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AV6Vm WABBXir«TOXrXAV. a jFumEt P&ptf: U Btmm v&wt, jM»itilsm(r®M® 2&e«®Gt«ig&. Yol. II No. 46.] Ehr JSEashfns toman fsi.r. be published every Saturday! MORNING, BY JAMES McCAFFERTV, At the low price of one dollar per annum, for , ft single subscriber, five dollars for a club of ; i aix, or ten dollars for a club of twelve sub- , 3 scribers—poyffisnt, in advance. JAll Communications, by mail, addressed to the v publisher, must be post paid to receive atten- , W tion. By the rules of the Post-Office Depart ment, Postmasters may frank subscription f money for Newspapers. Advertisements will be inserted at the follow | ing reduced rates : —For one square, not px -1 ceeding twelve lines, 50 cents for the first Ms insertion, and twenty-five cents for each con tinumce, if published weekly; if semi-monthly 3“i; and if monthly 43} cents, for each con “ tinuance. Yearly advertisers 10 per ct. discount. 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