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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.