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Yol. II No. 46.]
Ehr JSEashfns toman
fsi.r. be published every Saturday!
MORNING, BY
JAMES McCAFFERTV,
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Three Experiments iu Drinking,
OR,
Three Eras in the Life of an Inebriate:
Is the title of a little work, printed in
1837, from which we make extracts, and
commend its perusal to our readers. The
three eras, are, The Temptation--Fash-
Drinking—Crime and Expiation.
|w e extract from the “Temptation” for to
day’s No., and we will give further ex
tracts from the work; which shows in
the end, how the temptation of Fashiona-1
Me Drinking often leads to crime and
expiation.
♦ My son, said Mr. Morton to Charles,
■While they were sitting one afternoon in
the drawing room, you are now eighteen
years of age. I have given you a good
and it is now time for you to
make choice of a profession for life.
I That has already been a subject of se
rious reflection to me, replied Charles,
and I have at last come to the conclusion
to engage in mercantile business, as one
■ best adapted to the natural turn of my
If rnind.
W Very well, continued the father, you
could not have made choice of a calling
4 more noble, more honest, or better cal
-1 eulated for your advancement. I have
I long watched with pleasure, your desire
for traffic, and, anticipating your wishes,
wrote to my intimate friend, in Boston,
Mr. Oldschool. 1 have this day received
from him a letter, in which he informs
me that he has succeeded in procuring
for you a situation in one of the mercan
tile houses on Long Wharf, where he is
confident you will meet with an upright
and faithful employer.
Charles looked joyous at this good
news. Nothing could possibly have given
I him greater pleasure. His father had
I taken much pride in giving him such an
education as would enable him to obtain
an honorable standing in society. He
had, at first, resolved to send him to col
lege, but finding that he was bent upon
entering the mercantile business, he
relinquished the plan.
It was a lovely morning in the month
of June. Flora had been unusually pro
* lific in her bounties, and nature’s sweet
singers were filling the groves and fields
with their eloquent music. It was the
appointed day for Charles to take his de
parture for Boston. The sun had just
began to bathe the eastern hemisphere
with his golden light, when the soft step
of Mrs. Morton was heard upon the cot
tage floor. She was engaged in packing
Charles’ clothing, and making prepara
tions for his journey; already had his
young friends collected in the cottage
garden, to bid him farewell, and wish him
I prosperity, for his naturally kind and
good disposition had rendered him an ob
ject of love to the whole village. Soon,
the harsh notes of the stagernan’s horn
were heard reverberating among the ,
hills, the friends gathered around the
.young adventurer, and, as one after the i
other grasped his extended hand, many a ■
tear fell upon it. The stage had arrived ]
at the door. Farmer Morton put a seal- <
ed paper into his son’s hand, and his wife i
imprinted an affectionate kiss upon his ]
forehead.
God bless you, said the farmer, and i
may you be prosperous.
Charles, my son, said Mrs. Morton,
sorrowfully, don’t forget your poor moth- '
er’s advice,—when temptations surround j
you, forbear,—think of your early les- j
sons in virtue—remember that there is a ,
God, and that thp wicked will not go un
punished.
She could say no more. Charles had ,
taken his seat in the coach, and in a mo- :
ment it was gone. The mother followed i
the vehicle with her tearful eyes, until ■
the last shade was hid behind the hills. <
She felt that she was alone, and all
things around looked desolate; there was’
no music to her in the singing of the
!birds—and no beauty in the opening!
'flowers. The medium through which
she saw. the gifts of nature, was no lon
ger by her side. Oh ! who can fathom
a mothers love ! or feel her anxiety for
an only child!
In vain did Mrs. Morton endeavor to
soothe herself with the belief that
Charles’ strength of mind would enable
him to overcome all the temptatons, vi
ces, and follies of a city. She felt that
he would be, in a great measure cast
among strangers,—he would be no long
er under the paternal roof, which had
shielded and protected him for eighteen
years; and she feared that the vicious,
, abandoned and profligate would take ad
vantage of his youth and inexperience
in the world, to seduce him into their
haunts.
We will now, with the reader’s permis
sion, change the scene from a secluded
country village, in New-Hampshire, to
the populous city of Boston. Charles
Morton has, for the first time, stepped
upon the soil of the literary emporium;
and, for the first time, his head has ached
from the continual noise of the numer
ous vehicles passing over the pavements.
He has made his bow before his father’s
friend Stephen Oldschool, and by him has
been introduced to his future master, Mr.
Staples. A few day after his arrival in
the city, found him snugly and comfort
ably seated at the counting-room desk of
Mr. Staples’ store, Long Wharf. While
fumbling about his pockets fora pen-knife,
be accidently found the sealed paper,
which his father gave him, and which he
had, until now, forgotten. He opened
it, and it read as follows:
Charles, you will soon be far away
from your paternal roof, where you can
no longer hear good advice from your
parents, who have ever loved you, and it
would break their hearts to hear ally
thing evil against you. Profit by 'heir
counsel. Be honest, just, and faith
ful—never TELL A LIE—KEEP GOOD
COMPANY—AND, ABOVE ALL, BE TEMPER
ATE.
Charles dropped a tear upon the pa
per. Kind, generous, good father, said
he, I will profit by your advice ; your
last words shall be worn next my heart.
He was soon initiated into the business
of a mercantile life, but with all its bus
tle and excitement, he found time suffi
cient to study, and improve his mind.
His country customs were studiously ad
hered to. The moment tho store was
closed for the night, he went home, and
employed the evening with Louisa Sta
ples, his master’s only child, in reading
and study. lie was a practical observer
of Dr. Franklin’s motto, early to bed,
and early to rise, makes a man healthy,
wealthy, and wise.
The clerks in the neighboring stores,
seeing the staid, sober manners of Charles,
were not a little curious to be made more
intimate with his whereabouts than they
could learn through the medium of their
eyes alone, and tried every way in their
power to form an acquaintance with him.
I wonder, said George Hapgood, one
day to his friend, Harry Highflyer, who
that chap is, that Mr. Staples has got in
his counting-room ?
O, he’s a bit of rustic simplicity, just
imported from the Granite State, replied
Harry. They say his father has sent
him down here to get trade.
He’ll no doubt be if appli
cation to business denote any thing, said
George, ironically.
He appears to be a fine, honest fellow,
remarked Edward Knowall, and I, for
one, should like to have achat with him.
es » far too honest, returned
George, for such an old lump of sobriety ,
as Staples; but as the old saying goes,
like master like man. But, what do you
say for extending an invitation to our :
new neighbor, to meet with the Odd Fel- <
lows, this evening?
With all my heart, George, said Har
ry ; we 11 initiate him into the secrets of
the blue-chamber this very evening, and i
you shall send him a card.
Here the trio separated, and Highflyer i
immediately addressed Chaifles the follow,
ing card : The most worshipful society i
of Odd Fellows,—the exclusive branch,
—wishing to discuss, at their leisure, the
merits of sundry pointers and ponies, this i
evening, have directed me to give you a j
most respectful invitation. Sale to com
mence at 9 o’clock, precisely. Clear j
voices and empty stomachs the most es- i
sential requisites. ,
Charles read and pondered over this j
AUGUSTA, GA. SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 1844.
'singular card, and was at a loss to knowj
Whether it was a literal invitation, or on-!
jly intended as a joke. He however, con
cluded, at least to satisfy his eager curi
osity, by going to the place, at the time \
mentioned.' And so he he did; but in- 1
stead of seeing pointers and ponies, and :
an auctioneer, he was shown into a a lit
tle back parlor where were seated around i
a table, a dozen or two young men,
smoking and drinking. They prevailed i
upon him to take a place among them,
and, in spite of all he could say, to join !
them in a cigar and bottle. Surely,
thought Charles, there can be no great
harm in just taking a whiff or two of a !
cigar. Fill your glasses, boys, cried the ,
president. Charles, felt much embar
rassed and was, at first determined not to
drink ; but thought he, how can I be so
rude to the honorable members of the so
ciety? It is but one glass; and so he
filled and drank. The president then:
made a bombastic speech, which was fol- [
lowed by loud cheers and bravos, and full
glasses, all round. Charles’s right-hand
neighbor filled for him, and the company
swallowed the contents together.
In this way, glass followed glass, until
midnight, when the company broke up,
and those who were not put under the ta
ble for tho rest of the night, staggered
their way into the open air, uttering the
most uncouth sounds and exclamations.
Charles succeeded in finding his mas
ter s house, more by instinct than reason,
and after various applications of the
night-key, he at last found the means of
opening the door. As he stood in the
long entry, endeavoring to reconnoitre
tho cork-screw stairs, by the half
lighted snuff of the entry lamp, rea
son- seemed partially to lend her aid,
only to discover to him his situation.—
Here stood Charles Morton, like a mid
night robber fearful lest the noise of his
entrance should awaken the family. Like
a guilty man, he crept stealthily up stairs,
and by his master’s door, to his own room,
and sunk down to rest, upon the outside
of his bed, sick, weary, and exhausted.
Business of importance required his early
attendance at the counting-house. *
* When he arrived at the count
ing-house, Mr. Staples was at the desk.
How is this, Charles, said he, the books
not posted—and yesterday’s cash account
not settled ! and, as I live, the despatch
es we made out yesterday for the Helles
pont, not yet delivered,—and the ship is
already under way. What is the occa
sion of this neglect?
Sickness, sir, has confined me in bed,
stammered Charles. Indeed, I have
spent a restless night. I did not go to
sleep until near morning, and I believe I
should have slept till noon, had 1 not
been aroused by the breakfast bell.
Why did you not make this known to
me last night, and then I could have at
tended to the despatches myself. You
appeared to be perfectly well yesterday
afternoon.
Yes, sir, but I am subject to this sud
den indisposition.
This is very strange ; your father’s
friend, Mr. Oldschool, said you were ne
ver sick in your life. But if you are un
well, you had better go home, and be at
tended to.
The air and exercise has greatly revi
ved me, and I think I shall be better soon.
Mr. Staples left the room apparently
well satisfied with this explanation.—
But Charles had something else to satis
fy before he could rest contented; his
own conscience, that silent monitor, rose
up against him, and said that he had done
wrong. The sheet of paper, containing
his father’s last words, and wet with his
mother’s tears, lay before him,—and he
had already broken two of its most im
portant injunction; he had told a lie, and
deceived his master. ,
Fool that I am, said Charles, to suffer
myself to be prevailed upon to drink, ,
and bring the pains of body and torments i
of mind that I now suffer, by my own
imprudence.
But if he had been disposed to reflect
further upon his last night’s follies, and i
form a resolution for the future, he could
not, for just at the time two of the licen- ,
tiates of the Odd Fellows entered.
Ah ! Charley, my boy, said Hapgood,
how do you feel to-day ?
Bad enough—both in mind and body.
That’s owing altogether to your hav
ing been kept on cold water all your life.
I recollect the first spree I ever had,
served me in the same way. I felt con
founded qualmish and down to heel the
next day, but it soon wore off, and now 1
can stand as much liquor as any live
man. What do you say, George ?
I say the present company excepted, re
plied George, laughing. You were inoc
ulated into the art of drinking brandy
but I took it the naturnal way. I must
confess I felt a little queer this morning
ing, but a siedlitz and a few bonesett lo
zenges set me to rights again. But,
Charley, my boy, you look ns though
Staples had been given you one of his
moral lectures,— now confess, has he not
catechised you a little, this morning?
Indeed, he has—and richly do I de
serve it.
That’s almost too humiliating for a
young man. Staples is a man of the
old school, but for all that, he’s had his
day of pleasures; and like all other men
when they arrive at a certain age, he
thinks that a youth should be as sober and
;sedate as himsell. But you know the
|song—May and December can never
agree. Eh, Harry?
That’s the idea, George; live while
you may, is rny motto, and let to-morrow
take care of itself. But Charles, we
must have you with us to-night; George
and myself and a few othors, are going
on a little excursion, and you must come.
I'cannot. I have already told Mr.
Staples'a lie, to hide my faults of last
eveniug.
There it is again;—l was just so my
self, once, but I can assure you that a
white lie nowand then, is quite harmless,
and as necessary to us poor clerks, as the
air we breathe.
You would not, certainly, have me make
a practice of deceiving my master.
No—that is, not exactly deceive him ;
but if one has a taste for harmless amuse
ments, and he can’t get it by fair means,
why—
Then you would have him use foul,
said George, interrupting him.
Why, Charley, we should be perfect
1 anchorites, if we were to follow all the
whims and oddities of our old men.
But my old man, said Harry, is a man
after my own heart; for he loves to go
on a spree, occasionally, as well as any
body, and, although he tries to keep me
as devotional as a Catholic Priest, and
gives me leave to go to the Lyceum as
much as I please, yet, for all that, he
knows that his examples are too good
not to be followed.
My old man, I fancy, has a touch of
his qualities, for he never misses an op
portunity of giving me all Dr. Frank
lin’s wise saws, and makes me a present,
every year of a box ticket to the thea
tre, to see George Barnwell and the For
ty Thieves.
Where do you intend going, to-night?
said Charles.
Why, in the first place, replied George,
we shall just drop in at the buckeys’
rooms, and finish where fancy may lead
us.
Well, I will go with you,—but I shall
drink no more.
Oh, that would be odd indeed—too odd
for gentility,—no gentleman of your
cloth could think of following in the wake
of temperance; besides, we should be
committing one of the great breaches
against fashion,--but be that as it may,
you must come.
Charles agreed to meet his friends in
the evening, merely for the sake of not
being odd, and of being considered in the
fashion. ******
What a stupid old codger is that Mr.
Oldschool, said he one day to Hapgood,
after the old gentleman left the counting
house, he is continually annoying me
with bis foolish advice; the old gentle
man thinks that we young fellows should
be just as he is himself.
Cut him at once, said George, and
then he will not trouble you.
I can’t do that, for my fathers’s sake,
but feally, the old fellow is getting to be
quite a bore, and I fear I shall be com
pelled to say something severe to him
one of these days. Now do you know
the old chap has been rating me about my
habits. He came in this morning just at
the moment I was filling a tumbler with
brown sherry, but he looked so melan
choly and grave while I was pouring out
the liquor, that I really believe he chan
ged the flavor of the wine, for it tasted
more like sour beer than anything else.
What do you think the old man wanted
me to do?
I really don’t know, unless it was to
join the church.
Worse than that, much worse; he said,
with all the gravity of a parson that he
would make me a handsome present, if 1
would become a member of the temper
ance society, and go to bed at 10 o’clock.
Ha! ha! ha! that’s the best thing
I’ve heard to-day. You join a temper-
[One Dollar a Year.
• ance society, and become—
A cold water man!
And drink cold water when the ther
mometer is below zero.
Yes, and instead of a hot supper at 12
o’clock at night, milk and water diet in
the drawing-room, where, after waiting
until the late hour of 10, to see the fire
raked up, retire to a cold room alone, and
be tucked up until next morning at day
light.
I hope you had spirit enough not to be
wheedled by such a proposition as that.
Indeed I had ; I have too much spirit
for a temperance society at any rate.
And too much respect for good living,
to eschew hot suppers for saw-dust pud
dings, and spoon victuals for milk and
water.
Aye, that I have, my, boy.
It’s (he way with old folks, the times
are changed since they were young, and
’ what they did in old times would be
laughed at now.
But Charles, I must bid you good bye
“ for the present; I shall expect you at
> the rooms to-night on particular business.
• Never fear; I shall be there, depend
• upon it.
These two hopeful youths now parted,
one to drop in at the neighboring houses
L to congratulate his friends upon their
success in the last nights spree, and the
’ other to fashion his weary body to the
duties of the day. Old daddy Oldtimes,
a as Mr. Oldschool was familiarly called by
more modernized people, was not the on
. ly observer of the sudden change in the
’ disposition of Charles Morton. There
was another whose sorrows weighed more
’ deeply on his account, one who observed
every look, word or action, and that one
’ was Louisa, Staples. She was an only
t child, and just eighteen years of age ;
, beautiful in person, and beloved by all,
' for her virtuous and amiable manners.
) She saw Charles Morton for the first
time, at her father’s house, and loved
him. Like Viola, she never told her love,
' but there was a speechless dialect in her
J every word and manner, which too plain
lv indicated the feelings of her heart
} With what pleasure did she meet him in
j the drawing-room, after the daily toils
were over, and pass the long evening al
ternately in reading and conversation;
waking or sleeping, he was constantly in
her mind. If his presence at first was a
pleasure, his absence now was a grief.
’ In vain did she endeavor to school her
mind, to boar with silence his constant
absence from home, and its healthful pleu
j sures; in vain did she endeavor to spread
before him those books and objects which
had recently been sought for with delight.
! In spite of conscience and reason, the
j passion for drinking and carousing grew
daily upon him, and he could not contend
I against the impetuous torrent. Poor
Louisa! well might she exclaim, the
j course of true love, never did run smooth.
But in her despair at his absence, she
s looked forward to the future, and seeking
“ the lover’s staff, Hope, prayed that he
“ might be shielded from harm,
s n
I do think, Charles, said she one after
noon, you have quite deserted us of late,
1 Yor you have scarcely spent an evening
t at home two weeks,
e Yes, Louisa, but I mean to make
• amends at some future time, and stay at
, home, as I formerly did, and read.
|, I shall rejoice at that, for you cannot
. tell how lonesome we are now ; and now
3 I think of it, father has just made me a
. present of several new books, and if you
j will stay at home this evening, I will read
you one of them, which I am sure will
i be very interesting.
Thank you, Louisa, but I have got two
: t or three engagements on my hands, and
0 I don’t see how I can possibly be at home
. to night.
a That seems to be always the case ; but
ir I suppose you have something more
f agreeable to employ yourself about,
t than wasting your time with me.
i Really Louisa, you wrong me, it is bu
. siness calls me hence ; were it not for
t that, I would forgo everything else to be
. with you.
1 You were not wont to have such ur
. gent business, or if you had, you found
I no inconvenience in deferring it.
Yes, but you know one in my situation
> must necessarily form many acquaintan
ces, and consequently must have much
, more to attend to.
3 But may not some of these new friends
I lead you into evil, and divert your mind
- from well-doing; may not they, under
the specious garb of friendship, seek to
g destroy your peace of mind, and lead you
-'into pleasures which, like the fascina