate, aud she, its light, j
its beauty, my wile, my own darling wise,
dying, surrounded by misery and want.—
Oh, my God,’ he groaned in deep agony, ]
,if it is thy will, spare me this dreadful j
tria'.’
‘Mv father gently touched him as he sat
with his face burred itr his hands, saying the
horses were ready. In a moment, they were
rapidly driving to the stra; ger's home, and
‘onward, onward, for lire sake of Heaven,’
were the only words he uttered.
‘Alighting at a miserable cottage at the
oub-kirta of the city, the man pushed open
a creaking door, and entering a miserably
cheerless room, beckoned my father to ap
proach the bed upon which the sick woman
was lying.
‘My father saw in a moment that no hu
man aid could avail her anything; and it
was with reluctance he imparted the news
to her despairing husband; but Ire, in whose
bopom the lamp of life was not yet extin
guished, begged my father to do something
at least to relieve the sufferer.
‘William, come near me—l wish to speak
to you ere I depart,’ murmured the dying
woman.
‘The man arose, and kneeling by the bed
side, took her pale thin hand in his, and
kissing it, fondiy exclaimed, ‘Oh, my Mary,
little I thought when first I clasped th s
loved hand in mine, and pledged before
God's holy altar to love and protect you for
ever, and when I took you from your friends
to share my home and heart, oh, Mary, I
never dreamed that this would be the end
of it—wretch that I am—why did I not
leave you in the midst of the comfort and
affluence that once whs yours, aud you
would have escaped this misery.’
‘William,’ said the Sufferer gently, ‘I am
dying; do not disturb my last moments by
thoughts like these, for never did I regret rny
choice—ami il wealth and luxury were mine, ,
1 would give them all tor thee.’
‘My lather, who had been standing at the
window, was about to leave, when the dying
woman, who had forgotten hi? presence,
motioned him to draw near.
‘Listen, Doctor, to what I have to say. It
does not, indeed, concern you, and perhaps
1 am trespassing on your kindness, but I
feel with the goodness of your noble heart |
you will listen to my story.’
‘My father sealed himself while (he wo
man related as follows:
‘Mine, Doctor, has been a strange fate;
and short though my life has been, it has
been an eventful one. I have no remem
brance of my parents, for in my childhood I
had no settled home, but led a wandering
life with a G psey bind, who ever treated
me with great kindness; yet I always fan- !
eied I did not belong to thnn; but at that I
time the thought troubled me little, for I
was too full of gaiety to think lng on any
thing serious. From a wild, frolicsome child,
I grew up to be a tall girl of sixteen, beloved
by the band of datk gypsies, and wa? treat
ed as a queen among them. My slightest
word was law, and it was strange to see the
tenderness and respect which they tendered
to me.
‘But they had been branded as outlaw?,
and the government had set a large price
upon (heir heads. One day we had taken
refuge in a cavern, alter being hunted as
wild beasts, when we were suddenly sur- j
prised and captured by a large body of con
stabulary.
‘We were put in prison, and after a short
trial the band were condemned to death ;
but my youth gained me friends; and the j
venerable Judge, who had taken a great in- :
terest in me, having no children, adopted me 1
as his own.
‘I wept bitterly at the terrible fate of rny
old companion?, whom I sincere’)’ loved,and
as I vvas bidding them a last adieu, the chief,
who was a stern, mysterious man, called me
to him, handed me a small box, bade me on
my honor never to often it until my twenty
fust birthday. Solemnly vowing to do his
bidding, I bade them a last farewell.
‘My home with the Judge and bis beauti
ful wife was all that. I could desire; they
loved me tenderly, and did all in their power
to make me happy.’ I had the best masters, !
and every attention was paid to my educa
tion.
At eighteen I entered society sc the ;
adopted daughter of Judge Dud ey , was
well received, ami reigned a belle during the
vvliole season. My adopted father, who vvas
very proud of rue, intended lliHt I should
make n great match, but when I told him
that I had bestowed my affections on my
William, l.is rage knew no bounds. He de-
clarid that no beggar should win me, and
bade me henc. for’li consider his friend, the
lion. Jasper Singleton, as my future hus
baud.
I replied that I would never wed any
person but William, and that -rt would be
useless to urge me in the matter. I was in
dignant at Iris applying such an epithet to
William, who was a man oi rare talents and
a you.ig lawyer struggling to attain an hon
orable position rn the world.
‘lloarse with anger, he bade me begone.’
‘Too long,’ said he, ‘have I har bored yon,
ungrateful girl, in my home, never thinking
that like a viper you would sting me when
1 least expected it. Brg me !’ lie cried, as
he almost hurled me from his house.
‘Loving my adopted father, I sought to be
reconciled to him, but he was deaf to my
entreaties unless I would give up William.
‘That week William and L were married,
and humble though our home was, happi
ness ever hovered around us, until one un
fortunate day my husband was riding in
baste to a neighboring town, when he was
thrown from his horse and severely hurt.—
For Weeks his life was despaired of. Night
and day I watched by the bedside of my only
earthly hope, and the Almighty at last re
warded my efforts and spared my husband's
lile. During the excitement I had forgotten
that we were almost penniless, and soon the
reality stared us in the face. We were forced
to leave our pretty cottage, and William,
whose weakness preventer! his working,
with unutterable agony watched mo as I en
deavored to earn a small pittance to sustain
life. But my constitution was not strong,
and I was soon attacked by a dangerous ill
ness which is wasting my live away. I have
but a short time to live, Doctor, and as this
js the anniversary of my twenty-first birth
day, I wouM, before I die, have the mystery
winch hangs over my life unraveled. Doc
tor, please hand rne that box lying on the
mantel. Poor William,’ she said, stooping
over and kissing her husband’s pale brow,
‘be Comforted.’
‘My Mary,’ he murmured, T will never
know comfort again.’
‘My father, as desired, opened the box,
and took out a bundle of papers, and was
about handing them to the man, when the
woman said, ‘William is too agitated, Doc
tor; will you be kind enough to read them
aloud yourself?’
‘A slip of p -per fell from his hand, and on
picking it up, my lather read :
‘This is to certify that the child Mary, who
has lived with our band for years, is the
daughter of Dr. Austin, of B , stolen
1 by me to avenge my wrongs in winning from
Ime the only being I ever loved. I am dy
ing, and I seek to repair the only injury done
to one 1 once loved.’
j ‘Emanuel Yallerino, my child, my child !’
j cried my father, bending over bis new-found
daughter. ‘My darling Mary, for whom I
have mourned for long, long years; i3 it
thus I behold you ; my God, spare, oh, spare
my child,’ he said with frantic emotion, kiss
ing her.
‘Father, father !’ ws all she could mur
mur, as she sank back exhausted upon her
pillow.
‘William, I am thy father, too; love me
as a son. Our loved one may yet live; but
1 if it is God’s will to take her, we will never
be separated.’
‘Unable to speak, the husband clasped
warmly my lather’s hand.
‘We wondered lather did not return that
night, and were not a little astonished to see
him driving madly up to the house next
morning, and, in exciting tones, ordering the
servants to place a bed in the easy old fami
ly carriage, and directing tny mother to pre
pare to receive a s ck person. Without wait
ing to give any explanation, he hurried back
to the sick, and in about an hour he and
William tenderly carried in the sick woman
and laid her in the soft,comfortable bed which
my mother had prepared.
‘Calling her into the library, he told who
the stranger was. The shock was too great
for my mother, and she swooned upon the
floor. Upon recovering, she gazed wildly
about, murmuring, ‘My Mary, my little one,
have they brought you back ?’
i ‘Ob, how affecting was the meeting be
tween my mother and her long lost daugh-
ter ; and when I ki-s and my Sistei’s hand, I
I'eit that I would willingly give my life to
save hers.
‘Mother.’ she asked one day, ‘do tell me
who was Emanuel Yallerino.’
•My child,’ said mother with a sigh, ‘lie
vvas my adopted brother, aud oily in that
” light did I ever regard him; but he, un
known to me, loved me with all :he t'-rvor
of his passionate nature. ll<- dei-ared his
alf-ction for me, but l told bim I was the
affianced of your father. He then vowed
before heaven, if ever I became the wife
lof Hubert Austin, be would be avenged. I
i heeded not his threat, aud soon alter was
marritd. A few years alter you were born
you were stolen from ns. Ip vain we search
ed in every direct ion, but could find no clue
to our lost dailing—and long, long, my
Mary, we have mourned you as dead.’
* * * * * * * *
‘T! e night wind wailed sadiy around our
home as the shadow of death deepened upon
the brow of sister Mary.
‘Fa'her —William Mother—all come near
i me,’ she murmur* and faintly. ‘I would See
you all before I depart. Good by, good-by,’
she exclaimed, kissing us affectionately ‘Oh,
do not weep lor me; I am leaving you but
1 for a tune; and oh, wliai a happy leunion
ours will be when we meet in yon bright
spirit iariti. But hush, they are coining. I
see their arms outstretched to greet me. I
hear tbe music of the heavenly Jerusalem.
Farewell earth—farewell, all that is dear to
me, farewell. Almighty God, unto thee I
commend my spirit. Jesus, receive my
soul.’ A (el with one faint gasp, the soul of
my beloved sister was wafted to the realms
| of bliss.
‘lt would be nee*Hess for me to picture our
j grief at her loss. It was heartfelt —earnest;
and poor William at that moment needed all
our tenderest sympathies.
‘Girls,’ said Am t Ella, a? she saw the
tearful.eyes of her attentive auditors, “ties
i night is the anniversary of that death-bed
j scene. Do you wonder, then, that I am
’ sad ?’
‘(>h n<\ darling Aunt Ella,’ they all ex
claimed, ht was a scene too touching ever to
be forgotten; but t*ll us, auntie, is clear,
good Unde William, who is always so kind,
y**t sorrowful, the William of whom you
speak?’
■Yes, girls; he has never forgotten his
idolized wife; and I often thought when
you were teasing him about getting married,
what deep wounds you inflicted
on his breaking bea’l.’
‘Had we known we were ii Acting pain,’
said tbe g ib, s*dd-r g, ‘we would not lor a
; momeni thick of tormenting lion; but the
future will show h w sorry we are for the
pat.’
From that day many a blessing did \\ il
hmn Warrington bestow up- n the fair young
; girls who sought to sooihe his melancholiy,
and l>y a thousand acts < f kindness to render
him happy; and they who loved him as a
brother, fouud in km that friend which the
young need, a sincere and truthful counselor
; in every act of their lives.
My Wife’s Piano.
The deid is accomplished. My wife
has got a piano, and now farewell the
tranquil mind —farewell content and the
evenibg papers, and the big cigars that
make ambition virtue—oh, farewell!
“And, oh ! ye mortal engines, whi se
rude throats the immoital Jove’s dre;*!
clamors counterfeit !” But stop, | can’t
Ind them farewell, for one. of them has
jnst arrived. It came on a dray. Six
men carried it into the parlor, and it
grunted awfully. It, weighs a ton —
shines like a mirror—and has carved
Cupids climbing up its limbs. And
such lungs —whew! My wife has com
menced to practise, and the first time she
touched tlie machine, I thought we were
in the midst of’ a thunder storm, and the
lightning had struck the crokery chests.
The cat, with tail erect, took a bee line
fir a particular friend upon the back
fence, demolishing o six shilling pane of
glass. The baby awoke and the little
fellow tried his best to brat the instru
ment, but he couldn’t do it. It beat
him. A teacher has been introduced
into the house. He says he is the last
of Napoleon’s grand army. He wears a
huge moustache,* looks at me fiercely,
sinels of garlic, and goes bv the name
of Count Run away-and-never come
back again by. lie played an extract
de opera the other night. He run his
lingers thioughhis hair twice, then grin
ned, then he cocked his eyes up at the
ceiling, like a monkey hunting flies, and
then came down one of his fingers, and
I heard a delightful sound, similar to that
produced by a cockroach dancing upon
the tenor string of a fiddle. Down came
another finger, and I was reminded of
the wind whistling through a knothole
in a lien coop, lie touched his thumb,
and I thought, that I was in an orchard
listening to the d'sfant braying of a
jackass. Now he ran his fingers along
the keys, and I thought of a boy ratting
a stick upon a picket fence. All of a
sudden he stopped, and I thought some
thing had happened. Then d->wn came
both li-ts, and oh. Lord ! such a noise
was never heard before. I thought a
huiricane had struck the house, and the
walls were caving in. I imagined 1 was
in the cellar, and a ton of coil was fal
ling upon m> head. 1 thought the ma
chine had burst, when the infernal noise
stopped, and I heard my wife ejacu’
late
“Exquisite!” “What the deuce is
the matter 1” The answer was, “Why,
dear, that’s La Sonnambula !” “D—n
Sonnambula thought I ; and the Count
rolled up his sheet of paper. He calls
it music ; but for the life of me, I can’t
make it look like anything else than a
rail fence with a lot of juvenile n'ggers
climbing over. Before that instrument
of torture camoin to the house I could
enjoy myself, but now every darned vns
man in the neighborhood must be invit
ed to hear the new piano, and every
time the blasted thing shrieks out, bite a
locomotive with the bronchitis, I have to
praise Its tone, anil when the invited
guests are playing. 1 have to sa\, “Ex
quisite!” “Delightful! ’ “Heavenly!”
and all such trash, while at the same
time, I know just as much about music
as a blind codfish. There are more tuns
ing hammers than comforts in our house,
and—and 1 wish the inventor of the pi
ano was troubled with a perpetual night
mare, and obliged to sleep in one of his
instruments all his life. As for myself,
l nod mi her put my head under a tin pan
and he drummed to sleep w ith a pair ot
smoothing irons than hear “La S. nnarn
bula,” or any other La thumped out of a
piano. Scatter pennies in front of my
house, and draw together all the wan
dering minstrels in the city—hand or
gans, banjos, fiddles, tambormes, rattling
bones, and fish horns; let juvenile mon
keys crawl in at my windows in search
of three cent pnoer —let me be awaken
ed at midnight by ihe cry cf “minder !”
—rir g the fire bells and have a devil of
a time generally —do all this and 1 will
not complain; but banish the pianos.
My , >iauo has got to go. lam going to
launch ilm infernal machine out <>f the
window the first dark night, and, my
trend-, I advise vou to sleep with cot
ton iu your ears, or when sha gives her
dying griinf, you’ll think you’ve fallen
out of bed, or a fallen star has gone to
roost upon your house top. For infor
mation <f “Young America,” I will
sta'ri that all the pieces of brass, wire
anfl ivoy keys they are welcome to, but
the skeleton I want for a refrigeiator.
THE: BABY’S DREAM.
O cradle me on thy knee, mamma.
And sing me that holy strain
Which southed mo last, as you fondly pressed
My slowing cheek to your loving br ;ist.
For 1 saw a scene when I sluniheted last,
That I fain would see again.
And smile as yon then did smiie. mamma.
And weep as you then did weep.
Then tix on me your loving eye.
And gaze, and gaze iitl the tear In l dry:
Then rock me gently, and sing and sigh.
Till you lull me last to sleep.
For I dreamed a heavenly dream, mamma.
While stnmliering on vour knee:
I lived in a land where forms divine.
In kingdoms of glory eternally shine.
And the world l"ii give, if the world were mine,
Again that land to see.
J fancied we roamed ill a wood, mamma,
We rested as under a bough.
When near me a butterfly Haunted in pride.
Aiul I ebased it away iu the forest wide.
And the night came on and I Ins; my guide,
And I knew not what to do.
My heart grew chill with fear, mamma,
Aud 1 loudly eallod for thee.
When a white-robed maiden apjxgm-d in the air.
And she Hung l aek the locks of ner golden hair,
And she kisseil me so sweetly ere I was aware,
•Saying, “Come little halie with me.”
.My tears, my fears, she liegntied, mamma.
And she led me far a wav.
We entered the door of the dark, dark tomb.
Then passed through its long, long vault of gloom,
Then opened our eves in a world of bloom.
And sky of elouifless day.
1 mixed with the heavenly throng,mamma,
With cherub and seraphim fair.
Arid I saw as we roved through the region of bliss,
Tiu- spirit * that eame from the land of distress.
And there was the joy no tongue ean express,
For they knew no sorrow there.
*******
Lot me go again to that land, mamma.
While slumbering on your knee.
I would live in a Land where forms divine,
In kingdoms of glory eternally shine.
And the world I’d give, if the world were mine.
Again that laud to see. is.
Old Letters.
An old number of Arthurs’ Home
Magazine contains the following touch
ing sketch:
We, cousin Meribol and I, came across
thorn in an old drawer up in the garret.
They were cart fully tied up in a faded
blue ribbon, and we unfastened this with
little quick sir uits of laughter, and open
id the old letters.
Great sheets of foolscap they*
all brown and stiff with age, and pain
fully exact., too. Such as you may per
haps find now in t lie copy book of a boy
of thirteen.
“My dear Thankful!” commenced!
MeriSel.
“Why, it’s grandma as true as I’m
alive” and these are grandma’s love let- ]
tors! Oh, Fannie, and it’s dated June,
1794. That’s more than sixty years
ago. J ust think of it.”
So we sttled down on the old garret
fl'ior,and read the letters, and Meribel’s
curls brushed against my cheeks as her
laugh fluttered up to the old rafters, at
some quaint expression, or some ardent
expression of fife long fondness and ten
derness. Surely those old letters bore
ample evidence that the lovers of the
eighteenth century were quite as ardent
and devoted as those of the nineteenth.
“Seventeen hundred and ninety four,”
said Meribel, who was studying Ger
man. “That was the meridian of Goe
the and Jean Paul Richter, and that was
about the time of the French llevolu- i
tion. It doesn’t secui very lung to read
of it.”
We carried the letter with triumphant
glee down to grandmother. She sat
there, knitting by the fire, in her silver
spectacles and white cap. Could that
bowed figure be the one those old let
ters called “light and graceful ?” Could
those wrinkled and faded cheeks once
lnve been full of the “bloom of youth
and beauty,” and those dim and sunken
eyes have looked to the writer, “bright
er than the stars, when they rose to
glorify the summer evening]’ Grand
pa oust have hai a vein of poetry in
him; pet haps every man does, though,
when he is in love ; but with most men,
the dust of this world soon gathers
thick over their hearts, and work the
vein as you will, there is no more gold
there.
We laid the letter.* in her lap—those
letters, written when her youth was
fre.-h with spring and fragrant with
blo-sonts. She took them up, and the,
faintest flti-h crossed, fora moment, hei j
w ithered cheeks, as the peered it them
through her spectacles.
“Ah, they are Jacob’s letters !” she
said, and her wrinkled hands wandered
tor a moment, tenderly over the great
coarse shiet, then she sighed, her knit
ting fell from her hands, and she sat lost
in thought by the fire.
Somehow it touched us, cousin Meri
bel and I, and we couldn't rally her as
we had intended. Perhaps, too, the
thought struck sadly into our hearts,
that sometime we may become gray,
wrinkled, withered old women, and
somebody, out of whose life the rose o
color was not blanched, might find let
ters of ours. Ah, well ! ah, well •’
A young married lady of our acquaint
ance, whose union has not been prolific of I
“little darlings,” has suspended on the wall, i
in her bed room, directly over the bed, a i
neat little pieturo, underneath which is the j
following quotation from scripture: “Slitter
little children to come unto me, and forbid
them not, for of such is the kingdom of (
Heaven.”
NUMItER 31*
Trutlis lor Wives.
In domestic happiness, the wife’s
influence is much greater than her
husband's : tor the one, the first
caused mutual love and confidence,
being granted, the whole comfort of
the household depends upon trifles
more immediately under her juris
diction. By her management of
small sums, her husband’s respecta
bility and credit arc created or des
stroyed. No fortune can stand the
constant leakages of extravagances
and mismanagement; and more is
spent in trifles, than women could
easily believe. The one great exx
pense, whatever it may be, is turned
over and carefully reflected on ere
incurred ; the income is prepared
to meet it : but its pennies imper
ceptibly sliding away which do the
mischief; and this the wife alono
can stop for it does not come within
a man’s province. There is often
an unsuspected trifle to he saved in
every household. It is not in econ
omy alone that the wife’s attention
is so necessary, but In those nice
ties which make a well regulated
house. An unfurnished cruet-stand,
a missing key, a huttor.less shirt, a
soiled table-cloth, a mustard-pot
with its old contents sticking hard
and brown about it are severally
nothings ; hut each can raise an an
gry word or cause discomfort. De
pend on it, there’s a great deal of
domestic happiness in a well-dressed
mutton-chop or a tidy breakfast-ta
ble. .Men grow sated of beauty,
tired of music’ and often too wearied
for conversation, (however intellect
ual ;) hut they can always appreciate
a well swept hearth and smiling com
fort. A woman may love her husband
devotedly, may sacrifice fortune,
friends, family,country, for him, she
may have the geuiffs of a Sappho,
the enchanted beauties of an Armi
da ; but, melancholy fact, if with
these she fail to make his home com
fortable, his heart will inevitably es
cape her. And women live so enx
tirely in the affections that without
love their existence is a void. Bet
ter submit then, to household tasks,
however repugnant they may be to
your tastes, than doom yourself to a
loveless home. Women of a higher
order of mind will not run this risk ;
they know that their feminine, their
domestic, are their first duties.
A Tli rilling incident.
The Norfolk Day Book relates the follow
i
j ing thrilling incident that recently occurred
1 on board the bark Dumbarton, at sea :
While the passengers of the disabled
steamer, Quaker City, were being handed up
the side of the bark Dumbarton, a heavy
.sea was running, and it was with the utmost
difficulty that the ladies could be gotten on
board. This was finally effected, and then an
nnocent little nursling, whose mother had
entrusted it to the rough hands of the honest
tars, was handed up. The little thing was
too light and tender for their hard palms,
and they sung out from the boat to tlioso
above to catch the “little one,” and the next
moment a score of arms were outstretched,
as it was lifted, crowing and kicking toward
the gunwale. Alas! all hands missed it and
it fell back into the sea among the sharks—
every eye was strained, the pulsations of the
heart were stopped, and tor a moment all
seemed paralyzed; but this lasted only for
an instant, the sturdy arm of one of the gal
lant boat’s crew had grasped the dear littlo
one by the leg, and as he lifted it aloft a
cheer saluted its appearance. The mother
of the child now went into strong convul
sions, and the infant was passed into tho
arms of Mrs. Davidson, and while resting
there, a beautiful land bird hovered for a
moment over its little form, and then, as if
to assure itself that it lived, jierehed upon its
dress, and hopped and chirped in concert
with the crowing of tho babe, The bird
then jumped to the shoulder of Mrs. David
son, thence to the shoulder of Mr. Davidson,
who was near, and then took a final farewell
of the bark and her rescued passengers
A Wealthy Man.
The Nbw York of the New
Orleans Cresrent gives the lbilowing account
of George Law :
If anything don’t pay, George Law re
spectfully drops it He now owns nine
tenths of the Eighth Avenue Railroad, which
alone is an iucome for a prince, and grow
ing more valuable every day. He also owns
nearly all the stock of the Ninth Avenue,
which, when completed, will run from the
Battery through Greenwich street to the
Ninth Avenue, and thence to Harlem river—
a nine mile concern. Half the ferries belong
to Law. He owns the l)ry Dock Bank, and
the bank owns about forty acres of docks,
houses and land, almost in the heart of the
city. Law owns the Staten Island ferry
boats, and two miles of water front, near
est New York, that in a few years will be
worth for docks ten millions. He really
owns the Flushing Railroad, and Heaven
knows how much more he owns. That im
mense thinking brain keeps accumulating.—•
I don t think lie goes into large operations
now for the purpose of making money. I
think he works to keep from stagnating.—
Though not a politician, he wields a very
powerful influence upon polities, especial
ly upon local affairs. Most persons have an
idea that he is an old man. No such thing.
He is only fifty-one years old, and possesses
one of those vigorous constitutions that will
last him forty- nine years lougcr.
It is related of the French family of
the Duke de Levis, that they have a pic
ture in their chateau in which Noah is
represented going into the ark, and car
rying under his arm a small trunk, on
which is written, “Papers belonging to
the Levis family.”
The mind has a certain vegateth e powi
cr which cannot be wholly idle. If it is
not laid out and cultivated into a beauti
ful garden, it will of itself shoot npin
weeds or flowers of a wild growth.