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VOL. 2.
TERMS OF TIIE CITIZEN.
Two Dollars, per anntittl, iii ad
vance, or Two Dollars and fifty
cents if not so paid.
£jgT > Cash Advertising and Job cus
tomers allowed a discount of 10 per cent
on regular rates.
“No subscriptions received unless
accompanied with the cash or a respon
sible reference.
Postage must be pre-paid.
jjnfeiattnl L 3Siuimrss iCnrits
W. L. WOOS,
DAGUERRE 0 TYPIST,
MACON, GA.
g-rj- ENTRANCE FROM TIIE AVENUE. Jbs
sprld if
RAILROAD HOUSE,
OPPOSITE CENTRAL RAILROAD DEPOT
EAST MACON.
, • 4 ts S. M. LANIER.
P. G. AIiKINGTON,
Attorney at Law and Notary Public,
Oglethorpe, Macon Cos.,
dec G E ORtll \ . 38—ts
‘city hotel,
SAVANNAH,v.v.v.v.v.vGEfIRGIA.
F. CONDON.
Transient Boarders, per day, $1,50. Monthly and
jritiy Hoarders in p.oportion. aprs— >’
OSSOaMS A. LO©>raAKlg 9
slttornnj nt I'imi,
OFFICE over bi-.lden and co’s. it at store,
Mulberry Stirct. Mar on, Georgia.
TIARDEMAN A HAMILTON,
Ware Houso and Commission Merchants,
MtCOX, GEORGIA.
HAMILTON & HARDEMAN,
FACTORS Ac COMMISSION MERCHANTS,
SJtrJt.VX.9Hy GEORGIA.
Will live prompt attention to all business committed to them
at either place.
TUOS. 11ARPEMAS. HO-ts) CH ,■ F■ IIAMII.TOS.
FACTORAGE AND
GsasmissMaa ass&sass
Savannah, Ga
\ \ ‘ r M. V. YONGE, No. 94 Bay street. Savannah, continues
\\ to transact a General Commission Business and l actor
,l-c. and respectfully solicits consignments of ‘ otton. Corn,
and other produce, lie will also attend to necivng and lor
warilin” Merchandize. —
April 3, 1851 ly
WINSHIP & SON,
WHOLtSALS AND UKT.UL PKALKRS IN
Farcv and Stajde Dry Goods and Heady
Alade Clothing.
COTTN AVENUE, MACON, C/U
~
\v. I). ETHERIDGE A Cos.,
FACTORS A COM MISSION MERCHANTS,
SAV.IXXA H , GEOUGIA.
tiil'lil'ed at the lowest prices. Liberal advances will be made
tip ‘.n Cotton or other produce consigned to us.
8. P. GOVE, V aU S** >
& 0p,7
Factors & Coimaissiou McicliaulS
augoO SAVANNAH, GEORGIA. -6m
SASH AND WINDOW BLIND
!iTV U yi, Pr~v un lP SA °
ri-tHB subscriber is manufacturing the above articles by
1 Steam Machinery, at very moderate prices.
TURNING AND PLANING.
cute any jobs in this line. AG ( . m
Jul)'-6
r IRE INS U It V N c E
nv Tint
COIOIERCIA.L INSURANCE COPT? ANY
OF CHARLESTON S. C.
HPim s2’>o,ooo— ALL PAIR IN.
Wji. R. Hf.riot, l’res. A-M. Lee. Sec’y.
lames K. Robinson o Geo! A. Trenlmlm. Robert OUdwcll,
A. R. Taft, Henry T. Street, Win. Mcßurncj, ... *
1.1, Wragg.
fPHF. nubscriliers having been appointed Agents fo^the
J_ above Company, are now prepared o a t ‘
Fire, on favorable terms. CARHAUT, Lv . q ir ' r „t*.
juneil
nils. BANKS & ROOSEVELt tender their
pr Sessional services to the citizens ot Macon and sur
-10 Resilience 1 onCollege Hill, the house formerly occupied
Cliarlcs bay. Office on the corner of Third and \\ alnut slreet.
W. H. E \NSS, M. D- tecpttt-?) c. 3. ROOSKV K I.T, >l. l> •
R. G. JEFFERSON & CO.
~ v MiNCrarTTRER AND wholesale dealer, in
CHAIRS,
West Side Broad ’St., first door above P. M Larin's,
COLUMBUS, GA.
rpdKV keen on hand an excellent supply of Office, \\ ood
I Scut. Split Bottom and Rocking Chairs; Bedsteads, W ood
*Yv-A if Orders left as above, will meet with prompt atten
tion novi—tf
w. s. willu oki),
COMMISSION MERCHANT AND AUCTIONEER,
Macon, <*•
All kind, of Produce and Merchandise, (except htjuon-) re
ceived on consignment.
S. <A It. P. HALL,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW,
Macon, Cl a.
Orncr on Cotton Avenue, over Little’s Drug Store, (octl 1)
Dry Goods and Groceries.
r PHE subscriber offers for sale at his <'d stand on Cotton
A Avenue, a general assortment of Sta, le an<l 1 ancy Dry
finods, consisting in part of the followingarticleK Cas*uu. res,
Broadcloths, Alapacas, Detains, Calicoes and Homespuns,
R'.-ady made Clothing and Jewelry.
Also a fine supply of Groceries, and almost every othr ar
ticle suited to citv find country customers. His gooils are re
vived at short intervals, and may be relied upon as being both
fresh and fashionable, and are offered very low for i ash*
oct 11—Gin GEO. EUaLIUU.
MRS. F. DESSAU
of the Neicest and most
, Fashionable Goods, in her line, all
P if ’’W ofthe latest importations, and would
if m particularly call the attention of
ladies to her stock of Fashio nab
it a i,k and Straw BOWNETS,
2 r> rß esee. Cape. Dress Silks, Mantillas, Embioid
’ ‘* nc y Goods, <J-c all of which will be sold ob
nextTo f' r r^‘ lab T * erm ?’ Store Triangular Row
next to Geo. Jones’ Crockery Store. Gm
GEO. JONES,
i\
For the Georgia Citizen.
To Cousin Carrie.
Dost thou remember, cousin mine,
Our favorite country haunt ?
The rivulet went murm’ring by,
And moistened every plant;
Long, and often, we would watch
1 he breaking hubbies play,
Or fish for minnows in the brook,
My cousin, Carrie Gray.
And many a pleasant, balmy eve,
\\ e wandered, far and near,
To listen to the bird of night,
Whose song we loved to hear ;
Those wurblings wild, were dear to me,
For each note seemed to say—
-1 love thee, still, my faithful friend,
My cousin, Carrie Gray.
But now a change, has taken place,
A change, that I regret,
Parted, perhaps, for months, or years,
But we will ne'er forget,
Though, thou art distant to the eye,
And miles between us lay,
But still thou art, to memory dear,
My eouiin. Carrie Gray.
Talbot ton, Ga. “ ZEPHYR,”
Reuben and Phoebe—A Pathetic Ballad
BT MR. K. K. BLIFKIXS.
In Manchester a Maiden dwelt,
Iler name was Phoebe Brown ;
Iler cheeks were red, her hair was black,
And she was considered, by good judges, to bo
by all odds the best looking girl in town.
Her age was nearly seventeen ;
Her eyes were startling bright;
Avery lovely girl was she—
And for about a year and a half there hnd been
a young man paying attention to her by the name ol
Reuben Wright.
Jiow Reuben was a nice young man,
As any in town ‘
And Phoebe loved him very dear—
But on account of his being obliged to work for
a living, he never could make himself agreeable to old
Mr. and Mrs. Brown,
Iler parents were resolved
Another she should wed—
A rich old miser in the place—
And old Brown frequently declared that rather
than have his daughter marry Reuben Wright lie’d
sooner knock him on the head.
But Phoebe’s heart was brave and strong,
She feared not parents’ frowns ;
And as for Reuben Wright, so hold,
I've heard him say more than fifty times that
(witli the exception of Plifebe) he did’nt care a
for the whole race of Browns.
So Phoebe Brown and Reuben Wright
Determined they should marry ;
Tierce weeks ago last Tuesday night,
They started for old Parson Webster’s, determin
ed to be united in the lio'.y bonds of matrimony
though it was tremendous dark and rained like Old
Harry.
But Captain Brown was wideawake;
lie loaded up his gun,
And pursued the loving pair :
lie overtook ‘em when they’d got about half way
to the Parson’s and then Reuben and Pbcebe started
off upon the run.
Old Brown then took a deadly aim
Towards young Reuben’s head ;
But oil! it was a bleeding shame—
He made a mistake and shot his only daughter,
and had the unspeakable anguish of seeing her drop
right down stone dead.
Then anguish filled young Reuben’s heart,
And vengeance crazed his brain ;
He drew an awful jack knife out,
And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty
limes, so that it is very doubtful about 1 is ever coining
too again.
The briny drops from Reuben’s eyes
In torrents poured down ;
He yielded up the ghost and died—
And this melancholy and heart-rending matter
terminates the history of Reuben and Phoebe, and like
wise of old Captain Brown.
the end.
Fur the Georgia Citizen.
The Return from the CL re.
X X ORIGINAL TALE, BT T. 11. CHIVE..S, M. D.
“I will a round un varnished tale deliver.’'—Siiakseeare.
I had been reading what Seneca Ilierocles
say of the nature of the soul, when it becomes a
naked spirit—that is, that when it becomes
freed from the laws which govern it, while in
the body, it will mount upwards into that state
which is better prepared for it, and was now
sitting musing upon the subject in my room
when a German of my acquaintance, entered,
and related to me the following Story :
‘I have been dead—buried —and yet I livc-
I have been laid beneath the shadow of the
wings of the Angel of Death, on the margin
of that inky flood where the ghosts of the
departed hover for a while, before they pass
over that blessed Canaan, where the good
remain in joy forever.
lam a Minister. I was preaching in Ger
main-, the land of my nativity, when, all at
once, the powers of consciousness left me, and
I conversed no more until I had risen from the
dead. The power of recognizing external ob
jects departed from my mind, as the perfume
dies out of a flower. Asa sound is diffused,
equally, in all directions, from a vibrating body,
so were my thoughts apparently radiated from
mv soul, until all my powers of thinking
became night. But I did not remain so long.
There is an Intermediate state between the
living and thor dead—a state iu which neither
the soul nor/he body partakes of the nature of
the two when united. This is a passive state,
—not a fixed one—in which there is not an ab
solute disunion of the soul and the body, but
a loss of balance in the relation, subsisting be
tween them. The functional properties of the
body through which the soul acts, are lost- Ir.
this state, it appeared to me that 1 was all eyes—
all cars —all smell —and all every thing, as
regarded my soul in recognizing external ob
jects ; and, yet, I could neither speak nor move
a muscle of my body. My breath was gone.
My heart had ceased to beat—or, if it beat, it
was only a kind of dyastole and systole,
which maintained my organization incorrupti
ble. I could see all that was going on. I
could see the people in the church. I could
see my wife. I saw her when she ran up to
see what was the matter with me, after I had
“ Mepenilent in nil filings —llnitrul in noijirag”
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, FEBRUARY 7, 1852.
fainted. My mother, too, was there, who
clung to me, in iny senseless situation, like a
drowning man catching at a straw—her only
hope—her ohly refuge ? Not so with my wife.
She screamed, as women often do, over their
husbands but it was only a sudden expression
°f joy— not of grief! She appeared to shed
one or two tears—for she used a white cam
brick handkerchief which I had just bought her
—then, turning suddenly’ round in the aisle,
she took the arm of a man whom I recognized
as her former lover, and my friend , with whorn
she left the church. Those who have never
been in mutate, can form no idea of the feel
ings whichfthen possessed me, 1 knew, from
the consciousness of my own soul, that my
body was yet alive— in part, at least. I knew
that Iliad eyes, ears, hands,and a mouth; but
I could use neither. I was a diving dead man.’
My mother stood nearest to me, and I would
have given a thousand worlds if I could have
spoken, just for her sake. She thought that I
was dead, while l knew -that I was yet living.
My soul seemed to dwell in my body as life
does in the seedling of a plant—waiting for
some springlike influence to waken it again into
existence. The cries of my mother will ring
in my ears as long as I live! I never knew be
fore how much she loved me. I saw them
bear me away to the house, in the very room
where my wife was sitting talking with her
paramour about former times. If mv strength
had been equal to my desires, like the Titans
ot old, I could have moved a mountain from
my breast. But the incubus of a semi-death
weighed upon all my faculties. When I saw
him take her by the hand, and, in the presence
of my corpse, while my mother sat by me sob
bing, enfold her in his arms—l felt as if an in
fant earthquake stired within the DcEdal caverns
ol my heart. Then, for the first time, I knew,
‘positively, that I was not dead. For, I believe
that the soul, separate from the body, can rea
lize no feeling of revenge against another soul,
as the relations which formerly subsisted be
tween them are then lost.
Alter theyjiad shrouded me in fine linen,
after the man/erof the opulent dead, they laid
me out in the same room in which they were
then sitting. \\ bile 1 was there, lying in that
morbid state, praying, earnestly, for life, and ex
pecting every moment to see my cofin —I saw
him kiss her ten times —yes, ten times —as
surely as 1 now see the table on which vou
write. I heard him tell her haw long he hnd
prayed for my death. She then told him that
she would have eloped with him long before,
had lie given her the opportunity. Then, for
the first time, did 1 desire to remain in statu
quo, and it was granted unto me. This was an
edifying scene. There 1 lay, neither dead nor
alive , listening to that which would have made
an Angel furious. To think that the woman 1 had
loved better than I did my own life, should, be
so base! It was too hard to bear! My body
was then to me as a temple all one w indow. 1
could see all around—above—beneath.
Presently my coffin came. Mv mother came
near me, and knelt down, and kissed me, while
the hot tears ran down from her grief-worn
cheeks, and fell, scalding drops, upon my own.
Then 1 wished to be alive again—only to repay
her for her infinite affection. What a contrast
there was between the love of my mother and
my wife’s love—forme, at least! Her pale lips
seemed to cleave to mine with such undying
love, that the w armth of her affections ran down,
like lightning, into ray heart, and so convulsed
tny being, that I was almost electrify eel intoXex
istence again. But a lethargy, like leadjwill
weighed upon my faculties. if
They put me in the coffin. She came so me
again—embraced me—and they then
down the coffin lid, above me! I made a vio
lent effort to scream, but could not. 1 then tried
all the powers of my will to move my limbs,
but they were palsied by the incubus of neither
life nor death. I felt as a limb feels when the
circulation has stopped in it. And strange as
it may seem—(and I must here remark that it
will appear as strange as the state I was then
in—) / could see through the cofin lid ! There
is no obstacle to the eyes of the soul. Asa
man sees, with his natural eyes, through glass
es, so can the soul through the densest sub
stance. Nor is it necessary that the sun should
shine, for the soul is its own light.
They bore me to my grave—buried mo un
der the pulpit, from which I had so often incul
cated those immortal truths, wdiich had fallen
so unprofitably upon the soul of my wife, as
seed town in a barren soil!
Three daj’s had passed away. I saw the
sun rise and set three times. At night, I could
see the Moon, and all the stars. How beautiful
they looked! The Moon looked down as tran
quilly upon the stillness of the night, as did my
mother’s soul upon my face, when I was sleep
ing in infancy.
On the tiiird day, in the morning, after I was
buried, I saw a great congregation enter the
Church. Presently thdMinister came in. Arid,
lastly, here came my/former friend,’ and my
wife, arm in arm ! I had forebodings of what
was about to take place, and I will here remark,
that, if I had felt miserable before, what were
my feelings note ? As they were indescriba
ble, I will not attempt to describe them ; and as
my present feelings partake, in a slight degree,
only of my miseries then, I will leave you to
judge how I feel now. Suffice it to say, that
they were married , yes, manned— in three days
after my death! If any thing ever happened
like it before, I never heard of it.
That night a violent storm arose. The heav
ens were set on fire by lightning Although I
was safely coffined in my grave, I could see all
and hear all. I believe that the breath of God,
in Ilis indignation, had kindled that lightning
to its fiercest white! The church was set on fire
and burnt to the ground ! I saw the fire above
and around me, but it could not consume me.
I bad been touched by the finger of God, who
said —live! The fire only warmed me, as the
sun would warm ine at noon-day. Although
the heat could not penetrate my marble tomb,
my soul could.
The next day my mother came, with her ser
vants, to see if I had been consumed, and, if not,
to bury me in another place. Now, whether or
not it was the shock that I received, while the
servants' were prying open my tomb, that waked j
mefrox, that I had remained there until all
fulfilled which was intended front the ber
ginning—is more than I can tell. Suffice it for
me to say, that, when they moved the coffin-lid,
I beheld my mother weeping above me, and I
embraced her! I shall never forget the
joy of that embrace. The servants fled in con- j
sternation! They did not believe it possible
that I was living —they believed I was a ghost.
Not so with my mother. I was her son, ghost
or no ghost, and all the Devils in Hell could not j
have frightened her away 1
We immediately followed the servants—
found them—and made them promise, faithful
ly, that they would never report what they had
seen. When I related to my mother all that had
happened, she was no less astonished than you
are that I was once dead, and yet— live !
There was but one duty left me to perforirij
and that was—to visit my wife ! Drest in the
habiliments of the grave, I went forth, at night,
to seek her. In the very house in which I had
lived—at the very window where Iliad kissed
her a thousand times— there sat my wife fond
ling with her new husband's locks ! Oh! you
may guess how 1 felt! I went to the window
looked in at them awhile—my knees trembling,
all the while, with weakness of my own cour
age. I then walked softly to the door of the
room iu which they sat—opened it—they saw
ine !
‘‘My God! my God ! look there! look there!
‘ tis he! ’ tis he! a ghost!’ said Uiey in an
agony of surprise, and, grasping /ach other
with affectionate consternation, tllcy both fell
dead on the floor at nfv feet.’
From the Greenville S.C. Patriot.
Louis kossulh.
This bold Hungarian has formally announc
ed, in New York, that the United States will
be bound in honor to interfere and takes sides
against Russia and Austria if those kingdoms
J should attempt to coerce Hungary, after a de
claration on the part of Congress which he so
i licits, and expects them to. give him ! Was
there ever such arrogance or presumption heard
|of before? In kindness and charity, the Uni
ted States, having heard that Louis Kossuth
was an exile in Turkey, desirous of coming to
the United States, without the ability of doing
i so, sent or directed a vessel in the Mediterra
nean to give him a passage. On his arrival
here, it was supposed that he would be grateful
to our government for having rescued him from
imprisonment and perils, and that he would be
come a faithful and peaceable citizen of the
United States. But, instead of this, he under
takes to dictate to our government a course of
policy which would inevitably involve us in a
war with ail Europe, at the sacrifice of thousands
of lives, millions of money, and perhaps the
prosperity, honor and glory of the republic.
The policy of Washington, in his farewell
address, is the only true policy of America. —
W e must not interfere with the affairs of for
eign nations. They have dune, through all
time, great and gross wrong to each other, and
will continue to do so in all time to come
There is no doubt of this. The interposition
of the Unued States cannot prevent it. Nor
are we clothed with the power of Deity to reg
ulate the affairs of mankind. Let us attend to
oin-selves and our own country and government,
and when we have done this, we have done our
duty. This is the advice we Southern people
have been endeavoring to inculcate in the minds
of the Northern abolitionists. It is a wise
maxim that every inanshou|d attend to bis own
business, and not btlu r peo
ple’s. This maxim may bi L jll applied to na
tions as well as individuals.
We arc happy to learn that the humbuggery
of Kossuth is rapidly wearing out, and that the
Northern people are beginning to come to their
senses. As soon as we heard of Kossuth's ap
peal from the French government to the French
people, we sat him down as an arrogant, selfish
and vain-glorious adventurer, and so denounced
him when the whole press of the United States
was teeming with idolatrous praise of him. We
now see the newspapers in Washington, Balti
more, Richmond, Charleston and Columbia, ex
pressing decided opposition to the Magyar chief
and his conduct in the United States.
Excellent The 810,000 verdict which
was rendered last week against Arthur Tap
pan’s “ Mercantile Agency.” The Boston Mail
says with truth that “the business that A. T.
is engaged in is to mean for any decent man to
pursue. A lale hearer is mean enough any way ;
hut when he untertakes to make a living by
eavesdropping, he is guilty of so contemptible a
piece of littleness that it almost dirties one’s
hoot to kick him. The next jury that gets hold
of the old rnouser, we hope, will multiply ten
thousand by five. This prying into men’s affairs
for the purpose of retailing his secrets for so
much a folio, is infinitely worse than stealing. It
is breaking up all confidence between men, and
would eventually make our society as treach
erous as that ot Spain or Italy.”
From the Ala. Journal.
Development of Industrial Pursuits.
Mr. Editor :—ln the Journal of the 4th inst.
under the head “ Mechanic's Column,'’ is an ar
ticle which deserves to be read and thoroughly
digested by every man and woman, lad and
lass, in our country. There is evidently a fault
among us, “and a great evil.’’. Boys are suffered
to grow up in idleness, and if, perchance, they
should be taught to labor in early boyhood, as
soon as they begin to think themselves nearly
men, they became idle and are ashamed to he
seen laboring, although, in many instances, they
seem to think a rough hand and a sun-burnt
face the veriest disgrace. The indulgent father
suffers it, and the fond mother prides greatly
in seeing her son delicate, the soft hand covered
with the exquisite kid, altogether too nice to
guide the rough handles of the plough, throw
the hammer, or move tire jack-plane. But he
can toot a horn equal to a trooper, and glories
in the voice of a hound, can seta gaff on the
heel of a cock with great precision, is an expert
dancer, loves to be seen puffing “the best Ha
vana”—rides admirably, with his ivory whip
staff—chats most charmingly on ifll the non
sensical subjects of general gossip, takes a so
cial glass, and now and then is seen gentleman
ly tight, perhaps knows something of cards
ancj delights in poker. 411 this is most charm
ing. lie is the very- beau ideal of the ladies.
Ilis whole time is occupied iq the most inces
sant labor of (loing nothing , or that which is
worse. All this is winked at by parents and
gqardians, and (shame to say !) in many instan
ces encouraged. Sometimes we see parents
who are in indigent circumstances encouraging
their sons in trying to imitate these gentlemen
of leisure. I would respectfully ask, what hon
orable station in society are such young men
prepared to fill ? Are they fit for fanners, mer
chants, doctors, lawyers, legislators or mechan
ics ? Are they fit fur husbands 1 Can a father
entrust the happiness qf his daughter them
with any assurance of safety ? i think not.—
The prospect of their becoming honorable in
age is very slim, but of their becoming a bur
den and nuisance to society very great. Now
let us enquire into the cause. Is the public
mind right on the subject of labor ? Does the
honest young laborer receive that attention iu
society that he merits ? Is the young laborer
received in society on an equal footing with the
gentleman of leisure, the lawyer, the doctor,
the merchant, Ac.? Is the young man who
strives to make himself generally useful by
honest labor treated by the fair ones with the
same courtesy as either of the classes named
above, all else being equal ? It seems that the
world has forgotten the decree of the Almighty
that “by the sweat of the brow man shall eat
bread ?’’ All these questions are easily an
swered : every person will say No !
1 will ask farther, how is it that the learned
professions of law and physic are clogged by
men altogether unqualified, either by nature or
books ? Is it not this dread of inferiority that
follows the laborer ? Then how are these evils
to be remedied ? How is this disease in the
popular mind to be cured ? It is evident that
it cannot be done in a day ; it must be a pro
gressive work, therefore the more necessary that
it be commenced at once. But where shall we
begin, and what are the remedies ? It will not
arrogate to myself the ability to tell, but will
suggest a few things that I think would assist.
First of all, the masses should be deeply im
pressed with these truths t “That man was
created for active employment, and that his en
ergies should be exerted in some useful calling,
which will result in good to himself and to so
ciety ; that labor is honorable ; that it is a duty
we owe to ourselves, to society, and to God;
that it is conducive to health, happiness and
virtue.’’ To accomplish these objects, in my
humble opinion, industrial publications and
scientific works, on agriculture and the various
mechanical arts, should be widely circulated
among the people. Every father should pro
vide his sons with enough of such reading to
fill their leisure hours, and as an example, as
well as for the benefit to be derived, should
read them himself. These would serre to em
ploy the mind in the place of trashy novels,
and at the same timo improve the understand
ing. And to secure these ends, agricultural
and mechanical societies should be established
in every county, connected with a State socie
ty, with yearly exhibitions of products, im
provements, Ac. To this the State Govern
ment should lend a helping hand, and give sui
table encouragement; and to crown the whole,
agricultural and mechanical schools should he
established by the Legislature, and supported
by the people. If these or similar agents could
be brought to bear upon society, popular pre
judices would soon give way, and a great revo
lution would take place in the common senti
ment. Young men, instead of being ashamed
to be seen laboring, would be proud of their
calling; hut as the thing now stands, those who
try to bring up their sons properly have much
to contend with, and very often, instead of be
ing the comfort and support of age, they bring
their parents’ gray hairs with sorrow to the
grave.
Now suppose all young men were properly
educated in some useful branch of industry, be
it agricultural, mechanics, or science, according
to the capacity and natural genius of the mind:
the laborer would be more respected and hold
a higher rank in the social circle, and many
would be both useful and happy who are in a
fair way to become vagabonds and outcasts. I
have heard it said that ‘‘some things can be
be done as well as others. ’’ If this be true,
why may not boys be taught the laws of vege
tation, the properties ot’ soils, the art of farm
ing, the powers of machinery, Ac. Ac., as well,
and to much better purpose, than many things
which they are taught, and which are seldom or
never used ? How many planters are there in
Alabama who can analyse soils, manures, fruits,
and other products ? llow many can tell what
is required in a soil to produce an ear of oorn,
a boll of Cotton or a potato ? How much phos
phate of lime in a turnip, or potash in a bushel
of wheat? I suppose there are few. And is
it of no importance to know these things ? lias
the Legislature no interest in the matter ? Is
it acting alone for itself and the present
ration, or is it not responsible to generations
yet to come ? Shall Alabama sit still and see
her sister States towering above her in the arts
and sciences ? Are the sons of Alabama of a
lower grade of beings? Have they noState
pride? Are they lacking in genuis, intelli
gence, enterprize or industry, or what is the
matter ? The representatives of the people
should look to it. LABORER.
Personal memorials of Dau’l. Webster.
Such is the title of a printed pamphlet of
some sixty odd pages which has just been print
ed for its author by Messrs. Gideon & Cos. of
Washington,from which we make a few extracts.
It is said the word Politics does not appear on
a single page of the w hole work.
The first time that Mr. Webster’s eyes fell
upon the Constitution of the United States,
of which he is now universally acknowledged
to be the Chief Expounder and Defender , it
was printed upon a cotton pocket handkerchief,
according to a fashion of the time, which he
chanced to stumble upon in a country store,
and for which he paid, out of his own pocket,
all the money he had—twenty-five cents ; and
the evening of the day on which he thus ob
tained a copy, was wholly devoted to its close
and attentive perusal, w hile seated before a bla
zing fire, and by the side of his father and mo
ther. What dreamer on that night, in the wild
est flights of his imagination, could have seen
the result of that incident, or marked out the
fpture career of that New jlampshire boy ?
When Mr. Webster was about seyep years
old his father kept a house of public entertain
ment, where the teamsters, who traveled on the
road, were ip the h;*bit of obtaining a dinner
and feeding their horses; and it is said that the
incipient orator and statesman frequently enter
tained his father’s guests by reading aloud opt
of the psalms of David, to the infinite delight
of his rustic listeners. Indeed, it was custo
mary for the teamsters to remark, as they pull
ed up their horses before the Webster house,
‘Come, let’s go in and hear a Psalm from Dan
Webster.’ Even at time his vqice was
deep, riph and musical-
A few days after Mr. Webster had entered
Exeter apade m y> he returned to his boarding
house ope evening in a very desponding mood
and told his friends there that the city boys in
the academy were constantly laughing at him
because he was at the foot of the ejass, and had
come from tl;e buck woods. IJis friends endea
vored to cheer Jpm by explaining the regula
tions of the school, and telling him that the
boys would soon get tired qf their unhandsome
conduct, and that he ought to show himself
above their foolishness. Mr. Nicholas Emory,
who was then an assistant tutor iu the academy,
was also made acquainted with young Webster’s
troubles, and, as he had the management of the
secoud or lower classes, he treated his despond
ing pupil with marked kindness, and particular
ly urged him to think of nothing but his books,
and that all would yet come out bright. This
advice was heeded, and at the end of the first
quarter Mr. Emory mustered his class in a line,
and formally took the arm of young Webster,
and marched him from the foot to the extreme
head of the class, exclaiming, in the meanwhile,
that this was his proper position. Such an
event had for many days been anticipated, but
when actually accomplished the remainder of
the class were surprised and chagrined.
This triumph greatly encouraged the boy
Daniel, and he renewed his efforts with his
books. He did not doubt but that there were
many boys in the class as smart as himself, if
not smarter, and he looked with some anxiety
to the summing up of the second quarter. The
day arrived, the class was mustered, and Mr.
Emory stood before it, when the breathlesss si
lence was broken by these words: “ Daniel
Webster, gather up your books and take down
your cap.’’
The boy obeyed, and, thinking that he was
about to bo expelled from school, was sorely
troubled about the cause of the calamity. The
teacher saw this, but soon dispelled the illusion,
for he continued: ‘Now, sir, you will please
report yourself to the teacher of the first class;
and you, young gentlemen, will take an affec
tionate leave of your classmate, for you will
never see him again.’ That teacher is still
living, is a man of distinction, and has ever been
a warm friend of his fortunate pupil.
In his fifteenth year he was privileged to
spend some months with one of the more pro
minent clergymen of the day, the Rev. Samuel
Woods, who lived at Boscawen, and prepared
boys for college at one dollar a week for tuition
and board. During his stay with l)r. Woods,
he was apparently very neglectful of his aca
demic duties, but never failed to perform all his
intellectual tasks with great credit. On one
occasion the reverend tutor thought proper to
give his scholar Daniel a scolding for spending
too much of his time upon the hills and along
the streams, hunting and fishing,"butstill com
plimented him for his smartness. The task as
signed to him for his next recitation was one
hundred lines of Virgil; and, as he knew that
his master had an engagement on the following
morning, an idea occurred to him, and he spent
the entire night poring over his books. The
recitation hour finally arrived and the scholar
acquitted himself of his hundred lines and re
ceived the tutor's approbation. “But I have
a few more lines that I can recite,” said the boy
Daniel. “Well, let us have them,” replied the
doctor; and forthwith the boy reeled oft’ ano
ther hundred lines. “Very remarkable,” said
the doctor, “you are indeed a smart boy.’’—
“But I have another,’’ said the scholar, “and
five hundred of them, if you please.” The doc
tor was of course astonished, but, as he be
thought him of his engagement, begged to be
excused, and added, “You may have the whole
day. Dan. for pigeon shooting.”
Mr, Webster went through college in a man
ner that was highly creditable to himself and
gratifying to his friends. He graduated in 1801,
and though it was universally believed that he
ought to have received, and would receive,
the Valedictory, that honor was not conferred
upon him, but upon one whose name has since
passed into forgetfulness. The ill-judging fa
culty of the college, however, bestowed upon
him a diploma, but. instead of pleasing, this
common place compliment only disgusted him,
and at the conclusion of the commencement ex
ercises the disappointed youth asked a number
of his classmates to accompany him to the green
behind the college, where, in their presence, he
deliberately tore up his honorary document,
and threw it to the winds, exclaiming ; “My
industry may make me a great man, but this
miserable parchment cannotand immediate
ly mounting his horse, departed for home.
The place where Mr. Webster spent the most
of his time as a schoolmaster was Fryeburg, in
the State of Maine. He had been invited thi
ther by a friend of his father, who was acquain
ted with the circumstance of the family. His
school was quite large, and his salary three hun-.
dred and fifty dollars, to which he added a con
siderable sum by devoting his evenings to cop
ying deeds in the office of the county recor
der, at twenty-five cents per deed. He also
found time during this period to go through
with his first reading of Blackstone’s Commen
taries, and other substantial works, which have
been so good a foundation to his after fame.
The writer once questioned Mr. Webster as
to his personal appearance when officiating as a
pedagogue, and his reply was: “Long, slender,
pale, and all eyes; indeed, I went by the name
of all eyes the country round.”
During the last summer, when returning from
a visit to the White mountains, accompanied
by his son Fletcher, he went out of his way to
spend a day in the town of Fryeburg. He re
visited, after the lapse of half a century, the
office of the recorder of deeds, and there fbqnd
and exhibited to his son two large bound vol
umes of his own handwriting, the sight of which
was of course suggestive of manifold emotions.
The sqn testifies that the penmanship is neat i
arid elegant; and the father, that ache is not |
yet out of those fingers which so much writing
caused them.
It is said by tliqse who knew Mr. Webster at
Fryebgrg that his only recreation while a school j
teacher was derived from trout fishing, and that
his Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were
almost invariably spent wandering alone, with
rod in hand and a copy of Shakspeare in his
pocket, along the wild and picaresque brook?
of that section of country.
The Croup—How to Prevent it. — A cor
respondent qf the New York Nfirror, a medi
cal practitioner, in an article on this sqbjept,
says:
“The premonitory symptom of croup if &
shrill, sonorous cough. The patient is not sick,
has nQ foyer, as ofter in a common cold; —is live
ly, perhaps even gayer than usual 5 hands
are cool; his face not flush, possibly a shade
paler than usual. The solitary symptom may
last for a few days, with no material increa>e or
abatement, and without attracting any notice ;
suddenly, however, the disease,hitherto latent,
bursts forth in all its fatal fury and too often
continues its ravag s, unchecked, to the dread
ful consummation. The remedies for this
syj.tom of croup are simple, and in most instan
ces perfectly efficient They are: a mustard
poultice, or a strip of flannel dipped in oil of
turpentine, or spirits of hartshorn, applied to
the throat, and nauseating doses of Hive's &i
----%
• up, to be continued as long as the cough re
mains. By this timely employment of mild!
agents, I unhesitatingly assert that a multitude
of lives might be saved every week that are
now lost through negligence and delay 1’
Bor Love. —One of the queerest things to
think of in after life is ‘boy love.’ No sooner
does a boy acquire a tolerable stature, than he
begins to imagine himself a man, and to ape
manish ways. He casts sidelong glances at
every tall girl he chances to meet, becomes a
regular attendant at church, or meeting, sports,
a cane, carries his head erect, aud struts a little
in his walk. Presently, and how very soon he
tails in love, yes, falls is the proper word, be
cause it best indicates his happv, delirious self
abaseincnt. He lives now in a fairy region,,
somewhere collateral to tlie world, and yet
somehow inextricably blended yvith it. He per
fumes his hair with fragrant oils, scattering es
cencesover his handkerchief, and desperately
shaves and anoints for a beard. He quotes
poetry in which ‘love,’ and ‘dove,’ and ‘heart,’
and “dart,’ peculiarly predominates; and as he
plunges deeper into the delicious labyrinth, fan
cies himself filled with the divine afflatus; and
suddenly breaks out into the scarlet rose—-of
rhyme. He feeds upon the looks of his beloved;
is raised to the seventeenth heaven if she speaks
a pleasant word: is betrayed into the most as
tonishing estacies by a smile; and is plunged
into the gloomiest regions of misanthropy by
a frown.
He believes himself the most devoted lover
in the world. There never was such another..
There never will be. He is the one great idol
ater! He is the very type of magnanimtv
and self abnegation. Wealth! he despises tho
grovelling thought; poverty, with the adorable
beloved, he rapturously apostrophizes as *,Le first
of all earthly blessings; and ‘Love in a cottage
with water and trusts,’ is his beau ideal para
dise of dainty delights!
He declares to himself with the most solemn
emphasis that he would go through fire and
water, undertake a pilgrimage to China orKaci
schatka, swim stonn-crossed oeeans, scale im
passable mountains, and face legions of bayo
nets, but for one sweet smile from her dear lips,
lie doats upon tire flower she has cast away-
He cherishes her glove, a little worn in the fin
gers, next to his heart. He scrawls her dear
name over foolscap, fitting medium for his in
sanity. He scornfully depreciates the attention
of other boys of his own age; cuts Peter Tib
bets dead, because lie said that the adorable
Angelina had carroty hair; and passes Har
ry Bell contemptuously, for daring to compare
‘that gawky Mary Jane’ with his incomparable
Angelina!
Happy! happy! foolish bay-lore; with iU
hopes and its fears, its joys and its sorrows, tor
tures, its ecstatic- fervors, and terrible heart
burnings, its solemn ludiorausn.ess, and its in
tensely prosaic termination.
True Duncan and the fat.
Once there was a little hoy named Duncan.—
The boys used to call him True Duncan , be
cause he would never tell a lie.
One da) he was playing with an axe in the
yard of the school, and while he was chopping
a stick, the ‘Teacher’s cat, Tabby, came along.
Duncan let the axe fall right on poor Tabby’s
head and killed her.
H hat to do he did not know. She was a
pet of the master s, and used to sit on a cushion
at his side, while he was hearing his lessons,
Duncan stood and looked at the crea
ture. His face grew red, and tfea tears stood in
his eyes,
All the boys came running up, and every
one had something to say. One of them whis
pered to the others and said:
‘'Now, fellows, we shall see whether Dun
! can can make up a fib as well as the rest of
j us.”
“Not he!” said Thomas Per ley, who was
Duncan’s friend. “ Not he ; I’ll warrant you,
Duncan will be as true as gold.”
John Jones stepped up, and taking the cat by
j the tail, said :
“ Here, boys, I’ll just fling her into the alley,
; and we can tell Mr. Cole that the butcher’s dog
I killed her! you know he worried her last
j week.”
! Several of them thought this would be
very well. But Duncan looked quite angry.
His face swelled, and his cheeks grew redder
than betore.
“No!” said he; “no! Do you think I would
lie , for such a creature as that ? It would be a lie ,
a tig.
And every time he said the word, bis voica
grew louder.
Then he picked up the poor thing in his arms,
and carried it into the school room; and the
boys followed to see what would happen.
The master looked up and said, “ VVhat is
this ?my faithful mothe r dead 1 Who could have
done me such an injury ?’’
All were silent for a little while. As soon as
Duncan could get his voice, he said:
“Mr. Cole, I am very sorry—but here is the
tryth. I cank tell a lie, sir—l killed Tabby.
But I aip very sorry for it. 1 ought tp have been
careful, for I saw her rubbingber eide against
thp log. 1 am very sorry, indeed, sir.’’
Every one expected to see Mr. Cole take
down his long ratan. But he put on a plesant
smile, and said:
“ Duncan, you are a brave boy ! I saw and
heard all pass.ed from my window above.
I had rather lose a hundred cats than miss
such an example of trgih and honor in my
school. Your best reward is what you feel in
your own conscience ; but I beg yoq to accept
this handsome penknife, as a token of my appro
bation.”
Duncan took out his handkerchief and wiped
his. eyes.
The boys could no longer refrain themselves ;
and when Thoiqas Perley cried “ Three cheers
for True IJuucan !” all joined in a hearty hur
ra.
Thp tpacher then said, “My boys, I am glad
you know w hat right, that you apprqye it:
tho’ 1 am afraid some of could not have done it.
Learn from this that qothing cun make a false
hood necpssqry. Suppose Duncan had taken
your evil advice, and confe to me with a lie;
it would have been instantly detected, for I was
a witness of what passed. I trust he has gov
erned in this by a sense of right, and 1 exhort
you to follow his example.”
There are, in certain heads, a kind ofestablishr
ed errors, against which reason has no weapons.
There are more of these mere assertions cur
rent than one would would believe. Men are
very fond of proving their steadfast adherence tq
nonsense. _
NO. 45