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PROSPECTUS ~
OF THE
THIS paper formerly edited by Wm. E.
Jones, is now under the direction of the
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construction of the true spirit
the maintaiuance ofihe rights
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J. W. JONES.
PKOBi‘ECTUB.
AT the late meeting of the Alumni of Frank
lin College, it was unanimously resolved to
be expedient to make arrangements to issue a
Monthly Literary Magazine, to be called
THE ATHENIAN.
The undersigneu were appointed by the So
ciety a committee of publication and joint Edi
tors ot the work, until the next meeting of tue
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 uponG’oreign
parts forour Literature, and neglected our own
•■dents. We shall 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
of Literature in the State, and espcciallv the
Alumni ol Franklin College, will patronize the
enterprise both by word and deed. State pride
the love of Literal age, 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,
nr
1 me Athenian shall issue monthly, on fine
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and shall contain sixty-four pages royal octavo
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months after date, application will
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purposes, for leave to sell all the real estate o's
Robert R. Billups, late ot Stewart county de
ceased.
ELIZABETH W. BILLUPS, Ex’r.
Nov. —3o—4rn.
A/V'E feel it a dpty we owe to ourselves, to in
*’ form our friends of certain reports which
are “on the tongues of every one” that some
teachers in Scottsboro’ are Abolitionists. We
are not the only teachers in Scottsboro,’ and
those who know us would be the last to charge
us with such hateful principles—they know us
to be Southern men (natives of Virginia, but
Georgians by adoption) by birth education and
in feeling. L. LATASTE,
January 28—39—4 t V. LATASTE.
Editors who have published a previous ad
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Southern Whig
From the Saturday Courier.
INVOCATION TO SLEEP,
Written During Sickness.
BY MISS LUCY SEYMOUR.
Come, sleep, and spread
Thy peaceful pinions o’er a weary world,
O’er scenes impress’d by sorrow’s withering
tread—
There be thy sweetest, softest influence shed,
Thy shadowy wings unfurled.
The eye whose task
Has been to wake and watch, and hapless
weep,
‘Steep in forgetfulness,’—a radiant mask
Throw o’er reality, and let it bask
In blissful dreams, oh sleep !
To those who pine
O'er sever’d ties—affection’s broken chain—
Restore-the dead—the parted links entwine,
Adorn with flowers once more earth’s faded
shrine,
And bid life bloom again.
The captive lone,
Whose hopes long pining years have seen
depart,
Give back the skies that on his childhood
shone,
The cherish’d form, the lov’d, familiar tone,
Trac’d on his sadden’d heart.
In picture fair
Paint to the sailor, on the briny deep,
His cottage home, —and let him mingle there,
With voices dear, in concert sweet and prayer,.
Such is thy power, oh sleep !
The poet’s eye,
Which turns in weariness from earth’s dark
fan",
Regales with visions of a brighter sky,
Undinim’d by ‘haunting shades from things
gone by,’
Or yearnings wild and vain.
A world like this,
0 1 who could dwell in, and not seek to fly 7
Rest of those shadowy gifts of happiness,
Those sweet brief interludes of fancied bliss,
In life’s deep tragedy I
From life’s rough din
Waft my sad spirit to Elysian plains,
Some radiant world,unvisited by sin,
Where sorrow’s blighting footsteps hath not
been,
To leave its mortal stains.
Oh! come and fling
Athwart my darken’d path thy brightest
gleam—
Cull from the past,— those priceless treasures
. thousand tender memories cling,
them in my dream.
charm’d car
Seraphic melodies awhile De given , i
My fever’d spirit animate and cheer
With the rich music of some sinless sphere.
The harmonies of heav’n.
In vain I call,
Alas ! my aching brow can find no rest,
Though nature sleep beneath night’s dewy pall
No balmy drops upon my eyelids fall,
No seal of peace is prest.
At midnight hour
I wake and keep lone watch ; or if perchance
I win from sleep a momentary dow’r,
Around my path portentous tempests low’r,
Terrific visions dance.
Where poppies grow
I fain would lay me, or by Lethe’s stream, —
Oh! gentle sleep, on me a draught bestow,
And let me lose remembrance of my wo
In one bright peaceful dream !
From tlw Knickerbocker.—February 1837.
Wilson Uonwortli.
CHAPTER IV.
Before entering upon my college life, it is
necessary to despatch all my childish educa
tion, the more easily to trace the causes of fu
ture character.
To a kind and sympathetic heart,the feeling
of love—sexual love—comes early. A mind
of ordinary tenderness must, always lov c some
thing; the object is indefinite, tor the senti
ment is vague. The natural affinity o f t ] le
sexes is in the bud, and the love ot which 1
speak is a natural impulse. It is a rare, oc
currence that we find little boys misusing little
girls. Nature teaches the male that the ft.
ipale is under his protection. We call this in.
gtinct in animals, and why is it not instinct in’
ourselves ?
This early fondness is a modification of the
same passion which governs men. That only
is called love, which ends in matrimony or
madness, though it is quite clear that any man
might have married quite differently from what
he has, and yet foil that his destiny was fid
fi led. Love is of all passions the least under,
stood; and there is more faith in it than in
any thing else. We believe in miracles in
love, thiugh not in religion. We let run the
whole length ofour imaginations upon the sub
ject, and think we are mighty reasonable all
the time. Everv man, to the lookers-on, ap.
pears very silly ; he commits extravagances
with all the sincerity in the world ; hej > ■
at others, too. in the satflp. situation witl
self, and prides
It is lucky, in favS*iff
S‘lf-kuowledg4HHHrr7 ourselves
as others see wW**-' > - War the whole
wheel ofhuinJL.-. '• ,S>p ; weshould
move so tirnflh. > - Mftnove at all;
or else we shiicJL t JMT't at once, and
this planet no but heaven ;
which, by the verv many great
projectsand Mr. Ow.
en would no longer esteem himself a martyr,
not Mrs. Fry a philanthropist.
.But whatever may be the foundation of the
passion of love, it seems not altogether to arise
from our physical nature, for we feel it very
young. Perhaps the strongest passion I ever
felt was for a pretty little girl of my own age—
about seven. Our parents lived neighbors aid
triends, and were accustomed to meet and walk
much together in the public resorts. The
idea ot a little wile was given to me, and 1
was made to take this little Miss by the hand,
and taught to then' her trifling attentions. 1
have since thought tuat qur p.-.rants had some
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY. ” JejJtrSOn.
idea ofhaving the wealth of the families united
in our persons. We know such contrivances
do take place every day ; and it is quite amus
ing to observe the plans of poor but aspiring
mothers to bring their children into notice with
; the children of the rich; to get them to form
ing little intimacies and friendships, and some
’ times plighting troths unbeknown to the weal
thy parents. Such plans, too, are sometimes
successful; and as in this country a young
man may marry any woman, and if he be rich,
her pedigree is never inquired into, the only
evil resulting from them is, that it brings many
vulgarlv-educated women into an influence in
society, which they are apt to misuse.
I loved my little embryo wife, very much.
Nothing gave me so much pleasure as to walk
with her, hand-in-hand, behind our parents.
My passion had all thu coyness which is said
to characterize the true passion. I never dar
ed to go and see her, at her father’s, alone ;
I would have died first. When her name was
mentioned, a blush suffused my pheek. I ne
ver offered her any familiarity; to touch her
hand, was ecstacy. To have kis.-ted her, in
boyish sport, would have dissolved the charm—
we should immediately have become playing
children, and have romped together. But as
it was, we were ‘bona fide’ under the spell of
Cupid. las much believed she would be mv
wife in a few years, as I now believe she is not,
and our parents kept up this impression, by
placing us next to each other in riding, or at
the theatre, where children were accustomed
to be taken once or twice in a season. Du
ring the day, 1 rarely saw her, but in summer,
we met, as lovers always meet, by twilight.—
We ran to each other as soon as it was brown
enough to hide our burning cheeks—we clasp
ed hands, and in silence proceeded. We rare
ly spoke—we were as happy as our hearts
could bear.
I have felt much of what is called love, and
which I believed to be so myself, but never
have I felt happiness like to those evening
walks. The charm lias never faded entirely.
She still lives, and is a happy wife and mother.
She has forgotten the blushing boy that gave
her choice flowers, after he became too old to
play the child longer. She has forgotten our
twilight walks, our throbbing partings. She
has forgotten all, but never can I forget her.
I now meet her with more interest than any
woman. I see her, when she recognises me
not, I have loved many—had violent and
strong attachments—but it seems to me now
that I wish we were friends, and I could clasp
her hand and walk with her once more. I j
mention this, to show the enduring nature ofj
early impressions upon the mind.
Once some coldness took place between us.
We maintained for weeks a cold distance.—
She, in maiden coquetry, walked with other
boys. I was in an agony of jealousy. My
sufferings at this time were indescribable. It
seemed that my heart would break. After
some time spent in mutual mfferi >g —for so
she confessed to me—l happened to get pos
session of a beautiful damask rose. It was
evening, and I saw her standing at her father’s j
door. I walked slowly toward her, and put j
the rose into her hands. Slio blushed and
gu»e me hei hand—said sho was sorry we
had been estranged ; and that evening we walk- I
ed together. This little affair continued for
four years, and the reader will allow some 1
credit to our constancy.
My intimacy with this young lady contin- j
tied until I was ten years of age. when I left '
my home for Mr. Surface’s school. This love
affair gave me the habit of loving. I have I
always been in love, since, with some one ; not !
a day of my existence has passed, without a
pang or an ecstacy of love.
We rarely meet with people who have not ;
strong preferences. A warm heart must have j
them. An eye that loves tho beautiful, must j
love some female. We only call that love i
which assumes the outward form of it. Could I
we but fathom the hearts about us, what vio- i
lent and enduring passions should we discover? i
There is a necessity in our nature for loving, i
Every man and every woman loves some one I
—yes ! would be willing to sacrifice very much I
for some one. According as the sensibilities j
and the generous emotions are awakened in !
childhood, is th« extent of this.
Children, who have had kind mothers and I
sisters, whom they loved, are already, from an
early habit of bestowing their affections, more
prone to form strong attachments than others.
Such persons bring upon themselves the cha
racter of fickle, because whereverthey are,they
have some peculiar object of interest, The
disposition exists in the heart, not in the at
tractions of the objects around them. Some
are called sure and firm, because they love so
few, or are so indifferent to all, that they es
cape thq charge of inconsistency, by loving
chiefly themselves.
But society makes a choice necessary. We i
generally choose the woman for a wife, who <
happens to fill the eye at the time we are rea- |
dy to enter into matrimony. We think, full j
surely, good easy men, that our greatness has /
ripened ; we feel that our hopes of happiness I
are fulfilled. Intercourse and habit cement I
Uie bond of chance, and we, in tune, get to re- I
gwd that as the strongest and only love we 1
ev «r felt, because it bus ended according to the
laws of nature, and conformably to the usages
of
Byro„ (jays :
Few-- nong —f llld w ] Kl t they love or could have
IoVmJ,
fhougli ac,ci ( j enti blind C qj-.t ac t, and the strong
Necessity of\^ v j ng) have removed
, Antipathies to recur, ere long,
I Envenom’d with h revocable wrong;
I And Cireumstan» Si that unspiritual god
misereator, m Hk(;s and helps along
coming evils a crutch-like rod,
Tose touch turns R qpe to dust _ {hc Dust we
Jr all have trod.
was too cynical by half: his own do
| tnestic uHslortunes had embittered his life, and
tided his mind with pre,udm (!s toward women
and matrimony He wrots th „ ab ov e senti
| ment tor poetry -s sake ; though, as is always
he case with bun, he mixes tru(h wilh
falsity. He gives enough ot t nnh to attract I
attention ; gives you the shell of f,. e ji lltr (r I
circumstance, and then fills up |hv bod'v”< f t
| with the bitter mixtures of his own unhappy
CHAPTER V.
At school, every boy looks to his co|]f. n ,
life—to getting admitted to college—n ß me
ultimatum of his wishes. To the poor shut
;up being, who has no will of his own, w ho , s
| tasked and wh-pped,scolded and cuffed about,
i as if he had no right to have an opi don, die
; wild freedom of collegians, as they dash past
] the dull school house iq gigs, on horseback,
ior in coaches—their citv, rakish air, (in mv
I day,) their gallantry, their long-tailed coats,
i with oruame ted sleeves, present a contrast
ATHEYS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1837.
with his situation, which makes him long to be
anv thing but what he is.
On Saturdays might be seen, any where in
he streets of C , groups of diem, all dress-
id wilh the utmost precision and neatness,
as they met from the perambulations, which
were their usual pastime on that occasion.
To look at the ladies, and to be seen by them;
to meet with dear young friends of the other
sex, some of whom had no doubt pledged their
first a.id pure love to the embryo divine or
lawver, risking all the changes of an unformed
character, amid the seductions ot a college,
willing to take for granted, that that which
they loved must be goad; some to play at bil
liards; and some to patronise milliner’s shops
and the confectioners, filled up this day of re
creation.
Early engagements with collegians is a ve
ry common thing in our country. And cer
tainly it is very natural that a young man, who
has read of Dido and JEneas, and Ovid’s Art
of Love, should wish to know something prac
tically of the passion. Such connections
sometimi s turn out well for the female; but
wo he to the young man who thus early shack
les himself with a passion to clog his mind,
disturb his peace, and create anxiety and rest,
lessness at the time when he needs every en-j
ergy he can simmon to mould and create his |
character! And wo may be, too, to the fair !
young girl, that thus leans upon a reed, that i
may be strong enough to support her slight
form for an hour of dalliance and love, in the
time oi youthful ardor and the vigor of hope,
but which shehas never tested in sickness, tn
distress, or in sorrow! If unfortunate in this
long protracted engagement; if her lover look
with new eyes upon himself, and the world,
and her, as in ninety-nine times in a hundred
he will, the frtshness of her youth is gone;
her affections find no answer; ail her dailiag
imaginations ere dispelled, and she becomes a
fiackneyed flirt, or a heartless coquette —an
unhappy old maid, or, worst of all. a dissatis
fied wife.
I beg the reader’s pardon for being so dis
cursive; but my story is a picture of my mind,
and if he does not gather good from the histo
ry itself, he may find a lesson in the execution
of it.
I believe I was describing the idea boys
have of college. Well—l considered it as a
place of perfect freedom, where I should at
once be a man. govern my own hours, and do
just as I pleased, in all respects. The chief
happiness I anticipated, was in getting rid ofj
lessions, for I never thought of any induce
ments to study, except fear of flogging; and I
had understood they did not whip at college.
So absolutely destitute was my character, at
that time, of all high and elevated notions of
learning. At school we knew of few books,
beside our task-book.-: juvenile literature had
not been born. It was the age of rocking
horses and puppet-shows—ofenn and ball, top
and marbles. We had, to be sure, Baron
Trenck, and Baron Mu chausen, Robinson
Crusoe, and Peregrine Pickle, which we
thought very funny. The only useful book J
had ever read, before I went to college, was
‘lnstinct Displayed;’ and I wish I could find
it now. Peter Parley was a young man in his
travels, and the Library of Entertaining Know
ledge was not accumulated.
I loved to ride a swift horse bt tter than any
thing, and to skate. I was fond of music,
and walks in the woods, in summer time. I
was fond of females, because they rather ca
ressed me; but. ve had no leading minds at
our school. Most of us had been at Sidney
Place for many yiars, and the few new com
ers spoil assjmikled to our useless habits.
There was no ins[ir;ition in our teacher. He
was a money-caLher. and kept school on spe
culation. When I was entered at college, I
was fourteen years of age, a id perfectly ig
norant of the word. I knew' not of its vices, ■
its miseries, the lard gripings of pover y, or >
the tuixious cares of wealth. Os money, too,
I was ignorant—>f its value, the means of ac
quiring it, or the economy of spending it. My
wants were all supplied, and that was sufficient.
I supposed they dways would be, for I had re
ceived no lessens, beside those to fit me for
college. Every body I saiy seemed to be
employed for pleasure’s sake. I envied our
milkman, because he was always driving a
bout a cart; and stage.drivers, and coachmen
seemed upon thepinnacle of felicity. I had
no refined tastes, no lofty hopes, no aspirations
after tho beautifu and true. My mind was a
barren waste. That wonder, then, that when
I begun my collegiate course I should soon
feel degraded!
Every year arts sent to L College, the
flower of the ycutl) of our country—the sons
of the oppulent—the children of good country
clergymen, (purq excellent young men,) and
the favorites of the village over all the land.
1 found mvself surrounded by those alto- j
gcther my superiors in scholarship, in tase,
in habits of study—by those who came to ac- ‘
quire knowledge, while 1 only thought of the '
credit of being in college.
My father had furnished ply room very hand
somely, and seemed sorrv he could not expend
more money for my outfit. He attended to
the arrangements of the room, and was anx
ious that nothing should be wanting for my j
comfort, audio put me upon an equality with
the best, as far as externals could go. My
chum was a very clever dull fellow, one of my
school-mates, much my senior, who cared
more for himself than" any thing else, and
would not have raised his hand to save my
life, if it would cost him any trouble. He
was thoroughly a selfish character, and really
took pleasure in the troubles with which I
was soon surrounded. This young man was
under no obligation to save me, beyond a gen
eral moral interest we owe to all our fellow
creatures, but he might have assisted me, and
cautioned me when I took my first steps in er
ror-—in errors that have destroyed my useful
ness, and made me an unhappy man.
The first week I acquitted myself pretty
well, in Latin; at least, I thought so. The
nest week came Greek. 1 knew nothing of
the Grammer--! took dead set after dead set,
that is, I was set down. For the first time in
my life, my cheek burned with shame for not
knowing a lesson. I retired to my room to
weep. I was mortified to appear ignorant,
where every body thought so much ot learning.
My pride was hurt, for the appearance, not for
the tact. Sections of the class alternated each
week in Latin and Greek. The Greek week
was my abhorrence. 1 used to sit up night af
ter night till two o’clock, to try to master my
lesson. J/y chum would not assist me, and I
was too proud to ask assistance of strangers.
I knew not how to go to work. I laid my
head upon my book and wept. Disgiace fol
'owed disgrace, but I soon found 1 had cllows
ln company, and part of my mortification sub
sided.
' wished to be considered as a man, as a
. gcntleiuip-); and herein the cytsotl found all
my furniture and regard to dress could not save
me from sinking in the estimation of my class
mates. When I visited home, to my father’s
inquiries how I liked college, my answers
were only tears. He could not understand my
case: he* was not enough of a scholar to pene.
trate my mind. I was considered a lively,
smart bov, and he could see no difficulty in my
way, and thought his eldest son must, of course,
do well.
This scene of tears, at home, was often re
peated, till at last it ceased —for I had become
hardened. I found I could not excel as a
scholar, and I took another path. I begged
my lessons out, as at school; my classmates
prompted me; I boasted of more studying,
and this saved my reputation for talents. I
missed as often as I could with impunity. I
bought translations—l framed excuses—in
short, I rubbed along one term, witnout being
suspended for idleness.
Mine was the case of very many young men
who enter college, particularly from the South,
with more pride than learning. They are
lively, intelligent young men, and in society,
rank high—much before the patient, drudging
students, who are laying up rich stores for the
future. Accustomed to lead, they do not re.
lish the inferiority they are made to feel id
the recitation room; so they ridicule ‘digging,’
and try to shine as geniouses—men who can
recite tolerably well from mother wit.
But where was my mind at this time? What
was my advancement 7 Where were mv fa
ther’s golden hopes? All about to be buried!
Next to my room, there lived Tom Reine. He
is dead now—God save him! He came to
college, eighteen years of age. He had been
through the whole field of vices, long before
that time. He was a good fellow, in common
acceptation, vicious from habit, generous from
carelessness, and selfish, too, sometimes, from
an utter want of any fixed principle. leasnre
was his employin' n‘. To attain a favorite
object, he would betray his best friend; and to
avoid trouble, he would, do a favor to his worst
enemy. Hi? mind was premature. He wrote
good poetry, talked elegantly and easily upon
all subjects, and always appeared well at reci.
tation; sometimes, for effect, very splendidly.
Everv body said he might be the first scholar
in the class, if he pleased; and this kind of re
putation was just what satisfied him.
I suppose h " discovered a spice of the devil
in me, and so he took me into his keeping.
We were inseparable—spent our time in sing,
ing, smoking, and sometimes we drank of a
night large draughts of wine. This last was
an excess I seldom ventured upon, for I woke
tn the morning after a debauch as crazy as I
went to bed. Smoking was our ftiyorite stim.
ulant, which, while it intoxicates the mind, does
not, for the time, much affect the body. A
young man may keep himself excited by to
bacco for years, and yet be called temperate,
though (I speak from experience,) it as much
clouds the sense, and ruins the mind, as wine.
Tom laughed me out of my sensitiveness,
and said it was beneath a man of spirit to care
a d 1) about scholarship. His words
soothed my feelings, and I very soon became
as idle and indifferent as himself. Still I was,
in my own es'itnation, degraded. I had, as
yet, not gone far in dissipation. The early
instructions of my mother still, at times, hud
an influence over me; and when I compared
myself with what I began to find out I ought
to be, I was very unhappy. I was disap
pointed at finding that, at college, to be res
pectable, more labor was to be undergone than
at school, and that those of the wild and dis
sipated only were admitted to clubs, who sof
tened their faults by attention, generally, to
their studies.
I had no such offset. I was nothing. I
began to seethe errors ot my' own education,
and to rlljret them. With the strongest wish
to be distinguished, I had not the power. Sys
iphtislike, I never could bring my resolutions
to the sticking place, and every broken vow
only weakened the force of my character.
In the same entry with myself, there were
two young men, who mad* their books their
pleasure. They had entered with a high
standing, for they came from a school remark
able for the good habits of study of its pupils.
They always came honorably prepared. They
knew enough to make them wish to know
more.
These young men were of infinite service
to me, or wished to be. They were nearly of
my own age, and saw the difficulty I had to
contend with: They voluntarily assisted me
in the most delicate manner, and endeavored
to withdraw me from the influence of Tom
Rome. I was in their room often, and they
cautioned me of my danger. Would to hea
ven I had followed their advice!
I know them now. They are of moderate
talents, but both rising fast in the world by the
force of mere industry. One of them, more
particularly my friend, is the most remarkable
person 1 ever knew, for the strong determina
tion of his character. I believe these young
men studied fourteen hours a day, during the
freshman year, Such labor, even upon Latin
and Greek, will lay the foundation, in any good
mind, for incalculable usefulness. A mind
thus disciplined m its infancy, will never shrink
from that toil, which, more than any thing
else, makes men great at the bar.
Though I appreciated the character of these
young men, and wished to imitate them, my
acquaintance with them did little else than put
off for a short time the result of my idleness.
I was so indurated in sloth and frivolity, that
from the most bitter reflections upon my own
conduct, 1 could turn, upon the slightest temp,
tation, with the most thoughtless inconsisten
cy to my usual pastimes.
1 have not here to describe many scenes of
wross debauchery. L is not the place for
such. Drinking at taverns and shops is not
the vice of L students; and it is too much
trouble, and comes too unhandy, and youth is
generally too indifferent to wine, to have it
brought often enough to the rooms to create a
habit. The old J, tavern tells a whole ;
chapter upon the sobriety of the students. It
is and ever has been, since ! could recollect, a
dirtv place, the resort of horse jockeys and
mog-dri ikers. A student is never seen there
in the day tune, and only at night, for the sake
of a beef steak or a broiled chicken. What
few scenes of dissipation lean recollect, then,
were managed m our rooms. Tobacco is the
vice of students. To that, and the reckless
ness of youth, they are indebted for theii wild
spirits. Our nerves get shattered at college
by the use of this weed and late hours; and
afler we get more broadly into the world, we
are fit subjects for the inroad of grosser habits.
But its to eating, I thick I have witnessed
wonderful feats in that line of iiidulge-.ee.
We had suppers sometimes —a pair of chick
ens to a man Who could study or think of
books under such a regimen?
ko v indifferently heaven dispenses the
powers of gormandizing! One man eats his
fill, without any inconvenience; another trem
bles for the consequences as he passes his
spare diet to his mouth. The gastric juice of
some men will corrode even iron, for they eat
wi'h impunity any thing, from a tough beef,
steak to edd roast pork and hard boiled eggs,
and these in any quantity; while the fancied
dyspeptic dabbles with his dry toast and tea,
cuts his meat into shreds, and then is half kill
ed with the horrors of digestion. Such men
must go to their meals ns the thief to the gal
lows—only the last has the advantage, in hav
ing to suffer but once.
Ifyou would choose a man of feats in eat
ing, go to the walls of a college—look for a
spare, tall young man, whose large bones hang
together as if by wires. Let him have a
hatchet-face, a long nose, skinny hands, large
feet, very unusually long 'egs, which have
support d him for about eighteen years. Set
him down to a table of any thing, keep him in
good humot, and‘makebaTieve’ to eat yourself.
You shall see miracles! And then the best
of the joke is, to see his east of deportment
after the mass is stowed. He is as thin as be
fore. He grins in horrible dejght. as his
memory runs over his late feast. You may
perhaps have some fears for your own bread
and steaks; the passion is up; soothe him with
a cigar, but do not be alone long, with such a
man. Well—go to tea with him—a cdlege
tea, of hot cakes and cold ham or beef, and
you will see that the reservoir is empty, retdv
to be filled. But what is most remarkabe,
is.that this very Ajax will goto his room, aid
study six hours at a sitting, upon Greek o
m.rthematics, after such feeding, and be up in
the morning, going smiling to prayers.
Different from him, is the little gentleman
who comes to college with a taste adulterated
at home, by sweet-meats and cakes, from his 1
infancy. He cannot think of boarding in
commons; he cats at a private table, but lives
mostly in his room, upon oranges, candy, and
gingerbread. Such little men are excellent at
a supper of ducks. Chicken js too cheap and
vu'gar. To eat with appetite, they must be
sure the dish is genteel.
But if you would see good sport, go to the
room of some young freshman, who is more
bent upon fun than style. He is preparing for
a feast at ten o’clock at night. He is roasti g
his potatoes by a blazing fire, and a group of
six or eight are watching the process, wdh
rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. By and by
the table is set—his study table—'the butter is
unrolled from a sheet of paper—it was hooked
from commons; perhaps the potatoes were
hooked too. The salt is produced from his
waistcoat pocket, and an old knife or two is
found. Some eat with their fingers, and the
knife passes round for the butter; the salt is
u ed with less ceremony.
‘How devilish hot this is!’ says one, who
runs about the room, as if it would stop the
pain.
‘Hi—ha—ha!' roar out the whole club of
little potato eaters. They are all so happy,
they can laugh at any thing.
•Fellows,’ issues from the stuffed mouth of
another. ‘1 shan’t be taken up to-morrow, I
guess; they say the lesson is as hard as the
d—l.’
Some decide upon a ‘miss,’ some upon ‘tick;’
the lesson is soon forgotten, and the potatoes
rapidly disappear.
Some one raps! All are pale as death.
Suspensions, publics, privates, stare them in
the face.
‘Clear the table!—there, in that closet!
hush!’ Some creep under the bed, and the
room is still as a mouse, in a moment. The
rap grows loud'-r. ‘ Vho s tlieie?’ ‘lt’s me.’
‘Who’s me 7 ’ '.’vego the poiter.
The door is opened, the emissary for porter
appears. loaded with two bottles of beer. The
company emerge from their hiding places, jok
ing each other lor being afraid. By taking
turns, they finish the liquor, all drinking out of
one glass. N<’W the cigars are introduced,
and here comeslhe tug of war. All would b
smokers, but few knew how. It is got thro’
with, with difficulty—to some by the loss of
theirsupper; some retching and coughing.—
And thus ends the first attempt of a freshman,
who would imitate the higher classes, in what,
m college, is called a ‘ blow out.’
chapter vi.
11 n’y a que d’une sorte d’amour, mais il y’en a
mille diflerentes copies.
La Rochefaucault.
The first term being ended, I returned home
to a long vacation of seven weeks. My books
were thrown aside, and I was glad to avoid
the sight of them. It was the gayest part of,
the year in the city. I was received by all tny
father’s acquaintance as a gentleman—a man
—though a mere hoy, then I was invited to
parties with my mother and sister, and treated
with all the respect shown to any one. I
drank wine with gentlemen. afte r dinner; fre
quented the theatre; had the command »>ftny
father’s horses ; made calls, and wore a starch
ed shirt collar.
I was, however, in a treasure charmed away
from the enticements of a city life to a raw
youth, by a fondness for music and an affec
tion for my cousin. My sister kept me out of
harm’s way, frequently,by promising, if I would
remain at heme, to play' for me as long as I
wished her to ; and tny dear cousin sat by, and
looked so much lilje an angel, that I was en
ticed by music and beauty away from folly and
vice.
This cousin was really a beautiful girl;
a d though very much tny senior, 1 felt for her
the strongest attachment or reverence. She
was twenty, and I a little more than fourteen.
Sho was tall and well formed- She had a large
dark eye, full of tenderness and sweetness —it
was a majestic eye. too. She must have seen
that I admired her. I was not conscious then
that I evinced any extraordinary preference,
but as memory carries me back, I can look
upon myself as a fervent lover. My love was
not expressed in words and gestures, but ia
looks and blushes. If 1 happened to touch her
hand, it thrilled through me; if I found any
thing belonging to her, I took deep delight in
looking at it, and kissing it. I was uncon
scious of time, in her presence. Ido not be
lieve, though I was familiar at that time with
all the vices of young men, bv hearsay, that I
ever coupled a aeusual thought with mv adtni
ration tor my cousin. She seemed the purest,
the most perfect b, ing, in the world, partaking
more <>f a heave.dy than an earthly nature.
Ii is difficult, in all cases, for a yonng man
to reconcile tile ideas ho entertains of his mis
tress with the grossness of our natural pas
s oes: s > we you g men, (and it is very hickv,
lor the good of society and the institutions of
domestic life,) help < urs Ives along in the de
lusion, that what wr love, is not a > much of
earth as heaven. We never look at the sub
ject in its true light, but follow the blind me.
tcors ot the fancy. If men had been metaphy
sical in love, knight errantry never would have
exuded ; we should have IqM qu thi* account
Vol. IV—Yo. 43.
some of the fin st creations of the poet; and,
irdeed, if every thing were to be viewed tn its
true colors, we should becorno so matter-of
fact, that machinery would be the only object
of i iterest.
My cousin was Catholic. I attended her to
church, nud as.we knelt before the imposing
ceremonies of the service, I would sometime*
steal a glance at her face. She was a devout
believer i i her religion, and gave up herself to
its passionate idolatry. Good God ! what emo
tions possessed me, as 1 caught the inspiration
of her countenance ! I could have knelt at her
feet, and worshipped her. The organ, with
its hollow thunders, swept over the soul, and
lifted it to rapturous emotions. Oh, what
would I give for the feelings of those hours
back again ! 1 know I was a fool, but I felt
in the sincerity of childhood. I was bending
tn the adoration ol the fanatic. I was only
physically excited by love, and music, and
grand ceremonies—but it was bliss. Now, as
I review these scenes, and look about upon the
emptiness of this earth to me. 1 seem to have
descended from heaven to hell—to have lost
and not gained by the comings of experience.
In the whole course of mv life, visions or
glimpses of what is good have constantly been
presented to my mind, only to make me feel
how far I urn from what I should be. 1 have
the double misery, too, of knowing all the caus
es which conspired to give uneasiness to my
mind, and instability to my conduct. I had
no strong anchors; I hid no processes of
thought in my mind; I was left open to im
pressions, but I could not seize upon them, to
any good purpose. Every thing was vague
aid u settled. Religion, love, music, fame, all
passions, came and went, and left no trace.
Each for the moment filled mv attention to the
utmost stretch ; the fancy of the moment van.
ished, aod left me vticant and empty.
It is not so with the young man who has been
triined to think and understand his work. A
sc ence is to him a castle—a fortification to the
citade l of the intellect. It re‘ains good stores
for a siege; >t keeps back invaders; itsys
tematizes what comes new into the head, and
causes it to partake of the general order and
arrangement the head is under. It gives a
tone and character to our cogitations; for wa
then have something to compare our thoughts
with—to referthem to, as a test.
But who can have a science withi ut a taste
tor it? And who can have a taste for that
which he does not understand, in ahslruse stu
dies? Ths mind of an undisciplined youth,
who is open to good impressions from the cir
cumstances ofhis birth, his situation, is like a
a rich, uncultivated field, surrounded by gar
dens; the winds of heaven scatterthe seedsof
good fruits over it, as society gives impres
sions ; th • showers place them in the eurth, as
our senses receive ideas. They come up in
beauty to the light, but being neglected, and
choked, and trodden down, bv grosser feelings,
as the brute tramples over the flower-bed, wo
lose what, with proper care, might have bean
made so useful and so beautiful.
Thompson told us a truth, years ago, in edu
cation, when he said, ‘ Just as th > twig is bent,
the tree’s inclined.’ We acknowledge it in
theory, bu: we neglect it m practice. Every
one, who thicks at all upon the subject of edu.
cation, who understands the origin of chtrac
ter. and feels the effect of circumstances upon
himself, knows that we too much ovef.ook this
truth in the education of the young. It is im
possible to regulate entirely the impressions of
children, for thousands occur whose influence
s felt, though we receive them unconsciously;
but strong and overpowering habits ot thought
should be inculcated, to do away the wrong
notions we are necessarily exposed to imbibe.
I can point to thousands as my countrymen,
born to the highest earthly hopes, whose lives
have been wasted, whose health has baen de
stroyed, who, while they lasted, spent bitter,
bitter hours, and died voting; whose bent was
given in infancy ; whose blood was stagnated
by hot-house culture and indulgence, and who
have seen and felt, as the lamp of life was going
out, that with the highest capacity for doing
gHod, they have done wrong by a kind of fa
talism
What mind can suffer more than such minds
suffer? The prisoner chained to the wheel, is
happy in comparison with that man who is
chained to habits of vicious indulgence; who
is constantly looki g dow i the dizzy height
over which he is about to be plunged, in hope
less ruin, tor time and eternity.
During this vacation, an incident occurred
which has b en very influential upon mv life.
My father married a second wife. The cru
elty and injustice of step-mothers is an old sto
ry to childhood. Mothers themselves, as if for
self-protection, and with 'he jealousy of wo
man’s heart, implant the hate of step-mothers
in the hearts of their children ; not often in
tentionally, and as a regular lesson, for pe< plo
rarely expect to die and leave their children;
but this sentiment falls in occasional remarks
about their neighbors ; in gossip parties, where
ladies meet to canvass the claims of some un
fortunate woman «ho has settled herself, and
escaped nn irre ocable old rnuidisin, by ac
cepting the station of wife to an old widower,
with a large family of children. It is one of
those involuntary feelings, which show them
selves unawares to ourselves: at any rate, 1
record the fact, which is common enough, that
children are prepared to dislike step-mothers.
No matter how pure the substitute may be
no matter how affectionate and kind—children
cannot help viewing herns intruding upon their
ritihts. If property is at stake, she lessens
their share; >f they loved their mothers much,
it their memories be sacred in the heart, chil
dren view the step-mother as the seducer of
their father. To the chivalrous feeling of
y uth about love and co sta cy, it appears like
a prostitution of the affections. hile the
child remembers the mother that ‘ watched o’er
his childhood.’ and finds her place filled by
another, who demands her services, and as
sumes her name, he feels that there is an in.
consistency, but he cannot explain it to him
self; his heart is hardened in rebellion. The
father, too, is nil the time watching lost his
wife meet with slight from his children, and
every accidental neglect is construed by him
i ito i itentional insult. Difficulties occur iu
the family circle; mistrust a id suspicion on
one side, wounded affections o i the other, and
the stubborn sense of wrong; the father loses
the regard of his offspring; his authority is
defie I, and his house abandoned.
Who can calculate the extent of such a
state of domestic affairs upon the phaut cha
racter of youth? Possessed of a hasty and
impetuous spi.it, after the charm of novelty
had worn off—after the wedding cake was
eaten, and the congratulations over— after the
temporary importance, any ch mgr*, whether
of death, birth, or marriage, gives its members
—after all th sc exci'einents had subsided, by
the law of moral gravitation, I began to hate
my mother. Why, I cannot tclk I knew bar