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MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, JANUARY 0, 1838.
POET R y". _
“ The world is full of Poetrv—the air
Is living with its spirit: and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness.”
THE CARRIER’S ADDRESS,
TO THE PATRONS OF THE
JANUARY 1, 183S.
Once more hath Time with ceaseless tread
Numbered the old year with the dead,
And brought to view the earliest ray
i Ot this our happy Nfav Year’s day ;
Here have we met to greet its dawn,
And chant our praises to the morn,
I Which ever brings a wreath of joy
I To crown your humble Carrier Boy;
I And now my harp so long unstrung,
I Must tune iis chords to noble song,
I And strike some ancient poet’s lire
I In the sort breathings of my lyre.
I Come, gentle Melpomene, come
I From the blest i-t nsions of thy home,
I On high Parnnss is’ mount, where dwells
I The muses in th r rocky dells;
I Not let my prayer go up in vain,
I To invoke thy g u!y soothing strain :
I O ! if my unpre ending lays
I Might win the eed of heartfelt praises
I iiovv happy wo Id the New Year be,
I How full of festive mirth to me !
I But whither shdl my genius turn,
I To speak in living words that burn
I The requium o the buried year,
I O'er which we’ve shed a passing tear.
1 Shall sad eulocium’s on the dead
B Recall their gentle spirits tied,
B Or stop the sou itains-of our wo,
B Which o’er iheir fates unceasing flow—
BOr might we pass them gently by
H\nd pray to meet them in the sky ?
HTl’h true, sad hearts have often wept
Hp’or friends who with die dead have slept,
«acc last, upon a New Year’s day,
sang with them some festive lay,
though aronndour feelings yet
linger with a fond regret;
H/>t hope’s melouded ray be given
H'o light us t ■ their home in Heaven.
might, by memory’s gende aid,
brighter secnerv have portrayed ;
Br solemn thoughts a-e sometimes best.
Hn.ni-h they disturb the spirits rest,
leave a heavenly influence there,
sons >!'•• rth night never share.
Hr. turning trom this gloomy strain,
strike our gle fut notes agaiti,
sketch with hearty glance to find
How many ’mong our patrons kind
changed th r single state in life,
sought ands mod a lovely wife ;
Hut few such happy names appear
ttie recor ! s of the year,
with those whose stubborn hearts
never let them act their parts.
Bachelor’s, a gloomy train,
yet in loneliness remain
one friend to soothe their cares,
wipe away their burning tears ;
Hut><m Fortune frowns and sad distress
up their sou ots of happiness.
Hl.iw many, in their single state,
H'dl linger while the wretched mate
nature doomed to he their own,
H pines in anguish all alone.
Hi v blessings on ye, gentle maids,
fickle Fortue now upbraids,
Wedlock be your happy state
Hjefore the close of Thirty-eight.
B\h, me ! before that dreadful close
may take place God only knows.
Wow many warriors, dead in light,
Hfiiall lie unhurried day and night,
■While sorrowing fiends, far, far away,
■■'hall weep to hear the bloody fray,
■And anxious watch, unceasing keep,
those who in their death-mounds sleep.
■Already does the battle rage,
■And hostile armaments engage
■ n cold Canadian wilds afar,
■Nursed to fearful lin of war.
Hu re while the Indian warhoop rings,
■More terrible than the wrath of Kings,
■Through deserts wide and forests deep,
HWhile soldiers brave are doomed to sleep
BOn Florida’s defenceless shore,
■ To fight for Freedom’s arms no more.|
Bo Heaven ! protect the little band
■ Who b'ed on “Tampa’s desert strand” —
BNor let the banner of the brave, )
B O’er Freedom’s ramparts cease to wave, >
B Or strike its honors to a slave. J
B But dimly in the South I see
B A single star of Liberty,
B With infant spark it proudly shines
B O’er Texian hills and battle lines —
I Nor may it ever cease to glow
m While ocean waters ebb and flow.
But now my muse’s strains must cease
Praying the bow of genial peace,
To hover o’er a bleeding world
With Freedom’s banners proud unfurled;
And may my Country ever be
A refuge for the brave and free.
On you, good Patrons, all, I^pray,
Rch blessings every New Year’s day ;
And when tne storms of life are o er, )
0! may we meet on Heaven’s shore, .
Where friends are doomed to part no more J
For the Southern Post.
Recollections of a Medical Student.,
MANIA A POTU.
The next step was to inform his immediate
friends of the unfortunate circuins.ance, among
whom, was Mr. A. M a countryman ot
his, a gentleman for. whose character I must
ever entertain the most profound respect, not
only for his benevolence to R , but also
for his subsequent acts of friendship to me.—
There were some four or five individuals who
set out to hunt him, some going one course,
and some another. But in vain did they searcii,
the day passed olf and night came; but not a
word was heard of their lost friend. The on
ly probable idea that could now be entertained
in relation to his fate, was that he had drowned
himself in the bay; and under this sad appre
hension, the last party of his friends were re
turning home in the dusk of the evening from
a fruitless search they had made some miles in
the country. They had arrived near the sub
burbs of the city, and were thinking of any
thing else than hunting their friend at this
|time; when their attention was arrested by the
! sound of a humah voice, which seemed to de
note distress, and came from a deep morass
[which lay in a large field on their right hand.
[ The thought suggested itself to some of their
| minds, that it might be R . Accordingly
I they determined to follow up the voice until
| they were satisfied of the fact. This tnev did
jas well as they could, but the darkness of the
| night, and depth of the mud impeded them very
;much. At length however, they come up to
the wretched man, and beheld in his counte
j nance the features of their former friend, though
' they were now much distorted as he stood be
fore them a raving maniac. He had remained
| almost‘‘divested of clothing during the whole
of that blcaky day, somewhere in the swamps,
[as his appearance bore palpable evidence to
every beho der. He was now so cold and life
I less for the want of his common stimulus, that
he could scarcely speak. His friends carried
him home, having arrived there just before l
returned from church, for it was Sabbath eve
ning. When I entered I found him sitting by
the fire, surrounded by two or three friends,
! perfectly * senseless and speechless. The
: warmth of the room had evidently produced a
! reaction, and a fras I was able to judge
[from the state of.his pulse, I thought he must
sink when that reaction subsided. I had
|my opinion controverted by a very gentle
manly looking man, whom they r ailed Dr.
C , and who appeared to be in atten lance.
“ I beg your pardon, Doctor,” said I, “ for
making the hasty intrusion, I was not aware
he was your patient.”
“ By no means,” said ho, “ I have retired
from the practice these five years. R is
simply a friend of mine—an old crony and a
member of the Masonic fraternity; and I have
called simply to spend a night with him, not for
the purpose of medical attendance.”
“ Well,” returned 1, “he evidently needs
medicine, and if no other physician i.s called
in, suppose weadrnin ster w iat we deem best.”
“ With all my heart, Doctor,” he replied,
feeling his pulse, “ I have always been peculi
arly successful in my treatment of this disease.
Suppose we give him plenty of warm brandy
toddy and a sweeping dose of calomel.”
“Just as you say, Doctor,” said 1 “ ’tis not
for me to propose ought to experienced a prac
titioner as yourself.”
So with that he had Pompy o.T to the apothe
caries after the medicine, which, student as I
was. I thought the strangest prescription in the
world; although the Doctor expatiated very
largly on the derangement of his bilious sys
tem, and the necessity for some alterative to be
2iven. I would have suspected him a quack,
had he not talked so fluently in relation to
anatomy and chemistry, two sciences which I
confess he seemed to know more about, than
myself. Besides he told me of his long resi-:
dence in the west, and the extensive practice]
he had sustained there for years. In fact !
was forced to acknowledge him a man of gen
ius before I fell asleep that night: for long afte -
we had stretched ourselves before the fire, did
SL MAifl'LSa'iFEß* & WSfJEIiaSMEa.
he entertain me with various incidents which
had occurred in his history, in such a master
ly manner as to make me think myself in the
presence of Cooper or Kean.
I was led to wonder for some time, what
could have occasioned such an excessive de
gree of volubility in my companion as led him
to" infringe upon the hours of sleep to such an
alarming extent. This curiosity was much
heightened trom the fact of his being so unac
countably attentive to the sick man. For not
an hour or half hour past around, without find
ing Dr. C engaged in administring some
of the healing balm of his art. 1 was at length
led through a little suspicion, to watch him,
and soon perceived that for every dose of tod
dy he gave the sick man, he would take two
himself. This seemed to be the secret of all
his watchfulness and the source of his charity.
No wonder he could tell such wonderful tales,
and talk for hours concerning his own exploits,
when that inebriating potation was at work in
his brain. 1 became fully satisfied of the char
acter of my new acquaintance, that in good
troth he might have been an honest man, yet
for the sake of a dram he w ould steal medicine
from the dying. This was enough for my
weak stomach, so turning over to keep from
inhaling the fumes of alehahol, I soon forgot
the doctor and his patient in the refreshing em
brace of sleep.
Eariy the next morning, I was awakened by
the ringing of the bell, and entrance of Mr.
M into the sick room, to inquire after tho
welfare of his friend. 1 )r. C was sprawl
ed on the floor half a sleep and half drunk,
| and poor R was lying in a wretched plight,
[evidently labouring under alow muttering de
lerium. I immediately suggested to M
the propriety of medical attendance, as his case
I conceived to be desperate if not past all hope.
He accorded with my views and immediately
sent off for my worthy preceptor. Dr. I) .
In the mean time Dr. C hearing the ar
rangement, got up as soon as possible and
made off. for fear of coming in contact with
o e, whose severity he had good reason to
dread. About 8 o’clock the Doctor was an
nounced, and 1 entered into a full history of the
case to him, w hile with a minute examination
of the symptoms, caused him to pronounce
him beyond hope.
“ But what have you given him ?” said he.
With a confused manner and abashed coun
tenance —1 told him just what Dr. C or
“ Calomel indeeand,” said
as well given him so mnch poison. Why did
you allow it ? don’t you see the man is sink
ing already, and you would help him to his end
by such a powerful agent as this.”
“ But Doctor,” said I “ what could I say in
this case, against the opinion of one whom I
looked upon as a learne 1 man, and an experi
“A physician, truly : one who has no pre
tension to it, except a mere smattering he has
picked up here and them. Although he is a
man of genius, and had it, nor been for brandy
might have been considered one of the greatest
tragedians in the world, as he in fact, has
proved himself to be, when ever he has ventur
ed on the stage. But what has that, to do
with giving medicine. He has never gradu
ated, is a mere t eorist, and knows not half so
muc ) a out t e practice as any common mail
or old woman.”
I felt ashamed of my having been so easily
duped, and resolved to be more on my guard
for the future, though l could but feel, that tho
responsibility of the case rested more on tho
shoulders of Dr.C ha myself. The Dr.
left a prescription of one gr (in of opium every
two hours, for me to give him, which I attend
ed to most assiduously. After it had operated
on his sv tern for some time, I found he began
to revive much more than formerly, and talk
in a wild unmeaning manner about Mary and
h : s little son. At one tme he would imma
g’n her waiting, and. get un with the determina
tion to go in quest of her. Then he would
think his little boy was dead lying beside him,
o” Har ed in his coffin on the table and would
ra : sea mo-t plaintive cry over him, until some
thing els wou'd attract his afte tion. Ho
would then hum a tune. Mid commence pick
| ing at specks, or spinning out his fingers as