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Bvunsinifk JUunicatc, DAVIS <fc SHORT, PUBLISHERS. VOLUME X. The Brunswick Advocate, Is published every Thursday Morning, in the city of Brunswick, Glynn County, Georgia, at $3 per annum,, in advance, or $4 at the end of the year. No subscriptions received for a less term than six months and no paper discontinued until all arrearages are paid except at the option of the publishers. Jj=All letters and communications to the Editor or Publishers in relation to the paper, must be POST PAID to ensure attention. (O’ADVERTISEMENTS conspicuously in serted at One Dollar per one hundred words, for the first insertion, and Fifty Cents for ev ery subsequent continuance—Rule and figure work always double price. Twenty-five per j cent, added, if not paid in advance, or during j the continuance of the advertisement. Those I sent without a specification of the number of insertions will be published until ordered out 1 I and charged accordingly. Lkgae Advertisements published at the usual rates. (PJ’N. B. Sales of L.\Nq, by Administrators, Executors or Guardians, are required, by law, to be held on the first Tuesday in the month, between the hours of ten in the forenoon and three in the afternoon, at the Court-house in ; the county in which the property is situate.— Notice of these sales must be given in a public j gazette, Sixty Days previous to the day ot; sale. Sales of Negroes must be at public auction, on the first Tuesday of tlie month, between the usual hours of sale, at the place of public sales in the county where the letters testamentary, ] of Administration or Guardianship, may have j been granted, first giving sixty days notice j thereof, in one of the public gazettes of tliisj State, and at the door of the Court-house, where •such sales are to be held. Notice for the sale of Personal Property, must be given in like manner, Forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to the Debtors and Creditors of an Es la'te must be published for Forty days. Notice that application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land, must be published for Four Months. Notice for leave to sell Negroes, must be published for Four Months, before any order absolute shall be made thereon by the Court. PROSPECTUS A WEEKLY PAPER, PUBLISHED AT BRUNSWICK, GLYNN COUNTY, GEORGIA. The causes which render necessary the es tablishment of this Press, and its claims to the support of the public, can best be presented by the statement of a few facts. Brunswick possesses a harbor, which forac cessibility, spaciousness and security, is une qualled on the Southern Coast. This, of itself, would be sufficient to render its growth rapid, and its importance permanent; for the best port South of the Potomac must become the site of a great commercial city. But w hen to this is added the singular salubrity of the cli mate, free from those noxious exhalations gen erated by the union of salt and river waters, and which are indeed “charnel airs” to a white population, it must be admitted that Brunswick contains all the requisites for a healthy and populous city. Thus much has been the work of Nature ; but already Art has begun to lend her aid to this favored spot, and the industry of man bids fair to increase its capacities, and add to its importance a hundred fold. In a few months, a canal will open to the harbor of Brunswick the vast and fertile country through which flow the Altamaha, and its great tribu aries. A Rail Road will shortly be commenc ed, terminating at Pensacola, thus uniting the waters of the Gulf of Mexico with the Atlantic Ocean. Other Rail Roads intersecting the State in various directions, will make Bruns wick their depot, and a large portion of the trade from the Valley of the Mississippi will yet find its way to her wharves. Such, in a few words, are the principal causes which will operate in rendering Brunswick the principal city of the South. But while its advantages are so numerous and obvious, there have been found individuals and presses prompted by sel fish fears and interested motives, to oppose an undertaking which must add so much to the importance and prosperity of the State. Their united powers are now applied to thwart in every possible manner, this great public bene fit. Misrepresentation and ridicule, invective and denunciation have been heaped on Bruns wick and its friends. To counteract these ef forts by the publication and wide dissemination of the facts—to present the claims of Bruns wick to the confidence and favor of the public, to furnish information relating to all the great works of Internal Improvement now go ing on through the State, and to aid in devel-. oping the resources of Georgia, will be the i leading objects of this Press. Such being its end and aim, any interfer ence in the party politics of the day would be improper and impolitic. Brunswick has re ceived benefits from —it has friends in all par ties, and every consideration is opposed to rendering its Press the organ of a party. To the citizens of Georgia—and not to die mem bers of a party —to the friends of Brunswick— to the advocates of Internal Improvement— to the considerate and reflecting—do we apply tor aid and support Terms —Three dollars per annum in ad vance, or four dollars at the end of the year. J. \V. FROST, Editor. DAVIS & SHORT, Publishers. IK I SC EL, LA A Y. [From the New Monthly Magazine.] F. SMITH. BY N. P. WILLIS. “Nature had made him for some other planet, And press’d his form into a human shape By accident or malice.” — Coleridge. “ I’ll have you chronicled, and chronicled, and cut-and-chronicled, and sung in all-to-be praised sonnets, and graved in new brave bal lads, that all tongues shall troule you.” [Philaster. If you can imagine a buried Titan ly ing along the length of a continent with one arm stretched out into the midst of the sea, the place to which I would trans port you, reader, mine! would lie as it were in the palm of the giant’s hand. The small promontory to which I refer, which becomes an island in certain states of the tide, is at the end of one of the long capes of Massachusetts, and is still called by its Indian name, Na/iant. Not to make you uncomfortable, I beg to in troduce you at once to a pretentious hotel, 'squat like a toad’ upon the unsheltered and highest point of this citadel in mid-sea, and a very great resort for the metropoli tan New Englanders. Nahant is, perhaps, liberally measured, a square half mile : and it is distant from what may fairly be called mainland, perhaps a league. Road to Nahant there is none. The oi polloi go there by steam ; but when the tide is down, you may drive there with a thousand chariots over the bottom of the sea. As I suppose there is not such an other place in the known world, my tale will vfait while I describe it more fully. If the Bible had been a fiction, (not to speak profanely,) I should have thought tlie idea of the destruction of Pharaoh and his host had its origin in some such wonder of nature. Nahant is so far out into the ocean, that what is called the “ground swell,” the ma jestic heave of its great bosom going on for ever like respiration (though its face may be like a mirror beneath the sun, and a wind may not have crisped its surface for days and weeks,) is as broad and power ful within a rod of the shore as it is a thousand miles-at sea. The promontory itself is never wholly left by the ebb; but, from its western ex tremity, there runs a narrow ridge, scarce broad enough for a horse-path, impassa ble for the rocks and seaweed of which it is matted, and extending at just high water mark from Nahant to the mainland. Seaward from this ridge, which is the on ly connection cf the promontory with the continent, descends an expanse of sand, left bare six hours out of the twelve by the retreating sea, as smooth and hard as marble, and as broad and apparently as level as the plain of the Ilermus. For three miles it stretches away without shell or stone, a surface of white, fine-grained sand, beaten so hard by the eternal ham mer of the surf, that the hoof of a horse scarce marks it, and the heaviest wheel leaves it as printless as a floor of gran ite. This will easily be understood when you remember the tremendous rise and fall of the ocean-swell, from the very bo som of which,in all its breadth and strength roll in the waves of the flowing tide, break ing down on the beach, every one, with the thunder of a host precipitated from the battlements of a castle. Nothing could be more solemn and antliemlike than the succession of these plunging surges. And when the “tenth wave” gathers, far out at sea, and rolls onward to the shore, first with a glassy and heaving swell as if some mighty monster were lurching inland beneath the water, and then, bursting up into foam, with a front like an endless and sparry crystal wall, advances and overwhelms every thing in its progress,'till it breaks with a centu pled thunder on the beach—it has seem ed to me, standing there, as if thus might have beaten the first surge on the shore after the fiat which “divided sea and land.” I am not naturally of a religious turn, but the sea (myselfon shore) always drives me to scripture for an illustration of my feelings. The promontory of Nahant must be based on the earth’s axle, else I cannot imagine how it should have lasted so long. In the mildest weather, the ground-swell of the sea gives it a fillip at every heave that would lay the “castled crag of Drach enfels” as low as Memphis. The wine trembles in your beaker of claret as you sit after dinner ntJhe hotel ; and if you look out at the eastern balcony (for it is a wooden pagoda,with balconies, verandahs, and colonades act libitum ,) you will see the grass breathless in the sunshine upon the lawn, and the ocean as polished and calm as Miladi’s brow beyond, and yet the spray and foam dashing fifty feet into the air between, and enveloping the “Devil’s Pulpit” (a tall rock split olf from the promontory’s front) in a perpetual ka leidoscope of mist and rainbows. Take the trouble to transport yourself there ! I will do the remaining honours on the spot. A cavern as cool (not as silent) as those of Trophonius lies just under the brow of yonder precipice, and the waiter BRUNSWICK, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, AUGUST 24, 1837. shall come after us with our wine. You have dined with the Borromeo in the grot to of Isola Bella, I doubt not, and know the perfection of art —l will show you that of nature. (I should like to trans port you for a similiar contrast from Ter ni to Niagara, or from San Giovanni La terano to an aisle in a forest of Michigan ; but the Dsdaliao mystery, alas ! is un solved. We “fly not yet.” Here we are then,in the ‘swallow’s cave.’ The floor descends by a gentle declivity to the sea, and from the long dark cleft streching outward you look forth upon the broad Atlantic—the shore of Ireland the first terraJirma in the path of your eye. Here is a dark pool left by the retro gading tide for a refrigerator, and with the champagne in the midst, we will recline about it like the soft Asiatics of whom we learned pleasure in the east, and drink to the small-featured and purple-lipped ‘Mig 11011s’ of Syria—those fine-limbed and fiery slaves, adorable as Peris, and by turns lan guishing and stormy, whom you buy for a pinch of piastres (say ot. 55.) in sunny Damascus. Your drowsy Circassian, faint and dreamy, or your crockery Geor gian—fit dolls for the sensual Turk—is, to him who would buy soul, dear at a para the hecatomb. # We recline, as it were, in an ebon py ramid, with a hundred feet of floor and sixty of wall, and the fourth side open to the sky. The light comes in mellow and dim, and the sharp edges of the rocky portal seeiy let into the pearly arch of heaven. The tide is at half-ebb, and the advancing and retreating waves, which at first just lilted the fringe of criinsoin dulse at the lip of the cavern, now dash their spray pearls on the rock below, the “lentil” surge alone rallying as if in scorn of its retreating fellows, and, like the chieftain of Culloden Moor, rushing back singly to the contest. And now that the w aters reach the entrance no more, come forward and look on the sea! The swell lifts ! —would you not think the bases of the earth rising beneath it ? It fulls ! would you not think the foundations of the deep had given way ! A plain, broad enough fo»the navies of the world to ride at large, heaves up evenly and steadily j as if it would lie against the sky, rests a moment spell-bound in its place, and ! falls again as far—the respiration of asleep ! ing child not more regular and full of slum ber. It is only on the shore that it chafes. | Blessed emblem ! it is at peace with itself! | The rocks war with a nature so unlike their own, and the hoarse din of their : border onsets resounds through the cav erns they have rent open ; but beyond,in the calm bosom of the ocean, what hea venly dignity! what godlike unconcious ness of alarm! .1 did not think we should stumble on such a moral in the cave ! By the deeper bass of its hoarse organ, the sea is now playing upon its lowest stops and the tide is down. Hear ! how it rush es in beneath the rocks, broken and still ed in its tortuous way, till it ends with a washing and dull hiss among the sea-weed, and, like a myriad of small tinkling bells, tlie dripping from the crags is audible. There is fine music in the sea ! And now the beach is bare. Tlie cave begins to cool and darken, and the first gold tint of sunset is stealing into the sky, and the sea looks of a changing opal, green, purple, and white, as if its floor were paved with pearl, and the changing light struck up through the waters. And there heaves a ship into the horizon, like a white winged bird lying with dark breast on the waves, abandoned of the sea-breeze within sight of port, and repelled even by the spicy breatli that comes with a welcome off shore. She comes from “merry Eng land.” She is freighted with more than merchandise. The home-sick exile will gaze on her snowy sail as she sets in with the morning breeze, and bless it; for the wind that first filled it on its way swept through the green valley of his home ! What links of human affection brings she over the sea ! How much comes in her that is not in her “bill of lading,” vet worth to the heart that is waiting for it, a thousand times’ the purchase of her whole venture! Metis montons nous ! I hear the small hoofs of Thalaba; my stanhope waits; we will leavethis half bottle of champaigne, that “remainder buscuit,” and the echoes of our philosophy to the Naiads who have lent us their drawing-room. Undine, or Egeria! Lurly, or Arethusa! whatever thou art called, nymph of this shadowy cave! adieu! Slowly, Thalaba! Tread gingerly down this rocky descent! So ! Here we are on the floor of the vasty deep ! What a glorious race-course ! The polished and printless sand spreads away before you as far as the eye can see, the surf comes in below, breast high ere it breaks, and the white fringe of the sliding wave shoots up the beach, but leaves room for the march ing of a Persian phalanx on the sands it has deserted. Oh, how noiselessly runs the wheel, and how dreamily we glide along, | feeling our motion but in the resistance of the wind, and the trout-like pull ofthe rib- ‘‘HEAR ME FOR MY CAUSE." ands by the excited animal before us.— Mark the color of the sand ! White at high-water mark, and thence deepening to a silvery gray as the water lias evaporated less—a slab of Egyptian granite in the obelisk of St. Peter’s not more polished and unimpressible. Shell or rock, weed or quicksand, there is none; and mar or deface its bright surface as you will, it is ever beaten down anew, and washed even ofthe dust of the foot of man, by the rc turningsea. You may write upon its fine grained face with a crow quill—you may course over its dazzling expanse with a troop of chariots. Most wondrous and beautiful of all, within twenty yards ofthe surf, or for an hour after the tide has left the sand, it holds the water without losing its firmness, and is like a gray mirror, bright as the bosom of sea, (By your leave, Thalaba!) And now lean over the dasher, and see those small fetlocks striking up from beneath— the flying mane, the thorough-bred action, the small and expressive head, as perfect in the reflection as in the reality; like Wadsworth’s swan, he “ Trots double, horse and shadow.” You w ould swear you were skimming the surface of the sea; and the delusion is more complete as the white foam of the “tenth wave” skims in beneath wheel and hoof, and you urge on with the treacherous element gliding away visibly beneath you. We seem not to have driven fast, yet three miles, fairly measured, are left be hind, and Thalaba’s blood is up. Fine creature ! 1 would not give him “For the best horse the Sun lias in his stable.” We have won the champaigno ere now, Thalaba and I trotting on this silvery bench ; and if ever old age comes on me, as I intend it never shall on aught save my mortal coil, (my spirit vowed to perpetual youth,) I think these vital breezes, am|a trot on these cxhilinrating sands, would sooner renew my prime; than a rock in St. Hilary’s cradle, or a dip in the well ofKan | athos. May we try the experiment togeth er, gentle reader ! 1 am not settled in my own mind whether this description of one of my favorite haunts in America was written most to in troduce the story that is to follow, or the ston*to introduce the description. Possibly tlie laiter, for having consumed my callow youth in w andering ‘to and fro in (lie earth’ like Sathanas of old, and looking on my country now with an eve from which ill the minor and. temporary features have gradually faded, I find my pride in it (after its glory as a republic) settling principally on the handiwork ofNature in its land and water. When I talk of it now, it is look ing through another’s eyes—his who lis tens. Ido not describe it after my own memory of what it was once to me, but ac j cording to my idea of what it will seem now to a stranger. Hence I speak not of the friends I made, rambling by lake or river. The lake and the river are there, but the friends are changed—to themselves and me. I speak not ofthe lovely and loving ones that stood bv me, looking on glen or waterfall. The glen and waterfall are ro mantic still, but the form and the heart that breathed through it arc no longer lovely or loving. I should renew my joys by tlie old mountain and river, for all they ever were I should find them still, and never seem to myself grown old, or cankered of the world, or changed in form or spir it, while they reminded me but of my youth, with their familiar sunshine and beauty. But the friends that 1 knew— as I knew them—are dead. They look no longer the same ; they have another heart in them ; the kindness of the eye, the smilingness of the lip, are no more there. Philosophy tells me the material and liv ing body changes and renews, particle by particle, with time; and experience— cold-blooded and stony monitor—tells me, in iiis frozen monotone, the heart and : spirit change with it and renew' ! But the name remains, mockery that it is ! and the memory sometimes ; and so these apparitions of the past—that we almost fear to question when they encounter us, lest the change they have undergone j should freeze our blood—stare coldly on , us, yet call us by name, and answer though coldly, to their own, and have that terri ble similitude to what they were, mingled j with their unsympathising and hollow mummery, that we wish the grave of the past, with all that contained of kind or lovely, had been sealed for ever. The heart we have lain near before our birth (so read I the book of human life) is the only one that cannot forget that it has loved us. Saith well and affectionately an American poet, in some birth-day ver-; ses to his mother— “ Mother dear mother ! the feelings nurst As 1 hung at thv bosom, clang round thee first Twas the earliest link in love’s warm chain, Ti&the only one that will long remain ; Anfras, year by year, and day by day, Some friend, still trusted, drops away, Mother ! dear mother ! Oh, dost thou, see How the shortened chain brings me nearer thee /” I II I have observed that of all the friends . one has in the course of his life, the tru-1 I est and most attached is exactly the one who, from his dissimilarity to yourself, the world finds it very odd you should fancy. We hear sometimes of lovers who “arfe made for each other,” but rare ly of the same natural match in friendship. It is no great marvel. In a world like this, where we pluck so desperately at the fruit of pleasure, we prefer for company those who are not formed with precisely the same palate as ourselves. You will seldom go wrong, dear reader, if you re fer any human question about which you are in doubt to that icy oracle—selfish ness. My shadow for many years was a gen tle monster, baptised by the name of For bearance Smith. lie was a Vermontese, aolescendant. of one of the Puritan pil grims, and the first of bis family who had left the Green Mountains since the flight of the regicides to America. We assim ilate to what we live among, and Forbear ance was very green, and very like a mountain. He had a general resemblance to one of Thorwaldsen’s unfinished apos tles—larger than life, and just hewn into ! outline.. My acquaintance with him com ! menced during my first year at the U ni | versity. He stalked into my room one morning w ith a hair trunk on his back, and handed me the following note from the tutor:— “Sir, —The Faculty have decided to ' impose upon you the line of ten dollars and damages, for painting the President’s | horse on sabbath night while grazing on the College Green. They, moreover, have removed Freshman Wilding from ' your rooms, and appoint as your future | chum the studious and exemplary bearer, Forbearance Smith, to whom you are de ' sired to show a becoming respect. “Your obedient servant, “Erasmus Snufflegreek. “To Freshman Slingsby.” Rather relieved by my lenient sentence, j (for, till the next shedding of the well saturated coat, the sky-blue body and red mane and tail of the president’s once gray mare would interfere with that esteemed animal’s usefulness,) Mr. Smith with more politeness than he expectecf. j He deposited his hair trunk in the vacant bed-room, remarked with a good-humour ed smile that it was a cold morning, and | seating himself in my easiest chair, open ed his Euclid, and went to work on a t problem, as perfectly at home as if he had furnished tlie room himself, and lived in iit from his matriculation. I had expect ! ed some preparatory apology at least, and j was a little annoyed : but being upon mv good behavior, 1 bit my lips, and resu med the “Art of 1.0ve,” upon which I was just then practising my nascent La tinity,instead of calculating logarithms for recitation. In about an hour, my new chum suddenly vociferated “Pure ka /” shut up his book, and having stretch ed himself, (a very unnecessary opera tion,) coolly walked up to iny dressing table, selected my best hair-brush, redo lent of Macassar, and used it with the greatest apparent satisfaction. “Have you done w ith that hair-brush ?” I asked, as lie laid it in its place again. “Oh yes !” “Then, perhaps, you will do me the [ favour to throw' it out of the window'.” He did it without the slightest hesita tion. He then resumed his seat by the fire, and I went on with my book in si lence. Twenty minutes had elapsed, per haps when he rose very deliberately, and, without a word of preparation, gave me a cuff that sent me flying into the wood basket in the corner behind me. As soon; as 1 could pick myself out, I flew upon ; him, but 1 might as well have grappled j with a boa constrictor lie held me off at arm’s length till 1 was quite exhausted with rage, and, at last, when I could strug- j gle no more, I found breath to ask him 1 what the devil lie meant. “To resent w hat seemed to me, on re flection, to be an insult,” he answered, in] the calmest tone ; “and now to ask your pardon for a fault of ignorance. The first was due to myself, the second to you.” Thenceforth, to the surprise of every body, and Bob Wilding and the tutor, we were inseparable. I took Bruin (by a double elision Forbearance became "bear,” and by paraphrase Bruin, and he an swered to the name) —I took him, I say, to the omnium shop, and presented him with a dressing case, and other applian ces for his outer man ; and as my inner man was relatively as much in need of his assistance, we naturally improved. I instructed him in poetry and politeness, and he returned the lesson in problems and politics. My star was never in more | fortunate conjunction. Four years had woven their threads of memory about us, and there was never woof more free from blemish. Our friend ship w'as proverbial. All that much care and Macassar could do for Bruin had been done, but there was no abating his seven feet of stature, nor reducing the size of his feet proper,nor making the mus cles of his face answer to their natural J. W. FROST, EDITOR. NUMBER 12. wires. At his most placid smile, a strange waiter would run for a hot towel and the doctor,(colic was not more like itselfthan {that like colic;) and for his motions— oli Lord ! a skeleton, with each individu al bone appended to its neighbour with a string, would execute a pas seul with the same expression. His mind, howev er, had none of the awkwardness of his body. A simplicity and truth, amount ing to the greatest naivete , and a fatu itous unconsciousness of the effect on beholders of his outer man, were its only approaches to fault or foible. With the finest sense of the beautiful, ’the most unerring judgment in literary taste, the purest romance, ’a fervid enthusiasm, con stancy, courage, and good temper, he walked about the w’orld in a mask—an admirable creature, in the guise and seem ing of a ludicrous monster. Bruin was sensitive on but one point. He never could forgive * and mother for the wrong they had entailed on him at his tiaptisin. “Forbearance. Smith !” lie would say to himself some times in unconscious soliloquy, "they should have given me the virtue as well as the name!” And then he would sit with a pen, and scrawl “F. Smith,” on a sheet of paper by the hour together. To insist upon knowing his Christian name was the one impertinence he never for gave. His last request (he is dead, poor fellow!) was, that “ F. Smith” might be inscribed on his tomb-stone. I shall find him a relentless ghost on my arrival a mongst the shades, if this paper shall have been mentioned in Elysium. Pax mortuis ! [Conclusion next week.] [From Chamber’s Edinburgh Journal.] CLEVER WOMEN. There is an unaccountable antipathy to clever women. Almost all men pro fess to be afraid of blue-stockings—that is, of women who have cultivated their minds ; and hold up as a maxim, that there is no safety in matrimony, or even in the ordinary intercourse of society, except with females of plain understandings. The general idea seems to be, that a dull ordinary woman, or even a fool, is more easily managed than a woman of spirit and sense, and that tlie acquirements of the husband ought never to be obviously inferior to those of his wife. If these propositions were true, there would be some show of reason for avoiding elever women. But I am afraid they rest on no good grounds. llardly_any kind of fool can he so easily managed, as a person of even first-rate intellect ; while the most of the species are much more untractable. A dull fool is sure to be obstinate—obsti i nate in error as well as in propriety : so that the husband is every day> provoked to find that she w ilfully vvithol.ds him from acting rightly in the most trifling, and perhaps also the most important, tilings. Then the volatile fool is full of whim and caprice, and utterly defies every attempt that may be made by her husband to guide j her aright. In the one case, his life is I embittered for days, perhaps, by the sul kiness of his partner ; in the other, he is chagrined by the fatal consequences of her levity. Ate these results so much to be desired, that a man should marry beneath the rank of his own undestand ing, in order to secure them? I rather apprehend that cowardice, in this case, as in most others, is only the readiest way to danger. As for the rest of the argu ment, 1 would be far from saying, that to marry a woman much superior to one’s i self in intellect, is a direct way to happi j ness. 1 must insist, however, that there | is more safety lor a man of well-regulated | feelings, in the partnership of a superior than of an inferior woman. In the for | mer case, I verily believe, his own under -1 standing is likely to be more highly esti | mated than in the other. In the first ! place, he is allowed the credit of having | liad the sense at least to choose a good wife. In the second, he has counsel and example-ahvays at hand, for the improve ment of his own appearance before so ciety. The very superiority, however, of his wile, ensures that she will be a bove showing off to tlie disadvantage of her husband : she will rather seek to con ceal his faults, and supply his deficien cies, for her own credit. Now, what sense a fool has, she must always show it, even though sure to excite ridicule from its being so little. The arguments, which every reflecting person will be able to confirm by exam ples within his own range of observation, refer only to the immediate comfort of the husband. There are, however, other considerations. Will any man say that a woman of plain or inferior understand ing is likely to educate her children as well as a person of superior intellect? He must be fond t>f duluess, indeed, who will advance such a proposition. The truth is, that, for the sake of her children alone, a woman con hardly be tpo well informed,or possessed of too much talent. The whole formation of the mental char acter of the family, and consequently •