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by r. c. PENDLETON. | Devoted to Literature, Internal Improvement, Commerce, Agriculture, Foreign and Dome; ; msement, See. jc. r. iianlfiter, puinter.
VOL. I.
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POETRY.
From the Metropolitan.
SECOND NIGHT.
BY MRS. ARDY.
They tell me thou pale and thoughtful sage,
That thine eye can glance o’er Life’s coming page ;
That the shadows in time’s dim glass concealed,
To thy piercing gaze are all revealed.
When the infant smiles on its mother’s knee,
Thou dost not joy in its playful glee,
Thou canst tell the hour when the world shall win
That sportive spirit to guile and sin.
The maiden sits in her summer bower,
Brighter in bloom than its fairest flower;
But thy look is sad for thou know’st her doom
Is a fading cheek and an early tomb.
The bride goes forth from the home of youth,
She trusts in her faithful lover's truth;
But they tears at the boding vision start
Os a broken vow and a blighted heart.
Soldiers march on in their proud array,
Their drums are beating, their colors gav,
The crowd exults in their high career,
But their death dirge sounds in thy shuddering ear.
These are the records that numbers tell
Os the force of thy wonder working spell;
But for me, I cannot deem that Heaven
Has been so fatal to mortals giten.
Oh! not for worlds would I own the power
To lift the veil of one distant hour,
And sadly on youth and joy to gaze,
Knowing the ills of their coming daj s.
On the past I love to turn my eyes,
My present blessings I fondly prize;
And when doomed mistortunes to deplore,
I trust I have better days in store.
But I would not wish on those days to look,
They are safely kept in God’s secret book;
And my heart would grieve, were his wise design
Profaned by a feeble glance like thine.
MISCELLANEOUS.
From the Knickerbocker.
OLD AGE AND BEAUTY.
BY GRACE GRAFTON.
Once upon a time, a very beautiful lady re
ceived a strange visitor. She was sitting alone
in her dressing-room, stripped ol all the fash
ionable ornaini nts that usually decked her
person, and which were now strewed around
her in every direction. Some were tossed
over the bacds of chairs; others she was
arranging in her armoire; and the most
costly glittered in an open casket on the
toilette tabic. She had risen la’c, and was
now rectifying the disorders of the preceding
night; for she had cast oIF her finery in
hasty negligence, after having, at a late hour
taken leave of a large circle of acquaintance,
who had crowded her drawing-rooms, tasted
her sw rets, and basked in her smiles, for a few
brief hours, and then left her to—her own
thoughts. These she soon buried in slot p ;
but the next morning—ah ! how ‘stale and
unprofitable’ it som times appears ! —the next
morning this lady felt strangely weary; late
hours began to have an effect upon her, for
which she was puzzled to account. She sank
into an easy chair, when her labors were over,
and it so chanced that the large mirror, swing
ing over the toilette, inclined a little, so as to
reflect her whole person. She naturally
enough fixed an anxious gaze on that much
admired form ; but alas ! a few hours seemed
to have wrought sad changes there. All her
boasted charms appeared to have been thrown
aside with the elegant apparel that had so lately
.adorned her.
‘ How unbecoming these loose robes are !’
‘and yet 1 used not to think so,’ she added
with a sigh. ‘ And this bonnet de unit —l
never before thought it so frightful: pshaw !
it makes an old woman of me!’ So saying,
she removed the offending cap, and throwing
it from her, began to arrange her fine tresses
into a more becoming head-dress; hut the
plain-spoken mirror before her told such home
truths, in its own quiet, reflective manner, that
she found her task an irksome one, and grew
fretful with her fruitless endeavors to restore to
her hair its glossy blackness, and to her face
its dimpled charms.
‘ I thought something was wrong,’ said she,
as she looked up languidly at a side window,
where the upper blinds had been left open ; ‘ it
is that odious light streaming in from above,
so unbecomingly, that makes me look so hag
gard this morning ; and then the fatigue of so
large a party. How beautiful Euphrosyne
looked !’ continued she m> singly. ‘ She was
a little child wden I made my debut on the
stage of fashion, and now, behold her radiant
MACON, (Ga.) SATURDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 29, 1838.
in the pr< ud loveliness of a youthful matron !
Time was when I could have matched hei
charms, but now Well, well; I was
never before so forcibly reminded of the altera
tion a few years can make. How changed
1 look ! How very, very wretched and nervous
I feel this morning!’ Again she turned her
languid eyes upward, toward the intrusive, tell
tale beam ; glanced them once more over the
mirror, and started with ifiright; for, reflected
there, she perceived a dimly-defined but most
unsightly form bending over her.
‘ I know thee, insiduous intruder!’ cried she
covering her face with her hands : ‘ I have
had warnings of thy approach, and now thou
art here ; yet I defy thee !”
“ Hush, hush !’ said the calm, hollow voice
of Old Age, for no other than he was the
strange visitor, ‘hush! do not deny me; I
have not jet 1 M my hand upon thee, red on
thyself it must depend whether my sure touch
be that of a friend or an enemy; whether the
dominion 1 shall surely exercise over thy fate,
he that ofa gentle master, oi a stern tyrant.’
While tliese words were sounding omnious
ly within her heart, the lady endeavored to turn
a deaf car to their import. She rose from the
dressing-table, rang the bell, and ordered her
maid to shut the blinds, and keep them better
closed in future. She then gave some direc
tions respecting 1 ei wardrobe, and throwing
herself on a sofa, fell into a reverie, in which she
laid vigorous plans for defeating the designs of
Age. ‘ I will so disguise myself,’ thought she
‘ that the wretch w ill r;ot know me. His
presence here is a heavy burthen, and it would
be mortifying past endurance, to be recognised
by such an antediluvian monster, in the midst
of society, from hence forward and for ever
more to have mj T name coupled with his.’ So
the next time she dressed for company, her own
hair was gathered away oul of sight, and some
shining ringlets were substituted in its place ;
and, in addition to the becoming eff-ct ofa new
and elegant head-dress, a slight tinge of rough
concealed the ravages time had made on her
co nplexion : and thus, indeed, she might be
sai 1 to defy Old Age ; for though lie frequently
hovered about her, and whispered his melan
choly forhodings in her ear, she had the satisfac
tion to perc.live, that in company, at least, no
one was aware of his presence but herself.
It was in the solitude of her own boudoir,
that Old Age became her persecutor ; when
the excitement of admiration was over; the
person disrobed of its gay attire, the counte
nance of its false ornaments, and forced smiles;
ah ! Age claimed her then, and grew familiar.
She never seated herself at her toilette, but he
placed himself at her side, and preached to her,
and pried into her heart, and annoyed her so
incessantly, that there was no resources for her
but, 'o array herself with skill, and fly to com
panj" again for relief. It was a sad sight—her
worn countenance, and faded form, beneath
the frail disguises of fashion.
4 Why so weary of me already?” said Age
to her, one day, when he saw the advantage he
was gaining; ‘ why so resolute to ward off
my hand, and turn from me thycountenar.ee ?
Let us be friends.’
‘ Friends !’cried the faded beauty, ‘ thou my
friend!—thou art my destroyer; and as I
once defied thee, so now I fear thee.’
‘Vain wbman !’ murmured her tormentor,
‘ vet again I warn thee, with thyself it rests
whether I prove thy tyrant or thy friend. The
time approaches when I must make myself
visible to the whole world as thy inseparable
companion. Why should we appear as ene
mies ?’
‘ Mow,’said she indignantly,‘how canst thou
have the hardihood to imagine that I will ac
knowledge companionship with one who has
wot ked me such evil ? Shan eon thee! for the
mischief thou has done to my once raven hair!
Out upon the ! for a thief, who art robbing me
one by one of my j early teeth; who hast
stolen away the sweetness of my voice,withered
mv lilies, and faded my roses !’ Here, over
come with emotion, she pressed her handker
chief to her eyes, and turning into a secluded
path, sought to hide her mortification in the
solitude of natmc, while OH Age shrugged his
shoulders, and followed after, looking very
grave and determined.
This short colloquy between Age and wan.
ing Beauty took place in some fine pleasure
grounds, to which a large party had resorted
to spend the day, and dine in the open air.
The cheerful light of a summer sun, flickering
through the foliage of the groves, or glancing
across the open, grassy slopes, shed lustre on
many a fair form, and carried joy to many a
youthful heart. Each lovely, laughing girl had
her admirer,some companion young and gay as
herself; and in merry groups they wandered
along the paths, or seated themselves on the
turf, beneath the shade of over-hanging boughs.
Tiiis bright light of day found no correspond
ing ray within the bo-oin ofthc cidcvant beauty.
The uncomfortable thought possessed her, that
it displaj-ed to view her unseemly companion,
and therefore had she turned aside, and re
proached him so bitterly ; and then retired,
neglected and disconsolate, into an unfrequen
ted path. Thither, as we have observed, Age
followed her, and down they sat together on
the first scat that presented itself. This was
so placed as to command a view of surpassing
beaut}', in the contemplation of which, selfish
griefs and unworthy complainings might well
be fovgotton. A sudden opening in the woods
revealed the broad river below, with its waters
rolling silently onward, like the ceaseless tide
oftime. Waving woods and yellow corn-fields
graced its banks, and here and there some
pleasant dwelling reared its white walls among
the trees ; and in the back-ground a huge bank
| of blue and misty mountains bounded the
| view.
Tranquility stole into the poor lady’s heart,
as she gazed long and silently on the woods,
and hills, and beaming river; and she saw,
without repugnance, that Age was still beside
her. ‘I am here,’ said he, with a smile, and
drew closer toward her, ands! e answered
mildly: ‘Be silent now, Old Age, and let the
sweet voices of my youth speak to me in these
wild woods, and sparkling waters ;’ and Age
prudently took the hint, and was still. When
he spoke again, and said, ‘ Thou dost not hate
now, while we are alone with nature V she
answered, inn subdued to? e: ‘Alas! lean
resist thee no longer; but oh! thou hast done
I me cruel wrong!’
‘Be wise/continued he, ‘and I will amply
repay thee for ail 1 have taken from thee ; for
know, proud woman, that the same hand which
clothed thee with beauty, directed me here to
rob thee of thy charms, and fashion thee lor
the grave.’
‘ Dost thou lead me to the grave!’ said the
beauty, with a slight shudder.
‘ Not yet,’ replied he, soothingly; ‘ but even
unto the grave will I reconcile thee, if thou
wilt but listen, through me, to the voice of him
who sent me.’
* Here I can listen to thee,’ said sire ; * thy
| voice chimes in, passing well, with the sweet
melodies of nature. If thou wouldst but leave
me to myself, and hush thy mournful croaking
in the gay circles of fashion.
‘I cannot leave thee for a moment,’ said
Age, ‘for I tell thee I am sent by one far
mightier than I, to fulfil thy destiny here, and
j prepare thee for the mysteries of thy coming
| dome. Look upon me, then, as a messenger
ofiove, not of wrath, and thrice happy shall bo
j our communion together.’
It was fortunate for this once beautiful wo
; man, that she had sufficient sense and good
feeling to understand every word that Uid Age
said to her; and had prudence eno gh, bc
j side to acknowledge him ever after as a friend ;
for he proved a sage counsellor, and guided
her wisely through the last scenes of life;
i and during each trial of sickness and infirmity
endued her with resignation, and whispered
! heavenly consolation to her inmost soul.
lie soon persuaded her to throw aside every
vain trapping ; and then, with his own gentle
| hand, smoothed her gray hairs across her
brow, and blended benevolent smiles with the
growing wrinkles. Thus, though she was no
longer lovely to’ look upon, she became recon
ciled to herself, and ceaseing to pine for the
I charms of which Age had divested her, she
i wrapped herself in a mantle of gray, and quietly
descended with him into the vale of years.
LETTER WRITING —TRAVELLING.
BY N. P. WILLIS.
* * I am of opinion, dear doctor, that a let
ter to be read should have
marginal references, to the stale of the writer’s
digestion, and the quality of his pen and ink at
the time of writing. These matters, if they
do not affect a man’s belief in a future state,
very sensibly operate upon his sty le of com
position, (so with me at least) upon his sen
timents and minor morals. Like most other
tiiis be-printed country, I
commenced authorship at precisely the wrong
end—criticism. Never having put my hat
upon one or two grown-up thoughts, I still
feel myself qualified to pronounce upon any
man’s literary stature, from Walter Scott to
whom you please. God forgive me! 1 re
member (under this delusion of Sathan) sitting
down to review a book by one of the most
sensible women in the country. It was a
pleasant morning—favorable symptom for the
author. I wrote the name of the book at the
head of a clean sheet of Bath post, and the nib
of my pen capered nimbly away into a flour
ish, in a fashion to coax praise out of a pump
ki i. What but courtesy on a morning so
bright and with so smooth a pen ? I was in
the middle ofthe page, taking breath, after a
long and lauditory sentence, when puff through
the window came a gust of air, labelled for the
bare nevres. (If you have ever been in Bos
ton, perhaps yon observed that an east wind in
that city of blue n ises in June, gives you a
I sensation like being suddenly deprived of your
j skin.) In a shudder of disgust, I bore down
the dot of an i, and my pen, like an over ‘tired
friend,’ gave way under the pressure. With
the wind in that same quarter, dexterity died.
After vain efforts to mend my pen to its original
( daintiness, I amputated the nib to a broad
working stump, and aimed it doggedly at the
! beginning of anew paragiaph. But my wits
j had gone about with the grass hopper on the
church steeple. Nothing would trickle from
that stumpy quill, either graceful or gracious,
and having looked through the book, but with
a view to find matter to praise, I was obliged
to run it over anew to forage for the cast wind.
‘ Hence, the milk in the cocoa nut,’ as the
showman says of the monkey’s slealing
children. I wrote a savage review, which the
reader was expected to believe contained the
opinions ol the reviewer ! ! Oh, Jupiter !
All this is to apologize, not for my own let
te , which I intend shall be a pattern of good
humor, but fora passage in your last, (if writ
ten upon a hard egg, you should have men
tioned : t in the margin,) in which, apropos of
my jaunt to the Chemung, you accuse me of
being glad to get away from my hermitage.
I could write you a sermon now on the na
turc of content, but you would say the very
lext is apocrypliical. My ‘lastly’ however
| would go to prove that there is bigotry in re
| tirement, ns in all things either good or pleasur
ii able. The eye that never grows fnmil nr with
: nr t ire, need freshening from all things else. A
r.o.n, a chair, a musical instrument, a horse, a
I dog, the road that you drive daily, and the well
j you drink from, are all more prized when left
and returned to. The habit of turning back
I daily from a certain mile-stone, in your drive
j makes that mile- tone after a while, a prison
wall. It is pleasant to pass it, though the road
beyond be less beautiful. If I were once more
* brave Master Shoe-tie, the great traveller,’ it
would irk me, I dare say, to ride thiity miles
in a rail-car drawn by one slow horse. Yet
it is a pleasant ‘ lark’ now, to run down to
Ithaca for an g':f, in this drowsy conveyance
though I exchange a cool cottage for a fly
nest, ‘ lavendered linen,’ for abominable cot
ton, and the sci vice of civil William, lor the
| ‘ young lady who takes care ofthe chambers.’
I like to know what reason 1 have to keep my
temper among my household gods. I like to
pay an extravagant bill for villainous enter
j tainment abroad, and come back to escape ru
in in the luxuries of home.
Doctor ! were you a vagabond for years
together ? I know you have hung your hat on
' the South Pole, but you are one of those ‘friend
ofthc family’men, who will travel from Dan
to Beersheba,and be at no charges for lodging.
You cannot understand, I think, the life from
which I have escaped ; the life of* mine ease
in mine inn.’ Pleasant mockery! You have
! never had the hotel fever; never sickened
of the copperplate human faces, met exclusive
ly in those homes ofthc homeless ; never have
gone distracted at the eternal one piece ol soap,
| and the last occupant’s tooth-brush and cigar!
To be slighted any hour of the evening for a
I pair of slippers and a candlestick; to sleep
and wake amid the din of animal wants, com
plaining and supplied ; to hear no variety of
human tone but the expression of these baser
; necessities—to be waited on either by fel
lows who would bring your coffin as uncon
cernedly as your breakfast, or by a woman
who is rude, because insulted when kind ; to
lie always in strange beds ; to go home to a
house of strangers ; to be weary without pity,
sick without soothing, sad without sympathy ;
to sit at twilight by your lonely window, in
some strange city, and a heart which a child’s
voice would dissolve in tenderness, to see door
after door open and close upon fathers, bro
thers, friend expected and welcomed by the be
loved and the beloving ; these are costly mi
series against which I almost hourly weigh my
cheaper happiness in a home! Yet this is the
life pined after by the grown-up boy ; the life
called fascinating and mystified in romance; the j
life dear Doctor, for which even yourself can j
fancy lam ‘imping my wing’ anew ! Oh, no ! j
I have served seven years lor this Rachel of
contentment, and my heart is no Laban to put
me off with a Leah.
TRAVELLING SKETCHES.
Picture of Oregon. —The following synop
sis, as it were, of the great Oregon Country,
and region of the Rocky Mountains, is taken
from a review of Parker’s recent work in the
last number of the Knickerbocker :
“ Spread before you, reader, a map of that
portion ofthis continent which stretches west
ward from a line with the Council Bluffs, on the (
Missouri river, and with the above named work ;
in your hand, follow its author in all his journey. !
ings, until you reach with him that bound coast,
where mountain barriers repel the dark rolling
waves ofthe Pacific, which stretch without an
intervening island, for five thousand miles, to
Japan. What a vast extent of country you
: have traversed ; how sublime the works ofthe
Creator, through which you have taken your
way ! We lack space to follow our author in
the detail of his wanderings, and shall not,
i thereiorc attempt a notice at large ofthe volume
under consideration, but shall endeavor to
present, in a general view, some of the most
prominent features. Mr. Parker was sent out
by the American Board of Foreign Missions,
and he appears to have been emminently faith- j
; ful to his trust, amidst numerous perils, and j
privations which are recorded, not with vain j
boasting and exaggeration, but with becoming j
modesty and brevity. Ilis descriptions, indeed j
are all of them graphic, without being minute j
or tedious. Before reaching the Black Hills, ;
ho places before us the prairies, rolling in j
immense seas of verdure, on which millions of ;
tons of grass grow up but to rot on the groun I
!or feed whole leagues of flame; over which
sweep the cool breezes, like the trade winds
ofthe ocean, and into whose green recesses
bright-eyed antelopes bound away, with half,
whistling snuff, leaving the fleetest bound
hopelessly in the rear. There herd the buffaloes,
by thousands together, dotting the landscaj e,
seeming scarce so large as rabits when sur
veyed at a distance from some verdant bluff,
swelling in the emarald waste. Sublimcr
far, and upon a more magnificent scale, are
the scenes among the Rocky Mountains.
Here are the visible footsteps of God ! Yonder,
mounting peak above peak, ten thousand feet
heavenward, to regions of perpetual snow, rise
the Titans of that mighty region. Here the
traveller treads his winding way through
passages so narrow that the towering perpen
dicular cliffs throw a dim twilight gloom upon
his path,even at mid-day. Anon he emerges
and lo ! a caterat descends a distant mountain
like a belt of snowy foam, girdii g its giant
1 sides. On one hand mountains, spread
out into horizontal planes, fome reunded
like domes, and others terminating the forms
of pillars, pyramids, and castles; on the
other, vast circular embankments thrown
up by volcanic fires, mark the site of a
yawning crater ; while far below, perchance,
a river dashes its way through a narrow
rocky passage, with a deep toned roar,in wind
ing mazes, in mist and darkness. Fol
-I>w the voyager, ns he descends the Cos.
1 nubia, subject to winds, rapids and falls, two
hundred miles Loin any whites, and amid tribes
of stianger Indiai s, all speaking a different
language. Here, for miles, stretches a per
pendicular basaltic wall three are four hun.
dred feet in height ; there foam the boiling
eddies, and rush the varying currents; on one
side opens a view of rolling prairies, and
through a rocky vista oil the other, the beams
of the morning sun. Now the traveller passes
through a forest of trees, standing in their
natural positions, in the bed of the river twenty
feet below the water’s surface. Passing these
he comes to a group of islands, lying high in
the stream, piled with the coffin-canoes ofthe
uat ves, filled with their dead, and covered with
mats and split plank. He anchors for a while
at a wharf or natural basalt and presently pro
ceeds on his way, gliding now in solemn
silence, and now interrupted by the roar of the
distant rapid, gradually growing on the ear
until the breaking water and feathery foam
arise to the view. Pausing under a rocky
cavern, by the shore, formed of semi-circular
masses which have overbrowed the stream for
ages, ‘ frowning terrible, impossible to climb,’
he awaits the morning; listening during the
night watches to hear the distant cliffs
‘ reverberate the sound
Os parting fragments tubling from on high.’
Such are the features of the missionary’s
course, until the boundary ofthe ‘Far West’
is reached, and he reposes for a time, from his
long and toilsome journey.”
SELF-EDUCATION.
BY WM. WIRT.
And ibis leads me, gentlemen, to another
remark, to which I invite your altention. It
is this : The education, moral and intellectual,
of every individual must chiefly be his own
work, ll seems to be supposed, that if a young
man be sent first to a grammar school,and then
to college, he must of course become a scho
lar ; ami the pupil himself, is apt to imagine
that he is to be the mere passive recipient of
instruction, as lie is ofthe light and atmosphere
which surround him. But this dream of indo
lence must be dissipated, and you must be
active and vigorous co-operators with your
teachers, and work out your own distinction,
with ail ardor that cannot be quenched, a per
severance that considers nothing done whilst
any thing yet remains to be done. Rely
upon it, that the ancients were right— Ques.
que suae fortuncic sober, both in morals
and intellect, we give their final shape to our
own characters, and thus become emphatical
ly the architect of our own fortunes. How
else should it happen, that young men who
have had precisely the same opportunities,
should be continually presenting us with such
different results, and rushing to such opposite
destinies ? Difference of talent, will not
solve it, because that difference is very often
in favor of the disappointed candidate. You
shall see isssuing from the walls of the same
school—nay, sometimes from the bosom of
of the same family—two young men, of
whom the one shall be admitted to boa genius
of high order, the other scarcely above the
point of mediocrity ; yet you will see the genius
sinking and perishing in poverty, obscurity and
wretchedness ; while on the ether hand, you
will see the mediocre plodding his slow but sure
way up the hill of life, gaining steadfast footing
at every step, and mounting at length to emi
nence and distinction, an ornament to hia
family, a blessing to his country. Now, whose
work is this ? Manifestly their own. They
are the architects of their respective fortunes.
The best seminary of learning that can open
its portals to you, can do no more than afford
\ outlie opportunity of instruction, but it will
depend at least on yourselves whether you will
be instructed or not, or to what point you will
push your instruction. And ofthis be assur
ed—l speak from observation, a certain truth
—There is no excellence without great labor.
It is the fiat of Fate, from which no power of
genius can absolve youth. Genius unexerted
is like the [ oor moth, that flutters around a
candle till it scorclies itself to death. If genius
be desired at all, it is only of that great and
magnanimous kind, which like the Condor of
South America, pitches from the summit of
Cbimboraza above the clouds, and sustains
itself with pleasure in that imperial region, with
an energy rather invigorated than weakened
by the eflbrt. It is the capacity for high and
long continued exertion—this vigorous power
of profound and searching investigation—this
careering and wide-sweeping comprehension of
mind—and those long reaches of thought that
Pluck bright boner from the pale-faced moon,
Or dive into the bottom ofthe deep,
Where fathom-line can never touch the ground,
And drag up drowned honor by the locks.
This is the prowess and these the hardy
achievements which are to enrol your names
among the great men ofthe earth.
But how are you to gain the nerve and the
courage for er.terprizes of this pith and mo
ment ? I will tell you : As Milo gained that
hoc signo vinces—for this must be your work
not that of your teachers. Be you not wanting
to yourselves, and you will accomplish all that
your parents, friends and country have a right
to expect.
Adversity is the trial of principle. Without
it a man hardly knows whether he is an honest
man.
Religion is the best armor in the world, but
the worst cloak.
NO. 49-