Newspaper Page Text
forever ; to give place to the loathsomeness of
a depraved and brutal appetite —to the vile to
hens of a disgusting Sensuality, and She defor
mity of disease.
“ Well may you shudder,” said St. Clair
“ I am lit oniy for the companionship of de-,
mans ; but you cannot long Ire cursed by my
presence. I have not tasted food for many
days ; hunger drove me to attempt your rob
bery—but, 1 feel that I am dying man. No
human power can save me—and if there Ire a-
GoJ, even lie cannot save me from myself—
from trie undying horrors of remorse.”
Shocked by his words, and still more by the
increased ghastliness of his countenance, I led
the wretched mail to niv dwelling, and, after
conveying him to bed, and administering a cor
dial to his fevered lips, I ordered a physician
to lie called. But it was too late; the hand of
death was upon him. He motioned me to his
bed-side after the physician had departed ; he
strove to speak, but the words died upon his
lips. He then drew from his bosom a sealed
letter addressed to myself. It was his last ef
fort. He started half upright in his bed—ut
tered one groan of horror and mortal suffer
ing, and sunk back, still and ghastly, upon his
pillow. He was dead !
I followed the remains of my unhappy friend
to the narrow place appointed for all the living
—the damp and cold church-yard. I breath
ed to no one the secret of his name and his
guilt. I left it to slumber with him.
[ now referred to the paper which had been
handed me by the dying man. With trem
bling hand I broke the seal of the envelope, and
read the following addressed to myself:
“ If this letter ever reaches you, do not seek
to find its unhappy writer. He is beyond the
roach of your noble generosity—a guilty and aj
dying man. Ido not seek for life. There is
no hope for my future existence —and death, j
dark and terrible, and mysterious as it may
seem, is less to lie dreaded than the awful real
ities with which I am surrounded.
“ I have little strength to tell you the story
of my fall. Let me be brief. You know how j
we parted from each other. You know the':
lofty hopes and the towering feelings of ambi- j|
tion, which urged me from your society—from
the enjoyment of that friendship, tire memory
t>f which lias ever since lingered like an upbrai
ding spirit, at my side. I arrived at my place ;
of destination ; and aided by the introductory jj
epistles of my family, I was at once received !j
into the first and most fashionable circles of the j
city.
“I never possessed those principles of virtue
and moral dignity, the effect of which has been
so conspicuous in your own character. Amidst
the flatteries and attentions of those around me,
sind jn the exciting pursuit of pleasure, tlic
kindly voice of admonition was unheard ; and
I became the gayest of tiic gay ; a leader in
every scene of fashionable dissipation. The
principles of my new companions were those
of infidelity, and I embraced them with my
whole soul. You know my former disposition
to doubt ; that doubt was now changed into a
settled unbelief, and a bitter hatred towards all
which I had once been taught to believe sacred;
and holy.
“ Yet amidst the baleful principles which I
had imbibed, one honorable feeling still linger
ed in my bosom, like a beautiful angel in the
companionship of demons. There was one
being, a young and lovely creature, at whose
shrine all tiie deep affections of my heart were
poured out, in the sincerity of early love. She
was indeed a beautiful girl—a being to bow
down to worship—pure and high-thoughted as
the sainted ones of paradise, but confiding and
artless as a child. She possessed every ad
vantage of outward beauty—but it was not
that which gathered about her, as with a spell,
the hearts of all who knew her. It was the
light of her beautiful mind which lent the deep
witching of soul to her fine countenance —flash-
ing in her dark eye, and playing like sunshine
oil her lip, and crossing her fair forehead with
an intellectual halo.
“ Al'ston ! I look back to that spring-time
of love even at this awful crisis of my destiny,
with a strange feeling of joy. It is the only
green spot in the wilderness of the past—an
oasis in the desert of being. She loved me,
Allston—and a heart more precious than the
gems of the east, was given up to a wretch
umvorthey of its slightest regard.
“ Hitherto pride rather than principle had
kept me above the lowest degradation of sensu
al indulgence. But for one fatal error I might
have been united to the lovely being of my
affections ; and oh ! if sinless purity and persu
asive love could have had power over a mind
darkened and perverted as my own, I might
have been reclaimed from the pathway of ruin
I might have been happy.
“ Put that fatal error came ; and came too,
In the abhorrent shkpe of loathsome drunken*
'ess. I shall never in time, or eternity forgei
hat Scene, it is engraved on my memory in let
ters of fire. It comes up before me dike a
terrible dream—but it is a dream of reality.
It dashed from mv bps the-cup of happiness.
,md fixed forever the dark aspect of destiny.
“ I had been very gay, for there were happy
spirits around me ; and I drank freely r and fear
lessly for the first time. There is something hor
rible in the fitet sensation of drunkeness. For
relief I drank still deeper—and I was a drunk
ard, I was delirous, 1 was happy I left the ine
briated assembly, and directed my steps, not to
my lodgings, but to the home of her whom 1
loved—nay, adored, above all others. Judge
of her surprise and consternation when I enter
ed with a flushed counternanoa and unsteady
tread ! She was reading to her aged parents,
when with an idiot’s grimace I approached her.
She started from her seat—one glance told
her the fatal truth ; and she shrunk from me—
aye, from me, to whom her vows were plight
ed, and her young affections given—w ith fear,
with loathing, and undisguised abhorrence. Ir
ritated at lier conduct. I approached her rudely,
and snatched from her hand the book which
she bad been reading. I cast it into the flames,
which rose brightly from tiie hearth. I saw
the smoke of its consuming go upward like a
! sacrifice to the demon of intemperance, and
'there even there, by that Christian fire-side,
I cursed the hook and its author.
“ The scene which followed beggars descrip
tion. The shriek of my betrothed—lier sinking
down into a state of insensibility—the tears
of maternal anguish—tiie horror depicted on
the countenance of tire old man—all these
throng even now confusedly over my memory.
I staggered to the door. The reception I had
met with, and the excitement thereby produced,
had obviated in some measure the effect of
intoxication, & reason Iregan to assume its cm.
pirn. Tiie full round moon was up in the hea
vens—and the stars —how fair, how passing
beautiful they shone down at that hour! I
had, loved to look upon the stars—those bright
and blessed evidences of a holy and all-pcrva
ding intelligence ; but that night their gran
deur and their exceeding purity came like a
curse to my weary vision. 1 could have seen
those beautiful lights extinguished,and tlic dark
night cloud sweeping over the fair face of the
sky, and have smiled with grim satisfaction,
for the change would have been in unison with
my feelings*
“Allston ! I have visited, in that tearless ago
ny which mocks at consolation, the grave of
my betrothed. She died of a broken heart.
From that moment, all is dark, and hateful,
and loathsome, in my history. lam reduced
to poverty —I am bowing to disease—l am
without a friend. I have no longer the means
of subsistence ; and starvation may yet anti*
c ipate the fatal termination of the disease which
is preying upon me.”
Such is the tale of the once gifted and noble
St. Clair. Let the awful lesson it teaches sink
deep in the hearts of the young and ardent of
spirit.
EXTRACT.
In the material world how much is
there emblematic of human life. Spring is
youth—Summer is manhood—Autumn is old
age —and winter is the grave. Are not the
crumbling ruin, the decaying tree, falling leaf,
and the faded flow’er, all emblems of that cease
less mutation, that constant change from bloom
to blight, which man so surely finds in his own
destiny ? And are not these thus ever forci
bly presented to his view, to teach liim his own
certain and coming doom? Yet he too often
suffers these admonitions to pass him unre
garded, and forgets to provide for the winter
of life as he does for the winter of the year.
In tracing the similitude of the seasons to
tlic phases of human existence, the moral to
the learned is one of absorbing interest. As
in the natural winter all vegetable life is sus
pended, and its gelid influence binds the earth
in chains of ice and torpor, so the winter which
awaits us all, will deaden every sense of feeling,
and shut up the streams of life in the cold slum
bers of the grave. Yet though the end of our
mortal existence is thus dreary and gloomy, it
is well to think that we pass not away forever,
that there is a spring for man as well as for
tiie leaf and for the flower, and the perishing
tenement of mortality which fails us here, will
be regenerated in a brighter and better world.
So to the eye of the moralist, there is noth
ing of gloom and regret in viewing the glories
of summer fade and winter, and
“ In blooming, listning, on the scattered leavs,
Where autumn winds are at their evening song.”
He considers their seeming destruction as
the ever recuring promise and semblance ot
thatjtranslormstion which awaits himself when
he shall be rdftdy for the charge, and he cannot
murmur or fejoice. Far different must beHi.
sensation ofthat man who bows down to tha
false philosophy which looks no higher than tin
world- The desolation now overspreading
the surfac of tiie vegetable creation, must seen
to him but bitter mockery of his own transitory
existence, and plunge him in gloomy douL
and hopeless despair.
ANECDOTES OF ANIMAL INSTINCT.
In a paper in the June number of the Biblio
theque Univeselle de Geneve, (so ably edited
by M. de le Rive, who read several papers at
the recent meeting of the British Association)
there are some curious anecdotes, tending to
prove how near, it not quite, to the power of rea
soning the actions of animals approach. r I wo
men, who were about to Walk to Yevey, agreed
to meet at an appointed place. One of them,
who arrived first, fancying be was too late,
resolved to push on and overtake his comrade;
but his dog showed symptoms of disliking this
proceeding. He ran backwards and forwards,
lingered behind, and at length totally disappear
ed, but speedily returned with the walking stick
of the second person in his mouth. He had
come late, and sat down to wait for his lriend,
but the sagacity of tile animal resorted to this
evident means of teaching them their relative
positions and bringing them togetlier. A neith
er dog which tlicy were trying to teach to mount
a ladder, got so tired of his lessons that lie ran
away ; but next day he returned alone to the
ladder, and applied himself to the task just as
if his vanity had been piqued into learning the
exercise. A third dog that was taught to
carry a lantern with its owner, on winter morn
ings before daylight, as the latter carried milk
to a neighboring farmer, happened one day
to be shut up when his master departed.—
When loosened, lie ran after and overtook him,
hut, perceiving he had not the lantern, he return
ed to the house, and causing it to be given to
him, again hastened to his accustom fight work.
Another, belonging to a young student, whose
master, while bathing, hid himself among some
rushes, was hallooed into the water, as if an
accident had happened, when, instead ofplung.
ing in, lie ran lower down the rapid stream,
and took his station, watching the river, where
it was most likely to bring down the body for
rescue. We conclude with one fact more,
relating to an animal of which We have been
used to consider innocence, rather than wis
dom, the characteristic. A pigeon fami
liarized to tiie kitchen, where it was fed and
caressed, one day witnessed the killing of a
pullet, and it immediately flew away and never
returned to the scene of slaughter ! The
kitchen death of a chicken is not very unlike
the death of a dove, and the warning was not
lost.
“ How many bright eyes grow dim—how
many soft cheeks grow pale—how many lovely
forms fade away into the tomb, and none can
tell the cause that blighted their loveliness.—
As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and
cover and conceal the arrow that is preying
upon its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to
hide from the world the pangs of wounded af
fection. The love of a delicate female is al
ways shy and silent. Even when fortunate,
she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her
bosom, and there lets it cower and brood a
mong the ruins of her peace.
******
Look a little farther for her you find Friend
ship weeping over her untimely grave, and
wondering that one who but lately glowed
with all the radience of health and beauty,
should so speedily be brought down to darkness
and the worm.” Washington Irving.
FIRE AND FURY, GUNS AND THUNDER.
The first number of a neutral paper, com
menced at Naples, (111.) contains the following:
“ With fearless footsteps we’ll tread the pillows
beneath a sky of wrath, our halyards tipped
with fire, carrying with us a tongue of thunder,
and none shall conquer until the last armed
man has deserted, or fallen in the conflict.”
This must be an armed neutrality.
RECIPE FOR ERUPTIONS IN THE FACE, AC.
Take the fresh roots of sorrel—wipe them
clean, and scrape them as you do horse-radish
with an ivory knife ; then with a sufficient
quantity of fresh cream, beat the whole into a
consistence of pomatum in a marble mortal.
Let a little of this be rubbed on the face four
or five times a-day. This will soften the crust
enlarge the pores, and clear the skin from any
foulness,
Dean Swift says, « Were we to metre an
xarainatioti into the actions of e e \ q
::ould find one hah of ti e woiki ;o be ogi * ?
iid the other half to Le bloc ;- - reads Tre ’
er half may be divided into uo classes ; t, e
rood natured and the sensible * the oi c. thro’
n easiness of temper, is always halve to he ill
sod ; the other, through an execs , of va.rety,
s frequently exposed to he wretched. Mural
•onfidence, and real friendship, are ve pret.
v words, but seldom carry any meaning : q
man will entertain an opinion of another vvoich
> opposite to his own interest; and a nod from
a great man, t or a smile from a strumpet, will
set a couple of blockheads by tiie eai-s, w » o a
moment Ire fore would have ventured their lives
for each other’s repufr. + n
CROCKETT S MEMORY.
Amoving the many remarkable qualities of
Da\id Crockett was his wonderful memory of
which my friend Col. A. whom ire ran against
for Congress lately gave the following aoec.
dote in proof. “When we began our election,
eering campaign said Col. A. not being able to
s[>Cak very well extempore, or rather not at all,
l wrote a speech with great care, and commit,
ted it to memory. 1 delivered this at three seve.
ral meetings, and was a good deal gratified in
believeing that it was very well received. I had
always spoken first, but at the fourth meeting,
which was a very numerous one, Crockett pro.
• posed that lie take the lead. lie accordingly
mounted tire stand, and to my utter amazement
! recited the whole of my speech, and only chan.
Fed a sentence or two to suit his own case.
never folt so awkward in my life. My turn
to speak came, and my speech was gone,
stolen-'-uscd up—and 1 was left without a
word to say. And to complete my mortificai
tion, the rascal was chuckling and laughing,
as if he had done the cleverest thing in the
world*
NO.
John Randolph, in oi e of his letters to a
young relative, says •: “ I know nothing that
1 am so anxious you should acquire as the
faculty of say ing No. You must calculate on
unreasonable requests being preferred to you
every day of your life, and must endeavor to
deny, with as much facility as you acquiesce.”
A CHAIR FULL, AND A WELL FILLED CHAIR.
When Joseph Lancaster was in the city of
Washington, Congress being in session, he
obtained leave of the speaker, the Hon. Henry
Clay, to deliver a lecture on his system of
instruction, in the Hall of the House ofßepe.
sentatives, one morning after the House had
adjourned for the day. A remark made by
Mr. Clay when he saw Mr. Lancaster in the
Speaker’s chair, and the distinguislred teach*
er’s answer, occasioned the following—•
RETORT COURTEOUS.
When slitn Speaker Clay, looking up at his chair,
Saw that very fat man Joseph Lancaster there,
He said—while with pleasure that pun through him
thrill’d,
“ Sir, I never before sa w the chair so well fill’d.”
The teacher,—well pleased,— to reply was not slow
For witty, though serious, was dignified Joe,
He midly remark’d in the same pleasant way—
“He who filled the chair best was no better than Clay.”
For the Southern Post *
“ THY WILL BE DONE.”
I saw one, formed in beauty rare,
The lily graced her gentle brow—
The rose that once in triumph there
Unrivall’d played—w here is it now ?
Disease had marr’d its beauteous glow’,
And blanched the brilliant hue of youth l
The strains of glee, once wont to flow
From sources pure as hallow’d truth,
No more were there. Her feeble voice
Was raised in Holy, fervent, Pray’r ;
Whose balm seethed to, her heart rejoice,,
And beam celestial sweetness there :
When from her lips that sacred name,
“My Father O, “thy u-ill he done”
Breathed forth, methought, its holy flame,
A type of purity Divine.
How’ lovely beams fond woman's eye,
To Heaven upraised in pious Prayer f
When upw’ard her pure glances fly,
Ethffial eloquence is there ;
To souls like this alone is given
True pleasures for the good designed-*
On earth to taste the sw'eets of Heaven*
Faith, Hope, and Charity combin’d.
The heart so formed by skill Divine*
Unerring points to realms above ;
And round it kindred hearts entwine
In silken band of Heavenly love.
Alas ! such flowers too soon decay,
A moment bloom, then fade and die*
As transient sun-beams pass away,
When gleaming thro’ aelouded sky.