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RY JAMES W. JONES.
The Southern Whig,
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l ” PROSPECTUS
OF
A NEW LITERARY JOURNAL,
ENTITLED
THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON.
FIXHE Second Number of this Periodical is
•I now before the Public. The very kind fa
vor with which it has been accepted prompts
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No effort was made to obtain subscribers, no
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and have an opportunity to judge of its merits.
A short notice of the Editor’s intentions and
wishes accompanied the first number, and the
approbation and indulgence with which his
friends and the public generally received it, gave,
to him hopes which he had not previously in
dulged.
That Alabama would give a handsome sup
port to such a publication was a matter es ex
treme doubt; —owing more to her commercial
and agricultural enterprise, than to any want
of liberality, or to the absence of a spirit for lit
erary advancement. But the avidity with which
fortune has been hunted down, has not taken
away the taste of her Scholars; —and the increase
of wealth has produced the best of all results:
the opening of the heart, and the gushing forth
of the best of feelings: generosity, and a desire
to promote every laudable enterprise.
The Bachelor’s Button is the only period
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country.) The very medium of publication is
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ced writer happy in the privilege of sending
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tive exercise ; yet he cannot hope to be able to
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ting a cause for whose success he is willing to
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TERMS— “The Bachelor’s Button” will be
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Editors friendly to the work will please publish
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VVM. R. SMITH, Editor and Proprietor
GEORGIA, CLARK CO UfTY.
Rule Nisi.
Inferior Court sitting for Ordinary purposes,
adjourned Term, 12th June, 1837.
IT appearing to the Court that Howell Elder I
in his life time executed his bond for titles to j
William Appling, for one House and Lot in the j
Town of Watkinsville, occupied by Mrs. St®- j
phens, and a Ix>t fronting said lot joining Bar-'
nett, and the Land joining said Lots and bound- I
ed by Murray and Harden, now in possession
of Mrs. Stephens; audit further appearing to
the Court that said Bond has been regularly as
signed to David Stephens deceased, and the con
ditions of said Bond having been complied with.
It is therefore ordered that the Administrator of
the said Howell Elderdcc’d. be directed to make
and execute titles to the said House and Lot,
and adjoining premises embraced in said Bond,
within the time prescribed by law to the heirs
general of the said David Stephens deceased, 1
vr shew cause to the contrary—And it is fur-)
ther ordered that this Rule be published once a
month, for three months m one of the public
Gazetts of this State. 1
I certify that the foregoing is a true extract
from the minutes of said Court, this 13th June,
1837.
GREEN B. HAYGOOD, r. c. <•. o.
June 17, —7—m3m
Southern Whig
From the Saturday News and Literary Gazette.
THE EAST OF THE MONTEZVMAS.
BY T. G. SPEAR.
Marsilla de Ternel, Count of Montezuma, died in
; New Orleans, in November, 1836. He was a Spanish
grandee of the first class, and the lineal descendant, on
the female side, of Montezuma, emperor of Mexico,
’ and victim of the cruelty of Cortez- He was, on ac
count of his liberal principles, bamshed from Spain, and
his prosperity there confiscated by a royal decree of
, Ferdinand. Prom Spain, he repaired to Mexico but
> taking part in the politics of that country, he was soon
. obliged to leave it, and took refuge in New Orleans,
. where he spent the remainder of his days. He left
no descendants-
’ Last of a long and lofty line,
Whose records time has ceas’d to ireep,
[ My life these bones shall soon resign,
t Unknown in stranger lands to sleep,
I And with my race a name shall close.
That erst to might and grandeur rose.
I hear the hum of busy throngs,
With feet of quick unnieasur'd tread,
To whom a glorious fate belongs,
To fortune, power, and freedom wed,
, And blush for that fanatic band,
Whose steps pollute my father-land.
The Indian treads its southern plains,
, A vassal in his native clime,
For there the thriftless Spaniard reigns,
Debas’d by vice—defil’d by crime,
And ruling but to wrong and smite,
Enslaves them in his guilty might.
The cross is now the sovereign sign,
That rises o’er their Pagan fame,
But while it pleads a cause divine,
Its triumph tells the conqueror's shame,
Who crush’d and dispossess’d a race,
Till none their ancient tale may trace.
Their power despoil’d—their hearts bereft —•
Their spirits sunk from despair—
No faith—no hope—no freedom left,
And known but for the wrongs they share,
They dwindle, like the hunted game,
• Destroy’d by slavery, sword, and flame.
The priest, the prophet, and the lung,
With altar, shrine, end throne of gold.
With every lov'd and hallow’d thing,
That grac’d her gorgeous clime of old,
To which her children proudly clung,
Have vanish’d back from whence they sprung. ;
i
Oh ! mournful change of life and time.
That sickens mortals with their fate,
Ye clos'd a nations’ hopes in crime.
And crush’d her sons of high-born state,
Till through their veins the current ran, j
That makes a mongrel race of man.
The hate of Gautimozia sleeps—
The strength of Mexico is o’er—
And in the wilds her genius weeps.
To know that she shall rise no more —
Her monarch’s dead—her children slaves,
And mourners by their fathers’ graves.
Now through the mists of death I view,
The shades of kings and heroes bold, . J
Who beck me hither to pursue,
The sports and deeds of days of old,
And when these bones the sod have press’d,
My soul shall meet their high behest.
—chhimi ■twt ■wBFJBur?;
jMtsrrUancous.
From the New Yorker..
The Jealous Husband.
“Tomes! names'. —Amaimon sounds!
well; Lucifer well; Barbasan sounds well; yet j
they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends : j
but cuckold ! wittol! cuckold ! the devil himself!
hath not such a name. I will rather trust a
Fleming with my butter, parson Hugh the
Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with
my squavitae bottle, or a theif to walk my am
bling gelding, than my wife herself.” Merry I
Wires of Windsor.
It is lamentable to consider how rapid in this !
sublunary state of existence, is the transition j
from happiness to misery! Poor Mr. Eneas i
Wittie stood one sunny Monday morning at his j
shop door, adjusting his ample starched collar, I
snuffing the morning air, and deeming himself
with some reason the happiest man alive ; but
alas for the mutability of Fate ! In less than
a month afterwards, his honey was turned to
gall, and his small green eye looked (for want
of a better simile) like the moon in a Scotch
mist! This is rather an unceremonious intro
duction of my hero, but I am about to speak
more largely of him anon, and explain more (
particularly the whys and the wherefores of I
this sudden change !
Mr. Wittie was an only son, and Nature in- i
tended him from his cradle for an old bachelor,
for he hated the squeak of sucklings and loved
the imbibition of generous potations after meals,
and his proboscis bore ample witness of its mas
ter’s love of the bottle, for it looked for all the
world like a half-boiled lobster, the delicate I
crimson fading insensibly into the richest Ty- I
rian dye. Mr. Eneas was rich withal, com- I
paratively speaking ; he inherited his business I
from his father, who in turn received it from
his sire. They were al! honest drapers in their
“day and generation” as ever sat in the city
council, or drank their claret at the public ex
pense. Eneas was no great speculator ; his
was a thorough pacing business, and his motlo
was “slow and sure:” so that if the money
■ did not pour in upon him, it at least dropped
in regularly, and his tank never leaked.
Now this poor gentleman had arrived safely ;
at his fortieth year, much respected, when one j
unfortunate Sunday afternoon in church, his I
eye happened to fall on the pretty coquette Miss ■
Constantia Fairfax, who had long been ang- I
ling for the poor old boy, not for any love of
his rubicund phiz, as may be supposed, but for j
his “stamps in gold and sums in sealed bags.”
i Peace could no longer tabernacle in the heart
jof the luckless /Eneas; for it soon became,
j through the refined art of Miss Constantia, a
j very furnace. In fine, not to weste ink, the
I poor fish, though not yet bagged, was at least j
I safely hooked, and only required to be humored
Ito be safely landed. Miss Constantia, though ;
* A penniless lass, wi’ a lang pedigree,' j
was as proud as Lucifer. She did not mind 1
her husband’s being old, for thought she, as I
many in her place have done before, “he will i
' only be the more indulgent to a pretty young I
wife like me; but he’s a paltry draper, ‘ay;!
there’s the rub.’ Should I marry him, I shall I
be cut by all my genteel and fashionable ac- [
! quumtatices, so we must anting: il between us !
j before marriage that he shall sell out, and be-1
come merely the‘retired merchant.’ Come!
now, that don’t sound so ill, and if he complies, ■
the dear old fellow, I’ll be so kind to him, ne- j
ver cross him, and indulge him with a time on
the piano every evening.»’
On a luckless Friday, after less than a six
weeks’ courtship, Mr. Eneas Wittie was mar-
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGA'f'ED, A NULLIFICATION Ok THE ACT 13 THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” JefferSOn.
ried in due pomp and form to Miss Constantia
Fairfax, gave up his business, hired a comfor
table fleet in a cheap quarter of the city, and
became the most sensible man alive. But for
this sad miscalculation the old fool might have
bowed away his life behind the counter, or
snoozed it forth in an easy chair, the gout form
ing but a trivial note of dissonance in the even
tenor and harmony of an old bachelor’s life.
First he began to consider the sad difference
between his spouse’s age and his own ; then
the thought rushed like hot lead into his brain
that she had married him for his money, and
that she wos now laughing in her sleeve at an
amorous old fool like himself. In fine, he saw
every thing through a distorted medium. Jea
lousy had fastened her poisoned fangs on poor
Eneas Wittie, and turned his eyes green as
spring leaves. His poor wife was not allowed
to’sit at the window through fear that she might
attract the eye of some gallant young Mercu
tio, and she never walked out alone but the
poor fellow trotted after her to see where she
visited and wither she went. The fever, like
all fevers, went on increasing. Her old house
keeper, Betty, who had served faithfully his
father and himself, was now dismissed and her
place supplied by a young handmaiden whose
office it was to play the spy on her mistress.
Constantia, although a coquette, had, to do her
justice, a good heart, so that it was with in
creasing uneasiness that she beheld these ec- |
centricities on the part of her foolish husband, |
whom if she did not love she at least respected.
She endeavored by every art of pleasing she I
possessed to smooth his ruffled feelings, but in
vain ; for honest .Eneas only thought her the
greater hyprocrite, and cursed her in his heart
for her supposed duplicity.
But every thing which has a beginning must
also have an end. The fever of /Eneas Wit
tie had now reached its height—every night
did he dream that he was pegging a bullet into
his brain to find a quietus for his misery, and
even in the open day he began seriously to ru
minate whether he should suffer longer or cut
! the thread of life, even as his own scissors had
| so often snipped the broadcloth.
i But a circumstance happened about this time,
fortunate or unfortunate for poor Eneas the se
! quel of my tale will show. It was one morn-
I ing in the foggy month of Oc’ober, when the
I atrabilious Londoners breathe their jugulars
i that Mrs. Constantia Wittie informed her dis
! consolate husband that she -was going out with
the intention of making some calls, and that
| she would be in in time for dinner. Eneas
was in a shocking black humor that morning,
i so he only answered bis better half by a guttu
: ral exclamation. What added to his ill hu
' mor on the occasion was that he could not fol
low her, as the gout had laid hold »shim by the
great toe, so that he was forced to be content
with poking his head out of the window to mark
what direction his wife might take.
For five minutes did he remain at the win
dow, with his head stretched forth like a tor
s toise, but alas! no wife appeared. “ Good
' heavens!” exclaimed the unfortunate married
; gentleman, “ I see through the whole now—mv
! cup of misery is full to overflowing.—Perdi
i tion ! can ir be that my accursed rival is so
near her?—the viper! Ah, I know now why
j the painting rascal trims his mustaches so nico
i ly. By heavens ! I’ll crush him into a jelly at
. once : crush him did I say 1 why not both—ay,
| both !”
| We must cut short the poor gentleman to
explain the cause and object of his jealousy.
iOn the second story and immediately under
I Mr, Eneas, resided a gallant young painter,
I well known for his talent and his “ riots past
j and wild societies.” Eneas had often before
! marked the handsome young artist with ajea
j lous eye, but it had nover entered into his head
( till then that he could be a rival; but every
thing now seemed palpable as sunshine to the
perverted mind of the retired draper. Down
stairs he stole as quickly and softly as his gouty
- limb would permit, and soon reached his ri
i vai’s door. Consummation of horror! what
' was his agony and amazement on peeping
' through the key-hole to behold his wife stand
ing in the middle of the room and the young
painter kneeling at her feet! His first impulse
! was to rush into the room and confound them
boih by his unwelcome appearance ; but Eneas
was a man of honor, and moreover, what hail
ho to do in another man’s house ? So boiling
with rage, up he mounted to his own premises,
and straightway penned the following com
bustible note :
‘‘Sir, —I disdain to take vdvantnge of you
by the law. lam a man of honor, which you
are not. I therefore, rn outraged and injured
husband, demand satisfaction at the hour and
place convenient to you. No explanation or
apology is requisite, as none will be received.
Your servant, sir,
“ENEAS WITTLE.”
The. amazement of the painter was great on
receiving this note from the nand of Mr. Wit
tie’s handmaiden. He turned it over and ever,
examined it with profound care, as if it had
been some hieroglyphic manuscript, opened
his large black eyes to their utmost stretch,
and indulged in a hearty laugh as he handed
the note for inspection to his ehum and fami
liar spirit in iniquity, Frank Orsbay, as merry
a fellow as ever smoked Virginia weed.
“ What Ihe devil docs the old gentleman
mean, Frank? I never spoke to the lady in
my life, and he calls himself an injured hus
band. By Barnabas! that’s the cream of the
joke!”
“Oh ! Lord, you may see without spectacles
that the old boy’s jealous of you,” answered
Frank; “have you any thing to do with his
pretty wife ?”
“Not I, Jupiter brighten my stars—never
spoke to her in my life !”
“Bv Lucifer, but ’t is a spicy joke, humor
the old dog, say I; never mind his reason ; give
him leasons on compulsion: he’ll never stand
fire, I’ll be bound, and we’ll get a breakfast out
of him at least.”
“ Agreed ! you’ll be my second !”
“Could not wish a worthier principal; but
come, let me pen the answer ; we want hasty 1
words,” responded Frank, as he sat down and !;
on a gilt-edged sheet ofßristol note paper wrote
the following :
“Sir, —When one man of honor has been
so unhappy as to give offence to another, all
that remains in his power is to give him ample
satisfaction to the last drop of his hea> t’s blood.
Mr, Montague will therefore meet the worship
ful Mr, Wittie at 6 o'clock to-morrow morning,
at the I’lm Walk, Pud Mall, there to light until
th" death, wilh lance well ground, pistols, ra
pier, broadsword or claymore, as may best suit
the humor of Mr. W. Mr. M has chosen a
very discreet and worthy second, eke Master <
Francis Orsbay, and hopes that .Mr. W. will
come also dulv attended to the place ot en
counter bv a man of honor.
“ Your servant.
GILES MONTAGUE.”
“Thu villain confesses all!” Baid Eneas
ATHE.V*, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JULY 1837.
on carefully perusing the above: “I will meet
• him—ay, I shall! But’t is a trying affair for
I a man of my years. Shall I flinch? No! by
the good and fair fame of all the Witties. Oh,
that unfortunate woman! should she be the
• cause of my death, what will she suffer in con
science? Yet she deserves it all ; —Yes, I’ll
die, that she may break her heart! But it will
be all over with poor Eneas Wittie before that
come to pass—so much the better. Oh, love !
love ! thou honeyed gall!—thy dregs be bitter!”
So soliloquized poor E mas Wittie, his la
mentation reminding us of an overture of the
French school, which commencing with a Tar
tar fierceness rnelta and dwindles away to a
tearful sigh!
The unsuspecting Constantia entered, and
her astonishment may be conceived on per
ceiving her husband in such an uncomfortable
state of mind.
“ Perfidious .woman !” ejaculated Eneas,
“ fair viper, whom in love I took to my bosom,
to sting me even to the marrow ! —but I have
discovered all, ay all, and his blood or mine
shall be the forfeit of your iniquity. Nay,
woman, no words; thou art deep enough al
ready. I know all—with my own eyes did I
behold you—no more !”
“ Mr. Wtitle, what in the name of all that is
good do you mean ?” said Constanstia.
“Sweetinnocence!—When I am dead and
| buried, woman, will you speak thus!” growl
j ed Eneas, as he flung out of the room, leaving
I his spouse amazed, and entertaining no unrea-
I sonable fears for tho saneness of his mind.—
Mr. Eneas was invisible for the remainder of
the evening, and slept in his arm chair that
eventful night, it he slept at all.
The grey cold October morning dawned;
the mist hung in heavy wreaths along the streets
as Mr. -EnewWiHle whistled along in a hack
ney coach to keep his fatal rendezvous. “ O
Lord!” thought the poor wight. “ how comfor
table it would be to have staid at home this
cold morning, and this gout —but honor’s voice
must be obeyed.”
On his way he knocked up Mr. Anthony
Crowquill, a young sprist of the law, of large
ex pectation but of small income. Mr. Crow
quill was greatly surprised at Eneas’ warlike
determination, but after some minutes’ learned
talk on the legality of such proceedings and the
-severe penalty attached to duelling, with the
probable ruin of all his hopes in life, &c. to
oblige his oldest and dearest friend, consented
to be his second on the occasion.
“ O Gemini! but it’s freezing cold this same
morning,” said the bellicose Wittie to him of
the quill as they arrived at the place of rendez
vous. “ You may perhaps think I’m afraid,
but’t is only the cold: give me a thimble full
ofthe Cogniac.”
Eneas look the proffered glass, but before it
had reached its port of deposite, the quantum
it contained was materially diminished.
“Lord! how my hand trembles, Mr. Crow
quill ; never very strong in the nerves ; mere
ly the effect of the cold and want of a break
fast before I came hither.”
“ W ant of a breakfast didst say ? Have you
seriously reflected that you may not stand in
need of a breakfast long ? Have you made
your will before you set out on this gallant ex
pedition ?”
“Oh Lord! no,” answered the unlucky I
wight, whose courage, never great, was now
at a low ebb: “ don’t speak of such things
now ; I require words of consolation.”
“Stop, stop,” said Crowquill, “ here they
come; I see two shadows in the mist. It will
be all settled soon, secundem artem.”
“ Ha ! is it you, my limb of the law. my Jus
tinian ?” shouted Frank Orsbay as he came
within eye-shot of the lawyer; “this is an
ugly business, and will admit of no accommo
dation it seems.”
“Hem!” ejaculated Eneas at the word ac
commodation.
“Frank, how many balls have you crammed
into my pistol?—it feels confounded heavy,” <
said the painter so that the opposite party migh*
hear.
“ Three !” was the laconic reply.
“And powder?”
“Enough, by—! to blow his brains from
here to Jericho
“ Hem, hem !” hiccoughed Eneas.
“That’s he, then—l’rn sure of the old dog.
I’ll strike him between the eyes—can’t miss
him: but what the deuce is the cause of all
this delay!—why do we tarry?”
“ Hem! hark ye, Crowquill,” said Eneas
Wittie unable longer to control himself; “I’m
not a coward—hem ! by no means—hem ! but
I’m not u bloody-minded man neither—not I
hem! I am willing to come to an understand- ’
ing—l long for no man’s life—l can hear rea
son—he has wronged me grievously, yet”— '
“Yet, Mr. Eueas Wittie, tny excellent
friend,” said the lawyer, with a wink to Frank
Orsbay and his principal—“things cannot be
slurred over in this unhandsome manner be
tween men of honor. You have challenged
Mr. Montague, that’s clear;- Mr. Montague is
a man ot honor, that’s clearer still. Keep up
your courage, man ; only let him have a shot
nt you in return for your fire—’twill be all over
in a minute. But should you think otherwise.
I will do my best between you to avoid blood
shed.”
“I think il would not be amiss to endeavor
at least to come to an explanation ; I can hear '
reason.” said Eneas, in a quavering voice.
“Well, well; we’ll consult together.”
Crowquill walked aside with Frank Orsbay, 1
and in five minutes returned with a smile on I
his cheek, to the no small relief of poor Eneas I
Witlie, whose gout was now contributing its
quantum to his manifold tribulations. I
“Master Wittie,” said Crowquill, “ there <
must be some misunderstanding in this affiii-, i
and Mr. Montague has offered, like a man of i
feeling and honor, to assist in the elucidation
thereof.” '
“Mr. Montague,” exclaimed Eneas, much ;
teiieved, "‘ is it not true that my wife wasclos- I
eted with you yesterday morning—l mean did I
she not pay you a visit in your study, and were | I
you not kneeling before her? Tell mo all—l
can bear it.” I
“Your wife in my study, and I kneeling be- ;
fore her? Hu! ha! what meanest thou. hon. :
est gentleman ?” i
“Nay, don’t gel into a passion—pray don’t I
—only I saw you both through the key-holo I
with my own eyes.” i
“Ha ! ha ! ha !” cachtnated he ofthe brush, <
"better and better still! Oh Lord! alight ;
breaks in upon tne : the honest gentleman has <
seen me through the key-hole arranging the i
drapery of my timber figure. Wore not. your ’
wife, sir, a red shawl when she went out on t
her visits ?” <
“ Yes, yes,” said the honest rubbin<r i
his bauds with unfeigned delight. <
“And a green silk gown?” t
“ Oh Lord, yes ; how relieved I feel; how? <
t happy I am: give me your hand, sir—l have
r wronged you, perhaps ruined your character.”
r “ Set yourse.lf at ease also on the latter point,”
, answered Montague with a grin, “if I turn
j toes upwards with no bigger blot on my fair
. character than this foolish affair may cast on
1 it, I shall stand a good chance of being caaon
] tzed by the prelate of Rome.”
t “I’m so happy the affair is settled amicably,”
! said Frank Orsbay, winking.
' “And I,’" replied the limb of the law, “as
much ink shed as you will, but no blood shed
> for tne. But come, my brethren, we cannot
. do less than honor Mr. Eneas Wittie with our
i company to breakfast at Finch’s—a simple
breakfast—half a dozen champagne|with et ce-
I teras: we can’t do less than allow him to treat
us, considering our early rural trip.”
> “ Bravo !” exclaimed all three.
“But I say,” said Eneas, taking Crowquill
, aside, “how much will half a dozen of cham
, pagne with the et cetoras you speak of cost ?”
> “ Not over a five pound note ; speak low,
. don’t let them see that we grudge the treat,”
, said Crowquill.
“True,true,” said poor Eneas; “gentle
men, let us get our feet off this cold turf as fast
as possible, it don’t agree with my gout.”
“Oh Lord,’’ grumbled Eneas to liimsslf,
“I’ll never be jealous again as long as I live
—’tis confounded expensive.”
The breakfast passed off merrily, the cham
pagne corks bounded to the roof, and all were
happy and Wondrous merry al poor Eneas
Wittie’s expense. When the entertainment
was over, anti Could with decency be protract
ed no longer, the three youths proceeded home
with thejealous husband, now thoroughly purg
ed of his black bile—laughed at the wooden
scare-crow which he had mistaken for his wife,
and were witnesses of the explanation which
passed between the ill-mated couple, and the
kiss of forgiveness and amnesty. Since then
Mr. Eneas Wittie and his pretty wife have
harmonized wonderfully well considaring-.but
for all that,
• May and December will never, will never agree.’
W. F.
[From the European Magazine.]
Translation of a Manuscript found in a case containg
a Human Skeleton:
Behold this min ! 'twas a skull
Once of etherial spirit full!
This narrow cell was life's retreat!
This space was thought's mysterious seat!
What beautious pictures fill’d this spot! (
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot 1
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Have left one trace, or record here 1
Beneath this mouldering canopy,
Once hung the bright and busy eye ;
But start not at the dismal void !
If social love that eye employed.
If with no lawless fire it gleamed.
But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and suns have lost their light.
Here in tills silent cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue ;
If falsehood’s honey it disdained,
And where it could not praise was chained—
If bold in virtue’s cause it spoke,
Yetgantle concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee,
When death unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine
_ Or with its envied rubies shine ?
To hew the rock, or wear the gem
Can nothing now avail to them.
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.
Avails it whether bars or shod
These fest the path of duty trod.
If from the bowers ofjoy they fled
To soothe affliction’s humble bed.
If Grandeur's guilty bride they spurned;
And home to Virtue's lap returned;
These feet with Angels wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky. V. i
The Vision of Aiiila,
from mr. james’ new romance.
There were frequent messengers who came
to and from the tent of Attilla, and there was
movement and agitation in the camp. Round 1
the monarch sat his tributary kings : and vari- |
ous were the different shades of expression !
which passed over the countenances of those 1
fiereef chiefs, ns they listened to the words of |
their leader, and heard all that had befallen
since, on the preceding day, the great Pontiff I
of Rome had appeared to stay them in their
advance. i
“It was but a vision of the night! ” said 1
Attilla. “It was but some idle dream, and '
vet it came before me full, tangible, complete, i
There was no wandering of thought to other ’
things, no confusion of fancies, no breaking ofl’j i
and beginning again; but it was all clear and j'
definite, accurate and minute; and yet it was
but a vision, an idle dream, which Attila Will !
heed no more than he would a fanciful cloud,
wrought into strange forms by the wind that I '
bears it.” i
“ Heed no visions, oh Attila!” said Ardoric. <
The only sure vision will be the walls of
Rome.” I
“And yet, oh mighty king!” joined iu 1
Onegisus—“one, at least, here present, would I
fam licar the substance of the dream that dis- i
turbed thy slumbers. It has been held bv i
wise rren and by priests, long versed in sacred <
things, that dreams come from the gods, and <
are one means of making their will known to i
men'. I, at least, would fain hear what vision I
it was that broke the sleep of Attilla.”
“And I also! and I! and I! ” said many 1
voices round, as soon as the demand was made; i
and leaning his broad brow upon his hand, wilh <
his eyes fixed steadily and thoughtfully upon t
the tab'e at which he sat, Attila not unwilling, t
ly proceeded to speak as they required. t
“It seemed to me as if I had slept some t
hours,” he said, “and that I was awakened bv i
a noise, when looking up, I saw all things t
around tne as I had seen them when I closed ■ t
mine eyes. There were the hangings of the i
tent; there the clothing I hud put off to rest; i
there burned the feeble lamp; there lav the i
strong sword. Two javelins crossed hung up- j
on my right, and a spear lay 'near me on the i
ground. I saw it all as distinctly as ere 1 ;
closed tny eyes that night, when lo ! the hung- s
iugs of the tent were moved, raised up; and, t
without sound or motion ofthe limbs, the fig- t
ures of two men approached rny couch. A <
cloud of light environed them around, hiding i
in its blaze all things behind it. The lamp i
grew dim, as if it hud not been lighted, and in
this cloud borne on to where I lay, the strati- i
gers came, clothed in strange robes, simple and, i
? unadorned, with h, beatds of snowy
’ whiteness, and the tnarK of extreme age upon
’ the face of each. One, however, was older
i than the other, and of coarser features, though
r there was a fire and eagerness in his large eye,
i which spoke a mighty and energetic spirit,
. prompt in its emotions and its acts. The
younger seemed more calm, and of a loftier
’ aspect, and on his countenance were seen the
traces of high thoughts, perhaps, too, of some
3 sufferings, endured with fortitude, but felt with
1 keen perception. A smile, bland and beauti
t ful, sat on his lips, and there was in his glance
r that quick yet thoughtful movement which I
• have seen in men. deep arguers on right and
. wrong—subtle in their eloquence, and pow
t erful to unite the tangled intricacy of questions
remote and difficult. Around them in that
cloud of li<jht there shone a greater l.ght, as
1 if it issued forth f.-om them and from their gar
. rnents: and though they seemed of flesh as we
’ are, yet there was a difference that scarcely
, can be t< id, but which rendered their bodies
’ more glorious and pufe to the eye than ours.
I would fain have stretched out my hand to
. seize my sword, but I lay as if chained down
t by adamantine bonds. I would fain have spo
ken, to demand who dared in such a sort to
f drsturbthe sleep of Attilla, but my tongue re
. fused its office, and my lips moved without a
sound. Approaching, as I have said, without
any visible motion of their limbs, hut borne for
ward by some unseen power, they came near,
i and stood by the side of my couch: there gaz
ing upon me for a moment, their eyes seemed
filled with pity or with sorrow, and at length
the younger said, “Attila! Attila! thou hast
fought, and thou hast conqueied, and unwit
tingly, but not unwillingly, thou hast done the
will of God! Now turn thee back upon thy
way. for thou shalt smite the land no more.—
Turn thee back upon thy way, and hesitate
not, for we are sent to bid thee sheathe the
sword, lest it fall upon thy own head. Turn
thee back, turn thee back, and that speedily,
as thou Wo'uldst live and conquer Still! ” And
with that the light grew faint, the figures seem
ed to dissolve, the cloud passed away, and I
was lying in hiy own tent, with the lamp buru
-1 ing feebly by my side. It was but a vision,
an idle dream, and it is passed! Attila heeds
it not. It was but a vision, an unreal vision!”
“It was a strange one though, oh mighty
king ! ” suid Onegisus ; and I would fain ask
you holy man, who came hither yesterday, if
he can give the interpretation thereof, and tell
who Wrre these that appeared unto thee.”
1 “ First let those who s'?pt in the outer tent,”
said Arderic, “ be closely questioned, if any
one passed by them in the night.”
“I have questioned them already,” said At
tila—“l have done more: I rose instantly;
for my limbs and my mind seemed freed as if
from a heavy weight; and. drawing back the
curtains that divide the tent, I found that no
one living could have entered without tread
ing on the sleeping bodies of those of my war
riors who lay without. It was but a vision of
the night! ”
“1 put no faith in visions.” said Arderic:
“they never visit me. If I dream, ’tis of some
empty thing taking fanciful shapes, without
regularity or continuance, forgotten as soon as '
passed. I put no faith in visions.”
Attila’s brow contracted slightly, but he 1
made no reply; and Valamir, his Gothic tribu- I
tary, who had hitherto remained thoughtful I I
and silent now raised his eyes. “ Thy- ;
vision is a strange one, O king,” he said, ‘ and '
worthy afsoine consideiation—more, perhaps
than thou thyself art willing to bestow upon it.
Yet would I not ask the interpretation of this 1
eloquent man. whose voice was heard so pow- 1
erfully yesterday; for he, of course, will see ,
therein a confirmation of his own warnings.
There is another iu the camp, who may be
j better trusted. Dost thou remember, O migh-
I ty Attila, a h<#ly hermit, who dwelt in the
' mountains, two or three days’ journey from
Margus, and who—”
“But he is dead,” interrupted Attila; “he
has been dead two years.”
“True,” replied Valamir; “but near him
there dwelt another hermit, less shrewd and
wise, perhaps, but, even more than he was,
■ touched with the fire of the gods. Wild, rash
■ and fearless, he speaks whatever the spirit
j prompts, and in such a man’s interpretation
one may trust with confidence. Among the
'rain who followed hither this high-priest of
Rome was the very man, and well acquainted
'X’ith the manners and languages of us people
of the North. He was wandering yesterday
evening through the camp; and I myself saw
him preaching boldly strange doctrines of
other gods, to a large crowd of Huns and Ge
pidtE.—Let him be sent for, and to him let the
vision be told. On his interpretation we can
better rely.”
All voices applauded the proposal, and in
stantly was it executed. Messengers went
forth to find the enthusiast Mizetus, and in a
few minutes he stood before Attila and his coun
sellors. He was silent as the grave, while the
vision was being told to him; but then, stretch
ing forth his hands, and turning his eyes full
upon the countenance of A'itila, though not
with a fixed and steadfast gaze, but with a
wild and rolling glance, he exclaimed—“ls it
not simple as the summer’s sky? Is it not
clear as the waters from the rock? What
uet-d of interpretation ? What need of any
one to explaiti ? There is but one G> d, O,
Attila, though thou and these, as slaves of Sa
tan, worship stone, and wood, and iron. That
God has been merciful to thee, O, king, and
has sent unto thee the apostles of his Son, Pe
ter, prince ot’ the apostles, and Paul, the cho
sen of the voice of God ! To thee, from an
other world, he sent those, through the midst
of thy sleeping guards, who, when they lived ■
in this world, passed through the hands ot jai
lors, cast from them the fetters of iron, and ■
walked free through the prison doors of the j
Roman governor. To thee has he sent them !
in mercy, to turn thee back from the way of
destruction. Listen to their words, tread back
thy steps, sheathe the sword, open thy heart to
the word of God, and thou shalt be safe. If
thou doest not this—if thou goest on in rapine
and injustice, shedding the blood ofthe faithful,
and smiting the people of Christ, io! I tell !
thee, when thine errand is accomplished, and j
the judgments of God wrought out, thou shalt j
die bv some despised death ; thine armies shall ;
melt away like snow; the bodies of thy war
riors slam rot under the summer’s sky, and a !
pestilence shall go forth from their bones, to '
root out those whom it has spared. Wo unto
you! wo unto your mighty men, for the
sword ofthe Lord is out against you, and he
shall scatter you to the utmost parts of the
earth, and shall grind your mouths in the dirt
of the earth ye have trodden so proudly, and
shall cast ye forth as dead dogs, to be an abom
inntion to the passer-by
Moro than one sword leaped from its sheath
at those bold words, but the deep, thunder-like
voice of Attila, stayed them from smiting the i
Vol. V—Ao. 13-
rash enthusiast, “ Harm him not—harm him
not!” cried the monarch. “By the sbul bf At
tila, he dies who strikes him ! Did we not bid
him speak? Did we not call tor his tvords ?
t and shall we slay him, because they are such
as please us not? Stranger,” he continued,
“ thou hast spoken rashly amoi g rash men ;
nevertheless thou art safe; and mayest depart!”
Mizetus turned to quit the tent; but ere he
went, he raised his hand, and said, in a solemn
tone—“ I grieve for thee» O, Attila ; for thy
fate is near!’’
“ Let it come !” replied Attila—and the en.
thusiast departed.
From the Old Colony (Massachusetts] Memorial.
Incidents of the Revolution.
Great and important events should ever be
/ kept in memory, and also be often spoken of,
and likewise be instilled into the minds of owr
children, and by them transmitted to their
children, and handed down from generation
to generation, to the latest posterity.
The American Revolution, taking into view
the importance of its object, the injustice of
the British claims that gave rise to it, the un
prepared state of the colonists to engage in
such an important, such a difficult, such a dan.
gerous enterprise, is an event that stands alone
in the pages ofhistory-, and which ought nev.
er to be forgotten but should be among the
first things implanted in the minds of our chil
dren. It is true they cun never have the satD"
sensations in contemplating the S: bjccts as
those who lived at the time of the eve . t. and
participated m the efforts, the toils, and the
dangers of the enterprise; yet they may have
some lively ideas of the exertions, th ■ t >ils,
the dangers, and the successes of their pro
genitors, in obtaining for them the high and
the dignified situation in which they stand in
the scale of nations-, and of the bl. ssings they
enjoy of which all the residue of the world do
not participate, but are ignorant.
I was ed to these reflections hy taking a
review of old times, particularly of a,; event
which took place in the year 1774, sixty years
ago last September, which is probably now
forgotten, or perhaps was never known but to
a very few, whose lives have been lengthened
out to this time. This was the open overt act
done in the face of the day without disguise,
(in the controversy with Great Britain,) which,
according to the British jurisprudence, would
be called treason.—This originated and Was
consummated in the Old Colony.
The British Parliament, in their mad career,
had assumed a right to mutilate the charter of
Massachusetts, which was a solemn contract
between the King on one part, and the Province
on the other; but a thing to which the Parlia
ment was not a party, nor was it under any
authority from them, and with which they had
no more right to intermeddle than the Bonzes
of Japan. But this authority they assumed,
by an act, took from the House of Rep:«eeut
a'tivos the fight to choose the Council, (grant
ed to them by charter) and authorised the King
to appoint the Council by his mandamus; and
athorized the Sheriffs of the several counties
to appoint the Juries, instead of being drawn
out of the jury-box by tho Selectmen, as was
provided by law. This gave an universal
alarm, and involved the great body of the peo
ple in the most perplexing agitation and per
plexity.—They were insensible ofthe dangers
attending an opposition, and at the same time
could not for a moment endure the idea of sub
mitting to this notorious violation of their rights
I’hey viewed the matter in every point, and
considered tiial dothing could be so bad as
tame submission; and as the Court ot Common
Pleas was to be holden at Barnstable the first
Tuesday in September, tlv'y determined to be
gin with that first, and prevent that Court from
doing any business.
I Accordingly, a considerable body of men
' from Middleborough, more from Rochester.
I and many from Wareham, on the, Monday
\ preceding marched to Sandwich. Here they
■ were joined by a considerable part of the pop-
I ulation of Sandwich. The latter part of the
day and the evening were spent in organizing
the body, and establishing rules and regula
tions. Dr. Nathaniel Freeman was unani
mously chosen the conductor-in-chief of the
enterprise, and officers of lower grade were
apnoiutod. Freeman (afterwards a Brigadier
• General) was a fine figure of a man, between
30 and 40 years of age. He had a well made
face, a florid countenace, a bright, dignified
eye, a clear and majestic voice; he wore a
I handsome black lapelled coat, a tied wig as
■f white as snow, a set-up hat with the point in-
■ dined a little towards the right hand* In short,
} he had the appearance of fortitude personified.
On Tuesday morning, the body marched to
’ Barnstable, and were there joined by a con
! slderablt part of the population of that town,
i making in the whole about 1,500, as was eati
: mated. They took possession of the ground
, in front of the Court House in a solid eouden-
I sed body. The conductor took Ins stand on
I the steps of the Court House door. Commis-
■ sioners were appointed to ferret out the disaf-
I fected, and to bring them to a relinquishment
• in writing of their toryism; and, if any refused,
to bring such before the body. AH signed re- )
j cantatious, though some did it reluctantly. >
1 These recantations Were afterwards pretty *
well itnilAle Tu' h> MtFtagriqg
“ I now renounce the Pope—the Turk, • y
The King—the Devil, and all Ins Work !
And if you will set me at ease,
Turn Whig, or Christian—what you please.” ’
But soon the Court made its appearance 1
ton by the high Sheriff (Stone) with a br<
I cockado on his hat, a long white staff in
left hand, and a drawn sword in his right. Th
! Court (Otis, Winslow, and Bacon) as the body
' did not give way, halted about an arm's length
■ from tho assemblage. Col. Otis> the Chief
Justice, a very venerable looking old gentle
man, addressed them and said; “ Gentlemen,
what is tho purpose for which this Vast pssem
blage are collected here?” Ae was answered
by Dr. Freeman, standing on the door stope,
with a loud and clear voice as it was some
distance to where the Court stood : “ Mav it
please youi honor—oppressed by the dangers
by which we are surrounded, and terrified with
the horrible block cloud which is suspended
over our heads, and ready to burst Upon us,
our own safety and all that is dear to us, and
the welfare of unborn millions, has dictated
this movement to prevent the Count from being
opened or doing any business. We have ta
ken all the consequences under consideration,
we have weighed them all, and have formed
this resolution, which We shall not rescind.”
The Chief Justice calmly but firmly replied :
“ This is a legal and a constitutional Court;
it has suffered no mutations ; the juries have
been drawn from the boxes as the law directs,
and why Would you interrupt our proceedings?
Why make your leap before you get to tho
hedge?” Dr. Freeman replied ; “All this has
i been considered ; we do not appear here out