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BY JAMES W. JOxYES.
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SOOTZJfiW
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'
A T the late meeting of the Alumni of Frank-
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H. HULL.
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M’AV GOODS.
J\V. JONES is now receiving a;id opening
nt his STORE IN DEARING’S BRICK
BUILDING, a general assortment of
FALL WINTER GOODS,
Which for VARIETY, RICHNESS AND
SPLENDOR has not been surpassed by any
stock ever offered in this market. His stock
consists ofa very general assortment of
Staple anti Fancy Dry Goods,
CLOAKS, OVERCOATS, READY MADE
CLOTHING, BONNETS, HATS, SHOES,
CALF AND WATER PROFF 800 I S, Sperm
and Tallow Candles, tec. &c.
Oct. 15,—24—tf
FOUR months after date, application will
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of Clark county, when sitting for Ordinary
purposes, for leave to sell all the real estate of
Robert R. Billups, late of Stewart county de
ceased.
ELIZABETH W. BILLUPS, Ex’rx.
Nov. M—3o— 4m.
jcx"
CLOSE OF TUIF. Y EAJ3.
BY O. D. PRENTICE.
’Tis midnight’s holy hour—and silence now,
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o’er
The still and pulseless world. Hark I on the
winds
The bell’s deep tones are swelling—’tis the knell
Os the dep irting year. No funeral train
Is sweeping past—yet on ‘yon stream and wood
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest
Like a pale, spotless shroud—the air is stirred
As by a mourner’s sigh—and on yon cloud,
That floats so still and placidly through heaven,
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand,
Young spring, bright summer, autumn's sol
emn form
And winter with his aged locks, and breathe,
In mournful! cadences that come abroad
Like the far wind harp’s wild and touching
wail,
A melancholy dirge o’er the dead year
Gone from the Earth forever.
'Tis » time
For memorj and for tears. Within the deep
Still chambers of the heart a spectre dim,
Whose tones are like the wizard voice jf Time
Heard from the tomb of Ages, points its cold
And solemn finger to the beautiful
And holy visions, that have passed away
And left no shadow of their loveliness
On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts
The coffin lid ol Hope, and Joy, and Love,
And, bending mournfully above the pale
Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead
flowers,
O’er what has passed to nothingness. The
year
Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng
Os happy drcams. Its mark is on each brow,
Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course,
It waved its sceptre o’er the beautiful—
And they are not It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man—and the haughty form
Is fallen, and the flushing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged
The bright and joyous—and the tearful wail
Os stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded. I ipassed o’er
The battle plain, where sword and spear and
shiell
Flashed in the light of mid-day and the strength
Os serried hosts is shivered, and the grass,
Green from the soil of carnage, waves above
The erdshed and moul lering skeletons. Il came
And faded like a wreath of mist at eva.
Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air,
It heralded its millions to their home,
In the dim land of dreams.
Remorseless time—
Spirit of the Glass and Scythe—what
silent course, or melt
n >
<■ r
ll'le Andes, that can soar
Through heaven’s unfathomable depths, or
brave
The fury of the northern hurricane
And bathe his plumage m the thunder’s home,
Furls his broad wings at nightfall and sinks
down
To rest upon his mountain crag—but Time
Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness,
And Night’s deep darkness has no chain to bind
His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep
O’er Earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast
Os dreaming Sorrow-Cities rise and sink
Like bubbles on the water—Fiery isles
Spring blazing fronl the Ocean, and go back
To their mysterious caverns—Mountains rear
To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and
bow
Their tall heads to the plain—New Empires,
rise,
Gathering the strength of hoary centuries
And rush dawn like the Alpine avalanche,
Startling the nations—and the very stars,
Yon bright and burning blazonry of God,
Glitter awhile in their eternal depths,
And like the Pleiad loveliest of their train,
Shoot from their glorious spheres and pass
away
To darkle in the trackless void—Yet Time !
Time the tomb-builder, holds his tierce career,
Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not,
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path,
To sit and muse, like other conquerors,
Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.
From the Knickerbocker —-for January, 18137.
Wilson Conworth.*
CHAPTER I.
If life were t'* be measured by incidents, I
should have lived a long, and apparently a use
less one. I feg| that it is drawing to a close,
though I am not old now—not old in years.
But I have lived long enough to survive the
love of life; and this seems strange to myself,
as I look upon a world so intent upon the mere
act of living, and so careless of the future.
As I revert to the past, I find little to regret,
save the waste of time,and the misapplication
of powers ; and these were more the work of
education than my own agency. The reason
why lam not happier, is, that 1 have acquired
so strong a moral momentum in certain cour
ses—not criminal ones, as the worl I judges—
that I find it impossible to turn myself to
fulness.
I grasp at the idea that I
by giving a history of ■ y "
growth m -
represent thousamjMlWßHE' _
was born, i; '
i g aS I T Jpiject with
♦ThestorV: • * Truth” is what
it purports t<A , » ' I Jcript from real
life. The co® •'%/*’- •. /hom we receive
it, was a
whom he thus over the
history of mv felt disposed to ex
punge some sentiments, which the world may
not perhaps call just; but upon reflection, I
have concluded to submit it in 'ts original state.
As it is, it is a perfect picture ot his character,
as he himself observes; and if any moral is to
be deduced front his story.it must be read as he
wrote it.” It may be proper to add. that the
MSS. is all before us, arranged in such a man
ner as to preserve in each of its several di visions
an interest which is not contingent upon what
may follow. Our renders will find in this auto
biography, when they shall have fairly entered
upon it, or we greatly mistake human feeling
and good taste, mu th of the beautiful sentiment
and simple grace of Irving, united with a calm
and thoughtful philosophy, and a thorough
knowledge of the world—the harvest of an ob
serving eye. Eon. Kx|cbeß*ocksß.
.. " nr KN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY. JeJJtrSOn.
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEUAitu,
'Sbt and uncertainty. It seems impossible
lIU f can finish it. I throw down my pen,
'l )t: commencement, and resume it again
wi.b a , hO|)(J that j |,. lve not started
. another c. tjera to cbeat tn 3o f my time, and
and (.elude jutonothiug.jess ; f or now lam
literally nothn j am a ° lo!)e . oue cares
ffir me yet Ic. „ n)al)V- I love inv fel-
low men. I wee Ko . thei ; iniserieg; £ pi(y
•heir misfortunes, -j oo | t upon them as crea
turesof circumstance, Vllh inysolf . The vile
have become so, by de beeg imperceptible to
themselves; the good are uu)!y i ilC apable of
tracing their progress. Vq 0i) men b:Jgin t „
reflect, and to look about them, qn( ] to be acted
j on by pride of character —to themselves
subjected to the arbitrary criterion- o f society
—to discover the reasons why the) occupy
this station or that—they then begin to f | av aa
equal game with their fe lows. But initi’.’this
time of awakening to their real situation, tti.-y
are passive instruments in the hands of fate.
Some never think—never awake—but live on,
they inquire not how, or where. The present
moment absorbs them ; they are satisfied, and
chance directs them, or what is the same thing,
as far as they are concerned, the actions of
other men decide their destiny. Whether this
he good or bad, is to them a matter of mere
fortune. So rner. find themselves occupying
a certain rank in the woild, at the time they
begin to think for themselves. They presume
upon what they have, be it never so little.
This lays them open to casualty, and they rise
or fall, as the chance may be. If loss has
happened, they still have something. Like
the spendthrift, they look at the remaining coin,
and promise themselves one pleasure more.
Thinking thus, what sentiment can the bad ex.
cite, but pity ?—and how can we look upon
the good, hui as fortunate ? It may be said, in
answer to this, that men are the weavers of
their own fortunes—that every one hasthe op
portunity to turn circumstances to his own be
nefit. Yes ! we say; but the disposition to
make this effort—the moral force necessary to
the exertion—is a matter of education—of
early, infant education ; and who will deny
that this is in the hands of others ?
I have said that I have determined to write
my life in a plain, unvarnished history. I
shall tell nothing but what I know to have ta
ken place. lam si obscure, that the author
can never be known. I delight in the thought
that I shall appear in a mask before the world.
1 can send abroad the true and genuine feel
ings of the human heart. There is no fiction
here, though I wear the gaib of a tale. Those
who read me, will talk about my being true to
nature, little thinking, perchance, that they are
criticizing nature herself.
I shill do no injustice to friends; for they
are mostly dead. Those who survive, will
hardly recognize themselves in the true picture
I shall give of them, under assumed names;
for who knows bimscli’, save the unhappy? 1
pride myself upon an original plan of doing
good. Who dare lay bare his heart to the in
spection of his fellow men? It may be that I ;
shall keep back a part of the price I have paid
for my experience ; though I begin ill the can
did feeling of saying nil. Why should men
be afraid to confess their weaknesses, when
all the world knows they possess them? My
faults are of a common order, and may assist
many in the work of seif knowledge.
The youth in our cities see the profligate
and licentious, the idle and the luxurious, in the
height of their course. In public, th. y are all
gay and careless, and seem, to the young mind
eager for a knowledge of life, to be the happi
est of the happy. They know little of the
certain and inevitable descent of such painted
rottenness. They do not follow them to their
chambers of despair; they do not accompany
them to linger out their lives of wretchedness
and want in ibieign lands; they do not feel
the pangs of remorse that wring their bosoms,
when they revert back in memory to the pure |
years of childhood, and rear in imagination—
perhaps in the cells of a prison—the mother
whose arms cradled their infancy, and compare :
what they are with what they might have been ;
thev do not see all this and more; but like the j
foolish insects, that flit by my night-lamp, they
rush to death, because it looks brig.it to the
eye. My story will unfold the consequences
of a life of pleasure.
While many men of the present day write
falsi* journeying, imaginary love scenes, spec
ulating r bberies, and amusing murders, to
make money, and give the young false views
of life, 1 write these plain and true events,
which may take place in the life of any Ame
rican—which no one ever thinks of telling,
and which may be trite in themselves, taken
singly, but when viewed as a whole, will e
viiice the importance of small steps in a long
journey, and give a better insight into the er
rors of early education, than all the very natu
ral rhodomotitade about wine, women, and
robbers, ever written.
But I trust my story w ill not be devoid of
interest. For I have travelled much in my
own country. I have seen many sects of peo
ple. I have been on familiar terms with the
extremes of society. My mother gave me a
kind heart, and a social disposition was the re
sult of a nervous temperament; for so fond ol
excitement was I, that, rather than be alone; i
would mix with any of the species. But all
ibis will grow cut of my history, and without (
farther prelude; 1 hasten to enter upon it.
I was born of respectable and wealthy pa
rents, in the city of —; that is to say,
my father was wealthy, lor no one thinks ot
attaching- ativ Health to the moth- r, iu this
country, unless she has inherited it. The fa
ther makes the money ; he holds the ptirse
; lie dispenses the daily dole ; he goes
followed by his servant, with a large
;u-d not a copper is expei.did in the
his knowledge. I’eti to one
ujjr.,-11 liis wife’s dresses, and shoes,
them presents. The father is the
Tictotam of his fa.nily in America, ns he should
be every where. The mother bears and nur
ses the children, aud goes to meeting with him
on Sundays ; and he calls her “dear,” byway
of title, The reader must date my birth some
forty years back, tor this puritanical reslage is
last fading away, and the ladies are oltt'ner the
governors than their husbands. Fashionable
life obtains in our cities; ladi s make morn
ing calls in coaches of their own ; put the
children under the care of nurses ; have Ser
vants to go to market; keep tradesmen’s bills ;
give b ills and parties without consulting their
husbands ; reg date the education of their chil
dren* and, in short, do every thing of a domes
tic nature; while the husband appears on
’Change, takes care of his business, and at
tends to his own clubs, and, if he can, pays his
bills.
We Americans were a very simple people
when I was a boy. fixtrdvagance was a rate
thing. Propriety was more thought of than
fashion —eloquence, than style. Still, in NeW
England, there exists a truce of the puritans— ■
ATEIEAS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, J ANU ARI. 28, 1837.
who were despots in their fimilies—though so
faint is it, that io another geiertoion it. will en
tirely have vanished. Weiith, luxury, love of
the world and its honors—scope for which
passions is now afforded by out physical and
political advancement—Hah shut out the gloo
miness and fanaticism of otr fathers, who co
pied after Bible characters, aid esteemed them
selves upon an equality witl the holy men of
old. Their s lf-cousequeiic. was much help
ed along bv their secluded stuation, and their
want of general knowledge. The early puri
tans had none to comparethemselves with,
and, after the decease of th, original landers
at Plymouth, their descend;* ts knew not but
they 'wore the greatest men i ’he world ; sure
ly they had heavy responsibities. and we can
hardly regret their delusion,lince it begat an
energy which supported us trough a toilsome
revolution. This charucterhas been gradu- 1
«ity falling away, growing mire and more faint
in each s icceedi: g geueMion, until uow,
when it is hardly discernible.
My father, then, was a respectable merchant,
worth a great deal of money. He lived in a
large and handsomely-furnished hsuso. kept a
carriage, and one man-servant for every thing,
and three or four maid-servants mostly for no
thing. He was called a rich man, and treat
ed as rich men always arc; bowed to, very
low, by shopkeepers and nechames, and all
those who hoped for his custom. He was
greeted in the street by othcirich men like him
self, with great respect, whi wished to set an
example to the lookers-on h>w rich men should
be treated. The smile ant bow of all those
who wished for his dinners,and wine, and par
ties, were extremely insinuating and complai
sant. But, reader, he hid his abasement.
Tho million man aid tha half million man
looked down upon him. They bowed, but the
million man and the half trillion man bowed
the most lordly. You niigit have seen the
“ mens conscia auri' in theireyes, as they pass
ed by my father. The skirts df their coats
were wider, the brim df their hats a little
bro tder.-j.id their nb'lomens rather more ro
tund, than my father’s; furl have remarked,
that rich men, in America, when they get a lit
tle old, always wear teoa'.s and hats a little
broader than the common run of men.
1 hope the reader has got by this time some
idea of what my father was—for his reputa
tion and standing in the wo.-ld, had an impjr
taut influence upon my life.-
CHAPTER It.
My earliest reeollec'iou is, of being tied up
in a Chair, to obviate the trouble of holding me,
and to keep me from falling. Even uow, I
feel the agony of the situation and the restraint
i could not talk, and utter my pain, and explain
the reason; but I could Crv. and this I was
permitted to do to any extent, under the idea
that it would strengthen riiy Idngs.
I Was burn a nervous child—that is, my phy
sical susceptibilities were always acute, even
mmy infancy. My mother was of delicate
frame, and possessed of the nicest organs.
She sans’ to perfection the most difficult pieces
of music, without knowing any thing of the
science. She is said to have been highly ac
complished by iiaturt. She gained by ready
intuition, what others acquire by labor and
practice. I believe I received niy nature from
her. In a woman, it was an excellence, in the
eyes of her acquaintance, though it could not
have made her happy. To me it was a curse.
I recollect, tdo; th it I was devotedly attached
to my mother, anil very much afraid of my fa
ther, excepting when, after dinner, I was bro’t
into the room when we had company, and
coaxed to sing a iittl? song, and toss off a glass
of wine, like a man. I have no biller infan
tile remembrances.
M hen about eight years of age—and from
this time I reco'lect distinctly every passsge in
my life—l was sent to dancing school, and be
ing si little, short, squat personage, with a good
ear for music, and some agility, I was quite
an object of curiosity and wonder. This gra
tified me; the feeling was encouraged by my
relations ; and the love of praise became a pas
sioa I have never outgrown.
At this period, too, I contracted a warm
friendship with a cousin about my own age,
because it was a Settled matter between our pa
rents that we must be very fond of each other
We wen- always together. People called us
“the little friends,” and we thought it mighty
pretty. We were tenants in common of a lit
tle patch of ground, and joint owners of a rock
i 'g-horse. Years of absence soon broke up
tins intimacy, without any pain to either of us,
1 prestime; but I was always taught to con
sider cousin James as my best friend, though
I had not seen him fur years. I knew and
prized him, after this, on his own account; but
1 doubt whether I should ever have sought his
acquaintance, had it not been for some family
flattery, w hieh was supposed to answer some
end in our parents.
Until I was ten years of age, I was very
like other children. I suppose. J was sent to
school to an old school-mistress, who used to
toast cheese for herself in schonl-time, and eat
it with great relish. I have always loved
toasted cheese, since I first saw her place the
swollen mass upon Some gitigt rhftad which
slie had taken away from a little boy, for eat
ing in the school hours, and eat it herself.
This seemed rather hard justice to all of tis,
but she was too ignorant to sitppose that chil
dren had any ideas before they had learned to
read.
This love of toasted cheese nearly cost me
niy life. Going home with the memory of the
rich repast in my mind, and the wat r in my
mouth, I cut by stealth a largo slice from the
cheese-tray, and began to cook it; when, i.i
my eagerness, mv clothes caught lire, my hair
was burned off, and I was scorched Iron* top
to toe. I was saved by being wrapped in a
table-cloth. I suffered excruciating pain for
weeks; but still ihe first impression of toasted
cheese remains. 11 is my fiassion of eatables,
and ever will remain so.
The location of niy father’s hotiSe was an
unlucky circtimstai'ce in mv education. A
long alley led to the back of it, and visitors
frequently passed up this alley, where I was
accustomed to play. Recognizing me as the
son of a rich man, they would stop, pat me on
the head, praise rny eyes and lips, ami smite of
the ladies gave me kisses. I told my mother
this. She was delighted. I was told to keep
myself clean and nice; for fear some of the la
dies might see me; and by and bv I went to
the alley, not to play, bitt to be admired and ca
ressed by the dear visiting friends of mv mo.
ther.
The love of praise was now fixed for life.
I became proud and vain of niy person, and
cried if rny clothes were soiled— had mv hands
and fade Washed twenty times a day, and mv
hair Combed twice ns often— -'went to the glass
at every opportunity—walked with the air ofa
little gentleman—cut the acquaintance of all
dirty little boys, aud attended my toother when-
ever she went to see ladies. I thought my
self the most observed person in the world,
and too much of a gentleman to do any thing.
Children are oftener praised by their parents
for keeping their clothes clean and whole, than
for anV thing else. It saves a great deal of
trouble and expense to these same parents, and
they see nothing in it beyond a convenience for
the present moment, .
Being the eldest son, and my father a rich
man, I Was destined to receive the best advan
tages of education, I was sent to the
expensive school in the neighborhood of the
citv ; for it was the fashion of the rich people
to send their sous to boarding-schools, at the
time I write of. My father s acquaintances
mostly rich men and merchants —very good
men, but no very good judges of what their
children needed —were much.pleased with the
location of Sidney School. Mr. Surface was
a gentleman. He had educated the child re.
of several rich men, after his way. He got
them into college, some how or other, but to
my certain knowledge, not by knowing any
thing of Lattin of- Greek. Beside, he char
ged a high price, and that was every thing in
his favor. It is of some consequence that
gentlemen may ba able to say on ’Change,
what vast sums they are expending in the ed
ucatiou of their children.
Let it not be supposed that I would cast any
ridicule upon my father. Hu was an \meri
can rtlerchant, and as good a man as ever lived.
He was a kind father, or he meant to be so.
He would have laid down his life for his chil
dren, had it been necessary ; but he partriok of
the error of the times. He did as thousands
do, and have done; and will do—looked at the
outside—at appearances. He was guided by
“the credit of the thing.” It was enough for
him to know, that the feputation of this school
was gbod. He thought He had done his duty.
Beside, he had his mercantile reputation to
look after. His children I —lie thought they
would grow up good, of course—-for he was
paying hundreds ot dollars for them yearly.
I Come to the task of describing this
school; with mv sleeVes rolled up to the elbow.
I wish id do the subject justice. If we have
good scholars now in our colleges, it is be
cause the system of early instruction has been
changed, and is daily and hourly Undergoing
improvements. As knowledge of mind ad
vances, education will ad -ance. It was once
thought that children were born to be good or
bid by nature; but to talk of a boy’s natural
talents meaning any thing more than as far as
physical organization Is concerned, would at
this day be considered nonsense. We have a’
last found out that edui at;on does every thing,
■and where no natural impediments are in the
wav—such as defects in the body—a boy.
with prop r training, may be made almost any
thing his parents in ,y wish him to be.
The fault of bad scholarship, and want of
elevated taste, lies in the primary school, and
in proper attention, at home, to the infant years
of our children. A child may receive an im
pression to-day, which shall have an effect ten
years hence. Tho distance of the effect
blinds us as to the cause. Teach a child in a
slovenly manner—give him half-way explana
tions —be irregular in your hours, and careless
of his improvement—and he will be a superfi
cial scholar; and if he have fine sensibilities,
and a warm fancy, he will boa coniet-like
character—erratic—unsteady—uncertain.
His friends may call him a genius, and the la
dies an enthusiast; that is, a mind without
balance, feeling without judgment, taste with
out discriminatibu, thoughts without method
and impulses, dependent more upon the animal
than the moral nature. He will be like a ship
w'thout a helm—full ot force, but without di
rection. The fault is in the primary school,
not in the college. I belieVe mv character so:
usefulness was fixed at Mr. Surface’s school,
and I wish to lay the blame on him, and the sys
teffi he practised.
Never was there a situation more delightful
than Sydney Place, A large and spacious
house was situated in the nlidstof shady trees,
and the extensive grounds were left open and
free to the most exuberant spirits of boyhood.
We could run in a straight direction fora quar
ter of a mile, without passing our own territo
ry. A small enclosure from many acres was
set off for a garden, and all the rest was one
closely.fed green-sward, with here and there
clumps of trees. A brook gurgled through
the centre of the grounds, which we could
dam up at pleasure into ponds fob naval fights,
for bathing, and in winter, for skating. Eve
ry tree had a name, and every shrub a story.
A long avenue of poplars led to our school
house. A little hillock, sacred to the memory
of many a kitten, and pet robin, or favorite dog.
rose near the entrance. It was the starting
place for our sleds in winter—the council seat
in summer—the idler’s lounge—the judges’
throne, in set fights. We had here all kind.-
of sports, from toot-ball to trap.bail ; taming
mice, rearing chickens, cock-fighting, dog.
carts, hoops, ba Is, kites, and eVen down to
playing pin, formed our out-of-door amuse
ments. Who has looked at the sports of chil
dren, rtntl not been astonished at the wonderful
fertility of their minds, in the invention of ex
pedients for killing time, under any circum
stances 1
No school cotild have been better for physi
cal education. Th” rule was, to be in school
eight, hours a day; but we rarely exceeded
six, and lo ;g intermissions swallowed up a
good deal of this. We had set lessons: if 1
we knew them —very well ; if not, a whip,
ping followed. Boys were classed, us much
as possible, without regard to age, aptness f>r
study, or acquirements. The obj ct was. to
hurry us through books, that we might be able
to say, *• we are so far,” when questioned by
visitors, or our parents. Nothing was explai
ued. We rarely parsed a word of Latin ; our
sports did not illustrate any thing; our busi
ness Was play— to cheat Ourselves of school
time as agreeably as possible— -to frame excu
ses and plans for avoiding bur lessons, which
no pains were taken to make interesting tons.
We were tauglr words. We purchased trans,
lations, and lured boys to get our lessons, and
read them to ns. There was no ambition far
scholarship, for one boy fared as well as ano
ther, in all respects, except the floggings ;
the sons of very rich men who sent two or
three boys, got rather the lightest blows, and
and the most smiles.
We had an examination once a year, and
for this event we were all prepared. We
knew the questions co ning to us—the passage
we Were to' translate —even the words we were,
to spell. Mouths Were employed iu getting
up this pageant, for the reputation of the school
depended upon it.
In the tiveni-ig, we had ati exhibition. There
Wc shone in gilded armor, tind wore dirks, and
played kings, and great men. The house was
crowded wiih the ladies aud gentlemen whom
we were accustomed to meet at our fathers ta
bles. Wa already tasted the praise, in anti-
cipation, that would follow our performance.
How conspicuous each one felt! How we
foamed with delight! And dur parents, how
delighted they were ! How heartily were we
kissed, behind the scenes, by our dear mothers !
They could not wait, but stole out to help us
dress, and see that every thing was nice.
Dear, dear mothers ! What blessed creatures
you ar«. and how beautiful,even in your weak
nesses! Whit a school! The papers rang
with its praises. Fathers were mad to place
their children under such a paragon of skill.
But, alas ! what were we I Poor fools! We
had no training—no discipline, O>r minds
were filled with false and alluring passions—
the passibn for praise and the passion for
sport.
CHAPTER HI.
How I got admitted to college, I cannot say.
I was very imperfectly prepared ; but my
books were interlined, and chance placed a
great raw yotith from the country, who had
fitted himsell by dint ofhard study, by my side.
He took compassion; I suppose, up-m toy trem
bling ignorance, and gave me a word or two
in a whisper. As gotid luck k-ould have it,
when We went to be examined in Greek, the
professor dropped his book from the desk : I
rushed forward aud gave it lo him, with my
best bow. I thought lie w >uld show me some
favor, and that gave me confidence. I scraped
in, and my father already saw me half way up
to the temple of fame.
I nciw put dn a watch, a long-tailed coat,
walked in the streets with niy father, and felt
that I was a man. He seemed to wish t 5
hasten my years, and to give me,ere my child
hood closed, the habits of a young man.
I was supplied liberally with money ; drove his
horses, and did very touch as I pleasett. This
was during the vacation, before I todk rooms
at college. I was to all intents and purposes
his eldest son. Deprived of the advantages of
education, except that better ki t d which he got
in the world by pushing his own wav, my
father was misled by his hopes; for he thought
he had nothing else to do than to pl.ice me in
the way of learning; He judged me by him
self ; he felt the highest regard forthat of which
he himself was destitute, aud could not imagine
how any one Could feel differently.
Proud and happy father ! —how have your
hopes been blasted ! M ould that I could recall
vou from the grave, to weep at your feet those
tears of deep contrition aud sorrow which noh
fall in rivers to the ground for my tin worthiness ,
and for the bittnrdisappoi.itment whicii hurried
you beyond the knowledge cf all my transgres
sions !
But must I bear all the blame? I acted in
accordance with the feeble power within me.
Shall I blame my parent ? He hid done all
he thought a father could do for a child. Why
not rather blame that system of education
which stifles the germ ol mind in thousands of
my countrymen, by placing them in the midst
of luxury in infancy ; displaying to them in
boyhood only a gilded world ; surrounding
them with false appearances ; nurturing them
i . the uncertain atmosphere of wealth ; with
no idea of labor—no thought but pleasure —
no hope but praise. Where is such a mind,
when adversity frowns upon a family ? De
prived ot its station, it sinks into an inferiority
as hopeless aS it is unexpected. The elasticity
of youth may rise above it, by some fortuitous
assistance ; but. oh ! the struggle of mastering
false pride—of being willing to seem what we
are—and of beginning our education in man
hood ! —lt may be done; but bitter is the tup,
aud slow and toilsome is the progress.
Previous to my entering college, rny mother
had died. My father still kept htiuse, managed
by servants. I escaped ail the evil of such
discipline, bv being at school ; though it would
be hard to decide which of the two is the great
er evil, the influente of scrVar.ts over children,
or a showy school.
I felt severely the loss ofmy mother; or rath
er I have felt it severely, since the actual event
I do not mean that I had not every personal
comfort which she could have bestowed upon
me, but I felt the loss of her affec ion—ot the
inducements to ex -rtion which the love, the
tender love, we bear our mother <, furnishes.
Why descant here upon a mother’s love?
All the world knows it to bo the only pure and
hallowed affection this state ofexistence allows.
Deprive a child of its mother, and you take
from it its strongest stay against temptation and
the allurements of the worl 1. She Is the rud
der of his heart, and through its tenderness
( can mould and direct as she pleases. VVhat
son can resist her tears? See ! she weeps
she implores—she throws her arms about your
neck—she covers your face with kisses—she
is overcome m ith the depth of her anxiety.
Can you disregard her ? She is the mother
who bore you. ihe nurse who dandled you, and
, hlished your infant cries. She looked upon
' you when but a mere mass of flesh, hardly
' possessed of life; with unutterable affection.
' Alas ! if we do licit love our mothers, it must
be because we do not think.
My mother’s death pai ied me, but I soon
forgot, niy sorrows in the amusements of the
school. 1 hatre felt it stucc ; and regret tor her
loss will eVer remain the strongest feeling of j
mv life. To the loss of Her, I attribute ad rny I
subsequent errors. With a disposition easily
yielding to affection, I possessed an uncon
querable aversion to force ; and where tear
was intended to i flueiiCe nie; I only became
stubbornly set in opposition.
When she died, I Was away from home.
I was immediately sent fur. Upon toy arrival,
I found the house turned up side down, as if
preparing for a great party. Bed< were taken
awav. and the rooms furnished with seats to
accommodate a great multitude. 1 was shock
ed to see all the family so busy, and so much
eno-aoed in the labor of preparation. It seem
ed to be disrespect to my mother. My
father was about giving orders, with Jus usual
energy. At table, my old grandmother from
ihe country presided, in the place of my mother
a id she ate like a cormorant, and praised the
I had never been in the house ofdenth before,
and th ai<’ht wc ought all of us to have been '
silent aud sorrowful. I found out tnen and I
si ce, that when in the very midst of death i
aud disease, the mi id accommodates itse'f to .
the case, and we look upon the event in a more ,
reasonable light, being compelled to act and ]
behave collectedly by necessity. Imagination .
in this, as in every thing else, exceeds reality; |
and the death of an absent friend affects us more (
severely than the actual seeing of his departure.
Aly brother and rtiyself occupied a chatober
together; when we were at home, nearly over
mv mother’s bed-room. We were obliged to 1
pass her door in 'getting to our own room. 1
We retired together, both of us timid at the 1
thought of death so near to us. 1
After we got into bed, and he had fallen I
asleep, a sudden courage possessed me. I lay I
aud reasoned with my self for a fisw moments—
Vol. IV—No. 3». .
then took the light and went dotVn to my moth
er's room—turned the sheet from hefr face,
gazed upon her in the silence and solitude of
death. I kissed her pule, cold lips again and
again. It seemed to toe that she knew I waa
parting with her for the last time; I retired
to my chamber with no sentiment bf fear in my
heart. I felt lifted above fear; jFroth that
time I Have never feared death;. A fid! Know
ledge of what death is, was suddenly fevßaled
to me with ihat act. The toemdry bftlit! dig
nified feeling of that hour can ne¥et depart;
All childish delusioris were dispelled by the
etcess of toy affection for her; That affetetibn
iS as indelible as her memory;
I returned to school, and. aS I Havt* baid,ieod
forgot my sorrows ; though, when I wns tick
or low spirited, my mother’s image would be
cur to me, as she used to appear when she adbtiu
ed my*pains, and pacified my childish tom
plaints. The lamp which had guided my feet
below, still oftep shone upon tne like a Mtar
from above. When, too. the mothers bf the
other boys came out to see th‘*m, and I Saw
how happy they were. I then wished 1 Hid u
mother too.
I should have mentioned, before this, that my
mother was a piously-disposed woman. Sha
had been educated —as who in New England
is not ? in respect for the Sabbath. No uoisa
was allowed in the house on Sunday. Mb
were made to sit still, and reiyl the Bible on
that day—even the abstruse writings of St.
Paul. We itnderstdbd nothing, bxcept that it
was a good act to do so, and pleased God;
how, we did not know, nor did we think to
inquire—for the impression was an early one,
and was received as a mattbr of course.
Our verv early impressions in morals and
conduct are like the laws of nature; which arb
operating so constantly and invafiably around
us, that they seem matters of bourse. The
theory of gravitation was not inquired into,
until lately; though the world had livbd in the
observance of this law for centuries; What
child, born of religious parents, cannot reed,
lect his horror and self-accusation, after com;
mitting a sin for the first time, and the gradual
wearing away of his scruples 1 And now, if
he is a man, he will find himself doing; dai.y
and hourly, things which once hb tVould have
shuddered to commit;
Butin our religious reading, we felt that we
were doing rignt, and that was pleasant. At
night, after we were snugly in bed, our mother
would come and seat herself upon the bedside,
and one by one we Said o.ir little prayers; Sho
would then kiss us and depart.
I received impressions at this season which
have never been obliterated; Strange and
beautiful thoughts of God, and Heaved,* apd my
mother, come up to nie now—they have often
in mv weary life—with a spirit of devotion
I cannot account for ; for I have always tried
hard to be skeptical. Philosophers may ac-'
count for it. if they can ; but for myself I be.
lieve, truly, that it is the seeds of goodn<*s
those infant prayers and bed.side instructions,
planted, and over which the dross of the world
has been heaped up, struggling td cotheto light
and bear the fruit of true religion.
What a calm such hdurs hafe! How pla-‘
1 cid ! —how grateful to an aching heart ! I
feel like a child again, at my mother’s side ;
I see her mild angelic face—l hear her sweet
voice, and respond her warm kiss. I l;iy my
head upon her bosom—the bosom that nourish,
ed me—and weep tears ofjoy. Call this fool;
ish, unmanly, weak, if you will—but give me
many such hours ! They are the bright spots
in my life. They are al! that hat's kept ma
pure—morally pure—when, td *he world. I
seemed like a blasted tree, without greeunesb
or branches.
Letters to Young Ladies.
UTILITY.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
It was a king of Sparta, who counselled
that the young should learn, vfchat they
would have most occasion to practice,’
when they reached maturity. We praise
his wisdom; ye' recede from its guidance.
Especially, is female education deficient,
in its adoption of means to ends; And
yet ottr province is so eminently practical,
that to disjoin acquisition from utility,
seems both a greater mistake and a rrtore
I irreparable riiisforturfe, than for other
sex. to adopt a desultory system.
Man lives in the eye of the world. He
t seeks much of his solace from its applause.'
If unsuccessful in one profession, he enters
• ariother. If his efforts are fraustrated iti.
his native land, he becomes thfe citizdn of
a foreign clime. He makes His hotije ori
’ the tossing wave, or traverses the eartli
I from pole to jiole. His varieties of Situa
tion, give scope for varieties of knowledge
and call into action energies and attain
ments, which might long have lain dor
mant, or been considered of little value*
It is not tipis with woinsn. Her spherd
of quiet ddty requires more training. Its
scenerv has few changes, and no audience
to applaud. It aSks the aid of fixed princi
j pies, patiently drawn out into their natural;
uno tentatious results.
There was in past times, much dis
cussion respecting the comparative in
tellect ofthte sexes.—lt seems to have been!
useless. To strike the balance, is scarcely
practicable, until both shall have been'
subjected to the same method of cultbre;
Man might be initiated int i the varieties
and mysteries of needlework, taught to
have pa' ened with the feebleriess and way
wardness of infancy, or to steal with noise
less step, around the chamber of thb sick;
and woman rhight be instigated to contend
for the palm of Science, to pour forth elo
quence in senates, or to “wade through
fields of slaughter to a tftrone. w But
revoltings of the soul would attend this
violence to nature, this abuse of pffiVsital
and intellectual energy, while the beauty
of social order would be defacfed Mhd the
fountains of earth’s felicity bi tfkerqup; The
sexes are manifestly intended for different
spheres and constructed in conformity td
their respective destinations, bv Him who
bids the oak brave »he fury of the tempest
and the Alp n * flower lean its chce'con the
bosom of eternal snows. But disparity
need not imply inferiority; ahd she of the
week hand and the strong heart, is as
deeply accountable, for what she has
received, as clearly within the cognizance
of the “Great Task-Master’s eye,”as
though the high places of the feartk, with
all their pomp and glory, awaited her am
bition, or strewed their trophies at her
feet.
Females, who turn their existence td