Newspaper Page Text
BY JOES W. JONES.
The Southern Whig,
rtfKBKED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING.
TERMS.
Three dollars per annum, payable within six
months after the receipt of the fit st number, or
fur dollars if not paid within the year. Sub
scribers living out of the Stale, will be expect
ed in all cases, to pay in advance.
No subscription received for less than one year
unless the money is paid in advance; and no
paper will be discontinued until all arrear
ages are paid, except at the option of the pub
lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance
of their Papers, are requested to bear in mind,
a settement of their accounts.
Advertisements will be inserted at the usual
rates; when the number of insertions is not
specified, they will be continued until ordered
out.
All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on
matters connected with the establishment,
must be post paid in orderto secure attention.
(gy-Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by
Administrators, Executors, or Guardians,
must be published sixty days previous to the
day of sale.
The sale of personal Property, in like manner,
must be published forty days previous to
the day of sale.
Notice to debtors and creditors oi an estate must
be published forty days.
Notice that Application will be made to the Court
of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne
groes, must be published four months.
Notice that Application will be made for Letters
jo administration, must be published thirty
bays and Letters of Dismission, six months.
PROSPECTIS
OF the
WIES®»
THIS paper formerly edited by Wm. E.
Jones, is now under the direction of the
undersigned. The growingimportance of Ath
ens, the state of parties in Georgia, and the
agitation of certain questions having a direct
influence on southern interests; render it neces
sary '.hat the northwestern part of Georgia
should have some vigilant, faithful sentinel
always on the watch tower, devoted to a strict
construction of the true spirit ofthe constitution,
the maintainance ofihe rights and sovereignty
of the States, the retrenchment of executive
patronage, reform, and a strict accountability
of all public moderate, yet firm and
iy • jHHFrT- - • <.,. .. *•
popular wonc^^n^la^^ra^Wmous’depart'
merits of Agriculture. Literature arid the Arts.
To Georgians the undersigned is conscious
he appeals not in vain for an increase of patron
age—and he respectfully asks the friends of
constitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob
tain subscribers.
The Southern Whig is published weekly in
Athens Georgia, at Three Dollars per annum
payable in advance, Three Dollars and fifty
cents if not paid within six months, or Four
if not paid until the end of the year.
J. W. J ONES j
Athens, Aug. 8,1836.
THE INDIAN’S PANACEA,
FOR the cure of Rheumatism, Scrofula or
King’s Evil, Gout, Sciatica or Zfip Gout,
Incipient Cancers, Salt Rheum, Siphditic and
mercurial diseases, particularly Ulcers and
painful a fleet ions of the bones, Ulcerated Throat
und Nostrils, Ulcers of every description, Fever
Sores, and Internal Abscesses, Fistulas, Piles,
Scald Head, Scurvy, Biles, Chronic Sore Eyes,
Erysipelis, Blotches, and every variety of Cu
taneous Affection; Chronic Catarrh; Headache,
proceeding from an acrid humor: Pain in the
Stomach and Dyspepsia proceeding from v.tia.
tion; Affections of the Liver; Chronic Inflama
tion of the Kidneys, and general debility caused
by a torpid action ofthe vessels of the skin. It
is singularly efficacious in renovating those con
stitutions which have been broken down by in
judicious treatment, or juvenile irregularities.
In general terms, it is recommended in all those
diseases which arise from impurities of the I
blood, or vitiation of the humors, of whatever
name or kind.
Some ofthe above complaints may require
some trifling assistant applications, which the
circumstances of the ease will dictate; but for a
general remedy or purijicator, to remove the cause,
The Indian’s Panacea will generally be found
suftiicient.
For sale bv REESE & LORD.
May 14 ' 2 ts.
CAREY’S LIBRARY
OF CHOICH LITERMVRE,
I TAS now completed its first Six Months of
publication, and the publishers ofler the
following works in testimony of the fulfilment
of the promises made to the public in the jrigin
al prospectus.
Life of Sir James Mackintosh, by his Son.
Kincaid’s Rifle Brigade.
Characteristics of Hindostan.by Miss Roberts.
One in a Thousand, by G P. R. James. 1
Rienzi, by E, L. Bulwer.
Random Recollections of the House of Com- ,
mons.
The Second Volume has commenced with
Selections from The Dramas of Joanna, llaillie,
and Confessions and C~imes, or Posthumous Re
cords of a London Clergyman— a work resem
bling in style, and supposed to be by the same
author, as the celebrated Tales from the Diary
of a Physician.
The First Volume can be had separate, with
out subscribing to the work, upon the remit
tance of $2 50 to the publishers.
The Library is published weekly, containing i
Twenty imperial octavo pages, and the Literary ]
Advertiser, which accompanies it, four pages, .
and is bound up at the end of every volume. J
Price per annum, in advance, $5. £
Address, E. L, CAREY &A. HART, I
Or, LOUIS A. GODEY,
Philadelphia. .
CLUBBING.
A remittance of Five Dollars will command
the first volume of the Library and the A/arry
att Novels, complete in 8 numbers, containing
Peter Simple—Jacob and
Three Cutters—King’s Own—Newton Foster
—Pacha of Many Tales—and Japhet in Search
c f his Father —or
First Volume of Library and Lady’s Book.
Papers exchanging with the Library will
c »nfer a favor by inserting the above.
Two Apprentices,
WILL be taken at this office. Boys
from the country will be preferred.
Southern Whig
The following beautiful and eloquent Ode has
been written by Park Benjamin, Esq., at the
request of the Committee of Arrangements, to
be sung in Church in Boston, during the servi
ces in honor of Madison:—[BosZ- Mom. PusZ.]
How shall we mourn the glorious dead?
What trophy rear above his grave,
For whom a nation’s tears are shed—
A nation’s funeral banners wave !
Let Eloquence his deeds proclaim,
From sea-beat strand to mountain goal:
Let Hist'ry write his peaceful name,
High on her truth-illumined scroll.
Let Poetry and Art through Earth
The page inspire, the canvass warm—
In glowing words record his worth,
In living marble mould his form.
A fame so bright will never fade,
A name so dear will deathless be;
For in our country’s shrine he laid
The charter of her liberty.
Praise be to God ! His love bestowed
The chief, the patriot, and the sage,
Praise God ! to Him our fathers owed
This fair and goodly heritage.
The sacred gift, time shall not mar,
But Wisdom guard what Vajor won—
While beams serene her guiding star,
And Glory points to Madison !
.fHtmllaneous.
From the Knickerbocker.
our village:
A COLLECTION OF SKETCHES FROM ‘STILL LIFE.’
The village of Johnstown lay cradled
between two hills, in a quiet green valley.
A stream wound lazily through this valley,
which kept the slopes and level at the bot
tom shining with a living green. It al
ways was a dull-looking spot, and every
object about it appeared just so tranquil,
and just so indolent. Every thing, animate
and inanimate, seemed asleep one half the
time, like a silent spot deserted by the
plague. Yet Johnstown was ancient; ma
ny had been born and many had died there;
and many lived there to keep up the quo
rum of the place A man once caught
within the magic of its atmosphere, seldom
escaped; he was a prisoner for life, and
left his bones within its soil. There had
been no new buildings erected for many
years: this would have been sacrilege.—
Deacon Jones’ house, there
"body’s; and what was termed
Y;, about the centre of the
knew jtist where
■»., never entered
"A ■?yPl *A . people that a
e effected.—
church at the
upper end of the a little wood
en spire, and a wooden fish to point the
way of the wind. The spire, which once
undoubtedly stood boldly up, leaned with
a weight of years, and the fish looked
downward into the burying-yard, as if
seekinga place ofrepose. The clap-boards
were loose and fluttering, and the winds
piped a sad and crazy song among them.
Yet the old church had looked just so for
many years; no one thought of disturbing
i it. There never have been, save the pre
sent, but four ministers within its walls,
and they lingeted so long upon earth, that
they seemed to pass away by a gradual
translation. You may know their graves
by yon little hillocks, guarded with marble,
for the others are all humble hewn stone.
To assert for a certainty who was the
greatest man tn the village, would be a
task. Lawyers usually occupy this dis
tinction; but there Avere no lawyers in
Johnstown. They could not live. The
doctor was thought to be a great mtn, but
it was not for a certainty known. The
‘doctor,'as he was universally termed, re
sided in a low white cottage, upon the
brow of the hill, and of course looked down
upon his patients that lived in the line of
buildings which bounded the creek. Here
he was born, and here his father and
grandfather followed his profession before
him. Thegrandfatherseemed to bequeath
his skill to his son, and from him it descend
ed to the grandson. The people of Johns
town looked upon them as born physi
cians, and alone capable of filling that sta
tion. They seemed to view them as ap
pointments by the Creator, as the gover
nor makes appointments for the state.—
The grandfather had a thread-bare sur-
tout-coat, a wide brimmed hat, a pair of
goggles, and an old mouldy carriage, all
which, with his profession, descended to
the son, and so downward. The grand
father drove one horse for fifty years, and
ere death came to his relief, it was thought
he was well nigh as skillful as his master—
for he had been among medicine and the
sick all bis days, The horse undoubtedly
passed off by consumption, for his sunken
eye and emaciated form—his nerveless
limbs and dependent tail—were, as the
doctor said, symptoms which should not
pass unnoticed. If any one would know
the last narrow home of this faithful beast,
his poor remains may be fw * in
tier of the doctor’s yarder l
at his head
speaks ;
E t ( with
» ; * been called
: £s the gra/id/b-
‘ .. * ’ . may be read
V ;OR aged
»■ /»wn’sjir.ff physician.’'
Wlk.exhibited any vanity
by to adorn his
not. He recorded
the truth^wSSh—Heaven pardon the false
hood I—is more than could be said ol eve
ry epitaph. ‘He lies like a tomb-stonu !’ is
a common and very expressive phrase.
The doctor left to Johnstown his son Eze
kiel, and to him his profession, and title.
Things soon resumed their old appearance;
and a new horse having teen enlisted, the
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE AST IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” J'fferson.
old carriage moved around asain as if no
thing had happened. Os course, Ezekiel
was considered equal to his father, and the
utmost confidence was placed in him. He
could not be superior, for that would be
impossible; he must be equal, for he had
inherited his wisdom. Ezekiel and his
horse, after the lapse of fifty years, passed
off the stage; the horse and his master be
coming the proprietors each of a grave
and a monument by the side of their pre
decessors. Then came Peter. Peter was
the one I am about to treat of, and descen
ded as he is from such illustrious ancestors,
great merit is undoubtedly anticipated.
Ezekiel left three children, the youngest of
whom was this self-same Peter. He of
course equipped himself in the coat, hat,
and goggles before spoken of—for without
these, the good people of the village would
have had no faith in him : the clothes were
indispensable Another horse being en
gaged—canonized as it were—set apart
and devoted to a high-calling—the car
riage commenced its rounds, and death
was again set at defiance. Now—to re
sort to the previous question—whether
Doctor Peter Ranney was the greatest
man in Johnstown, was not certainly
known. He was seldom heard to speak,
and ever maintained a gravity of demeanor
which betokened a mighty mind. ‘Old
Aunt Williams,’ as she was universally
termed, was taken one evening very vio
lently with bilious cholic. With the speed
of lightning, intelligence flew to ‘the doc
tor.’ The doctor looked wise, ordered,
with a moderate tone, his horse; sipped
quietly his tea. and in about half an hour,
with great precision, walked out to his car
riage and seated himself. He drove off
with a moderate trot, for it was inconsist
ent with dignity to exhibit any hurry or
discomposure. He arrived qt his patient’s
abode amid the fury and stir attendant
upon a case of life and death. Without
turning either to the right or left, he pass
ed by the weeping and inquiring friends,
to the room of the invalid—drew up a
large arm-chair to the fire, where he seat
ed himself—and with his head wisely lean
ing upon his hand, fixed his eyes intently
upon the ashes. By his side’lay the suf
ferer, writhing in the severest agony, but;
the doctor ruminated, perfectly composed.
At last he rose, turned upon the merits of
the case, inquired what treatment had
been pursued, which was answered by a
multitude of voices, each one of which
were prescriptions of a different nature.
‘All right—all right’—said the doctor, with
a wave of the hand, and departed. The
patient survived, and the doctor was laud
ed for his skill.
The people °f Johnstown never accus
ed Doctor Ranney of exhibiting much
knowledge, ‘but,’ they would say, putting
the palms of their hand across their fore
heads, ‘he has it here— he has wonders
stored away in his head—he is silent, but
deep: reflection upon vast and weighty
matters deprives him of speech.’ Old Ben.
Simons, who was rather shrewd, said it
was undoubtedly true that he had won
ders in his head, since nothing wonderful
ever came out of it. But Johnstown folks
considered such a speech as very wicked, i
and that none but a trifler in important I
matters would be guilty of uttering it - )
Doctor Ranney was consulted by the peo- I
pie in almost every thing relating to the '
welfare of the village; by jhY_ a y s i
considering upon it, ary" *■ -
to come to but onp-,*
right—all ’
‘the doctor’
man in the
tainty known.
Every village has its odd cJ. i,,r V T,i Unci'
Johnstown had its share. There were
‘the corporal’ and old uncle Tim. Both
were genuine wits, though of a different
school. The ‘coporal’—for he always
passed by that title—was a man in wreck,
being reduced by too frequent drafts of
good liquor from an exalted station in so
ciety to nobody and nothing. ‘Corporal
Jones’ was his full Johnstown name, though
forty years before, in another section of
the world, he passed as William Jones, Esq.
His morning day rose brilliant andunob
scured, but a pall hangs over the evening. '
He is essentially a lost man. I will just i
relate a little tale which he once told me ,
in confidence. It may soften the feelings. '
and half palliate his infirmities. He was,
at the age of thirty, possessed of a large
property, at which season he was about
being married. He was engaged, it ap-'
pears, to the daughter of a neighbor of his J
father, both of whom, neighbor and father, I
were bitter enemies. They consequently ’
opposed it. He was obliged to steal his |
bride by night. This he attempted during j
a heavy thunder storm, trusting to the
uproar of the elements to cover his pro- I
ceeding. While his affianced bride was
lowering herself by a rope from the win
dow, the heavens flamed up, a thunder
bolt fell, and she lay dead upon the earth,
black and scorched by the electric fluid.
She had been struck by lightning. ‘I have
been another man ever since,’ said he.—
But the‘corporal,’ after all, was a jolly
djellow. If a man wanted a few potatoes
for the corporal—a little mes-
look up the corporal. He
t, . servant. Johnstown |
Ifcas a great family, and he a per- I
Hpo listen to every call. He 1
and horse-trimmer, and
fruit-trees; these things he pro
fessed some skill in. The ‘ corporal’ al
ways said he was the most important cha
racter in the place. Some were complete
slavesto their money, which was the worst
species of tyranny; he always presumed
he should have as much ground to lie in
as the richest. So the ‘ corporal’ felt, and
so he viewed life and its vicissitudes.
‘Uncle Tim’ was quite another sort of
character. He was a soldier during the
Revolution, and was as full oftales of blood
and mirth, or any other species, as he
could hold. He possessed a good proper
ty, though he was not counted wealthy.
It was hinted occasionally that ‘Uncle Tim,
vyould, to make a good story, stretch it a
little; for, as he often said, ‘ a good thing ne
i ver should be ruined for want of being
ATHEYS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1886.
properly handled.’ He was to be found
at the tavern, sitting in his chair, with his
cane between his legs, at almost any hour
of the day. He also was the chronicle of
the whole village—the register of births,
deaths, marriages, crimes, etc., —could tell
all about every body’s father and grand
father—the age of every house and post
in the place. He also scrutinized with
great care every stranger who made a
temporary visit to the village, and was apt
to detect every thing which looked suspi
cious. Uncle Tim felt as if Johnstown
was under his especial care. He seemed
himself quite a monarch among the deni
zens. He was looked up to and listened
to The younger portion deemed him a
great man, tor he had fought in the revolu
tion. The fact was, uncle Tim did not
shine so much by his own superior light,
as by the darkness about him. This he
had sagacity himself sufficient to know;
therefore, it was his intention to lay his
bones in the village.
Johnstown tavern stood at the end of
one of the rows of houses which bound in
the creek. It was ancient, having num
bered near a century. The shingles upon
its roof were closely coated with a beauti
ful body of slippery green moss—the chim
ney had lost part of the bricks from its
top—carried away, as some assert, by the
witches—and its whole four sides were
browned and seamed by the whirlwind
and the storm. A low pillared balcony
once ran in front, but the columns had
mostly dropped away, and the floor sunk 1
down. In front, ran up a long slender pole,
crossed at the top like a letter T. at each 1
end of which hung a ball, in appearance 1
like a pumpkin. But—alas! that I must 1
record the fact—few landlords ever amass
ed wealth. They were too good to them- 1
selves— they. were their best customers. !
Old Willie Waters, who has been asleep 1
these fifty years, was the second in com- •'
mand—as fine a man as ever drew the
breath of life—but he woufd drink. Wil- !
lie never found a glass amiss; he was al- 1
ways ‘just in order,’ as he termed it, when 1
he found it convenient to wet his whistle, ■
Willie kept ‘just in order’ for about forty *
years, when his strength failed him, his ’
eyes became bound with a red rim, and 1
•purged thick amber and plum-tree gum.’ '
His tace colored up like the dying glories 1
of a sunset--his nose shone Eke a piece of '
precious metal—and all of a sudden, get
ting entirely out of order, his breath fled, *
and so he was buried. The peppermint, '
when the first gentle showers cooled his 1
grave, sprang forth green and luxuriant. 1
and continues to haunt the spot even at 1
this day. Poor Willie Waters! you are
embalmed in the memory of all Johnstown, |
as well as in your own tomb. There was,
tradition asserts, a wooden slab, most cu
riously carved, erected to his memory; but
time, which pulls down thrones, pulled that
down too. Upon it was inscribed, ‘Just
in order.' It was said strange noises had
been heard around the grave of Wilfie Wa
ters; for when the winds sang loud, and the
swaying tree-tops groaned heavily m the
gale, and the dark clouds moved low and
rapidly along the heavens, his restless spir
i it aroused itself, and a voice came forth
; proclaiming him ‘just in order,’
/ Ephraim Doolittle, who is now sole pro
| prietor, is a man of most singular charac- j
| ter. He says the world has all turned
| topsy-turvy within forty years, and Johns
and fashion, he de
’*’s and destruction.
? . ‘and what do
. ' rail-
new *fan*
good for?
I Does a man want to move like lightning,
breaking perhaps every bone in his body ?
Does the world thrive any better than for
merly? Are the people more wealthy ?
Do they live any longer?’ Such was
Ephraim’s philosophy. He would run
from internal improvement; he would look
upon a snake as soon as upon a. rail-road,
and loved one equally as well. Ephraim
wore the same style ofcostume which his i
grandfather wore before him, and he main
tained that it was the only one designed >
I for man by his Creator. He would not i
I have his house repaired, because it would
ibe executed in modern style: ‘no, not he; j
.it should rot to the earth first.’ He used i
‘ to say he could i.ot bear to look upon the !
natural world, even—every thing had be- ■
come transformed: sky. and stars, and
earth were different from the ancient days
! —• the good old ancient days,’ as he called
; them. Ephraim Doolittle was a bigot; yet ;
■ he made a good landlord, and was agree
; able enough when ‘ Uncle Tim’ was deal
j ing out some tale of the days past and
j g" ne
| It was seldom that the occupants of this
! spot found themselves in much commotion.
But a subject arose once, which came near i
dissolving the union. It was upon the ;
propriety of erecting a school-house, and :
supporting a teacher. It was indeed a
momentous question. The eloquence of]
the village assembled, and the arguments
of all were advanced. ’Squire Williams I
urged the necessity of establishing a school: I
‘The children of Johnstown, one of the |
most important villages in the country, are
i without the advantages of education; it is
{ a startling fact—l repeat it—it is a start
| ling fact* -and then he sat down, covered
with perspiration, and his face glowing like
j a coal.
j *•1 oppose that, root and branch.’ said
I Mr. Doolittle, choked wiffi indignation;
‘ who ever saw a schoolmaster fit for any
thing? They turn the brains of the chil
dren—raise them above the plain matter
of-fact business of the world—and make
them no better than madmen. Let me
ask,’ he cried, raising himself on tiptoe, and
swinging both arms like a windmill, ‘let
me ask what oup ancestors did ? AV hat
book-knowledge they knew, they learnt
between times—studied by the light of
pine-knots-T—nature taught them —and one
• man of that day was wiser than any ten of
. the present. Crain our children’s heads
, with book-knowledge, and common sense
i finds no room to work ! I oppose it, Sir,
- root and branch.’
; Deacon Bigelow arose ‘I, too, shall
c >me out against that,’ he said, ‘ because,
if our children get puzzled in any thing,
they can go to the minister, who will soon
make it all clear to them; it is a useless
expense, and ought not to be allowed in
society.’
Doctor Ranney got up, paused—push
ed up his goggles—looked around upon the 1
assembled talent—proclaimed, ‘ All right!'
and sat down again.
There was a short silence, for every one
felt the weight of the argument.
Uncle Tim thought education necessary,
but he supposed it was his duty, as well
as every other man’s to agree with Dr.
Ranney. The ‘corporal’ considered it a
disgrace to the village that no school had
been established, and he perfectly agreed
in the sentiments of ’Squire Williams.
Mr. Doolittle thought the ‘corporal’ ought
to be severely punished for applying the
term disgrace to one of the most consist
ent villages in the world—and that’Squire
Williams also merited a similar treatment.
This brought on confusion—and uproar
and wrangling dissolved thi : important as
sembly. So much for the school at Johns
town.
There was a great stir and commotion,
likewise, in Johnstown, when—one warm
and smoky morning in September—the
circus, with its wagons and a long line of
horses, passed into the village. They
were entertained at Ephraim Doolittle’s,
sign of the pumpkins, where the grand per
formance was to take place. This was a
day of jubilee for Johnstown. The bare
footed urchins danced and wheeled round
in circles, completely overflowing with
transport and animation. Business was
suspended—a general holiday commenced ,
—and‘the circus I—the circus!’ was the
only subject to be spoken of. Up rose the
snowy tents, like the sudden creation of
magic, and they were looked upon with a
silent and awe-struck wonder. But just
when the blue shadows of evening pointed
across the village, the whole company, ]
flashing with spangles and light, mounted
upon their richly-caparisoned horses, with
harlequin Tom at the head, paraded in
front of ’Squire Williams’ house, to the
astonishment of all Johnstown. Windows
flew up—doors swung back—old men ran
-r-for such a scene had never been wit- 1
nessed before, Tom blew a blast upon
his horn, and the little hills answered back
with a treble joy. Strange evolutions were
executed by the horses, but as this was on
ly a foretaste of the grand exhibition and
illumination at night, they vanished into
their tents, and left the gaping multitude
reflecting upon the mysteries of which they 1
had been spectators Night advanced—
and such a sight 1 The ‘corporal’—God
forgive his infi J ty.> : ” < U—had entered just
far enough bliss, to
place in the
centre of the in a burning
torrent of eloquence, he was endeavoring
to convince the good people of the abso
lute importance of every man’s drinking
three hogsheads of liquor per year. 1
shall never forget how he looked. Stand
ing as he did, with a red flash of sunlight
covering his whole head, like the halo
which crowns the heads of pictured saints,
both arms spread out like eagles wings, he
was springing into the importance of the
( subject, when his temporary foundation
I failed, and he sank by the weight of his
argument, lodging upon the chimes of the
barrel beneath his arms. ‘Uncle Tim,’
too, got in a talkative mood, and related
many strange tales, almost too strange to
be true.
The following morning, when the ex
hausted people of Johnstown arose, the
circus had departed, and the tents vanish
ed. They could not always think them
mortal, and some were full in the belief
that they had been amused by spirits. It
was a question never satisfactorily settled
among them, even to the present day.
There was once a great excitement
caused in the village by Ephraim Doolittle
imagining himself u dead man. The cir
; cumstances were these : One September
j day, when the sun was burning at the
i meridian, he was passing back and forth
I in front of his house, ruminating upon fash
' ion and modern improvement. He finally
| lost himselfin deep reflection, and sudden
j ly arousing to fits senses, he cast his eyes i
) about, and found he was shadowless, for it
j had vanished. He turned to the right and
to the left, yet nothing but bright sunshine
surrounded him. He grasped his limbs,
and they appeared sensible of the touch
1 —yet he must be a spirit without flesh, for
his shadow had left him. lie screamed
with fury, to attract the neighbors, to go
immediately in pursuit of his body—car
ried off. as he said, by internal improve
ment. The neighbors collected around
him, all in a bustle, trembling with fear,
i and searched for his shadow—but it was
jno where to be discovered. ‘Doctor Ran
j ney’ was sent for, but neither that worthy
| nor his goggles brought any thing to light,
i The docter thought him a dead man, all
I but burying. The ‘corporal,’ however.
; winked to‘Squire Williams, who returned
I it with a smile, and a look at his own feet,
I around which there was full as much shade
as around Mr. Doolittle’s. The neighbors
insisted upon burying Ephraim, and the
parson said he had a melting discourse
prepared for the occasion, Ephraim de
clared be was not a dead man, but mod
ern times had been reforming him; he
presumed his head would be missing yet—j
likely as not his hands—he should be sur- 1
prised at nothing any more; ‘and now.
while I think of it,’ continued he, ‘are you
all sure you carry shadows as you once
did ?’ They all looked, and behold they
had fled 1 It was an awful time for Johns
town, and the mystery has never been un
ravelled to this day. As the sun wore
away to, the west, tlieir shadows lengthen
ed out, which convinced them they were
yet mortal, and fleshly inheritors of the
productions of the earth.
Five years passed away, and again I
was called through the village of Johns
town. The old t avern, at the sign of the
two pumpkins, had drooped away yet low
er with age, and Ephraim had vanished,
shadow and all. I was told by the ‘cor
poral,’ (who was the only personage of the
celebrated characters above ground.) that
Ephraim died by a breach in a blood-ves
sel, while pouring out fire and fury against
a rail-road director. Johnstown appear
ed, however, just as lazy, and sleepy, and
i dull, as ever. You might hear the blue
flies, with their droning hum, all day in the
air; the dust in the streets was too indo
lent to rise; the pumpkins on the tavern
pole always hung straight down without
motion. The ‘corporal’ was every man’s
setvant, and said he was now getting to be
quite an important man, as Doctor Ranney
and Uncle Tim had been called away.
I hurried through the atmosphere about
me, for a languid influence began to creep
over my spirit, and a short time would
work my downfall. As I left the village
in my rear, I mounted a fertile upland,
and turning my eye caught the sign of the
tavern tipped with the parting light of day
—and thus I bade it farewell.
R.
From the Philadelphia Mirror.
As the following lines are just in time to be
Seasonable, we throw them into market:
QLDWIXTF.R IS COWING.
BY HUGH MOORE.
Old Winter is coming again—alack!
How icy and cold is he!
He cares not a pin for a shivering back,
He’s a saucy old chap to white and black,
He whistles his chills with a wonderful knack,
For he comes from a cold country!
A witty old fellow this Winter is;
A mighty old fellow for glee !
He cracks his jokes on the pretty sweet Miss,
The wrinkled old maiden, unfit to kiss,
And freezes the dew of their lipa—for thia
Is the way with such fellows as he!
Old Winter’s a frolicsome blade, I wot—
He is wild in his humour, and free!
He’ll whistle along for the ‘want ofhis thought,’
And set all the warmth of our furs at naught,
And ruffle the faces by pretty girls brought;
For a frolicsome fellow is he!
Old Winter is blowing his gusts along,
And merrily shaking the tree!
From morning till night he will sing his song;
Now moaning, and short—now howling and
long—
His voice is laud, for his lungs are strong—
A merry old fellow is he!
Old Winter’s a wicked old chap, I ween—
As wicked as ever you’ll see!
He withers the flowers, so fresh and green—
And bites the pert nose of the Miss of sixteen.
As she trippingly walks, m maidenly sheen!
A wicked old fellow is he!
Old Winter’s a tough old fellow for blows,
As tough as ever you’ll see!
He will trip up our trotters, and rend our clothes,
And stiffen our limbs, from our fingers to toes
He minds not the cries of his friends or his
foes—
A tough old fellow is he!
A cunning old fellow is Winter, they say,
A cunning old fellow is he!
He peeps in the crevices day by day,
To see how we’re passing our time away,
And marks all our doings, from grave to gay
I,m afraid he is peeping at me
From the Southern Literary Journal.
The Carthusians,
Upon examining the habits and charac
ter of the ancients, it is astonishing to find
how much more devout and assiduous they
were in their religious duties than the ge
neration of modern times. The few cen
turies immediately ensuing the birth of
Christ were especially marked with this
spiritual zeal. Nor was it the ardor of
devotion alone which was then so distin
guishing, but there likewise existed a vari
ety of sects, and a diversity of tenets, which
were almost innumerable. One of the
most singular among those various classes
of devotees, was the Carthusians, so called
from the desert Chartreux, the place of
their institution. This order was founded
in the year 1080, by one Bardo, and was
remarkable for the austerity of rule by
which it was governed. Its members were
not allowed (o go out of their cells, except
to church, without permission from the su
perior; por speak to any person without
leave from the same authority. They
were prohibited from retaining any portion
of their meat or drink for the ensuing day
to that when it was placed before them.
Their beds were of straw covered with a
felt, and their clothing composed of two
hair-cloths, two cowls, two pair of hose,
and a cloak, all of which were of coarse
texture. In the refectory, they were re
quired to keep their eyes on the dish, their
hands on the table, their attention on the
reader, and their hearts fixed upon God.
What power of self-denial was here exer
cised, and yet how mistaken a notion,
thus to worship their Maker in fear rather
than love.
From the Sunday Morning News.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Macandnl; or, the Negro Poiseacr of St.
Domingo.
This is not the history of a miserable slave,
suddenly roused by cruelty and injustice to im
molate an obscure victim to his temporary
j rage; It is the narrati’ eof a furious monster,
j who for twelve years spread alarm and terror
through an entire colony, by coiwnitting she
most atrocious crimes, and perpetrating the
most cold blooded murders that have ever (ali
en to i he mind of man to conceive, or the pen of
the historian to record. It was probably ow
ing to the injustice of the white man, that Mac
kandal became tf.e wretch he was; and to the
indignity with which he had been threatened,
and which forced him to, fly into the woods,
thereby separating him from afl intercourse
with civilized beings—we must trace that insa
tiable hatred of Europeans, and that delibera
tive cruelty t» his own countrymen and color
which marked the subeequient period of his
fl<>si ious career.
He was born in one of those almost n known
countries of Africa, situated in the neighbor,
hood of Mount Athos, which, at all times fruit
ful in pestilence, in monsters, and in barbarism.
Vol. IV—Yo. 27.
in this instance appears to have co .central!
all ns evils, and all its venom. Educated, v
ate told, in a superior manner to that whit
falls to the lot of ordinary negroes, Mackand
read and wrote the Arabic langunge with fie
eucy and grace; was passionately fond of mt
sic, painting, at.d sculpture, and though trans- 1
ported to St. Dotr.ingo at the tender age of It,
we are assured, on competent authority, thit
he was intimately acquainted with the medi
cinal pr iperties of those intertropical plants >
among the extensive ftmiligs of which, ~a
phila ithropisi discovers so many that are d ' u *
tarv to man; while the assassin and th' blur
derer, selects only those whose noxie JS
ties destroy the functions and dry jythe chan
nels of life. It was by this pertii-i° ,IS kuowl
edge of simples, that he became so obnoxious
10 the colony which had the <nisfortune to re
ceive, as will appear from the following hasty
sketch; Muckanda l was not a monster on hia
arrival in St. Domingo. Re was sold to a
colo ist who was rerywwl) aatisfied with his
services, and he was soon on the best terms
with all the other slaves on the property where
he was located; while, by the service which
he rendered them, he acquired in a short time
claims to their gratitude. He was their bene
factor and their friend. He directed their past
times, and was the soul of their pleasures, and
when either moral or physical evils afflicted
them, he became their comforter.
Mackandal was born with an ardent tempa
rament, and a fiery soul. It was noticed that
he evinced extreme diligence in his labor, and
in leisure hours shewed an irresistible passion
for pL-asure. E ery catendea (a kind of as
sembly to which the negroes and negresses re
sort) was dull when Mackandal was absent;
but when he was present, the most lively plea
sures sparkled in the ey< sos all. He had
been three years in St. Domingo, when the
passion of love developed itself in his soul with
the most asto ashing impetuosity. He was
between fifteen and sixteen whe i the first spark
of this devouri ;g fire seized upon him.
The principal white person on the property
loved a young negress, at the same time that
he became enamoured of her. Oie may east,
ly conceive how much this girl was embar
rassed in her choice b etween a rigorous and
despotic master, and the most distinguished
among the negroes. But her heart yearned
towards her equal, and the white superior was
rejected. Indtg iaiit at this affront, he disco
vered that Mackandal was the cause, aud he
determined to revenge himself. Mackandal,
however, in spite ofhis dissipation, and fond
ness fbr pleasure, performed his duty as a slave
with such zeal and diligence, that he had nev
er yet laid himself open to chastisement. The
white superior, anxious to detec* Mackandal
in fault, redoub’ed his vigilance, but in vain;
the slave was always irreproachable. But al
though his rival could uot find any cause of
punishment, he sought a pretext; and one day,
in the middle of a new plantation of sugar
canes, he ordered him to b- laid d >wn and to
have fifty lashes. Th -1 r ud Vac! a dal evo ’•
ed at ihis injustice, and so tar from humiliating
himself, replied with such fierceness to his
rival, thatthis bat barons order had b >come the
signal of his liberty. At the same time he
took the way to the mountains.
He fled to a number of maroon negroes, that 11
is to say deserters; and it was twelve years' 1
befo-e they captured him. He lived howeve? 1
in the midst of comrades. Aud how couk tu
the negroes dare to hetray their friend, theii
comforter, and their prophet ? for he had made
them believe that he was endued with super,
natural virtues and divine revelations. To aid
in abetting his imposture, he had carved with
a considerable art on the end of a club, a small
human figure, which, when touched on the top
of the head, moved its eyes and lips, and ap
peared animated. He pretended that this
fetiche rep Vi. d to his questions, and gave out
oracles. 'Die great knowledge that Mackan
dal possessed o f aim pies, enabled him to discov
er many poiso ous plants in St. Domingo, and
it was by this discovery, above all, that he ac
quired so much credit. Without disclosing
the means he employed, he announced that
such a negro, or such a negress, who lived
sometimes fifty leagues from the place where
he spoke, would die the same day or the day
after; a id those who heard him learned soon
after with terror, that his prediction had been
accomplished.
The method he took to perpetrate his crimes,
and which was not known till he had carried
it to excess, was this:— The negroes in general
possess great aptness for commerce, and there
are a great many of them iu the colonies, who
retail European merchandize about the prop
erties, and are named hawkers. It was among
these hawkers tl at Mackandal found the most
faithful partisans and disciples; and it was
through their means that he distributed good
or evil as he willed. There is another custom
among the negroes, which is to exercise witti
religious care the virtues of hospitality, and to
take some refr -shment together even after the
shortest absence. Now, when Mackandal
wished to destroy anv one, he charged a haw
ker, one of his friends, to present either some
fruit or calalou that he sent him, affirming that
it was death Iq the person who eat it. The
hawker, so far from imagining that Mackan.
dal had poisoned the fruit, trembled at the pow
er of this fdiche, and executed the order of
the pre ended prophet without daring to men.
tion it to any person, while the victim expired,
and the prescience of Mackandal was admired
on all std< s.
His friends always found him a formidable
avenger, but his rivals, bis unfaithful wiipess
es. and above all those who had refused him
i their favours, never escaped his barbarity.
11 • had always about him two accomplices,
blindly d< vot d to his will—one wascdled
Teysselo, the other Mayoinbe, with whom ho
generally retired during the day to the high .
mountains, where h : assembled a considerable
number cf maroon negroes, commanded by
these two chiefs. Upon the summit of these
ulna st inaccessible mountains, they placed
their families and children, surrounding them
with well-cultivated plantations, whence they
frequently descended, by the orders ofMack
andal, to spread terror and destruction into
the habitations of the neighboring plains,or to
exterminate the t o iti tnelious who had dared
to disobey the mandates of the prophet. It
would appear that, independent of those who I
were about bis person, he had contrived togain |
the affections of many young negroes, who
gave him a fitrtWdi aecowit of all 1 that passed
in the houses iu which they were slaves, and
among the number was a young man, about
18 years of age, named Zarm.
It happened one Sunday thatZami attended
a fete, which was given about three leagues,
from his master’s house. When he arrived,
dancing had commenced, and the crowd sur
rounded a voting negress of Congo, named
Simba, who danced with infinite grace,
and allied the most timid modesty. Zami