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J3Y JAJIES W. JONES. The Southern Whig, j PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY' MORNING. TER JIS. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the lit st number, or four dollars if not paid within the year. Sub scribers living out of the State, 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 i Daper will be discontinued until all arrear- j Hges 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 j rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered out. fry All l etters to the Editor or Proprietor, on j matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in order to 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. Ths sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to I the day es sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of 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-! g.oes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will b .made for Letters of administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months. For Advertising—Letters of Citation. § 2 /5 . Notice »o Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 25 I Four Months Notices, 4 00 Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, 3 25 Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 75 Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50 Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of sjn - 11 type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week, 62 1-2 cents for each continuance. If published once a month, it will be charged each time as a new advertisement. For a single insertion, $1 00 per square. 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 the Editor to make renewed exertions to place the work«on a firm foundation, and to make it worthy of the patronage it is likely to receive. No effort was made to obtain subscribers, no publicity was given to the design, until the first number was ready for distribution, —because the Editor was unwilling to make promises which he might be unable to fulfil; and he was anxious that the public, before it gave encour agement or approbation, should see rhe work, and have an opportunity to judge of its merits. A short notice of the Editor’s intentions and i wishes accompanied the first number, and the approbation and indulgence with which his . f riends and thepublic generally received it, gave, to him hopes which he had not previously in- 1 ■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 ofher Schol ,rs; —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 ical in the State devoted entirely to Original Li teratuie. It is printed in a handsome style— (not inferior in that respect to the best m the country.) The very medium of publication is calculated to inspire young ambition to vigor ous exertion, and to make the old and experien- j ced writer happy in the privilege of sending thoughts into the world in such a garb. Alaba ma has talent—talent of an order calculated to command the admiration of her neighbors, however old their experience ; however celebra ted their Literati. It is the proudest wish of the Editor that he may call that talent into ac tive exercise ; yet he cannot hope to be able to do that without the hearty approbation of his friends, and their earnest concurrence in promo ting a cause for whose success he is willing to devote his entile time and attention. A Liter .ry Advertiser will be attached to the Bachelor's Button, containing Notices which relate to Schools, Colleges, Books, Banks, Insu rance Companies, &c. at the following rates : For one insertion, per page, $lO 00 “ “ “ 1-2 page. 6-00 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 400 ( By the year, per page, 60 00 “ “ “12 page, 30 00 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 15 00 This arrangement will not interfere with the literary department, as the advertising sheets will be enfra. Persons wishing to advertise in the third Number, will send in their notices im mediately. Mr. W. W. McGuire is our City Agent, and is authorised to act for us. Any letter oi com munication left at his Book Store, will receive ■immediate attention. TERMS—“The Bachelor’s Button” will be published Monthly in the City of Mobile, in a pamphlet containing 64 large octavo pages of -entirely original matter, on tine paper, and on new and clear type, at Five Dollars a year, payable in advance. Editors friendly to the wbrk will please publish tliis circular. 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