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BY JAMES W. JOxYES. The Southern Whig, rußLisjao eviry sm’ukdxy morning. TERMS. * Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fii st number, or fur dollars if not paid within the year, bub ecribers living out of the State, will be expect ed in all cases, to pay in advance. Ho subscription received for less than one year. Unless the money is paid in advance; and no paper will be discontinued until all arrear figws are paid, except at the option of the pub iSlier. Persons requesting a discontinuance, of their tapers, are requested to bear in mind, a settement of their accounts. a dvertisements will be inserted at the usual rates; when the number of insertions is not specified. they will be continued until ordered out. Air All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in order to secure attention Notice of the sale of Land ahd Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale, Tlio sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice ths. t Application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne groes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters of administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, «ix months. For Advertising —Letters of Citation. 8 275 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 325 Four Months Notices, 4 00 Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, 3 25 Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 75 Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 50 Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of small type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week, 62 1-2 cents for each continuance. If published once a month, it will be charged each time as a new advertisement. For a single insertion, $1 00 per square. PROSPECTUS OF THE SOOTZJfiW THIA paper formerly edited by Wm. E. Jones, is now Under the direction of the undersigned. The growing importance of Ath ens, the state of parties in Georgia, and the agitation of certain questions having a direct influence on southern interests; sary that the should have some. always on the watch construct ion of the true spt^ jL the maiutainance of the rights of the States, the retrenchment of exectitiv” patronage, reform, and a strict accountability of all public officers; moderate, yet firm and decided in his censures, “nothing extenuate or setdown ought in malice,” —to expose prompt ly abuses and corruption when and whereevr discovered —such an one the undersigned pro poses to make the Whig; while it will contain the most authentic and important information ■connected with our foreign and domestic rela tions, the latest commercial intelligence, ori ginal articles, and selections from the uius popular works of the day in the various departi ments of Agriculture. Literature ai d the Arts. To Georgians the undersigned is conscious .ke appeals not in vain for an increase of patron age —and he respectfully asks the friends of *.onstitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob lain subscribers. The Southern Whig is published weekly in Athens Georgia, at Three Dollars per annum payable in advance, Three Dollars and fifty cents if not paid within six months, or Four if not paid until the end of the year. J. W. JONES. ' A T the late meeting of the Alumni of Frank- XjL tin College, it was unanimously resolved to be expedient to make arrangements to issue a Monthly Literary Magazine, to be called THE ATHEjXLUN. The undersigneo were appointed by the So ciety a committee of publication and joint Edi tors of the work, until the next meeting of tne Society. We have no interest in the work, ex cept that which we take in the welfare of the | country and honor of the State. We, of the South, have too long depended upon foreign parts for our Literature, aijd neglected our own talents. We slja!) be weak so long as we think we are weak; and dependent until we, make ef forts to be independent. We hope all the friends nf Literature in the State, and especially the Alumni of Franklin College, will patronize the enterprise both by word and deed. State pride the love of Literal are, our interest in the cause of general Education, all call upon us to sustain an enterprise so necessary to our improvement, and the honor of the State. A. S. CLAYTON, JAMES JACKSON, R. D. MOORE, WM. L. MITCHELL, C. F. McCAY, SAMUEL P. PRESSLEY, H. HULL. Tme Athenian shall issue monthly, on fine paper, stitched and covered in pamphlet form, and shall contain sixty-four pages royal octavo. Nothing derogatory to religion, offensive to any denomination of Christians, or of any political party, shall appear in the Athenian. Its pages shall be honestly devoted to general Literature, the cause of Education, the Review of new works, and notices of improvements in Science, Arts and Agriculture. Price Five Dollars per annum, payable on the delivery of the first num ber. 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 be made to the Honorable Inferior Court 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