Newspaper Page Text
VOL. 2.
jpssa’s <apss.
The following song, composed for the occasion
of the annual meeting of Norfolk Agricultural Society,
bv Olirer C. Wyman, Esq. waa snug by Mr. A J.
Fisher
The Primitive Agriculturists.
Tine —The Poachers.
I'll giro you a truthful history
I cabbaged from ancient lore,
’Tis all about Adam and Eve, my friends,
You've heard of ’m likely before;
They were people of ancient family
As far as ‘tis known to me,
And around this table are gathered the shoots
Os the old ancestral tree.
Ciioites.
Oil there are days of delight, whether cloudy or bright,
At nil seasons of the year.
When Adam waked up in the garden
With a ticklish pain in his side,
310 cocked his elbows akimbo,
• And stared upon live in her pride—
Said he, 4 ’tis a novel variety
Os fruit that may wither and waste,
It is certainly pleasant to look at,
I'll try if its pleasant to taste.’
Cno.it's.
So he kissed her cheek, and the rose*
That were nothing hut white till then,
taught quickly the dazzling brilliancy
That raises the devil with men.
Away with the vaunted smile!
It.should certainly be reversed,
’Twav the blush of a woman that crown’d the rose
With its redolent tinting at first.
Chores.
’Twas an early association
With agricultural tone.
iFtnr Adam was planted in Ivlen ;
Ewe was bone of his bone !
Dtft !Kru do Home modern ladies
Permitted do govern the roost,
f-liv finally lost him Paradise
‘For an .ajtpfc or two at most.
Chorus.
Now these primitive agriculturalists
Know aioSsfwg of plough or of spade,
But Hetttity-sprang tip in the sunshine,
A#id Plenty lay hid in the shade ;
The curse proved a genial blessing,
Their labor was never in vain,
And E vchafi-seme Abel as.'stance,
While Adam reposed on his Cain.
Chorus.
TiHi-v.s.U.tni.y,
The Lover nor and the Printer.
A TALK OF TRUTH.
Franklin had just returned from assisting
poor Collins to bed, when the Captain of the
•vessel which had brought him to New York,
stepped up and in a very respectful manner
put a note into his hand. Hen opened it, not
without some agitation and read as follows:
‘G. Hurnett’s compliments await young Mr.
Franklin, and should be glad to have half an
dtour’s chat with him over a glass of wine,’
‘G. Hurnett,’ said Hen, ‘who can that be ?’
Why,’tis the Governor,’ replied the Captain
with a smile ; ‘I have just been to see him with
some letters I brought for him from Hoston ;
and when 1 told him what a world of books you
hare, lie expressed curiosity to see you, and
begged I would return with you to his palace.’
lien instantly set off with the Captain, but
not without a sigh as he cast a look at the door
of poor Collin’s bed-room, to think what an hon
or that wretched man had lost for the sake of
two or three gulphs of filthy grog.
The Governor’s looks at the approach of Hen,
allowed somewhat a disap|K>intment. lie had,
it seems, expected considerable entertainment
from Ben’s conversation. Hut his fresh and rud
dy countenance showed so much younger than
he had counted on. that he gave up all his pro- i
mised entertainment as a lost hope. He re
ceived Ben, however, with great politeness, and,
after pressing on him a glass of wine, took him
into an adjoining room, which was his library,
consisting of a large and well chosen selection.
Seeing the pleasure which sparkled in Hen’s
eyes, as he surveyed so many elegant authors,
and thought of the rich stores of knowledge
which they contained, the Governor, with a
smile of complacency, as on a young pupil of
science, said to him—
" Well, Mr. Franklin, T am told by the Cap
tain, here that you have a fine collection too.’
‘Only a trunk full, sir,’ said Bon.
‘A trunk full sir?’ replied the Governor,
■‘why what use can you have for so many books .-
A oung people at your age, have seldom read
iboyond the tenth chapter of Nehetniah.’
‘*<[ can boast,’ replied Ben, of having read a
■great deal beyond that, myself; but still I should
be sorry if I could not get a trunk full to read
■fcvery six months.’
At this Governor, regarding him with a look
•of surprise, said :
‘You must then, though so young, be a schol
ar— perhaps a teacher of the languages!’
‘No, sir,’ replied Ben, ‘1 know no language
but my own.’
‘What, not Latin or Greek?’
‘No, sir, not a word of either.’
‘Why, don’t you think them necessary V
‘I don’t set myself up as judge—but! should
not suppose them necessary.’
‘Aye ? well I should like to hear your reas
ons.’
‘Why; sir, I am not competent to give reas
ons that may satisfy a gentleman of your learn
but the following are the reasons with w Inch
1 satisfy myself. I look on language, sir. mere
ly as arbitrary sounds of characters, whereby
men communicate their ideas to each other.
Now I already possess a language which is ca
pable of conveying more ideas than I shall ever
acquire. Were it not wiser in me to improve
my time in sense through that one language than
waste it in getting mere sounds through fifty
languages, even if I could learn as many.’
Here the Governor paused a moment, though
not without a little red on his cheeks, for hav
ing put Ben and chapter tenth of Nehemiah so
close together. However, catching anew idea
he took another start.
‘Well, but my dear sir, you certainly differ
from the learned world, which is, you know, de
cidedly in favor of the languages.’
‘I would not wish wantonly to differ from the
learned world,’ said Ben, ‘especially when they
maintain opinions that seem to be founded on
truth. But when this is not the case, to differ
trom them I have ever thought my duty ; and
especially since I studied Locke.’
1 hocke!’ cried the Governor with surprise,
Jon studied Locke V
Yes, sir, studied Locke on the Understand
ing, three years ago, when I waa thirteen
Aou amaze me, sir. You study Locke on the
Understanding at thirteen ?’
‘Yes. sir, I did.’
‘Well, and pray at what college did you stu
dy Locke at thirteen? for at Cambrige college
in old England, where I got my education,
they never allowed the senior class to look at
Locke until eighteen V
‘Why, sir, it was my misfortune never to be
at college or even at grammar school, except nine
months when I was a child.’
Here the Governor sprang from his seat and
starting at Ben, cried out:
‘Never at college ! well, and where—where
d-d you get your education, pray V
‘At home, sir, in a tallow candler’s shop!’
‘ln a tallow candler's shop!’ screamed the
Governor.
‘Yes, sir, my father was a poor old tallow Can
dler with sixteen children, and I was the young
est of all; at eight years of age he put me to
school, but finding be could not spare the mon
ey from the rest of the children to keep tno
there, lie took me home in the shop, where I as
sisted him by twisting the candle wicks and fill
ing the moulds all day, and at night I read by
myself. At twelve my father bound me to my
brother, a printer, in Boston, and then I worked
there all day at the case and press, and again
read by myself at night.’
Here the Governor spanked his bands togeth
er, and put on a loud whistle, while his eye
balls, wild with surprise, rolled about in their
sockets as if in a mighty mind to hop out.
‘lmpossible, young man !’ he exclaimed, ‘im
possible. you are only sounding my credulity,
lean never believe the one-half of this.’ Then
turning to the Captain, he said —‘Captain, you
arc an intelligent man, and from Boston; pray
tell me, can this young man here be aiming at
any thing but to quiz me ?’
‘No inded, please your ejcellencv,’ replied the
Captain, ‘Mr. Franklin is not quizzing you : he
is saving what is really true, for I am acquainted
with his father and family.’
The Governor then turning to Ben, said, more
moderately : ‘well, my dear wonderful boy, 1
ask your pardon ; and now pray tell me, for 1
feel a stronger desire than ever to hear your ob
jections to learning the dead languages.’
‘Why, sir, J object to it principally on account
of the shortness of human life. Taking them
one with another, men do not live above fortv
years. Plutarch, indeed only puts it at thirty
three. But say forty. Well, of this, ten years
are luM in childhood, before any boy thinks of
Latin grammar. This brings the forty down to
thirty. Now of such a moment as this to spend
five or six years to learn the dead languages,
especially when nil the best books in those lan
guages are translated into ours, and besides, we
already have more books on every subject than
such short lived creatures can ever acquire,
seems very preposterous.’
‘Well, what are you to do with their great
poets, Virgil and Ilomer, for example ; I sup
pose yon would not think of translating Homer
out of his rich native Greek into your poo if
homespun English, would you ?’ <
‘Why not, sir ?’
‘Why 1 should as soon think of transplanting
a pine apple from Jamaica to Boston.’
‘Well, sir, a skillful gardener, with his hot
house, would give us nearly as fine a pineapple
as any in Jamaica. And so Mr. Pope, with his
fine imagination, has given tis Homer in English,
with more beauties than ordinary scholars would
find in him by forty years study of the Greek.
And besides, sir, if Ilomer were not translated,
I am far from thinking it would be worth spend
ing five or six years to learn to read him in his
own language.’
‘You differ from the critics, Mr. Franklin, for
the critics all tell us his beauties are inimitable.’
•Yes,sir, and the naturalists tell us that the
beauties of the basilisk are inimitable.’
‘The basilisk, sir! Homer compared with the
basilisk ! 1 really don't understand you, sir.’
‘Why, L mean, sir, that as the basilisk is the
more to be dreaded from the beautiful skin
which covers its poison, so is Homer for the
bright coloring he throws over bad characters
and nassions. Now as I don’t think the beau
ties of poetry are comparable to those of philan
thropy, nor a thousandth part so important
to human happiness, 1 must confess 1
dread Homer, especially as the companion of
youth. The humane and gentle virtues are cer
tainly the greatest charms and sweetness of life.
And l suppose, sir, you would hardly think of
sending your son to Achilles to learn these.’
‘I agree lie has too much revenge in his com
position.’
‘Yes, sir, and when painted in the colors
which Homer’s glowing fancy lend, what youth
but must run the most imminent risk of catching
a spark of bad fire from such a blaze as he
throws upon his pictures.’
‘Why, this, though an uncommon view of the
subject, is, I confess an ingenious one, Mr.
Franklin; but surely ’tis over-stated.’
‘Not at all, sir ; we are told from good au
thority, that it \uis the reading of Homer that
first put it into the head of Alexander the Great
to become a hero; and after him of Charles
XII. What millions have been slaughtered by
these two great butchers is not known, but still
probably not a tithe of what have perished in
duels between individuals, from pride and re
venge, nursed by reading Homer.’
‘Well, sir,’ replied the Governor, ‘I never
heard the prince of bards treated in this way Be
fore. You must certainly be singular in your
charges against Ilomer.’
‘I ask your pardon, sir; I have the honor to
think of Homer, exactly as did the greatest
philosphcr of antiquity. I mean Plato, who
strictly forbade the reading of Ilomer in his re
public. And yet Plato was a heathen. I don't
boast myself as a Christian ; and yet l am shock
ed at the inconsistency of our Latin and Greek
teachers (generally Christians and divines too),
who can one day put Homer in the hands of
their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations
can stop them short, to point out divine beau
ties and sublimities which the poet gives to bis
heroin the bloodv work of slaughtering the poor
Trojans ; and the next day take them to church
to a discourse from Christ on the blessedness of
meekness and forgiveness. No wonder that
hot-livered young men, thus educated, depise
meekness and forgiveness as a coward’s virtues,
and nothing so glorious as fighting duels and
blowing out brains.’
Here the Governor came to a pause, like a
gamester at bis last trum . But perceiving
Ben cast bis eve on a spend id copy of Pope, he
suddenly seized that as a tine opportunity to
turn the conversation. So, stepping up,” he
placed his hand on his shoulder, and in a very
familiar manner said :
‘Well, Mr. P’ranklin, there’s an author I am
sure you will not quarrel with—an author that
J think you will pronounce faultless. It would
“ Mfpnitrat ia nil tilings —Jkttrnl in Mining.”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 18, 1851.
puzzle you, I suspect, keen critic as you are, to
point out one fault.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Ben, hastily turning to the
place, what do you think of this famous coup
let of Pope’s—
Immodest words admit of no defence,
For want of decency is want of sense.’
‘I see no fault there.’
‘No—indeed!’ replied Ben. ‘Why now to
my mind a man can have no better excuse for
any thing he does wrong than his want of sense.’
‘How so V
‘Well sir, if l might presume to altera line
of this great poet, I would do it in this way :
‘lmmodest words admit of this defence,
J hat want of decency is want of sense.’
Here the Governor caught Ben in his arms,
as a delighted father would his son, calling out
at the same time to the Captain :
‘How greatly I am obliged to you, sir, for
bringing me to acquaintance with this charming
youth I Oh, what a delightful thing it would
be lor us to converse with such a sprightly youth
as he. But the worst of it is, most parents are
blind as bats to tbe true glory and happiness of
their children. Most parents never look higher
for their sons, than to see them delving like
muck-worms for money, or hopping about like
jay-birds in fine feathers. Hence their conver
sation is little better than froth or nonsense.’
After several other handsome compliments on
Ben, and the Captain expressing a wish to be
going, the Governor shook hands with Bon, beg
ged at the same time, that he would forever
consider him one of his fastest friends, and also
never to come to New York without coining to
see him.
The Touching Proof.
RV T. S. ARTHUR.
“Here, Jane,’’ said a father to his little gill
not over eleven years of age, “go over to the
shop and buy me a pint of brandy.
At the same time lie banded her a quarter of
a dollar. The child took the money and the
bottle, and as she did so, looked her father in
the face with an earnest sail expression. But
he did not seem to observe it, although he per
ceived it, and felt it; for lie understood its
meaning. The little girl lingered, as if reluc
tant from some reason, to go on her errand.
“Did you hear what I said!” the father
asked, angrily, and w ith a frowning brow, as
lie observed this.
Jane glided from tlie room and w T ent over to
the shop, hiding, as she passed through the
street, the bottle under her apron. There she
obtained tbe liquor, and returned with it in a
few minutes. As she reached the bottle to her
father, she looked at him again with the same
sad, earnest look, which he observed. It an
noyed and angered him.
“ B hat do you mean by looking at me in
that way ? Ha!” he said, in a loud angry tone.
Jane shrunk away, and passed into the next
room, where her mother lay sick. She had been
sick for some time, and as they were poor, and
her husband given to drink, she had sorrow and
privation added to her sufferings. As her lit
tle girl came in, she went up to the side of her
bed, and, bending over it, leaned her head upon
her hand. Site did not make any remark, nor
did her mother speak to her, until she observed
the tears trickling through her fingers.
“ What is the matter, my dear ? she then
asked tenderly.
The little girl raised her head, endeavoring
to dry up her tears as she did so.
** I feel so bad, mother,” she replied.
“And why do you feel bad, my child.”
“Oh, I always feel so bail when father sends
me over to the shop for brandy; and I had to
go just now. I wanted to ask him to buy you
some nice grapes and oranges with the quarter
of a dollar, they would taste so good to you
but he seemed to know what I was going to say,
and looked at me so cross that l was afraid to
speak. 1 wish he would not drink any more
brandy. It makes him cross; and th<-n how
many nice tilings he might buy for you with
the money it takes for liquor.’’
The poor mother had no words of comfort to
offer her little girl, older in thought than in
years; for no comfort did she herself feel in
view of the circumstances that troubled her
child. She only said, laying her hand upon the
child's head
“ Try and not think about it. my dear; it on
ly troubles you, and your trouble cannot make
it any better.’’
But Jane could not help thinking about it,
try as hard as she would. She went to a Sab
bath school, in which a Temperance Society had
been formed, and every Sabbath she heard the
subject of intemperance discussed, and its dread
ful consequences detailed, but more tliau all
this, she had the daily experience of a drunk
ard's child. In this experience how much of
heart-touching misery was involved! how much
of privation—how much of the anguish of a
bruised spirit. Who can know the weight that
lies like a heavy burden upon the heart of a
drunkard’s child ! None hut the child, for lan
guage is too powerless to convey it.
< >n the next morning, the father of little Jane
went away to his work, and she was left alone
with her mother and her younger sister. Thev
were very poor, and could not afford to employ
any one to do the house work, and so young
as she was while her mother was sick, Jane had
everything to do : the cooking, and cleaning
and even washing and ironing ; a hard task, in
deed, for her little hands. But she never mur
mured—never seemed to think that she wa>
overburdened. llow cheerfully would all have
been done, if her father’s smiles had only fallen
like sunshine upon her heart! But that face into
which her eyes looked so often and anxiously,
was ever hid in clouds—clouds arising from the
consciousne-s that he was abusing his family
while seeking his own base gratification, and
from perceiving the evidences of his evil works
stamped on all things around him.
As Jane passed frequently through her mo
ther's room during the morning, pausing almost
every time to ask if she wanted anything; she
saw, too plainly, that she was not as well as on
the day before —that she had a high fever, in
dicated to her by her hot skin and constant re
quest for coo! water
“l wish I had an orange,” the poor woman
said, as Jane came up to her bed-side, for the
twentieth time, “ it would taste so good to me.°
She had been thinking about an orange all
the morning; and notwithsanding her effort to
drive the the thought from her mind, the form
of an orange would ever picture itself before
her, and its grateful ffavor ever seetn about to
thrill upon her taste. At last she uttered her
wish—not so much with the hope of having it
gratified, as from an involuntary impulse to
speak out her desire.
There was not a single cent ia the house, for 1
the father rarely trusted his wife with money,
he could not confide in her judicious expendi
ture of it!
“ Let me go and buy you an orange, mother,”
Jane said ; “ they have oranges at the shop.’*
“ I have no change, my dear; and if I had,
I should not think it right to spend four or five
cents for an orange; when we have so little.—
Get me a cool drink of water : that will do
now.”
Jane brought the poor sufferer a glass of wa
ter, and she drank it off eagerly. Then she
lay back upon her pillow with a sigh, and her
little girl went out to attend to the household
duties that developed upon her. But all the
while Jane thought of the orange, and of how
she would gut it for her mother.
When 1 icr father came home to dinner, he
looked crosser tliar) he dill in the morning. He
silt down to the table and ate bis dinner in
moody silence, and then arose to depart, with
out so much as asking after his sick wife, or
going into her chamber. Ashe moved toward
the door, his hat already on his head, Jane went
up to him, and looking timidly in his lace, said,
with a hesitating voice—
“ Mother wants an orange eo bad. Won’t
you give me some money to buy her one?”
“ No, I will not! Your mother had better be
thinking about something else tliau wasting
money for oranges!’’ was tbe angry reply, as
the. father passed out, and shut the door hard
after him.
Jane stood for a moment, frightened at the
angry vehemence of her father, and then burst
into tears. She said nothing toiler mother of
what had passed, but after the agitation of her
mind had somewhat subsided, began to ea*t
about in her thoughts for some plan by which
she might obtain an orange. At last it occur
red to her, that at the shop where she got liquor
for her father, they bought rags and old iron.
“ How much do you give a pound for rags ?’’
she asked, in a minute or two after the idea
had occurred to her, standing at the counter of
tbe shop.
“Three cents a pound,” was the reply.
“ llow much for old iron
“A cent a pound.”
“ What's the price of those oranges ?”
“Four cents a piece.”
With this information, Jane hurried back.
After she had cleared away the dinner table, she
went down into the cellar and looked up all the
old bits of iron that she could find. Then she
reached the yard, and found some eight or ten
rusty nails, an old bolt, and a broken hinge.—
These she laid away in a little nook in the cellar.
Afterward she gathered together all the old rags
that she could find ah >ut the house, and in the
cellar, and laid them vith her old iron. But
she saw plainly enough that her iron would not
weigh over two pounds, nor her rags a quarter
of a pound. If time would have permitted, she
would have gone in the street to look for old
iron, but this she could not do; and disappoint
ed at not being abb- lo get the orange for her
mother, she went abiA*%~-'tier work during the
afternoon with sad andj desponding thoughts
and feelings. “w,
It was summer time, anil her father came
home from his work before it was dark.
“ Go and get me a pint of brandy,” lie said
to Jane, in a tone that sounded harsh and angry
to the child, handing her at the same time a
quarter of a dollar. Since the day before he
had taken a pint of brandy, and none but the
best would suit him.
She took the money and the bottle, and went
over to the shop. Wistfully she looked at the
tempting oranges, in the window, as she gave
the money for the liquor, and thought how
glad her poor mother would be to have one.
As she was hurrying back, she saw a thick
rusty iron ring lying in the street; she picked
it up and kept on her way. It felt heavy, and I
her heart bounded with the thought that she j
could buy the orange for her mother. The
piece of old iron was dropped in the yard, as j
she passed through. After her father had ta- !
ken a dram, lie sat down to his supper. While j
he was eating it, Jane went into the cellar and
brought out into the yard her little treasure of
scrap iron. As she passed backward and for
ward, before the door facing which her father
sat, he observed her, and felt a sudden curiosi
ty to know what she was doing. He went soft- ,
ly to the window, and as lie did so, he saw her !
gathering the iron, which she had placed in a
little pile, into her apron. Then sin; rose up
quickly, and passed out of the yard gate, into
the street.
1 lie father went back to his supper, but his
appetite was gone. There was that in the act
of his child, simple as it was, that moved his
feelings in spite of him self. All at once he thought
of the orange sin- had asked tor her mother; auu
he felt a conviction that it was to buy an orange
that Jane was now going to sell the iron she had
evidently been collecting sinci* dinner time.
“ How selfish and wicked I am 1” he said to
himself, almost involuntarily.
In a few minutes Jane returned, and with
her hand under her apron, passed through the
room where lie sat into her mother's chamber.
An impulse, almost irresistable, caused him to
follow her in a few moments after.
“Itis so grateful!” he heard his wife say, as
he opened the door.
On entering the chamber, lie found her sit
ting up in bed eating the orange, while little
Jane stood by her looking into her face with an
air of subdued, yet heartfelt gratification. All
this he saw at. a glance, vet did not seem to see,
tor he pretended to be searching for something
which, apparently obtained, he left the room
and the house. with findings of acute pain and
self upbraidings.
“ Come and let us go and see these cold wa
ter men,’’said a companion, whom he met a
few stops from Ins own door. “ They are car
rying all the world before them.’’
“ Verv well, come along.’’
And the two men bout tbeir steps towards
Temperance Hall.
Alien little Jane's father turned from the
door ot that place, his name was signed to the
pledge, and his heart fixed to abide by it. On
iiis way home, he saw some grapes in a win
dow ; he bought some of them, and a couple
of oranges and lemons. When he came home
he went into his wife’s chamber, and opening
the paper that contained the first fruits of his
sincere repentance, laid them before her, and
said, with tenderness; while the moistgre d>m
mod his eyes—
“l thought these would tast“ good to you,
Mary, and so I brought them.”
•‘ Oh William!’’ and the poor wife started,
and looked up into her husband’s face with an
expression of surprise and trembling hope.
“ Mary,”—and he took her hand, tenderly ;
“ I have signed the pledge to night, and I will
keep it, by the help of Heaven !
) The sick wife raised herself up quickly, and
bent over toward her husband, eagerly extend
ing her bands. Then, as he drew bis arm a
round her, she let her head fall upon his bosom,
with Rn emotion of delight, such as had not
moved over the surfaces of her stricken heart
for years.
The pledge taken was the total abstinence
pledge, and it has never been violated by him,
and what is better, we are confident never will.
llow much of human hope and happiness is j
involved in that simple pledge!
From a late California paper.
The Chinamen in California.
| Quite n large number of the Celestials have arrived
among its of late, enticed hither by the golden ro- i
manee which has filled the world. Scarcely a ship
arrives that docs not bring au increase to this worthy i
integer of our population. And we hear by China .
papers and private advices from that Empire that the j
feeling is spreading all through the seaboard, and as a ;
consequence, nearly all the vessels that are up for
this country, are so for the prospect of passengers. —
A few Chinamen have returned, taking home with ;
them some thousands of dollars in California gold, and
thus given an impetus to the feeling of emigration
from their fartherland which is not likely to abate for
some years to come.
Through the Chief here, and their agent, Mr. Wood- J
ward, they have got possession of a large tract of land
on the Mnquelumne, which they have commenced cul
tivating and are fast settling it. They are among the
most industrious, quiet, patient people among us. Per
haps tlie citizens of no nation except the Germans are !
more quiet and valuable. They seem to live under j
our laws as if born and bred under them, and already ;
have commenced an expression of their preference by
applying for citizenship, by filing their intentions in
our courts. What will be the extent of the move
ment now going on in China and here, is not easily
foreseen. We shall undoubtedly have a very large addi
tion to our population, and it may not be many years
before the halls of Congress are graced by the presence
of a long-queued Mandarin, silting, voting and speak
ing beside a Don from Saute Fe, and a Kanaker from
llavaii.
While writing the above, a letter from a Chinese in 1
Cllflia to a China boy in tins country lias been shown i
us by Mr. Gregory, and it will b. forwarded by his I
express to its destination tit the Indian Gulch, where j
its Celestial recipient is digging gold, and will feci him
self happy by the news from home. Many letters pass i
to and fro between China and Californa, and at each
departure of ships for the Celestial Empire, its chil
dren In re send off to their friends beyond the Pacific
great numbers of California papers. It may bo seen
from this, bow intercourse is increasing and knowl- j
edge extending. The day of fencing the world and |
information out of Chinn has forever passed away. —
The glitter of our gold has passed the gates of the ;
cousin of the sun and moon, and the disciples of Con* j
fucius are coming and have come to qualify his phi
losophy with tiic wisdom of Washington and the utili- ;
ty of Franklin. .
Gradually their wooden shovs give way to the man
ufactures of Lynn, and kindle a fire for barbecuing a
rat dinner. The long queu eventually passes away be- j
fore the tonsorial scissors, and stuffs a saddle or is wo- |
von into a lariat. The yard-wide nankeen unmen
tionables, are found unsuited to our windy climate and
neater fashions, and are succeeded by a much better
fit. Ilats and other American garments succeed, and j
soon the chief distinction consists in the copper color, i
the narrow angular eyes, the peculiar gibberish, and j
beardless faces. When the national costumes shall
have passed way, national prejudices, whether of poli
tics, morals or religion, are pretty certainly on their
road to amalgamation. The China hoys will yet vote
at the same polls, study at the same schools, and bow at ,
tbe same altar as our own countrymen.
Advertising.
It is not more our interest to receive advertisements
and give them publicity in our columns, than it is to
the interest of those who uatronize us in this way. If
parties who hold goods, wares and merchandize for
sale are unknown, parties who want their goods, j
wares and merchandize must seek them out, or else
the holder cannot sell, or the person wanting, buy.—
The easier way, then, to make the holder iff goods
known, and the kind of goods he holds for sale known
to those who may want to buy, is to advertise them. ‘
None understand the benefits accruing to their busi
ness by advertising, so well as those who are venders j
of the patent medicines. Hundreds of these medicine j
merchants, who are now living in affluence, would have j
dragged along in poverty to this hour, had they not ;
learnt the secret made known a few years ago by such I
men as Morrison of Liverpool, Day & Martin of L<-ii- i
don. Dr. Moffett of New York, and a few others, that
to advertise, here, there, and everywhere, was tlie road 1
to fortune.
‘lf you wish to lie known, and the goods you have j
for sale known, keep constantly before the public with j
your advertisement. It is a laudable notoriety, and
will increase your gains often a thousand fold. A few
years ago wo had business in the establishment of one
of the venders of patent medicines in New York.— j
While conversing with the proprietor, a person cainc
to sell a salve he had with him, which, according to
his account, had performed the most miraculous cures.
After examining it, with the credentials accompanying
it, the proprietor Said, ‘I will undertake the sale of it,
dividng the profits, provided you will pay for bringing
it into notice by advertising.’
The holder of the salve said he thought he would
do so, if the advertising would not cost much. ‘Why,’
said the proprietor of the establishment, this little tin
case ol salve, which l hold in my hand,cost me in three
years, to advertise it, $7,000, and he added, now it
costs me but a trifle, and I reap per annum profit from
it of $10,000.’ He then said,'if you.’addressing him
self to tile other party, ‘will pay SI,OOO for advertis
ing your salve, and it is as good as you represent it to be,
I will until take tlie sale of it. and Bhall make money
by the operation.’
Many of the proprietors of the leading patent medi
cine* spend $50,000 per annum for advertising; and
we see the result. The merchant and small deale.—
the manufacturer, all writ have goods, wares and mer
chandise for sale, and especially those who are compar
atively little known, would find tfceir business increase
rapidly, if, through the channel of the newspapers,
their names, places of business, and the goods they
have for sale, were kept constantly before the public
eye. This can be done for a small sum per annum,
from S3O to 100 for a moderate sized advertisement.
Wo doubt no* the Intelligencer nevvpaper is now read
daily in the city of St Louis bv 10,000 persons, and if
your advertisements are not in this or some other pa
per, these ten thousand persons may not know where
to find either you or your goods, wares and merchandise.
Fonder on these things— advertise , and verily at the
end of the year you will find your reward.
We can name a retired merchant of this city, now
worth at least $150,0(10. npd vve think a large portion
of this wealth was the direct result of advertising. H<
is known fur and wide—the columns of the newspa
pers constantly contained his name, when in businus
he always had the ‘best stock,’ ‘the cheapest stock.* am
the ‘biggest stock in the world.’ lie is now rich, in
token of gratitude, his coat of arms ought to be—the
Pre:r.— Ft. Loci: Intelligencer.
Election Anecdote.
The Chambers (A!.) “Tribune” contains a
good election anecdote of Col. A. Q. Nicks, of
Talladega, one of the members elect from that
county. It runs thus:
The Colonel had incurred, somehow, the en
mity of a certain preacher—one who had once
been ejected from his church and subsequently
restored. The parson, besides, was no favorite
with his neighbors. Well, when Nicks was nom
inated, parson 81* shetn “ norated” it publicly
that when Nicks should be elected, his (the par*
1 son’s) land would be for sale, and himself ready
to emigrate.
Well, the Colonel wont round the county a
time or two, and found he was “bound to go
and shortly after arriving at that highly satisfac
’ tory conclusion, espying the parson in a crowd
he was addressing, sung out to him—l say, bro
-1 ther Slashem, begin to fix up your muniments—
j draw your deeds—l am going to represent these
| people, certain ! But before you leave, let me
| give you thanks for declaring your intention as
I soon as you did ; for on that account I am get
j ting all of your church and the most of your
i neighbors !’’
The parson has not been heard of, since !
Barnum, being asked one day the secret of
his success, (says a correspondent of the New
York Express.) simply laughed and said ; “Prin
ters’ Ink.”
The U. S. steam liip Saranac,and the U. S.
ships Albany and Decatur were at Havuuna
when the Georgia left that port.
Sweden and Switzerland are the only Eu
ropean powers not owing a national debt.
Dr. Kidd, Regius Professor o( Medicine in
the London University, and author ot one of the
Bridgewater Treatises, that on llie adoption of
external nature to the condition of man, i
dead.
A Welsh paper states tfmt 150,000 watches
have been pawned and sold in Wales, for the
purpose of finding lunds to pay the expenses of a
journey to and from London to see the Great
Exhibition. In some cases even hods have
been disposed of. Foolish people.
In Syracuse various arrests have been made
i of several individuals implicated in the rescue
i of tlie fugitive slave, Jerry, from the officers
[of the law. The ringleaders of the lot are not
; likely to escape the penalty of their temerity
for any Jack of evidence.
Mr. Hay, chemical assistant at Portsmouth
Dockyard, (England,) has exhibited a model ot
anew galvanic motive power, which it is sup
posed, will supersede tbe strain p aver in>\\
used as an auxiliary for propelling line-ot
battle ships and frigates. The machine or en
gine makes about forty-five revolutions per
minute, sea water being the principle element
used.
At a public meeting held at Toronto, Can
ada, on Saturday last, a resolution was passed
in lavor ol the city Co-operation voting §41)0,
I OOP guarantee, towards the construction of the
! Toronto and Guelph Rail Road.
I News has been received ol the death of Mr.
Jambs Richardson, the enterprising African
traveler, on the 4'.h of March last. He died at
the village of Unqurutue, six days distant from
Kouka, the capital ot Bornou. He had separ
ated from Iris companions, Drs. Barth and
Orerweg, in January last. Mr- Richardson
was an Englishman
Mu. Editor: —Please to pass the following
extract along to that bloated, wine-bibbing
young man, who is swaggering about at his
father’s expense.
“ Bad luck, as well as mischance and mis
fortune, are all the daughters of misconduct,
and sometimes the mother of success, prosperity
and advancement. To be thrown on one’s
own resources, is to be cast into the verv lap
of fortune. Had Franklin entered Philadephia,
with a thousand in his pocket, instead of one
shilling ninepence as he did, probably be would
have got on a spree, instcadof burning up em
ployment, and died at thirty file, from driving
tandem teams and drinking brandy sma.-hei
instead of living to the good old age of eighty,
and dying a philosopher, whose amusement
was the taming of thunder-bolts and bottling up
lightning.
Had Napoleon’s father been the owner
of a princely estate, his son would never
have become an Emperor. A good kick out
of doors is better for a bov than all the uncles
in the world. One never tries to swim ><•
hard as when he has to do it or drown. To be
a rich man’s son, is one of the greatest
misfortunes that can befall a young man, men
ially speaking Who fill our offices ? Not the
children of the rich, or the sons of the opulent.
A knowledge of starch and debauchery is all a
rich man’s sons aspire to. The parlor is the
scene of their oratory, and hair oil the care of
their souls.”
N. Y. Correup i.idence of the Petersburg!) Intelligencer.
New York, Sept. 23, ISSI.
The failures of yesterday—one of an extensive Car
pet manufacturer, and dealer, and another a Dry Goods
house of excellent standing a few weeks ago—are the
great staple of down town talk, this morning. Chcse
boro, Stearns, & Cos. (who failed a few days ago, but
which I hesitated then to name to you,) are to declare
to-day how much th’ y can pay on their $700,000 of
liability. ‘They will pay twenty-five per cent,’ I heard
a clerk in a store say this morning. ‘They will be
fools if they do” exclaimed his employer, an old
man tn gold spectacles. ‘I suppose, sir, he added,
turning to me, ‘that you will think it strange that I
should say so. But they lmd better sto-v away all they
can. They can as well put away two hundred thou
sand dollars as not, and the world will think better oi
them for doing it. Their honesty will not k.ep them
from being despised if they are poor. Look at my
own ease !’ he continued. “On the night of the ‘Great
Fire’ in this city, i was worth $2d0,000; the next
morning the contents of my store, worth all that, were
destroyed, and only 9.000 insured. I gave up all I had
in the world to my creditors, including a house in War
ren street, worth $30,000. Not a cent was reserved.
And was my honesty appreciated? Not at all. My
poverty rendered me despised. One man whom low
ed $6,000, which I paid, principal and interest called
me a ‘scoundrel,’ though I paid him a hundred cents on
a dollar. That man, rich as he then was, has broken
to pieces, and paid ■ uly twelve and a halt on a dollar.
Here's rnv friend .who failed at the
aine time I did. and saved $150,000. And there is
neighbor so-and-so, a similar case.’ And he went on,
and named over softie half dozen wealthy men, wh •
had got rich by bankruptcy. ‘They ride in their ea--
■ iages, and here fam keeping this little shop’* I told
him I had much rather be* in his shoes than their*, for
conscious meanness must inar all their pleasures. ’The
torld don’t agree with you!’ he rejoined bitterly.
I was sorry to see the old man have so much feeling
on this subject. Tbs r'.cb gujs wheel ba namid.nay
fluurit.ii for a time, but ‘ Verily they Will have their r
icard.’
A case of failure more creditable to human integrity
was that of John Faulkner £sq., a short time ago. Ho
had retired from business with a handsome fortune,
fairly earned ; but the California excitemcut led him
to embark in trade, and make consignments to San
Francisco. A few months served to reduce him to
bankruptcy, and now he has the world before him, with
little more than his good name and experience to help him
along.
If the truth were known, I suspect that most of the
recent large failures are owing to California speculation*
and San Francisco fires.
(Corresjnjnknrf.
LETTERS FftOX TUE NORTH-NO. 23.
East Haven, Sept. 2,1951.
Dear Doctor :—On looking over the September
No. of Harper's Magazine, 1 find that the Editor ha*
extracted from my book entitled ‘ The Last Pleiad ,’&c.
part of a Poem which he calls not only ‘beautiful,’ but
supposes that it was ‘translated from the German.’
As the only translation it ever experienced was the
joyful Apotheosis of being created out of tlio substanco
of my heart by my own soul, I will quote it here again i
By the shore of Time now lying
On the inky flood beneath,
Patiently tf.ou Soul undying!
Waits for thee the Ship of Death !
lie who on that vessel starteth,
Sailing from the Sons of men,
To the friends front whom he parieth,
Never more returns again !
From her mast no Flag is flying
To denote from whence she came,
Slit is known unto the dying--
Am a.! is her Captain’s name.
Not n word was over spoken
On that dark unfathomed Sea ;
Silence there is so unbroken,
She herself seems not to b* !
Silent thus, in darkness lonely,
Docs the Soul put forth alone ;
‘While the wings of Angelsonly
Waft her to a Land Unknown ’.
Thus do I expose tbo presumption of that Editor
who arrogated to himself the right t 6 steal from my
book what he attributes to a German Poet while‘walk
ing silent and thoughtful by the solemn shore of the
vast ocean wo must ail sail so soon !’ Mr. Editor ! think
of this!
At Athens there were two Temples, the one built
within the other in such a manner that the Candidate*
bad first to pa** through the Temple of virtue before
lie could enter that of fame. Here, the thing is com
pletely reversed—you must first pass through the wig
wam of before you can enter the Temple of
Justice.
A writer in the ‘ Philadelphia Bulletin who evi
dently aspires to be considered an Amateur, speaks very
approvingly of a Poem by Sydney Yendies, called
* The Homan , which has recently appeared in England,
lie says, very truly, that “noJman of elevated mind
can peruse Shakespeare, Miltdn, or Wordsworth, with
out being raised, for the time, above the dross of earth,
without catching something of the Heaven born enthu
siasm which beat high in the hearts of those great Min
strels when they first sang their immortal songs.’
This is really good, and shows that the writer has a
heart to respond to the fine touches of the Lyre. He
farther says,‘lf a great l’eet was (were?) now te
arise, he would be the mouthpiece of tho spirit of
liberty, dre.’ But why so? Why should any fra*
P-ct have his mind moulded after the manner of tit ‘
Age in which he lives ? Did any true Poet ever har
Ins mind so moulded ? Never—never—notwithstand
ing all that he says of the ‘half Arcadian and hall
gross Epoohof the Elizabethan Era of bhakapearc’a
days ; the civil war-times of Milton ; and the Napo
leon inspiration of Byron and Shelley.’
It is well enough for a man to say something, when
he has nothing better to do; but it is quite another
thing to get any body to believe this something said.
This is the very case with the writer in question,
lie will never be abb to get any body, of any sense, to
believe that the existence of any true Poet is depend
ent upon the c .-eternal existence of a Kossuth, a Gar
rabaldi, a Bern or a Mazzini. Is it not a sublime idea to
suppose that it is the Age vvlimli makes a great Post,
and not the Poet the Age ? S
° J’
VV hat lie calls the ‘hail Arcadian and half gros*’
times of the Elizabethan Era, was nothing more nor
law than the reality of those time*. But the Age
had no more to do with the formation ofSheakespeare’s
mind, than Homer’s Age had to do with the writing
of the liiads.
The same may be said of Shelley, who was eminent*
nently a great reformer. Every body knows that
Milton’s mind was purely religions, independent of
the Cromwellian enthusiasm—just as the Cromwellian
enthusiasm was independent of the Puritanistic re
publican ism of the time.
The following sublime passage I take from Gris
wold’s Notice of the life of E lg.tr A. Poo. published in
a late Volume of his Criticisms, tailed 4 The Literati of
Netc York .’ ‘ln person he was below the middle
height, slenderly but, compactly formed, and in h
better moments he had, in an eminent degree, that air
of genUetnai'liuess which men of a lower order scl
dom succeed in attaining .’
This is from the |ien of the man who arrogates to
himself the ability to Edit a wotk on the American
Poets.
The following still sublimcr passage is from the same
article: 11 is conversation was, at times, almost tu
pramortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated
with astonishing skill, and his large and variably ex
pressure eyes looked repose. y allot fiery tumult into
theirs who listened, own face glowed, or
was changeless in palor, as his imagination quicken
ed his biood, or drew i: back frozen to his heart.’
W hat is any body to make of all this ? To say noth
ing of the style, what ought to be said of the physiology?
This, 1 think, would puzzle a Philadelphia Lawyer.
But if there is one thing more remarkable in it than
another, it is its arrant untruth. Mr. Poe’s voioe was
not susceptible of any such modulation. When he
read, his voico, was a sonorous monotone, and rolled
over his lips with an JSolian plaintivenew, like the
music of a shell, or the eternal breakings of the bil
lows of the Sea upon its shore.
All th.s wa written without a particle of belief in
its truth. It he did not believe it. then he was false to
himself in sayit g so—which is just as bad—for what
he has said 6ineo, proced that he lid not believe it.
Mr. Poe being a man of no passion, and knowing
that every body, who knew any thing at all about him,
was perfectly well acquainted with this feet, and would
stud fault with him, .is a Poet, because ho was wanting
in this element, set himself to work to prove that ‘True
pas.-ion is prosaic—homely.’ This he said in speak
ing of Mrs. XVelby's Poetry—than whom a more pas
sionate woman never existed. He believed, or affect
ed to believe, that we are poetio, in expressing the emo
tions of grief, precisely in proportion to the manner is
which we s grief—that is, we are poetio pre
cisely in proportion as we fail to develope the primum
****** cf c ' jr ttfK-utics. War ever ej c :j £i
NO. 29.