Newspaper Page Text
• 1
The ferment of a free, is preferable to the torpor of a despotic, Government.”
VOL. II*
ATHENS, GEORGIA, MARCH 23, 1833.
iUntvvi
A Ballad, written hy Charles Jeffries.
THE BRIDE.
Oh! take Hor, 1 it 1* faithlbl Mill,
And may the l>rkl 1 vow
Be i.icr'd .eld in after years
Ami -a.-nnly I reitlicd us now.
RcmemVr ’tis no common tie
TJn.t hinds Her yoothful heart:
’ I’is one that oniy truth should weave,
A nd only Death should part.
The joys ofChildhood’s happy hour,
The Home of rij>or years,
The treasur'd scenes of early youth, .
In sunshine and in tears; ,
The purest hopes her bosom knew,
When her young ho rt was free,
All these and more she now resigns,
To bravo the world with Thee.
Her lot in life is fixed with thine,
Its good and ill to share,
And well I know ’twill be tier pride,
To sooth each sorrow there ;
Then take her. and may fleeting time
Mark only Joy’s increase,
And thus your days glide sweetly on
In happiness nnd peace.
jtttorr llang.
From the Neu-York Traveller, Timet and Journal
A YANKEE “SINGED CAT.”
Turfmen readily understand the meaning of
the twolastwords inour caption, which to their
sorrow, while inexperienced,they have not un.
frequently encountered; but for the informa*
tion of those who may not beau /ditto this tech
nical of the Turfite, we will just state, that
the term “ singed cat” when applied to a horse,
is understood something after this wise : A
horse is entered for a sweepstakes, dr other
purse, whose appearance is rough, and ungain'
ly ; who perhaps is just taken out of harness,
ami apparently can hardly show his heels,
with i.o murk of training or even decent sta-
bling—looking lor all the world, as if the
crows hud a n.ortcage on him lor twice his worth.
Bin when he has secured ail lets against him.
self, from (lie “ green-horns,” he discovers
lii.s mettle, and the excllence of his speed and
bottom, telling dreadful talcs of pockets “to
let” at the close of the heat among his rivals.
“Mam a time mid oft,” have we listened
to recitals of these “encounters dire,” which
are never told with more real gusto than by
the su.ierer himself. We have thought some,
tit t< s of giving our readers a few stori s of
these “dire mishaps,” which almost every
o 1 ! Sportsman of the Turf can relate so hap.
pily, but have been spared the exertion, by
that indefatigable disciple of Momus, Dr.
Greane, lute of the Constellation. It is one
of Ins best conceits—founded on fact, and
will In read with great pleasure by all. We
heartily bespeak for it the attention of our rea
ders. •
It may not be considered out of place here,
to state that the following story is a selection
from a work in press, entitled “ .4 Yankee
anion* the Xu/hificrs,” and purports to be re
lated t >the author, by n South Carolinian.
THE TIN TEDLUk’s “8LKEPV DAVID.”
“ The V ankees, as 1 said before, are pt to
be too cute for us in every thing except horse,
flesh, and even sometimes in that. It was
this day three years a: o, and on this very
spot, that I entered my hors Southron for a
purse of two thousand doll .rs. He had won
a like some two years before with all ease.
In short he was the best horse at that time in
al! Carolina. ’I here were to he sure two
Ollier horses, and very line ones too,' entered
agai.ist him ; but they were no touch to South-
ron, and I was as sure of winning as I am of
sitting here at inis moment—when who should
come along but a d d Yankee with a tin-
cart'! He had the shabbiest, worst looking
horse you ever set ey es on. He was a lean*
slab-stded, cross-legged, rough-haired, milk-
and-molasses-colored son of a gu: , aS ever
Wmt on lour fogs. He Stood ail the time as
if he was asleep—-in fact; his owner called
him Sleepy David. In short, sir. he was such
a horse as would not have brought twenty
dollars.
Ii was near the hour of starting, when th
pedler whose exterior corresponded marvel.
Ions!- v.'.ih that of his ltor3C, and who said
. h** wus Zadoc Darker, to the astonish-
ment of all intinr fed a wish to enter his horse
alo. . with the rest; ‘ v - '
‘V‘ ' rlK,rs '' •' exclaimed I; wl.ot, that sleepy
looking u. \u there I You’d better cater him
for the turkey .buzzards.’ -•’■
‘ Not’s you know on, Mister,’ retained the
Y unkce, with some show of spirit! * To be
sure r he critter looks rather sleepy ts he
stands, and on that account I coll him Sleepy
David; but hc& a jo-tired smart horse for ail
that. He is like a singed cat, a darned sight
better than he looks. I should like tarnation
well to try him against some of your
Sout h Carolina horses. To be sure 1 didn’t
come all the way from home on purpose; but as
I was coming out this way with a load of tin and
other Indians, I thought I might time it so as to
kill two tun Is with one stone ; for, thinks I to
myself, if ‘ I can win. the purse and peddle
off my not ions at the same time, I shall make
a plaguy gt 'ey speck. * But 1 had to hunry on
the natit »n, to githere in season; and that’s
one reason it boss looks no kind sof shabby
“‘d out oTIdl ter this morning. But for all
**** he’ll p tXl ^ >rm like days work I tell you
Opposing h e had no idea of running his
horse, and that all he said was merely to grat
ify his propensity for talking, I bade him be
done, and not trouble me with his d d
Yankee palaver.
Why Mister,’ said he,«this is a free coun-
trv, and a man has a right to talk, or let it
afone, jest as he can afford. Now I’ve takcn
a good dealofpai ts to git here this morning
in order to run Sleepy David against some of
your Southern hosses. I aint a joking, sir,
I’m in airnest. 1 understand there is a purse
of two thousand dollars, and i should like
amazeingly to pick it up.’
You talk of picking up a purse of two thou-
sand dollars with that bit of carrion of yours !
Away with you, and don’t trouble us any
further.’
Well, if I can’t run, then I spose' I can’t;
but it’s darned hard any how for a man to take
so much pains as I have to come to the races,
and then can’t he allowed to run arter all.’
‘It’s too late now; by the rales of the
course the horse should have been entered
yesterday; however, if you’ll plank the en
trance money, perhaps you may get in yet.’
I said this by way of getting rid Of the fel
low, having no idea he could command a fourth
part of the sum required.
* How much might the entrance money be?’
drawing out a purse containing a few shillings
in silver and a few pence in copper. ‘ If it
aint mor’n a quarter dollar or so, I’ll plank it
on the nail.’
«It is two hundred dollars.’
‘Two hundred dollars!’ exclaimed the Yan
kee. ‘By golly, what a price! Why they
axed me only a quarter of a dollar to see the
elephant and the whole Caravan in New
York. Two hundred dollars! W’hy you must
be joking now. Bless me! my whole load
of tin ware, hoss, wagon and all wouldn’t fetch
that. But Mister, don’t you think I could gel
in for ten dollars ?’
‘Nothing short of two hundred; and that
must be paid in the short space of five min
utes.’
We now thought we had fairly got rid of
the fellow; but he returned to the charge,
and usked if fifty dollars would’tdo,theu seven
ty-five, then a hundred; and finding he could
not make a bargain for less than the regular
sum, he engaged to give it provided he could
find any one to loan him the money, for which
lie offered to pawn his wagon load of notions
and Sleepy David to boot. He asked one,
tnen another, to accommodate him with the
loan—declaring that as soon us ever he took
the purse, the money should be returned,
and he would give a dozen of tin whistles in-
to the bargain. He, however, got more curses
than coppers, until some wag, who had plenty
of cash, anu liked too sco the sport go on, lent
him the two hundred dollars out of sheer mal.
ice. Though, ;is it afterwards turned out,
the Y ankee had money enough about him, and
was merely playing the ’possum all the while.
His next object was to borrow a saddle.—
Here also he was accommodated; and taking
Sleepy David from the tin cart, he scrambled
upon his back and took lus station on the course.
You never saw a fellow sit on a horse so awk
wardly in all your life. Every body said he
would fall before he had gone a hundred yards,
ai.d some out of compassion urged him to
withdraw.
‘ Not by a darned sight,’ exclaimed he—
‘ Why do you think I’m such a tarnal fool as
to pay two-huudred dollars, and then not run
arter all ?’ ,
Others, who wanted to see the sport, though
it should cost some broken bones, encouraged
him to proceed—saj ing, as they laughed
tanced in one day, especially by such a mis-
crable looking devil as Sleepy David.
The second heat was now commenced;—
and, if I had before felt confident in the entire
superiority of my noble horse Southron, that
confidence was strengthened, as I again saw
him coming in ahead of the rest. I consid
ered the purse now as my own property.—
In imagination I had grasped it, and was
about putting it safely in my pocket, when—
Io and behold i the pedler’s. horse, which
was behind oil the rest, suddenly shot forward
as if the devil kicked liim on end ; and, stretch
ing, his neck like a crane, won the heat by
a throatlatcli.
Every body was astonished.* «That horse
mustlbe the devil himself,’ said one. «At least
he has the devil to back him,’ said a third;
‘ I was sure he would play you some Yankee
trick before he had got through.” Such were
the observations that passed from mouth to
mouth.
The Yankee, in the meantime, offered to
plank another thousand dollars; but nobody
would take the bet. And it was well they
didn’t; for at the third heat, Sleepy David
not only distanced every horse, but even
came in a full Quarter of a mile ahead of South.
jon himself. ,
‘ There, by gauly !’ said the Yankee, as
he dismounted, ‘ I’ll take that are leetle purse
if you please, and the tother cool thousand !
I knew well enough that yuor Southron hoss
es couldn’t hold a candle to sleepy David.’ ”
From Irving's “Tales of a Traveller.”
Mv Mother.—Buckthome had gone out
into the world; had experienced the coldness
of its selfishness, and the bitterness of its ad
versity, and had returned again to the haunts
of his childhood, to spend the remainder of
his days:
As I was rambling pensively through a
neighbouring meadow, in which I had many a
time gathered primroses, I met the very pe
dagogue, who had been the tyrant and dread
of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to
myself, when suffering under his red, that I
would have my revenge, if I ever met. him
when i had grown to be a man. The time
had come; but I had no disposition to keep j
my vow, —
rocked to sleep in a mother’s arms, and was
without care or sorrow. «0 mother,” ex
claimed I, burying my face again in the grass
of the grave ; “ O that I were once more by
your side ; sleeping never to waken again on
the cares and troubles of this world.”
I am not naturally of a morbid tempera,
ment, and the violence of my emotion grad-
ually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, hon
est, natural discharge ofgrief, which had been
slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful
relief. I rose from’the grave, as if I had
been offering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if
that sacrifice had been accepted.
I set down again on the grass, and plucked
one by one the weeds from the grave ; the
tears trickled down my cheeks, and ceased to
be hitter. It was a comfort to think that she
had died before sorrow and poverty come up
on her child, and all his great expectations
were blasted.
Cure fob the Consumption—An English
chemist of high fame, Mr. John Murray, of
Hull, F. 3. A. dec. has discovered what he
firmly believes to be a cure for the tubercular
phthisic, or fargone consumption. His work
on this subject which is dedicated tothe Duke
of Wellington, contains the result of twelve
years inquiry, during which period his thoughts
have been exclusivly bent to this noble and
philanthropise object. In the progress of his
investigation, he came to the very rational con
elusion, and one which has impressed many
other minds, that if any remedy should ever
be found out for structural diseases of the
lungs, it must be some one which may be
brought into immediate contact with the dis
eased surface, and when there,have the power
of subduing the morbid action, without dimin
ishing the general tone of the system. At
length Mr. Murray believes that he has dis
covered such a remedy in the vapor of nitric
acid; and this fact is the more worthy of atten
tion, since it came from a source where em,
pyricism cannot be suspected.—Boston Medi
cal and Surgical Jour.
Columbus By the Genoese and the Span
iards he was regarded as'a man resolved on
The few years which had matured \ a “ wild dedication of himself to, unpathed
waters, undreamed of shores and the court
me into a vigorous man, had shrunk him into
j decrepitude. He appeared to have had a par
alytic stroke. I looked at him, and wonder
ed that this poor helpless mortal could have
been an object , of terror to me; that I should
have watched with anxiety the glance of that
falling eye, or dreaded the power of that
trembling hand. He tottered feebly along
the path,und had some difficulty in getting
over a stile. I ran, and assisted him. He
looked at me with surprise, but t^id not re
cognize me, and made a low bow of humility
and thanks.
I had no disposition to make myself known,
for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The
pains he had taken, and the blows he had in-
dieted, h id been equally useless. His re-
peated predictions were fully verified, and I
felt that little Jack Buckthome the idle boy,
had grown to be a very good-for-nothing man.
This is all very comfortless detail ; but as
I have told you of my follies, it is meet that I
show you, how for once 1 was schooled for
them. The most tlio l fotless of mortals will
some time or other h^ve ifis day of gloom,
when he will be compelled to reflect.
I felt on tliis occasion as if I hail a kind of
penace to perform, and I made a pilgrimage
in expiation of my past levity. Having pass
ed a nijit at Leamington, I set off by a pri
vate path, which le ids up a hill through a
aioud, that they had no doubt but he would j grove, and across quiet fields, till it came to
carry oii the purse. ! the small village church. It is an old low
‘That’s what I mean to do,’ said he—‘I j edifice of gray stone, on the bro»\of a small
haint come here for nothing, I can .tell you. , hill, looking over fertile fields, towards where
Woke up Sleepy David, and look about you; you the proud owners of Warwick castle lift them-
must have your eyes open to-day ; it’s no time j selves against the distant honzon.
MIL £L G. FOSTER’S ORATION
BEFORE TIIE
Demosfhenian Society
OF FRANKLIN COLLEGE.
DEMOSTHENIAN IIALL,
February 19 th, 1833.
On motion of Professor Hull, the following reso
lutions were unanimously passed:
1st, Resolved, That the thanks of the Society are
due, and be tendered to Mr. Foster, for the able and
.eloquent Oration this day delivered before us.
2d, Resolved, That a Committee be appointed to
wait upon Mr. Foster, and request a copy of his
Oration for publication.
% B. FRANKLIN,
P. CLAYTON, £ Committee
H. JACKSON,
Athens, February 20th, 1833.
Dear Sib :—It is with unfeigned satisfaction that
tha Society, through their Couunittc 3, present to you
their thanks for the very able and eloquent Oration
delivered before them on the 19th inst. Believing
that it will meet the approbation of the public, the
Society politely requests a copy for publication.
With sentiments of regard and best wishes for
your future welfare, we remain your friends aud fel
low members.'
BEDNEY FRANKLIN, 1
PHILIP CLAYTON, [Committee.
HENRY JACKSON, J
1 Athens, 20f& February, 1833.
Gentlemen I have received your highly compli-
mentary note, requesting in the name of the Demos-
thenian Society, a copy of the Oration I had the
honor to deliver before yon on the 19th inst. and
herewith send you the Address, together with my
sincere thanks for your flattering opinion of its mer
its. When I entered upon the duty, I expected no
other reward than the approbation of the Body which
called me to it. If I have gained that, I am content.
Accept my best wishes for the welfare of our So
ciety, and your individual happiness.
A. G. FOSTER.
Messrs. B. FRANKLIN, 1
P. CLAYTON, [Committee.
H. JACKSON, 5
of Portugal endeavoured to rob him of the
glory of his enterprise by secretly despatch
ing a vessel in the course which he had poin
ted out. He used to affirm that he stood in
need of God’s particular assistance in that
voyage of discovery; like Moses when he
led forth the people of Israel, who forebore
to lay violent hands upon him because of the
miracles which God wrought by his means.
« So,” s id the admiral, « did it happen to me
on that oyage.” «And so easily,” says a
commen '.tor, “ are the workings of the evil
one ovei 'ome bv the power of God!” “ His
person,’jsays Herrera, “ had an air of gran
deur. Bis hair, from many hardships, had
long beej gray* Ih liim you sawaman of uncon
querable courage and high thoughts ; patient
of wronfo, calm in adversity, ever trusting in
God: arid had he lived in ancient times,
statues qid temples would have been erec
ted to hm without number, and his name
would have been placed among the stars.”
Histoiy.—Whatever withdraws us from
the power of our senses; whatever makes the
past, the distant, or the future, predominate
over the present, advances us in the dignity
of thinking beings. Far from me, and far
from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as
may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved,
over any ground which has been dignified
by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The man is
little to be envied whose patriotism would not
gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or
whose piety would not grow wanner among
the ruins of Iona.
to be snoozin when there’s money at stake.’
The horse, as if he understood what his
master was saying, opened his eyes, pricked
up his ears, and actually showed some signs
ofiite.. - '
The signal was now given to start. Away
spr. aig Southron, with the speed of lightning,
ana away sprang the oilier Southern horses,
leaving Sleepy David far in the rear, and the
pedler Verging from side to side, as if he was
just ready to tall off. Tae horse went paw
ing along with his tail. clinging close to his
haunches, and liis nose stuck out straight be
fore aim; and you never beheld so queer a
figure cut by any man and horse us tlus an
gular pair made.
But they improved as they proceeded; the
pedler sat more jockey-like, and the horse ev
idently gained upon the others. But it would
not do. He came in half a mile behind South
ron and . a little less behind the others.
It was now thought the Yankee had got
enough of .the race* and. would wUhdraw be
fore the next heat. Contrary jto all.. expecta
tion, however, he persevered; and even offer
ed to bet a thousand dollars on the issue of
the race.
* The fellow’s a fool,’ said one. _
.‘■He don’t know which side his bread is
buttered,’ said-anothcr, * or .else he wouldn’t
risk any more money on so desperate a stoke.’
* He’s safe enough there,’ said a third, < for
he has no more to risk.’
' Here however, every body was mistaken
again, for the pedler hauled out an old grea
sy pocket book and plunked the thousand dol
lars. It was covered of course. But I con
fess I now began to be. staggered; and to
suspect the Yankee urns, after all, more knave
than fool. I had no fears, however, for the
purse. Southron was not a horse to be djs-
A part of the church-yar 1 is shaded by
large trees. Under one of them my mother
lay buried. You have no doubt thought me a
light, heartless being. I thought myself so ;
but there are moments of adversity which let
us into some ieelin s of our o-vn nature, to
which we might otherwise remain perpetual
strangers.
I sought my mother’s grave; the weeds
were already matted over it, aud the tomb
stone was half hid among the nettles. I clear
ed them away, anc they stung my pained
hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for mv
heart ached too severely. I sat down op tiie
grave, and read over again the epitaph on the
stone. #
It was simple, but it was trie. .1 had writ,
ten it mvself. , I h id tried to write a poetical
epitaph, butiu vain: myfeelin s refused to utter
themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually
been tilling during my lonely wanderings ; it
was now charged to the brim, and overflow
ed. I sunk upon the grave and. buried my
face in the tall grass, and wept like a child.
Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as* I
had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother.
Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother’s
tenderness while living! How heedless are
we in youth of all ier anxieties and kindness!
But when she is dead and gone ; when the
cares and colduesu of the world come wither
ing to our hearts, when we learn how hard it
is to find truesy rapt ithy,how few love us forour-
selves, how tew will befriend us in ourmisfor-
.tunes—then it is tliat we think of the mother
we have lost. v _
It is true I loved my mother, even in my
most heedless daytt; but*I felt how inconside
rate and ineffectual had been my love. My
heart melted as I retraced the days of infiin.
ORATION.
To follow man through all the windings of
his history, from the commencement of his
existence to the present time, would be a la
borious as well as a useless task. Spring
ing up in Paradise, he commenced his course,
like some small rivulet which rises in the
wilderness ; feeble at first, but gathering
strength and vigor from every humble tributa
ry which pours in to lend its aid. At one
moment rolling a gentle stream, without wave
or ripple to disturhthe tranquillity of its bosom,
anon sweeping along to the dreadful precipice,
leaping from rock to rock, and from clitf to
cliff, till gathering all ils energies, it plunges
into the roaripg abyss below. The rising
foam and heaving waves tell the mighty con
cussion of rushing waters, and. massive rocks,
which meet together in dreadful conflict.—
But soon quietness returns tothe troubled sur
face, it fiows along a placid stream, its banks
presenting at every view a variety, and beauty
of scenery; on one side rises the mountain rock
decked with all the wildness and sublimity of
nature, here the vine twines its tender branch
es about the clinging shrubs, there the gen
tle flowret springs and unfolds its beauty and
its fragrance to the senses of the passing
traveller; while the vale clustered with
shrubs and evergreens, stretches itself’out
to the foot of the distant hill. All this mix
ture of beauty and sublimity, never fails to
excite in the beholder ideas, grand and de
lightful.
Between all this and the course of man,
there exists much similarity. In one age, or
] under one government, happiness and prosper
ity may appear to' dwell in every quarter;
public institutions may flourish, the arts and
sciences may be cultivated, orators may shine
in brilliancy, philosophers may teach, and po
ets siag. Tlfe great men of every profession
may be enrolled upon the page of history, to
be envied by after generations, as having liv
ed in an age or a country most fortunate to
There is nothing people are so much ashamed man * The surface of society may be cairn
of as truth. It is a common observation, that
those wliose writings are most melancholy, are
often most lively in conversation. They are
ashamed of their real nature; and it is a curi-
ous fact, but one which all experience owns,
that people do not desire so much to appear
better, us to appear different from what they
really are. A part is to be played in compa
ny, and most desire that part to be an attract
ive one; but nothing is more mistaken than the
means. A sincere wish to pleasejus sure to be
successful; but instead of wishing to please, we
rather desire to display. The eye is restless to
watch its opportunity—the lio feverish with
some treasured ’phrase; we grow jealous from
competition, and envious with apprehension!
and all things march on in peace and harmo
ny to the consummation of the great designs
of nature. In such an age or country, virtue
may have reigned and gathered the people
under its protecting wing, to save them from
the destructive toffs of vice and immorality.
In another age, under another government,
faction may have come like a raging storm,
and rent asunder and scattered to all the winds,
every sacred ligament which served to bind
together and save the people. Or despotism
may have laid its withering hand upon the
people, and spread over the land one wide
scene of horror and despair. Nothing like
virtue may hav^been there to lift its warning
voice, and intercede in behalf of the inhabi
tants./but one wide moral desolation have
we think of ourselves till wp forget those very
others for.whose applause we are striving: dis- brooded over the ean..
appointment comes, as it often docs, to even
well founded hopes—then how much more so
to exaggerated expectation? mortification suc
ceeds, and vanity covers all as agarment, but
a poisoned one, like the centaur’s, envenom-
ing and inflaming every wound.
• Discharging a Load.—A bachefor in Es-
sex county, who was somewhat stricken with
years, had been some time enamoured with
one of the maiden sisterhood, but could not
muster courage enough to pop the question.
One day he was resolved to make the attempt.
He accordingly went .to the house, knocked at
.ne door, and his lovely dulcinea made
her appearance. After a mutual nod, the
following laconic dialogue ensued: “ Do
.yoit want'to change your condition?” “No.”
—“ Nor I neither.” Aq,d turning about, our
bachelor concluded 'the conversation with,
BBBBBBBPRRWWWWWUP “ Thank heaven i Tve got that load off my
cy, when I was led by a mother’s and stomach.’’'—Dedham Ado. ‘
The same country is often seen under a
variety of forms, at one time it presents a pic
ture of affairs which indicates A huppy, and glo
rious'nation. At another, nothing is found,
either iii the government, or among the peo
ple, at all indicative of prosperity, but on the
contrary, every thing inspires a belief that
the nation is in a state of absolute decay, and
must soon give signs of utter ruin. There
is always some leading principle whieh char
acterizes the actions and movements of eve-
ry government, and on this leading principle
depends the prosperity or decay of the nation.
Among one set of men, it may be laid down
as a principle, that moraliyis the foundation
of all gfeat and good governments. Witu
others it'may be taken for granted, that to
follow the dictates, and be governed only by
the light of nature, in regisrd to all moral ac
tions, constitute the basis of all true greatness.
And in reviewing the past history of all na
tions, .we find that so far as the former maxim
m i. ;
r—ia—■awBMEMli
is obeyed, and the latter avoided, so for docs
a nation attain the ends after which it seeks.
I lay it down, then, as the foundation for my
remarks, that morality makes a nation great.
And in pursuing the subject, it becomes ne
cessary to take a general • review of the past
ages ot the world, and draw conclusions from
the different nations that huve existed,the mo
tives which urged them to action, the princi
ples on which they acted, and the final end
to which such actions led them.
The history of the world may be V divided
Into three grand intervals, commencing at the
creation, and extending to the present time.
Of the generations which preceded Noih, lit
tle is known ; no human miad is able to pen
etrate the darts! gloom which oversprei.d the
world during the time of the deluge, and read
th.' transactions of men who figured there so
many thousands of years ago. The history
written by Josephus, and the facts related in
the Old Testament, throw but a glimmering
light upon those known as Antediluvians; yet,
that such a people existed we have no doubt,
and the faint picture we are enabled to gain
through the dark vista of time, shows the
great depth to which they were sunk *:i mis
ery and wretchedness, by actions vicious and
immoral. But as a minute investigation of
the actions, and characters of the Antedilu
vians is inexpedient on the present occasion,
we leave it to the scrutiny of the antiquary
to ascertain aud communicate to the world
the important events which transpired during
that period of man’s existence.
The second grand interval extends from the
deluge, to the establishment of the Olympic
games. From the uncertainty of the events
of that period, and from mixture of fabulous
tales, and mythological stories with the histo
ries of the times, it may be termed the fabu
lous age. Gods and demigods wen numer
ous as the cities and villages of the several
nations of the earth. Yea ! every virtue and
every vice was known by the name of some
supposed overruling Deity. Every* thing re
corded as having transpired there, seems (o be
touched with the highest colouring of the im-
agi iution. Enthusiasm was the gal at whose
shrin the hero knelt. Battles were fought,
and wars carried on, not for liberty or the
rights of man, but for martial renown. The
people of that age had their great men, and
their presiding gods, their heroes in the field,
and their sages in the counsel. Hero the
dauntless Ajax stood, there the immortal
Achilles—here the god-like Hector, arrayed
his warriors, there the idolizing Paris doated
on the object of his affection—while in the
councils of the Greek sages, Nestor stood and
quelled the rising tide of faction.
Superstition which is natur.il to man, be
comes tenfold mors powerful when .acting up
on ignorance. And the want' Of^lirtowledgo
among the men of that, age, rendered, the-
world one wide temple, filled' with gods, aftd
oracles, before whom the people knelt, and
worshipped. A few bright meteors of sci
ence il-ished across the benighted world, but
they were only objects of wonder tu the pop
ulace, who looked on and became more igno
rant. Philosophy looks back and smiles at
the actions of the sons of infant times groping
their way, ignorant from whence they came,
unknowing whither they tended; conscious off
ah existence, yet ignorant for wiiat purpose ;
catching at every system of superstition, and
hanging their hopes upon every object which
addressed their eager imaginations.
But for antiquity we cure little, in. compari
son with the events of more modern times-.—
The politician'and tiie statesman—ftic law
maker and the economist, may wish to aaa-
lifce ancient institutions, that from, thence they
may g::in experience, and be enabled to
adopt such measures' in governnK-nt, fir lay
down such rules in economy, as may best suit
the interest and circumstances of foe present
age; Blit he who is not over-scrupulous about
ancient customs, and by-gone institutions, the
nearer he comes doWn in chronology to his
own age, feels the more i iterost in t he. trans
actions of men. He has little care for things
which are scarcely visible through the dim
ness of distance.
Quitting, then, the r.ge of fiction and unc er
tainty, lei us take a view of what lias trans
pired during the last and greatest period of
the world. Many nations have risen tin! fal
len, mAuy generations have come and gone
since history began to assume aii aspect of
authenticity. And first, hail Classic Greece!
the birth.place of freedom—the hc inrs of the
muses: thy sons first taught the rig its of man t
—4hy bards first sang the: exploits of freemen.
The-monuments of thy b etter days yc~'s and
objects of emulation for sluggish raiJerns.—-
Thy heroes are yet unrivalled,-,thy orators are
yet without a parallel. Tlxe 'decaying cpl--
umns of the portico yet tell.of the S.oic, white
the untrodden walks of the garden, speak' ©f
the Peripatetic.
High on the brilliant list of fame,
Philosophers and Poets hams, .?•.
’ • Eternal glory round them shed,
And great Socrates at their head.
The sons of Greece .were virtuous, |>a’rip -
ic, brave, but the invader came. The virtue
of her citizens died with the precepts of her
lawgivers, and the spirit which arm jd them at
Thermopyke, expired on the plains of Chero-
niaj. Hear glory is enfemfod with, tier heroes,
and her learning lies hid in the urn of b.er phi
losophers. The nithleaJ oppresBcr h;is long-
since profaned her temples, and trampled on
her altare; a sullen stiliicss prev.ftls where
once was life, bustle and businsts. j Nd moB?
doss the orator plead, (>r the poe* sing-—ho
more is the busy artist liaard, dr ihe painter
