Lincoln telegraph. [volume] (Bath, Me.) 1836-1846, 1841-04-08


it possible that this point of honor can cover eve
ry enormity2 What because a villain is clever
in the art of killing, he has the right to force
you 10 silence, to murder you Strange JUS
tice of the world If refuse to allow myself
to be assassinated by this cut-throat a thousand
voices will be raised TO brand NE as n coward,
and my celebrity will only serve to publish my
shame to every corner of the world, and render
my name more despicable. Since life is nothing
but an arena of gladiators, why was not taught
to shed blood What use is what am and what
| know, to me o God I would barter my
genius, my glory, every thing, for the science of
a fencing master What's to be done--what's to
be done ?
! Formerly a braro might have served your
| turn; unfortunately they are out of fashion
| now
| ALTER, shook his head and remained pensive.
But lie suddenly awoke from his revere: yes,
murmured he, st must be SO it's the only means
| have
what are you going to do asked his friend
you shall know very soon,' answered the
count, and he left the room.
The following hours were employed by him
in arranging his affairs and writing his last in.
structons. However firm the soul may be, such
prepare tions cannot but weigh heavily upon it,
There is always some smiling corner in life,
some happy spot, which we tnen recall TO mind,
and to which the humid eye looks back with re-
gret. How many doubts arise, how many anx-
ieties do we rake up from The bottom of our
hearts VIII our name be long remembered ?
Who will weep for our loss?-Melancholly re-
Elections, to solve which dare not consult the
experience of the past.
And Alferi thought of all this =: of the noun
first verses; of the old woman's prediction,
! which was now, doubtless to be accomplished
lie then examined his papers, separating his fin
ished compositions from those which he had as
yet, as it were, only sketched out, the children
of his Imagination, which he intended to have
impressed with the whole power OF his genius
and experience. Oh how many dreams begun,
how many inspirations which had formerly but
family gimmered on his mind, then burst upon
him in all their glory and he groaned, the poet.
for that moment had furnished him with more
ideas than the labor of a whole life could de-
velope. And he about to hazard all this
against the dexter,y of bravo lie pressed his
hand against his forehead, as if to tear from it
the treasures which were about to perish with
him. For 50 it is with man he considers his
intelligence as the common Inheritance of hu-
manity, and that were he to keep aught of it to
himself, he would commit n robbery on mankind.
He cannot take upon himself to carry with him
thought unexpressed.
! But time passed away. The count rapidly
finished to put every thing IN order. lie wrote
to his sister, babe an eternal adieu to every thing
he loved in this world and then descended into
the saloon.
Celn and Marllano were there alone. The
former was warm in praise of volume Of Mach
iavel which he held in his hand
! Il do not know it,, said Marano coolly.
Should You wish to read it asked the young
man, presenting him the book,
Il never read
Celni looked at him with astonshment-
This the epoch of the regeneration of ideas
which sgnalized the end of the eighteenth GEN.
fury. The nobility seemed to have suddenly
awoke from the long torpidity in which they had
lain, to study something more than the mere art
OF galldntry or tho noble science of arms. There
was universal rush towards literature, so that
a man who declared that he could not read, was
considered as extraordinary a being courtier
of the reign of Charles the Second who lived
without mistress
The count, who entering had remarked
Cellinis surprise, Observed
! 'Signor Mariana is quite right; what can
gentlemen have TO do with books
Marano looked at him, if to discover
whether he was not victimzed; but the counts
features were SO calm that he hardly knew what
to conjecture.
'If you really think so, my dear count, said
/ Cellini, laughing, Il wonder at your passing
whole nights over your books, as you are accus-
toned to do
'Oh as for me, rcioned the count I'm
poet, a mailman / love Plutarch, and am fool
ish enough to consider such words as liberty,
country, as anything but ridiculous. I am one
of those who would not have every mans hap
piness or misery depend on the chance of birth.
dream of world where recompenses would be
awarded to the most worthy, honors to the most
devoted, happiness to all; but I'm madrian,
you know, whilst Signor Marliano is gentle
man
All this had been said with so much calm, and
with such sameness of in.onstion, thatit would