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BY JAMES W. JOYES. The Southern Whig, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY 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. Sub scribers living out of the State, will be expect ed in all cases, to pay in advance. No subscription received for less than one year, unless the money is paid in ad vance; and no paper will be diseontinued until all arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance, of their Papers, are requested to bear in mind, M settement of their accounts. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered out. All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in order to secure attention (tj- Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale. Ths 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 that 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, six months. For Advertising—Letters of Citation. $ 2 75 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 25 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, 81 00 per square. PROSPECTUS ~ OF THE THIS paper formerly edited by Wm. E. Jones, is now under the direction of the undersigned. The growingimportance of Ath ens, the state of parties in Georgia, and the agitation cf certain questions having a direct influence on southern interests; render it neces sary that the northwestern part of Georgia should have some vigilant, faithful sentinel always on the watch tower, devoted. construction of the true spirit the maintaiuance ofihe rights of the States, the retrenchment 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 doses to make the Whig; while it will contain the most authentic and important information connected with our foreign and domestic relu pous, the latest commercial intelligence, ori tiiual articles, and selections from the mos gopular works of the day in the various departl ments of Agriculture. Literature and the Arts. To Georgians the undersigned is conscious Le appeals not in vain for an increase es patron age—and he respectfully asks the friends of constitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob tain subscribers. The Southern Whig is published weekly in Athens Georgia, at Three Hollars 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. 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 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 pa-res shall be honestly devoted to general Literature, the cause of Educatiop, 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. months after date, application will JB- be made to the Honorable Inferior Couit of Clark county, when silting fur Ordinary 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 vertisement of oure, will please discontinue that and insert the above ojjee a week for four weeks. 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