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<•** ;■
r. f & REID, Proprietors.
The Family Journal.—-News—Politics—Literature—Agriculturr—Bome stic Affairs.
GEORGIA TELEGRAPH BUILDING.
IjBLISIIED 1826.}
MACON, FRIDAY, JULY 3, 1868.
{VOL. XLII.---N0. 31.
hjLLINfl ADVENTURE.
you really need assistance
illel”
, T hy else should I be here at this
of the night, monsieur?”
■jJ why here at all?” quickly re-
jil. ‘’This street is little frequent-
[1 is about the last in the world I
: have selected for disposing of a
aost suited to wealth and fash-
I., medical student in Paris at the
Lgrange and startling adventure
Ljfhich I am about to record,
fctlong lectures and hard study,
, ne evening for a walk in the
fIt was a pleasant night in mid-
the cold, bracing air, as it
fj 3 y feverish brow, caused a grate-
fjpon.
■■j through a rather lonely street,
driver, I was surprised at meet
ing and pretty girl (at least so
in the dim light of a rather
;[xeet lamp), who carried in her
three or four bouquets, which
tntd for sale.
monsieur have a bouquet ?” she
m a sweet, musical tone, holding
w a well-arranged collection of
jil flowers.
• v are pretty,” said I, taking them
,tand, and then, somehow, I could
Jp adding, as I fixed my eyes upon
-and so, X think, is their fair own-
ttsieur will buy and assist me?”
lid.
maed-
s’hed and reached out her hand
bouquet, which.I still retained,
at is your price?”
francs.”
jrge sum.”
asieur will remember it is winter,
aers are not plenty.”
aid you, I will purchase,” returned
Jing her the requisite coin; “for
I love flowers, I would otherwise
indulge in .the luxury to-night at
n expense.”
thanked me, and seemed about to
a, but hesitated looked up to me,
aid monsieur direct me to the house
• dphysician, who will.turn out
stand see a patient at a small re-
T
friend of yours ill?”
aotlier!” with a deep sigh and
it look. ■
T-e does she reside?”
Out short distance from here.”
Hi is the matter with her?” .
iits a high fever for one thing.”
ha was she taken?”
came down last night, and has
sher bed since.”
fcdid you not send for a doctor at
’ihoped she would be better soon,
is so expensive for poor people to
fa physician.”
m myself a medical student, with
ieiable experience among the sick
hospitals; and if you aro disposed
rttiie case to me, I am at your ser-
tithout charge.” I rejoined, already
| deeply interested in the fair girl.
l4how i shall thank monsieur l” she
ed, with clasped hands, and an
: ird, grateful look. “Pray, follow
:..-iiur le Docteur.”
turned at once, and moved off at a
4 pace down the street, toward the
?eine, in the direction I was walk-
v. u met.
hlcss than five minutes we had en
ds wretched quarter, among narrow
*ts, old, tottering buildings, andsqua-
toking inhabitants, some of whom
:ed to glare at us as we passed along,
hit much further?” inquired I be-
-ing to feel uneasy.
Only a step monsieur; it is just here.”
lmost immediately she turned into a
fred passage, which led in back
a o habitations that I should never
=voluntarily visited in the broad light
A distant lamp served to make
• ,;:1 vi.-iblc, uucil she suddenly
}<dand opened- a door into total
Jour hand, Monsieur le Doctor,” she
-it the same time taking it and lead-
iae forward,
‘Os tempted to draw back and refuse
finny further, though I mechanically
oed her.
now went through a long, narrow
in total darkness, and after two
short turns, began to descend a
^ of creaking, rotten stairs,
if it possible you live in a place like
' mid I, secretly wishing myself
front of it
■o Paris beggars cannot be choosers,”
-fd the girl.
even in Paris it is not necessary
Jo living to ta&e up their , abode in
Others!” I rejoined with some asperi-
**J)g vexed at myself for suffering
food nature to lead me into a den
which I might never come out
»this my fair guide deigned no reply.
- reaching the foot of the stairs she
-od open a door into a small, dimly-
room, and I followed her into it
■ wiie secret misgiviugs. There was
‘ in one corner, and on it appeared to
‘. oilman form lying very still.
‘Jave brought a doctor, mother,”
1 girl, as she.closed the door behind
As there was no reply to this she
to me, saying.
_ ;‘i Monsieur le Docteur please to be
a minute? I think my mother is
%” ' '
mademoiselle will bear in mind
* can only spare a few moments in
!*» to-night as I have another call I
i tj make immediately.” I returned,
very anxious to depart from that
‘ _ ' tr rane&n quarter as quick as possi
‘ jnsieur shall not be dutained long
rejoined the girl, passing out of
^ another door.
not 8st down but walked over
where the patient was lying very
*. still indeed that I could no<
to
concealed the face. I ventured to turn
this down carefully, and beheld the eye
less sockets and grinning teeth of a hu
man skull!
I started back in horror, and at the
same time the door by which the girl had
left was thrown open, and in marched
one after the other four tall human forms
in black gowns and masks. I knew at
once, then, that I was to he robbed, and
probably murdered. I wore a heavy
diamond pin and ring, carried a very
valuable gold watch, and had in money
about my person some 500 francs, but not
a single weapon of any kind—resistance
being, therefore, out of the question. I
felt that my only chance—if, indeed,
there was a chance—was to conciliate the
ruffians and buy myself off. With a pre
sence of mind for which I still take to
myself considerable credit, I said at once:
“I understand it all, gentleman, and
you will find me a very liberal person to
deal with. There is one thing I value
very highly, because it is the only one I
have, and I cannot replace it—that is my
life. Every thing else of mine is at your
service, even beyond what I have with
»
me.
They were undoubtedly surprised to
hear me speak in that cool, off-handed
manner; but they marched forward and
surrounded me before either returned a
word.
“How much have you with you then ?”
inquired one, in a civil way, but in a low,
gruff tone.
I immediately mentioned the different
articles of value and the exact amount of
money; “all of which I shall be pleased
to present you with, if you will be kind
enough to escort me to the street above,”
I added.
“You said you had more, monsieur.”
“Yes, gentlemen, I have 10,000 francs
in the bank of France, and I will willing
ly add a check for half that amount.”
“Checks don’t answer our purposes
very well,” said a second voice.
“Then I pledge you my honor that I
will, to-morrow, draw out 5,000 francs
and pay the amount over to any person
who may approach me with this bouquet
in his hand,” said I, holding out the
flowers I had purchased of the fair decoy.
“And have him arrested the next min
ute, I suppose.”
“No; on my honor he shall depart un
harmed and unquestioned, and no other
human being shall be informed of the
transaction for a week, a month or a
year.” •
“Let us handle what you have here,”
said the first speaker.
I immediately took out my pin, took off
my ring, drew out my watch, produced
my pocket-book and purse, and placed
them all in his extended hand. ;
“You make us a present of these,
now,” he said.
“Yes, on condition that one of you will
forthwith conduct me to the street above.”
replied.
“Monsieur is a very liberal gentleman,
indeed!” was the response.
They then drew oft* together, scrutinized
the articles by the light of a smoky lamp,
and conversed together in .low tones. I
felt that they were holding a consultation
that involved my life, and, to speak the
honest truth, it seemed as if every nerve
in me quivered; and it was with difficul
ty I could stand.
At length the principal spokesman
turned to me and said, in a cool and me
thodical manner:
“Monsieur has. acted more like a gen
tleman than any person we ever had deal
ings with, and if we could, consistent with
our business, oblige him, we would he
happy to do so; but, unfortunately, we
are governed by a rule, which is a law
with us, that dead men tell no tales, and
we think it will not do to make an excep
tion in this case. We will, however, in
consideration of monsieur’s gentlemanly
behavior,be as mild and lenient as possible
in doing our duty, and grant monsieur
five minutes for saying his prayers.”
You have then resolved to murder
me?” gasped I.
Monsieur uses a very hard term, but
we will let that Dass. You have five min
utes yet to live by this watch.”
The villain then held my watch to the
light, and I felt indeed that my minutes
were numbered, and secretly began to
pray for the salvation of my soul, believ
ing that I could not save my body.
A death-like silence now reigned in that
gloomy apartment fpr some time, and
then one of the ruffians bent down and
lifted a trap-door, and from the dark pit
below issued a noisome smell, as it might
he, of putrid bodies. I beheld my intend
ed’ grave, and shuddered as I looked
upon it.
But why stand there and die like a dog,
without aVingle attempt at escape? At
the worst it could bebut death, and there
was a ba^e possibility I might get away.
I fixed my eye on the door which opened
on the stairway, and with a single sudden
hound reached* it, hut found it fast locked.
Then, as the hands of the ruffians seized
me with murderous intent,' I. uttered a
wild shriek, the door was burst in with; a
loud crash, and in a moment the room
was filled with gen d’armes. I saw that I
was saved, and fainted and fell.
The four masks, the fair decoy, and
some two or three others concerned in that
murderous den, were all secured that
night, and I subsequently had the
pleasure of giving in my evidence against
them, and seeing them all condemned to
the galleys for life.
‘ The place-had for some time been sus
pected, and the decoy marked. On that
night a • detective had secretly, followed
the girl and myself, and, after ascertain
ing whither she had conducted me, had
hastened to bring a body of gen d’armes
to the place. The delay of the ruffians
in their murderous designs had been just
sufficient to save me. I scarcely need
:\dd that I never again volunteered to ac
company a distressed damsel on a secret
expedition while I remained in Paris.
SISTER THEKESE.
lot to have with me something that has
been yours.”
The operatic season was at its height in And as he spoke the signora drewfroni
Paris, and the new priina donna was tak- ber finger a plain gold ring, and slipped
ing all hearts by storm. Her beauty, her it on his. ^
wonderful genius,and above all,her mag- “wear this,” she said, “for my sake,
nificent voice, had created a marked im-! The next morning, Colonel Dufour set
pression even on. the gay capital of I ‘-“ft with his regiment for the frontier of
France, where that which false either in j Savoy, to join the army of the Alps. He
science or art soon lose its glitter, and reached his destination in due time and
if to reward her, the General himself all missing ring, which now glittered on the
at once began to grow better. Soon he signora’s hand. I do not Know her exact
recovered his consciousness, and, though . answer to his questions, but I do know
he was very weak and feeble, he was on that itesatisfied him, that she told him she
stands out in its true colors. But the
Signora Fonti had genius and merit
enough to stand a dozen such tests, and Then came the concentration upon the
she went through the ordeal without suf- i bne of the Po; when -the army of France;
in the course of a few weeks shared in the
famous march across Mount Cenis to Lusa.
fering.
Of course she hid many admirers, but
among them all she had not a single lover.
The men said she was cold and heartless,
that she was incapable of loving; but one
glance at her lovely face was sufficient to
I led by the Emperor Napoleon the Third,
CQnfronted its enemy upon the classic
soil of Italy. ,
At Magenta the fighting was hot and
heavy, and the Seventeenth and Colonel
Dufour rose high in the estimation of all
refute this slander, for one could read! “i the army; and when the Emperor
there the tokens of a warm and loving came to reward the brave deeds perfu med
heart. But the signora’s heart was a that memorable 4th of June, it was
proud one, also; it had been steeled in a
school of adversity, and she was cautious
how she gave people a claim even to her
friendship, a caution very necessary to a
woman in her position. But that claim
once given, she was a true and loyal
friend through good and evil fortune.
She had just adopted her profession,
and this was not only her first season in
Paris, hut also her first season on the
stage. The director of the Grand Opera
had engaged her merely as an experi
ment; but her success had been so marked,
and she had taken such a firm hold upon
the Parisians, that she had been retained
as first prima donna; and a fortunate en
gagement it proved,for the receipts of the
treasury were larger than they had been
for years, and upon the nights when the
signora appeared, there was no such thing
| Among the admirers of the signora was
a certain Colonel Dufour, a gallant officer
of the army, who had won his way in
Algeria and the Crimea from the ranks
to his colonelcy. He was a quiet man,
found that Colonel Dufour had* been
given a general’s epaulet. He wrote reg
ularly to the signora and it was with a
proud heart that he sent her news of his
promotion.
His letters were generally answered
quickly; but this one received no reply.
This surprised him; and as the time passed
on and no word came from the signora,
he began to fear that she was ill. But he
had little time to think of this; for the
army was advancing towards the Mincio,
and every moment was taken up with at
tending to his duties. The roads were to
be mended, and the bridges repaired; so
thoroughly had they been destroyed by
the retreating Austrians; and there was
scarcely an instant to devote, to his per-
senal matters.
The morning of the 24th of June came
as and empty seat in all the vast theatre. ; and in the dim mist of the morn
ing the brigade of Colonel Dufour was
thrown forward to open the village and
heights of Solferino. It was warm work,
for the Austrians, who are no children in
battle, resisted stubbornly. The battle
H , aofc de-
S * i breathing. The woman’s cap
Ja head, and the end of a sheet
and was not given to much talking; hut! soon became general along the whole line;
he was one of those rare specimens of the I and for fourteen hours the French Strug-
Almighty’S handiwork who make their way [ gj ed with heroic valor before the prize of
into our esteem and friendship as irresisti-: victory was yielded to them. The brig-
bly as they overcome their way through i ade.oi . General Dufour was conspicuous
life.
Colonel
Dufour was thirty-six years
old, and the signora twenty-seven. They
were well suited in age, hut entirely op
posed to each other in personal appear-
for its gallantry. Its leader was every
where where danger called him. When
the final charge which carried the ceme
tery and drove the Austrians into the
village, was made, five color hearers had
ace, for he was as homely as she was keen shot down in the General’s old regi-
beautiful. This was unfortunate for the i men t, and his whole brigade had suffered
Colonel, as the signora was an ardent j terribly. Seizing the colors, as the signal
lover of manly beauty; but it was perhaps ! g iven t0 _ mo Y e forward, he tore them from
atoned for by the fact that she looked for
something more than beauty in a man.
Towards the close of the signora’s en
gagement, the energy of the metropolis
was directed to the all absorbing topic of
the approaching war with Austria for
Italian liberty. The gauntlet had been
thrown down, and France was about to
take it up. Colonel Dufour was, of
course, keenly alive to the situation,
for his regiment was one of the “First
Corps,” and was already under orders to
march towards the Alps. He was a true
soldier, and was resolved if the war came,
to seek still higher promotion in it; but
for the first time in his life, the thought
of being called into active service made
him sad. The reason was that the Colo
nel was in love.
The signora, also, was sad at the
thought of her friend being called away.
She did not love him; but with a woman’s
tact she had discovered his secret and she
knew that he loved her better than he
could ever love any woman again. She
valued his friendship as one of her dearest
treasures; and it pained her deeply that
he should love her, when she could not
return his passion.
The night before he left Paris was. a
holiday to the signora, and she refused to
see any one but the Colonel, saying to
him, with a sad smile, that she would not
permit the world to come between them
at their parting.
“For you know,” she said gently, “we
are very good friends to each other.
The Colonel’s heart beat fitfully. It had
never even so much as fluttered when the
enemy’s bullets whistled round his ears in
battle, not even when with his heroic regi
ment he drove back the last Russian ef
fort to retake the Malakoff, but it trem
bled now at the tender voice of the wo
man he loved so well, and who, alas loved
him only as she would have loved her
brother. Almost before he knew it, he
told her all his passion, and begged her to
be his wife, if he came back safe from the
war. The simple, manly offer of the
brave soldier touched the signora deeply,
and she was almost tempted to give
promise he asked for; but her innate
truthfulness rebelled.at this, and she told
him frankly the true state of her feelings
for him.
y3jT"An Englishman, Hying near Florence,
baa his study walled and floored with zinc
and filled with water, in which he writes and
reads in the dog days, his desk and books
being placed jnat above high water mark.
the staff, and wrapping them around his
body placed himself at the head of his
troops.
“We’ll make sure of the colors this
time, comrades,” he shouted, as they rush
ed, and a wild cheer answered him.
The colors and their intrepid hearer
were always in the advjmce that day.—
The Austrians were driven from the posi
tion; and the terrible hand-to-hand fight
through the strests and from house to
house at Solferino began. It was rough
work, but it was well done; and when the
hour of two o’clock sounded, a rousing
French cheer, rising high above the crash
of battle, told that the kep-pointto the
' field had been won.
But it was won at a fearful price; and
when the order was passed along the line
to reform for a fresh advance upon the
Austrian centre, it was found that General
Dufour was missing. The battle swept
on,.and when night came the French
bivouacked on the hard-won field.
The next day the official gazette was
made out, and it announced that the
lant General Dufour, whose brigade had
rendered such good service, ^as among
the severely wounded, and that the Em
peror had promoted him to the grade of
lieutenant general.
But the brave man himself was utterly
unconscious of all the honors that were
bestowed upon him. He had been con
veyed to the hospital at Milan, and he
now lay there hovering between life and
death. He was not alone, however, for
he had the best nurse in the .whole estab
lishment. She was a “Sister of Mercy”—
one of that noble band whose tender min
istrations to the wounded, form one of the
most touching features of the great strug
gle that gave Italy her freedom. The
woman had been for some time on duty
in tJie hospital; and when General Dufour
a brought in, she sought out the surgeon
in charge, and begged to be allowed the
privilege of nursirlg him. He was an old
friend, she said, and she would feel a more
than ordinary interest in seeking to re
store him to health again.
The surgeon looked at her sharply, as
im he granted the desired permission, and as
she turned away, muttered) with a wise
shake of the head, “An old lover, doubt
less, and this is the final- drama. Well
well, it is the way of the world, women
“I do not love you as a wife should,?^ will love, and they must suffer the pen-
she said, “and I will not wrong you by ' altv.” ., .
marrying you. I love you only as a sis- 1 For many weeks General Dufour hov-
ter might love a brother. You will some ered between life and death; but the Sis-
day learn to be satisfied with this; and {ter Therese nursed him faithfully. She
then you will find another woman who ! would suffer no one to relieve her, and
can make you happy; and I shall be your , bore the trying strain upon her health and
sister, and he happy in and proud of my! strength with a firmness \t was heroic,
noble brother.” j All through the long houiS of the sum-
The Colonel’s face was very sad; but it • mer nights she would sit by his bedside
was calm and tranquill, and as the sig- j bathing his fevered brow, and soothing
nora spoke a smijp passed over if. his delirum of pain with her soft touch,
“That day signora, will never come,” and her low, tender words. The surgeon
he said: “I must rest satisfied with youx j who had been interested in the case,
decSftm now, but I will not resign the j watched her closely. ‘ ■
hope that you will yet- be my wife, for, I i “Ma foi,” he would mutter, with a sigh,’
assure you, I shall never marry any other j “what would I give for my wife to love
woman.” * I ine as that poor woman loves that man.”
“I wish I did love vou,” she said, softly; i At last he had to interfere. The task
“for I desire above all things to make you | of . nursing one so dangerously wounded
happy.” ! ss the General, was too severe for one
“That is a-good beginning,” Colonel woman, and the sister herself was grow-
Dufour exclaimed, brightening. “I love ing pale and thin. The kind-hearted
you too well to fail to win you.” } surgeon declared;that she must have an
The signora did not contradict him. In-1 assistant, and secure for herself more rest,
deed, Bhe did not think it unlikely that If she went on in that way she would kill
his prediction might be realized; and so herself
she answered him only with ablush. As
they parted the Colonel asked her for
some token to carry with him.
“I shall not need it to remember you,”
he said; “but when I am faraway, march
ing and fighting, or perhaps d; '
make me happy ana content
she said
“I care not, so I save him,
softly. ’
The surgeon winked hard to hide the
moisture in his eyes, and returning to the
task to which he had set kimself, finally
it will conquered. Sister Theresa consented to
with my share her duties with an assistant; and, as
the way to health and strength again.
Sister Therese now relinquished her
charge entirely to the assistant; and, as
the war was over, and her services were
no longer needed, she announced her in
tention of going, back to France. The
surgeon urged her to stay and receive the
General’s thanks; but she refused,gently,
but firmly. General Dufour no longer
needed her, she said. He was doing very
well, and the assistant was very faithful
in attending to him. She had other work
in France, and-she must go and look after
it. In vain the surgeon protested against
this; Sister Therese. wus firm; and after
the General recovered his consciousness
she saw him no more.
One day, about a fortnight after Sister
Therese’s departure, General Dufour, who
was now rapidly recovering, was lying in
his cot thinking of the dear woman he had
left behind in France, and wondering how
she had passed the months that had
elapsed since he had seen her. He had
not thought of her parting gift since his
convalescence began; but now he remem
bered it, and he raised his hand to look at
the ring, when, to his surprise, he found
that it was missing. The surgeon was
passing through the ward q,t the time, and
the General called him and stated his loss.
“Do you know whether it was on my
hand when I was brought here ?”
“Yes,” replied the surgeon, “I remem
ber the ring distinctly, for I at first thought
of taking it off your hand, lest it should
be troublesome while you were suffering
from, your wound: hut I decided to let it
remain.”
“What can have become of it? I value
it highly. It is the gift of a dear friend,”
said General Dufour.
“I can’t imagine,” the surgeon said,
thoughtfully, “unless Sister Therese took
it away with her.”
“Sister Therese!” asked the General:
“who is she?”
Then the surgeon told him how the
“Sister of Mercy” had asked permission
to nurse him, and how nobly and devot
edly she had battled with fate for his life.
The General listened with surprise, and
seemed entirely at 1 a loss to comprehend
why Sister Therese should be so much in
terested in him, or who she could be; and
the surgeon was still more perplexed and
mystified by the affair.
“If you wish to recover the ring, Gen
eral,” he said at length, “I wili ascertain
where Sister Therese can be found.”
No,” was the reply, “let her keep it.
If she took it she will doubtless return it
to. me, as I see no reason why she should
wish to keep it; but if she cares to retain
it, let her do so for what she has done for
me.”
This settled the matter so far as the
surgeon was concerned; but it only raised
his curiosity (and he had a fair share of
that quality) to the highest pitch. He was
not, however more curious or more at a
loss to penetrate the mystery which hung
over the affair than General Dufour him
self. The latter personage could not form
any idea as to the identity of the Sister of
Mercy who had manifested such an inter
est in him, and he racked his brain vainly
to think of some definite reason for the
affair. The surgeon had suggested that
the woman might havebeeif an old sweet
heart; but this was negatived by the Gen
eral most positively. Pierre Dufour had
never given his heart to but one woman,
and he had never trifled with any. The
woman beloved was faraway, and did not
love him sufficiently well to give up her
comfort and ease, and voluntarily take
upon herself the hardships and trials of a
hospital nurse. It was useless to try to
solve the riddle, and he gave it up in des
pair. > . -
In three week more the surgeon told
General Dufour that he might return to
France as soon as he pleased. The Gen
eral had written to the signora several
times during his convalescence; and her
replies had come to him regularly. She
rejoiced at his promotion and the fame he
had won, and sympathized with him in his
sufferings. She would visit him, could
she follow, her own inclination, hut that
was then an impossibility. She hoped he
would soon be well enough to return to
France, for she longed to see so true a
friend as she believed him to be. But
not a word of love did the letters contain.
They were written quietly—the General
almost though coldly—and he would have
suffered twice the danger, and the bodily
torture he had passed through to have
gained from her one word of the tender
ness his heart craved so fiercely.
Yet he was not discouraged. He had
made up his mind to win the beautiful
signora for his wife, and he was not a man
to fail in matters upon which he set his
JWttrt.f'v/ y -fc* ( *
When he was pronounced well enough
to travel, he loBt no time in making his
arrangements, and was soon en route for
Genoa, from which place he proceeded to
Marseilles, and thence to Paris, as he was
not yet well enough to hazard the fatigue
of the journey over the Alps.
In two hours after he reached Paris he
was in the presence of Signora Fonti.. She
received him joyfully,- and with a warmth
that made his heart thrill with happiness.
She was as beaulifiil os ever, but she was
somewhat paler and thinner than usual.
She lmd not been well, she said,,gad was
now just getting tack her strength. She
made him tell her everything' that con
cerned himself; and when he spoke of . the
mysterious SiEter of Mercy, and her strange
devotion to him, and the loss of the ring,
the signora looked at him with a singular
smile, and said, “I wonder who she was.
Some one that loves you very much, I
suppose.”
He started as she spoke. He held her
hand in his, and his eyes were fixed upon
it, while a happy smile stole over his face.
“Yes, I believe so now,” he said, earn
estly. “It was some one that ! loved very
dearlv, and I believe now that she loved
me . then, and loves me still. Do I err,
diear Sister Therese ?”
There was tear* in his eyes as he spoke;
loved him well enough to marry him,
“I Jove you,” she said, tenderly, “when
ou went away, only I did not know it,
;h
lit when I thought of the danger to
which you were daily exposed, I saw how
dear to me you were, ana for your sake I
determined to do my duty to my country.
I distinguished myself as a’Sister of Mer
cy, aided by the Superior of the Order
here, who is my friend, and went to Milan
to nurse the:wounded. I was happy in
being there, as I was nearer to you. When
ou were wounded and brought to Milan,
1 asked permission to nurse you because
I loved you. I would have given my life
to save you, and Heaven blessed my efforts
and restored you to health. When you
recovered your consciousness,' I went away
because I did not wish to be recognized
by you. I wanted you to know that
lovedjrou; and as I could not tell you, I
took with me the ring I had given you
knowing that when we met again you.
would recognize it, and that would ex
plain everything.”
That night General Dufour wrote to
the surgeon that he had solved the mys
tery of the ring, and found out the true
name of the Sister of Mercy.
“Indeed,” he added, “the discovery I
have made is a very pleasant one, and if
ou can be spared from your duties, I shall
e glad have you visit me one month
from to day, to witness my marriage with
this self-same Sister Therese.”
THE BOD AS A EEMEDT.
THE ANSELS.
BEECHER ADVOCATES CORPORAL PUNISH
MENT AS A “MEANS OP .GRACE. 1
From the New York Ledger.] ^
Among the tender recollections of child
hood, none have more permanently estab
lished themselves than the memory of
whippings. I- do not allude to such drub
bings as one boy gives to another; noy to
the flagellations of the schoolmaster; nor
to the rough-and-tumble chastisement oc
casionally administered by- the hired men
—hut to the household discipline, the
wholesome manifestations of parental
moral government! There were punish
ments masculine and feminine, acute and
chronic, in series or sum totals. Very,
seldom did woman’s hand wield a genuine
switch. There was a generous tiltilation
in a fresh cut branch from hazel bush, or
quince, which seasoned -the whole day,
and gave a robust activity to the con
science, and so suddenly, too, that it
seemed more like the development of a
new faculty than the arousing of- an old
one. This was almost whoUy masculine.
Feminine punishments consisted in go
ing to bed without supper, or shearing ofl
from dinner the pie or slice of pudding, or.
the infliction of a diet of bread and water,
or for heinous offences the entire catting
off of supplies, and the imprisonment of
the culprit in a supperless bed.
The numberless petty offences which
flew up in our boyhood path like dust, or
those jets of temper which puffed out like
smoke from an ill cleansed chimney, were
treated with extemporized punishments.
Sometimes the head was smartly snapped,
or rapped with a thimble, or tie ears re
ceived a sudden box, sounding nearly as
loud as a crack of thunder, and these
amusing little reminders of duty or of sin
were varied by a twitch of the hair, or a
pull at the ears, or a shake from the
shoulders which set all the teeth a chat
tering like an ague. Even a smart pinch
has its virtuein leminine discipline. Some
forms of sin were met with one treatment,
and some 'kith another, though on what
principle the remedy was selected I never
could, guess. For what particular sins
are dark closets beneficial ? Is there any
virtue in the hand as a rubefacient over a
stick employed as a counter-irritant?
Which of. all the evils of a boy’s heart is
best managed by tying him to a chair or
a bed-post?
Long as punishment has been in vogue,
we doubt whether it has ever been studied
philosophically. It is yet an empire art,
out not a science. Yonng parents have
to find their own way to its performance,
lighted only by a dim recollection, of their
own passive experience.
Do children in general, need as much
punishment as our fathers seemed to
think? Admit, that some children need
more, do not. the greater number need
less? Is not the rod a cheap substitute
for paternal skill? There ought to be a
statistical table formed, with the follow
ing heads : Unwhipped children,
Whipped a little, Whipped fully and
Whipped a great deal. Then we coaid
form a judgment of the benefits accru
ing. Are our most virtuous men to be
found in the first or last class?
We would not he understood as-repro
bating corporal punishment. Grateful
for our own youthful enjoyment of such
a .means of grace, we advocate a due
measure of it. Whipping should not be
come common and vulgar. It should be
reserved as a luxury, and served up in a
striking manner, so as to fire the imagi
nation, < while it stirs up the flesh. Only
for grave offenses, for bestial, sins, for
brutal conduct, for most dishonorable and
mean offenses, should it be employed.
It is a sin. and .a shame ; to slap and
pinch, rap and snap for every pecca
dillo. Shall a child be uncovered for
breaking a plate, for tearing his clothes,
for a moment’s temper, for shirking some
disagreeable work, for running off a skat
ing, for playing truant on the most daz
zling afternoon of the year, when the
militia are parading and the drums, beat
ing, and the whole air frill of the very
delirium of temptation.
We shall not venture any advice on
this matter, which, after all, must be
settled in every house for itself. But, if
we should ever venture to express our
selves, we think it would be in about
this wise : Govern by rational and moral (
motives, and govern yourself first; use the
rod rarely, but when you take it, make a
jubilee of it, so that such an elect hour,
will stand up like a monument in the
child's memory, and never use it except
Whenever a good child dies, and angel
from 1 heaven comes down to earth and
takes the dead child in his arms, spreads
out his great white wings, and flies away
over all the places the child has loved,
and picks quite a handful of. flowers,
which he carries up to the Almighty that
they may bloom more brightly than on
earth, and theFatherpresses alltbeflow-
ers to his heart; but Ere kisses the flower
that pleases him best, and the flower is
then endowed with a voice, aiid can join
in the great chorus of praise!
“See”—This is what an angel said, as
he carried a dead child up to heaven, and
the child heard, as if in a dream, aud they
went on over the regions of home where
the child had played, and came through
gardens with beautiful flowers—“which
of all-these shall we take with us.toplant
in heaven ?” asked the angel.
Now, there stood zt$ar them a slender,
beautiftil rose bush; but a wicked hand
had broken off the stem, so that all the
branches, covered with half-opened buds,
were hanging around, quite Withered.
“The poor rose hush !” said the child.
“Take it, that it inay bloom up yorider.”
And the angel took it, and kissed the
child, and the little one half opened his
eyes. They pluck some of the rich flow
ers, but also took with them the wild
pansy and the despised butter-cup.
“Now we have flowers,” said tae child.
And the angel nodded, but did not fly
upward to heaven. It was night and
quite silent., They, remained in the great
city; they floated about there in a small
street, where lay whole heaps of straw,
ashes and sweepings, for it had been re
moval day. There lay fragments of
plates, bits of plaster, rags and old hats,
and all this did not look well. And the
angel pointed, amid all this confusion,
to a few fragments of a flower-pot, and to
a lump of earth which had fallen out, .and
which was kept together by the roots of a
great dried field-flower, which was of no
use, and had therefore been thrown,, into
the streets.
“We will take that with us,” said the
angel. “I will tell you why as we fly
onward.”
“Down yonder, in the narrow lane, lived
a, poor sick hoy; ; from his childhood he
had been bedridden. When he was at his
best he could go up and down the room a
few times, leaning on his crutches; that
was the utmost he could do. For a few
days in summer the sunbeams would pen
etrate a few hours to the floor of his room,
and when the boy sat there,, and the sun
shown upon him, and he looked at the
red blood in his little fingers, he would
say, ‘yes, to-day he has been out! He
knew the forrest, with its beautiful vernal
green, only from the fact that the neigh
bor’s son brought him the first branch of a
beech tree, ana he held that over his head
and he dreamed he was in the beech wood,
where the sun shone and the birds sang.
On a spring day the neighbor’s boy
brought nim also field flowers, and among
them was, by chance, one to which the
root was still hanging; and so it was
planted in a flower-pot, and placed by the
bed, close to the window. And the flow
er had been planted by a fortunate hand
and it grew, threw out new shoots, and
bore flowers every year. It became a
splendid flower-garden to the sickly boy
—his little treasure here on earth. He
watered it, and tended it, and took care
that it had the benefit of every ray of sun
light, down to the latest that struggled ia
through the narrow window; and the flow
er itself was woven into dreams, for it
grew for him and gladdened his eyes, and
spread its fragrance about him; and to
ward it he turned in death, when the Fa
ther called him: He has now been with
the Almighty for a year; for a year the
flower has stood forgotten in the window,
and is withered; and thus, at the removal,
it has been thrown out into the dust of the
street. And this is the poor flower which
wc have taken into our nosegay; for this
flower has given,more joy than the richest
in the queen’s garden.”
“How do you know all this ?” asked the
child. :
“I know it,” said the angel, “for I my
self was that boy who walked on crutches!
I know my flower well.”
. And the child opened his eyes and
looked into the glorious, happy lace .of the
angel, nnd at the same moment they en
tered, the regions where there is peace and
joy. And the Father pressed the dead
child to his bosom, and then it received
wings like the angel, and flew hand in
hand with-, him. And the Almighty
kissed the day, withered field flower, and
it received a voice and sang with all the
angels hovering round—some near and
some in wider circles, and some in infinite
distance, but all equally happv. And they
all sang—little ana great, tKe good and
happy child, and the the poor field-flower
ihat had lain and withered, thrown among
the dust, in the rubbish of the removal,
in the dark narrow lane.
Columbus Prjboners.—The foilwing
reliable gentlemen of our city have been
selected by the friends of the ColumbnB
prisoners; a committee to receive and dis
burse any contribu'tionsforths comfort of
those prisoners, viz:
Mayor J. E. Williams,
Capt. A. S. Talley,
Maj. A. Leyden,
Max. Jno. C. Whitnkr.
Our citizens are notified that, money
contributed through these gentlemen will
be used for the benefit of the unfortunate
men now undergoing trial. We are glad
to learn that arrangements have Men
made with one of our leading hotels to fur
nish good wholesome food for them. We
trust our citizens will promptly and gen
erously respond to this- call. Remember
those in adversity as though you were suf
ferers with them.—Atlanta Constitution.
as a kind of exoreism.to expel some ani-
but he smiled happily, and pointed to the mai demon.
HTMt. Blakely, ioti
-*ing bis name, and bis
the victims of the yellow
Peru. In the middle of last
mortality Vmi between two i
died, and nearly three tb *'
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