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& JFatuUs JLetoHwaper : Brtootcd to SLCteratwre, tfie &rts, Science, &&?icuUttre, .f&ecftanicg*, Strucattou, jFoveCfln ant* domestic KntelUgcnce, scc.
BY C. B. HANLEITER.
IP ® E T IS Y.
“ Much yet remains unsung.”
For the Southern Miscellany.
THE LIFE OF MAN.
I now invoke the muse, her aid to lend,
Till 1 shall tell of childhood's sunny hour;
And manhood’s prime, and joy that has an end;
When youthful love has lost its sacred pow’r.
Hard by the banks of Georgia’s brightest stream,*
There is a spot, from which the smoke ascends
In summer's time, and winter’s paling gleam.
It is a lovely spot, and waving bends
In wild luxuriance the creeping vine,
That shades the cottage doorway with its green,
And blooms in rich prolusion eglantine;
While in vases rare geraniums are seen.
These were a lovely mother's care in spring,
And hers the task to watch them budding forth;
When ‘neath Flora’s step, flow’rs strange beauties fling,
And veers midsummer's sun towards the north.
I do remember, w hen I found my way
To a point, that overhung this fairy place i
‘Twaslate at eve on an autumn day,
When the caveering sun had ceased his race.
And as I leant against a forest tree,
In the door of that cottage there appear'd
A pair of bright beings fram’d in beauty,
A mother and her son—her beauty not sear'd,
But softened by the changing hand of age,
And his that o( the light and trembling fawn:
They were a matchless pair—he eeem'd the page
Os her the Goddess of that fairy lawn.
1 mus'd upon the change that time would bring,
And then resolv’d a score of years to wait
To find if he would l>e the world's changling,
Knowing what ‘twas to feel revenge and hate.
Twenty years from that time I found my way,
And sought the spot, the loveliest e'er was view’d;
When there it seem’d as if ‘twas but yesterday, •
And yet the vines their blossoms had renew’d;
And twenty short summers pass’d o'er that vale
irince I, full of hope, had seen the lovely pair;
It was not chang’d, there was the garden pale,
The vines and flowers all were there.
I paused awhile—the mother of that bay
Came forth, hut how chang'd was her mein and look,
And where is he her darling and her toy?
Fur glory he had gone dangers to brook,
And in distant lands made himself a name—
While tie had known what ‘twas to stand the shock,
To hear his proud fie tin charge lond proi la in,
While his ratiks stood linn as un ocean rock.
But see! from yonder gnte a horseman come,
And the mother's eye, dimm’d by age, has caught
The form of her lost boy returning home—
The world's ways in many a lesson taught.
Scarce had that mother clasp'd him to her breast,
Parting the flowing locks from off his brow,
And on her withered face his cheek had press’d,
When startl'd she cri’d, “thv face is chang’d now!
“Are these then the rewards which glory grants;
“ Is this the price with which to buy renown 7
“Are these the gifts for which ambition pants?
“ And this the form that noble feelings own 7”
To whom her sou in falt’ring words repli'd,
“ I've wak'd the fiend ambition in my soul;
“’Tis tny wish before t’was done I had di'd ;
“ For ‘tis a thorny path and has no goal:
“ But I am doom'd to speed me on t ill death,
“And never know what ’tis from it to cease,
“Until my form shall rest the clods beneath,
“And my fretted soul gain its last release.”
Yet one more score of years, and there again
I found myself, the actors and the scene
Unchang'd with but the marks of age and pain:
The place the same with sunset's shade serene.
Soon forth issuing from that lowly cot
That pair appear'd with hoary age low bent;
They had thus far outliv’d man’s common lot,
For temperance in youth lengthy age had lent.
They had till now gone down the vnle of years,
And linger'd totl’ring on the shores of age
Like the last autumn leaves, that winter tears
From their frail hold, and scatters in its rage.
1 press'd my hand upon my furrow’d brow.
O'er which there hung lime thinn'd my own white
locks,
And well I knew those two were dying now,
As they fix’d their graves near some time-worn rock*.
‘Twas but too true, for on the coming year
They both were gather'd to their long last rest
As is gather’d the crispen leaf so sear
That slow sinks when the sun is in the west.
“Few are the days of man in which he strives ;'*
So wrote the prophet in the olden time ;
And now with us some gray-hair’d sire yet lives
Whose tott'ring footsteps of this a pantomime;
( For ’twas but yesterday and he was-young,
And bright hopes bade him on life’s track to spring;
But now his form is bent and nerves unstrung,
And sorrow darkling conies his lieart to wring:
The life of man! how chequer’d ‘tis with fears
From the prattling hour of his infancy
Till its sun in life's meridian wears,
Joy and gnef hold alternate revelry.
I first be he id him, when a liny boy
His faltering steps slowly found their way
To his play ground, where pleasures never cloy,
And seems briefest the longest summer day.
When last I gaz’d upon him, passions storm
Had mark'd his brow and bleach'd his raven hair;
Bending in its fury his manly form.
And left fines time shall plough but deeper there.
CLAUDE.
* The Oconee. .
REASON.
Dim as the borrow’d beams of moon and atara
To lonely, weary, wnnd'ring travellers,
1* reason to the soul; and as on high
Those rolling fires discover but the sky,
light us here, so reason’s glimmering ray
Was lent not to assure our doubtful way,
But guide us upwards to a better day,
And as those mighty tapers disappear,
When day'* proud Lord ascends our liemitphere,
80 Pale grows reason at religion’s eight
So dies and ao dissolves in aupernat'ral light.
DANGER.
The absent danger greater still appear*;
Lees fear* ftp who ie near the thing he feats.*’
©a ® m hpho ©& l □
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Among the ennobling studies that consti
tute our enlightened system of education,
there are few that yield a more gratifying
recompense to the student, and none that
inspire him with a spirit of affectionate rev
erencefor theliheral institutions of ourfavor
ed country, more than the study of such bio
graphical sketches of the sages and heroes
of the American Revolution, as have been
enrolled in our country’s archives, and among
the distinguished statesmen and illustrious
patriots who formed the constellation of A
merican worthies in ’76. There was not
one, whose inflexible patriotism, indomita
ble resolution aud indefatigable vigilance,
contributed more to the establishment of our
national independence and the moral and
scientific elevation of national character, than
the sagacious and philosophical Franklin.
We, therefore, commend a sketch of his
useful life to the perusal of all who honor
industry, admire fortitude, and would merit
such fame as he acquired by doing his duty
to his country. —Savannah Georgian.
Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston,
January 17, 1706. He was the youngest
of seventeen children, and was intended for
his father's business, which was that of a
soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, but being
dissatisfied with this employment, lie was
apprenticed to his brother, who was a prin
tet. This occupation was more congenial
to his taste, and he used to devote his nights
to the perusal of such hooks as his scanty
means enabled him to buy. By restricting
himself to a vegetable diet, he obtained
more money for intellectual purposes, and
at 16 he had read Xenophon’s Memorabilia,
in addition to many other w’orks. Having
tncurred the displeasure of his family, he
determined to procure the cancelling of his
indentures, and leave Boston. This he ac
complished, arrived at New-York, walked
thence to Philadelphia, and entered the city
of Friends with some articles of dress in his
pockets, adollurin cash, and a loaf of btead
under his arm. Here he obtained employ
ment as a printer, and Sir William Keith,
the governor, observing his diligence, per
suaded him to go to England, to purchase
materials for a press on his own account. —
This was in 1725, hut he found be was the
bearer of no letters that related to himself,
and he was accordingly obliged to work at
his trade. He returned to Philadelphia,
where, in a short time, he entered into busi
ness with one Meredith, and about 1728,
began a newspaper, in which he inserted
many of his moral essays. He published
Poor Richard’s Almanac, which is well
known. At the age of twenty-seven, he be
gan the study of the modern and classical
languages. He founded the University of
Pcnnsylvaniaand the American Philosophi
cal Society, and invented the Franklin stove,
which still holds its place even among the
variety of modern inventions of a similar
kind. In 1746, he made his experiments
on electricity and applied his discoveries to
the invention of the lightning rod.
In 1751, he was appointor] deputy post
master general for the colonies. After the
defeat of Brartdock, a bill for organizing a
provincial militia having passed the assem
bly, Franklin was chosen colonel. In 1757,
he was sent to England with a petition to
the king and council against the proprieta
ries who refused to bear a share in the pub
lic expenses. While thus employed, he
published several works, which gained him
a high reputation, and the agency of Massa
chusetts, Maryland, and Georgia. In 1762,
Franklin was chosen fellow of the Royal
Society, and made doctor of laws at Oxford,
and the same year returned to America.
In 1764, he was again deputed to Eng
land as agent of his province, and in 1766,
was examined before the House of Com
mons on the subject of the stamp-act. His
answers were clear and decisive. His con
duct in England was worthy of his previous
character. Finding him warmly attached
to the colonies, invective and coarse satire
were levelled against him, but his integrity
and matchless wit formed an invulnerable
defence. He was next offered “any reward,
unlimited recompense, honors and recom
pense beyond his expectations,” if he would
forsake his country, but he stood firm as a
rock.
He returned to America in 1775, and
was immediately chosen a member of Con
gress, and performed the most arduous du
ties in the service of his country. Ho was
sent as commissioner to France in 1776,
and concluded a treaty, February 6, 1778,
in which year he was appointed minister
plenipotentiary to the couit of Varseilles,
and one of the commissioners for negocia
ting peace with Great Britain. Although
he solicited leave, he was not permitted to
return till 1735. He was made president
of Pennsylvania, and as a delegate to the
convention of 1637, approved the federal
constitution. He died April 17, 1790.
he was beloved both at
home at!|d abroad, the various honors which
he r?ceived show. Incorruptible, talented,
and virtuous, ho merited the eulogium of
Lord Chatham, who characterised him as
one whom all Europe held in high estima
tion for his knowledge and wisdom; who
was an honor, not to the English nation on
ly, but to human nature.” His wit and hu
mor rendered his society acceptable to every
class. On one occasion, ho was dining with
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 23, 1842.
the English ambassador, and a French func
tionary at Paris. The former rose, and gave
the following sentiment: “ England—the
brigliUuu whose rays illuminate the world!”
The French gentleman, struggling between
patriotism and politeness, proposed, “France
—the moon whose mild beams dispel the
shades of night.” Doctor Franklin, rising
in turn, said : “General George Washing
ton—the Joshua, who commanded the sun
and moon to stand still—and they obeyed
him!” Franklin’s witand humor are hap
pily displayed in an epitaph which he wrote
years before his death.
The body of
Benjamin Franklin,
Pripter,
(Like the cover of an old book,
Its contents tom out,
And stripped of its lettering and gliding.)
Lies here, food for worms;
Yet the work itself shall not be lost,
Foritwill (as he believed) appear once more
In anew
And beautiful edition,
Corrected and amended
By
The Author.
IMQStDELLAWY.
SQUIRE FETLOCK.
HORSES VERSUS BOOKS.
At the end of a hard day’s hunting, Mr.
S , a friend of mine, invited one of
his sporting neighbors, Squire Fetlock, to
dine with him. Excepting that both were
keen sportsmen, would ride you thirty miles
to cover and then begin the day’s work, and
take a ten foot wall, if it stood in their way,
as soon as a quickset hedge, there was not
one point of congeniality b tween them.
My friend was a man of elegant learning
and refined taste: his neighbor wasas coarse
as one of his own hop-sacks, and as illiterate
as his horse. But fox-huuting, like misery,
sometimes brings one acquainted with
strange bed-fellows.
We were summoned to coffee in the library.
Fetlock looked around him with an air of
astonishment At length he exclaimed—
“ Well, if ever I did see ! Dash me!
Why, mister ! May I never get
across old Hannibal again if ever I did see
such a lump of hooks in my life! Have you
read any of them.”
“ I can venture to say, Sir, there is not a
volume on my shelves which I have not
read.”
“ All!! Upli! Hold her head in, or she’ll
be off with you. Come, come, not all.”
“ I don’t imagine you doubt the truth of
what I say, the less so considering there is
nothing very extractdinaiy in what 1 have
asserted.”
“ No, I don’t mean to say there is any
thing extraordinary in it—Upli! but it’s
’nation cuiious though, notwithstanding;
and dash me if I shouldn’t like to have the
showing of you at a fair. Folks would give
a trifle to have a peep at the roan that has
read all them hooks!” And then he again
surveyed the shelves with an air of wonder
and incredulity.
“ I presume then, Sir, you yourself are
no great reader
“Iread! No,thankee. I’m not such a
fool. I never looked into but one book in
my life, and that was so full of blunders and
nonsense that I chucked it into the fire. Be
sides, of what good would reading be to
me, when i have it all by experience?
Have n’t I been at it since I was a child ? I
know a horse inside aud out. 1 tell you
what; I’ll give the best mare in my stud,
and that’s Rosemary, to any farrier in this
county, ay, and the next to boot, that can
tell me what I don’t know; so why need I
read theii books about the matter? It may
be all very well for your ignoramuses, and
it is for such like they are made; but as to
giving me, ‘ Every Man his own Farrier’ to
spell over—Lord bless you !”
“ But there are other subjects than ”
“Iknowit: there is What-do-you-call-him
‘On the Disease of Horses,’ and another
chap with a book about brood mares, and
But it is downright nonsense; and
mark what I tell you, Sir: we had some
thorough good ones out with us to-day, and
you were not one of the worst! I say, how
cleverly young Foster took that leap at the
comer of Salter’s paddock ! but that little
mare of his will go at anything—and if you
are as good a hand in the stable as you are
in the held, you don’t want much learning,
that 1 can tell you; so do as I did : chuck
all your books into the fire: an hour in the
stable is worth a month in the library. And
yet, books ace well enough in their way :
the glitter on them makes a room look smart
and handsome, doesn’t it, Miss ?” This ques
tion he addressed to one of the young la
dies, who, while she was pietenting to read,
was, in reality, exerting all her ingenuity to
suppress a laugh at his extraordinary opini
ons of the value and utility of literature.
He continued : “ You remember the little
nook, exactly opposite the window in our
breakfast-parlor, where I keep my best
plated gig-harness, don’t you. Sir? Now I
think that as pretty an ornament to a room
as need be, and wouldn’t disgrace the King’s
palace; but my good lady thinks otherwise,
and saya that a few books would be more
becoming in an apartment occupied by hu
man beings; so when 1 can meet with a
few, cheap and clean, I’ll humor her fancy.
The fair sex must be humored now and
then, mustn’t they, Miss 1” And, simultane
ously with the utterance of this gallant re
mark, he threw himself into the attitude of
a man on horseback, preparing to take a
five-bar gate, which he intended for a bow.
There will be a sale of books at C y,
on Tuesday next,” said my friend, “and I
dare say you will he able to suit yourself
advantageously. I shall attend it, as there
is one work in the collection which I have
long been anxious to possess, and I intend
to purchase it.”
“ Then, dash me! but I’ll go there !” ex
claimed Fetlock.
It must be remembered that the work in
question was a very fine copy of Stuart’s
“ Athens,” with early impressions of the
plates, and splendidly hound.
The conversation next turned upon the
theatre.
“ Are you fond of the theatre, Mi. Fet
lock 1”
“ Why, yes; I can’t say but I like a good
play, and whenever I go to Lunuun 1 make
a point of going, once and away—that’s to
say if it happens to be something of Shak
speare’s. I went the last time I was up,
and saw • Guy Mannering.’ ”
“ But ‘ Guy Mannering’ is not a play of
Shakspeare’s.”*
“ An’t it 1 come, what will you bet of
that I I saw • Macbeth’ at the other house
the very night before, and there are lots of
sawneys in both ; that’s all I can tell you.”
And he gave a knowing wink, which literal
ly translated, meant, “ Parry that if you
can.”
“ Here is a novel of the same name, up
on which the play you saw is founded,” said
Mr. S , reaching down the first volume
of “ Guy Mannering,” and putting it into
‘Fetlock’s hand; “it is written by Sir Wal
ter Scott.”
“ Scott ?—O—ay Scott, the chap the King
made a knight of. Well, if that wasn’t
turning the world topsy-turvy, dash me!
Betitleing a mail for fooling away his time
at such work as this! just what any of ijs might
do if we hadn’t lomethlng better to think of,
and chose to set our wits at it! Now, my
notion is—.” Here, while thumbing over
the leaves witliulo* k of profound contempt,
his attention xas suddenly attracted by
something at th* commencement of the vol
ume. He broight it nearer to his eyes,
then held it at s greater distance, next took
it to the light, then again looked closely at it,
as if doubtful whether the passage that
struck him was there or not.
“ Why, now,dash me! Well, that is true!
Now, where cotld he have picked that up ?
Dash me if I dui’t think there is something
in this chap after all.”
“ What is it, Sir 1”
“ * You may dwaystcll a gentleman by his
horse !’” (His attention was caught by this
remark of Mrs. H’Candlish to the postilion.)
“ Come, now, that is true, dash me if it isn’t.
Now, there’s a saying for you, sound wind
and limb, and without a blemish. If all the
book was like that—”
“If you like to read it, you may take it
home with you; and when you have finish
ed that volume, the next will be at your ser
vice.”
“ Read it ? Why—read it! and yet I’ve
a great mind to it, too: I eee at once he is
no common chap: that is a clever saying,
but as to leading—why—and yet —Come,
I’ve given her her head, and won’t baulk
her; she shall take it now’, rough or smooth,
let what may be on the other side. I will
read it, dash me if I don’t.” So saying, he
thrust, or rather dug the book into bis pocket,
with the desperate recklessness of conse
quences of one who felt that a/iother mo
ment’s reflection would deter him altogether
from so rash an undertaking. /
On the day of the sale, I accompanied
my friend to C v, whither we went with
the intention of purchasing Stuart’s “A
thens.” We took our stand immediately
opposite to the auctioneer. The l>ooks were
selling, as he truly said, “dogcheap;” and,
judging by the appearance of the persons
present, who did not seem of a quality eith
er to appreciate or desire so recherche a
work, we expected to get it at a very mo
derate price. At length it was put up; and,
after a preparatory flourish from the auc
tioneer, he, as is usual in such caies, declar
ed himself confident that he was Very much
within the mirk in valuing it at—what cer
tainly was an outrageous price ; and, as is
also usual in such cases, a dead silence en
sued.
” Well, then, shall I say forty guineas for
this splendid work ? Twenty? Ten? Consi
der, gentlemen, this most magnificent ”
And, after having exhausted all the flowers
of auction-room ortgoty in its praise, he
added, with a sigh which Reemed to come
from the very bottom of his—pulpit, “Well,
then, shall 1 say six ?” Here was a pause
which, to us, was highly gratifying. “Five,”
said Mr. S.
“ Five guineas only are bid.—Six! Thank
you, Sir.”
“Seven” continued my friend.
“Sever,” responded the auctioneer; —
“Eight! l’hank you, Sir.”
•The igntronceof Squire Fetlock upon so obscure
a point, Willihe more readily be pardoned, when I
mention tha.a certain cidcvant banker, who was anx
ious to he considered as in the foremost rank amongst
the admiren of the drama, and actually passed a good
half of the tvening hours at the theatre, once said to
me—“ Youll think me every stupid fellow fur asking,
but one eal't remember every thing: is ‘Venice Pre
aerved’ otwof Shakspearc's 7 or whose 7
Mr. S went on this way, gninea by
guinea, till having hid thirteen, and the auc
tioneer still thanking some viewless antago
nist, for we heard no one make the biddings,
nor did we see any liody nod. for an addi
tional guinea, he inquired whether there was
any order to buy the lot in at a certain price,
as, if so. it would save time to declare it at
once. Being assured that it was a sale with
out reserve, he was led on in the same man
ner to twenty-three guineas, (at which point
he determined to stop,) where he was met
as before. “ Twenty-three guineas are bid.
Twenty-four. Thank you, sir. Twenty
four; going for twenty-four. Gone! ‘Stu
art’s Athens,”’ turning to his clerk, “for
twenty-four guineas, to Squire Fetlock.”
We turned round, and to our astonish
ment, behind us there stood the identical
and unquestionable Squire!
“My dear sir, is it possible you have pur
chased ‘Stuart's AthensV besides, didn’t
you perceive that I was biddiug for that
loti”
“ To be sure I did, and that’s why I never
los the scent for a moment. I know nothing
about goods of this kind, and as you are a
clever hand at them. I was certain I could
not be very wide of the field, by keeping a
guinea a-head of you.”
“But you have purchased, at an extrava
gant price, a work which will be utterly use
less to you, whilst to me ”
“Useless to mel Not such a fool neither.
I don’t often buy a pig in a poke. My good
lady came to look at them yesterday, and
they are the very thing for the nook in the
breakfast parlor.”
“ But I assure you they ore upon a subject
about which you are indifferent. Let me
have them, and I’ll fill your nook with books
which shall be equally valuable, and much
more entertaining to you.”
“ Entertaining! W hv, Lord love you, you
don’t suppose 1 should ever think of rend
ing those big devils—why, they are as big
again as the church Bible; besides ”
“For that very reason: and by making the
exchange you will oblige me, and iu no way
be n loser yourself.”
“Why now, lookce; this is the first time
in my life 1 ever bought books: if tl.ev are
worth your money,they must be worth mine;
so, at any rate, 1 haven’t made n gaby of my
self, as i might have done if you hadn’t been
here. As to changing them for a pack of
your little hop-o’-my-thumbs, no bigger than
the one you lent ine t’other night—! sup
pose 1 should ask you to let me have the
mare you rode o’ Thursday—and o clever
mare she is. and worth a hundred aud thirty
if she’s worth a pound: I say, suppose I
should say to you, ‘Let me have that mare,
Mr. S . aud I’ll give you half a score
nice ponies for her.’ Why, setting the value
out of the question, the thing wouldn’t be
reasonable, you know. No, no! pray ex
cuse me; besides, I promised my madam to
humor her fancy; and, do the thing hand
somely or let it alone, is my motto.” As
the concluding part of this speech was de
livered in somewhat of on angry tone, the
attempt at negotiation was abandoned; and,
for any thing I know to the contrary, to this
day the splendid gilt backs of “Stuart’s
Athens” constitute the chief ornament of
Squire Felock’s breakfast-parlor.
And here I should take leave of this wor
thy, but for a puint which recalled him to
mv recollection.
Upon this occasion, as upon some others,
subsequently he was asked how he liked
“Guy Mannering,” and whether he had yet
done with the first volume; and, indeed,
some astonishment had been expressed by
the family, at Squire Fetlock’s detaining ii
so long—for several weeks, I believe.
“And how do you like ‘Guy Mannering,’
Sir!”
“O, n charming book, Sir; a charming
book, indeed. ‘You may always tell u gen
tleman by his horse.’ It is a charming hook.
I never fail to take a light canter over it every
after tea.”
*• Then, by this time, you must want the
second volume.”
•‘No, thankee; you are very kind; but
the one 1 have will do veiy well forme.”
“How! I don’t clearly understand you.”
“Why, Mr. S , I don’t know whether
it may he the same thing with you, hut I’ll
tell you how it is: you see, I sit down and
read five or six leaves at night, and the next
morning it is all clean out of my head; so
that when I go to it again the reading is all
fresh, and just the same as new to me; there
fore, unless you want the book, it will do as
well for me as any other.”
SHORT PATENT SERMON.
BY “DOW, JB.”
By request, 1 will preach upon this occa
sion from the following text:
Beauty is a blossom that soon fades away,
But virtue, once gotten, will never decay.
II beauty and virtue in one woman be,
If she is unmarried, pray send her to me.
My hearers—there is quite af difference’
between bcautyand virtue, in regard to their
nhl worth. The one is short-lived and fleet
ing, the other is enduring and lasting. Beau
ty is but an ephemeral, alluring blaze, that
attracts the foolish insects of pride and
fashion, oftentimes in a single day, to inevit
able destruction, and then is extinguished
forever, but virtue is a brilliant spark that
continues to glow, even in the embers of
declining age, and is destined to shine, like
VOLUME I—NUMBER 17.
a cat’s eye in a dark garret, through the
countless ages of eternity. Ecaotyisbuta
blossom that unfolds its charms w hile its pe
tals are wet with the morning dews of youth.
It soon begins to wilt beneath the withering
noontide sun of maturity—that buying af
ternoon hour of existence, the 3 o'clock, P.
M. of a mortal’s life immediately succeeds,
and we find thnt the bright hues of the fond
flower are too fatally touched with the cor
rosive sublimate of Decay to admit of De
creptitude, when a lingering leaf of beauty
may perchance still hang upon the present
shrub, but almost every trace of its former
loveliness is obliterated by the hoar frost
shaken from the grey pinions of Time. The
night of Denth then ensues, and the blossom
of beauty, that lately was so inviting and
fair, is crushed in the dnsf, as void of attrac
tion as the scattered fragments of a toad
stool in a cow yard. Beauty, my friends, is
almost any thing that is fleeting or false. It
is a rainbow thnt glows for a few moments,
and then sinks into the dark bosom of its
maternal cloud—it is the rosy blush of morn
ing that soon pales in the broad glare of day
—it is the crimson-winged harbingeref sum
mer’s evening that lights itself to .bed with
a blaze of glory, and is soon sound asleep
beneath the dark mantle of night. Iu short,
beauty is like the gaudy colors of Ameri
can calico—very pretty for a time, hut ex
ceedingly liable to fade by a few washings
in the hot suds of matrimony.
My dear friends—now I come to some
thing more substantial, as the man said who
found a bullet in his verision steak. 1 have
reference to female Virtue. If Beauty be
hut the blossom, surely Virtue is the frag
rance of the flower. You may strip the
corolla of its leaves, and endeavor to pre
serve them by skill, ingenuity or art, and
you will find that they will wither and de
cay in spite of your utmost exertions; that
if you extract the fragrance of the flower,
arid cork it up tight with the stopple of pru
dence, watchfulness and caution, it will last
forever. Therefore, were I to make a
choice from among the fair daughters of
earth, 1 should say, give me virtue. 1 will
leave it to your individual tastes, my friends,
whether you would not prefer butter that
looks pale and unpalatable, but is rich and
relishing, to that which appears fair upon the
outside, but is foul and frowy within, i know
very well jliat you would choose the lattet.
My heaters—what is the worth of beau
ty without virtue] It is but a base counter
feit coin, that passes current with the foolish
and unsuspecting ; hut among the wise and
discriminating it is decidedly no go. A
woman, decked with the ornaments of per
sonal attractions, but destitute of moral
worth, may receive the homage of the weak
tons of sili, the adoration of whom is cer
tainly not to be prized above the value of a
July oyster. Look at her as she flirts aud
flourishes along that pestiferous path that
leads straightway to perdition. The lillies
of loveliness grace her snowy brow—the
eriiiicitti roses of health seem to bloom up
on her cheek—forty thousand devils are
ambushed in her inviting eye—and she
seems bound for % the gates of paradise,
rather than for the realms of endless tor
ment ; but my friends examine her as you
would a watch l —take a look at her insides,
aud see if she needs no cleaning. You will
find that the main spring of morality hca
wholly lost its elastic temper — that the reg
ulator of her thoughts and actions is entire
ly out of order—and the balance wheel of
her mind has ceased to perfmm its duty for
the want of a single drop of the oil of reso
lution. Yon will see that the once fruitful
soil of her heart, which nourished the pro
mising plants of virtue, is now nvcigiown
by the rank weeds of vice, and that every
hud of youthful trampled to earth
beneath the giant footsteps of that monster
of all monsters —Temptation. Observe the
situation, my friends, of that female, who
lias had the misfortune to loose the golden
key which unlocks the iron-barred doors that
opens upon what the world calls vgEpcctoble
society. She is left to wander friendless
and alone over the barren desert of the
world, with no one to aid her—none to
snatch her from the flames towards w hich
she is madly rushing—and no one to pay
her short passage to eternity. She may
have a worthy brother, who oftentimes may
have called upon her in vain to forsake the
paths of iniquity, and torn to the weysof
happiness aud peace —a beloved sister may
liave time and again, offered up prayers for
her reclaimation—and parents, perchance
who have shed their last tears of grief upon
the grave of their daughter’s virtue, and
bade adieu to the world aud to their long
lost child, in the height of sorrow, but not
in anger.
My dear hearers—if there can be found
such a mixture in this adulterated world as
beauty and virtue combined in 8 single indi
vidual of the feminine gender, I pray you
to send her to me forth with, as 1 Lave a no
tion to take unto myself a wile, ere the day*
come when I shall say I have no pleasure
in them, and a wife isn’t worth the wear of
a the leather consumed in runuing after her.
Give me a wife who is both goodlonkitig
and good natured—whose virtue ia never at
a discount—aud I will always be happy,
contented and satisfied, so aa Provi
dence allows me to stain the fair carpet of
his creation with my polluted footstepa—-
and may you, my unmarried brethren, en
tertain sentiments similar to my own,
abide by them to the last. So mote it be 1