Newspaper Page Text
noi lire *i if vmi
j.a.TDßNtit,editor.j ji fimnial:--grtoffit to literature, politics, Meligimi anl) (mi***#*™*.
VOLUME I.
THE INDEPENDENT PRESS.
Published every Tuesday Morning.
r wr jKß2Mm.mM.sm9
ffWO DOLLARS per annum; — in advance to all
not residing in the County.
■Rates Os Advertising.-J>? ai advertisements
inserted on the following terms:
Letters of Citation, o 0
Notice to Debtors and Creditors, 3 00
Application for leave to sell land or negroes, 400
Sale of Personal Property, by Executors,
Administrators or Guardians, 3 50
Sale of Lands or Negroes, by same, 5 00
Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50
Yearly Advertisements — Professional and
business cards, measuring twelve lines or less, will
be inserted-at Twelve Dollars.
Other Advertisements will be charged $1 00
for every twelve lines or less, for first insertion, and
50 ets, for every weekly continuance.
Advertisements, not having the number of in
sertions marked upon them, will be published till
forbid, and charged accordingly.
Job Printing of every kind executed with neat
ness and despatch on reasonable terms.
OF THE
INDEPENDENT PRESS.
rpiiE INDEPENDENT PRESS is published
L weekly iu Eatonton, Ga., at the price of $2,00
per annum, invariably in advance; except where
the subscriber resides in the county.
As its name indicates, it is designed to be entire
ly independent, being governed alone by such rules
as deeenev, gentlemanliness and good morals im
pose upon every press. It hopes not, however, to
mistake licentiousness Tor liberty, nor scurrillous
noss for independence..
Its politics are Democratic —of the school of
Jefferson, Madison and Jackson. It, however,
is subject to no party discipline which would
compel its Editor to sacrifice truth and honor in
behalf of liis political associates. He will speak
what he thinks.
One distinctive feature of this press is that it
allows and invites a discussion in its columns of
idl subjects whatever, proper to form reading mat
te! for the popular mind. Communications from
political opponents are admitted upon the same
verms as communications from political friends.
It is required of both, that they make their artc-il
t-a brief to the point, and free from personality
and all illiberal feeling. Religious questions, as
well as political, and others, may be discussed.
Much of the attention of this press is devoted
to Literature and Miscellany. It is not entirely
filled with political wrangling and party strife. —
In addition to its literary and miscellaneous matter,
it contains articles on Agriculture, Ac. And as
Georgians and Southern people generally are fond
of field sports, this subject also aids in filling the
columns of this paper.
Whatever can add to the prosperity of Georgia,
and aid in developing her resources, moral, mental
and physical, is considered peculiarly adapted to
these columns. The causepf common school edu
cation, especially, will br? upon the people
of Georgia with all the ability we can command.
All communications must be addressed, post-paid,
to the Editor of The Independent Press, Eatonton,
Georgia.
April 18, 1854. J. A. TURNER.
yrofesioit'dl ft |teira Carte.
J. A. TURNER,
«I TTORWE 1* a IT E.l IP,
EATONTON, GA.
RICHARD T. DAVIS,
Ainroasiair Air saw*
EATONTON, GA.
OFFICE OVER VAN HATER’S STORE.
mm wm&m*
RESIDENT DENTIST. '
EATONTON, GA.
May 16, 1854.
S. W. BRYAN,
BOTANIC PHYSICIAN,
EATONTON, GA.
OFFICE up stairs, adjoining the Printing Office,
where he may be fimnd during the day, and at
night at the residence of W. A. Davis, unless pro
fessionally absent. All calls for medicines or atten
tion promptly attended to.
Reference ..TRY HIM.
May 30th, 1854. 41y
W. A. DAVIS,
Wsolmk auir HUtail <sraer:
Sells Country Produce on Commission:
East corner Jefferson St., Eatonton, Ga.
April 18, 1854.
C. L. CARTER,
FANCY CONFECTIONER,
No. 4,Carter & Harvey’s Range,
April 23, 1854. Eatonton, Ga.
S. S. DUSENBERRY,
FJtSUIOJY.IBL,E TJiIEOR
W£ warrant to please all who wish the latest
style of dress. Shop up stairs, adjoining the
Printing "Office.
April 18, 1854.
HUDSON, FLEMING & CO,
FACTORS & COMMISSION MERCHANTS,
No. 94, Bay Street, Savannah, Ga.
f RENDER their services to Planters, Merchants,
Jl anddealers in the sale of Cotton and all other
country produce. Being connected in business with
Hopkins, Hudson & Cos, of Charleston, the establish
ment of an office in this city will afford our lYiends
choice of market? Strict attention will be given to
business, and the uoual facilities afforded customers.
J. R. Hudson, ) . Lambeth Hopkins,
H. Fleming, Augusta.
Savannah. j (J, J. Cohen, Cbarleivffi-
COURT CALENDAR FOR 1854.
REVISED BY TIIE SOUTHERN RECORDER.
SUPERIOR COURTS.
JANUARY. 4th Monday, Richmond
2d Monday, Chatham Museogoo
4th Monday, Richmond AUGUST
FEBRUARY. 2d Monday, Clark
Ist Monday, Clark 3d Monday, Campbell
3rd Monday, Campbell Walton
Walton 4th Monday,
4th Monday, Baldwin Monroe
Jackson Taliaferro
Monroe Marion
Marion . Baldwin
Meriwether Jackson
Sumter Meriwether
Taliaferro Sumter.
MARCH SEPTEMBER
Ist Monday, Coweta Ist Monday, Paulding
Chattooga Coweta
Madison Madison
Morgan Chattooga
Paulding Morgan
2d Monday, Butts 2d Monday, Polk
Cass Cass
Crawford Crawford
Elbert Butts
Greene Elbert
Gwinnett Greene
Harris Gwinnett
Polk Harris
3d Monday, Cobb 3d Monday, Cobb
Fayette Twiggs
Hall * Fayette
Putnam Hall
Twiggs Putnam
Talbot Talbot
Columbia Columbia
Hart Hart
3d Thursday, Bulloch 4th Monday, Gordon
Monday after, Effingham Newton
4th Monday, Gordon Macon
Macon Washington
Newton Wilkes
Washington Clay
Wilkes Last Thursday, Rabun
Clay OCTOBER,
APRIL Ist Monday, Cherokee
Ist Monday, Cherokee Fulton
Fulton Murray
Randolph Randolph
Murray Warren
Pike Wilkinson
Warren Taylor
Wilkinson Tuesday after, Pike
Camden 2d Monday, Forsyth
Taylor Whitfield
Thursday after, Rabun Dooly
Friday after, Wayne
2d Monday, Forsyth Hancock
Whitfield Montgomery
Dooly Laurens
Glynn Thrsuday after, Tattnall
Habersham 3d Monday, Lumpkin
Hancock Worth
Montgomery Franklin
Laurens Early
Thursday after, Mclntosh Henry
and Tattnall Stewart
3d Monday, Lumpkin Emanuel
Worth £ Jones
Franklin fy Oglethrope
Stewart , Pulaski
Early 5 4th Monday, Union
Henry j Decatur
Jones i DeKalb
Liberty j Houston
Oglethrope! Jasper
Pulaski J Lincoln
Emanuel j Scriven
Thursday after, Brylm Telfair
4th Monday, Unioi j Catoosa
Decatur , Thursday after, Irwin
Dekalb Bulloch j-
Houston Monday after, Effingham
Jasper NOVEMBER.
Lincoln Ist Monday,
Scriven Kinchafoonee
Telfair Fannin
Catoosa Heard
Thursday after. Jri-in Walker
MAY Upson
Ist Monday, Ist Tuesday, Bulloch \
Kinchafoonee 2d Monday, Bibb
Fannin Gilmer
Heard Chattahoochee
Walker Baker
Upson Jefferson
2d Monday, Bibb Dade
Gilmer 9h Monday, Spalding
ChatahoDclioe Pickens
Baker Burke
Chatham Camden
Dade Calhoun
3d Monday, Spalding Troup
Pickens Friday after, Wayne
Burke ( 4th Monday, Glynn
Oalhoua Thomas
Troup Doughtery
4th Monday Thomas Floyd
Dougherty Thursday after,
Floyd. Mclntosh
Monday after Luvndes, Monday after, Lowndes
Monday af Lowrdes, and Liberty
Clinch Thursday after, Bryan
Thursday after finch, Monday after Lowndes,
Ware. , Clinch.
Monday after 1 ire, Thursday after Clinch,
Appling. Ware.
Wednesday afte , Monday after Ware,
Charlton. Appling
Friday after, Thursday after
Coffee. Charlton
JUNE. Friday after, Coffee
Ist Monday, Jefferson DECEMBER.
2d Monday, 2d Monday, Lee
Lee Carroll
Carroll 4th Monday, Muscoogee
*On the Ist and 2d Mondays in October next
(for one term only.)
■(•Fall Term, 1854.
j After Fall Term 1854.
JVorth and South.
In the city of Boston a few days
since, a woman with aninfant in her
arms, and three other children by her
side, stood for hours at the street cor
ner, asking for aid from the charitable.
Two of the children were labelled
with a placard, stating that there fath
er was killed on the Lowell road, and
that the orerseers of the poor of Som
erville, where they had resided, had
forced them into the streets roofless and
friendless. On the same day, there were
thousands of the people of Boston in
dulging la pious grief for the sad con
dition of the Southern slaves, who are
in reality more comfortable and con
tented tlan thousands of human be
ings whpare barely allowed to breathe
in the benevolent city of Boston; and
not a fell charitable ladies passed by
the shivering, weeping, cringing group,
hurrying along to make a donation for
the distant heathen. Whoever saw a
similar i istance of human misery un
relie ve| in any one of the slave States ?
In jdfnnsylvania, a girl is legally
tble at fourteen, and a boy at
sixteen,®vithout the consent of their
parontfl
EATONTON, TUESDAY, MAY 30, 1854.
Select f attqj.
The Live Oak.
BY JUDGE HENRY R. JACKSON.
*
With his gnarled old arms, and his iron form
Majestic in the wood,
From ago to age, in sun and storm,
The live-oak long hath stood;
With his stately air, that grand old tree.
He stands like aiiooded monk,
With the gray moss waving solemnly
From his shaggy limbs and trunk.
And the generations come and go,
And still ho stands upright,
And he sternly looks on the wood 'below,
As conscious of his might.
But a mourner sad is the hoary tree,
A mourner sad and lone,
And is clothed with funeral drapery
For the long since dead and gone.
For the Indian hunter beneath his shade
Has rested from the chase
Here, where he woo’d his dusky maid — .
The dark-eyed of her race;
And the tree is red with the gushing gore,
As the wild deer panting dies;
But the maid is gone, and the chase is o’er,
And the old oak hoarsely sighs.
In former days, when the battle’s din
Was loud amid the land,
In his friendly shadow, few and thin,
Have gathered Freedom’s band;
And the stern old oak, how proud was ho
To shelter hearts so brave!
But they all are gone—the bold and free —
And he mourns above their grave.
And the aged oak, with his locks of gray,
Is ripe for the sacrifice;
For the worm and decay, no lingering prey,
Shall he tower towards the skies!
He falls, he falls, to become our guard,
The bulwark of the free,
And his bosom of steel is proudly bared
To brave the raging sea!
When the battle comes and the cannon’s roar
Booms o’er the shuddering deep.
Then nobly he’ll bear the bold hearts o’er
The waves with bounding leap.
Oh! may those hearts be as firm and true,
When the war-clouds gather dun,
As the glorious oak, that proudly grew
Beneath our Southern sun!
Savannah, Ga., 1852.
Salts.
FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS.
The Mrutality of Mfrutiken
' ness.
A TRUE TALE.
It is well known to every intelligent,
and close observer, that the class of
men most vulnerable to the vice of in
temperance, is composed of those who
inherit from their Creator, in an emi
nent degree, the qualities and attributes
which do most ennoble and exalt the
nature, and character of man. In pro
portion as the system is delicately and
exquisitely strung, the heart and mind
are sensitive and impressible. The man
who combines in his nature an ardent
temperament, with a fruitful imagina
tion—those sentiments of greatness as
well as of goodness—is ever the most
inclined to court excitement, however
deleterious in its nature, and to be sway
ed by its influences. The more yield
ing and confiding his disposition, the
more open and generous his nature,
the warmer and richer his fancy, the
more readily is his will subjugated, and
his judgment unhinged, and conse
quently the more liable is he to fall in
to temptation, indulgence and excess.
Hence the crime of Intemperance is
rendered doubly odious, from the fact
that those who arc most obnoxious to
its evils are bv nature the most gener
ous and noble-hearted. Then men are
ever apt, through the curse of intem
perance, to become the dupes and vic
tims of the unprincipled, the calcula
ting and the mercenary. How often is
it the case that such men, after they
have been robbed by the crafty and un
scrupulous, become as it were, dead to
all the finer feelings which they once
possessed, and become knaves, swin
dlers and misanthropes.
Such was the case with the man of
whom I intend giving you an account.
I well remember having the circum
stance related tome often, down at my
mother’s knee, when she was trying to
train my young mind to follow the path
of rectitude, and I well remember: how
it made my susceptible heart overflow
with sympathy for the miserable wife,
and the unhappy little son of the ine
briate. They were for several years
after marriage a happy pair. All was
sunshine and There was noth-
ing wanting to complete their happi
ness. Charles, for so I shall call him,
was prosperous and happy. His course
began as that of most drunkards. He
first took a social glass with his friend,
then would venture to gentlemanly
drunkenness. Afterwards* he went from
one degree of degradation to another,
until he arrived at the stag o which I
am now about to describ \
The grey morning Avas already dawn
ing when the miserable wretch turned
into a dirty little alley, in one of our
towns, and entering a low, ruinous door,
groped through a narrow entry, and
paused at the entrance of a room with
in. That degraded being had once
been a wealthy man, respected by his
neighbors, and loved by his friends.—
But alas! the social glass had first hur
ried him to indulgence, and then to in
ebriety, until now he was a common
drunkard.
The noise of his footsteps had been
heard within, for the creaking door was
timidly opened, and a pale emaciated
boy, about twelve years old, stepped
out, and asked in mingled anxiety and
dread, “Is that you father ?”
“Yes, wet to the skin—curse it,”
said the man. “Why ain’t you a-becl,
and asleep, you brat ?” The little fel
low shrunk at this coarse salutation,
but still, though shaking with fear, he
did not quit his station before the door.
“What are you standing there gap
ing for?” said the father: “it’s bad
enough to hear a sick wife grumbling
all day, without having 3'ou kept up at
night to chime in, in the morning—get
to bed you imp,—do you hear ?” The
little fellow did not answer; fear seem
ed to have deprived him of speech; but
still holding on to the door-latcli, with
an imploring look, he stood right in
the way by which his father would have
to enter, the room. “Ain’t you going
to mind?” said the man with an oath,
breaking into a fury ; “give me the
lamp dr I’ll breaTT ev
ery bone in your body.”
“Oh! father don’t talk so loud” said
the little fellow, bursting into tears —
“you’ll wake mother, she’s been worse
all da}-, and hasn’t had any sleep till
now”—and as the man made an effort
to snatch the lamp, the boy, losing all
personal fear in anxiety for his mother,
stood firmly across the path and said,
“you mustn’t—you mustn’t go in.”
“What does the brat mean?” broke
out the inebriate angrily—“this comes
of leaving you to ay ait on your mother
until you have become as obstinate as
a mule—will you disobey me?—take
that, and that, you imp,”.—and raising
his hand, he struck the little sickly be
ing to the floor, kicked aside his body,
and strode into the dilapidated room.
It was truly a fitting place for the
home of such a A r agabond as he. The
walls were low, covered with smoke,
and seamed with a hundred cracks. —
The chimney-piece had once been Avhite,
buUwas now of a greasy, lead color of
age. The ceiling had lost most of the
plastering, and the rain soaking thro’,
dripped Avitli a monotonous tick upon
the door. A few broken chairs, a crack
ed looking-glass, and a three legged ta
ble, on which Avere a few rimless cups
and broken plates, Avere in different
parts of the room. But the most strik
ing spectacle Avas directly before the
drunkard. On a rickety bed lies the
Avife of his bosom, the once rich and
beautiful Emily Languerre, Avho thro’
poverty, shame and sickness had still
clung to the lover of her youth. Oh!
woman, thy constancy the world can
not shake, nor shame, nor misery sub
due. Friend after friend had deserted
that ruined man—indignity after indig
nity had been heaped upon him, and
deservedly—year after year he had fal
len lower in the sink of infamy—yet
still through every mishap that saint
ed woman had clung to him—for he
was the father of her boy, and the hus
band of her youth. It Avas a hard task
for her to perform; but it was her du
ty, and when all the Avorld deserted
him, should she too leave him ? She
had borne much, but alas! nature could
endure no more. Health had fled from
her cheeks, and her eyes Avere dim and
sunken. She was in the last stage of
consumption, but It was not that which
was killing her ,—slie was dying of a
broken heart. ->
The noise made by her husband
aAvoke her from her troubled sleep, and
she half-started up in bed, the hectic
fire streaming along her cheeks", and a
wild, fitful light shooting from her sunk
en eyes. There was a faint, shadowy
smile lighting up lief face, but it was as
cold as moonlight upon snow. The
sight might have moved a felon’s bos
om, but what can penetrate the seared
and hardened heart of drunkenness? —
The man, besides, Avas in a passion.
“Blast it woman,” said the wretch,
as he reeled into the room ; “is this the
way, you receive me after being out all
day in the rain to get something for
your brat and you ? Come don’t go to
whining I say”'—but as his wife utter
ed a faint cry at his brutality, and fell
back senseless on the bed, he seemed to
awaken to a partial sense of his condi
tion, reeled a step or two forward, put
his hand on his forehead, stared wild
ly around, and then gazing almost va
cantly upon her, continued, “but why,
what’s the matter ?”
His poor wife lay like a corpse be
fore him, but a low voice from the
other side of the bed answered, and its
tones quivered as they spoke—
“Oh ! mother’s dead.” It was the
voice of her son who had stolen in, and
was now sobbing violently as he tried
to raise her head in his little arms. He
had been for weeks her only nurse, and
had long since learned to act for him
self. He bathed her temples, he chaf
ed her limbs, and invoked her wildly
to awake.
“Dead!” said the man, and he was
sobered at once—“dead! dead!” he
continued in a tone of horror that would
chill the very blood in a man’s veins;
and advancing to the bedside, with
eyes starting from their sockets, he laid
his hand upon her marble brow, “then,
oh my God! I have murdered my wife.
Emily, Emily, you are not dead, say
so—oh! speak and forgive your re
pentant husband !” and kneeling by
her bed-side, he clasped her white, thin
hand, watering it with his hot tears,
as he sobbed her name.
m Their efforts, at length, partially re
stored her, and the first thing she saw
upon reviving was her husband weep
ing by her side and calling her “Emily.”
It was the first time he had done so
for j T ears. It stirred old memories in
her heart, and called back the shadowy
visions of years long past. She was
back in their youthful days, before
ruin had blasted her once noble hus
band, and when all was joyous and
bright as her own happy bosom. Woe,
shame, poverty, desertion, even that
brutal language was forgotten, and she
only thought of him as the lover of her
youth. *Oh ! that moment of delight:
she faintly threw her arms around his
neck, and sobbed there for very joy.
“Can you forgive me Emily ? I
have been a brute, a villain—oh ! can
you forgive me? I have sinned as
never man sinned before, and against
such an angel as you. Oh! God, anni
hilate me for my guilt.”
“Charles !” said the dying woman
in a tone so sweet and low that it float
ed through the chamber like the whis
per of a disembodied spirit—“ I for
give you, and may God forgive you
too —but oh! do not embitter this last
moment by such an impious prayer.”
The man only sobbed in reply, but
his frame shook with the tempest of
agony within him.
“Charles!” at last continued the dy
ing woman—“l have long wished for
this moment, that I might say some
thing to you about our little Henry.”
“God forgive me for my wrongs to
him too !” murmured the repentant
man.
“I have much to say, and but little
time to say it in—l feel that I shall
never see another sun.” And a violent
fit of coughing interrupted her.
“Oh! no—you must not, you will
not die,” sobbed her husband, as he
supported her sinking frame—“ you’ll
live to save your repentant husband.
Oh! you will.”
The tears gushed into her eyes, but
she only shook her head. She laid
her wan hand on his, and continued
feebly:
“Night and day, for many long years
have I prayed for this hour, and nev
er, even in the darkest moment, have
I doubted it would come ; for I have
felt that within me which whispered that
as all had deserted you and I had not,
so in the end you would at least come
back to your early feelings. Oh!
would it had come sooner— some hap
piness then might have been mine
again in this world—but God’s will be
done—l am weak—l feel lam failing
.fast —Henry, give me your hand,”
The little boy silently placed it in
hers, she kissed it, and then laying it
within her husband’s continued—
“ Here is our child —our only born—
when I am gone he will have none to
take care of him but you, and as God
is above, as you love your own blood,
and as you value a promise to a dying
wife—keep, love, cherish hirn. Oh !
remember that he is young and ten
der—it is the only thing for which I
would care to live”—she paused, and
struggled to subdue her feelings; “will
you promise me Charles ?”
“I will, as there is a Maker over
me, I will,” sobbed the man; and the
frail bed against which he leaned shook
with his emotion.
“And you Henry, you will obey
your father, and be a good boy; as you
love your mother —you will.”
“Oh! yes!” stammered out the lit
tle fellow, flinging himself wildly on
his mother’s neck, “but mother, what
shall Ido without you ? Oh ! don’t
die!”
“This is too hard,” murmured the
dying mother, drawing her child fee
bly to her; “Father give me strength
to endure it!” and she prayed fervent
ly.
For a moment all was still—and
nothing broke the silence but the sobs
of the father and boy, and the low,
death-like tick of the rain dripping
through upon the floor. The child
was the first to move. He seemed in
stinctively to feel that giving way to
his grief pained his mother, and gently
disengaging himself from her, he hush
ed his sobs, and leaning on the bed,
gazed anxiously into her face. Her
eyes were closed, but her lips moved
as if in prayer.
“ Henry, where are you ?” faintly
asked the dying mother.
The boy answered in a low mourn
ful voice. “Henry—Henry,” she said,
in a louder tone, and then after a se
cond added, “poor boy he doesn’t
hear me.”
The little fellow looked up amazed.
He knew not yet how the senses grad
ually fail the dying; he was perplexed;
the tears coursed down his cheeks; and
his throat choked so that he could not
speak. But he placed his hand on
his mother’s, and pressed it.
“Come nearer, my son—nearer —the
candle wants snuffing—there, lay your
face down by mine—Henry, love, I
can’t see—has the wind blown —out —
the—light?”
The bewildered boy gazed wildly
in his mother’s face, but kneAV not
Avhat to say. He only pressed her
hand again.
“Oh! God,” murmured the dying
Avoman, her voice growing fainter —
“this is death !—Charles —Henry —Je-
sus —re ”
The child felt a quick, electric shiv
er in the hand he clasped, and looking
up, saAV that his mother had fallen
back dead upon the pillow. He kneAV
it all, at once. He gave one shriek and
fell senseless across her body.
The shriek aroused the drunkard.
He started up from his knees, he gaz
ed wildly on the corpse. He could
not endure the look of that still saint
ed face. He covered his face with his
hands, and burst into an agony of
tears.
Long years have past since then :
the little boy has grown to be a man:
his father is once more a useful mem
ber of society. But oh! the fearful
price at Avhich his reformation Avas pur
chased ! G.
Eatonton, May 12tfi, 1854.
Marriage at the Crystal Pa
lace. —A marriage (not of the “coral
stars,” however,) took place in the pic
ture gallery of the Crystal Palace, in
N. York, on Thursday. The parties
were tAvo young people “from the
country.” The clergyman Avho “bound
their loving hearts together ” was the
Rev. Mr. Marks, of the Methodist
Church.
The editor Avho Avrote his editorials
Avith stolen chalk on the soles of his
shoes, and went barefoot while the boys
set up the copy, has purchased a ream
of second-hand envelopes and engaged
a girl to turn them inside out.
■ —
Lord Holland told of a man remark
able for absence of mind, who, dining
once at the same sort of shabby repast,
fancied himself in his own house, and
began to apologize for the wretched
ness of 'the dinner.
Without a rich heart wealth is an
ugly beggar.
NUMBER 6.
HuiiiroßS.
FOR THE INDEPENDENT PRESS.
Exercises in the School of
u JYatur
The first Class will take their seats
for recitation.
Teacher.—.[ohn.,Pippins, what
Love ?
Pippins.—Love may be denomina
ted a complaint of the heart, growing
out of an inordinate longing after
something difficult to obtain.
T. That’s correct. Rebecca, Avhat
age and sex are most liable to be at
tacked by this disease ?
Rebecca. —Do not know sir.
T. Can you answer it, Pippins?
P. Yes, sir, I ’spect I can. lam
told that the youth of both sexes are
very liable to it, and that even the old
and the Avrinkled are not unfrequentlv
violently attacked by it.
T. Pippins, you are right. Simon,
Avhat are some of the symptoms by
Avhich it is characterized ?
S. Absence of mind, giving things
wrong names, the saying of many very
southings, in a very soft Avay; sighing,
a sudden fondness for Poetry and Mu
sic, gazing on the Moon and Stars,
Toothache, Nettle-rash, Roseola, and
a constant loathing of all things—save
one, &c.
T. Simon, that’s Avell said. You.
always did know your lessons Avell
though, I believp. John Pippins, what
are some of its general effects ?
P. Well, Heartburn, Pulse high,
stupidly eloquent Eyes, Sleeplessness;
Imagination bright, BoAvers of Roses,
Avinged Cupids, buttered Peas; Oceans
of Despair, and Hypo beyond all con
ception.
T. Rebecca, Avhat effect has Love
on the Amice ?
R. Considerable, sir, if not more ;
for the tones of love are ahvays soft,
tender, subdued, and insinuating, and
in proportion to its intensity.
T. What particular effect has Love
on the voice of man, Rebecca?
R. The tones of voice in men, be
fore softened and subdued by this ten
der passion, are seldom smooth or flex
ible, being essentially deficient in both
compass and expression. Yet Love
doth most Avonderfully chasten and
soften his voice, as I myself can abun
dantly testify.
T. Simon, what are some of the ef
fects of love on Woman?
S. Well, sir, its effects on Woman
are Magic. Oh! that I could express
to you in Avords, the languishing, in
sinuating, beAvitching, and almost vo
luptuous expression of the eyes, the
exquisitely touching play of the lips,
the modest blush, and all the other
charms and beauties imparted to Wo
man by this soul-melting, all-killing—
T. Hold! hold! Simon. lam real
ly afraid you will “injur” your consti
tution.
S. Well sir, Ido not care if you do
knoAV that I love Rebecca, alias
nay, I Avould not care if all the Avorld
kneAV it —for our \ r ery souls do most
sweetly mingle and commingle togeth
er ; and this makes our bliss perfect
and complete ; and I knoAV it, and I
guess that she koAVS it, and I don’t care
who else knows it, and
T. Simon! Simon! lam astound
ed at you. Don’t be so Avild and Aris
ionary.
S. Ah, ine! I guess you hain't nev-.*
er seed the lihi-noc-e-hoss.
T. You are all dismissed for the
present. B.
Scarcity oe Common Sense.*—
Barnes, formerly editor of the London
“Times,” said to Thomas Moore, that
the great deficiency he found among
his Avriters, was not talent but common
sense. Not one of them he said could
be trusted to Avrite often or long on
the same subject, as they Avere sure to
get bewhildered Avith it, and he includ
ed himself in the remark.
What is Aristocracy ? —ln reply
to this question, Gen. Foy, a distin
guished orator in the French Cham
bers, gave the folloAving ans Ayer:
“Aristocracy in the 19th century is
the league, the condition of those av Jio
Avould consume Avithout producing,
live without aa wrking, know Avithout.
learning, carry all honors without de
serving thorn, and occupy all the pin