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m LIBRARY cfpj? oi)t’or(]m ArrttftiuVr. • t ‘"•■ ‘ - ‘ • ‘ ■ ‘ . + ■*’ “ /• JOAN H. SEALS, Editor and Proprietor. babies’ Jkprlment Bryan, Editress. “Rena’’ gives our Crusader a warm and grace ful welcomed Atlanta. It is quite as accepta ble and gratifying as if she had not already greeted u&tt propria persona. * Man, when secluded from society, is not'a more solitary being than the woman who leaves the her own sex to invade the privileges of others. She seems, in such circumstances, like one in banishment; she appears like a neu tral being between the sexes ; and though she may have the admiration of both, she finds true happiness from neither. The mind of man being very narrow, and so slow in making acquaintance with things, and taking in new truths, that no one man i*capable, in a longer life than ours, to know all truths; it becomes our prudence, in our search after knowledge, to employ our thoughts about fundamental and material questions, carefully avoiding those that are trifling, and not suffering ourselves diverted from our main even pur pose by those that are merely individual. BROWN & CO’S. GOLD PEN. Most ladies find it difficult to procure gold pens with points soft enough andjfine enough to suit their delicate chirography. We ourselves, after many trials of these, had returned to the less durable steel pen and old-fashioned “grey goose quillbut a few days since, the gentle manly agent of Brown’s Gold Pen Manufactory, in New York, presented us with a pen, which has suited us so admirably that we have no hesita tion in recommending it to all. Address Brown & Cos. Broadway New York. * The last number of the Bainbridge Argus con tains the Valedictory of Miss Annie R. Blount, its Assistant Editress. She will be associated this present year with Mr. Blackburn, of the Lumpkin Palladium. Miss Blount has already or herself considerable reputation as a chaste and prolific writer, and we congratulate the proprietor of the Palladium on having secured her services. Our warm-hearted friend, Mr. Rus sell, of the Argus , gives a kindly and touching farewell to his fair Associate. His paper will re commence with its new volume on next March. -We wisjihim the success he so well deserves. * God alone is creative. Man may combine, but J he cannot create, either ideally or substantially. All the forms of beauty and grandeur that rise beneath his hand are but combinations and mod ifications. Human genius has reared the pyra mids and the Coliseum, and chiseled forms of grace and beauty from shapeless marble, but neither genius nor ingenuity can create out of nothing the merest atom of matter. Neither can the mind create. Human intellect can imagine nothing that does not exist. The 1 bolded fancy can build its airy structures only 1 as the eagle does, out of the materials it may col- ‘ lect. It can choose from the elements of beauty 1 or deformity which lie around it, and arrange 1 these into structures beautiful, sublime or gro tesque. These have been called creations of ’ the term is incorrect. They are com- 1 binations, not creations. * ( CAN’T QUIT IT. 1 This mania for scribbling is rather a dangerous 1 disease. It is a very “ Old Man of the Sea,” 1 when once it takes possession of an unfortunate, 1 refusing 1&> be shaken off and clinging persist- 1 ently to its victim; albeit, under its domination, ‘ his purse grows “smaller by degrees and beau tifully less,” and his elbows peer independently from his coat sleeves. Once be attacked by this “ cacoethes scribendi,” and your fingers ever afterwards take the St. Vitus Dance at the sight of a pen, while an ink as irresistible as a glass of rum to a tippler. There is a fascination about the occupation that renders it impossible to throw it aside. There seems a little imp forever jogging your elboflP, crying, “write! write! write! remorse lessly as the viewless pursuer of Sue’s “ Wan dering Jew.” But then, authorship has its pecu liar advantages. “ The pleasure of composi tion,” about which Bulwer is so enthusiastic, is not a myth, and an author at the high tide of inspiration, with his beloved pen between his fingers, is a bein.'j to be envied. What does it matter to him, if pork is at a premium, and poetry below par? He is bliss fully oblivious of mundane things, elevated “above the Marthas in these low grounds of sor row,” as the old Hard Shell preacher in our wire grass region used to say. * OUR NEW YEAR’S GIFT. There were many gifts of elegant bijouturie in the sunlight of that New Year’s morning, in the pleasant boudoirs of many stately homes. There were bracelets clasped upon rounded arms, and neckerchiefs tied by softfingers manly throats, and crystal flagons of ex quisite perfumes placed upon the toilettes of fair young girl3 ; but her offering was a handfull of sweet violets, laid upon the page of our open book. They were blue as the eyes that smiled on us through their silken lashes; they were sweet as the breath of Juue; but there was a spell in their fragrance —a magic that sent Thought wander ing back through the lights and shadows of many New Years, to sit down at the feet of Memory, and dream of the long-ago when the Mays were ful lest of bloom and beauty, and the violets were lar ger, bluer, sweeter than they are now, or ever can seem again. Alas ! for the waste fields, with their short, sVfeet grass, and the young violets, crowding in the corners of the serpentine fences, and embroi dering the banks of the central pond. Alas ! for the 'lime when it was joy enough to weave the long stems of the violets among the rich braids of our mothers hair. “Oh le bon temps, que ce siccle de fer !” The waste fields are far away, and the childish feet ihat trod them would make a deeper impress now, in their velvet turf; there are threads of silver now in the dark braids of her whose hair we loved to deck, and even vioiets call up mourn ful memories from the “ vasty deep” of the soul. Ah ! our New Year’s gift of winter violets—the” spell of your fragrance and your beauty has turned the pages in the book of Memory back to the bright alphabet of youth, and it is no marvel that there are drops in your blue cups which are not of morning dew. * “ What care I for the men, Sailor ? lam not their mother ; /Yell me of my boy, my boy— * Os him, and of no other.” You have read that ballad of the lost sailor, and you have felt that there was the poetry of truth in the way in which that poor mother wrestled against despair, with her love, stronger than death,’ striving to beat dfwn the wild fear which rose in her heart—fear that almost amoun-- ted ,to certainty;• by her eager questionings of the returned seAman, and refusing to listen to his tale of the lost ship, or even to comprehend the extent of her loss when told that t’ • - ’ . ’ “ Every man on board went down— Every man aboard her.” Still, the mother’s heart clung to its faint hope, with the desperation of undying love; still the thin hand clutched the arm of the pitying sailor, and though there was despair in the wild eyes that searched his face, yet, the white lips still uttered their half pleading, half impatient cry, “ Tell me of my boy, my boy— Os him, and of no other.” • It may be that the lost lad was a pure-hearted, loving boy, who slept in his rude hammock with his mother’s Bible beneath his head, and her im age in his dreaming heart; or, it may be that, wild, reckless, disobedient, he had left her with a curse upon his lips, impatient of her gentle res traint. It mattered not. Had he been a convict, with the brand of shame upon his brow, and the stain of blood upon his soul, the grief and love of that mother would have been the same, and, true to the instincts of her nature, the same cry would have gone up from her breaking heart, “My boy’s my boy to mel” Oh, the love of a mother—the purest, strongest, truest feeling under Heaven ! Well may the mother be called God’s repre sentative ; for his divine love finds its earthly type in the patient, long suffering, all-forgiving, all-enduring love of the mother. Not till the damp mould is lying above the breast that pil lowed our helpless infancy, can we stand alone in life. Till then, though friends and fame and fortune desert us ; though hope and Heaven itself forsake us, there is a bosom still ready to receive and shelter us ; an eye still ready to weep over our misfortunes or our crimes ; a lip that will not shrink to press itself upon our haggard brows; that will grow wan and pale with its constant, patient prayers in our behalf. Friends may give sneers for smiles, kindred forget the ties of blood, the wife of your bosom turn from hearth and home, with all her tenderness changed to bitterness and scorn ; but, God be thanked! there is a love—an earthly love—that never can dim or die; that, slighted though it be; tram pled under foot in the hurrying bustle of life; unvisited by the breath of hope; unfed by the dews of gratitude, still blooms like the desert flower; still lives and suffers and prays, and weeps in the lonely night time, and toils in the dreary day—content to go unrewarded even by a smile ; to wear deep furrows in the unkissed cheeks; to go on, patient, uncomplaining, spar ing all reproaches, save the silent ones of sun ken eyes and pallid brows and faltering steps. Oh, the love of a mother ! Not till the pale . face is hidden away beneath the coffin lid, do we feel how deep, how self-sacrificing, how divine has been that devotion, which, amid the allure- j ments of pleasure and the pursuits of wealth, we have slighted and neglected. • A week ago, the last day of the old year looked 1 upon a bloody tragedy, enacted in the streets of ! thiscity. A reckless and desperate man, wrought * on by passion, took the life of his fellow mortal without granting him a moment’s warning, and ■ there was blood and vengeance in the eyes of the 1 excited mob that gathered around him, and be- 1 sieged his prison through the night. They thirs- ‘ ted for his life ; their voice was for instant death, regardless of law and tardy justice, and their : cry of “ away with him!” drowned all dissenting \ tones. Even the friends of the youthful crimi nal stood aloof from him, whose hands were 1 recking with innocent blood; and there were 1 tears in gentle eyes through sympathy with the young Avife thus widowed, and her helpless or phans, while from many homes there went up prayers to Heaven in their behalf. But there were none for the murderer in his cell, and in- i dignant comments followed the utterance of his i name. Yet was there not one who, neglected as i she had been, half forgotten by her only son, in i his mad pursuit of pleasure, yet, forsook him not j in his hour of bitterest need ? Miserable, sinful, 1 forsaken and in prison ! What mattered it to I her? Her woman’s heart was true to its holiest t trust. God himself had stirred the fountain, 1 whose waters might rest never more. The head, i now bowed so heavily on his wasted hands, had ] lain against her heart in its pure, infantile slum- i bers ; had looked up to her with its sinless eyes * and lisped her name with its innocent lips. Ah! i the mark of Cain upon his brow could not efface i the memory of the kisses she had printed there, i and guilty though he was, unforgiven by man, , hunted, cursed, forsaken, he wa3 still “her boy.” j By all she had suffered and prayed for him, he t was dear to her still; and though she could not i fly to his side and take the erring and repentant i one to her faithful bosom, she could lie bn her ; couch of pain and weep and plead for him, that , the crime, unpardoned by man, might be for- i given in Heaven. * \ [COMMUNICATED. J j TO THE GEORGIA TEMPERANCE CRUSADER. ( Welcome, most welcome to our hearts and our ( homes, Noble Crusader! We greet thee with song; 1 And not sad the strain w e would tremble for thee. ] But a glad and joyous note we’ll prolong. } Oh ! yes; we would greet thy pages, all glowing ‘ With the rich gems of thought and truth so < pure; ] And we fain would twine thee, a lovely wreath gleaming, ‘ With the hues.of bright crimson, white and i soft blue, . That illumine thy banner, far floating in light, As the pinions of some proud bird on high; * And a pale white star gleams amid the soft folds. Like a silvery radiance in the .blue sky. ’Tis the star of Temperance, hail! all hail! To greet its soft beams in concert we’ll sing; Oh! may its pure light ne’er be shadowed with tears. But smiles of sweet jov to our every heart bring. May the forces you march against King Alcohol, In one firm phalanx invade his domain, Till brave, strong arms and fraternal kind hearts Shall free our fair earth of the fiend’s dark stain. Oh! may kind Heaven e’er sustain the “good cause,” That chases away the orphan’s sad tears; That bringsglad sunbeams to the inebriate’s dark *home, And brightly dispels the mother s fond fears. The hands that wield the pen tor thy pages, We know will sustain thy worth and thy truth; Oh! may their lifeway e’er be circled with joy, Happy and free as the glad dreams of youth. May the muses guard well their “ sanctum sanc torum, And round it entwine their garlands so fair; May their drawer be filled with rolls of bank bills, From good subscribers during the year. And oh! Crusader, there is one who presides Over thy pages, for which we doth sing; And no pen can e’er paint, no tongue can e’er tell, What joy to my heart her presence will bring. Yet welcome, most welcome,again wegreetthee, Noble Crusader! Oh! kind be thy fate, And may’st thou e’er find a band of true hearts In our own Steam-City of the Empire State. Atlanta, Go.. R*na. FOB THE CULTURE OF TRUTH, MORALITY AND LITERARYEXCELLENCE. THE VICTIM OF MESMERISM. | ’ BY !UIT K. BRYAN “We have read a chapter from the book of Stars,” said Pierre, as they descended the wind ing stairway ot the observatory. “What say you, shall we go in and try the laboratory? The new gaj is ready for your experiments ; or will you recreate a little with a few pages of Hum boldt ?” “Nay,” said young Thorndale; “the night is delicious, and the moonlight falls soft as on my own native islands. Let us sit here, beneath the trembling shadows of this willow. I had rather hear you talk than read Humboldt or Plato, for there is a fascination in your voice, my master, and your words carry my soul away, whither they will. I marvel not that the people call you so eloquent.” The smile that flitted over the dark face of the Professor was tinged with bitterness. “ It is not my eloquence that excites their en thusiasm,” he said, “ but ftiy indifference. Ido not care to please them, and they know it. It is one of human nature’s singular perversities, to frown at those who woo its favor, and adore those who are indifferent to its smiles. They will throw laurels at your feet, if they see you only trample upon them. Bat you will learn this in good time, boy. Listen to that whippoorwill 1% What does it say to you, Bayle ?” “There is a delicious sadness in its voice that is suited to the night. It is a tale of love, half sorrowful, but very sweet. Does it not seem so, sir ?” “It is the shriek of a haunting, upbraiding spirit. It is full of concentrated agony, as the asp’s fang is of poison, and there is a bitter threat in its cry. God! boy, what memories it calls up I” “ Heavens, sir, how you tremble! Will you go in ? Will you lean on me till you are better ?” “Tut! it is nothing—nothing but a momentary weakness. That bird’s cry jarred upon a pain ful chord of memory. Sit down, Bayle. I must talk to you to night as I never have done before. It is my duty, and I will not shrink from it. You spoke just now of my power to fascinate, and I half denied it; but it is true. Would to God that it were not! It has been the bane of my life. lam one of the few to whom are given the power to magnetise, to attract and absorb the wills—aye, the very souls of others. The secret of this strange influence has never been explained. It is not love ; it is not fear; it is something more subtle than either. It is an electric power that pervades the voice—the movements —the touch, and concentrates itself iu the eye. I knew that I possessed this power, and there was a time when its exercise grew into a passion. I threw aside all studies for this betvilderingly beautiful one of the human soul. Physical anatomy was trite; it was the mysterious essence of life, that I songht to dissect. I had studied all that is known of science; but it was not enough to examine man as a beautiful work of art—a temple, perfect in all its parts; but I must penetrate into the holy of holies—the inner slirine, which Divinity has darkly veiled, and in whoso sacred solitude is burning the perfumed taper of life, lit by the breath of God himself. Enough : I went to Germany, and for ten years was a student of Mesmerism, of Psychology and all those sciences that deal with the soul’s mys teries. I investigated all the phenomena of clair voyance and of so called ‘spiritualism,’ and 1 tell you now that their secret is the power of one soul over another—the influence of spirit upon spirit, and upon material substance. You have heard me lecture upon this, and yon can recall what I said; but I dared not tell all I believed and knew of the soul’s unimagined powers. I should be scoffed at, as my predecessors have been ; as were the discoverers of steam, of elec tricity and of magnetism. The time is yet to come when man shall be convinced that this sub tle essence called the soul, has a strength that is akin to that of electricity, but is more powerful in its influence over matter and spirit. But this is not to the purpose. I have said that I gave myself up to those infatuatiag stu dies that treat of Spiritual Magnetism. It was a comparatively new field, and its very mystery and occultness were alluring. But it is a dan gerous thing to trifle with the holy secrets of our human microcosm. It is assuming the preroga tive of God, and it is profanation to seek to wield an influence over the soul of another, exeept for high and holy purposes. It is dangerous for ignorance to tamper with the fiery, electric fluid ; how much more so, then, for it to experiment recklessly upon the more subtle and powerful spiritual essence 1 I made many experiments in the science, and met with a success that dazzled me. But I found it difficult to obtain subjects upon which to operate. Scarcely, by bribes, could I induce even the wretched mendicants and rag pickers of Schwartzburg, to consent that I . should operate upon them, so averse is even the ] most abject of human creatu. - e3 to relinquishing their individuality. Indeed, the city was rid of several of its worst nuisances, by their running ■ away to escape a second course of experiments. ( Once having got their will under my control, ( fhere was no escape for them but in flight. At last I found a little German girl, scarcely more , than seven years old, with mild, beseeching eyes, ( and the gentlest face I ever saw. I bought her , of her beggar mother, and used her for experi- mental purposes. I operated upon her daily, and , I soon possessed her soul, as confidently as I did , my own. I have kept her asleep for hours, with i her little hands folded upon her breast, watching ; over her, gratifying my love of power by noting how the slightest movement of mine would make the pale lips flutter with returning life, and then an effort of my will would cause the awakening spirit to shrink back to its nest. She submitted to all these experiments with the docility of a 1 lamb, but there was an appealing look in her ‘ eyes that stung my conscience for a moment; but 1 it was soon quieted by the anodyne, that I was 1 perfecting a glorious science, destined to sup plant all others. But my little German subject was too weak and mediocre to satisfy my ambition. The little soul was frail and small as the delicate body. She was very pale, and she faded like a lily, sha ded from the light. Finally she died. The phys ician reported it a case of dropsy of the brain; but Bayle, that child’s mournful, imploring eyes haunted my dreams for years. After that, I left Germany and returned to my native land. In New York, I went for curiosity’s sake into gay society, and my power of magne tising—fascinating, as you term it—could have made me a second Lothario ; but I did not as pire to the distinction of a lady-killer. Hearts were bat paltry game; souls were what I sought to possess, and I could find but few of that strong, yet delieate organization I desired. One night I attended a private musical soiree, and on entering the salon, I stood, spell-bound, by a voice that rose from behind the ingeniously woven screen of vines and flowers, arranged on the temporary stage before me. It was a con tralto of such wonderful purity and delicacy, that Atlanta, Georgia, January 7, 1859. it etherialized every thought and filled the room with melody, soft and tranquilising as summer ’ moonlight. At once 1 recognized the charm of a superior soul in that voice, though the face of the singer was not distinguishable behind the net-work of flowering vines, that permitted only a glimpse of the flowing white drapery and the glow of golden hair, reminding one of the caged Peris of Persian story. Later in the night, I saw her and instinctively recognised her as the cantatrice that had so charmed my senses. Voice and face correspon ded. Both had the same elevated expression; both possessed all of woman’s purity and refine ment. Her face was fair as any water-lily, save where the vermillion of her small mouth contras ted with the colorless cheek, while the long, bright hair fell around it in a shining shower, encircling that fair head with a golden halo, like those we see in the pictured saints of Correggio. I do not think her features were regular, or that others called her beautiful; nor was her beauty the magnet that drew me within her sphere; but it was the spirit that shone like light through a cloud, from every lineament of her face, lighting the depths of her fathomless eyes, and sitting en throned upon her brow. Before I left the salon, I had mentally determined that she should be mine, body and soul. But it was no easy task. I could scarcely approach her, through the at mosphere of purity that encircled her, like the halo round the maiden moon. Her nature in stinctively opposed itself to mine, and her clear, candid eyes read my own, till I shrank from their searching glance. But I won her at last. Her heart at least was mine, and I deemed that I held the ruby key to the temple of Eleusian mysteries ; but for once I had miscalculated. I could gain no ascendency over that perfectly balanced mind. My wife though she was, and surrendering, as she did, her pure heart unreservedly to my keeping, yet, there hung between my soul and hers that veil of reserve which is ordained by God himself. I had no right to force my way into that inner sanc tuary. Every individual soul has its secrets be tween itself and its God—secrets which should be held sacred, even from those admitted to the closest confidences of life. A consciousness of its separate and indepen dent existence is the crowning glory of humanity. Take this away', and you unthrone the monarch man, and degrade him almost to a level with the brute. Nothing can be more humiliating to a proud, self-sufficient nature; and yet, to do this is the province of mesmerism. But so infatuated was I with my dream df power, that I gave not a thought to this. I was piqued at the quiet firmness with which Blanche resisted my subtle endeavors to gain the mystery’ of her will, (seeming all the time, with a woman’s ready tact, as though unconscious of my motive,) and I resolved that this spirit, so strong in its upholding principles and its senso of right, should yield to mine. I determined to remove her from all influences that could counteract my own. I had studied woman’s nature, and I knew that, take a woman —any woman—away from society, friends and social tie#, and let her know that you alone are to be her all—her world, and if you are not a very devil, her yearning, loving heart will pour all its rich ointment of affection at your feet, be cause deprived of other outlets for its overflow ing tenderness. So I went abroad to find a solitary nest for the bird I wished to tame, and after some wandering I found it. There is a small, uninhabited island off the jpast of Florida—a waste of sands and moaning pines, the property ot a Frenchman, of whom I found no difficulty in purchasing it. There was a single house upon the eastern coast —an old, rambling building, in the quaint, French style of pointed rooffs and cables, dark and wea ther-stained, with fungous vegetation growing from the crevices, and madeira vines matted around the porch. A few stunted cedars were grouped around it, but in front stretched the des olate waste of sand and sea, whose monotony was unbroken, save by the passing wing of a sol itary bird, or the fragments of old wrecks that had been driven ashore. Nothing but the pencil of Rembrandt could’ give you an idea of the dreary wildness of that scene; yet stay, a poet has somewhere faintly limned it ‘ A salt, green sea, half locked in bars of sand, Left on the shore, that hears all night The plunging waves draw backward from the land Their moon-led watery white.’ And this was the bridal home of Blanche. To this lonely, sea-girt cage I carried my prisoned bird Besides ourselves, there was but a single hu man being upon the island—a hideous old ne gress, who spoke an unintelligible gibberish, and moved about her household tasks like a resusci tated mummy performing its ghoul-like rites. Not even Blanche’s cheering presence could bring sunshine to that gloomy place. The damp caused the strings of her harp to snap asunder, one by one, with a sad, ominous sound; the mould gathered on the rich bindings of her fa vorite books, and soon, even upon her , solitude and melancholy surroundings wrought their usual effect. They destroyed the healthful equi poise of her mind, and gave it a morbid tendency. Social intercourse is to the human organization what air and sunshine are to the vegetable. Shut out this, and sickly fancies and pale super stitions will spring like fungi in damp cellars, and attain a most unnatural growth. When once the delicate balance of her mind Was gone, I found no difficulty in obtaining the desired influence over my wife. I soon had in my power a soul almost as strong as my own, and far more refined and elevated, and I revelled in the intoxication of conscious power. Kingly tyrants might command the body : my dominion was over the spirit. I myself up unreser vedly to this analysis of the human soul. The experiments I made in mesmerism and spiritual magnetism would fill volumes and startle the world, were they published. The mesmeric phe nomena related by Gassendi, by the Bishop of Bordeaux and all who have written upon this subject were but commonplace occurrences, com pared to those I witnessed in that lonely house. Frequently I piolonged my wife’s slumbers for days, noting every change wrought in the body by the returning spirit. I carried her soul through the classic scenes of the East—among which I had wandered, but which she had never seen —■ and enjoyed with keen delight her eloquent and accurate description of their loveliness. I caused her to read, with closed eyes, books placed at the back of her head, as (lid the famous Rachael of Springfield. I made her translate foreign tongues, copy old inscriptions from ancient mon uments, and paint pictures from originals which I had seen hanging in the Louvre, or the Vati can, whither I sent her passive mind. Once I sent her spirit to listen to the chant of the nuns in the convent at Madeira, and folding her hands upon her breast, she repeated the solemn Te De- um, in her own voice, of more than mortal sweet ness. She was my willing slave, body and soul, as I had sworn she should be. In searching for the secret of its fragrance, I had torn away, one by one, the petals of the beautiful rose, even Us “most curled and hidden leaf,” and laid bare the golden heart, the seat of the subtle perfume, that only evaporated when its shrine was thus pro faned. All the sacred mysteries of my victim’s life were searched for with eagerness and revealed to my sight; even the holy secret that had been closely folded in her soul’s innermost cham ber, and embalmed in pure and pious memories. She had loved in early girlhood, and been forced to sacrifice that love to duty; but its remem brance lingered still, hanging, a veiled picture, in the shrine whose privacy I had invaded. Her soul knew no solitude—no secresy. You can faintly conjecture how humiliating this was to a nature so exquisitely delicate and sensitive; with such a high sense of its own individuality and independence. She uttered no complaint; she urged no objection to my experimenting upon her, but whenever I approached her, there came into her eyes that look of helpless feat and en treaty that we see in animals who are afraid of us and crouch at our coming. Gradually, she became a wreck of her former self. The look of conscious intellectual strength that had enthron ed itself upon her brow was gone ; the serenity of smile and voice and manner had given place to a nervous excitability. Physicians may tell you what they please about the tranquilising in fluence of mesmerism and its value as a quietus, but it is untrue. It may soothe for a time, and lull into unnatural quiet, but it is like pressure upon a spring, and the reaction will be sure to follow. And now there was apparent in my wife the phenomenon which I have observed to be one invariable result of a continued course of mes meric experiments—that of somnambulism. I had remarked it in the case of my little German Whilhelmine, and in that of a young girl of par tially deranged intellect, whose malady my fel low-student, Wolfgang, had attempted to cure by mesmerism, but which soou ended in hopeless insanity. Often, when awaking at midnight, I found Blanche sitting beside the table —her pale face rendered more pallid by her white night dress—sketching or writing with closed eyes and outer senses, fast locked in sleep; or I would miss her from the room, and going down to the sea shore, find her standing there, motionless as a statue, with folded arms and loosened hair, the sobbing surf breaking at her naked feet, and the night wind fluttering her snowy garments. At such times I would lead her quietly back, and if she chanced to waken from her sleep, she would express no surprise, but would bury’ her head in the pillow and moan softly to herself, like a heart-broken child. And I saw all this ; I loved her with all the affection that could exist in a nature whose faculties were all absorbed in a single purpose, and yet I did not relinquish my design. You think me a demon, Bayle; you think my crime past all forgiveness.” “ You were mad, Sir ; you were a monoma niac—you must have bee*.” “ I know’ it, boy, and I will suffer you to tell me so this once, but never again; mind, never again. It was a monomania that possessed me, and I had no power to struggle against it. So ab so-bed was I, that I scarcely noticed the altera tion in my wife, and I resolutely shut my mind against the belief that it was my constant and reckless experiments that had effected the change. But the end came. She died —died in a mesmeric sleep , Bayle. The poor, weary soul which I had hunted, tortured, imprisoned within the steel-like bars of my will, had at length escaped me. It was free at last. I would not believe that it was death, despite the increasing coldness of the hands that lay so heavily in mine. I bent over to listen for-the beating of the hushed heart; I laid a curl of her own flossy hair upon her lips and saw that it stirred not with the breath of the soul that had escaped me. I started back in horror, and at that moment the piercing shriek of a whippoor will—the first I had heard on the island—smote upon my heart like the agonised cry of a wronged and upbraiding spirit. Too late I woke from my long trance, and knew that my wife was dead, and that I had been her murderer. God in Hea ven, boy, may you never know the concentrated agony of remorse and despair that seared my soul in that hour! I cursed, I raved, I prayed with reckless blasphemy. I would have given the dominion of the world to call back breath to those pale lips, if only for one moment, that they might murmur a single word of forgiveness. But it was too late I too late! * * * * At length a faint hope dawned upon my des pair. I had read of the power of mesmerism to restore life to those apparently dead, and this remembrance inspired me with a sudden resolve. All that night, with the stormy winds and waves mocking my anguish, I worked with the energy of desperation, striding, by every means in my power, to lure the soul back to the tenement it had left. Near the last watch of the night, my heart stood still, for a change came over the face of the dead. There was no movement, no twich ing of its muscles, but a shadow seemed to pass over the placid features, darkening, as I looked, into an expression of such unearthly terror and agony, that I involuntarily hid my face in my trembling hands. When I looked up, the features had resumed their marble tranquility, and no af ter effort could disturb the rigidness of death. I buried her on the sandy shore of that deso late island, and ever since I have been a haunted man—haunted by a remembrance that will never leave me; that rankles in my breast like a poi soned dagger; that leaves me no peace, no rest; that shrieks in my dreams; that walks with me like a shadow in my daily avocations of business or pleasure, and tints the gold of my sunshine with the sickly hue of blood. Yet, I complain not, for the retribution is just. God takes into his own hands those crimes of which human jus tice is not cognizant, and the guilty must sub mit. Do you know why I have humiliated myself to tell this to you, Bayle?” “I partly guess it, Sir.” “ Aye, I know you do by your trembling hand. It is because that fatal mania has not left me yet Struggle as I may, it comes over me at times, and I find myself irresistibly longing to try my old power over men. You have been strongly drawn to me, Bayle, and I—yes, I will acknowledge it— I have been strongly tempted to test my power over you-; I have forced myself to make this rev elation to you, that jwu may aid mo in subduing this wretched desire; that, if necessary, you may put yourself beyond my influence. Leave me, if you will, to my desolate loneliness of heart, but do not say that you pity me. I have borne my sufferings alone and silently thus long, and I ask pity of non* but God.” New Series, Volume IV— Old Series, Volume XXV. No. 2 JOSIAH'S CHRISTMAS ADVENTURES. BY MARY S. BRYAN. Old Tony Snaps, a chum of mine— A famous whisky-seller, Who has a sign above his door, In letters painted yellow, And carries a plainer one beside, In red upon his smeller, Is a rare chap to “put you through—” In short, a clever fellow; But if I get from out this box, I mean to thrash him neatly, For on last Christmas-day, you see, He took me in completely. I’d rigged me in a bran new suit, That took a half year’s wages, Anri felt as grand as any lord, Who has a dozen pages. My boots and hair were slick as grease, And shone like new mahog’ny. And down my vest I’d poured, I guess, A pint of rale cologny. Says 1, a lookin’ in the glass: “I think you’ll do, Josiah ; So, take a turn or two, old chap, And go to see Maria.” And when I stepped into the street, 1 guess I did look flashy A walkin’ down through Tatersville A twirlin’ my mustashy. The little boys began to star# — I only stepped the higher, And went into a store to buy A breastpin for Maria. I knew that lady of my heart Was ’spectin’ me to dinner; I knew the way I was got up Would never fail to win her; But now, alas! she’s lost to me, And I’m a ruined body, And all along of Tony Snaps And his plagued whisky-toddy. Says Tony, with his smile and bow: “Step in awhile, old iellow; Just take a little warming sip Os something nice and mellow ; ’Twill loose your tongue, thaw your blood And make your eyes look brighter.” Says I: “I guess I will; just so It doesn’t make me tighter.” “No fear of that,” says he again ; “I’d like to see the body Whose brain would turn with just a sip Os harmless whisky-toddy.” And so I sipped and talked and sipped, And Tony praised my trowsers, And said my coat was just the thing, My vest and boots were rousers ; And Tony poured the flattery on, And I kept on a sippin’, Until the jugs began to dance, The bottles took to tippin’, And then I thought ’twas time to go, But as I turned the corner I heard them little scamps of boys A cryin’, “He’s a goner!” I braced myself and tried to walk Just perpendicularly; But still the houses waltzed around ; I couldn’t see quite clearly; It was an orful sight of time Before I reached the Deacon’s; I knocked, and as my knees felt bad. (The walk, you see, was weaknin’) I took a graceful attitude Against the door-sill handy, And felt to see if I had lost The breastpin or the candy. And presently I heard a step That set my heart afire ; 1 knew, before I raised my eyes, That it was my Maria; And though I couldn’t see her well, I knew that she was smilin’, And that stirred my aftectyons up Quite to the point of bilin’. I thought I’d kiss those smiling lips, And then I’d softly tell her She was the prettiest girl on earth, And I the happiest fellow. I throwed my arms around her neck, I kissed her long and loudly, And vowed I knew old Jimmy Buck, Had never felt so proudly. I must have borne down rather hard, For down we come a sprawlin’, Her hoops a crackin’ in the smash, And she a loudly bawlin’. I heard a scufflin’ ot feet— I looked, and great Jeddiah ! There stood my rival, Simon Snooks, Supportin’ of Maria. I gazed around in mute amaze— Looked down and saw, Oh, Lordy! I’d made the orfuilest mistake Along of whisky-toddy. ’Twas fat, old lady Brown I’d kissed, A good three hundred pounder; No wonder that my arms had met But just half-way around her! And there she lay, her hoops a wreck, And she herself a squallin’ ; Snooks with his arms around Maria, . A keepin’ her from failin’. I swooned away and knew no more, Until this mormn’ early; I waked up in the calaboose A feelin’ sad and surly, And just as soon as I get out, I mean to thrash old Tony, And then I’ll cut this Tatersville And go to Californy; But Oh ! lake warning by my fate— Take warning everybody, And don’t you mind the chap that talks Os harmless whisky-toddy. Instead ol the initials, heretofore affixed to our editorials, a star will be used to distinguish them from selected matter. * Some of our delicate household plants (which by the way, are said to be more numerous at the South than elsewhere,) would do well to peruse Dr. Wilson’s remarks upon the importance ofex ercise, and the derangement that takes place in the system in consequence of neglecting this sine qua von of health. He enumerates quite an ar ray of evils attendant upon “Want of Exercise. —lt weakens and disor ders the stomach, and thus all healthful supplies are cut off; it reduces the capacity of the chest, and thus the blood is not properly vitalized; it prevents free circulation in the minute vessels, and thus assimilation and all the vital changes affected in the capillaries are imperlectly per formed or suspended; the muscles wither and lose their strength ; the blood vessels become sol id chords, and cease to convey the vital fluid; the brain is torpid, the nerves are unstrung, the breathing is feeble, the stomach is sluggish, and universal derangement of the whole animal econ omy ensues, ending in stagnation or cessation of motion, which is only another name for death it self. Life is motion—constant, ceaseless motisn. Exercise promotes all the vital movements, and stands in direct antagonism to disease, and that torpor which merges Tnlhe deep stillness of that dreamlesss stale Os sleep that knows no waking joys again.”’ He insists also most strenuously upon the ob servance of the old fashioned rule, “Early to bed and early to rise,” so set aside by custom and imperial fashion, and the ill effects of whose vio lation are so plainly discernible in the pale cheeks and worn, jaded appearance ot those who, in pur suit of pleasure, habituall) turn night into day: Time for Sleep.— “This dead of night, this silent hour of darkness’ Nature for rest ordained and soft repose.” When night spreads her sable curtain, the din of business is hushed ; the lower animals, obedi ent to the signal, retire to their grassy couch; a refreshing coolness pervades theair.and adreamy stillness rests upon the earth, all—all inviting to repose. How strange, then, that human beings should be deaf to this eloquent language ! How strange that they should pervert the order ot na ture by converting day into night, nnd night into day! And yet it is so. With multitudes, night is not a season of rest for invigorating the mental and bodily powers, but a time for soul and body destroying dissipations, and teeming mischiefs This is the time for fashionable parties, where in addition to want of rest, the system is poisoned by impure air, and oppressed by excessive and mproper food and drinks, while the mind and all the moral feelings are worked up into a feverish state of excitement, which re-acts with terrible effect on the poor, abused and over-burdened phy sical frame. Can any one believe, for a moment, that the laws of nature can be thus violated with impunity? As soon might a feeble woman ex pect to have the foaming Cataract of Niagara poured on her head without injury. No! As surely as God exists, so surely will every viola tion of physical law be visited with its legetimate punishment. These laws are written in our frame by the hand of the Almighty himself, and they are as fixed and as immutable in their na ture and consequences as the author of them. One of these laws is, that night was ordained for sleep. And let not those who avoid scenes of ex citement and dissipation, and who yet keep late hours, flatter themselves that they incur no risk. In one respect, at least, they subvert the order of nature, and must suffer accordingly. .Day sleep will not answer as a substitute for night bleep. Circumstances may sometimes render it necessary to make up in the day for unavoidable loss of rest; yet, this necessity should, as far as possible, be avoided. The rule is, “Early to bed and early to rise, &c. SELECTIONS. AN INTERESTING MARRIAGE CEREMONY. A correspondent of the Press, writing from New York, gives the following interesting ac count of a marriage between two deaf mutes, cel ebrated recently in that city: “ Avery unusual marriage ceremotty took place on Tuesday morning last, which, for its novelty, deserves a pleasing note. It was the uniting in wedlock’s band two deaf mutes —Mr. Trist, of Philadelphia, son of our special commissioner to Mexico during the war, and a young lady of Bos ton. Both were mutes—deaf and dumb from in fancy. The services of the Episcopal Church was read by Rev Pierre P. Irving, and translated into the symbolic language of the dumb by the Rev. Mr. Gallaudet, the bride and groom repeat ing and making the responses rapidly, gracefuWy and with perfect accuracy. A spectator of the scene describes it as follows: ‘ The solemn vows being symboled before the Throne of Grace, the Lord’s Prayer followed; and who can describe the mute eloquence of that mute prayer so devotionally followed by the young couple ! When the nuptial benediction was silently pronounced above the lowly bowed heads of the kneeling pair, there was that which spoke louder than words in the graceful sign-lan guage of the officiating minister. A few letters —a word or tw# —then the hands upraised to wards Heaven—to “God,” who had “bound to gether”—the tight clasped hands—the soul speaking glance upward, away upward—again a few words—the hands placed in blessing upon the heads of the now “man and wife”—a solemn silence —and all was over. No one moved lor some moments; we all felt we had caught a glimpse of the spirit land, and we longed for one more glance into that silent spirit world. But the groom was leading his beautiful, graceful bride to the church door; we have her quiet, happy smile put away in our memory to gladden some dark hour. Ere we could utter a fervent “ God bless you,” they had quietly passed away—alone with their mute happiness.’ ” The Newspaper. —ln no other way can so much, so varied, so useful information be impar ted, and under circumstances so favorable for educating the child’s mind, as through a judi cious, well conducted newspaper. To live in a village, was once to be shut up and contracted. But now a man may be a her mit, and yet a cosmopolite! He may live in a forest, walking miles to a postoffice, having a mail but once a week; and yet, he shall be found as familiar with the living world as the busiest actor in it. For the newspaper is a spy-glacs by which he brings near the most distant things—a microscope by which ho leisurely examines the most minute—an ear-trumpet by which he col lects and brings within his hearing, all that is said and done all over the earth—a museum full of living pictures of real life, drawn, not on can vass, but with printer’s ink on paper. The effect in liberalising and enlarging the mind of the young, of this weekly commerce with the world, will be apparent to any one who will ponder on it. Once, a liberal education could only be completed by foreign travel. The sons only of the wealthy could indulge in this costly benefit. But now the poor man’s son can learn as much at home as, a hundred years ago, a gentleman could learn by journeying the world over. For while there are some advantages in going into the world, it is the poor man’s privi lege to have the world come to see him. The newspaper is a great collector, a great traveller, a great lecturer. It is the common people’s En cyclopedia—the lyceum, the college.— H. W. Beecher. ONE BRICK UPON ANOTHER. Edwin was one day looking at a very large building which they were putting up opposite to his father’s house. He watched the workmen from day to day, as they carried up brick and mortar, and then placed them in their proper or der. His lather said to him: “Edwin, you seem to be much taken up with the bricklayers; pray, what might you be think ing about ? Have you any notion of learning the trade?” “No,” said Edwin, smiling. “But I was just thinking what a little thing a brick is, and ye f that great house is built by laying one brick upon another.” ‘ “Very true, my boy; never forget it. Just so it is with all great works. All vour learning is one little lesson added to another. If a man could walk all round the world, it would be by putting one foot before the other. Your whole life will be made up ol one little foment after another. Drop added to drop makes the ocean.” Learn from this not to despise little things. Learn, also, not to be discouraged by great la bor. The greatest labor becomes easy if divided into parts. You could not jump over a moun tain; but step by step takes you to the other side. Do not fear, therefore, to attempt great things. Always remember that the whole of the great building is only one brick upon another. MEN WITHOUT HEARTS. We commend this to the attention of all heads of tamilies: “We sometimes meet with men who seem to t hink that any indulgence in an affectionate feel ing is weakness. They will return from a jour ney and greet their families with a distant digni ty, and move among their children with the cold and lofty splendor of an iceberg, surrounded by its broken fragments. There is hardly a more unnatural sight on earth than one of those fami lies without a heart. A father had better ex tinguish a boy’s eyes than take away his heart. Who that has experienced the joys of friendship, and values sympathy and affection, would not ra ther lose all that is beautiful in nature’s scenery, than be robbed of the hidden treasure of his heart? Cherish, then, your heart’s best affec tions. Indulge in the warm and gushing emo tions of filial, paternal and fraternal love. Some of the western Slates are holding out great inducements for the “tide of emigration” to set towards their shoes. Mississippi is ahead so far as heardfrom, the legislature having passed a law granting divorces to all parlies who have lived separate three years.