Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.