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HPHE Subscriber respectfully announces to
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LINE OF FOUR HORSE COACHES, from
Athens, ria Watkinsville, Madison, to Eatonton,
and back, 3 times a week, leaving and returning
as follows :
Leaving Athens on Sundays, Tuesdays, and
Thursdays, at 6 o’clock, A. M-, and arriving at
Eatonton, at 6 o’clock P. M., on the samii
days.
Leaving Eatonton on Mondays Wednesdays,
and Fridays, at 6 o’clock, A. M., and arriving
in Athens, at 6 o’clock P. M., same days.
H. N. WILLSON, Contractor.
March 17—46—ts.
The Southern Recorder will please pub
lish the above until forbid.
“BOOIFIHiWE R y~ 9
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that they have united themselves in the above
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CLARK A*. Bur Dine.
Athens Feb. 3, —40, —ts.
A GREAT "BARGAIN.
'rpHE Subscriber determined to emigrate to
the west, offers for sale his valuable Tract
'•f Land, containing
3000 Acres,
situate and lying in Jackson county, Ga., on the
Mulberry Fork of Oconee River, the residence
immediately on the hog mountain and main
Alabama Road, various other roads intersecting
at the same place, viz: the Milledgeville road
leading to Winns’ Ferry, on Chattahoochee,
Hurricane Shoal road, leading to Can esville
and South Carolina. Great part of the above
land is red mulatto land, of superior quality ;
100 Acres of rich river low grounds; about
800 Acres cleared, great part fresh and in good
repair, abounding with superb springs, well im
proved, with a convenient framed Dwelling
House, two story high, on a most splendid
eminence; an excellent Cotton and Threshing
:Machinery, and all other necessary out houses.
No place is better calculated for public business,
otany kind, in the up country. Several con
venient settlements on the premises, not inter
fearing with each other; —the whole can be
purchased for nine Thousand Dollars, one third
in advance, the balance in two annual payments,
which is not more than two thirds of the real
value. Likely young negroes will be taken at
-their value,
HARRISON THURMOND.
April 7,-—49—3 m
00“ The Augusta Sentinel, will publish the
:above weekly for three months, and forward
rtheir account for payment to Braselton’s office.
GEORGIA MADISON COUNTY.
Inferior Court sitting for ordinary purposes.
Jacob Strickland, Administra
’ ’ tor of Hardy Strick’and deceased applies
for letters of dismission from the Estate of said
deceased.
It is therefore ordered by the Court that six
months publication of this notice be given in
one of the public Gazettes of this Stateand if
no legal objection is made Letters of Dismis
sion will be granted to the said Jacob Strick
land, administrator as aforesaid—of which all
concerned are hereby notified.
A true copy taken from the minutes of said
Court this 9th day of January 1838.
WILLIAM SANDERS, c. c. o.
Jan. 13 37 Gin.
FOUR months afterdate, I will apply to Jack
son Inf.iCourt,for leave to sell th < Real Es
of Leonidas Few, dec’d. fer the benefit of the
heirs rand creditors.
JN’O. J, M’CULLOCKr 4d»i’r.
May 1?,—?- 3iu
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Selections from late Foreign Journah recei
ved. at this Office.
Southey’s Poetical works, Vol. VI. Bvo pp. 285.
London. 1838. Longman and Co.
St. Mitchel’s Mount, Cornwall, aud the Wall of St.
Keyne, are the beautiful embellishments of this volume ;
and the volume itself contains an interesting collection
of short poems, some of them scarcely known to the
public. The following specimen of these appeared ori
ginaly in the Sun” Newspaper, and the editor at that
time was notaware whence it came, but ascribed it to
another individual.
THE MARCH TO MOSCOW.
The Emperor Nap he would set off
On a summer excursion to Moscow;
The fields were’green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu ! ParbleuJ
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow !
Four hundred thousand men and more
Must go with him to Moscow :
There were marshalls by the dozen,
And dukes by the score ;
Prisces a few, and kings one or two ;
While the fields are so green and the sky so blue,
Morbleu I Parbleu !
What a pleasant excursion to'Moscow !
There was Junot and Augereau,
Heigh-ho for Moscow!
Dombrowsky, and Poniatowsky,
Marshal Ney, lack-a-day 1
General Rapp and the Emperor Nap ;
Nothing would do
While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Nothing would do
For the whole of this crew,
But they must be marching to Moscow,
The Emperor Nap he talked so big
That he frightened Mr. Roscoe,
John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise.
Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please,
To grant you peace upon your knees.
Because he is going to Moscow 1
He’ll make all the Pples come out of their holes,
And beat the Russians and eat the Prussians,
For the fields are green, and the sky is blue,
Morbleu ! Parbleu!
And he’ll certainly march to Moscow !
And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume
At the thought of being marched to Moscow:
The Russians, he said, they were undone.
And thg great Fee-Faw-Fum
Would presently come
With a hop,"Step, and jump, unto London.
For as for his conquering Russia,
However some persons might scoff it,
And from doing it nothing would come but good,
And nothing could call him offit.
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know,
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey’s Review,
Which with Holy writ ought to be reckon’d:
It was through thick and thin to its party true ;
Its back was buff and its sides where Blue ;
Morblen I Parbleu 1
It served them for Law and for Gospel too.
But the Russians stoutly they ttirned-to
Upon the road to Moscow.
Nap’feid to fight his way all through,
They could fight, though they conldnot parlez-vous ;
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu ! Parbleu !
And so he got to Moscow.
He found the place too warm for him,
For they set fire to Moscow.
To get there had cost him much ado*
And then no better course he knew,
TFhile the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu ! Parbleu!
But to march back again to Moscow.
The Russians they stuck close to him,
All on the road from Moscow.
There was Tormazow and Jemalow,
And all theaters that end in ow ;
Milarodovich anaJaladovich,
And Karatschlowich,
And all the others that end in itch ;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, }
And Schepaleff, )
And all the others that end in eff;
Wasiltschikoff, Kastomaroff,
And Tclioglokoff, 1
And all the others that end in off;
Rajeflsky and Novereffsky,
And Rieffsky,
And all the others that end in effsky;
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky:
And all the others that end in offsky;
And Platoff he play’d them off.
And Shouvaloff he shovell’d them off, 1
And Markoff he mark’d them off,
And Krosnoff he cross’d them off,
AndTuchkoffhe touch’d them off.
And Boroekoff he bored them off,
And Kutousoffhe cut them off,
And Parenzoffhe pared them off,
And Worronzoffhe worried them off,
And Doctoroff be doctor’d them off,
And Rodionoff he flogged them off.
And last of all an Admiral came,
A terrible than with a terrible name,
A name which you all know by sight very well ;
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell'.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might,
They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night,
He would rather pa rlez-vous than fight;
But he look’d white and he look’d blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu 1
• When parlez-vous no more would do,
For they remember Moscow.
And then camo on the frost and snow
All on the road from Moscow',
The wind and weather he found in that hour
Cared nothing for him nor for all his power;
For him who, while Europe couch’d under his rod;
Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God.
Worse and worse every day the elements grew,
The fields were so v. hite and the sky so blue,
Sacrabk.u! Ventrebleu !
What a horrible journey from Moscow.
What then thought the Emperor Nap
Upon the. road from Moscow !
Why, I ween he thought it small delight
To fight till day, and to freeze all night :
And he was, besides, in a very great fright'
For a whole skin he liked to be in;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white and the sky so
blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
He stole away, I tell you true,
Upon the road from Moscow.
’Tis myself, quoth be, I must mind most;
So the Devil may take the hindmost.
WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” JefferSOll.
Too cold upon the road was he,
Too hot had he been at Moscow ;
. But colder and hotter he may be,
For the grave is colder than Moscovy:
And a place there is to be kept in view,
Where the fire is red and the brimstone blue,
Morbleu ! Parbleu!
Which he must go to,
If the Pope say true,
If he does not in time look about him
Where the namesake almost
He may have for his Host,
He has reckon’d too long without him,
If that host get him in purgatory,
He won’t leave him there aline with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,
For from thence there is no stealing away
As there was on the road from Moscow.’’
Wilson Conworih-
CONCLUDED.
‘Could I escape the guilt of having stopped
The pulse of hope in the most innocent soul
That ever passion ruffled!
I had now lived with this quiet family for
more than a year, when an event occurred
which changed all my plans, and threw me
once more into the bustle of the world. But
I went forth strong in my own estimation.
My time had been devoted to reflection ; and.
retracing the steps of my life, I could see the
rock on which 1 had split—irresolution, or the
yielding to impulse. I had thought more
than I had lead, and conversed much with
men, the very antipodes of myself, in habits of
action and thinking, From them I drew
large stores of wisdom. I learned to distin
guish the false from the true, the alluring from
the useful. The familiarity of Quaker habits,
aud a taste of the sweetness of its simple life,
had won me from love of passion and excite
ment, as I thought. But I afterward discov
ered that this very quietness was excitement
of a different order. I had been, all the time
that I prided myself so much upon my change
of character, the creature of a deep enthusi
asm. I had ocen burning inwardly ; and the
fire which before seared me on the outside,
had been kept alive by preying inwardly, and
consuming my vitals, The old disease still
raged on, and only sought opportunity to
break out with redoubled force. So little hope .
can those who have wasted their youth have, ,
of ever shaking off the penalty of sin. I then ,
learned to appreciate the words of an elderly
friend, who once, in answering a letter from ,
me, in which I had written in praise of my re
gularity and studious attention, after some ,
time of wild dissipation, said .• • The marked
self-complacency of your letter constrains me
to repeat a remark 1 have often made to you, (
that the calm aud placid state which is some- |
times experienced after the subsidence of ir- (
regular passion, far from proving the mind t
sound, is but a symptom of inherent disease. .
In such moments--moments so different from I
those which preceded, and in the comparison ,
so hallowed—there is and must be great quiet-
....... »...u ; d,.,..,ri1 ); ,ble satisfaction ;
but believe mo, all this rtelrgrtTrji conscious -
ness does not constitute a truly wonderful
change, nor any change at all. Let me add.
no man was ever astonished at his own pro
ficiency in goodness, who was not at the
same time under the strongest and most dan
gerous delusion m the power of self-love to
produce. Remember that the heart is de
ceitful chiefly in its pleadings in its own fa
vor?
I have quoted largely from this letter, be
cause it seems to me that the remarks contain
a great deal of truth ; and beside, if these pa
ges ever reach the eye of him who wrote it.
that ho may know that though his words were
disregarded, yet they were never unapprecia
ted, nor his friendship forgotten. Yes. I fully
fell the truth of his words, when circumstan
ces called upon me to give up my seclusion,
and I rushed into the world, strong and confi
dent of my power.
My father, in answering a draft I had made
upon him, told me that he feared it was the
last money he could send me ; that losses in
trade had reduced him almost to want. This
came upon me quite unexpectedly. I had
never thought of this chance. But there was
no alternative, and I set about to consider
what I should do. I could think of no plan.
I was entirely disqua ified by education, ha
bits, and by unmeaning pride, for acting in
such a case.
At last, as a desperate result, I made up my
mind that I could work, if it came to the worst,
and get my bread by the sweat of my brow.
1 knew that any man can live in this country
by’ manual labor.
Here I wits placed in a situation which
overtakes many Americans, born and educa
ted as 1 was. The result is, that it either
leads them into crime, and the lowest depths
of vice, or brings out the energies of then
characters, and works for their good. Here
we see a fault in that system of education
which forms for prosperity, but stores no
treasures for adversity.
I bade adieu to my kind friends, the Qua
kers, with regret. William gave me letters
to two of his Irieuds in the city. I did not see
their contents. In looking over my finances,
after my arrival thero, 1 found in the bottom
of my trunk a letter addressed to myself. I
opened it; and what was my surprise to find
that it contained the full amount of the mo
ney 1 had insisted upon paying for my expen
ses, during my residence with my friend.
‘Friend? it read, 4 thee is in d.stress ; and
although I yielded to thy entreaty to take mo.
ney for thy board, 1 did so to avoid opposing
thy will at the time. In giving it back, i
have done even as 1 would that others should
do to me. If we could change places, I feel
assured that thee would have acted as 1 have
done. Accept it; as a loan, at least ; and
when return it, if thee pleases.
We are all amply recompensed for thy expen- 1
ses, by the mutual kindness and improvement
we have reaped from thy tarry ing with us.
May heaven bless thee ! Cali upon Friend
Bond He can employ thee, as 1 think.’
I lost no time m calling upon Friend Bond,
whom 1 found to be a merchant of high stand
ing, retired from business, upon an easy for
tune, which he spent in woiks of benevolence
and Christianity.
He promptly opened his subject, and after
saying he was perfectly satisfied with the let
ter 1 brought him, offered mo a home in his
house, if 1 would consent to keep his accounts.
1 found that William Garrets had transacted
tho whole business for me, probably seeing my
unfitness to make any application in my own
behalf Andon the second day of my an i
val, 1 found myself partaking of the simple
refinements of Quaker life in a city, than
I which nothing is tn truer taste. I soon got
ATHENS, SATURDAY, JI’XE EG, 1838
acquainted with his wishes, though I made
but a sad beginning-; -but he corrected my
errors so kindly, and by never appearing otli
er than satisfied, I became pleased with my
self, and more anxious to please him. Occu
pation, which is the secret of happiness, kept
out morbid states of mind, and I was really
happy, for a time, tn the exercise of constant
labor.
Six months rolled on, and still found me im
proved, and the source ofimpro.ement to oth
ers ; but my early disposition to love, soon
wrecked all my prospects.
, Friend Bond’s eldest daughter was nearly
seventeen ; an nrtlessgirl, who had read more
than was for her own good. Under her cold
exterior, she covered a heart all passion and
j fire. It was not art that concealed it, but na
tive modesty ; and I bar dly believe she her
self knew the depth of her own enthusiasm.
I can scarcely felt how it was, but an attach
ment certainly grew b.ef.veen us; involuntary
on my part—perhaps so on hers. I know
how I ought to have acted. 1 should havo
fled from this peaceful family ; bst then 1
should only have left the effect to have been
produced by others, while I should haze es
caped. Yes ! I should hive fled ; but, blin
(led by my own passion, I cept on, and ‘ nur
sed the pinion that impelled the steel.’ It
was so new to be loved, sinply and honestly,
with no guile or plan ; to fust to the feeling
itself, and not to artificial aids to passion,
which most people are obliged to resort 10, to
; keep up the illusion, th .t I ’oved now better
than over, aud while I indulged an old passion
by the novelty of the attendiig circumstances,
it was almost like a new one Beside, I got
room to draw some philosopiical deductions
about the passion ; to find out the falsity of
that theory oflove, which malies it impossible
for us to love bnt one object during life. The I
truth of the whole matter is this : IFe feel but
once that headlong ardor, that intensity of pas.
sion, which is spurred on ay novelty and in
experience, aud which plices woman above
humanity; a being to be icolized, and looked
up to. anil prayed to. When such a love is
not consummated, the passing away of the
illusion is like taking the vital breath from the
body; it is like the escape of air condensed
by artificial means, which sometimes destroys
the vessels that contains it. This sudden
change of habit, of feeling sometimes, if act
ing upon a sickly imagination, destroys life.
So that people do die for lu ve, as well as tor
loss of property, aud other misfortunes which
take away interests in life, and leave a cxnker
at the heart. But shall weconclude from this
that we may not feel attachment twice ? De
prived. by freak, of one object of affection,
•hough we may mourn the loss, if we discover
qualities to admire in another, may we not
wish to bring ourselves within the sphere of
their influence ?—to possess them ? This is
love. Is it inconsistent to have shades of re
membrance of past friends 1 Are we unjust
to the present, by reflecting upon the noble
qualities of those we have lost ? Is not the
present possession raised in value, by feeling
that it is something really true, aud common,
and rational, and lasting, that we possess ?
..Ym.;.ug, l nyn. mad vnfh wCEnt fl tnlricnn. iiiiij,.
young ladies—nervous from late houis, aiiu
tight, lacing, and cologne watei—may sneer
at such reasoning : but we shall find it to be
true in life.
There are many incentives to loving. The
beauty of the object, the thought that we tire
beloved, the desire of returning an honorable
attachment, the feu." of wounding the pride of
a delicate girl. I catiuotsay whether I felt
most pleasure or pain, in suspecting that I had
gained the affections of Rebecca Bond. If I
had thought that she knew me, if she could
have known all my weaknesses, and crimes,
and faults, and then have loved me, 1 should
have been thankful for her affection. But
now she only knew me by present appearan
ces. She was giving her earliest affections,
her virgin feelings, to one who had run through
the whole catalogue of vices. To not unde
ceive her. seemed like theft: and yet 1 could
not doit. So that in reflecting upon the sub
ject, I began in earnest to love her.
One evening 1 was about to start upon a
journey to a distant part of the country, on ur
gent business for her father, and it so happen
ed that we were left alone in the library. 1
began to talk of my contemplated absence,
and to hope she would study a great deal, etc.
I looked in her face, and it was suffused with
tears. Sho felt the secret was out. Her
simplicity could not save her; and all she
could do, was to hide her face in my bosom.
What could 1 have done? Upon the instant (
I determined to marry her. I saw no other
ground 1 could honorably take. 1 consoled
her grief, cautioned her about her feelings,
assured her of my happiness, and said all I
should have said, and perhaps more. The
next morning 1 departed.
During my journey, she occupied my whole
thoughts, and every stage only increased my
passion. 1 How superior,’ thought I.‘is the
love ofthis young girl, unaccustomed to the
world, to tint of the heartless and false doll of
dress, whose every word is for effect, and eve
ry thought a desire for admiration ; who can
sacrifice all domestic pleasures, and follow
fashion and vice—vice of thought ; who
lives only in crowds, and is miserable alone;
who loves selfsupremely, and takes a husband
tor his carriage and enters into matrimony for
the liberties it allows her.’ There are such
women : the idols of the ball-room, and the
belles of watering-places. They enjoy a but
tetfly celebrity, and then decay early, in mind
and body ; the victims to fashion, or worse.
What thoughts must linger arou: d the bosoms
of such women, on their dying beds, as they
think ot their neglected children, their neglec
ted God ! Young men know not what they
follow, as they glide on it the wake of the
plumed syren ol the dance. They are the
false lights which meteors hold out to draw
the tumbling ships upon the rocks. They lure
us on with music, and the pattering of tiny
feet, and their jewelled fingers, and false smiles
and falser hearts ; and when the victim is
caught, like the veiled prophet, they display
their awful hideousness. No, no ! Love is
found in gentle he irts. It dwells not amid
tho riotso*’p’easure ; it dies in the glare of
splendor, and cannot live in the heart devoted to
dress, and weak follies. tis more nurtured
in quietness, than m loud applause, or the
world’s praise. Give me the baldly defined
feelings <>f a young and timid girl, and I leave
to you the confessions of the gaudy coquette.
Give me the beaming glance of a liquid eye,
and 1 yield the bright and flashing blaze of the
proud beauty to others. I would not trust a
belle nor a blue. They are each too philoso
phical in their own way.
His heart would have been cold indeed, that
would not have been touched with the proofs
ot love I received from tho gentle Rebecca,
o.i my return. She had grown thin and pale,
during rny absence. The first time we were
a*lone together, she.wished the assurance of
my affection, and I gave it to her, as truly as
tears no w blot the page for her sufferings. I
explained to her as much as I could of myself,
and warned her to be circumspect. I felt guil
ty in cherishing this secret attachment, bnt
who can resist the fascinations of woman’s
love? The good Quaker suspected nothing
wrong ; and there was nothing wrong ; though
to be secret, might be wrong. I came to love
her extravagantly, and was fast approaching
the clinaacterac oi my feelings. Her affec.
lions seemed pure from the hand of nature.
Like the young bud of the wilderness, human
eye had never looked upon her heart. Iler
heart was a bud blossoming because it was
ripe, and I happened to be the first passer-by
to snatch its fragrance. Would to God we
had never met!
I am drawing near to the end of my story.
1 have got as far as it can do good for any oue
to know. Why must I harrow up my own
feelings, by telling of the base suspicions that
rested upon me ? Yes, I was charged by the
simple hearted old man with the ruin of his
daughter* The same simplicity that gave
me all liberties, now was turned into the oppo
site scale. A kiss betrayed us.
William Garrets exculpated me, in his own
mind, but he could not convince his friend.
Mv eyes were open to the evil I had uncon
sciously committed. ‘ This,’ said I, • adds
another heart, blighted by contact with mine,
and one more link to the long chain of my un
happiness.’
*****
She clung to me as if for life Suddenly I
felt a quivering sensation run through her bo
dy, and with a shrill cry of agony, she dropped
dea lat my feet. Oh, my God ! —the agonv
of that moment 1 The old man gave me one
pale, wild glance; and the daughter be would
not look at while living, he embraced when
dead.
I staid in this city long enough for the as.
fair to undergo legal examination, and then
departed. Where f
Chapter xviii.
where ! I have traversed many lands,
solitary and alone. I have never dared, since
that fatal night, when my arms enclosed a
corpse, to give or receive friendship. A curse
saemed to light upon all associated with me ;
and it seems that I was born to become a bea.
con to others , kept alive to endure the buffe
tings of the storm, and, amid the tempests that
well nigh overwhelm it. raising a light to warn
off the approaching ship. My story is the
light I was made to lift. I have told a long
tale, because my approaching dissolution
warns me to employ all my remaining strength
(which has been wonderfully preserved, it
would seem, for the very purpose,) for the
good of my fellow.men. Ail I can say more,
is, let others look to the early years of theii
children. Let young men look to the eariv
years still left them. Our early years color
our whole lives, as surely as the fountai.
sweetens or embitters the waters of the
stream. — 1
ADVENTURES OF A BANK NOTE.
The fallowing exquisite satire is from th<
useful pen of an American author whose dis
tinguished literary character is enhanced, it
the estimation of his Republican countrymen,
by his inflexible devotion to sound political
principles. It is an extract from Paulding’s
beautiful “Letters from the South,” and its
pungent applicability to the present times will
render it doubly acceptable to our readers.
[New Era
The other evening I went to sleep, with
these and such like thoughts in my head ; and
as people are apt to dream of what they think
of when awake, I was possessed of the follow
ing curious vision :
Methought I was poring over a Bank Note,
which I thought was issued from a place cal
led “ Owl Creek” and happening to say to
myself, “ Where the deuce did this come
from?” I was answered in a small squeak
ing voice as follows. At first I could not tell
where it came from, but,on further examina
tion, I discovered, a motion in the figure of the
Owl with which the bill was decorated.
“ I am the offspring of a bandana handker
chief, that was once worn ab ut the neck of a
learned East Indian, acquainted with all the
arts of Eastern magic, and a piece of Irish lin
in, whilom part of the nightcap of an old Irish
witch. This accounts for my being gifted
with speech. I was.born in a paper mill, and
the first thing I recollect was being nearly
squeezed to death under a piece of copper,
which bruised me black and blue all over.
Then I was taken to the bank and underwent a
sort of transubstantiation. under the magic
hands of the President and cashier: from a
rag I became converted into solid gold, or at
least something nearly as valuable.
“ I hud not been in the bank long before I
was counted out to a young man, who carried
me to his master, a merchant,who lived in a fine
house, drove a splendid equipage, and fared
sumptuously every day. I felicitated myself
mightily that I had got into such comfortable
quarters"; but soon discovered that all was not
right with my new master. As he carried me
in his pocket, I had an opportunity of watching
him closely, and hearing all that he said, or oth
ers said to him. I learned that he had set
out in business with a reasonable capital, which
under prudent management, would have Jed
him to a comfortalile independency ; but was
seduced by the example of those around him.
and the facility of getting discounts, into bor
rowing money of the banks, and trading on
credit to a great amount. But he%arned, too
late,that the man who is always borrowing
and paying interest for his money, is working
for his creditor,and not for himself. At the
time I saw him he wt sa wretched dependant
on the caprice of banks, to which, in the course
ofbusiness, be had paid in discounts what would
have been to him an immense fortune. He
could not sleep at night; for the sun never rose
that did not see him in debt fir more than he
could pay. Every day he was obliged to run
round to all his acquaintances to borrow mo
ney to pay his notes ; and not a day past, over
his head that he could tell whether he would
not be openly a bankrupt before night : for all
depended upon the caprice of bank directors.
To add to his distresses, his wife and children
fancying him a man of immense riches ; in
dulged in every species of extravigance ; and
lie Sad not the courage to tell them that a few
months would probably make them beggars.
In fact, I had not been with him long, before,
the banks, either from necessity of caprice,
drew in their discounts f my master failed—
the banks got all his property ; the rest of his
creditors got nothing ; and his wife and chil
dren found themselves in beggary, with a thou
sand artificial wants to pamper. His furniture
: was seized and sold, and the w hole family crept
I' into a small house in the suberbs. This 1
; learned afterwards, for I did not accompany
them, having been passed away to a shopkeep
er by my master’s lady,the day before he fail
ed, in part payment for a cashmere shawl, for
which she gave a thousand dollars.
u My new master was a brisk, stirring little
man, who made more bows than a dancing
master, but got well paid for them, by cheat
ing faster than he bowed. He always sold
his goods at first cost, pledged his honor to ev
ery thing, true or false, and possessed that in
veterate habit of petty roguery so common to
I people who have no otherobject in life but ma.
king money. Judging from his style of living,
and his habits, I at first thought he must be
very snug and comfortable in his circumstan
ces, till all at once I found myself in a drawer
, with two or three ofthose unpleasant invita
tions beginning with “Your note so and so be
comes due,” &c. Whenevet my master re
ceivd any of these mementoes, he was seized
with an alarming fit of the fidgets ; and there
was a terrible “ whipping of the cat,” as it was
called, on the days the notes became due.
This “ whipping of the cat” is nothing more
than a parcel of traders puffing at one anoth.
er’s heels, of a morning, to borrow money.—
One day a man is hunting for his money, and
the next when his own becomes due, he hunts
his neighbor ; so that their funds are a com
mon borrowing stock, and he who hunts as
Actaeon one day, is a hunted Actaieon the next.
In short, having one day an accidental peep at
my master’s books, I discovered that he had
been actually insolvent for more than five years.
About a week after I had been with him. he
sent me to a certain bank* to help take up a note
of hand' In passing tbroujih the director’s
room, I heard it decided not to discount any
more for my late master or his friends, as they
were no longer safe, and did not owe any thing
to the bank. A few days after, I heard it
whispered that they had thrown out all their
notes. My old master broke first; he fell
against his neighbor, and, like a row ol’bricks,
they all tumbled, one after the other, and took :
the “ benefit of the Act.” i
*' Before I had been here long, I was taken
out of the bank by one of the directors, each
oneot whom had a regular accommodation of
fifty thousand dollars, to shave notes of hand
with. He carried me in his pocket, some days,
by which means 1 was present at one of their
meetings on discount days, where I saw them
refuse to discount notes which my master sha.
W’rZuf ter wards on his own account! 1 forgot
to mention that I was several nights deposited
in tee vaults afthe bank, where, although this
was one of the banks i hat paid specie, I give you
my word there was not specie enough to pay a
check of five thousand dollars. 1 saw but three
small boxes ofit, which was all that was there,
tor being an Owl I could {distinctly see, though
it was dark. The way they managed to pay
specie, was this : all the traders were given to
understand that ifthey asked for the least quan
tity of specie, they forfeited all claim to future
favors from the b*ek—and such was then the
miserable state of dependence of the greater
part of the community, that not out of a thous
ed ie.-urning the payment <>Tspecie! I could
tell you a great maizy tricks of these gentry,
but it is not my interest to do so, sii.ee by in
juring them I lose my own consequence in so
ciety, and am reduced to rags again.
In process of time, my master, the bank di
rector, who was in the same state of abject de
pendence on banks, with my former ones, p. s
sed me away to a shoemaker in payment of a
bill of two year’s standing. I was m hopes 1
had now got into the hands of an independent
man, until I saw two or three bank notices
stuck up with an awl over his desk, to remind
the honest man that he owed mote than he
could pay, and thus encourage and quicken his
industry, I suppose, I could not help wonder,
ing what could make this man such a fool as
.'o suppose he could grow rich by paying inter
est to other people, seeing that the tato of inter
est is always considered the value of money,
and what monej’ will make, when applied to
any certain regular mode ofbusiness. 1 found
it was the force of example, and that he did
this because all his neighbors did the same.
This example of every body is better than all
the argument in the world ; and the thing ap
peared to be perfectly natural. My worthy
master, for such he was in fact, worked hard
for the banks, and made his very lupstone sweat
to pay his discounts; but tempted 'at last by
the facility of raising money, he made a bad
speculation in hides, and went the way of all
flesh now-a-days. Before he became openly
bankrupt he made over all his actual property
to secure his endorser, that being a debt of
honor ; the endorser paid it over to the bank—
ihe bank got paid—and the rest of the credit
ors whistled for their money. My master went
into the country to take air and keep out of the
way of his creditors; and the course of his
travels passed me away to a tavern keeper in
a small town where there were a couple of
banks. This town vvas a place of considera
ble importance, being on the banks of a river
which Was almost navigable for balteaux, and
carried on a great trade in lime, shingles, coal
and brick-making.
“My master the landlord was a director of
one of these banks, and carried me to a meet
ing ol the directors where, though an owl, I
laughed till my feathers almost fell out to see
what a set es ragmuffins had got together.
There were four tavern keepers, three small
shop-keepers, a brick maker, a splitter ofshin
gies, a speculator, and two non-descripts, the
calling of horn I could net make out. Not
one of these had a decent coat upon his back,
except the president, who was a man of good
landed estate, which he vvas silly enough to
jeopardize in this way. For, though the bank
promised to pay everyone out of the "joint
funds,” I never could find out what or where
they were. These two banks made the vill
age flourish io the eye ; but this prosperity was
only the bloom on the check of consumption.
Great houses rose up iu various parts, but they
all were mortgaged to the banks, which lent
the money—thus getting real property for rags
of their own making. No man lived in h>s
own house—all belonged to the banks, which
could at any time turn the village out of doors.
Every thing was done on credit, fur t e vill
age having a few natural advantages, depen
ded for its summer of apparent pr< sperity on j
the discounts of the banks. The shop keeper j
traded, the tavern-keeper carried on his bu
siness, the brick-maker made bricks, and the
shingle-splitter split his shingles—with the
banknotes which he borrowed. — Ihe one Cn.
dorsed the notes of the other ; and if one fail
ed, they all ran away together ; for this is one
of the great advantages of having nothing of
one’s own —a man can run away at a moments
warning.
“It was singular to see what strange no
tions these people had acquired with regard to •
Vol. VI—No 7.
the claims they had on the banks for moneys
whenever they wanted it. it often happened
that, either from necessity, caprice, or adesire
to foreclose certain mortgages, the banks drew
in their discounts; ai.d then there was such
an outcry against the cruelty and injustice of
the banks, as was never heard, because Mr>
such -a-one was obliged to stop building a fine
house, for the embellishment of the town. —•
Another could not go on with his tavern—a
third was obliged to stop digging his celler—~
a fourth was obliged to stbp burning his bricks
—and, in a short, the whole world of the vill
age stood stock still, except several prosperous
gentlemen* who found it convenient to run
away on the occasion.—Nobody ever thought
of working in this happy village, because it
was much easier to borrow of the banks, than
to earn money by honest industry, lu some
way or ether, almost every man in the village
was connected with the bank director, who
helped him with a discount; and those who
were not so fortunate, descendud to all the arte
of dirty subserviency, and became the tools of*
the mighty men, in order to get a discount.
Every one, of course* became a speculator irt
something; fur* the profits of a regular trado
not being sufficient to pay the creditor his in«
terests, aud support the debtor at the same time,
he must resort to some extraordinary means to
make money, and these moans are generally
wild speculations that end in ruin. But* far
all this, every body insisted on it that the vill
age was flourishing beyond all example, and
that hanks are great blessings.
“ My master the tavern keeper, finding that*
owing to some new turn of the bulttnce of trade
—which I don’t profess to understand, but
which seems to account for every thing in this
world—finding, I say, that I was beginning td
depreciate on his hands, passed me away to a
worthy farmer of the neighborhood. Here I
thought to be sure, I should find indepen
dence; but, alas 1 my new master too was oct
the high road to the transfer of his land in
exchange for paper money. The brick-making
bank director had, it seemed, the summer be.
fore rode over to see him, and ptirsuaded hint
toenter into partnership With him in the brick
making business. “ I have no ready money
to spare,?’ said the farmer. The brick-ma
ker soon let him into the secret of getting it,
uid assured him he could do it w ithout being
one dollar out of pocket-. Allured by these
golden prospects, the farmer endorsed a note
drawn by the brick-maker ; so they got the
paper money, aud set to work. But somehow
or other the farmer had received nothing yet*
but was every now and then obliged to endorse
another note: for* according to the old saying,
“in for a penny, in foV ii pound.” The catas.
trophe of all this is very obvious. A little
while after I ci me into the poor farmer’s pos.
session, he got to the length of his tether. The
banks would discount no mote— the noteslay
over—the trick-maker ramawuy— the farm
was sold just for enough to pay the bunk— it
was bought in, by a director for the bank— and
the honest farmer was a beggen In fact, ev.
ery thing I saw here Cdnviiifeed me that the
extent to which the wretched system of bank
is now carried* is ad Ingenious contrivance
esi in j
these splendid paupers. Who invent ah ima
go ary currency, create ail empty ghost of*
money, which by playing on the avarice or
blind folly of mtn of real property* swallows
them up, and transfers, by a sort oi legerde
main, the wealth of the independent man to the
pockets of the pauper.’’
From the Augusta Mirroh
MADMEN.
I ‘Som6 power nifty the giftie gie w,
To see ourselves as others see us;’ 1
Know thyself, Waft the injunction of ancient
wisdom, and the precept h is since fallen front
inspired lips, it is indeed a common worthy
the lips of the sage and of the son of God. In
it is embodied the essence of all wisdom;
Were man truly imbued with its spirit, he
would bow with more humanity to the com;
mauds of his Maker, and the reproof* of- his
fellow would seldom escape ftom his lips;
Christian charity would then be his character;
istic, as new; perhaps, is pride. The society
of man Would be knit together with the bonds
of Christian love. Never should we perceive,
in the bearing of a weak being, the spirit of
the exclamation‘l am holier than thsii? Thd
privileged ones of society would lean to look
upon its humbler members with more humility;
Leaning their own real worth, they would
know that many a one in an humbler garb;
rriay boast a loftier intellect and a nobler soul
than themselves; At present, they have the
distiuctitinS of society to sustain them. Let
those not be grudged then, more than the blad
ders would be grudged the weak being whd
could hot swim. Only let them not look with
contempt upon those who are swirtming by
their own strength. To the proud we tvould
suv, listen to our story and learn humilU
ty-
I stood in across J. 11 gathered incessant
ly, and still increased like the tide which comes
rushing in, wave upon wave, until We ask in
amazement when will this cease ? Th is gath
ered the crowd and ceased not gathering.’
And what draws this concourse of people bith
er ? A Madman 1 They come to gape l and
stare, as if a maniac were new under the sun.
This living chaos, (for what is chaos but the
confusion mingling of matter, as his mind was
but the confused mingling of thought?) stood
bv my side. His eyes was lighted with un
natural lire, and his limbs trembled with un
natural excitement. His eyes were fixed up-'
on me,and 1 gazed on him with awe. Suddenly
my eat was pierced with a cry. I listened J
it rang again. ‘Take hitn up? I heard on
every side. I turned my eye and gazed in
mute wonder; for 1 saw around me men and
heard cries of those, who were not less mad.
I gazed upon one, whose spare Clothing and
glassy shrinking eye, told me of the misery.
He cried again, take him up. And this one/
who thought himself sane, had visited the pre.
ceeding week the hovel of a poor tenant. He
had beheld the mother with her famished babes
at her side, supplicating him for food; and he
had turned away in misery closeness. The
next niorm g she Was found dead, with her
babes upon her breast. She had starved.
He has just heard the report, and stung by
Conscience has come into the street for relief.
He has planted in his bosom a hell that shall
never leave him. Madman, extinguish the.
ff mes in thy own breast, and then come, if
thou wilt, & join iu the cry of these selfesteem
ed sane ones.
I looked fartherdown, and gazed Upon one;
whose lips quivered and limbs trembled ; still
he was in his youth. He was a profligate.
And he t ><> joins in the cry. But whence came
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