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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