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gj-jf Pa £»3 ?Si?3l)iiS s irQj3a VOL. I. sffiia tsmtaatmaas ip®ss I Is published in the city of Macon every Saturday, at | ?avo dollars in advance , three dollars at the end of the tear — one dollar and fifty cents for six months. No subscription received for a less period—and no pa per discontinued, until all arrears are paid, unless at the option of the Publisher. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual rates of j advertising, with a reasonable deduction to yearly ad- J vertisers. DO" Our Advertising friends are requested ; to mark the number of insertions, on their advertise-j merits — )t her wise, they will be published till forbid, and j charged accordingly. Religious, Marriage and Obituary Notices inserted free J* 0 " XVr >rk one trial, p’cd'rinir ho-self that no pains snail on lf?r nart to su ' t who upon her. H-t house is the next door (south) of R.R.Graves’ °n Cherry-street. _ December 15 Btf Erin’s Patent Uowie-TCniffc Pistols. ELGIN'S Patent Bowie-Knife Pistols, just rccei ve l and for sale hv - ROBINSON, WRIGIIT & CO. Oeecnber 1 6 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 SOUTHERN POST. 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 MISCELLANEOUS. For the Southern Post. Recollections of a Medical Student., NO. 11. MANIA A POTU. (CONCLUDED.) 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 dered. “ 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 enced physician.” “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 NO. 11.