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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.