The Camden Journal

MISCELLANEOUS.
[From the N. Y. Sunday Mercury.]
A SHORT PATENT SERMON.
BY DOW JR.
Text—Kill a man's family and he may brook it.
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.—Byron.

My Dear Hearers—If you hav'nt yet found it out, it is time for you to know that I am the X-pounder of any thing that contains a moral. X stands for ten—therefore I am a ten pounder, which is just the sort of gun you need to keep various kinds of devils from taking your hearts by storm. Just fire me off once a week, and if the enemy are not obliged to stand back, it will be because you don't give me ammunition enough; to blaze away, as I would, or raise a great smoke, at least. There is nothing now-a-days, like raising a smoke—to make folks believe you do something, whether you do or not. You now and then come across a person who always raises such a smoke, that you might take him to be a real volcano—a walking Vesuvius—at a short distance; but when you come to examine him closely, he is nothing but a mere puff-ball. But what's the odds? such a fellow is sure to glide down the path of life as slick as a whistle—and that's what we are after all. Smoke, my friends, deceives a great many. The British got pretty nicely sucked in, when our Dutch grand-daddies fell to smoking on the Battery, and concealed it beneath the clouds of tobacco fume. I saw a loafer, one frosty morning last winter, smoke a cigar three hours after the fire had gone out—the steam of his own breath looked so much like smoke that he didn't know the difference. The fact is, when a man says "I knew by the smoke," &c. you may take it for granted that he dont know much about the matter, any way.—But I've smoked enough—let me dip into my discourse.

My text says that a man can easier put up with the murder of his whole family, than to have another man thrust his thieving digits into his pocket—cause why? Because his rhino lies there; and his family might as well be massacred at once, as to die for the want of that substance of things hoped for, which, in plain English is called money—filthy lucre—the root of all evil—but which, after all, is the real stuff to patch up the coat of poverty with—get grub—and procure for us happiness, and all the necessaries, comforts and luxuries of life. But my friends, you must go to work rightly and honestly to get money, if you wish to enjoy it. Dont jamb your hand rashly into a man's breeches' pocket, because you may not get it out again without chafing some of the skin off. Just wait patiently till it's forked over to you; and then you can spend your own. Be pious—be moral—be industrious—always stick to my church—and you never will lack the wherewith to carry you comfortably over the mountains of such an Alpine existence as is allotted to man. Avoid avarice as you would the itch—it black balls the soul—freezes up the brooks of charity—putrefies all sympathy—and makes a man poor and despised with all his riches: in short it leaves nothing of him but a jacket and trowsers, stuffed with a tailor built scare-crow.—It is said the devil lies down in the miser's chest. That's true as 'tis devilish—and when the old miser raises the lid to drop in a copper, the demon looks up with a grin and says: That's right old cock—there's not half enough yet—get more—keep a gathering more and you and I will make a division one of these days. Yes, there will be a division made, and the poor rich man will get a dose of sulphur for his share, that will burn blue blazes under his nose till the sunset of eternity! Only think how delightful that will be—for a man to sit in double jet darkness, from everlasting to clear beyond everlasting, and read over the eternal calendar of his miseries by a torch-light of brimstone and turpentine! O, it makes my knee pans jerk to think of it!

My good-looking hearers! don't for the love of self-mercy, barter away your souls for a few dollars! for just as true as you make a bargain with the devil to this effect, you are gone goblins—for you will always be miserable here and he will have his clutches upon you hereafter, and no mistake. You can't cheat him—you may read your Bibles when your latter end comes, as much as you please, but it will be no go. You must recollect that when the devil took Tom Walker, he carried off a small Bible in the coat-pocket of poor Tom. It is well known that Satan always watches over buried gold; and I want to restrain you from trying to get it—for you can't do it, without meeting with the fate of poor Tom Walker. Yes you can by this means only, invoke a certain spirit that holds power over the devil himself—prove to it that the money is to be distributed among the poor, and it will come to your assistance, repeating these words:

"I guide the pale moon's silver wagon,
The winds in magic bonds I hold:
I charm to sleep the crimson dragon,
Who loves to watch o'er buried gold."

Very little money is obtained this way, however; for there is a natural narrow-souled selfishness in the breast of man, that often would prompt him (as a Western editor once remarked) to steal a nigger's physic, were it not for the mere name of it. My friends you must prepare for the body as well as for the soul; and in order to do this genteelly, you must be economical—deal justly with all—never rob your neighbor of his purse, his good name his man-servant, his maid-servant, his ass, his wife, and neither seduce his daughters, nor throw stones at his dog. Be always contented with enough, and thank Providence for that. In a word, you must resort to no skin-flint parsimony, if you wish to be happy in the acquirement of earthly treasures, but be as saving as circumstances will permit, and get all you can honestly. Have charity for the sufferings of your fellow creatures—for there is no preventing sickness and sore toes—they will come upon the just and the unjust.

Be kind to one another—have a holy affection for the female sex—support me and my cause, and dont make wry faces when the contribution box comes round. Finally, pack up your treasures for transportation to a better world; where thieves dont break through and steal, and where no pick-pockets are found to make business for old Hays. So mote it be!