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by JAMES W. J® AES.
The Southern Whig,
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‘ PROS PECffT'
OF
A NEW LITERARY JOURNAL,
k ENTITLED
HE BACHELOR’S BUTTON.
IHE Second Number of this Periodical is
now before the Public. The very kind fa
vor with which it has been accepted prompts
r*the Editor to make renewed exertions to place
■ the wor'k 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
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Which he might be unable to fulfil; and he was
anxious that the public, before it gave encour
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and have an opportunity to judge of its merits.
A short notice of the Editor’s intentions ami
wishes accompanied the first number, and the
approbation and indulgence with which bis
friends and the public generally received h, 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 of ex
treme doubt; —ovvinc more co 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
the taste ofher Schol .rs; —and the increase
wealth has produced the best of all results:
Shhe opening of the heart, and the gushing forth
A of the best of feelings: generosity, and a desire
Jr to promote every laudable enterprise.
The Bachelor’s Button is the only period
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(not inferior in that respect to the best m the
country.) The very medium of publication is
calculated to inspire young ambition to vigor
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however old their experience ; however celebra
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friends, and their earnest concurrence in promo
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TERMS—“The Bachelor’s Button” will be
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WM. R. SMITH, Editor and Proprietor
GEORGIA, CLARK COUNTY.
Rule Nisi.
Inferior Court sitting for Ordinary purposes,
adjourned Term, 12t/i June, 1837.
IT appearing to the Court that Howell Elder I
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, andthe Land joining said Lots and bound-
J’d a -'j»y l jsarray and Harden, now in possession
of Mrs/Stephens; and it 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,
ft ordered that the Administrator of
.-«Ae said Howell Elderdec’d. be directed to make
jKjhii execute titles to the said Honse and Lot,
Sind adjoining premises embraced in said Bond,
•Iwithin the time prescribed by Jaw to the heirs
F general of the said David Stephens deceased,
or shew cause to the contrary—At v d it is fur
ther ordered that this Rule be pubffi'rad once a
momb, for three months m one of the. public
Gazeits of this State.
I certify that the foregoing is a iv>„. extract
from the minutes of said Court, this 13iU June, 1
1837. B. HAYGOOD, d. c. c. o.
June 17,—7—mSm
*
From Blackwood’s Magazine for May.
‘ It is related of a Hungarian jew, we think by old er
udite Burton, that, feeling the approaches of death, he
’ summoned from Bristol to his bedside at Gloucester the
• only child of bisold age, and addressed her in a strain,
to which the following may be supposed to bear some
remote analog}'.
’ , BEN EPHRAIM’S DEATHBER.
. Depart! illusions of this world —
• Vile dreams of traffic—from my sleep—
• In visioned trance I see unfurled,
’ Outspread in silence deep,
A melancholy flat—
] Where spectral forms are flitting o’er
t From Earth to Jordan’s heavenly shore ;
1 Know I not thee, sepulchral, hoar,
Dreary Jehosophat ?
( Thou valley of dry bones, where keep
Our fathers’ fathers their last sleep !
Life’s ebbing sands are almost run ;
Child, draw that saffron curtain by,
i That I may see yon selling sun
! Once more before I die.
Soon shall his radiance gild
Thy temple, earth’s most glorious gem,
, Oh distant, dear Jerusalem 1
Bear thou, bright orb, my love to them,
With me, in youth, who tilled
' Our Syrian fields ; and tell them, I,
Far from them, lay me down to die.
1 Tell them I grieve not for my death—
Grieve !—Ours hath been a race of steel!
Steadfast and stern —yea, fixed in faith
• Though doomed Power’s scourge to feol.
Tell them alone I grieve
That I am called to peace, before
Joy’s banners float our country o’er;
That, friendless, on a foreign shore,
My only born I leave :
Oh! be her young life’s voyage calm,
With waves of oil, and winds of balm!
Sarah! lone seraph! where wilt thou,
When I have left thee, refuge find ?
Ne’er felt I—ne’er so much as now— |
The scorn that haunts our kind !
For thou hast known not grief:
Gems, gold, I’ve garnered for thy dower,
I’ve nursed thee as a priceless flower
Within this almost Hebrew bower ;
The illuminated leaf
Os my life’s volume ;day and night, (
My silent, secret, sole delight.
But now I leave thee, purest child,
Forsaken in a foreign land,
For us where but to be reviled
Is pointed Mockery’s hand.
Ah.' wert thou but at home,
Where, kneeling at our fountain’s brink,
Beneath green palms, the camels drink,
Then should it solace me to think
Thy feet no more might roam ;
But heave the hills, and foams the brine,
Betwixt thee and blest Palestir*!
Our race —Heaven’s wrath hath scattered them!
The chosen see no more thy spires,
God’s dwelling place, Jerusalem,
Great city of’our sires !
Methinks I see thee still— I |
Thy temple, blest in elder time ; I 1
Thy terraced roofs, and towers sublime; I <
Thy ruined walls, where fig-trees climb; i <
■n —i u:n 1
Thy consecrated hut,
Mount Olivet; and Siloa’s stream,
Bright mirroring red morning’s beam! I :
I I
Farewell! thou hast thy mother’s eyes, ! i
Bright, black, as when by Danube’s flow, ! I
Beneath the blue Hungarian skies, j i
I wooed her long ago. j I
And ours was sure a hearth of love,
Till fiend-led Persecution drove ( :
The meekest forth, and made us rove
Once more without a home.
I would thy mother’s dust had lain ) 1
Without our cave, on Judah’s plain !
But no ! it was not thus to be !
She sleeps within an English field ;
And where they buried her, lay me, —
Nay, why to anguish yield,
Sarah, my lone and lovely child ! I
But when thou art an orphan, dry
In faith thy filial tears ; the sky
Os Palestine shall glad thine eye,
Dear wanderer of earth’s wild;
There hast thou kindred, who will make
Theo welcome, even for my name’s sake.
Farewell! though I must see it not,
Thine eyes, mine Eden-bird, may see
Our tribes, heaven-gathered, reach the spot (
Whence vengeance made them flee.—
The Arab charger’s neigh,
The shouting people thou may’st hark,
Life-favored child; yea, see God’s Ark
Once more unveiled to sight, and mark
Judah’s triumphant day;
Fulfilled the promise of the Lord,
The stranger fled, the lost restored!
I
Farewell! I see thee, feel thee not;
There is a burden on my breath ;
Within my veins, once thrilling hot,
I feel the ice of death.
One kiss before I die ; -
There kneel beside my couch, and pray:
I So like'yon parting gleam of day,
In peace my soul shall pass away 2
Into the cloudless sky ;
And God, when I u.n gone, will be
Friend, father, every thing to thee.
From the Knickerbocker for September.
‘VAilsosa Comfccrih.
NUMBER SIX.
‘Weak and irresolute is man.’ I record a I
fault of human nature, as well as my own. 1 '
resolved and re-resolve, and am the same.
Do I not blush while recording this weakness?
Alas 1 I am dead to feeling, as it regards tny
lellows. I have no communion with tlie world,
now. I pass bv, unnoticed and unknown.
Still, I have a love for markhid; and I make
these confessions, hoping they may prove
of use to others. 1 daily see others in the
same predicament as myself, or, it not so far
advanced, yet pursuing a course which will
inevitably lead them where 1 now am. Yes!
where lam; and what is that state'? Solita
riness, apathy, disgust, fretfulness, heartache;
the absence of all tho go ■ tie sympathies of life ;
the death of all domestic afl'cetioa; the famil
iarityofthe vulgar and low-bred; the sneer
oflhe foolish prosperous man; the contempt
of the small thriving gleaner; the neglect ol
.tho busy, and the pity of the good. Oh ‘'
oi-ie l reinaitts ; |-:U>CiSo! IIIC
pious and truly retfsjoiw.
But to my story. As hope began to fade
“Xr ■ A.'.- - Yt—-- ... ■ ; • -
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” Jefferson.
ATZIEXB, CIEOSCiIA, SAIT!’BAY, SEr-TEKSEE 23, J 837.
from the heart of my clear Alice ; as s'.e saw
1 was beyond the nifiusnce of tier prayers and
entreaties ; as she began to be acquainted wnh
the real state of my habits ; as she began to
- see, that not even my love for her availed any
’ thing, she began to despair. She had iiivolvcu
- herself too deeply to retract. Her feelings
1 had acquired the habit of loving me ; and in
deed, though an idle -young man, I do not
think it strange that such devotion and tender
ness as I sometimes really felt and bestowed
upon her. should have awakened some return.
I was well-bred, had a good person, could
sing passably well, by myself, write good po
etry, and was passionate and hot in my eviden
ces of affection. I was an enthusiast, and
women like decided tastes. They feel an as
surance, a confidence in your good, quiet,
smooth-faced, unexcitable, sensible man, if he
be young, especially ; but they love lite and
animation, even though it lead to slight errors.
Women know the difficulty' of restraining the
feelings within the bounds of propriety; they
are most open to impressions; the real crea
tures of feeling, they love feeding in others.
They have many struggles with what they
wish, and what they ought to do. Thej esti
mate in men the ardor of the temptation, as an
offset to the fault. Hence they are forgiving.
Women are obliged to keep a constant, j
guard over themselves. They know their own
weakness, and self-protection arms them to the
task. Many a high-souled woman knows this.
When you do find a well-disciplined character
in the female form, what a nobleone it is!
The labor of the undertaking, the education of
self-control, lias made her great. She is a
whole host. Look at her influence, in society ;
see the majesty of her deportment, the easy
assurance es her countenance. How common
men quail before her f What respect and at
tention she exacts from the titled profligate,and
the talented vicious 1 She is all that is exalted
on earth. There is no Ivauty to compare with
such beauty; no wealth such charms. She
is the nicest workmanship of God ; and iff her
dwells a soul that scatters blessings around
her. “The heart ofher husband delighteth in
i her, and he has no need of spoil.’
I Reader, if you area father, and have seen
i the son of your hopes, the inheritor of your
name, the bearer of your form and features,
gradually falling a victim to low vices; ifyou
area mother, and can trace, in those features
now bloated with excess, and in that eye now
dimmed with sensuality, the semblance to the
babe that drew its earliest food from yoyr pure
bosom, and remember that eye upturned toy-sur
face as the innocent lay cradled in your arms;
ifyou are a sister, and mourn the ruin of your
bed-fellow ; or a brother, and seen your play
mate in prison, you may form some notion of
what the emotions of a fond heart are, when it
beholds its stay gone, its prospects blighted,and
its love thrown away upon an unworthy ob
ject. No ! not altogether unworthy, but with
just enough of good to keep alive the love,
while it mocks all efforts to draw consolation,
tc answer the chord in her own bosom.
LovJ wishes its object to be perfect. None
can or must compare with its choice. How
fondly does woman cheat herself, if she can,
into the belief that her choice is fortunate be
yond human fortune! I weep—even I, who
have not wept for years for my own misfor
tunes —I weep, as I recall the memory of the
tears she shed over tny irrevocable ruin. She
did know my character, at last, and she pre- j
dicU-d, even in spite of her love, all that has )
tin nnpnrwl.
nappeneu.
Shall I record that these tears were not a
source of pain to me then? They satisfied
my vanity. I always reserved reformation to
myself, and thought she was mistaken ; and
these scalding tears, as they coursed down her
cheeks, told me th .t 1 was beloved. Not even
the misery of the object of my affection could
prevent a triumph that I had over her— her, the
sought-for by ipany—that J was preferred a
mong a multitude. Is this nature? Was I
hard-hearted ? W'oukl not any one feel the
same ? Let the reader examine his own heart,
and answer.
CHAPTER XIII.
At this time, and in this very village, there
lived a gentleman, in the truest scuse ol the
term, by the name of Edward Lang. lie was
a man of high family, or* aristocratic notions,
and thought literature the chief object worthy
of pursuit. At the time I saw him, he bore
the ills of poverty, the burden of a broken heart,
and disappointed hopes. lie possessed a well
stored mind, unwearied benevolence, and a
Tremaine-like refinement. He had, in the
early part of his life, encumbered a large for
tune with debts of extravagance, idleness, and
folly; and at a subsequent period, lost the re
mainder in scheming ; for he thought that his
preeminence in literature gave him preemi
nence in every thing.
Every bpdy applauded his plans ; they were
upon a largo scale; they redounded to the
good of the place, and ruined him.
Bred a lawyer, the unfairness of country
practice, the low and degraded crowd it bro’t
hun in contact with, caused him to throw up
his profession. lie took to farming; but he
only tried experiments, to the advantage of
other people ami his own loss. He got up
all sorts of usefall societies, which cost, him
his time, and paid him nothing. He bought
j all tho new works for other people to read;
! subscribed lib. rally to reading-rooms and
i schools. Ho fatted entile for the agricultural
society, at six times their worth in corn and
care. Every body in the village improved
their own stock by Iris; but then all this took
money from his pocket.
lie did not know the state of his afi’airs, be
cause he hated settlements. He could not
bring himselfdown to the drudgery of fife, but
did his farming scientifically, in his study, and
left the work to hired hands. He failed, and
no body pitied him. He began to be called a
‘poor good-for-nothing fellow,’ whose chimeras
hud brought him down. Ali bis neighbors
sued him, am.! he suffered ali who owed him
to go miduimed. He gave up all for lost; sat
himselfdown in wretchedness, disgusted with
the world, and tired of himself.
I was quite intimate with this gentleman
Being much my senior, for he was about fifty,
and a bachelor, he took it upon himself to give
me a word of advice. He had been in love
himself, anil that desperately; though unfor-,
tunate in his love affairs, as well as all others.
The father of the lady objected to him, on lhe
score of his being tn.(it. to m ike money. He
possessed hordes ot wealth, himself, and could
have made two hearts happy- But no; this
would m>t do. His ideas of excellence eousis
ted in lhe fhcult .. d’—king'"Otiey and keep,
i >,>■ it. ‘As t" l ' liter,imic ami refinement, lie
Gid net care for tli.-m. JA: was not a literary
man,’ he sail!, ‘.iml yet he was rich, and re
spected ; a president of a bank ; had been an
unsuccessful camhdule lor (.'ougress, which
■ was some honor, and had it in his power to fill
| any office in the town he would accept. No;
! he preferred a man of business fora son-i.i
, law.’
He found one; a coarse, rough, unlettered
s country-merchant, tvhose ideas were bounded
, by the length and bredth of his counter; whose
. whole soul was giv.en to traffic. A sloven,
t except on Sunday s afro courang-days, and then
only clean on the outside. This fair, delicate,
■ daughter of wealth, possessed of.* mind and
education much beyond her family’s compre-
[ hension, was weded to this ‘respectable' man.
. Her heart was broken by this savage act of
parental authority. She died during the first
i I year of her wedlock, and Edward Lang was
, | for two years deranged, and woke from this
sleep of reason, to find himself without hope,
without motive, without sympathy'.
He took to bis books; he shut out the world,
and dwelt upon the beautiful and good in theo
ry ; lived in a love for the generous, the exalt
ed. and happy scenes of his imagination.—
When forced abroad by his friends, he seemed
lost and unhappy ; be was disturbed from this
i resting which an tn fortunate mind derives from
j picturing for others what ho xaotrs can never
: be for him.
j By the world at large he was said to notir
i ish . false views of tilings, because lie had a ;
| higher standard than the world generally live j
I by. Ry these means he if fitted hirns 'll for
society, ami was voted dull, eccentric, and love- ;
sick. Time, however, softened his regrets, I
and he came out in the scheming life I have i
refcired to, in which, by acting by' principle I
and science, even in the work of agriculture,
he lost his all.
When I was introduced to him, ha was liv
ing with an old aunt, upon his paternal estate-.
Though poor, they bad about them those j
marks of refinement, which well-educated )
people will contrive to weave out of common I
materials. Whether on the farm, in the gar
den, at his table, in church, oi in the street, no i
one could scc'Mr. Lang, and not say' with ccr- )
fainty that he was a gentleman. The aunt
belonged to the old school of ladies, rather
prim and stiff; and yet her benevolent face,
her self-possession, anil quiet dig:.ily. gave I.er
great, influence in society. Her reading and
good sense, her piety and patience, were pro
verbial. Every' body called her ‘madam,’ and
treated her with marked respect. I was on 1
the most familiar terms at their house; for I
believe they felt that I appreciated them. It
was the sympathy of people educated in the
same way. .
This gentleman was ofgreat service to me.
From the examination of his own feelings, he
had learned much of the nature of passion ;
from severe suffering, he had become acquain
ted with misfortune. I used to confide to him
all my sorrows, and I told him my struggles.
Ho saw my remorse, and piiied my irresolu- .
tion.
Alice, too, had confidence in him. They
often rode together ; and his age anti purity of
life, and the nice delicacy' of his feelings, induc
ed her to open her heart to him. He felt flat- i
tered, as well he might, by the trust this noble ;
girl reposed in him. But, beside, he had read
so much of love, thought so much of it. and i
suffered so much for it, that he engaged in the :
contemplation of our affairs with the gout of i
an epicure over a favorite dish. He lived o- i
ver again hours of past endearment of his own. :
lie felt young and ardent, as he listened to the
recital of conversations and difficulties which i
I, with the greenness of a boy, always told
j him.
I Things had arrived at a pass dangerous for
' both of us; and as yet her parents knew noth
ing. One of our conversations happened to
. be heard by the lady’s m :mni:i, and papa was
informed oi'ull. He was surprised, but aff'ec
t ted to treat the matter ouite coldlv ; told 1
was too young, too uascttlcn, to think m mat
rimony, and very politely forbade ma his house;
‘as,’ he said, ‘the sooner we forgot each other
; lhe better.’
I ought to confess, here, that my habits got
to be quite irregular. I attended horse-races,
J tavern-suppers, balls, and sometimes drmking
! parties, when the society was by no means the
! insist select; and to drown tho n orlification,
. j and get to the level of my companions, I ran
; j into excesses that shattered my nerves, and
; i made me unlit, for days, for any calm rellec
, tion,
I have always felt the consequences of this
• mode of life. Even the best minds will be
, } come tainted by contact with vulgarity and
. I coarseness. The purest taste will get ib gra-
J ded, in a measure, by constant intercourse
i' with low persons, such as young men who
| have nothing to do usually meet about taverns,
I I stage-houses, and strolling theatres. We even
• - acquire habi s of speaking and pramincmtioa,
: i and of cant terms, which are beneath a genile-
I man.
When low-bred men engage in pleasure,
: i ‘plenty of stuff'to drink’ is deemed the first es
! 1 seutial. We are getting rid, to be sure, of the
[ character of “a nation ofdrunkards ;’ but when
; I was a boy, liquors were set out upon all oc
; ' casioas ; at weddings, at i’l.icr.ii ■, dim', “rs,
i I calls, paying money, or dun 'ing-visits. I’eo
■ > pie in the country, of respectability, used to
"I drink at eleven o’clock in t e f ireiioon, and al
, ' fair in the afternoon. That was genteel.—
The class who drank before breakfast then,
’ now chink only at eleven ; ami those v> ho
drank only at eleven, drink not at all.
1 It was the custom, too, to drink before m *a!s
I j for an appetite ; for appetite was considered a
| 1 mark of health, however produced. Am mg
I Verv good sort of people, this was a common
. ) notion, that a man could work i.; proportion to
the food he took in his stomach ; so workmen
. . were swilled with drams for an appetite.
I It is certainly true, that temperance socio
; I ties cannot hope for any per man ent results in
| j their exertions, unless there is a corresponding
I movement in other societies. Education so.
■ cieties, peace societies, temperance societies.
; | and religious societies, they .ill have a common
; : object and common cause, to ameliorate the
j state of man. They pomt to a cotmnotr cen
j tre. People will not become teinp-. rate, and
j remain irreligious, and quarr.dsom:’, and iguo
. rant. 1 have often thought it. would be well to
j turn all our efforts to educating mankind ; and
1 believe all othsr objects would Im pr.it
Iby tho Course of cvimtm But ij. is very rpms.
tiom-ible whether any benefit can result from
’ taking down names to pledges not. to drii.l; '
| spirits, in places where schools are not sup-!
‘ ported, nor the house ol Gm! attended.
In this village,'every bodj, drank;.l times, al ■
; parlies and balls; and to be a little hoosx. I
i was by no n) ans disrcputabl ■. Jnd mem- ■
I hers of congress, lawyers, doctors, mingled i . I
these frolics, for popularity ’s and tl> i
; people nt large thought, of course, they might !
! go, upon the strength of such exainpb. s, to any !
: extent.
Isl had, bv retirement, e enped th ■ contnm- ;
j inatimi of w hat arc called ‘g! d vice ’in I
1 (h • city, in the country I contracted habilsof a
; grosser nature. Ido not mean to be under
■ stood as being a drunkard ; but I bad frequent
‘scrapes;’ my selection of associates was less
1 nice; my delicacy less ; my sense of honor
I loss accurately defined. I lost, in refinement
j ol feeling, immeasurably.
, Taking al! things into view, it is no wonder
i that my intended father-in-law looked upon me
, with suspicious eves. He was a man who
I had seen the ruin of many a likely young far
. merand mechanic, from the same beginnings;
, and fie was by no means pleased with thy
■' prospects. So I was forbidden to think oi
. | his daughter. She was sent out -of town, I
i ■ could not tel! where, and 1 immediately left
ilthe village of N for a wider sphere of
i
, i dissipation.
i I returned to the citv, coarse in my manners,
, rough in my appearance —thanks to the coun
j try tailor!—with large whiskers, and a swag-
I goring bar-room air. I found, upon compar
! ing myself with city appearances, that I was
iat least ten years behind the age. I blushed,
looked ashamed, and avoided former acquaint
i ances, who would greet me.with,‘Well, Con
worth, where tho devil have you been?’ or
j “Where the devil did you get those whiskers?’
j .Hind, reader, I had been sentimental fora year, 1
: and when I was with gentlemen, was as stiff
ias country gentlemen usually arc. Think, I
then, how mv f.'clings must have been shocked ’
j at such familiarity, when I was looking as j
j grave as an owl, dressed up in my long-tailed I
I coat, large pantaloons, nicely polished thick j
boots, and long-napped, broad-brimmed hat,
with whiskers covering the sides ofiny face,
and my complexion the color of a coal-weav
er.
Tailors and time work wonders; and in a
I short time my country friends would hardly
j have known me. [ soon settled down into
i courses of dissolute life. I had no restraints.
I 1 imagined myself a martyr to love, and was,
i indeed, unhappy; persuaded myself that I had
( no hope, and particularly when about half
drunk, I sighed like a furnace.
I spent one year, one precious year, of my
youth in this manner. J was desperate; lived
away from home, and or.’y visited my friends
when I was in want of money.
Sometimes, when my stomach was derang
ed, and my brain flighty, I meditated self
destruction. I was only at ease when rioting
in excitement. I kept all sorts of company,
and indulged in all sorts of vices. I cannot
imagine a more dissolute young man than I
was in conduct, who keeps himself this side !
of penal crime ; though it is worthy of remark, '
that I never recollect having indulged in any |
vice, unless under artificial stimulus.
I believe my father thought himself a little j
in the wrong, by suffering such desertion as I
met with from all my friends. He pitied me,
and in the most affectionate manner persuaded 1
me to return to his house. A word of kind
ness was to me like manna in the wilderness. ;
I eagerly acceded to his proposal. He *[>aid 1
me every attention, and actually left his bust- ! 1
ness, and travelled with me for two months,) 1
and endeavored to bring my mind back to j
pleasant reflections ; for I was indeed almost a I
maniac. ’I iiis was the balm in Gilead to my
sick mi.id. I came to myself, and with my 1
father’s permission I went to spend the remain
der of my clerkship at the celebrated law
school at L -.
I have always ha’d the strongest incuce
ments to do well. After al! my errors, before
[ left home, the friends of our Family vied in
showing me kindness. I was in a constant
• round of tho most refined society. To be sure,
• I had the. eclat of having been disappointed in
» iove with the finest girl ia the country ; and
. anything about love is interesting; and to be
■ crazy or drunk for love, is not so bad as to be
so for any other cause.
I was grateful for thes« favors and atten
; j teutions; and when I left home for the law j
' I lectures, I really believe all my friends were
] firmly persuaded that 1 was an instance of
t wonderful reform ition. So credulous and >
, forgiving are our friends lor the sake of what I
they know we can and ought to be !
CHAPTER XIV
I j I wish my reader could sympathize with me;
upon coming thus far in my history. lama- j
| ware that 1 have written nothing ofmuc.h i-m- '
, 1 pertance,So far-as incident may be looked for. (
' But, to my view, life is rather a succession of I
j ■ feelings and sentiments, than of actions. It 1
I .fills me with inexpressible satisfaction, to find !
} that I have mastered my adversaries, idleness
, ' and irresolution, in this instance, and have !
■ come to this point. Il is the longest and most
i ' arduous task I have ever performed, for it is
■ a work of continued exertion. I have never
j flagged from it; and the idea that some good
; references may be drawn from these pages, by
! ’.lie young among my countryman, so that my
life mav not pass aw; y without one useful act,
. I one deed of positive good, has supported me.
Let every idler, if he wishes to enjoy one
i haojiy diour, set about doing something, no
’ matter what. Let him undertake to commit a
. ) chapter in the Bible to memory, or copy sotnif
, ' piece of writing, or to make any intellectual
■ exertion; but let it be definite; not take a
) walk, or a journey, or any thing that requires |
, movement of trie body, b:;t still, continued, !
~ n .interrupted study mid attention. Idiers arc
! th? veriest busy-bodies wo know, and always
; 1." ,:g about in some shape wr other. They
i are idle with the appearance of industry, and
■ deceive every body but themselves. While
i the world looks on, and wonders at their dili- |
, j gaiice, they are passing hours, days, years, of I
tho most insupportable care, the care of find- I
I it,gsomething to do. I know something of)
. i th;: ti:dium ofthis life, and confess, that the
i hours spent in these records have been the
’ happiest of my life, because I have had an
j end, an object, constantly in view.
J My debt i all paid once more, my character
again reinstated, my purse well supplied, my
) wardrobe iu the newest fashiou, and abundant.
■ as I could pack, behold the rustic of a year’s i
| standing, the lover, whose heart was broken, j
g.'.iing into the stage for L , the plate
;of he celebrated law-school; while Thomas, I
■ dressed in lhe self-same suit in w hich I hud ar- j
i l ived some years before, is packing the trunks j
lon b hind. Alas ! the association of that e- !
I vent mid those pantaloons! Reader, they did i
put me in mind of the romantic lulls and valley |
I , and th; n of Alice Clair; though to I
| get to the.-e affecting thoughts. I had to pass I
j through the tailor’s shop where they were
I m ide. There is but a step from the sublime
ito C * ridiculous, and so backward from the
I ridiculous to the sublime.
But i i ihe height of mv satisf.telton in being
: pi,-r•iftt.'d to -take a m w start in the world, un-
I der such favorable auspices, mv lo'-e disappoint.
I m‘.d did not weigh very b,eas ily upon my
I heart. 1 had already, as I thought, perlortned
I all my promises ofbaing a good student, etc.,.
] fori wished to, and 1 took the wffi for the
. deed. 1 wished it so much, th if not; a doubt
t or misgiving disturbed the serenity of my mind.
5 I esteemed it a settled matter, that I was, in
r tne first place, to make myself remarkable as a
l' student; a..d then, without any trouble, to walk
directly to the top of the profession. I was)
• j a sanguine fool 1
> This confidence inspired my father with
> golden hopes ; and when we parted, he told
me he was the happiest man in the city.
; “Now, my son,’ said he, ‘you are old enough
(I was twenty) to begin to form a character;
I’ all your wild oats are sown; the past is for
gotten ; you have your destiny in your own
hands. Write to me often ; tell me all your
wishes ; and (here the devil jogged his elbow) j
draw upon -me, if you want more money. I
God bless you, my dear boy!’ The tears |
started in his eyes ; mine were wet, too. As I
I got into the stage,(mark the baseness of my
heart!) I dwelt mojtly upon the words, ‘Draw
upon me, ifyou want more money.’ My eyes
ceased their weeping. I addressed some gay
make.acquaintance remarks to a fellow pas
senger, mid as wc rattled over t'.e bridge in
the velocipede line of coaches, forgot every
thing but the beauty of the morning, and only
j wondered how longit would be before breakfast,
i So contemptible is the spirit of youth, in its
[ qlind passion fiot“ pleasure. All the higher,
! nobler Aeli igs sink into insignificance, com
•' pared with iisowu selfish enjoyments. Pleas
pure, love of pleasure, tramples upon the holy
' influences of home ; it steels the heart to filial '
affection ; it saps the juices of youth; and 1
leaves the young body prematurely cold, and
lifeless, and insensible, to the natural action of I I
all those relations and sentiments, that reason ;
is intended to draw its moral food from. The |
mother ‘who watched o’er our childhood’ is |
forgotten ; the father disregarded, and the sis
ter’s face is crimsoned with shame for us, and
we ourselves are lost. And for what? For
an hour’s amusement; a short-lived enjoy
meat ; an empty sound of revelry, and un
meaning mirth.
What inconsistency ! Hardly had I got a i
step from my father’s door; hardly had my
fingers lost the affectionate pressure of his I
hand, when the evil genius stepped in, to scat
ter the impressions which a moment before
seemed so fixed.
Since the time of my mother’s death, I nev
er had passed tha door of the chamber where
she died, without thinking of the evening when
I visited her corpse, ilone—a pure boy,free from i
all vice, all contamination—-and then drawing ;
the comparison between the present and the |
past. Such reflections al wavs gave me pain, ’<
and summoned up all the resolution I was mas- |
ter of. lam convinced, that, if I had had a
mother, until my mind had acquired strength ,
and firmness, I should have been a better and |
a happier man.
A father’s iove acts upon us later in life, but
a mother leads us up to God. She bends and 1
moulds our tender minds to her purposes so I
gently, that we are hardly aware of tho pres- ‘
sure ; but the father admires, and praises, and
waters the more vigorous branches of our 1
growth.
Our reading, our studies, sermons, nature, I
observation, tend to give to the mother a poet
ical interest in our hearts, in after years, when
she is dead. She is the nucleus about which |
gather some of the most beautiful associations •
of our manhood. When we ourselves have ;
children, we find out what is the nature of pa- ,
rental affection, and we look back with regret .
that we did not know and estimate it better, so
that th 'homage of our love might have been
more devoted, for what is so worthy of being
repaid.
BRAVE DISCOURSE.
TEXT. There is away which, seem
) eth right to a man. but the end thereof, &c. ,f
I We hope it will not be deemed sacrile
j gious to quote here this sublime precaution
'from the Oracles of Divine Truth, as a
text to discourse from in the manner
which follows, although in aid of subjects
j of a somewhat secular nature; appertain
; ing however,to morality.
I It may seem right to a man— to neglect
I pay' n S h‘ lS debts for lhe sake of lending or
| speculating upon his money, but the end
i thereof is— a bad paymaster.
It may seem right to a man— to live bc
i yond his income, but the end thereof is—
i wrechedness and poverty.
It may seem right to a man— to attempt
' to live upon the fashion of the titn s, but
! the end thereof is— disgusting to sensible
folks, and ruinous to health, reputation and
property.
If may seem right to a man— to attempt
to obtain a livelihood without industry and
economy, but the end thereof is—hunger
and rags.
It may seem right to a man— to keep
constantly borrowing of his neighbors and
never willing to lend, Z>?zZ the end thereof is
—verv cross neighbors.
Il may seem right to a man— to be al- j
wavs trumpeting his own fame, but the end |
l thereof is— his fame don’t extend very far. !
j It may seem right to a man to trouble i
himself verv much about his neighbor’s bit- [
sincss, but ihe end thereof is— great ncgli
gence of his own.
It may seem right to a. man— to be con
stantly slandering his neighbours, but the
end.tfwrcof is— nobody believes any thing
i he says.
It may seem right to a man —to put off
I every thing which ought to be done to-day
untill to-morrow, the end thereof is—
such things are not done at all.
It may seem right to a man— to attempt
pleasing every body, but the end thereof is )
—he pleases nobody.
It may seem right to a man— to excell his I
neighbours in extravagance and luxury,)
\ but the end thereof is— he excels them in
I folly.
I It may seem right to a man— to take no )
j newspaper, but the end thereof is— that )
; man and his family are totally ignorant of)
■ the ordinary occurrence of the day.
i ’ll may seem right to a man— to obtain;
I his news by borrowing and stealing of his j
neighbours, but the end thereof is— aim >y-:
mice to his neighbours, and fraud upon ;
printers.
It may seem right to a man—to pay eve
ry body before h ' pays the PRINTER and
the Mt. .MS TER./i.vt theend thereof is—he
pavs the most needy last—if he pays them
at all. . ;
It may scon right to a. man—to worship
the creature more than the Creator, but •.
thr en ■ thereof is-- an idolater.
Vol. V—Yo. 21.
: i It may seem right to a man— to be inces*
f a itlv occuppied in hoarding up the treasu*
res of this world, but the end thereof w—he
has none in the world to come.
It may seem right to a man— to further
extend this discourse, at the expense of the
■ patience of the reader, but the end thereof is
here 1
The Largest Snalx Yet.— As Mr. Eii
akim Thomas was returning on Saturday
week, from an excursion on the Catskill
mountain, he heard a rustling among the
leaves close by and presently the startling
sound of the rattles, apparently, of an en
i ormous snake. He stood momentarily,
] upon his guard ; and it was well he did so,
i for, on looking about him, he presently JiS l "
covered the appalling sight of a rattlesnake,
j with his head at least tour feet from the
i ground, his body coil above coil, his eyes
flashing fire, his skin every minute change
ing color, and his long fangs displayed, as
in the very act of springing upon his intend
ed victim.
Such a sight would have stricken terror
into the soul of almost any other man, ex
cept the gentleman in question. Mr.
Thomas, who is an old hunter, had
seen rattlesnakes before. And as this an
imal always gives timely warning before it
strikes, so 'Mr. Thomas did not, in the pre
sent instance, for a moment lose his pres
ence ofmind.
But not to trust himself too near 4 his
honorable, bet dangerous enemy, he kept
at a prudent distance; and elevating his
rifle, which, fortunately he had with him,
he let flv a charge into the mouth of the
j snake, which, passing through -his brain and
} out at the back of his head, killed him dead
;on the spot. Then taking a hooked stick,
i which he had prepared for the purpose, he
I fastened it in the very ofrnce he had just
I made in Mr. Snake,s skull* and thus con-
I veniently, but with a good deal of hard
' toil,dragged him to the village of Catskill.
There, procuring a two foot rule of a
carpenter, he proceeded to the measure
ment of his slain adversary: and found his
dimensions to be as follows : Length, 11
feet, 9 inches; circumference mjhe largest
part, 12 inches; ditto, round
6 1-2 inches ditto, round the first rattle,
3 inches; ditto, round the last 2 inches;
length of the whole series es rattles, 3 feet
'8 inches: number of rattles. 83 ; length of
the 2 poisonous fangs, 2 3*4-inches.
His weight was found to be within one
ounce of 27 pounds. And, og *V wstt' ***
his o 1, after being duirTTivcsted of his skin,
there was found to be very nearly five
quarts. The skin has been stuffed, pre
paratory, as we understand, to being pre
sented to the American Museum, in New
York. But, whatever may be its</estina
tion, it cannot but prove a real treat to the
lovers of natural history, wberresoever
they may be.
Radically wrong.— lt is stateci in~~fhe
papers, that Mary B. Stone, a little miss
aged eleven years, who has been, since the
age of four, at the academy of Seth Davis,
of West Newton, (Mass.) can readily ab
stract the cube root of twelve figures, by
the rule as laid down by Pike, performing
the whole operation mentally, without any
hther aid whatever. We are suprised
that, notwithstanding the wholesome
change w hich has taken place in public
opinion, relative to precocity, Mr. Davis
can permit the publication of a fact which
thus demonstrates his lamentable igno
rance of physiology and proper mental
culture, The [ittle martyr to system and
the pride of a pedagogue, who has been
thus tortured with abstractions at an age
when she should have been bounding over
the lawn, free as air, and unrestrained by
confinement to attain parrot-like proficien
cy in matters she cannot mentaPy under
stand, shoqld be taken forthwith from the
imprisonment of an “academy;” and the
evil done her by misjudged and pedantic
attention, repaired as well as it may be.
1 It is a monstrous perversion of the inten
tions of nature thus to buildup the mind
at the expense of the body—to induce a
diseased brain by exciting it to overaction,
and to run the risk of causing early death,
in the manufacture of an infant prodigy.
I Sun.
• The following graphic notice of our
' friend Porter, is from the pen of a corre
spondent of the Ohio Register. He
I writes from Cincinnati:
Our landing was yesterday astonished by
■ the appearance of a young man from
| down the river, who when caught and
measured proved to be seven feet six in
; dies high. As he stood in the crowd, his JF
shoulders high above the heads ofthe ’■
est, he looked aroun I him without tly 1
; least interruption to his prospect, wlgr .
wasdoubtl ‘ss an extended one, whilqp,'
i pigmy tribes of A lam, .yum* eonwaarf * /
footers, were walking around him I •
I suitable distance for the purpose ofs<
his whole length as men walk wide oc-
I house to read a signboard or to see i\'”Y
i chimney be on lire. I afterwards srfc\ . j
him standing on the guards of a steamboat, I -y
| apparently surveying over the top ofthe 'V
: boat, some object on the other side . Os
course, this “most delicate monster” was
the talk of Front street for the day. Upon
inquiry of the captain who brought him
up, I found that he was a Louisville hack
man, named Porter. His age is twenty
two only, and he has n it yet ceased to
grow! “He is filling up,” says the captain;
“he.II be quite a large man yet, he,s a
I young fornomenon, amt he?”
i Quick Thought. Yourgenuine Hibernian
I is one of the happiest fellows in the world
at a prompt excuse. The Edinburg Cour-
I ant says that an Irishman having accident-
I ly broken a pane of glass in a window of
I a house in Queen street, was making the
best of his way to get out of sight, as well
as out of mind; but unfortunately for Pai,
the proprietor stole a march on him. and
having seized him by the collar, exclaimed
••you broke my window fellow, did yon
not?” “To be sure I did,” said Pat, “and
did’nt y< u see me running home for money
to pay lor it?”