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*roin Peterson’s Magazine for March.
“I KIIOW It.”
BY E. W. DEWEES.
At seventeen years of age I was more of a
man titan I have ever been since. 1 wore a
I long-tailed coat and boots, (to which an appur
[ tenance of spurs was generally added) a ntous
| tache was quite visible on my upper lip, and a
I consciousness of ripe matuiity never left my
mind. 1 was studying for the legal profession,
but at the time ot which I write was spending
in} summer \acation at my lather's house in
j the country.
| Though so manly, (almost soldier-like as I
| fancied,) in my appearance, my tuner was bv
no means as stern as my outer man. I loved
: my mother with childish tenderness, and soon
jerthan pain her pious heart, I unmurmuringlv
j accompanied her every Sunday to the village
church to listen to long sermons of which I
I could not hear a word, for the tremendous ac
cents of the very aged minister who conducted
the services, were so faint as to be inaudible
where we sat. Though incited by love and du
ty to subject myselt to this weekly penance,
(well deserved by my weekly sins) my consci
science yet did not prevent me from whiling
away the time by such amusement as lav on
band—that, namely, of observation and specu
lation on the countenance of my neighbors, an
occupation of which I was fond.
! The physiognomy which interested me more
than all others was that of a young girl who sat
not far from us, and who was accompanied by
an aged lady, probably her grandmother—the
o’ ject of her ever-watchful care. This girl’s
face, from first eliciting my careless admiration
gradually absoi bed my whole attention. It was
very beautiful, hut apart from that it possessed
the greatest possible interest for me. Never
i had I seen a countenance which denoted so
much sensibility ; each motion of her mind was
plainly written upon it, by its quick, delicate
I changes; nothing was wanted but the key of a
j corresponding degress of sensibility in the be
’ holder, to, read her tender, innocent soul like
an open book. For four hours I gazed, and
: speculated on that fair young face—l thought
! how sad would be the lot ot so sensitive a being,
should fate unite her to one who would not
■ know how to read aright what was sodelieatelv
written —to whom tU varying expression of
I that sweet countenance would be but a blm.U,
i who should be able to see in it only its coarser
part, beauty of feature. There was no end to
t!ie reveries into which those swift-coining
blushes led me.
Sometimes, by chance, the fair object of niv
busy fancies would catch my eye, or, without
looking at me, seem to know or feel that I was
gazing at her, and I wickedly delighted in no
| ting the blush which deepened on her cheek
j till I withdrew my eyes.
| One Sunday, I happened, in coming out of
’ Church, to he close to my lovely neighbor, im
j mediately behind her; my hand actually touch
ed her unconscious garments. 1 felt an irresisi
bte desire to force her in some wav to notice—
to speak to her—to occasion one of tho*e charm
ing blushes, anything, I knew not what. In
-dioit, like an impertinent coxcomb as I was, I
stooped forward, and with an insufferable inso
lence, which I blush now to remember, I whis
pered in her ear.
‘Y ou are very pretty !’
Never was I more surprised, than when she
calmly replied.
‘I know it!’
I was absolutely startled. I had expected a
silentconscious blush, an indignant glance, any
| thing rather titan this cool, ‘I know it.’
I was puzzled, but I had plenty of time to
turn the matter in my mind, for in a few days
I returned to college. I can truly say it Was
i the one problem, which throughout the term,
j gave ute most trouble to solve and cost the most
I thought.
j Another year elapsed ere I returned home,
i and again sat in the little tillage church. My
personal appearance was meanwhile somewhat
altered. I still wore my moustache, it is true,
but my coat-tails were not, or did not seem
quite so long, and I had left off mv spurs.
My mother and I were early seated in our
pew, and I impatiently waited the arrival of my
lovely enigma. I tried to prepare myself for
disappointment. ‘I have been thinking and
dreaming about an ideal,’ I said to myself—
‘doubtless ulvea the young lady herself appears
all mv fine imaginings will vanish—there can
be no doubt my fancy has been playing tricks
with me, investing* mere country maiden with
transcendant graces and charms.’ While I was
reasoning thus with myself, the young lady ap
peared, leading her old relative with tender
care.
Worshipping an ‘ideal,’ indeed! my most
charming remembrance did not begin to do jus
tice to the beautiful reality. A soul full of ten
derness and sensibility seemed to have found a
fi ling home in a person and face of perfect love
liness and grace.
She blushed when, looking around, she chanc
ed to see me, and again the play of expression
on her features which had so interested me for
merly, charmed me.
The more I studied her face the more I seem
ed to see into the pure depths of her soul. I
could have staked my life on her noble purity
of thought and deed.
As we returned home, I described my fair
neighbor and asked my mother who she was.
‘Her name,’my mother said, ‘is Grace Den
ny ; and she is the loveliest —the most superior
younf woman I have ever in niv whole life met
with. It is too soon to think of such things yet
she continued, smiling, ‘but some years hence
it would make me happy to see my dear son,
i married to just such a woman.’
‘Not quite so fast, mother,’said I, laughing a
! good deal to hide a little boyish embarrassment,
w hich I was most anxious to conceal.
I found that Grace had become a constant
I visitor at my mother's, and I did not fail to irn
prove the opportunity of becoming better ac
quainted with her.
| She was indeed a gifted creature, endowed
with all ‘nature’s best.’ She sang, she danced,
she conversed with an indescribable grai.e pe
culiar to herself. Though generally thoughtful
and earnest she had a vein ot quiet liutnoi, and
her strokes of playful drollery charmed all the
more, from being unexpected. But more allur
ing to me than all her gifts and accomplishments,
was the shrinking sensibility depicted on every
feature of her sweet face. I soon found myseli
deeply, painfully interested in her. I say pain
fully, for Grace received my assiduous atten
tions with a perfect coolness and unconcern
which gave me great uneasiness. Sometimes I
) thought she remembered my early impertinence
and was disposed to punish it. But there was
a rival, a cousin of Grace’s who always stood in
i my way, and from whom Grace received, as a
matter of course, numberless little attentions
which I dared not even offer. J hated this
MACON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, MAY 29, 1852.
man; I was insufferably jealous; but Grace
seemed either perfectly unconscious, or perfectly
indifferent to the by-play of animosity which
was carried on between us.
Grace, sweet, noble Grace, with her childlike
simplicity and sensitive woman's heart—who
could resist her? I could not, my whole soul
was hers. In vain had I struggled, in vain had
I called upon my vanity (of which I had plenty
to invoke) to save me from the mortification of
loving without return. I could not stem or con
trol the passion which,strong as a mighty whirl
wind, had seized me.
One evening I sat by the piano while Grace
sang to me. The cousin was not there, and dear
Grace’s varying color and glistening eyes sug
gested sweet hopes to my vanity. I fancied I
saw love in those blight dewy eyes, and on those
soft music breathing lips.
It was the last evening of my vacation, and
surely l read a gentle,farewell thought in Grace’s
face, I was beside myself with joy at the idea,
I was as it in a blissful dream, asweet delirium,
a rapture of love. As Grace rose to leave the
piano, I caught her hand, and, unable longer to
repress the one thought that filled my heart, I
exclaimed fervently—
‘Grace, dear Grace, with all my soul I love
you V
She lifted her large, soft eyes, and said slow
ly, while a mischevous smile stole over her face.
‘I know it.’
She was gone before I had time to prevent it.
or recover from mv surprise.
The next day I returned to college, expecting
to complete my studies in another year. A
year! how long a time to be absent from the
beloved being w!k> was to me, I felt henceforth
and forever, whether she returned my love or
not, the nucleus around which all my thoughts
would revolve. I need not sav how often her
strange and unsatisfactory answer tormented
me. I perceived in her repetition of the fame
words, her remembrance of the time she had
used them before; and this then was the pun
ishment for my insolence. I tortured myself
by bringing the whole scene again and again to
memory —my passionate declaration of love,
and her provoking reply, ‘I know it.’ ‘The
deuce you do !’ thought I sometimes, ‘I would
I had possessed the wit to have left you a little
more uncertain.’
I often wonder that I was able to study all
this time, for Grace, beautiful graceful Grace,
was never absent from my thoughts—she had
become. tle dream of my life, the object of all
the love sonnets, which had till now been scat
tered on various rival beauties. I did study,
however, and study hard, and at the end of the
term passed examination with high honor, much
to my dear mother’s pride and joy.
I determined to he wiser when I saw Grace
again, to discover beyond a doubt if I were in
deed beloved, before I committed myself as I
had done by foolish speeches.
In order to satisfy myself on this point, and
perhaps also to gratify a little pique when 1 re
turned home I did not go immediately to see
‘Grace as my feelings dictated, hut waited till,
at my mother’s summons, she spent an evening
with us. Even then, though my heart was full
of tenderness for her.l affected coolness; 1 had
made up mv mind to play a part, and suffer as I
might, I would act it out. There was a young
lady staying with my mother at this time who
dearly loved to flirt; I was quite ready to con
tribute to her amusement. I devoted myself to
her the whole evening, and felt the sweetest
pain I ever experienced when I saw by Grace's
dear, changing, sensitive face, that she was
deeply pained and wounded.
When this foolery had been carried to its
height. I perceived Grace suddenly rise, and
step through the open window out on the piaz
za. In a few minutes I followed her; she had
retired to a lit*le distance from the window, and
stood with her head leaning against the railing,
weeping. Stealing softly behind her, I passed
mv arm around her and whispered,‘Ah, dearest
Grace, do not deny it; you love me!’
There was a little pause; then laughing, yet
still half crying, Grace turned aside her head
and said —
‘Alas! I know it.’
A Pretty Story.
THE RUSSIAN COUNTESS I OR MARRIAGE OF THE
EMPEROR ALEXIS.
We copy the following from one of those a
greeably written letters of the Paris corres
pondent of the St. Louis Republican, whose ef
fusions we so often lay under contribution for
the pleasure of readers:
Os course the gaieties are over for the present,
though tho different fashionable saloons are
opened one evening in the week to a select cir
cle. One of the houses the most frequented, and
where even the President goes, itv'otj., is that
of a Russian Countess, who only arrived six
weeks ago from her native snows, and who is
turning the heads of all the eligiblcs and ineli
bles in Paris, by Iter great black eyes, and her
enormous diamonds. If she were only a princ
ess, it is said the President .would offer, but a
Countess would not sufficiently, to use a State
phrase, consolidate his power; and besides, a
Bonaparte has no right to ally himself to any
thing beneath the daughter or niece of a crown
ed head. The lady in question,delighted with
Paris, and finding the President not disagree
able, would willingly accept him, and has
had placed in his hands the papers relating to
the history ol an ancestress, which might in
duce him to believe that the alliance would not
be so unequal after all. Some how or other
this history has got into the papers, and as my
note-book is rather blank to-day, I cannot per
haps do better than give you what, if not true,
is, at any rate, a pretty story.
The genius of Peter the Great exercised such
an influence on the intellectual movement of
Russia, that lie is regarded as the founder of
that vast empire, while the name of the mon
archs who proceeded him are scarcely remem
bered. However, Wladimir, Ivan, and Alexis,
were great cncouragers ofletters and arts, and
Alexis is said to have given the first imputse to
the musical taste of the people.
One of the customs of the empire was, that
when the Czar wanted to marry, the great lords
ot the court were sent out to search and bring
together the most beautiful girls of the empire.
They were usually chosen among the higher
families, and their numbers amounted to sixty
ora hundred. They were brought to the Krem
lin, and were kept there in the strictest retire
ment until the day fixed by the Prince for the
public declaration of his choice. Nobody was
allowed to visit these young ladies except the
Czar and a few lords chosen by him to give
their opinion on the beauty and charms of the
young ladies. The Czar always went to their
apartments disguised, and often the court fool
was ordered to dress himself in the royal cos
tume. and present himself before them. The
beautiful girls, deceived by the dress, sometimes
betrayed their ambitious desires, and tried in
every way to attract the notice ot the false
monarch, while they disdained that of the true
one.
Alexis, son of Michael, father of Peter the
Great respected this custom. He dearly loved
to disguise himself, and wander about the city,
and judge of things with his own eyes. Some
times, in his walks, lie stopped at the house of
someone of his favorites, and put the familv till
at their ease by joining in their pastimes, or par
taking familiarly of their meals. Above all,
he loved to visit, in his way, Matwell, one of the
Chief Councellors of the Crown. One day he
arrived at Matwell’s country house, at a mo
ment when Matwell least expected him. But
the bayard was not the one the most surprised.
In traversing the ante-chamber, Alexis had
heard a pure, sonorous voice of remarkable
sweetness, which ceased as soon as he entered
the saloon. The Czar was dazzled at the sight
of the musician— a young lady of ravishing
beauty—who blushed deeply at hi? unexpected
appearance.
In conformity with the Czar’s order,Matwell
received him as a simple officer, and invited
him to sit down to his table. When the Czar
was seated, and addressed the young lady, ho
was charmed with her wit and intelligence.—
After the repast, he asked her to sing some of
her favorite songs, which she did with great ami
ability, and then left the room.
‘Who is that lady ?’ asked Alexis.
‘Sire, it is Marickin, daughter of a poor man,
whose poverty obliges him to live in a neigh
boring village ; he asked me to take charge of
the education of his only child, and I have done
so with the greatest possible care. I may say
that the seed has not fallen upon an ungiateful
soil; to great intelligence and a passionate taste
for the arts, Marichkin adds a sweetness of tem
per and a good sense above all praise, and I
love her as if she were my own daughter.’
‘Very well,’replied the Czar. ‘Continue to
take care of her. I undertake to furnish her
with a dowry and a husband. Does she know
who I am ?’
‘No, Sire ; she never goes out, and lias never
seen your Majesty before.’
‘Then take care not to tell her’ —and Alexis
left the house in a very pensive mood. The
second time he saw Marichkin, he found her
more interesting even than before; his visits be
came more frequent; often he passed whole
evenings near her, his heart palpitating before
this enchantress, whose dreamy eves, poetical
imagination, and sweet voice exercised an irre
sistible influence over him. Endowed with an
ardent and impassioned soul, an artist by na
ture, Alexis loved music to adoration,and tiied
in every way to cultivate a taste for it through
out his kingdom. Sometimes lie had a re-un
ion of all tfctc -n.11h.l jißr liPinoi'ii of Mo*,
cow, who executed for him t lie national airs and
songs of Russia. But he had never heard a
voice so sweet, flexible, so clear and pure as that
of Marichkin, and often daylight surprised him,
ravished in ecstacies before the siren, who so
well u iderstood giving the proper expression
to our native songs. During these intercourses,
Alexis always preserved his incognito, and con
sequently Marichkin treated him familiarly and
as the fiieml of her old tutor. But Matwell
found himself in a different position, lie did
not dare to interrupt the intimacy of the Czar
with Marichkin, and yet felt it his duty to
protect his friend’s daughter against a snare
which she neither guessed nor understood.
The day of the great ceremony of choosing a
Czarina approached. The Lords had returned
from their tour, and already Iho walls of the
Kremlin enclosed sixty of the most beautiful
flowers of Russia. The great ladies of Moscow
prepared their finest dresses. The whole city
was alive; the army was concentrated about
the palace ; the bells rang and bonfires blazed ;
the Czar alone changed none of his habits, he
was always at Marichkin’s side. Matwell, sad
and anxious, was thinking how this unfortunate
passion was to end, when the Czar appeared
before him gayer than usual.
The booming of cannon the next day an
nounced to the inhabitants of Moscow’, that the
moment for the Czar's choice had arrived. The
great hall of the Kremlin was magnificently
decorated ; the Lords were dressed in the most
brilliant uniforms, the ladies in the richest
toilettes, while masks were wandering every
where about. Every eye was directed towards
the group of young girls among the great
Alexis w’as to choose his consort. The Prin
cess Barbarykin fixed the attentiou above all
the rest, and tried to surpass her rivals ; proud
of her birth, she hoped to be Queer, by her
beauty.
A mask, in a more brilliant costume than the
others, surrounded by courtiers, enters the
room. Everybody takes him for the Czar, and
the Princess Barbarykin cannot contain herself
for jov when he comes up and talks to her.
Marichkin, in a simple dress, remained in a
corner of the hall, seated beside Matwell. As
the latter was examining the mask who was
talking to the Princess, he recognized the Czar,
who in a plain military costume, and his face
half-hid by a mask, approached Marichkin. —
Marichkin recognized her friend, and asked him
with her usual simplicity if the Czar had made
his choice.
‘Not yet, replied Alexis, ‘but if you would
like to see him, I will conduct yon to him.’
‘I am very well here,’ answered Marichkin,
‘who knows,’ continued Alexis, ‘when the Czar
sees you, perhaps—’
‘I am not ambitiousof the crown.’
‘Y ou are too modest.’
Marichkin, seeing the Colonel insisting, be
came sad, and added in a vexed tone:
‘You annoy me’—and she sighed, and the
tears came to her eyes. Alexis understood
that he was beloved, and his heart swelled
with joy.
‘Let every one unmask !’ he cried.
In an instant a profound silence prevailed the
hall, and every heart beat, the subjects awaited
the decree of the master to know where to car
ry their homage. The rage of Princess Bar
barykin may be imagined, when she discovered
that the pretended Czar, who had said so many
amiable tilings to her, was no other than the
Court fool, but what was this to her astonish
ment, when she saw the crown placed on Ma
richkin’s head, and heard these words:
‘Bayards of Moscow! beho and your Czarina!’
The musical superiority of Marichkin, as
much as her beauty, was the cause of her for
tune, and she did not neglect it. With the
Czar's permission and aid, she encouraged the
arts and artists: and her favors fixed in Russia,
! several Italian, German and French musicians,
j In short.it was during her reign that the first
! National Opera were made in Rus
! sia.
It is from this Marichkin that the Russian
Countess pretends to descend, and upon this
descent she founds her right to the Presidential
consideration.
A man is never irretrievably ruined in his
prospscls until he marries? a, bad woman.
Doctor Knowall.
There was once a poor peasant, named Crabs
who had a waggon and a pair of oxen, and
dragged a load of wood to the town, and sold
it for two dollars to a doctor. As lie took the
money, he saw the doctor sitting at dinner, eat
ing and drinking of the best, and his heart
w armed thereat, and he would gladly have been
a doctor also. Thus he stood for a little w hile,
and at last he asked whether he, too, could not
become a doctor ?
‘Oh yes,’ replied the doctor, ‘that is easily
done.’
‘What must I do?’ asked the peasant.
‘First bit)’ yourself a A B C book ; one with
a barn-door cock in it. Turn your waggon and
oxen into money, and provide yourself with ap
parel, and what else belongs to doctoring; and
third have a sign painted with the words, I am
Doc Tor Knowall, and hang it over your
door.’
The peasant did all as he had been advised;
and after he had doctored a little, but not yet
much, a sum of money was stolen from a great
lord. Then the lord was told of Doctor Know
all, who lived in such and such a village, and
who would be sure to know’ what had become
of llie money. The lord ordered his coach,
and drove to the village, and asked the peasant
‘if he were Doctor Knowall ?’
‘Yes I am he.’
‘Then you must go with me, and recover the
stolen money.’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered the peasant; ‘but Madge
my wife must go with me too.’
The lord was content, let them both got into
the coach, and they rode away together. When
they came to the noble mansion, the table was
laid, for the peasant was to dine with the noble
lord.
‘Y es ; but Madge, my wife, must dine, too,’ he
answered, and sat down with her in their
places.
Then the first servant came in with a savoury
dish, and as he entered the peasant nudged his
wife, and said:
‘Madge, that is the first,’ meaning the one
who brought the first dish ; but the servant
thought lie meant to say, ‘That is the first thief.’
and because it was true became terrified, and
said to his comrades outside :
‘The doctor knows everything, it will go ill
with us : he said l was the first.’
The second would not go in at all, but he was
obliged; and when he entered with his dish
the peasant nudged his wife again, and said :
‘Madge, that is the second.’
This servant also was frightened, and he made
haste to go out.
It went no better with the third, for the pea
nt Kiiiil Hgain,
‘Madge, that is the third.’
The fourth servant had to bring in a cover
dish, and the lord asked the doctor to show his
skill, and guess what was under the cover, —it
was a dish of crabs. The peasant looked at
the dish, did not know what to do, and ex
claimed,
‘Ah, me! poor Crabs!’
When the lord heard that, he cried, ‘There,
lie knows; now he will know who has the
money.’
The servant, however, became more and more
terrified, and he winked to the doctor to come
out. When he came from the room, all four
confessed to him that they had stolen the money,
and were ready to give it up, and a good sum
besides if he would not betray them otherwise
their necks would be in danger. They led him
to the place where the money lay hid ; the doc
tor was glad at the sight; he went in again,
took his seat once more at the table, and :
‘Now, my lord, I will seek in my book for
where the money is.’
Meanwhile the fifth servant had crept into the
oven, to hear whether tin,* doctor knew anything
more; the peasant, however, sat turnihg the
leaves of hi A BC book over, looking for the
barn door cock ; and, because he could not find
it easily, he said,
‘You are in there though, and must come
out.’
Then he who was in the oven thought it was
of him the doctor spake, and sprang out in ter
ror, crying,
‘The tnan knows everything.’
Hereupon Dr. Knowall showed the lord where
the money lay, hut did not say who had stolen
it; he got a good lump of money as a reward
from both parties, and became thereafter a
famous man.
A Story with a Moral.
Mr. Bones, ol the firm of Fossil, Bones & Cos. was
one of those remarkable money-making men, whose
uninterrupted success in trade had been the wonder
and afforded the material for gossip of the town for
seven years. Being of a familiar turn of mind he
was frequently interogated on the subject, and invaria
bly gave as the secret of his success that he miuded
his own business.
A gentleman met Mr. Bones on the Assinpink
bridge, lie was gazing intently on the dashing foam
ing waters ns they fell over the dam. lie wa* evident
ly in a brown study. Our friend ventured to disturb
his cogitations.
‘Mr. Bones, tell me how to make a thousand dollars.’
Mr. Bones continued looking intently at the water.
At last he ventured a reply.
‘Do you see that dam, my friend?’
‘I certainly do.’
‘Well, here you may learn the secret of making
money. That water would waste away and be of no
practical use to any body, but for tho dam. That dam
turns it to good account, makes it perforin some useful
purposes, and then suffers it to pass along. That large
paper mill is kept in constant motion by this simple
economy. Many mouths are fed in the manufacture
of the article of paper, and intelligence is scattered
broad-east over the land on the sheets that are daily
turned out; and in the different processes through
which itpasses money is made. So it is in the living
of hundreds of people. They get enough money. It
passes through their hands every day, and at the
year’s end they are no better off. What’s the reason?
They want a dam. Their expenditures are increasing,
and no practical goad is attained. They want them
dammed up, so that nothing will pass through their
hands without bringing something back—or accom
plishing some useful purpose, Dam up your expen
ses,and you’ll soon have enough occasionally to spare
alittle, just like that dam Look at it, my friend.’—
Trenton True American.
A young writer out west thus informs his
‘lovyer. what he intends to do, should sho ‘up
and die’ some day:
‘l’ll deck your lomb with flowers,
The rarest ever seen;
And with my tears for showers,
I’ll keep them ever green.’
That young man should be looked to. He
will strangle himself some day with a bed
wench.
“What would I give,” said Charles Lamb,
“ to call mv mother hack to earth for one day,
to ask her pardon upon my knees, for all those
acts by which I gave her gentle spirit pain.’’
From the Selma Reporter.
Education.
Messrs. Editors :—l noticed a piece, written by
Mr. Daniel Pratt, of Autauga county, Alabama, and
published in the Montgomery Journal, in October last. !
which 1 think ought to iutereet every man, who feels
any wish to promote the welfare and happiness of the
rising generation. Air. Pratt there gives his views of
plan for establishing a school, and system of educa- j
t:on, in which I heartily concur, and am of opinion, j
that there is no plan or system that would tend more
to benefit those who are to fill our places and to net
their parts in life. I may say his plan is the very sine
qua non.
Mr. Pratt proposes to be one of thirty persons wlo
will give two thousand dollars and land, on which
to erect suitable buildings, provided the State will
make the amount up to one hundred thousand dollars.
I have been astonished that no reply has been made
to Air. Pratt, or even a suggestion offered bv any one
upon that subject which is of such vast impoitance to
our country.
I have also been surprised that our last Legislature
took no notice of this plan or proposition, and even re
fused to pass the bill, recommended to their favorable
consideration, by the committee on Eduvation; that is
the bill providing for the appointment of a superinten
dant in public schools for the State, also adding an ad
ditional provision to the present school laws.
I have been engaged in teaching for several years
in this country, and have had some experience in the
management of boys, and I have become fully con
vinced that the present mode ol educating and gov
erning boys, is not such a one as to make them the
most independent, industrious, useful and happy citi
zens, A large portion of our boys, particularly among
the more wealthy class of our population, think that
they are disgraced if they are found at work or en
gaged in any regular business that requires l .bor and
attention. They think they are togo tosehool, as much
or as little as they please, and study when they please.
They conclude, that their parents are rich and that
they have nothing to do, but to wallow in the lap of
luxury and idleness as long as they live. The conse
quence is, they grow up without education, without
any trade or profession, or without any regular business
habit, and if they should have preperty, that perhaps,
their parents labored hard for, they soon spend it.
and they have no means of making more ; they then
become vagabonds, and are of no use to themselves or
to their country. We have now, in our country, many
instances of parents, who have worked hard and lived
hard, to accumulate property for their children, who
are now spending it, and who, perhaps, never earned
a dollar in their lives.
Many parents there are, who are rushing forward,
grasping every cent they can, struggling and toiling,
and chasing the shadow all their lives, and never stop,
or think that the goods which they are heaping up may i
be curses instead of blessings to their children. 1 have
no objection to see parents economise and lav up a
competency for their children. This is proper. It is
right. It is laudable. But at the same time it is an
indispensable duly on the part of parents to raise their
sons to industry, to some regular business, by which
they could make a living honestly, in case necessity
should require it. Then idleness , if continued, will
be a eurse to many of our children and to our country.
This should not be. It was not so in the days of
\\ ashington, Franklin, Webster, Calhoun or Clay.
These men when growing up, were constantly employ
ed in some useful business, either mentally or physi
cally’.
Then parents should connect with the education of
their sons, some plan by wliiefi they would be made re
spectable mechanics or planters, unless they had minds ,
means and inclination to make useful professional men.
This should be commenced when our children are
young, for then is the proper time to train the mind,
and then we can impress on their minds that labor is
honorable and commendable.
This too is a subject upon which all should agree, and
upon which there should be a unanimity of effort.
For there may be a few thinking men, in a community
who know that't is llieir duty to raise their sons to
work, and who do try to do so, but from the effect of
example and influence ot a majority around them, they
are def -ated.
For the sons of Mr. A., will conclude they ought
not to work, while the sons of oilier gentlemen in the
neighborhood, are enjoying themselves with their guns
and dogs, and riding about in their kid gloves, or are
found with a game cock under their arm, at the card
table, the nine pin alley, or the grogshop, and who are
never required to perform any labor. M. A cannot,
under such circumstances, do what is right and proper
with hi* son, for lie will conclude, (and perhaps is told so
by these idlers.) that his father is a tyrant, to make him
work while others are doing nothing.
My experience is, that when a number of boys are
congregated, and have no employment, the consequence
is, they will contract some habit that will corrupt and
ruin them.
Then, according to Mr. Pratt's plan, boys would be
usefully employed not only in school, but out of school;
and this is the very desideratum. We should then
have a College, where our sons ( Deo volente) would
not only he educated, but be thoroughly instructed in
some mechanical or agricultural art. This would keep
the mind and body employed, keep them out of bad
company, keep them from contracting idle and vicious
habit®, and give them more health and vigor of intel
lect. Not only should we have a College on this sys
tem but if all our common schools, were connected with
some such plan, happy would it be for our sons. We
would then see less idleness, and less corruption among
our youth. But all this can never be accomplished,
unless parents take this matter in hand ; the reforma
tion must commence with them at home. For there
it is, the first impressions must be made.
Parents must teach their sons, (yes and daughters
too,) to be industrious, and look upon labor as honora
ble. But unfortunately for our country many boys get
beyoud the coutrol of parents by the time they ate
twelve or fifteen years old.
Parents commit a great error to allow this ; there
fore they should begin in time and keep their sons un
der subjection until they are twenty-one. This was
the case not fifty years ago, and now’ for a neglect of
this duty, many pareuts have to mourn all the remnant
of their d.t}s over a lost, dissipated and ruined son.
There must be a change in the education and gov
ernment of boys, or awful will be the consequence in
less than a half century. Verbum Sapienti.
T. W. TRICE.
To Make White- wash.—The following re
ceipt is the heat known, combining excellence
anil durability. Tako a barrel and slack one
bushel offreely burned lime in it, by covering
it with boiling water. After it is slacked add
cold water enough to bring it to the consisten
cy of good while-wash. Then dissolve in wa
ter, and add one pound of white vitriol (sulph
ate of zinc) and one quart of fine salt.
The gem cannot be polished without friction,
nor man perfected without adversity.
‘Moiher’ said a little fellow the other, day,
I ‘is there any harm in breaking egg-shells?’’
‘Certainly not, my dear; but why do you a*k.’
‘Cause I dropped the basket just now; and see
what a mess I am in with the yolk.
To love another selfishly to eipect reward
rather than rejoice in imparting good, is to off
er the purest feelings of humanity for sale, it
is to forget and practically to deny, that ‘’it is
more blessed to give than receive.”
From the Boston Traveller.
“ How shall I get out of it.”
In passing through Bulfinch street, a few
evenings since, we encountered two men in ear*
nest conversation. In passing, eight words onlv
were overheard; but they were very ira]>vrtariC
words, and very suggestive, too—" Well, how
shall I get out of it?’ What the speaker had
got into is more than we know. It may have
been an unsuitable matrimonial engagement; a
quarrel with his wife, or his best friend, a dan
gerous money speculation, or business embar
rassment of some kind; a vicious habit, threa
tening his reputation, and his ruin, if not broken
up ; lie may have been involved in someone or
more of these evils, or something worse, but
whatever it was, he was evidently in a ‘tight
place’—a position involving discomfort and suf
fering, or threatening injury or even ruin; a
position from which he was anxious to extricate
himself; and the question with him was, how
he should do it—‘How shall 1 get out of it?’
Alt, though we, that is the question which many
and a man woman would be glad to have an
swered—‘H..w shall I get out of it ?’ Nothing
is more ea-y than to get into trouble, but how
to get out of it, is quite another affair.
As we went musing along, we said to onr
si-lws, how much trouble might be saved, how
moch suffering avoided, by a timely considera
tion of this question ! If every young man
whose income is barely sufficient to board and
clothe him economically, when tempted to run
into debt tor fine clothes, expensive jewelry, fast
horse*, luxurious living, <Src.,4:e., if we say,every
young man tempted to contract responsibilities
for such follies, would stop and ask, ‘how shall
I get out of it V it might save many a one from
ruin and wretchedness.
If every youth, when tempted to visit for tho
first time a place of dissipation, would just stop
long enough to answer the question, ‘How shall
I get out of it?’ it might save many scalding
tears, it might prevent many hopes from blight,
and many hearts from grief. In a word, it
would be well for every man to stop and make
this inquiry, before he allows himself to form
any business, social, or moral habit, which his
judgment and conscience condemn, ‘How shall
1 get out of it ?’ this simple question, honest
ly met, would save him from a thousand errors
and evils which the hand of the tempter scatters
so plentifully along the path of life.
But, suppose the warning has come too late,
and the unwise or dangerous first step has been
taken, and the condition of embarrassment and
distress has already been reached —what then?
what shall be done? First of all, let him reso
lutely front the trouble. Let him look it full in
the face. Many an ugly trouble has been looked
out of countenance by a bold and honest heart.
Be willing to see and know the worst of it.—
Then take counsel of a friend; and do with
your might, and without delay, what seems to
be right and necessary, however mortifying and
painful it may be. A heavy pecuniary loss, a
dowmight failure in business, an open confes
sion of wrong, and the attendant shame—are
none of them, nor all of them combined, to be
compared to the sufferings of one struggling
on through restless days and feverish nights, in
anxiety and apprehension, and amidst guilty
forebodings, and disquietude of conscience. A.
trank exposure, an honest confession, a heartv
and resolute purpose of amendment, so far as
possible, will be the troubled mind, like oil and
wine to the man who had fallen among thieves.’
Benefits of Newspapers.
Dialogue between two neighbors , Squire Wideawake
and Joacum Gulie.
The Squire meets his neighbor and remarks—
‘Neighbor, l under&tind that the negroes belonging
to the estate of A-- deceased, were hired out last
wtek .and I'm told they went at a very low rate.*
‘You dont say so. Why did’nt yon tell me, Squire,
of the hiring.’
*1 hardly know why. I saw it advertised in oar pa
per, and I supposed every took that. More’n that, I
didn t know you wanted to hire. Did you know Iha to”
sold my Harden track of land?’
‘No, indeed. Who to?’
liv, to a rich old fellow from Alabama. It was
day before yesterday ; and I got the Sallow boys,’ cash
up— only six dollars per acre. lie said, that he came
across our paper in ‘Old Alabamahe liked the de
seriplion of tho country; saw my wee bit of an adver
tii-ement, and came to see me about it. We struck a
trade in no time.’
‘Jerusalem I! And here I’ve been trying to sell
a tract of land for the last two years, and couldn’t get
a dollar and a half an acre. It’s better land than yotof’n,
too, and you know it, Squire. Well, ‘what is, ’tie, and
can’t be ’tiser;’ but I reckon, Squire, I’ve beat you on
sugar. I bought, last week, two barrels of 6ugar at
6 cents, when every body had to give 7 cents. Beat
that, eh ?’
‘With all case, Uncle Joe, —I bought mine at's”
oents.’
‘No, sir, I don’t believe it. Now say where!’
‘At the house of \\ - ■ ■ & C<>. I got a rare bar
gain. You see, they advertised in the paper that they
were selling off at cost. I knew groceries would go
quick, so I went in and bought a year's supply.
groceries were all sold before night. I didn’t pay the
money, either; for they took my U. S. Land Warrant
at $1 25 per acre.’
‘Now, now. Squire! that can’t be, for my lawyer told
me that it wasn’t legal to sell my land warrant.’
‘Very true, some time ago ; but the news come late
ly in the paper that Congress had made them assigna
ye.’
‘Well, ’tisn’t fair! it’s rascally! What right has
these Editors to get all the news and keep it to them
selves ?’
*Ah! Uncle Joe, you misunderstand it. Editors
and printers labor night and day to gether the news,
and give it to the people, to instruct their readers, to.
I inform them of all the improvements of the age, and
; ameliorate the oondjticn of society. Their paper goes
abroad, recommending our people and country to en
terprising and intelligent emigrants. Can they labor
thus for nothing ? Should they not be paid ?Is there
a man who is not benefited by a paper ? Is not every
subscriber repaid four-fold for the pittance of $3, hi*
subscription price
‘Stop, Squire! stop right there ! I’m a-going to taka
thfe paper. I*ll go to town to-morrow and take the
paper. I’ll take six, and send some back to my kinfolks
in Georgia,’
‘You needn’t go so far as that, here’s the Editor
right in the other room.’
Here the parties rushed in upon us, where we were
acting out most admirably a person fast asleep. It is
enough for us to say. that after an introduction, the
name of Mr. Joacum Gulie was entered on our note
book as a subscriber—paid in advance. And now,
when the parties alluded to shall read this, we hope
they will pardon us for giving to the public the sub
stantial facta urged by the Squire, aiding us so effec
tually in‘getting a subscriber.’ The Herald. Jeffer
son, Texas.
A gentleman presented a lace collar to the object of
i his adoration, and. in a jocular way, said, ‘Do not let
! any one else rumple it.* ‘No, d.-ar,’ said the lady, ‘I
1 will take it off.’
NO. 8