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44 THE COUNTRYMAN. My (Sfoaifc. “De omnibus rebus, et quibusdonn aliis BY W. W 7 . TURNER. Yol. 1. NOVEMBER 3, 1862. No. 1. It is no creature of the imagination; no poetical fiction ; no unsubstantial myth, like most of the editor’s “ chairs,” “ draw ers,” <fcc, that we read of, but a real, solid, bona fide, oaken seat, of ample dimensions, with a homely but comfortable cushion, a foot-board, a writing-board large enough to support a candle-stick and all the applian ces for reading and writing, underneath which is a box capable of containing a great many magazines, newspapers, or any of those nameless little conveniences that add so much to the enjoyment of one disposed to be contemplative or studious. It is the chair in which my grand-father sat, for many, many years before his death, the board of which upheld his Bible, or other book, in the box of which were stowed his newspapers, his pipes, tobacco, &c. It is hallowed, in my mind, by association with him in his last days, and because he himself gave it to me, the youngest-born of Wil liam, his first-born. It used to occupy a warm corner by the fire-place in the old brick bouse, close to a deep window, cut in the thick wall; and not only the chair itself, but the broad win dow-sill and the facing on each side, were all filled w'ith little boxes, shelves, and racks, containing every imaginable cmiosi- ty that could amuse an old man or a boy, from a fly-gun to a microscope. To my childish imagination, it and its circumstan ces constituted a store-house; a whole world of interest and wonder. It was my highest delight; the very acme of my happiness, to visit my eccentric grand-parent and hang around his knee, sit on the foot-board of his chair, or sometimes be elevated even to the book-board, and look ever what was to me his vast museum, or listen to some strange story, such as he loved to relate to children. Finally the chair was delivered to me, when my grand-father had to abandon it for a couch—his bed of death—and the gift was to me, I think, because it was per ceived that 1 had a peculiar veneration and love for the old relic. I do most of my reading and writing in it. In winter, hith erto, it has occupied a place in my sanctum sanctorum, and in summer it has stood in the cool hall which runs across our house, through which there is a constant draught of fresh air. Almost everyone has Seen chairs like it, -and those who have visited us, during the warm season, within the last half dozen years, have seen this identical one, in its summer quarters. To these, and to all the subscribers of The Countryman, I send greeting, and ex press the hope that they and I may live to have frequent cosy chats together, du ring the long evenings of the coming, and many succeeding winters. I give fair warn ing, however. Tbe motto that stands at the head of my column, shall not belie me. Probably the chief characteristic of my sketches, paragraphs, or essays, will be dis cursiveness. This is one of the privileges of an editor, and such, de facto, I now be come. I shall often be grave, for it is my nature ; I licpe -to be sometimes gay; for this my well-being requires. I shall try sometimes to be instructive, tor this is one chief end of writing; always to be entertain ing, for few will read my productions other wise. Doubtless I will frequently prove pro sy,but at any rate,I will be sincere and hon est. 1 may occasionally be charged with pro lixity,but hope generally to say too little, ra ther than too much. The former occupantof this chair, an old, white-haired man, who fought in the first revolutionary war, was not opposed to serious, instructive conversation, on the one hand—for he was a Christian— nor, on the other hand, did he fail to en courage cheerfulness and even boisterous hilarity, so long as it was harmless—for he was a true philosopher. I am to be editor only of this corner of the paper. Mr. J. A. Turner is still ed itor, and proprietor of The Countryman. I am responsible, though, and not lie, for everything that appears in my department, and the reader will please not to saddle ei ther, with the sins of the other. That men, grown up children, like all other children, are pleased with new toys, has been said long ago, and it receives new illustrations everyday. However many and various, however costly and beautiful, those already possessed, a new plaything is ever sought after,and alway r s rather admired than the old ones,whetlior it be more or much less valuable. Are there any human means of satisfying mortals, either in business, pleasure, or ambition ? Alas ! none ! Sol omon wrote : “ There are three things that are never satisfied, y 7 ea, four things say not, it is enough.” He by no means intended, nor did he, exhaust the list, for lie said nothing of the cormorants that 1 have men tioned. We see the statesman, who has in his walk earned never-fading laurels, eagerly seizing the sword, and pleased beyond measure, with his new bauble. The sol dier, all his life long accustomed to camp, wlic has deserved and received the plaudits of his countrymen, for deeds in arms, lays down lfis weapon to grasp the badge of civil office, while both, the warrior and the pol itician in the evening of their days, often sigh for something they’ never before sought after, literary fame, and grieve because they 7 can not acquire it, like the child who, holding his hands full of luscious apples and seeing one more beautiful and tempting than all the rest, wept because he could not possess that also. “ Nemo, quam sibi sortem Seu ratio dederit, sen fors objecerit, ilia Contentus meat, laudet diversa sequentes." After citing such high examples, I fear to continue, , lest I incur the imputa tion of vanity, but n'importe. We all have our share of it. Small things may be compared with great. Besides, when I commenced I had no idea of get ting into such elevated regions, and now all that remains for me is to come down again. I cannot throw away what I have written, nor will I lose sight of the object in pursuit of w hich I set out. I too am pleased with mv new toy, the editorial pen. My r Grand- Father’s Chair is as easy, as comfortable, in every respect as honorable as any, blit still, never till now, was it converted into a chair editorial, and it is delighted at its unexpected metamorphosis. And this in spite of the fact that I have been scribbling occasionally, ever since I was a boy 7 . How well do 1 remem ber the first time 1 sent a contribution to a newspaper ! It consisted of some stanzas signed Juventus, and was mailed to the Temperance Banner, then edited by good old uncle Ben. Brantly. With what anxi ety did I watch for the next number of the paper, and how great w 7 as my disappoint ment at finding that my verses had not ap peared. But another number came, and with a thrill such as none but an author ev er experiences; a thrill which all who write feel once, and once only, during their lives, I read my dear lines actually in print. Since then, my poor writings have borne the imprimatur of first-class publishing houses, yet nothing of that kind has ever given me half so much pleasure as the fan cied success of this my first effort. But, “ when w r e dip too deep in pleasure, we always stir a sediment that renders it impure and noxious.” I clipped a little too deep on the occasion referred to above, by letting my brother and teacher into the se cret, and at the same time telling them that uncle Ben. bad printed me Inventus instead of Juventus. The pleasure of simply knowing that my verses had been published