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taneously benevolent old age excites the con
fluence of youthful innocence. This morning
the same fair hand held out to us a beautiful
bouquet, and the youthful florist lifted up a
pair of such truthful, expressive, almost im
ploring eyes, and by the silent eloquence of
her fair countenance, seemed so plainly to
ask our acceptance of the pure offering, that
refusal was impossible. We took it not be
fore she had buried, for a moment, her blush
ing face amidst its varied glories, and their
bright hues flashed into brighter beauty, lest
their loveliness should be outdone! And now
the fragrant present greets our optics and ol
factories, and its leaves and tinted petals
seem to whisper in our ear, “thus youth should
treat age, and thus should age bless and coun
sel youth!” This affecting passage is imme
diately followed by a case of “death from
drowning!” The “Commercial” is not only
growing benevolent and romantic, but most
dangerously funny. Speaking of the great
quantity of “late dates from Mexico,” with
which the papers abound, he suggests the
propriety of having a few figs now and then,
by way of variety! Droll man !
And now, congratulating you upon the re
storation of Peace, and upon the safety of the
country generally,
I am ever yours, FLIT.
<£l)e Southern (Etlctic.
THE GEORGIAN IN NEW YORK,
BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON. U
Header, it you live any where south of lati
tude 33, and if you wish to preserve a high
estimate of your native land, and self, take
my advice and stay at home. You will find,
before you are a thousand miles off, your self
estimation considerably worsted, and you will
ascertain to your heart’s desire’ that you think
more of your own State, than those North of
you do. At least, that, is my experience; and
if you have a few minutes to spare, read my
“ simple tale” and sympathise with my misfor
tunes.
* When I was a very young man, (it would
he exceedingly impertinent for you to ask how
long ago,) I left Savannah in a vessel bound
for New York. We were all well when we
started, but after we had been a few days out,
an August sun began to do duty with our
crew. One man died, and another became
very sick. On the morning of the sixth day,
we reached the “Highlands,” and our captain
called a council of war, among the passen
gers, to consult as to the course we ought to
adopt, in reference to our sick seaman; “for,”
said he, “the health officer at the Quarantine
ground hates Georgia, for the trouble it gives
him, and if he finds any body looking the
least pale, he will put us under the yellow
flag for a week.” We overhauled our sick
man, put clean garments upon him, shaved
him and telling him to keep “a stiff upper
lip,” and not let the doctor suspect his indis
position, we constituted him cook pro hac vice ,
and propping him up in the “ caboose,”
awaited with some trepidation our “medical
fellow.” We anchored at Staten Island, and
in a few mtuutes a boat, with a yellow flag
flying at the stern, came up. “ Where are
you from V’ said a handsome looking young
man in glasses. “Georgia, sir,” answered
the captain. “Ah, here’s trouble for me, I’ll
be bound,” soliloquized Esculapius, as he came
on board: “ Muster your passengers, sir,”
added he. We all passed in review. “ Call
the crew forward.” Done accordingly.—
“Where is John Matthews asked Medicus,
calling the roll. (That question was easier
asked than answered, however, for he was
our dead man, and w*e had thrown him into
the sea.) “We have lost him at sea sir,” re
sponded the captain; “we have had some
severe weather.” “John Jones.” This was
our cook pro tempore. “ Halloo! cook “? come
out!” No answer. “He cannot very well
leave the caboose at present, doctor —he’s en
gaged, but if its necessary to see him, perhaps
you will do me the favor to step there.” And
there he went, our poor fellow, malgre the
shaving, and clean shirting and propping,
wore the indubitable marks of grim disease.
We saw at once that our artifice was “no go”
with the physician. He felt Jones’ pulse, and
then said quietly to his assistant, “ take this
man to the hospital, he has got that miserable
Georgia fever.” “What do you mean sir,”
said I, “by coupling Georgia with such an
adjective ?” He looked at me with perfect
amazement. At last, he touched his hat to
ibiiirfiiEASY sßAssifins.
me, and replied, “I beg your pardon, sir—l
ought not to have coupled Georgia fever with
so contemptuous an expression, for 1 have no
doubt that it has done immense good in its
time—l wish it a more extensive usefulness
for the benefit of mankind. If you will al
low me, I w T ill retract my hasty word, and de
clare that the cook has got the blessed Geor
gia fever. Will that suit you ?” No it did
not; but what could I say 1 I had just abused
the man for cursing the Georgia fever, and I
could not, therefore, object to his blessing it;
although I could not help feeling that the last
was worse than the first, and that his meaning
was, that if it killed all the Georgians, it
would be a benefactor to mankind. My
friend saw that he had me at a disadvantage,
and leering at me through his glasses, (I hate
a man who wears spectacles—l have known
some honest men who used them, but 1 never
saw a dishonest man who did not,) continued
his instructions to his assistant. “Take the
man to the hospital, Mr. Smith, and tell the
carpenter to have his coffin ready by this time
to-morrow. And tell him, also, to get another
of about five feet, ten inches, (looking at my
height,) ready for the day after, as there are
some premonitory symptoms in one of the
passengers.” “ I see you put a proper re
liance on your skill, doctor,” said I to him,
“but you need not trouble yourself about that
last coffin. There will be no use for it. I
shall nottake your physic/' 1 He laughed heart
liy, and shook me by the hand. “ You may
go to town, captain,” were his farewell words
as he left the vessel. We subsequently
learned, that the cook died about the time
designated.
After reaching the city, I strolled to one of
the banks, upon which I had a draft, presented
it, and received my money. The date &c., of
the check, told, of course, where I was from,
and I saw that the teller sneered as he read it.
“Can 1 leave this on deposit, sir I” asked 1
of him. “No,” answered the little Yankee,
talking through his nose, “ not unless you
are introduced to our cashier by a gentleman.
We don’t care about receiving Georgia depos
ites.” “Look here, stranger,” said I, (putting
my hat on one side of my head, in regular
Georgia fashion, and talking through my
nose,) “if your cashier wants to be introduc
ed to a gentleman, I have no objection to make
his acquaintance. Call him, and 1 will give
him a chance he seldom gets; but if you
mean, that I am to find another gentleman in
New York , all 1 have to say is, I don’t work
miracles.” “ I see, (answered he,) that your
qualifications for the discovery are not very
great, but we decline the deposit without a
compliance with the rule.”
By this time ! began to ascertain that Geor
gia was not held in the highest repute in that
region, and I became a little more humble and
subdued in my future negotiations. One of
my objects in visiting New York was to in
sure my life, and to this purpose I now direct
ed my attention, taking the precaution, how
ever, of “ working the miracle” of finding “ a
gentleman ” to introduce me—one of my for
mer Georgia friends. We went together to
the insurance office, where he introduced me
to the president, and I stated my object. “ Ah,
(said he) this speaks volumes for yoq, sir.—
To see a man of your years, of such deep re
flection, of such prudent foresight, is delight
ful, is gratifying—it denotes a high state of
civilization, sir, a very high state—it is an
exellent commentary upon the character of
the people where you live. (Huzza for Geor
gia, thought I, here is a man, at last who can
appreciate her.) Yes, sir, we will insure you
with pleasure, I like your looks, sir, much,
very much; (What a sensible man, thought
I;,) you are a little pale, but so much the bet
ter, it denotes temperance. Yes, sir, we will
insure you at the lowest rates. Mr. Nicoll,
(addressing the secretary,) get a blank in com
mon form, and come here and fill up a policy
on the life of Judge 1 think Mr. B—
called you so, sir**” “Yes, sir,” answered I,
with a great deal of satisfaction, “I am a
judge.” [I should like to see the man in Geor
gia, who is not, or has not been a judge.] —
“Ah,” resumed he, “your community are in
deed civilized. I see they rise superior to
vulgar prejudices j they do not estimate a
man’s worth by his years. Youth, sir, youth
is the very age of wisdom—passions a little
excitable, it is true, but there are no stubborn,
rooted, prejudices within, Solomon sir, Solo
mon, was quite young when he commenced
his writings—we shall hear of you hereafter,
sir, no doubt. Mr. Nicoll, you need not ask
the usual questions. The looks of the gent
leman are enough. Fill out the policy for life
at one per cent, for Judge , of Vermont
—I think you said Vermont, sir I” “No sir,”
answered I, considerably abashed, “ I said
Georgia , sir.” My dear reader, I have no
doubt you have seen instances of sudden sur
prise in your time,; a man, for instance, in
the midst of a waltz, with a fair confiding one
hanging in his arms, “going it” through all tha
mazes, and just at the instant, that he was
executing his most graceful whirl, having it
whispered to him, by some good-natured
friend, that his confidential clerk had abscond
ed with all his money, and ruined his house;
or a thirsty soul, who had been kept from his
usual stimulants for a week, because he could
not get them, and, in his haste and anxiety,
mistaking a gill of aquafortis for his loved li
quor, and swallowing it; perhaps you have
seen some slight astonishment of this kind,
but either would give you but a faint idea of
the petrified look that the worthy president
put on when he heard that terrible word Geor
gia. He could not utter a syllable for some
time. At last he said in a subdued tone !
“This is a bad business,” —and then added,
“are you determined on effecting this policy,
sir I Have you considered the expense ? ”
“ Certainly, I have; I understood you to
say that you would insure any amount, at
one per cent.” “Ah, I was mistaken, I mis
understood the State from whence you came.
We rank Georgia at extra hazardous. We
charge two per cent, and would rather not take
the risk at any rate. Don’t you think you
are rather young, sir, to commence this pre
caution ?” “No sir,” answered I, “I have
thought well on the subject; I am not a ro
bust man, by any means,as you may see by
my complexion, although as you correctly
observed just now, my features indicate tem
perance, and are therefore in my favor.” “ I
spoke hastily, sir,” said he, “ paleness does
not always in that latitude denote temperance.
However, as I said I would insure you, I will
keep my word. Asa personal favor I would
be glad if you would name a low sum. “ I
name $20,000 then,” said I. He regarded
mein mute astonishment. “Twenly thou
sand, sir! five thousand is our highest Geor
gia risk.” It was my turn to show astonish
ment. “Why, sir,” exclaimed I, “they told
me that every foot of ground in Wall-street is
worth $6,000. Do you value two yards of
Georgia with a soul and spirit tacked to them,
at less than one foot of Wall-street'?” “We
value things as we please, sir, and if you don’t
like our terms we will close this interview.”
“I must submit,” said I, “make it $5,000.”
“Take your pen Mr. Nicoll, and add a clause
in the margin, that if the gentleman falls in
a duel , the policy shall be void.” “ I have
no objection,” said I, smiling; “lama peace
able, quiet man, and apart from that, my sta
tion would keep me from fighting.” “ And,
Mr. Nicoll, (resumed he,) add also, that if the
gentleman falls by his own hands , the policy
shall be void.” I smiled again. “You are
taking unnecessary trouble, my good sir; I
shall make no attempt on my own life.”—
“And Mr. Nicoll,” continued he, “just add,
that if the insured falls by the hands of Just
tice, (i. e., by . the hang-man,) the risk
shall terminate.” It was added—the policy
was signed and the premium paid, and as I
left him, I gave him a parting thrust. “That
last clause about the hands of Justice, sir, is
ridiculous surplusage. I have lived in Georgia,
man and boy, my whole life, and I never
heard of such a thing as Justice there. You
forget, sir, we are in a high state of civiliza
tion there, appreciating merit in youth, and
above the prejudices oi age ! Good morning,
sir.” He sighed and bowed, and I left him
determined to hail from FemonZuntil I reach
ed latitude 33, and then to take care not to
hail from Vermont , lest I should fall “by the
hands of Justice,” and vacate the policy.
It is recorded in Joe Miller , page 56, that a
Hibernian bricklayer, laid a wager with one
of his countrymen, that the latter could not
put him in a hod, and carry him up a ladder,
1o the top of a four story house. A shilling
was the amount of the bet, and the task was
successfully accomplished. “I’ve won ye,”
said the carrier, “ give me the shilling.”—
“Faith and so you have,” answered his load,
“but Pat, when you reached the third story,
your foot slipped, and then I had great hopes
ye would fall .” The time has nearly arrived
for the expiration of the risk on my life, and
I suppose that the New York company will
pocket all the premium and incur no loss; —
but last year, in passing through the county
of B , 1 got a fever, and then (as my
Hibernian friend said,) I had great hopes of
fixing them !—Orion Magazine.
PRONOUNCIATION.
The difficulty of applying rules to the pro
nunciation of our language maybe illustrated
in two lines, whera the combination of the
letters ough , is pronounced in no less than
seven different ways, viz. aso, vs of, up, ow,
00, and ock.
Tho’ the tough cough and hiccough plough me thro’;
O’er life’s dark lough my course 1 still pursue.
Do as you wish to be done by. Follow this
rule, and you will need no force to keep honest.
THE BROKEN-HEARTED.
BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
I have seen the infant sinking down, like
a sricken flower, to the grave—the strong
man fiercely breathing out his soul upon the
field of battle—the miserable convict standing
upon the scaffold, with a deep curse quiver
ing on his lips—l have viewed death in all its
forms of darkness and vengeance with a tear
less eye—but I never could look on woman,
young and lovely woman, fading away from
the earth in beautiful and uncomplaining mel
ancholy, without feeling the very fountains
of life turned to tears and dust. Death is al
ways terrible, hut when a form of angel beau
ty is passing off to the silent land of the sleep
ers, the heart feels that something lovely in
the universe is ceasing from existence, and
broods, with a sense of utter desolation, over
the lonely thoughts that come up like spec
tres from the grave to haunt our midnight mu
sings.
Two years ago I took up my residence for
a few weeks in a country village in the East
tern part of New England. Soon after my
arrival I became acquainted with a lovely girl,
apparently about seventeen years of age. —
She had lost the idol of her pure heart's purest
love, and shadows of deep and holy mem
ories were resting like the wing of death up
on her brow. I first met her in the presence
of the mirthful. She was indeed a creature
to be worshipped—her brow was garlanded
with the young year’s sweetest flowers—her
yellow locks were hanging beautifully and
and low upon her bosom —and she moved
through the crowd with such a floating and
unearthly grace, that the bewildered gazer al
most looked to see her fade into the air, like
the creation of some pleasant dream. She
seemed cheerful and even gay: yet 1 saw that
her gaiety was but the mockery of her feel
ings. She smiled, but there was something
in her smile which told that its mournful beau
ty was but the bright reflection of a tear —and
her eye-lids, at times, closed heavily down, as
if struggling to repress the tide of agony that
was bursting from her hearts secret urn. She
looked as if she could have left the scene of
festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet stars,
and laid her forehead down upon the fresh,
green earth, and poured out her stricken soul,
gush after gush, till it mingled with the eter
nal fountain of life and purity.
Days and weeks passed on, and that sweet
girl gave me her confidence, and I became to
her as a brother. She was wasting away by
disease. The smile upon her lip was fain
ter, the purple veins upon her cheek grew
visible, the cadences of her voice became dai
ly more weak and tremulous. On a quiet
evening in the depth of June, I Avandered out
a little distance in the open air. It was then
that she first told me the tale of her passion,
and of the blight that had come down like
mildew upon her life. Love had been a por
tion of her existence. Its tendrils had been
twined around her heart in her earliest years;
and, when they were rent away, they left a
wound which flowed till all the springsof her
soul were hlood. “I am passing away,” said
she, “and it should be so. The‘winds have gone
over my life, and the bright buds of hope and
the sweet blossoms qf passion are scattered
down and lie withering in the dust, or rotting
away upon the chill waters of memory. —
And yet I cannot go down among the tombs
without a tear. It is hard to take leave of
the friends who love me —it is very hard to
bid farewell to these scenes, which from day
to day, have caught the color of my life, and
sympathized with its joys and sorrows. That
little grove where I have so often strayed
with my buried love, and where, at times,
even now, the sweet tones of his voice seem
to come stealing around till the wdiole air be
comes one intense and mournful melody —
that pensive star, which we used to watch in
its early rising, and in which my fancy can
still picture his form looking down upon me,
beckoning me to his own bright home—every
flower, and tree, and rivulet, on which the
memory of our early love has set its undying
seal, have become dear to me, and I cannot,
without a sigh, close my eyes upon them for
ever.”
I have lately heard that the beautiful girl,
of whom I have spoken, is dead. The close
of her life was calm, as the falling of a quiet
stream —gentle as the sinking breeze, that lin
gers for a time around a bed of withered roses,
and then dies “as it were from very sweet
ness.”
It cannot be that earth is man’s abiding
place. It cannot be that our life is a bubble,
cast up by the Ocean of Eternity, to float a
moment upon its waves, and sink into dark
ness and nothingness. Else why is it that
the high and glorious aspirations, which leap
like angels from the temple of our hearts, are
forever wandering abroad unsatisfied? Why
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