believe every thing is ready. These pistols are well primed, sir, I suppose," at the same time taking one from my hands and examining the lock, to conceal his risible propensities, which had been strongly excited by Abraham's forlorn appearance. I meanwhile examined the other, and reprimed them both, in order to gain time for recovering my own gravity. "All correct, sir," I at length remarked, at the same time handing the pistols. "Attend the signal, gentlemen, and fire at the word three !" "One! two!! THREE!!!" At the instant, Turner's pistol snapped and missed fire. Abraham trembled so much that he did not succeed in pulling the trigger, until we began to advance, when the charge went off in no particular direction. Abraham was evidently trying to say that he was fully satisfied; but Sanford, with a bland smile, interrupted him with—" I perceive, gentlemen, that you are not satisfied, and, according to the code of honor, I suppose a fair shot must be passed." Abraham stared rather vacantly at Sanford for a moment, and then calmly acquiesced, as a matter of course. The pistols were loaded again, and very carefully primed. At the word, they went off instantaneously, causing but one report. Turner dropped his pistol, leaped up, turned a somerset with extraordinary agility, the result of much practice, and fell heavily upon the ground. Abraham grew pale, and immediately rushed towards the murdered man, groaning aloud, but Sanford seized him at once, and hurried him by main force into the carriage, telling him that immediate flight was the only possible way of escaping apprehension, in which case we should all suffer the penalty of the law. Off he drove with furious speed towards Worcester, to meet the stage which was to convey them to the next railroad depot. Meantime Sheriff Jones was just stepping into the stage at the Mansion Hotel, in order to meet Abraham at the next village. After waiting till they were fairly out of sight, Charles and I proceeded leisurely homewards. It was near night-fall when Sheriff Jones returned to M—————, having in safe custody the ill-fated Abraham. Meantime the news had spread through the village, and quite a crowd had collected at the Hotel. My room had been transformed into a hospital. Charles Turner was bolstered up in an easy-chair, his face nearly hid in a large night-cap, and his breast covered with bandages. Surgical instruments and phials were displayed upon the table. The room was darkened, and a small candle in one corner shed its pale and flickering light upon the face of the pseudo-dying man. Upon being told that Turner was in my room, Abraham begged the sheriff to allow him the privilege of seeing his poor victim before he died. Several bystanders joined in soliciting the sheriff to release him an hour or two upon his parole. The old man readily consented, and I accompanied poor Abraham up stairs. met Dr. White upon the landing, who informed us that the case was a very bad one. He "feared the man couldn't live an hour. He might, but it was quite uncertain." I slowly opened the door. Squire Mason and one or two more respectable citizens were standing in mournful mood by the wounded man, and whispering wisely to each other. Abraham fell on his knees before his groaning victim, and very humbly begged his pardon. He hoped for only one thing in this world, and that was that he would forgive him. Turner faintly replied that he would, and poor Abraham rushed from the room. Sanford met him at the door, and informed him of a plan of escape which had been concerted by his friends. The sheriff had gone home for a short time, and a fleet saddle-horse was at the door, which would carry him to the nearest railroad depot, just in time to take the New York steamboat train. Now this horse was the most unruly beast in M, and it was well known that Abraham could never, by any exertion of whip and spur, ride in any direction more than a hundred rods from the tavern stable. But the vulgar crowd, who had gathered on the piazza to witness Abraham's equestrian performances, were disappointed; for just as he was placing his foot in the stirrup, his heart misgave him: he resolved that he must see Turner once more before he died, and be doubly sure of his forgiveness. We began to pity poor Abraham in truth, and allowed him to return. But the dying man was not at all prepared for this second visit. He had supposed his part acted, and was merrily engaged in dancing a horn-pipe in his night-clothes and bandages. Abraham stopped upon the threshold in mute astonishment. He rubbed his eyes, and looked earnestly at Turner, as if he were awaking from a dream, or feared that the scene before him was merely an optical illusion. But, as the dying man began to roar with laughter, Abraham was convinced. His natural color rapidly returned, and his harassed and care-worn look was exchanged for one indescribably foolish. "Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Turner," exclaimed he. This was the signal for a roar of mirth, hitherto illy repressed, to hear what Abraham would say. The old Mansion Hotel rang again. Squire Mason, who had hardly recovered from the side-ache which he contracted on Thanksgiving evening, rushed down stairs, to escape the contagious influence of the general risibility. Abraham followed. Another peal greeted him from the bar-room and piazza, and as he hastened down the street, he began to feel most sensibly, for the first time in his life, that he was indeed a fool. This Abraham Smith, Esquire, of New York, was seated one morning, after breakfast, in his easy-chair, nursing his lame foot, which kept him, generally speaking, in a peculiarly irascible mood. His wife had just put an end to his scolding about "a late, miserable, good-for-nothing, nasty, unpalatable breakfast, not fit for a cannibal-heathen-African," by sending in great haste for several morning papers. changed the old gentleman's tone from home thrusts and personal allusions to growling about the public affairs. Every thing he read was "radically wrong-unreasonable-badly expressed," until he came to a brief notice of the sham duel, which he at once attributed to his son, although the papers gave no names, merely stating that it occurred in M, Mass. "Mrs. S.," exclaimed the old gentleman. "Well, Mr. S., what do you want?" "Want? I don't want any thing; did I say I wanted any thing? I should be glad if you wouldn't interrupt me when I am about to make a remark." "Well now, Mr. S., bless your heart, my dear, I won't." "You won't, will you? Well, why in the name of religion and common sense did you, then?" Now, if you are done, I'll go on. There's our son Abraham, he's such a natural fool, I'm willing to bet five hundred dollars cash it's him all the papers are full of. I never did consider him fit for any thing but College, and that only makes him worse." Why, Mr. S., what's he done?" D, and see what he's "Done! I'm going to write to Parson done; no good, I warrant, nor never will. he has done for, when every body knows it, and it's all in the papers. I suppose you would like to have me commit all the papers to memory every morning, and say 'em off to you-eh?" "Bless me! Mr. S." "Don't interrupt me, Mrs. S. Why don't you ring the bell, and send John up with my writing materials? That good-for-nothing son of yours will fight another duel before I can get an opportunity to write and have him sent home. Here I have been waiting, Mrs. S., ever since an early breakfast, exerting myself to no purpose to obtain my writing materials. I'll pay off that stupid, rascally man-servant to-day. No I won't; I shall need him to help me thrash Abraham. I'll write to Parson D- to have him thrashed there, in the first place, if it takes the whole town-meeting to do it, and if he ever comes home."— John here entered with the writing materials, and wheeled up Mr. Smith to his escritoire. The old gentleman's voice, which was raised to its highest pitch, gradually subsided into an indistinct growl, which appeared to be concerning the propriety of Abraham's living the remainder of his days in the attic, tied to a bed-post, and at last nothing was heard except the furious scratching of his pen, interrupted at short intervals by an excruciating twinge of the gout. It was about dusk, one December afternoon, when Abraham reached the door of his father's house. As he stood in the porch, with his hand upon the bell-handle, trying to summon resolution enough to ring, he looked more like a street thief than a returning son. Nothing but the certainty of being disinherited, prevented him from turning away forever from the parental roof, to seek the nearest wharf, and try his fortunes upon the sea. Nothing was seen of Abraham for several months after this time, but it is supposed that he was profitably improving his time in solitary reflection and self-examination. At least, such was the impression of Mr. Smith's next door neighbors, who heard their servants say, (who heard it directly from Mr. Smith's man,) that the smart young collegian had been unceremoniously divested of his wig, and other personal or naments, by his enraged father, accoutred in his old cast-off clothes, and sent up to sojourn for a season in the attic. Nothing more, indulgent reader, remains to occupy your attention, save the usual Q. E. D. of story writers, viz., a summing up of births, marriages, and deaths. Many years have passed away since the memorable duel was fought, and many a change has come over its actors. Edward Sanford returned to the South, to commence a lucrative practice, and to give fair promise of standing at the head of his profession in his native district. But he put no restraint upon his reckless and daring spirit, and after being engaged in several duels, was killed in one which also proved fatal to his antagonist. Charles Turner has become sobered down into a consistent and highly-respected Congregational minister, and now occupies the parsonage of M———. Ellen Mason is looking over my shoulder, and as my eye meets her's, that same " wildly witty," truthful look, which first thrilled my heart at the Thanksgiving dinner, fills it now with a still deeper and worthier delight. But Abraham is changed yet more than all the rest. He is now a very worthy and respectable merchant, and you may see his neat sign in upper Broadway, a long way out towards Haarlem, "A. F. SMITH'S Eng. and Amer. Fancy Goods." His college education was cut short in time to save him from a life of folly, and to place him in the situation best suited to his capacities. He wears his natural hair, and is one of the Alms-House Commissioners, besides being a great comfort to his widowed mother, to whom, (being an aged and infirm old lady,) I often administer my professional services in the capacity of Mr. Smith's family physician. One of my especial favorites is Abraham's bright little boy, who bears the paternal name, (minus the Fitz-Henry.) His father has fully decided to train him up to industrious business habits, and especially, never to send him to a classical school. JUDAS SOHN. This singular poem was composed by Sigmund Wassermann, a German Hebrew. The English was first written, and is mainly remarkable as the composition of a foreigner little conversant with our tongue. By request it was translated into German, and both are here presented.-ED. VOL. IX. JUDAS Sohn soll wandern, in Aseh und Sak nicht mehr, Wo sich die sonne neiget, dort winkt es freundlich her Er grüst den strand mit Thränen, der Freiheit heil'ges zelt, 18 Er legt den Trauer-Talar, den staub'chen stab beyseit, Er schlürft den Freiheits Aether, sein Herz wird ihm so weit. Friede sei dir Pilger, Sohn Judas wein' nicht mehr, JUDEA'S SON. Judea's son shall wander in sackcloth wrapt, no more ;- With tears he greets the country where holy freedom dwells, He lays the mourning Talar, the dusty staff aside, He breathes the air of Freedom, his heart grows full and wide, Peace to the weary Pilgrim, let Judah weep no more, No form divides the brethren on Freedom's happy shore. PHYSICAL IMBECILITY OF EDUCATED MEN. It is a melancholy fact, that a large proportion of that class of men on whom rests the greatest weight of responsibility, are, physically speaking, least capable of enduring the wear and toil necessary to the faithful discharge of the duties expected at their hands. Especially is this true of the present generation of educated men; and to some extent will it admit of general application. Indeed, so universally is it acknowledged, that the pale face of the student has long been proverbial. And when here and there one has had the resolution to mingle with the laboring class, and secure health and hardihood at the expense of a sunburnt complexion, he has been the subject of wonder and remark, |