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The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware advertiser. [volume] (Wilmington, Del.) 1825-1827, July 12, 1827, Image 1

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Thursday by WILLIAM A. MENDENHALL, No. 81, Markct-st. (three doors above the Farmer's Bank,)—jt7*wher e Subscriptions, Jobs and Advertise ments, will be gratefully received..^
JUX.1T 12,1827
published, every
No. 43.
TRUMS . — VnvhHTisr.MK* rs not exceeding
on n square will be inserted four times for
dollar, and 2-) cents for each subsequent inser
tion..-If continued for three months, $2 50—for
Six months, »4 50, or fur one year »8.
,-y Subscriber-, are entitled to the privilege of
1 ijvia''their names, place of residence, and occu
mtion, inserted in the Register, iihatih.
V Tfi/W nh ' SUBSCRIPTION.— To those
w ],o receive this paper by mail, two dollars, and
,/, MC who d . not, lu») dollars and twenty-fire cents
ve:l r t I v ADV vvfi : If not paid in advance, 50
will be charged; and if not paid before the expi
ration of the year, $3.
Subscription will be discontinued unless
two week's notice is given and all arrearagesare
paid. __
_ . . . ,,-rted un tired
Obscure Genius. A new poc-t ha ^ ™ P gj|)g
„„ lie lias a wife
and nine children, which he lias supported up
on Ills wages, which never exceeded twelve slid
lingperweek. The Montreal Herald contains j
two specimens taken from a forthcoming vol
One of them is of the simple plaintive j
cast, the other full of the rich and joyous of ; p
Hums. We would give the latter if it were not j est
loo Scottish in the dialect. The former is j
slightly common-place, but it is intelligible, and :
for a weaver, admirable.— Enq. |
The following beautiful poem is from the pen
cf Mr. Halleck, of New-York, author of "Croak
er U Co."—Although it has been published be
fore, yet it is that kind of poetry which never
the reader, and as we are desirous of
tire» upon
preserving it in our columns, wc copy it from the
volume recently published by Mr. Halleck.
TO * * * *•
The world is blight before thee.
Its summer flowers are thine.
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee.
Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given
To Nature's morning hour,
when from heaven
farm, as
U burst on llden's bower.
There is a song of sorrow,
The death-dirge of the gay,
dawn of morrow,
That tells e
These charms nvay melt away,
The sun's bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more,
The summer flowers be faded,
And yuutb's warm promise o'e.
Believe it not—though lonely
Thy evening home may be;
Though Beauty's bark can only
Float on a summer sea;
Though time thy bloom is stealing.
There's still beyond his art
The wild-flower wreath of f eeling,
The sunbeam of the heart.
in humble life in Scotland.
Here, put on thy finger this ring, love.
And, when thou art far o'er the sea,
Perhaps to my mind it will bring, love,
Some thought—some remembrance of me:
Our moments of rapture and bliis, love,
The haunts where so oft we have met.
These tears, and this last parting kiss, love,
It tells thee, O "dinna forget!"
IVe might look on yon fair moon, love,
Oft gazed on by us with delight,
And think of each other alone, love,
At one sacred hour every night:
But ah! ere she'd rise to thy view love,
To me she long, lung would be set.
Then look to this token more true, love,
On thy finger—and "dinna forget."
Thou mayst meet faces more fair, love.
And charms more attractive than mine;
He moved by a more winning air, love,
Or struck by a figure more fine:
But shouhl'st thou a brighter eye see, love,
Or ringlets of a more glossy jet,
Let this still thy talisman be, love.
Look on it, and "dinna forget!"
And 0 when thou writest to me, love,
The sealing impress with this ring.
And that a sweet earnest will be love,
To which, with fond hope I will cling,
That to thy vows will be true love;
That happiness waiteth us yet;—
One parting embrace—now adieu love—
This moment I'll never forget!
Yea t he is altogether Lovely."
Î ask'd her when in beauty dressed,
M'hen youthful hope inspired her breast,
Where lives he whom thoulovest besU
She said—in Heaven.
I ifik'd her when she fondly press'd
Her smiling infant to her breast,
Where lives He whom thoulovest best?
She said—in Heaven.
I ask'd her when her bloom was lost,
When all her earthly hopes were crossed,
Where lives He whom thou lovest most?
She said—in Heaven.
* ask'd her in her dying groan,
Who is the brightest loveliest One
Tis GOD she cried, my GOD alone—
And went to Heaven.
"Afriend should bear a friend'* infirmities.'
, £ bere is no virtue, in which men are more
Wncient, than in the exercise of that spirit
®f charity, "which heareth all things, and
"°Mth all things." Though we never
would countenance error, yet ought we to
vi*w and reprove with tenderness the faults
Tho pride of our hearts, which
is ever leading us astray, impels us to de
tect and expose the errors of our neighbors,
and thus triumph in our fancied superiority.
We place our character us a model, and ev
ery difference and deficiency receives our
Unmindful of the endless
diversity of characters; the peculiar consti
tution of different minds, and the variety of
motives which govern human actions,
mark, out one path of thought and action for
the whole, an attempt as absurd and im
practicable, as to prescribe one orbit for all
the planets which glitter in the firmament.
Charity does not require us to excuse the
overlook the errors of a friend.—
vices, or
One of the best proofs of friendship is that
affectionate censorship which watches
the actions of another, marks his errors, and
sedulously labors for their correction,
it instructs us to bear with affectionate sym
pathy those eccentricities of character, those
fluctuations of temper, and those little ex
cesses, either of depression, to which all are !
subject. We should advise a friend with
caution and humanity, and reprove him with
that meekness which would result from con- I
viction that we ourselves arc fallible, and j
that we frequently require to-dav the admo- j
nirions which we so f?eely imparted yester
day. Another important duty is to guard
and defend. The world is prving and cap
tious and the shafts ot calumny fly too
thickly to miss even the most spotless char
y We need not point out the mimer
mis occasions which present themselves to
silenco the calumnious hint, and rectify the
eauivocal remark. As the depository ol
hissentTments. and the confident of his se
ought to guard the character of a
ithout excusing or palliating his
the mantle of
He who knows not what it is to labour
I knows not what it is to enjoy. 1 he felicity
of human life depends on the regular liras- i
ecution of some laudable purpose or object,
which keeps awake and enlivens all our
powers. Our happiness consists much more
in the pursuit, than in the attainment of any
temporal good. Rest is agreeable; but it is
only from preceding labours that rest ac
quires its true relish. Wiicn the mind is
suffered to remain in continued inaction, all
its powers decay. It soon languishes and sick
: but the pleasure which it proposed to
obtain from rest, enil in tediousness and in
sipidity. To this, let that miserable set of t
men bear witness, who after spending a great
part of their life in active industry, have re
tired to wliat they fancied was to be a plea
gj|)g enjoyment of themselves, in wealthy in
activity and profound repose, where they ex
petted to find an elysium, they have found
nothing but a dreary and comfortless waste,
j Their days have dragged on with uniform
languor; with the melancholy remembrance,
j often returning, of the cheerful hours they
; p asse d, when they were engaged in the lion
j est business and labors of the world.
is j T' e enjoy long life, and see many days, is
: universal wish; and a9 the wish is
| prompted by naturr, it cannot be in itself un
lawful. At the same time, several circum
stances concur to temper the eagerness of
this wish ; and to show us that it should al
be formed under due submission to the
Who ijinnng us
crcts, we
friend; and
errors, we may often thr
our protection over his foibles.
en -
wiser judgment ot Heaven.
_: whether, in wishing for the continu
ance of many years on earth wc may not only
be wishing for a prolongation of distress and
misery ?
You might live, my friends, till you had
undergone lingering rounds of severe pain,
trom which death would have proved a sea
deliverance. You might live till
your breasts were pierced with many a
wound, from public calamities or private
sorrow. You might live till you beheld the
death of all whom you had loved; till you
survivedall those who love you; till you were
left as desolate strangers on earth, in the
midst of a new race, who neither knew you,
nor cared for you, but who wished you off the
Ot a nature so ambiguous are all the
hich life sets before us, that in
can tell
prospects w
every wish we form relating to them much
reason we have to be satisfied that our times
are in the hands of God, rather than our
From an Address delivered before the Mas
sachusetts Society for the Suppression of
Intemperance. By Charles S,„-ague.
"When the husband and father forgets
the duty he once delighted to fulfil, and by
slow degrees becomes the creature of in
temperance, there enters into bis house, the
sorrow that Vends the spirit—that cannot be
alleviated, that will not be comforted.
"It is here, above all, where she, who has
ventured every thing, feels that every thing
is lost. Woman, silent-suffering, devoted
woman, here hemls to her direst affliction.
The measure of her woe is, in truth, full,
whose husband is a drunkard. Who shall
protect her, when he is her insulter, her op
pressor,? What shall delight her, when she
shrinksfrom the sight of his face, and trem
bles at the sound of h is voice? 1 he hearth
is indeed dark, that Ac has made desolate,
There, through the dull midnight hour, her
griefs are whispered to herself, her bruised
heart bleeds in secret.. 1 here while the
cruel author of her distress is drowned in
distant revelry, she holds her solitary vigil,
waiting, yet dreading his return that will
only wring from herbyhis unkindness, tears
even more scalding than those she shed over
his transgression. To flings
across the present, memory turns back, and
broods upon the past. Like the recollection
tothe sun-stricken pilgrim, of the cool spring
that he drank at in the morning, the joys of
othm days come ove. ^r, as if only to mock
her parched and wearied spirit. She recalls
lured father, who bent with such delight o- 1
ver his new-horn children—and she asks if
this can reallv be him-this sunken being,
who has nothing for her but the sot's dis
costing brutality—nothing for those abash
ed and trembling children, but the sot's dis
Rusting example! Can we wonder, that a
mid these agonizing moments, the tender
cords of violated affection should snap asun
der? that the scorned and deserted, wife
should confess, "that there is no killing like
that which kills the heart?" that though it
would have been hard for her to kiss for
the last time the cold lips of her dead bus
band and lay his body forever in the dust,
it is harder to behold him so debasing life,
that even his death would be greeted in nier
cy? Had be died in the light of his goodness
bequeathing to his family the inheritance of
untarnished name, the example of virtues
that blossom for his sous and daughters
from the tomb—tho' she would have wept
bitterly indeed, the tears of grief would not
have been also the tears of shame. But to
behold him, fallen away from the station he
once adorned, degraded from eminence to
ignominy—at home, turning his dwelling to
darkness, and its holy endearments to mock
ery-abroad. thrust from the companion
ship of the worthy, a self-bi ..nded out...w
—this is the woe that the wife feels, and is
more dreadful than death—that she mourns
over as worse than widowhood.
So far the sketch of the broken-hearted
wife. '1 he next is a sadder■and daikei
sketch of soiled loveliness and d grad d
sweetness. . ,
"There is vet another picture behind,
from the exhi .lUon ot which I
ly be spared. , . ,. .
thnst who daily force themselves before the
world, but there is one whom the world does
not know of—who hides herself froin pry
ing eyes, even in the innermost sanctuary
of t | |e domestic temple. Shall I dare to
pg^d the veil that bangs between, and draw
ber torth? the priestess dying amid lier un
i u ,iy rites—the sacrificer and the sacrifice?
Q, wc compass sea and land, we brave dan
ger and death, to snatch the pour victim of
heathen superstition from the burning pile
_ a „d it is well—but shall we not also save
the lovely ones of our own household, from
immolating oil this foul altar, not alone the
perishing body, but all the worshipping
graces ot her sex—the glorious attributes of
hallowed womanhood !
"Imagination's gloomiest reverie never
conceived of a more revolting object, than
t j, a t of a wife and mother, defiling in her
pu i son the fairest work of her C,od, and set
ting at nought the holy engagements for
which lie had created her. Her husband—
who shall heighten his joys, and dissipate
his cares, and alleviate bis sorrows, Ehe
who has robbed him of alt the
source of his deepest Calc, who lues his
sharpest sorrow? I hese are indeed the
wife's delights—but they are not hers. Her
children—who shall watch over their hud
ding virtues, and pluck up the young weeds
of passion and vice? She, in whose bosom
every thing beautiful has withered, every
thing vile grows rank? Who shall teach
them to bend their little knees to devotion,
a ml repeat their Saviour's prayer against
"temptation?" She, who is herself temp
tation's fettered slave? These are truly
t) ie the mother's labors—but they are not
[,ers. Connubial love and maternal tendcr
A worm has
ould willing
1 have ventured to point to
bloom no longer for her.
,-ed into her heart, that dies only with
its prej—the worm Intemperance.
Ji was summer. I lie sun shone proudly
<j own upun the gray mist that rose above the
billows—the blushing charms ot spring were
passed, and the summer glow of loveliness
hail succeeded. The woods were gay ami
beautiful—for nature had clothed them in
a u her surpassing splendours. I he moun
ta ; n stream now run, now rippled, now curl
j n g with its silver eddies sparkling in the
sun -beam—now smoothly flowed along its
ever-varying bed, towards ^ its quiet borne
w m the world of waters." The birds war
bled as sweetly in their green bowers of
bliss, as if sighs and tears were a thing un
known. * * , * *
There was joy on earth—the twittering
swallow, as it darted along in sunshine and
shade, heeded not the wailings of affliction
and distress—the wild bird, in its noiseless
„f^oe.ks it hashed* its
'cross the vision, like the thought of a
during the hushed hours of mMngt
and vanished a *J£? de b B i ad , ies f_
of their joyousfelc.tybrough g P
thesoundsof themmii^feli «U »pen the
heart—it seemeo out ou J
fP»V !n °iƱSÏÏMn S enrible hat tg
laUK ^;:m,' over ruin and decay-that one
were smi g sweetest flowers had
of hope s fain trt,, now _ evc nnuw
droo P r . d n a h " d 1 ^ d :;. th e earth's cold bosom.
was to be # * * f
, -,, • „...ii-i-ss beautv
I had seen tie child m
when it was a bad seen it folded in
iim°ceince. J . bore it in all the over
the arm,s o} a nlot j, er 's love. But
whelmu g_ . blessing—her first, last,
now her _ - n t | le sn ft bosom it
and on yo , I _ _ but with the quiet
" f a r^th^d^
de ® d - , ' , d lifeless, it wore a
be! .. >d *pure as the cherub of
? md P w had nothing of the corpse
whiteness-nothing' of the
about it, but ^ itsjvhitem-Sii notmng ^ ^
u ^ decked with a
I could
flowery'gar . ^
fain have lain down ny _rs siue n
S om at our common mother^n the js
.limit valley. we „
Jhou ^
hou mayest-the Son oi v»ou wept at
1 loved one low in the damp earth—beneath
the cold clods of the valley—hard it is to re
fleet that this, thy child of peerless beauty,
will never more raise its rosy lips to thine,
in all the fondness ot childhood's warm af
fection. Ah! these are recollections that
weigh upon the soul even to overpowering,
Memory tells thee thou art desolate—it tells,
too, of playful smiles—ot a thousand soft
and winning ways that twine around the
mother's bosom—it tells of the sweet wild
throbbings of unspeakable bliss, that were
thine, when softly soothing it to slumber
and repose. Now the foliage of the cypress
will be its shelter, and the narrow house its
abiding place—the nursery will no more re
sound with its gladsome mirth—the cradle in
which it had so often reposed in quiet is now
desolate. Thou weepest. childless mother,
The last look. The time is come when
she mav gaze once more upon her sleeping
boy, ere the pall is settled upon his lifeless
brow. Oh the bitter agony ofthat moment
—one long burning kiss upon his marble
forehead, and he is shut from her view! In
the fullness of her grief «he says,
No more, my baby, shalt thou he,
With drowsy smile and half-shut eye,
Pillowed upon thy mother's breast*
Serenely sinking into rest.
Thou wert lovelier than the morn of May,
Possessing the brighter charms that youth a*
But all those beauties
And all who knew them once are left to mourn*
have pass'd
rhe opening rose bloomed here a little while—
Smiling serene beneath a summer's sky —
■e a mother's sigh beguile,
Hot can no
Or tvipe the tear from pale affliction's eye.
For God hath laid thee down to sleep,
Like a pure heart beneath the deep!
Look abroad, fond mother, upon the ways
of sinful men, and repine no more that God
has made thy child an angel in the regions
of bliss. Now his song mingles with the
thankgiving of the blest! sanctified, safe,
and secure from the stormy blasts of ini
quity, with him who is from everlasting!
The long train of weeping friends gather
ed round a fresh dug grave. The cuffin
was lowered into its final resting-place—the
spirit of him who was so lovely here had,
long ere this, crossed the dark waters—and
is safely landed upon the flowery coast of a
world of fadeless bloom'
The ladies of Valadolid were so agreeable that
I saw much less of the city and its buildings than
I otherwise should have done. In the evening I
accompanied them to a turtullia, which was at
tended by all the fashion of that place. I reallv
think there is less of art in the composition of
Spanish women than of any other people what
soever. They neither paint nor patch, nor have
those periodical moultings of feathers which
fashion elsewhere prescribes; but they all dress
nearly alike, and in the same ways at all seasons;
that Senora Maria is only to be distinguished
from Senora Mariana by a countenace more mel
ancholy, by black eyes swimming in a more
maiden whiteness, or by a figure (which is ever
graceful) of some what large or smaller mould.
The fasquina, or black silk petticoat, is general
ly bordered at the bottom with blackheads, and
so disposed into an open kind of net work, as to
afford the curious eye the casual fecility of ad
miring the most beautiful ancle in the world.—
Their stockings are of white silk, and they are
never without a mantela, (an ample veil of white
lace,) which is gracefully flung over their head
and shoulders when they go abroad, and at other
times adopted as a shawl. Small pieces of lead
are attached to the bottom of the fasquinas,
which accounts for the Ionian elegance of its
foldings and fall. Amidst the many changes that
Spain has undergone, the women alone seem
to be unchanged. Lattices, and jealousies, and
duennas, and indeed all that used to give love
making such a romantic air in this beyond any
other country, have long since di»appeared, but
the passion itself still continues the existence of
Spanish women. It is not however, that in
triguing kind of love, which we hear of in France,
where a lady changes her love as easily and as
often as Her gloves; but rather a devotion to one
object, which renders them the greatest tyrants
in the world, and makes them exact more adora
tion than was ever offered up at any idol's shrine.
All the party went into the bush, the Hot
tentots first with their large guns, then their
panions in a low voice, and was heard to
P k , k „ on cnquir i ng the cause,
mst t ' n thc;n Afresh track of an
1 The bush became thicker, and
the sun had no power to shine through the
thick foliage; they passed the spot which
the Hottentot marked out as the place
where he had wounded the first elephant,
and soon afterwards they saw the dead buf
f a i 0 , '['tie party went on resolving to see
the dead elephant, and winding along thro'
{{J® both, till they came to a sand hill, the
Hottentots pointed out one of the carcases at
some distance, lying on another sand hill,
but on loking at it for a second, it appeared
to move, and the Hottentot discovered that
it was a young calf by the side of the cow.
The whole party immediately went on, and
when within musket shot, they jfound that
a they were two calves laying by their dead
of mother; a piteous and interesting sight—
The young one rose, and some dogs that the
Hottentots had incautiously take., into the
bush _ bai . ked violently. At this moment
a the dushes moved, and the stupendous fa
ther stalked in; he looked around him qui
*tly, and even sorrowfully, and after view
W the nartv for a second, he walked on,
P ^ bchilll i snme trees . The
„ situation thev had placed thcmselve in, had
nowbecom/extremely critical, the bush
was continuous for miles in extent, and
From Scenes anil Occurrences in Caffer Land.
difficult to determine. They were all warn
: ed not to run against the wind, and th ■
rection of the house was pointed out, as well
as circumstances would allow, but while
they were cebating the matter, the dogs
ran in among the young elephants; they set
up a deafening yell, and made directly to
wards the party, some of whom lay down
by the path, with the hope of seizing the
smallest calf, but they were very glad to
make their escape ns they discovered it to
t»e larger than they expected. Thebullel
ephant, called back by the cry of his young,
again appeared, but totally different in at
pect and even in form. ills walk was
quicker, his eyes fierce his trunk elevated,
and his be " d a PP ear * d th J7*' V"** tbe ."'V'
M; friend called to the Hottentot to look,
and he immediately rephed m broken Eng
lisl. "Yes, Mynheer dat s de elephant will
make meusdead. The alarm was extreme,
hut while the animal stood hesitating, the
cry of the young sounded from a distant quar
ter, and the enraged father took the short
est cut towards them, crushing the branches
;i « he stalked along, and the party thus most
providentially escaped. It Was ascertained
that the elephant had made off towards the
They went up to the dead elephant, mere
ly to examine it; far the Hottentots leave
the tusks till the flesh becomes softened, as
it would take up too much time to separate
them. One of these men took eut his knife,
and cut a circular piece off the head, about
an inch deep; he then pointed out a dark spot
similar to what is called the kernal in beef,
this he probed with his knife, and brought
out a small part of a twig, but it was broken
He distributed a little piece as a great favor,
then carefully wrapt the remainder up, a*
they have an idea that whoever wears it,
can never be killed by an elephant, and this
valuable charm was transferred by my
friend to me. It is remarkable that no nat
uralist has ever noticed this circumstance
T here is no outward appearance, and it is
impossible to imagine how it becomes en
closed, or uf what use it is to the animal.
T hey setoff, a party of fourteen in num
ber, and found upwards of three score ele
phants encamped on the banks of the Kou
nap river. It was late when the party ar
rived, therefore an attempt would have
been useless and dangerous. Large fires
were lighted to keep off lions as well as ele
phants, and the party being much fatigued,
they lay down and slept.
The elephants awoke them early with
breaking and pulling up trees by the roots,
and rolling themselves in the wa
ter, See. The party immediately pressed
for the attack, and now commenced the
sport. The elephants, upon receiving the
first shot asifby mutual consent, gave chase
though not for above six or seven hundred
yards. This answered the desired effect.
One of the party galloped between the ele
pliants and the bush, which they hadjust left
commencing, at the same time, a heavy fire,
which liarrassed them to such a degree, that
j they fled to the plains, leaving behind them a
thick cover, in which they might have been
perfectly secure from the shots. On those
plains great numbers of small bushes are
found at no great distance from each other,
•>o that if one party consents to drive the él
éphant out of one bush, the other will con
ceal themselves, and by this means may get
some good shots.
One large bull elephant stationed himself
in the middle of one of these small bushes;
and at least two hundred rounds were fired
without being able to bring him down, or
make him move form the place in which he
had stationed himself. At every shot he
received he was supposed to blow a quantity
of water into the wound, and then tear up a.
large lump of earth to endeavor to stop the
blood. The Caffers do the same thing when
they have been shot—that is, tear up a hand
full of grass and thurst it into the wounded
place; and it is thought they have learnt this
trom seeing the elephants do it.—At length
the great bull dropped. The party then en
tered the bush, and to their great surprise,
found that the reason he would not leave
this spot, was, that he had there found a
pool of water, with which he had been was
ing his wounds. His height measured sev
enteen feet and three quarters, and his
teeth weighed one hundred and ninety
pounds. Betöre the day's sport was over
they had killed thirteen.
Willy Snug, or Snug Willy, a, he is
sometimes called, is a good farmer. I do not
mean by this that he cultivates a vast deal
of land; but what he undertake. to cultivate,
he manages in the best manner, and reaps
more profit from his small farm, than oth
ers do from their large ones. It is not those
who plant and sow the most, who gather in
the most abundant harvest.
Willy bnug has na unprofitable land on
his farm. Every rod is required to produce
its due proportion of the yearly crops. Nor
is this unreasonable, for the ground is well
manured, so well tilled, and so well fenced,
that in a tolerable season it cannot help ren
dering a good account of itself at the time of
harvest W illy Snug knows a* well as any
other man the value of manure. Of course.
he suffers none tobe lost, nor indeed any
out of which manure may be made. You do
not see large heaps of dung lying year after
year in h,s barn yard for want of earning
out. He is not afi aid of soiling his, finget s
with the dung-cart well knowing that no
man can keep his hands cleaner of debts,
lawsuits, sheriffs, and the jail. He has a
sort of hollow scooped out. near h.s barn,
which he calls the ttfteh-all, and into
which, straws, weeds ashes, the refuse of
the wood-pile, the cellars and the kitchen,
and whatever else may be converted mto
manure, are constantly throw,, The cou
sequence ,s. that he carries out of this place
•***'•"— O. «=.11«. m.««

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