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212 the National Debt of England, by taking into into its funds all the debt incurred before the year 1716—the whole amounting to over thir ty-one and a half million of pounds. For this the Company agreed to pay to the use of the public the sum of £4,156,306, besides four and a half years’ purchase for all annutics which should be subscribed into its funds, and which, if subscribed, would have amounted to about £3,567,503,—making a total of nearly eight millions. The Company promised to pay one per cent, on the unsubscribed annuties. In this plan Parliament acquiesced by passing an Act to that effect. In March following the Company’s stock sud denly rose from 130 to 300—gradually advanc ed to 400 —declined to 330, and on the 7th of April was quoted firm at 340. This was so en couraging to the directors that on the 12th of April they opened books at the South Sea House for taking in a subscription for a part of their stock amounting to two and a quarter million of pounds —every £IOO of which they offered at £4OO. It was all taken up immediately at that price—the payments to be made in nine instalments within twelve months. On the 21st instant the Company resolved that the summer dividend should be 10 per cent on all their stock subscribed for before the time of paying the dividends (mid-summer.) This placed their scheme in a most favorable light in the eyes of the speculative, and so great was the demand for stock that the Company, on the 28th, resolved to open their books for a second subscription to the amount of one million.— This last was readily taken up at the rate of the former, —£400 for every £lO0 —the subscrib ers being allowed three years for payment. On the 20th of May the stock rose to 550. The public mind had now reached a state of infatuation beyond all parellel. The most skeptical and prudent were seized with the mania, and plunged recklessly into the specu lation. To raise ready money they borrowed, mortgaged and sold their real or personal estate without a thought other than possessing their favorite stock. A few who remained uninfect ed by the “ bubble,” and who had ready mon ey, plunged into a safer speculation in real es tate. A few, with returning judgement and reason, who had “ been behind the curtains,” quietly disposed of their stock at 550, and re tired into the country. The resort of all peo ple from all parts of England to London was tremendous. ’Change Alley, the mart of the speculators, was turned into a perfect Bedlam. All thoughts of earning an honest livelihood by the slow but sure process of toil was laid aside. Each was determined to enrich himself at once. On the Ist of June, the Company’s stock rose to 890! On the 15th instant, a slight decline, in consequence of many persons selling out their stock who accompanied the king on a for eign tour, was experienced ; but the directors announced a still larger dividend, and the stock rose still higher. On the 18th the directors were induced to open a third subscription for four millions of stock at £IOOO for every £IOO, and strange to say, the whole was soon taken up. Stock, through the remaining portion of July continued to fluctuate between £IOOO and £llOO. On the 3d of August the Company proposed to receive subscriptions for all the un subscribed annuties; but the terms of the sub scription were so unsatisfactory to the annu itants, (who, expecting the same terms as the first subscribers, had left their orders at the South Sea House,) that, in consequence of their clamors, the stock greatly fell, and, when the books were at last opened, the stock was quoted at 820 The Company came to the desperate res olution of ordering the books to be shut. On the 24th of August, they caused other books to be opened for a fourth money subscription for another million pounds of stock at £IOOO for every £IOO, and the whole was taken up in three hours! and in the afternoon bore a pre mium of 40 per cent. On the 28th the stock fell to 830, and in consequence, the directors deemed it necessary to lend their proprietors £4OOO on every £IOOO stock, for six months, at 4 per cent. The annuitants became again clamorous, and the directors were forced to de- SSSMIM kalfgiß AIE ¥ Hi A8& 1? THE ♦ clare a half-yearly dividend of 30 per cent., to be paid at Christmas, and thenceforth, for twelve years, a yea.rly dividend of 50 percent. This announcement raised the stock a little, but it soon receded. On the Bth of September, the stock fell to 640—0n the 9th, to 650—0n the 19th, to 400. On the 23d, the Bank of England agreed to circulate the bonds of the Company, and take their stock at 400 per cent., instead of the £3,775,000, which the Company owed the Bank by contract. When the books were opened at the Bank for taking in a subscription to support the public credit, it was thought the required sum of three mil lions would soon be taken up ; but the credit of the South Sea Company had sunk so low, that the hope proved entirely delusive. The tendency of things occasioned “ a run” upon the bankers, goldsmiths and money-lenders, who had loaned large sums on stock securities, and they were forced to shut up their places of business. On the 30th, the stock fell to 150 —then to 86. Thus ended a mania, the long continuance of which is unparalleled in history. The change of property—the exaltation of the poor, and humiliation of the rich—the impoverish ment of noblemen, and the enrichment of fool hardy boors—and, indeed, the general misery which succeeded the whole transaction was painful to see. “It was almost unfashionable,” says Maitland, “not to be a bankrupt; and the whole catastrophe was attended with such a number of self-murders as no age can paral lel.” The concerns of the Company were investi gated by Parliament after the “ burst up.” It appeared to the Argus-eyed law that a great deal of fraud had characterized the tran sactions of the Company from the beginning; and many persons connected therewith were tried and mulcted in large sums, among them many noblemen. Sdcctttr jJoctvy. THE GRAVE-AN EXPOSTULATION. BY J. CLEMENT. Soon around my heart will close The midnight darkness of the tomb. It. M. Charlton. Why saddens your heart at the thought of the tomb 1 With the night-pall of terrors why mantle it round 1 The soul that the sun-light of Truth doth illume Knows naught of the gloom in the grave that is found. Like a rush from deep midnight to morning’s full dawn — From the shaddows that pain to the glories of day— Is the flight of the spirit, by love sweetly drawn, To its cloudless repose in the Land far away. Then let not your spirit, sweet minstrel, be said, I hough the angei of death fan your brow with his wing; Look up, and bright visions your heart shall make glad, 4 our harp, sweeter tuned, will in Heaven soon ring. LOOK ALOFT BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE. In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail— If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart, ‘ Look aloft * and be fiirm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend who embraced in prosperity’s glow, With a smile for its joy, and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee, when sorrows like clouds are ar rayed, ‘ Look aloft’ to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in lio-ht to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret, “ Look aloft” to the sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart, The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart, “ Look aloft” from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where “ affection is ever in bloom.” And, O! when Death comes in his terrors, to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, “look aloft,” and depart! i FAME. | “ Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise * ! (That last infirmity of noble minds) To scorn delights and live laborious days *” Cclectic of lUit. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. BY THOMAS HOOD. How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose their books, Are snared by anglers, folks that fish With literary Hooks, Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through ; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you. I of my “ Spenser” quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Os “ Lamb” I’ve but a quarter left, Nor could I save my “ Bacon And then I saw my “ Crabbe” at last, Like Hamlet, backward go; And, as the tide was ebbing fast, Os course I lost my “llowe.” Mv “Mallet” served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker; And once, wheu I was out of town, My “Johnson” proved a “ Walker.” While studying o’er the fire one day, My Hobbes amidst the smoke, They bore my “ Colnian” clean away, And carried off my “ Coke.” They picked my “ Locke,” to me far more Than Bramah’s patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, Without a “Home” on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing, “Swift,” As swiftly went my “ Steele.” “ Hope” is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated ; But what is strange, my “Pope” himself Is excommunicated. Mv little “ Suckling” in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage; And what was Crusoe’s fate to save, ’Twas mine to lose—a “ Savage.” Even “ Glover’s” works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since 1 lost my “ Foote,” My “Bunyan” has been gone. My “ Hoyle” with “ Cotton” went oppressed, My “ Taylor,” too, must fail; To save my “Goldsmith” from arrest, In vain I offered “ Bayle.” I “ Prior” sought, but could not see The “ Hood” so late in front; And when I turned to hunt for “ Lee,” Oh! where was my “ Leigh Hunt 1” I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, Yet could not “ Tickle” touch ; And then, alack ! I missed my “ Mickle,” And surely Mickle’s much. ’Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my “ Reid,” Nor even use my “ Hughes My classics would not quiet lie, A thing so fondly hoped ; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, My “Livy” has eloped. My life is ebbing fast away, I suffer from these shocks, And though 1 fixed a lock on “ Gray,” There’s gray upon my locks ; I’m far from “ Young,” am growing pale, I see my “Butler” fly; And when they ask about my all, ’Tis “ Burton,” I reply. They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For oh! they cured me of my “ Burns,” And eased my “ Akenside.” But all I think 1 shall not say, Nor let my anger burn, Jor as they never found me “ Gay,” They have not left me “ Sterne*” 1 o > A SLIGHT MISTAKE. “ But why don’t you gel married ?” said a bouncing girl with a laughing eye to a smooth faced, innocent looking youth. “Well I■” said the youth, stopping short with a gasp, and fixing his eyes on va cancy with a puzzled and foolish expres “ Well, go on,” said the fair cross-question er, almost imperceptibly inclining nearer to the young man. “Now just tell me right out—you what ?” “Why, I pshaw, I don’t know.” “ You do ; I say you do. Now come 1 want to know.” “O, I can’t tell you.” “I say you can. Why, you know I’ll never mention it; and you may tell me, of course, you know, for have n’t I always been your friend ?” “Well, you have, I know” replied the be leaguered youth. “ And I’m sure I always thought you liked me, went on the maiden, in tender and mel low accents. “O, I do, upon my word—yes, indeed I do, Maria,” said the unsophisticated youth very warmly, as he found that Maria had unconsciously placed her hand in his open palm, r Then there was a silence. “And then-well V’ said Maria, d rt mp irw her eyes to the ground. H* D 5 “Eh! O-weTl?” said John, dropping hi , eyes and Maria s hand at the same tinrn “I'm pretty sure you love somebody j n iact, said Mana, assuming a tone of* m l ery. “I know you’re in ‘love, and'Vhn W “Wdl 1 y i° U tC me aU ab ° Ut * at <*<*?” “Well, I; O, you silly mortal, what L there to be alraid of ?” 18 “O, it ain’t because I’m afraid of an „ thing at all; and I’ll—well, now, Maria *f will tell you.” ’ 1 “ Well, now, John.” u J ,* “ Eh ?” u J -n “ Yes.” “ I am in love !—now don’t tell • you wont, will you 1” said John violently Lb ing Maria by the hand, and looking at W face with a most imploring expression. “ Wh y> of course, you know, John I']] never breathe a xvord about it; you know l wont, don’t you John?” 1 This was spoken in a mellow whisper, and the cherry lips of Maria were so near John’s ear when she spoke that had he turned hi * head to look at her, there might have occur red a dangerous collision. “Well, Maria,” said John, “I’ve told you now, and so you shall know all about it. J have always thought a great deal of you “Yes, John.” “I’m sure that you would do anythin* for me you could.” 5 “Yes, John, you know I would.” “Well, I thought so, and you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to talk to you about 1 declare, John, I—you might have told me long since if you wanted to—for I’m i never was angry with you in my “No, you wasn’t; and I have often felt a great mind to, but ” “ It’s not too late now, you know, John.” “ Well, Maria, do you think I’m too younir to get married ?” “ Indeed I do not, John, and I know it would be a good thing for you, too, for ev ei> body says that the sooner young people get mari ied the better, when they are prudent and inclined to love one another.” “ That’s just what I think ; and now, Ma ria, I do want to get married, and if you’ll ,* • “ Indeed I will, John, for you know I was always partial to you, and I’ve said so often behind your back.” “Well, I declare, I have all alongthought you would object, and that’s the reason Tve been afraid to ask you.” Object! no, 111 die first; you may ask of me anything you please.” “And you’ll grant it ?” “I will.” “Then, Maria, I want you to pop the question for me to Mary Sullivan, for ” “What!” “ Eh ?” “Do you love Mary Sullivan ?” “O, indeed T do, with all my heart.” “I always thoughUyou was a fool.” “ Eh ?” “Isay r you re a fool, and you’d better go home, your mother wants you; “O, you— you __you Stupid!” exclaimed the mortified Maria, in a shrill treble, and she gave poor John a slap on the cheek that sent him reel ing, Unhappy Maria; “ The course of true -~*e neyer did run smooth.” I 9 I MORAL BEATITUDES. Blessed are the orphan children; for they lave no mother to spank them. Blessed are they that are blind; for they shall see no ghosts. Blessed are they that are deaf; for they nev er need lend money, nor listen to tedious sto ries. Blessed are they that are afraid of thunder; or they shall hesitate about getting married, and keep aw r ay from political meetings. Blessed are they that are lean; for there is a chance to grow fat. Blessed are they that are ignorant; for ♦hey are happy in thinking: that they know’ everything. Blessed is he that is ugly in form and fea ture ; for the girls sha'n’t molest him. Blessed is she that would get married, and can’t; for the consolations of the Gospel are hers. Blessed are they that expect nothing; for they shail not be disappointed. Blessed are they that do not advertise; for they shall very rarely be troubled with custom ers.