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conjecture' about him, wonder' about him, wonder and conjecture whether he will pay. He is a man of consequence', for many are running after him. His door is thronged with duns. He is inquired after every hour of the day. Judges' hear of him and know him. Every meal he swallows', every coat he puts upon his back', every dollar he borrows', appears before the country in some formal document'. Compare his' notoriety with the obscure lot of the creditor', of the man who has nothing but claims' on the world; a landlord, or fund-holder, or some such' disagreeable, hard character.

4. The man who pays his way is unknown in his neighborhood. You ask the milk-man at his door, and he can not tell his name. You ask the butcher where Mr. Payall lives', and he tells you that he knows no such name', for it is not in his books. You shall ask the baker, and he will tell you that there is no such person in the neighborhood. People that have his money' fast in their pockets, have no thought of his person or appellation. His house' only is known. No. 31 is good pay. No. 31 is ready money. Not a scrap of paper is ever made out for No. 31. It is an anonymous house; its owner pays his way to obscurity. No one knows anything about him, or heeds his movements. If a carriage be seen at his door, the neighborhood is not full of concern lest he be going to run away. If a package be moved from his house, a score of boys are not employed to watch whether it be carried to the pawnbroker. Mr. Payall fills no place in the public mind'; no one has any hopes or fears about him.

5. The creditor always figures in the fancy as a sour, single man, with grizzled hair, a scowling countenance, and a peremptory air', who lives in a dark apartment, with musty deeds about him, and an iron safe, as impenetrable as his heart', grabbing together what he does not enjoy, and what there is no one about' him to enjoy. The debtor, on the other hand, is always pictured with a wife and six fair-haired daughters, bound together in affection and misery', full of sensibility, and suffering without a fault. The creditor, it is never doubted, thrives without a merit. He has no wife and children to pity. No one ever thinks it desirable that he' should have the means of living'. He is a brute for insisting that he must receive, in order to pay. It is not in the imagination of man to conceive' that his creditor has demands upon him which must be satisfied', and that he must do to others as others must do to him. A creditor is a personification of exaction. He is supposed to be always taking in', and never giving out'.

6. People idly fancy, that the possession of riches is desirable. What blindness! Spend and regale'. Save a shilling and you lay it by for a thief. The prudent men are the men that live

beyond their means. Happen what may, they are safe. They have taken time by the forelock. They have anticipated fortune. "The wealthy fool, with gold in store," has only denied himself so much enjoyment, which another will seize at his expense. Look at these people in a panic. See who are the fools then. You know them by their long faces. You may say, as one of them goes by, in an agony of apprehension, "There is a stupid fellow who fancied himself rich, because he had fifty thousand dollars in bank." The history of the last ten years has taught the moral, "spend, and regale." Whatever is laid up beyond the present hour, is put in jeopardy. There is no certainty but in instant enjoyment'. Look at school-boys sharing a plum-cake. The knowing ones eat, as for a race; but a stupid fellow saves his portion; just nibbles a bit, and "keeps the rest for another time." Most provident blockhead! The others, when they have gobbled up their' shares, set upon him', plunder him, and thresh him for crying out.

7. Before the terms "depreciation," "suspension," and "going into liquidation," were heard, there might have been some reason in the practice of "laying up';" but now' it denotes the darkest blindness. The prudent men of the present time, are the men in debt. The tendency being to sacrifice creditors to debtors, and the debtor party acquiring daily new_strength, every one is in haste to get into the favored class. In any case, the debtor is safe. He has put his enjoyments behind him; they are safe'; no turns of fortune can disturb' them. The substance he has eaten up, is irrecoverable. The future can not trouble his past. He has nothing to apprehend. He has anticipated more than fortune would ever have granted' him. He has tricked' fortune; and his creditors-bah! who feels for creditors'? What are creditors? Landlords; a pitiless and unpitiable tribe; all griping extortioners! What would become of the world of debtors', if it did not steal a march upon this rapacious class'?




1. EVERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. He was so young', so intelligent', so

generous', so brave', so every' thing that we are apt to like in a His conduct under trial, too, was young man. so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies' lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was one' heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes', he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl', the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name', she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes', what must have been the agony of her' whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth', who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such' a grave! so frightful', so dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pangs of separation', none of those tender though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene', nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment', and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude'; walking

about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely."


6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such'a scene. find it wandering like a specter lone and joyless, where all around is gay', to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra', and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple,' so touching', it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

7. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her', and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions', for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation', for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another's.

8. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy' one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline', and, at length, sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.




1. Look on him: through his dungeon-grate
Feebly and cold, the morning light
Comes stealing round him, dim and late,
As if it loathed the sight.
Reclining on his strawy bed,

His hand upholds his drooping head;
His bloodless cheek is seam'd and hard;
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ;
And o'er his bony fingers flow
His long, dishevel❜d locks of snow.

2. No grateful fire before him glows,
And yet the winter's breath is chill:
And o'er his half-clad person goes
The frequent ague-thrill.
Silent, save ever and anon',

A sound, half-murmur and half-groan',
Forces apart the painful grip
Of the old sufferer's bearded lip.
O, sad and crushing is the fate
Of old age chain'd and desolate.

3. Just GOD! why lies that old man there?
A murderer shares his prison-bed,
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair',
Gleam on him fierce and red;

And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear;
And, or in wakefulness or sleep`,
Nerve, flesh, and fiber thrill and creep,
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb,
Crimson'd with murder, touches him.

4. What has the gray-hair'd prisoner done?
Has murder stain'd his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime's a fouler one:
Gōd made the old man pōōr!
For this, he shares a felon's cell,
The fittest earthly type of hell;
For this, the boon for which he pour'd
His young blood on the invader's sword,
And counted light the fearful cost,
His blood-gain'd liberty-is lost!

5. And so, for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner, pour'd thy blood as rain
On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest,
And Saratoga's' plain?

Look forth, thou man of many scars'.
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars!

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