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J3Y JAJIES W. JONES.
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OF
A NEW LITE RAR Y JOURNAL,
ENTITLED
THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON.
FI4IIE Second Number of this Periodical is j
A now before the Public. The very kind fa
vor with which it has been accepted prompts
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VVM. R. SMITH, Editor and I’) •oprietor
GEORGIA, CLARK COUNTY.
Rule Nisi.
Inferior Court sitting for Ordinary purposes,
adjourned Term, 12th June, 1837.
IT appearing to the Court that Howell Elder
in his life time executed his bond for titles to
William Appling, for one House and Lot in the
Town of Watkinsville, occupied by Mrs. Ste
phens, and a Lot fronting said lot joining Bar
nett, and the Land joining said Lots and bound
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 i« therefore ordered that the Administrator of
the said Howell Elder dec’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,
or shew cause to the contrary —AnJ it is fur
ther ordered that this Rule be published once a
month, for three, months in one of the public
Gazctts of this State.
I certify that the foregoing is a true extract
from the minutes of said Court, this 13th June,
1837..
GREEN B. HAYGOOD, d. c. c. o.
June I",—7—nidni
Southern Whig
! THE Pli.Ltitl.il FATHER’S FAREWELL
TO IISGI.ASD.
BY CORNELIUS WF.BBE
I’ve trod the last step on thy strand,
And now am on thy wave,
To seek a home in some far land,
Bat haply find a grave!
I reck not where my bones are laid—•
Who wraps them in their sheet;
I I reck not where my grave is made,
j If trod by human feet.
My mother, England, still thou art,
And I would be’thy son ;
But thou hast flung me from thy heart,
With many a worthier one!
I love thee, oh! too much to say,
And like a lover yearn ;
For though I turn my eyes away,
My heart I cannot turn !
The sea runs high, the ship dips low,
The wild waves overwhelm —
The crew are lash’d above, below—
The helmsman to the helm ;
Rage on, rage on, thou wreaking wind—
Roll on, thou welt’ring sea ;
Ye cannot be more hard, unkind,
Than man hath been to me !
| I heed not these rude tempest gales,—
Their rage will soon be spent; I
I heed not these storm-riven sails, — j
My heart is deeper rent;
The storm will pass—the angry main
Will know a day of calm,
But who will make thee whole again,
And give thy wounds a balm?
Thy sons were strong, and brave, and bold ;
Thou wert the ocean’s heart;
But power hath drain’d their veins for gold,
And sapp’d thy vital part,—
They dare not think of what they were,
Nor say what they would be ;
For England now herself doth fear,
Who fear’d no enemy !
Thy bow was strong at Agincourt,
Thy lance did stain Poictiers, —
Thy strength shall be a theme for sport,
As now it is for tears.
, i
Here’s one, for wine will give thee gall,
And laugh at thy distress ;
And some shall triumph in thy fall, j .
Who feared thy mightiness ! j ,
Farewell ! I cannot think of thee,
And feel no filial fear ; : 1
I cannot dread what thou inay’stbe,
Without a shudd’ring tear.
I weep not at the wreaking wind,
Nor dread the awful sea,
Though both are fell and hard unkind—
I weep and fear for thee !
.S&tsmtaneo.tts.
From the Knickerbocker of June.
Coh worth.
CHAPTER IX.
■ i
‘To me there seems a religion in love, and its very ! 1
foundation is in faith.’ —Madeline.
After my return home, as mentioned in my j !
last chapter, I remained at my f<thei’s house for ;
a few days, when anothertutor was provided for
me, in the most delightful section of the court- 1
try, and better than all, within walking dis
tance of my dear cousin. I had not, during 1
al! this time, lost sight, in tny mind’s eye, of
my Catholic relation. She was always in mv
dreams. If I stood by a luke or running wa
ter —if I stood beneath the shade of a tree—if
I was upon a mountain, or in a deep valley, or
tn lonely places, which induce the mind to in
dulge in trains of poetic musing and pensive
thought, at such times, I thought of my dear
cousin. Iler image was reflected fr®m the
clear water; her voice sounded in the breeze ;
the shade played out her form ; and on the
mountain, I was nearer to heaven and to her.
Who does not know that one’s love is strong
ler at some times than at others 1 To the most
fervent heart, there arc seasons of relapse and .
indifference. The eye looks upon a traffick- I
ing world, and forgets, in a momentary disgust, ’
that there are any bright and sacred temples I
of feeling amid the degraded throng. In sea- j
sons of want and uncertainty, w hen Weighed!
down with bitter poverty, or biting ills, we
may turn our eyes iti despair for some resting
place for the sick soul; but love comes not then (
in its appropriate garb. It is then the medi
cine ; but in prosperity —in moderate yet calm ,
periods of life, when we can feel that our live- j
hhood is provided for—how placidly and lux- j
unously the heart gives itself up to the delights >
of domestic affection, and reposes in the con- I
fidence of friendship 1
I In n y new abode, I was happy. I was |
surrounded by comparative refinement. There
was nothing to disgust my taste, if I had not
that which could elevate my character. The
family I resided in, were well educated. They
lived in hadsome country style. We had mu
sic, and paintings, and books, and flowei-gar
dens and a neat tea-table, and agreeable chat. |
i But 1 did not study here. Day after day I i
resolved to begin. One week broken, I would I
; .resolve upon the next, and each day saw me !
dwindling away my time in fruitless efforts to ;
' do something, I knew at! the while that I I
( was wrong, and felt it keenly. I knew the j
right, but I had no habits of study. The fault :
might be traced to my early education, where i
I was taught words raid not ideas. The fomt- I
dation of my character was weak, and my !
whole beingyielded to the slightest temptation. !
Certainly the old poets were wiser than the |
moderns, for when will it not be true to say: j
‘AU promise is poor dilatory man.’
He,
‘ In all the magnanimity of thought,
Resolves, and re-solves—then dies the same.’ !
j I read a great deal more here than at any •
j time before ; but it was principally at night,
I and during hours which I should have devoted
Ito sleep; fur in the day time I was restless
j and nervous in consequence, and unfit, for any
, I tiling but moping about. I rend works ol fe
. ] verish interest, and used to get worked up into
■ such an excited state of mind, that my cries
alarmed the family. My tutor at times thought
I me partially de ranged.
1 was accustomed to spend whole nights
’ upon the banks of the lake, which wis distant
from the house only a quarter oi a mile. 1 rc-
I I quetitlv I obtained permission—for here i was
-I under the appearance of authority—to visit my
t cousin, about two boors’ walk from the bouse ;
' yet 1 did not go there often, but employed my
leave of absence in wandering about the fields,
, insight of the house wheresho lived. I shrunk
’ i from exposing the secret feelings of my heart
|by my conduct. When in her. presence, I was
I always respectful and rational; there was a
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT DEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” JejferSOn.
subdued earnestness in my manner, which I
am now conscious that she, with the nice tact
of her sex, fathomed. She must have known
that I loved her, and I believe she was. to say
the least, rather interested in me. Who can
be insensible to affection ?
I was called a wild, dissipated young man.
Nobody ever expected I would make atty thing
worth having; and so mothers did not court
me for their daughter. But in the house of
my cousin, I always received a kind welcome.
The whole family treated me as iff was worth;,
of something good, but it was the hospitality ot
open-hearted people, who feel above suspect
ing or being suspected, and not the calculating
kindness of the selfish and low-lived. Never
theless, 1 rarely went there. 1 trembled when
I did go. My heart beat loudly as I approach- I
cd the house; my knock was hesitating ; my
manner flustered.
My cousin was so much older than I. that,
with the greatest coolness imaginable, she usee
to fake it upon herself to amuse me, and show
me the garden, and pluck a choice flower for
me, and see that I had sugar enough m my tea.
1 was a little short, fellow, but upon such oc
casions, I confess, I blushod more for my dig
nity than my love. We used to sit. during I
the warm summer afternoons in an arbor situ- j
ated in the midst of a highly cultivated garden, !
! with a fountain playing up in the centre. I '
I used to think of the garden of Eden, and I do |
indeed doubt whether Adam ever enjoyed more j
J in his paradise than I did in the fountain- ■
; arbour.
■ I had some enthusiasm, and she loved to ex- .
I cite it. Deeply read herself, and elegantly ed- *
cated, she could sport with my crude and irre- !
gular reading, and she had all the advantage of;
comparing her tastes with nature, in me. We
had music, too, and of that I was passionately
fond, by inheritance. I cannot at this dav
describe what we said, but I only know that
it was bliss to me to be near her—to look in I
her dark, full eye, and the expressiveness of :
her whole person. Sometimes, we wandered i i
about the grounds, among the hay.makers, and ' I
gave scope to the full glee of youth—free and i i
open in all our feelings, and unconscious of j 1
our actions. How I was fascinated, as I gnz- > ;
ed upon the grace, the beauty, heightened by i i
exercise and excitement, the unstudied ele- ! t
gance of her movements! But generally 1| ]
was very reserved, unless taken by surprise,
and hurried, by some such amusement, out of j 1
my diffidence. I remember that it used to i s
wound my pride, to observe that my cousin j t
could bo so assured, and easy in her address ' I
to me. She would reach out her hand to me >■■
with a frankness that told me it did not contain t j
her heart, but only her good wishes. Women <
do not give their hearts, their affection, those ' ‘
thoughts and emotions they have kept as a ; !
hidden treasure, since the commencement of j t
their girlhood, without a trembling fear—an i
indefinite mistrust—that the receiver will not } t
value the gift according to its estimate in their j f
own minds. j i
After an afternoon spent wi ll her, at early ; t
evening I used to set out for home. I always j t
pretended to leave them in haste, for fear of j <
being late; but many is the night I have stood j :
concealed near the house, te catch glimpses ’ s
of her figure—to hear, perhaps, the tones of <
her voice—her joyous laugh, or her affection- ! 1
ate caresses of her younger sisters. There i ;
was an excitement ab< ut this, that gratified i ’
me. I sought to create difficulties. 11 was 1
necessary to my or scheme of love, that t
‘the course of true love never should run t
smooth.’ 1 dmild not have felt any sympathy ( !
for the loves of another, which were prosper- , 1
ous ; I could not have been interested in my .! t
own easy conquests. I ■
Returning home at night from these, visits, I
I lingered along the banks of the lake ; 1 piling- j ;
ed into the deep groves. I wished to find so- i
litude, lonely and untrodden places, where I i
could sigh unrestrained and unwitnessed, and ‘
give vent to the pent-up ecstacies of my soul. I
It was a boyish romance, but it was not silly. ,;
It was too serious to be trite ; too influential , <
upon my life, to be called ridiculous. ■ -
1 have registered these feelings, to show into I
what a vein of thought and conduct a young !
man may be led, by cultivating exclusively the I <
imaginative powers—by reading fiction alone. ; I
He is mad. to all intents and purposes. The i i
great objects of existence, the good of society, i
his eternal interests, sink into insignificance ! I
before the one great idol his fancy rears. He ’ I
Jis absorbed. All the channels of the soul are I
I made to run in different directions, and to (
nourish various designs of duty; are turned
i by disease into one great river that sweeps '
; through the moral nature, and bears down !
I with it all hopes of usefulness. Such is pas- |
I sion. ■
I My remaining term of suspension passed on i
■in this manner. How 1 gut reinstated in col-
i lege, with my class, lam unable to say. I 1
! was received through some influence or other,
with the proviso that I should pay some atten- i
tiou to certain studies during the approaching '
long vacation. :
CIIA PT 8 R X-
When I returned, my class-mates hardly
i knew me, nor I them. We had al! changed
■ materially in our habits and feelings. New :
I lights of genius had sprung into notice; old l ,
j ones had gone out, or were eclipsed. We had 1
| all grown, both in mind and body.
| It was now the junior year, and the charac- 1
) ter of the man, the permanent character, be
gan to show itself. The effects of different ■
' courses of study began to be apparent. The i
| young men who had attended welt to the les- '
[ sous, but read much beside, shone out with
j unexpected brilliancy in philosophy, logic, and ?
! composition, while the students of Greek, and ■
Latin, and Mathematics, alone, fell back in re- 1
i putation with the class, if not in rank with the j
I government. Young men who had studied for 1
: rank, had it; but they who had studied for i
| knowledge, and taste, and for intellectual rank, ■
| had it, and evinced it.
! A false criterion is created at college, du- ;
■ ring the first two years, by the studies of those |
1 terms. Latin, Greek, and the Mathematics,!
! are the only pursuits, mid the rank one takes !
i depends more upon the school where he mav i
. have been fitted, than upon the general strengt h j
<of his mind. A mere piece of machinery mav I
' be made a good Latin scholar; and by ilint-ol j
I iU: d spending six hours upon a lesson,
I a very clownish mind may up] ear respectably :
i in the recitation-fooiii, in construing and pars- I
; ing. I hardly know how this criterion may !
1 be avoided ; but in the giving out of parts for j
: exhibition, a very superior writer and general
scholar sometimes finds himself pluyitig second i
' to his inferior in all things, except Greek verbs I
1 and geometrical theorems.
, i I had formed a character, too ; but it was'
. ; one not likely to be knot' üby college bovs. 1
j was the slave of my feelings and my impulses.
4! I could write a better love-letter than forensic
i j theme. I did indeed possess a ’elicncy of
GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGEST 5, 1837.
sentiment, which shrunk from display. I was
diffident and retiring, from the very knowledge
I possessed, that 1 was placed by my class
below my proper standard. But when my
spirits were excited, they van away with me.
I then became the boldest of all, A load was
removed from my heart. Ino longer felt the
degradation of being no scholar. My pride
was asleep, and in the reaction of depressed
feeling, I rushed headlong into any scheme
that offered amusement or dissipation. Then
came the reaction of over excitement—the
‘fullness of satiety’—and I relapsed into an un-.
happy,good-for-nothing idler. I felt possessed
of capacity, but I did not know where to be
gin to exert <t. I had no adviser. Good stu
. dents avoided me, as an unprofitable comp,an.
I ion, and the professedly dissipated and vile
did not like my half-way course—mv balanc
ing between good and ill; so that I was lonely,
conscience-stricken, restless, and miserable.
At home, I enjoyed some happy hours, for
there I had a sister for whom I felt the strong
est affection, and by whom—if acts speak any
truth—l was equally beloved. I told her all
my difficulties, and she probablv knew how in
advertent were my errors, for she never spoke
I to mo in other than kind and endearing words,
j But she was a woman, and could only soothe.
I She could not advise.
Mj’ father, during all this time, supposed
! every thing was fair. He still had hopes.— ;
He saw me reinstated in my class, and pro- ■
raised himself much from my ripening years. I
He saw that I had faults; he must have seen it; I
but then he attributed them to the usual folly
and thoughtlessness of youth. He saw others
in the same way. He did not know how deep
ly the bonds of idleness, and frivolity, and ir
resolution, were fastened upon me. Fortu
nately for him, the future was wrapped in
darkness.
How can I ever repay the affectionate so.
licitude of this sister!—her deprivations formy
sake I I believe she would have sacrificed
her life forme. She was near my own age—
two years the eldest. She had’ been left a
motherless child. We had known only a few
years of the tenderness and care of a mother.
Left to herself, she had, by the merest chance
in the world, formed for herself a strong and
noble character. She was worthy of being a
pattern for American women.
While quite young, she was sent to the best
boarding schools. There she got little save a
smattering of French, and a taste for drawing,
and a love of romping. In due time, she was
brought out, as all young ladies are, more on
account of their size, than their ago or accom
plishments. That ts, she was invited into
company, and behaved herself very modestly.
She thought it pretty tn hang her head, and
blush, and lispffier words, and appear ths mild
est, tamest creature in the world; though I
can aver that she was hyodenish to a fault,
and loved our sports quite as well as we did.
She would chase us boys’ round the h rase, if
we offended her, and fight her own battles—
running up the front stairs, down the back stairs,
through the parlor and library—and we could
only escape her by running into the street.—
She soon, however got rid ot all this romping
spirit, and settled down into a very naturally
conducted miss. She took to reading Miss
Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and Mrs. Cha*-
[tone’s and Gregory’s letters—and the effect
was most salutary. She seemed to view her
life ina new light; and without pretending
to be very good, and very prudish, or vastly
proper, she really was ths most generous and
high-minded girl I ever knew. Every body
loved her. She never had an enemy, and she
never will have; for she is now in heaven,
with her mother, and one ofher sisters.
She was an instance how ranch beauty de
pends upon expression. Her features were
large, her figure rather embonpoint, her teeth
indifferent, her hair light, but luxuriant. She
was quite an ordinary-looking girl, when at
home, in a state of quiescence, as are
apt to be in America—sewing, or reading, or
drawing; but when in society she loved, or
witnessing an interesting tragedy, meeting dear
friends, after a long absence, she was positive
ly lite most beautiful girl I ever saw. Her
eye would light up with vivid brightness; her
figure assume the most graceful and speaking
expression ; her smile was enchan’ing, and her
whole heart was in her voice, and action, and
look. She was much admired, but mostly by
those who knew her the best.
1 h :ve said a good deal about this sister, be
cause I wish to pay a tribute to herexcellence
—for hyr affection was my greatest consola
tion, and it is now. I love to look back upon
that enduring regard, that unalienable interest,
we felt for each other. How often has her
; persuasion saved inc from error ! How much
do I owe to her constructions »f my conduct
with the family, with my father! She was
| ever at hand to allay bitterness, to cherish
■ kindness, and remove all obstacles to a recon
i ciliation. When in pecuniary difficulty, she
: has often relieved me, from her own purse,
i 1 owe her much in all respects. She has ten
i ded me in sickness, soothed me in distress, sat
| with me whole nights of agony, when my nerves
1 were excited almost to madness; and, best of
! all, she exerted all her powers to keep alive in
! my heart my early religious impressions,
j She married—she left her home—her hus
-1 band removed to one ofthe West India islands,
j She followed him, without repining, to a strange
! land, because his interest was concerned in
lhestep. She left splendor, luxury, fashion,
and the dearest cir le of friends, who floated
! on her, and became a wife to a poor man.—
! Among numerous offers, she chose him who
, she thought loved her the best. She prized
affection more than wealth, and the devotion
! of her husband more than the devotion of the
I world. While she lived, she was amply re-
I paid’for herehoice. She was a happy, trust
-1 tug wife. Love was to her the end of exist,
i ence. The same depth of atl'ectipn which
! was bestowed upon a careless and useless
i brother, found a more worthy object in ail lion
: orabk-: husband.
But God did not spare her long to her friends.
! She died—and her husband and child died
i with her, during the ravages of the yellow fe-
I ver. But she died happy. In a letter which
i I received from her, mentioning the death of
> many ofher acquaintance, she says of herself:
i ‘ I do not fear death for myself, but 1 fear lest
| tny dear infant be taken from me; if we could
j all die together, I should be willing to die to
1 day.’ A short time after this., she died, having
first laid her husband and child io the tomb.
I I only remained at college, after my return,
for a lew months. The extra studies I was
: required to make up during the vacation, were
I entirely neglected. I returned afier the vaca
| lion, and being examined, was faund wanting,
i It was deliberated whether to send me away,
I or to give me an opportunity to make up my
I deficiency in term-time. The latter course
i was determined on. 1 was required to remain
in town, and to recite every Jay at a fixed hour.
We were accustomed to visit, our parents, fre
quently, during term-tim<s but this privilege
was denied me, under the penalty of dismission,
should I leave the college-bounds, on any pre
text.
The very day after the usual time for mv
visiting home, my father came out, and inquir
ed the cause of my absence. I pleaded sick
ness, and still kept away. He came again,
and I told him the truth—that I was restrained
I within the bounds as a punishment. He felt
for me—consoled me, encouraged me—came
out to see mo twice as often as before. My
mother and sisters sent me presents, and wrote
by-every opportunity—for they thought I suf
fered very much. Time wore away, and I felt
happy enough, for I had done my duty ; I had,
upon compulsion, been more than studious.
The petiod of my release was at hand. The
very day before the last of my confinement, mv
father came out to sec me, and promised him
self much pleasure from having me al his table
once more. I was yet the hope of the family.
He gave me some money, and said he intended
to invite some friends to meet me. He seem
ed overjoyed ; but. by mistaken indulgence, my
disgrace was accelerated.
The very evening after he had left me, and
supplied me with money—the evening of mv
last recitation—l was solicited, more urgently
than usual, to go upon a party of pleasure.—
j Horses were all provided. It was to be a de
i lightful jaunt through the country, to try the
I speed of some favorite horses. We were to
rendezvous at a tavern, where we were sure of
good cheer, and have a band of music for a
water-excursion by moonlight, in the evening ;
and it was stipulated to be at home for morn
ing prayers. Every thiig conspired against
me. My near release made me already feel
the gush of liberty. The kindness of my fa
ther, the anticipation of meeting my brothers
and sisters, once more round the paternal board,
made me almost crazy with excitement. I
was in no situation to act thoughtfully. I join
ed the party in their ride, and we did go out of
town.
I drove a fleet horse that day; and I well
remember the sensation of liberty—the reac
tion of a long, tedious, studious retiiement
from any thing like pleasure—that thrilled
through me, as we wheeled along the smooth
road. We seemed on wings.
During the ride, some accident happened to
one of the horses. He got frightened and ran
away, and ran over a child. It was well
known that we were L students. An in-
vestigation took place; we were reported to
the government. My absence from recitation
was suspicious. The whole matter was brought
to light; and instead of going home, to glad
den my family, I carried home a bill of ex
pulsion.
My misfortune—-my agony —made me calm.
I walked into the house with a ghastly face
and the cold shiver of despair. No one rose
to meet me, for my appearance told that I was
the bearer of disgrace. I handed the letter of
the president to my father, and sinking into
a chair, covered my face with my hands.
What words can describe the agony of a fa
ther’s heart, when, after forgiving, alluring, en
couraging, and bribing—after all human means
have been tried for an imprudent son—l cannot
call myself by a worse name—and just as he
thinks he sees the object of his wishes accom
plished, suddenly finds the very anchor of his
hopes torn away, and sees, in all its nakedness,
the utter worthlessness of his favorite child ?
He knew not the aggravating circumstan
ces. He did not think of them. Heonlysa w
the result. That was enough for him. lie
knew nothing of my disposition. He saw me
affectionate, and kind, and respectful one day,
and the next subjected to the severest censures,
which proved me base, and unworthy of bis
confidence. He was staggered, lost, bewil
dered. He said not a word to me for a week
—took no more notice of me than if I had been
a block. I was suffered to remain under the
paternal roof, and this was all that convinced
me that I had not lost, irremediably, the aflec-1
tion of my father.
CHAPTER XI.
I was now perfectly regular in my hours, !
and as studious in my habits as any one could I
wish. Very soon, my father began to speak I
t o ria:—to be cheerful in ray presence. Then !
he spoke to me of my intentions. 1 wished to
study law, and my name was entered in the
best office in the city.
The hopes of a father never weary, as long
as youth remains. I was reinstated in his i
good opitiiort ; indulgences flowed in upon me ; ’
and I forgot that I had ever done wrong, and [
began to look upon myself as quite a good (
young man. My relations and friends all seem j
ed agreed to forget this disgrace, and I found !
myself moving about in society quite u tolerated I
personage.
My father was rich. I was to be a lawyer. ;
What mother wanted more ? ‘He must be j
invited,’ said Mrs. G. I teas invited—flirted j
with the young ladies—mounted whiskers '
—kept a horse and gig—played billiards— |
had a season ticket at the theatre—went to all
public dinners, and spent the morning in walk
ing the streets, to look for my female acquaint
ance, and to show my grace at a bow
This was delightful. My conscience was j
at rest. I had been at college, and got out. j
Nobody inquired how. I was well received •
tn good society. I had thrown off the boy, !
i and his nice delicacy of feeling. It was un-‘
fashionable to have fine feelings. I tried to be !
a ‘man about town,’ with sone success. I be
came philosophic—read Rousseau and Hume
—all the new novels aud many old ones; was
a member of a literary club, and took the re
views, and skimmed the magazines; spoke ot
painting, and went to the picture gallery.
But why should I relate all the vapid em
p’oymeuts of a young uneducated man to kill
time ; who, with more reputation than he could
carry out, was obliged to resort to all kinds of
subterfuges? 1 was now nineteen years of
I age. °
I I carried on this life for a year or more.
I I was too well satisfied with myself, to think
; much what my reputation was with others.
| A sufficient portion of time was spent at the
: office, to give me the name of a student at law.
1 did try to read Blackstone, and did get thro’
' the first volume: but I could not have told a
principle contained in it. I did not know how
|to study. Here too, my father seemed satis
fled, for my conduct was apparently correct,
1 at home, and he was too mucl. engaged in his
i own concerns, to think much of tnitie. He
| took it for granted that now, at last, I must be
doiiiw well. My allowance was liberal for
pocket money, travelling expenses, and dress.
I wanted nothing to make me a ‘man,’ except
the disposition in my own heart.
Common pleasures began to pall upon my
taste. 1 craved excitement. My love for my
coasin was not extinguished, but I had become
I old enough to see the folly of indulging it.—
True, I never thought of her, I nevercan think
of her, but with the purest feeling. Though
still unmarried, and at an age when the charms
I that deck the maiden’s cheek begin to fade, she
is still lovely to me; she is still a girl—and
when I chance to meet her now, she is to me
the sweet companion of my walks and roam
ings about her delightful home. She is still the
object of that ideal perfection in the shape of
woman, which every young man frames for
himself—the point about which his thoughts
fasten, of what he would love—of what he
wishes—of what he sighs and prays to pos
sess.
Yes! excitement I craved. How many a
one se.ls his soul for mirth and wild joy I—
sells his reputation—barters his honor—his
paternal honor, and blets the fair escutcheon
of his family, for excitement ’ It tends to hon
orable enterprises, and it assumes all the forms
of worldly affairs, under various modifications,
but it is base, too. It sends the poor to the
dram-shop, end the heir to the gambling house,
who is the greatest fool of all ; for with enough
or more than he can spend in the greatest pro
fusioi, lie puts it in the power of fortune to
ruin him, to make him a beggar. Or if he
gaitis, he but adds to superfluous wealth.—
What is gambling, in such cases, but love of
excitement ? It is like the man who tries
how far he can stretch himself over a preci
pice without falling.
Love of excitement! it is the cause of vice
tn the young; for how distasteful and disgust
i gis grass dissipation to the novice I The
example of others, a des re to bethought spir
ited, and off-hand, lead him into it, at first, and
afterward ho pursues as a good and an allevi
ation what he rejected as vile and unworthy.
This life is .nameless. Who can define it ?
Who can explain it ? Who can trace the steps
to it ? Once in, never out. The only pleasure
is un unevenness of pain. We do not suffer
so much to-day as yesteiday, and we are hap
py, by comparison. But see the morning
hours of your dissipated, worthless youth.—
The pure air, the bright sky, the bustling
world, about him, seem but to mock ins misery.
He feels contemptible, Hesits perhaps amidst
a medicine-shop for his body, to frame some
employment for the day ; some scheme of vul
garity. some contrivance of vice, and all this
perhaps as only an alleviation from pain. Em
barked in his course, he appears, to the world,
as intent upon some object of worthy interest;
and he passes his acquaintance with the well
bred smile and bow of a happy heart. We
envy him, so gay, so earnest is he—so much
spirit, and life, and gayety —such openness
and generosity.
Who, I say, can describe the actors in these I
scenes, hut the actors themselves ? They who
play the parts, know themselves wretched men.
They have no hope, Life to them has no hon 1
orable ambitions. They know they will soon ]
die, and they keep up the farce to cheat them
selves of the dreadful consciousness of what
they are. 1
‘ But what was the effect of this indulgence, (
this love of excitement, in you?’ the reader
asks. It led me into mad scenes of disstpa- I
tion. It exhausted my moral feelings, and
made me fit for any scene of gross debauchery.
And than I awoke, when weary nature failed, (
to a full and stinging sense of my degradation.
Thoughts, scorpioi -winged, crowded upon
me, and un ever-wrought fancy supplied the
horrors that made my sick couch a hell.
I sometimes left my father’s house for weeks. |
I lived with a set. We supported and gave j
countenance to each other. We braved pub
lic opinion. Amm cannot be dissipated in
America, and hold his rank in society ; there
is too nicu a moral standard. Society is too
pure. The habits of the American people are !
too common-sense, to allow any tinsel organ- '
dy veil to make-believe hide the deformities of 1
vice, and to offer an apology for our acquaint- J
ance and friends for clinging to us. Splendid
talents will not shield the man who is morally
delinquent; nor family connections ; nor even
wealth, that mantle of oblivion for almost eve
ry sin, in other countries. The man or the
woman, it matters not which, who offends the
high principles of morality, is lost to society.
Such are never received with confidence by
respectable classes iu society. They may
have their set; they may in some cases, by
reformation, be tolerated ; but they are stamp
ed, and, Cain-like, they walk the earth. This
strictness applies even to young and unmarried
men, iu that season of life when some liberty
and some charity is usually bestowed upon the
habitual thoughtlessness of youth. Rank, ac
cidental rank, is ttie curse of society in Europe.
A man is of no consequence in himself; it is |
his title which pleases. No matter what he
is in • propria persona,’ whether a gambler, a |
rake, o. - a swindler; if he have a title, his re- j
ception is never questioned. Men, on this ac- |
count, are not put to the cultivation of their I
dispositions and habits for goodness. This is ;
all a chance growth. He has nothing to gain, !
except in his own feelings; and he follows
the bent of his accidental impulses, which may
i bo bad or may be good, satisfied that he can-
I not lose.
In an ignorant age, when books were rare, ,
we can see the effects of this more plainly. I
The nobles w re the tyrants, and the most ü
bahdoned and vicious part of the population ; j
i while virtue was found in the shade, in the |
■ quiet hamlet and lonely cottage. Domestic j
! love, conjugal fidelity, paternal care, and fra
j ternal affection, gladdened the humble hearth- |
[ stone ot the laboring poor; while the castle j
I and the palace were the scenes of dark intrigue j
! and secret murder. Father and son were at
j war. Brother fought with brother. Incest, I
! debauchery and rapine, were the vices of ru- j
! tors, while morality arid religion clothed the <
| oppressed subject.
Now, literature is so much a fashion, and j
; good books are so common in England, and i
I every where else, and a few great examples
; are so conspicuous, that the higher classes
! have become more morally refined by the im-
I provements of the age meeting their leisure
and superior opportunities. But still, what
! gross laxity of morals do we hear of iu Eu
| rope 1 V»'h >t should we think in our country
joi a man who, with a grown-up family of
! daughters, should keep a mistress, and be seen
1 with tier iu open day? Where can domestic
j affection be, iu such a case? What will pro
i bablv be the principles of his children ? How
can he advise his sons? How can he protect
his daughters? And yet, after all,'this man is
honored, and is the bosom-confidant, it may be,
I of the very king himself.
It is enough to say, that I fell under the dis
repute ot' the world. I lost my place in soci
ety. Mothers no longer cast inquiring eyes
upon me. Smiles were more polite, and less
cordial. My opinions were not disputed, but
suffered to die unargued, like the first worked
up-to-the-point remark of a large overgrown
boy at a dinner table, among old and experien
ced diuers-out. As much as to say, in the lat-J
Vol. V—Ko. 14.
: ter case: ‘Young Sir. you are o judge of
i wine or mutton,’ and in hiv cast t ’ Sir, you
i are no match for my daugbt rs. u d you are
fast sinki. g into nobody.’
To a man bad by system, his /•ild have
been nothing. He would, : n hi t the ir. of
conduct, have been prepared for s .ghts and
cuts ; but to me it was galling i th
and sometimes drove me to despera'i< : For
I was not bad at heart—so all mv ir. cn‘s sail
and I believed and still believe them I always
wished to do right. Mv errors pa;.mo
more than any one else. ‘Whs cerre - :’
them, then?’ says the reader. Mv d«af f.-tend
—habit, habit did my btisi cr —edecatic,
want of energy, conseque t u ■: a of im
pulse. Did you ever try t. ■<■• a fffbio ‘
Answer me, and then your c->v- <; < < nr ,
be answered.
I loved the pure, the good,'h re.?; t
had aspirations lifter exeell- •
lay deeply imbedd'd i >n; . ” "'e I had
been carried along i s Civ Ms!
tended I knew not whi'h r—-v •; i
thought, until I found myg' i! w x ’ -xdi,
and a marked man,
Frem the Southern Li'erary
ELEGIAC VEHS??.?.
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH, OCTOBER, 1833, 0? TH? a-’’
THOMAS SMITH GJIIMKE.
Gone, in his manhood’s bloom!
i By the great Gatherer, gathered to the fold,
The dark and solemn tomb, —
Solemn, and dark, and cold.
How quickly was his race of glory run!
Tears for the worthy and the noble one.
The strength of man, how frail;
His hold on life, how insecure at best;
To-day he breasts the gale,—
To-morrow, lies at rest.
Bright eye, and glowing cheek, and shining tress,
Dim in the chill and loathsome newt’s caress.
And the high, manly brow,
Where Genius lights his deathless fires to-day,
To-morrow moulders low,
Beneath the fresh-heap’d clay;
And the cold grave-worm drags his slimy length,
Where thought display’d its ardor, mind its strength.
Tears for the worthy one !
When last we met hinf, in that crowded hall,
Thought ye his shroud was spun,
Or colored was his pall ?
No ! of us all, on him among the last,
Would ye deem’d Death’s siroc-breath had past.
Oh, that the good of earth
Should go down to the humid grave so soon !
Flow’rs that at morn have birth.
And withered are at noon s
Flinging their fragrance on the chainless wind,—
It, and their memory only, left behind.
The wail that here arose,
Far, to the balmy South, is borne along ;
And, as it journeys, grows
More sorrowful and strong,—
For every patriot-breast swells high with grief.
And finds, in walling words, a sad relief.
Mournfully, too, the sound
Os autumn’s rustling leaves, and eddying gale
That lifts them from the ground.
Chimes with the solemn wail,
Whispering, Exemplar ofthe great and free !
How much of goodness leaves the world with thee.
La Fayette.— We quote the following pas
sage from a work which has just made its ap.
pearance iu Paris, the Memoirs of General
La Fayette, publishe Iby his family. They
appear as part of an introduction by the vene.
rable patriot, and give his reason for not giving
to the world, during his life, a detailed account
of the political events in which he played so
conspicuous and important a part.
N. Y. Star.
“ When, in my youth, I devoted myself to
the cause of freedom, and 1 saw no bou ids to
the career which lay open to me, I thought it
sufficient for my destiny and my glory to march
unceasingly onward, and leave to «th ts the
care of collecting the reminiscenses and the
fruits of my labor.
“It was only after fifteen years of Constan 1 ,
good fortune that whilst conic, dtag t.
confidence of success against th? co < : ■
kings and the aristocracy of Europ ■, I rui
overthrown by the excesses of Fr ch Jscc
binistn. My [ erson was then give.; up t.i tr-.v
violence of my natural enemies, a d ay rep:..
tationtothe calumnies of pret -uded p itr ts ,
who had violated their oaths, and pr v
to the most solemn engagements.
“It is well known that the ritstra: . - tc
I which I was subjected during five v? , aof :r.
prisomnent were not favorable to fit r: ■ t ?
forts; and when.after my liberation. I r- as
vised to write my defence, I was dt- "red
from the task by disgust at the memoirs in
notices with which so many perso s huv ,r ...
sed the ears of the public. B Is, st?
had spoken for us ; the accusers a ' h- i .■ :
cusations had, in many instances, p i’isked te
gtther.
“Immediately on my ret r i to France, m
friends called for my mem irs. 1 foil I se.ffi
cient excuse for refusing them in my repug
nance to deal with Jacobin leaders, who be.
came sharers in my proscription; with the.
! Girondists, who hail-ffied in defending those a
I principles which they voui. ayj r.v
secuted in me; with the lx. ...
I whose deplorable fate permittea .
! feeling than satisfaction on accotinl
j services I had been able to render them: and
j with royalists, conquered, dispirited, and now
! compelled to submit to harsh and arbitrary
! measures. I might add that, happy in the re>
! treat of my family, and in the midst of rural
j pleasures, I have uot a moment to spare from
these domestic employments.
“ But as I am still urged, e en hero, by tho
same entreaties, I have, in order to satisfy tny
friends, consented to arrange the papers which
remain, to collect documents already published,
I and to append notes to the collection, which
1 may furnish to my children and others some
•j materials for a more important and systematic
j labor.
“ As for Tie, I confess that my indifference
j on this subject springs from ths confidence I
j feel that liberty will finally establish itself tn
the old world as in the new, and that then the
history of our revolutions will do impartial
justice, and show every party in its true light.”
Anecdote of General Putnum. — During the
French war, when the British Commander,
General Amherst, was marching across the
country to Canada, the army corning to ouent
the Likes, which they were obliged to pass,
found the French had a.i armed vessel of 12
guns upon it. The Ge era! was i i great
trouble ;. his boats were no match for her, and
it’ his men were embarked iu them, that single