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but could not disengage the meat from the
sticll, perceived the bald lieafl ot the poet, and,
probably taking it for a rock, let the tortoise
fall upon it from a great height. jEschylus
had the worst of it, for his skull was fractured,
and he died upon tlic spot.
An Astrologer, at the Court of Louis XI.
of France, predicted an afflicting event, which
came to pass. The king sent for the sage,
having previously ordered his satellites to be
prepared at a given signal to seize him and
throw him out of the window. Die king said
to him, on his entrance, “ You, who pretend
to lift the veil of futurity, can you foretell the
exact hour of your own death ?' “ No, sire,
said the wary Astrologer, with admirable pre
sence of mind, suspecting the design ol the ty
rant, “1 only know that 1 shall die exactly
three days before your Majesty 1 Ihe King
was thunderstruck at this answer, and re
frained from giving the signal. Sir Walter
Scott has very ingeniously interwoven this
anecdote into the tale ot Quentin Durwanl.
Carden, a soothsayer, who dvait extensive
ly in horoscopes, was not particularly fortu
nate in his predictions. In one instance, how
ever, lie made use of a very effectual means
to guard against any mistake. He predicted
theday of his death—and when the time drew
near, and his health, much to his mortification,
continued unimpaired, he absolutely abstained
from food, and died ofhunger, on the day pre
dicted, that he might not falsify his prediction.
That oracle of moral and political wisdom,
Lord Bacon, in his chapter upon Prophecies,
speaking of modern predictions and prophe
cies, says : “ My judgment is, that they ought
all to be despised, for they have done much
mischief. I sec many severe laws made to
suppress them. That which hath given them
some grace and some credit, consisteth in
three things. First, that men mark when
tliey hit, but never mark when they miss, as
they do generally. The second is that proba
ble conjectures, or obscure traditions, many
times turn tliems lives out prophecies. The
third and last (which is the great one) is that
almost all of them, being infinite in number,
have been impostures, and, by idle and crafty
brains, merely contrived and feigned after the
event passed.”
THE BATTLE OF ELEVEN HUNDRED HORSES.
Two of the (Spanish) regiments which had
been quartered in Funel, where cavalry,
mounted on fine black long tailed Andalusian
horses. It was impracticable to bring off these
horses, about eleven hundred in number, and
Itomano was not a man who could order them
to be destroyed ; he was fond of horses him
self, and knew that every man was attached to
tiie beast which had carried him so l'ar and so
faithfully.
Their bridles were therefore taken off, and
tliey were turned loose upon the beach. A
scene ensued such as probably never bclbre
was witnessed. They were sensible that they
were no longer under any restraint of human
power. A general conflict cusucdt in which,
retaining the discipline they had learned, they
had charged each other in squadrons of 10 or
I*2, then closely engaged, striking with their
/vie /eetj and biting and ouoii ollior
with the most ferocious rage, and trampling
over those which were beaten down, till the
shore in the course of a quarter of an hour,
was strewn with the dead and disabled. Part
of them had been set free on a rising ground,
at a distance; they no sooner heard the roar
of battle, than they came thundering down
over tiie intermediate hedges, and catching
the contagious madness, plunged into the fight
with equal fury. Sublime as the scene was,
it was too horrible to be long contemplated,
and Romano, in mercy, gave orders for do
stroying them ; hut it was found too danger
ous to attempt this, and after the last boats
quitted the bench, the few horses that remain
ed were still engaged in the dreadful work of
mutual destruction. Southey.
AFFECTION IN WOMEN MOST PLEASING TO MEN.
Nothing in tl e female character excites
more deep regard and gratitude in men than j
the manifestation of pure and true affection.l
Coleridge, the celebrated poet and trancen-,
dentalist, remarks that “caresses and endear-:
meats on this aid* of sickening fondness, and
affectionate interests in all that concerns him
self, from a wife freely chosen, arc what every
man loves, whether he be communicative or
reserved, staid or sanguine. But affection
when it exists, will always, prompt or discover
its own most appropriate manifestation. All
men even the most surly, are influenced by
affection, even when excited. And the poet
very generously adds, “1 could have been bap
py with a servant girl had she only in sinceri
ty of heart responded to my affection.” Ob
servation will convince every lady that the
poet’s remarks are true, she will learn '.he af
fectionate devotion to his interest and happi
ness, will unlock the springs of feeling in the
heart of the coldest and most obdurate “lord
Oi crcatioa. Newport N. H. Spectator.
PYRAMID OF CHEOPS.
This monument of pride, science, or super
stition—who know which ?—was building,
while Abraham was in Egypt; Joseph and
his brethren must have seen the sun set be
hind it every day they sojourned in Egypt;
it must have been the last object Moses and
the departing Israelites lost sight of as they
quitted the land of bondage; Pythagoras, Ho- :
rodotus, Alexander, the Caliphs—it has been I
the goal of nations! Lost nations have pil- j
grimized to its foot, and looked up, as tlieii
common ancestors did before them, in aw e
and humility; and now, two strangers from [
the “ ultima Thule” of the ancients, (Britain,
severed from the w hole world by a watery
line which they considered it impious to trans- j
gross, stand here on the summit, and, looking j
round, see a desert, where once stood the
“cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces.”
The temples and ton.bs of Memphis arose in
their calm beauty, and Wisdom dwelt among
the groves of palm and acacia—solitary now
and deserted, except by the wandering Arab
and his camel. Lord Lindsay's Letters.
Vt Thorn is anew party forming in Massachusetts,
called the “ Striped ts ¥arl%" ulitf the Attli-filtoen
atuk*t-av-wt»
| ORIGINAL.
For the Southern Post.
RICHARD, Tilt WOLF-KILLER ;
OR, THE TWO WEDDINGS.
FREE TRANSLATION FROM TIIE FRENCH.
In a remote, but beautiful valley of the pro
! vince of Brie, there is an old building in ruins,
■ mid abandoned, Ihe vast yard is encircled
by a free stone wall, partly dilapidated ; the
wretched appearance ot which is clothed with
a hedge of w ild roses, lu the centre, voti
mav see the remnants of what was once a
! splendid house; they consist of the naked and
! shattering walls, and with the exception of the
embrasures and dark chimneys, there is noth
ing to in licate the primitive plan of the man
sion, and the distribution ol the apartments.
The immense quantity of materials which co
ver the ground, the imposing, though sad ap
pearance of the building and its dependencies,
all impress the mind of the beholder with the
opinion that this must have been, at some for
mer period, a considerable fuirri, the seat of
wealth and activity ; and,at the same time that
the sight inspires the soul with melancholy
thoughts ; it makes one wonder how such an
establishment, situated as it is in the most fer
tile part of the country, and environed with all
the elements of prosperity and success, may
have been thus converted into a vast field ol
ruins and desolation.
Every year, during the vacations, I was
used to go with one of my friends to spend a
few weeks at his father’s estate, in the neigh
borhood of the place 1 have just descrd»ed.
As the country abounds with game of every
description, it was a great inducement for me
to indulge the rambling propensity natural to
a bov of seventeen, after a collegiate incarcer
ation of ten mouths; and whenever, in the
course of my excursions, I happened to pass
before the deserted farm, I invariably felt in
describable sensations of uneasiness; while
my thoughts were at work to account for the
scene of devastation before my eyes.
One afternoon, as fatigued with a long walk
through the fields, 1 was returning home, fol
lowed by Blaquc, a very fine grey-hound of
English blood, a hare that had prudently let us
pass by him and proceed about a hundred yards,
without stirring, suddenly started, and had al
ready gained a considerable advance, when
Blaquc sprung after him; the distance between
them was soon very inconsiderable, and a few
seconds had scarcely elapsed, before the hare
felt his pursuer close behind him, with ardent
eyes, his long ears sweeping the ground, and
his neck stretched, as if ready to seize his prey.
Twice the dog, pushing on with too much ra
pidity to govern his couise, passed over his
victim ; and twice the hare, benefitted by the
time his enemy lost to stop with an ahiupt and
powerful effort of his legs, and to take anew
direction, gained ground, soon to lose it again.
I followed the chase with my eyes, as far as
I could see ; but it was not long before they
both disi p pea red in the vicinity of the farm. —
When I arrived at the spot, I could perceive
neither dog nor hare, and hud not an old wo
man, bending under the load of a small fagot,
irith n long thorn stick ill her band, to support
her laborious, slow steps, risen from amidst
the ruins, it might have been difficult for me to
discover them. “Here, sir,” cried she, point
ing to the yard, where I entered, preceded by
her. In a corner, 1 lound Blaque stretched,
panting for breath ; his ling white nose stain
ed with blood: by him, was the hare lying
dead. At our approach, the dog fiercely rais
ed his head; and, as mv guide continued lead
ing the way, a very expressive growling, ac
companied with, the exhibition of a beautiful
set of sharp teeth, was a kind of advice that we
both readily understood—and which explained
to me what honest reflection had induced the
old woman to wait for me before venturing in
to the yard. Having taken the hare and d:-
pesited it safely in my scrip, I disposed to go.
1 called Blaquc,. and turning round, perceived
him, now free from all responsibility, scenting
the old woman, anil apparently disposed to
make an acquaintance with her.
The sight of the decrepit creature, whose
tatters but too plainly bespoke poverty and des
titution, sitting on a long log, that •no might
have taken, at a distance, for a monstrous J
snake, hidden in the grass, brought me to my'
usual meditations. It struck me that from
her I might perhaps draw some information ;
and sitting by her, I inquired whether it was
in her power to relate to me the history of the
ruins before us.
“ And who,” cried she, “ who could relate
it better than I ! 1, who have been raised in
this house, who have spent it it the happy time
of my youth, who fondly hoped that 1 might
Ji) there in peace 1 Ah, sir, this is along tale,
and sad : but such was God’s will.” So say
ing, she sighed deeply, and with the back of
her still', wrinkled hand, wiped a big tear from
her emaciated cheek.
“ In 1785 of ’B6, nearly fifty years ago, this
farm, the miserable remains of which you now
see, was the richest in the district of Chante
loup—a village that you would perceive, did
not those tall elms intercept the prospect before
us. The house was occupied by Guillaume
Emery, and the farm was his-. When I was
admitted in Mr. Emery's family, I was just
seventeen, and he about fifty. At the age of
thirty he had married a very accomplished
young lady, with whom he lived perfectly hap.
py for five years : at the end of which she
unfortunately died while in child.bed ; and
although time had power to soothe, still it nev
er could h ;al the deep wound his heart had
received. In vain did his friends urge him to
marry again ; in vain did they represent to
him that the presence of a wife was indispen
sable to the prosperity of such a vast estab
lishment, and to the comfort of his infant
daughter : he never yielded to their solicita
tions. Wholly devoted to his labors and to
the education of the little Theresa, on whom
he concentrated all his affections—he was un
iversally considered as the best of fathers, as a
very intelligent and industrious husbandman ;
and before Theresa lmd accomplished her
eighteenth year, a crowd of suitors, allured by
the fame of ht r wealth, beauty and accomplish
ments, were contending for the honor of ob
taining licr hand.
“Amongthose, conspicuous for their assidu
ity, was Henry W the only son of the
, Attorney General of the province of Brie.—
TIIE SOUTHERN POST.
He was then twenty-fiveyearsold, with o hand
some face, comely appearance, a deportment
at once noble and modest, and endowed with
the most amiable and endearing qualities.—
The portion he had inherited at the death of
his mother was considerable, and he was des
tined to fill, one day, the high post then occu
pied by his father. His acquaintance with Mr.
Emery originated from a deplorable event,
which had necessitated the appearance of the
greater part of the family before the tribunal
over which his father presided.”
At that part of the narrative, the good old
woman paused, probably to remark what ef
fect her debut had on me ; but seeing that I
kept silent,.she continued thus:
“ One evening, in the month of August, at
dusk, a man on horseback knocked here at the
gate, between the two pillars yet standing up,
opposite where we now sit. He was a dealer
in cattle, very wealthy, going from Paris to
Coulommiers, where a fair was to be held next
day; and, on his way, he was calling to our
house to settle some old accounts. I went to
open the gate, and w hen he had alighted, I
helped him to carry to the entry a very ca
-1 pacious and heavy portmanteau.
“ There were only three persons in the
house at that time: Mr. Emery, Miss There
sa, his daughter, and her cousin, Richard Sch
wartz, lieutenant ilea chassis du due dc Pen
thiccre, usually residing a-la maison-noirc, be
tween neufmoutiers and mort-ccrf. Mr. Em
ery, who sat by the w indow, the embrasure of
which you now see, was then writing ; Rich
ard, with a little stove in the fire-place, and a
mould in his hand, was casting bullets, and
Miss Theresa was in the next room discharg
ing the duties of an industrious house-keeper.
“ Forgive me if I omit none of these details;
there is nothing old people like so well as the
remembrance of tkeir youthful days. I was
young then, but all these souvenirs arc fresh
yet in my memory. Once-a-wcek, I summon
all my courage and come to this place, two
long miles distant from Bussy Saint George,
where I live, to spend the better part of the day
picking a poor fagot in the woods ; and when
wearied and exhausted, I retrace my steps
home, I never fail to stop here. On this same
log, where w e now sit, 1 rest my aching limbs,
and here lam not long alone. For scarcely
have l sat down, scarcely have I cast my eyes
on these wrecks, that the magic pencil of fan
cy portrays to my poor deluded mind the im
age of my past life, so happy and so calm.—
By and by, this solitude is no more a desert for
me; it is peopled, it is animated ! I re-build
tlie.se ruins, I raise anew house, such as I have
seen it in better days, supplied with every con.
venience and luxury ; and when all this is com
pleted, when my faithful memory has set every
thing in its proper place (wonder at the extent
of the illusion) I forget that I am the last living
creature escaped from this abode of death :
methinks 1 become a young girl again, Ia
poor old woman with a few locks of grey hair
on my head. I fancy I see that good Miss
Theresa 1 loved so dearly : her sweet, silver
voice resounds to my ears, and fills me with
joy, alas ! a short lived joy. I see her, as I
was wont every morning, coming from the
piniSßu with her apron full of barley, and gath
ering around her all the inmates of the poultry
yard hut, oh ! how quickly dissipated is the
happy dream ! A mere nothing is enough to
make ma sensible of the illusion by which my
senses are bewitched. The noise of a bird that
alights on the wall, that of a stone which falls
when it flies away —and the enrapturing vis
ion vanishes. And, oh ! how to tell you how
wretched I feel when thus aroused ! How to
tell you the pangs of my heart and the terrors
with which 1 am encompassed, thus recalled to
the sense of what I am, thus alone : around
me ruins and desolation, on which the slanting
rays of the descending sun cast a melancholy
tinge, a last and dubious light. How to tell
you the sufferings of my poor soul when I rise
to depart, and hid a last adieu to these wrecks,
to these stones half covered by grass, project
ing there as so many tombs! No, sir, 'hat is
impossible, for there is no heart but mine to
feel such sensations, and no expression in the
world to impart them.
“ But enough of this : the interview of Mr.
Emory with the traveller was short. ‘Ah! is
it you, father Durand V cried he, rising from
his arm-chair and oflei ing him his own scat;
‘Eh! Parblcu, man brace, you have come in
good time, 1 was just writing to you.’ Then
a conversation passed between them which I
could not hear, as ou a sign of Mr. Emery 1
went down to the cellar to fetch some wine.
When I came back, I saw on the table a pret
ty considerable sum in silver ; the stranger
was busy locking the portmanteau I had found
so heavy, and which to me did not seem much
lighter than before.
“ ‘ Diantre ,’ said Richard, who had drawn
nearer, and who rocking himself on his chair,
was casting wishful eyes sometimes at the mo
ney on the table, sometimes at that he suppos
ed contained in the portmanteau, 4 Diantre,
let me tell you, Mr. Durand, that it is not pru
dent to venture in the woods with such a sum
at this hour of the night; for, voyons, what
amount have you got in here V added he in a
tone of pei feet indifference, and trying to raise
the portmanteau, while his uncle a stranger to
the conversation was hastening to scrabble a
receipt.
“ ‘ A hundred pistoles, may be V
“ ‘ Six thousand francs, in gold and silver,
young man.’
“ ‘Six thousand francs!’
“ ‘ Yes, just as much, without mentioning a
certain pocket-book ’
“ * That you have ’
“ 4 Here with me, in a safe place ’
“ 4 And which contains ’
44 4 Draughts to the amount of six thousand
francs. The price for cattle is so high this
year, and your farmers of Brie such rogues,
that one must come loade: I with gold who wants
to tiansact any business at all.’
i 44 4 Well, six thousand francs in draughts,
j and six thousand in coin, are exactly ’
44 4 Twelve thousand !’
44 4 A good round sum on my word, and suf
ficient to satisfy the wishes of many an honest
man. And now, Mr. Durand, although cou
j sin Theresa, who is now listening to us behind
the door, will say that I am oiscau de mauvais
augure, I contend that you are wrong to go
' to-night. Do you know that the distance to
! the Buurbonnicm? is noro than six miles f —’
“ ‘lf I know ? to be sure Ido : the grey has
rode them more than once.’
j « ‘ And before you reach there you have to
pass at the cross roads des croix Hunches, that
dreary spot, where perished last year, Jacques
Houssaye, the miller des Use/les. For that
is the direction you mean to take, is it not ?
I Unless avoiding ’
44 4 Avoid ! Muugrebleu ! avoid ! I, Jean
J Durand, they are expecting this very night at
' Crecy. Ah, ca ! young man, do you think to
j frighten me 1 La peur, you know, is no
! French w-ord, as our soldiers have so often said
i and proved. Yes, I shall go and pass through
the dreary spot you spoke of; and nothing in
j the world could deter me from my purpose.’
j “ Having said these words, he rose, shook
hands with Mr. Emery, kissed Miss Theresa,
who tried but in vain to prevail on him to stay
until morning, and slipping some money into
my hand, got on horseback and departed.
lie rode off the path you see on the left, and
I heard, for some time, the sound of his horse’s
hoofs on the road to Joissigny. The night
1 was very dark, and when I shut the gate, the
sad foreboding of Richard returned to my
1 mind and cast an unusual gloom over it. I
wondered how Richard, instead of hastily bid
ding us good nig! it and retiring to his chamber,
had not saddled his mare and offered Mr. Du
rand to accompany him part of the way.—
j This was the more natural, as no one in the
country was better acquainted with the road
than he —for lie was in the habit of riding in
that direction by day as well as by night; and
as he slept in a little building unconnected with
! the house, and having a door opening on
the country, it was easy for him to go and
come back without ever disturbing any one’s
] rest. But he had no such thought, arid may
God forgive him for it, if, as he often said since,
;he never slept more sound in his life. As for
, that poor Mr. Durand, at four o’clock in the
morning, his horse was neighing by our house,
without saddle, without bridle, covered with
foam and blood ; and he, robbed, murdered !
was lying at the cross roads des croix blanch•
| es, where had perished before the miller des
\ Usc/lcs 1
44 Such was the lamentable event that origi
nated the acquaintance of Mr. Emery with
Henry W Sad event as you see, but
which was only the prelude to a frightful series
of disasters. Inquiries were instituted by the
! Attorney General, but to no purpose, for want
of proofs. It was impossible to trace out the
| perpetrator of the atrocious deed ; and the re
'suit of all the investigations served only to il
! lustrate Mr. Emery’s integrity, and to concili
i ate him the friendship of Henry, whom a eon
; formityof age had induced to form an acquain
tance with Richard : I say a conformity of
i age,for with regard to honor and feelings, there
never were two beings more unlike,
j “ Son to one of Mr. Emery’s sisters, who
' had abandoned her parents to follow to Ger
’ many a man attached to the Count ofßosem
bach in the quality of a huntsman, and who had
died in Munich, a poor destitute widow, llich-
I aid Schwartz was indebted for every thing to
I his uncle’s generosity. When he came to
i France he was a lad of fifteen, tall, well made,
j and muscular; much stronger than any boy of
his age but of a nature so ferocious and in
. tractable, that the school-master, to whom bis
uncle had sent him to learn the French, posi
-1 tivcly declared at the end of three months that
it was quite out of his power to manage such a
scholar; so he left the school having gained
nothing but the hatred of his companions.
‘“To what business do you destine your
nephew V said one day a friend to Mr. Emery.
‘ l fear he will never reflect much honor on
you. In vain did you try to habituate him to
the labors of the farm ; he did not like such a
course of life. No, Richard is not fit for so
ciety, he had rather live in n solitude amongst
wild beasts. Sullen and morose, he frequents
none but the lowest and most wicked compa
ny in the country : as for mo, if I was in your
place, I would make a huntsman of him.’
“ This accidental conversation decided Rich
ard’s fate. lie began his career a simple
groom in the hunting equipage of the Duke dc
i’enthievies; and then an incredible change
took place in him. Indifferent and idle as he
! was before, ho suddenly became intelligent, ac
tive, and was noted for his exactitude and his
! submission towards the least of his superiors,
j Endowed with a prodigious strength of body,
I developed by exercise, with a rare sobriety and
: a great courage, he performed in the Forest
■ of Crecy numerous exploits, by which he gain
ed the esteem and confidence of his chiefs.—
; One da\ he saved the Duke closely pursued by
Ia wounded and infuriate boar; another time,
Ihe snatched from certain and horrid death the
children of a woodman, by killing with a mar
vellous dexterity, an enormous wolf, whilst in
the act of carrying away the youngest. From
the lowest station, he rapidly arose to the grade
of Lieutenant des Chasses, and who knows
what would have been the extent of his for
tune, protected as he was by one of the first
lords of the kingdom, had not blind ambition
driven him to ruin ?
“ His skill in shooting was far superior to
that of the most celebrated huntsmen. To
put a hall, at the distance of 150 yards, in the
diameter of a piece of 5 francs, was for him a
mere sport —and this he could do in the most
careless manner in the world. The number
of ferocious animals that he killed in the fa
mous winter of 1784 would seem incredible,
did not the registers in the archieves of Tour
nan prove that he received the sum of 2,600
francs as a bounty from the province. In a
word, such was the superiority he displayed in
that exercise, that whenever a prize was offered
for the best shot, the advertisement invariably
ended with a formal clause that excluded Rich
| ard, surnamed the wolf-killer, from the num
ber of the competitors.
“ Such was, at the age of twenty-six, our
cousin Richard, intelligent, crafty, bold, auda
c.ous, hiding under the feigned appearance of
treacherous calm, the fire of the most violent
passions, an intriguing adventurer, whose pe
cuniary circumstances and social condition had
rapidly improved, although it was no easy mat
ter to account for the change; but whose mind
was always the same, viz: dissembling, full
of hatred, revenge and envy, more inclined to
evil than to good, which latter he never did, ex
cept to promote his views and his interest.
[*o 8B eom»r*D.]
For the Southern Post.
•‘Extracts from my Sad tile-hags,”
BY W. BONYFARTE BARLOW, ESQ.
ELEGIAC.
The sentiment in rhyme below, is a standing proof
of the abilities of those worthy poets who attend toast
in occasions, for the purpose of singin sweet sentiments
in measured verse to the astonished and admirin hear
ers. Men fly from one mean to another to do some
thin purty and smart, and this failin displays itself
' upon public occasions in almost every one. The polly
i tician mounts a stump—the lawyer, with a few woc
| worn bankrupts around, talks of the strength and the
efficacy of the law, while “ fieri facias” and “ capias”
impress them with the importance of his knowledge.
The doctor circles himself with poor, pale, emaciated
din caters, and then of the healin art he softly dis
courses, while “ox front is" ami u dura malar” wake
his auditory to astonishment. So on down to the chim
ney sweep, who can sweep a chimney clearer than any
man in the country. But it is pleasant to human na
ture to do somethin smart, and tell it, though we run
the risk of having vanity imputed unto us, and the sa
tisfaction this same human nature enjoys seemeth a
consideration strong enough to induce us to incur the
risk, and at the same time shield us from the imputa
tion. Many men (I say it with the profoundest respect
for many of our distinguished legislators, in federal and
state assemblies! not being able to rely upon the impe
rishable nature of intellectual splendor, moral worth
and patriotic labor, for present homage and ultimate
rew-ard, cavil about this nonsense (upon which several
letters are to be written and published) and quarrel
about that; and, to make distinction more distinguish
ed, visit now and then a watering place for health's
sake, &c. &.c. But, to return to our poet, who was ac
tuated by similar motives —whose reward was equally
noble—and effort equally important and beneficial to
the interests of the country, he rose when called upon,
with an air of dignity that would not have disgraced the
polished first Henry of England. Unconfined ruffles
—shirt sleeves an inch longer than his middle finger
—breast-pin, finger ring and rattan, graced his person,
yeti am constrained to believe, from observation, that
these are surer marks of an empty noddle than all the
cavities known to Phrenology. 1 leave his lines to the
world to judge, whether they are pastoral, lyric, epic,
or elegiac. From his simpers and sighs. I was com
pelled to believe they were mournful. Disdainin the
trammels which custom and rational taste have thrown
I upon measured thought—he sung, as thought suggest
ed, in Trochee Amptubrach, lambus and Spondee,
promiscuously.
The Fair:
The ladies they are fair,
They are very pretty, we all will swear,
To them let us all fill ap our cup,
And drink it —yes, let's drink it all up.
3 Cheers.
FUST DAT AT SCHOOL.
That man Sterne did a good thing when he sent a
sketch of his early life into the world. We find therein
that hia early failins were good indices to his future con
duct. And it was uo ways bragakle, judging from the
life of Mr. Tristam Shandy, and “Travels in France,*’
they showing conclusively that he was ungrateful and
a libertine, under the robes of the clergy, somewhat like
his brother, Capt. Dean Swift, who was smutty in word,
deed and thought, and a political demagogue under
the same heavenly apparel. If the young reader doubt
whether they could have stood the test of Christian
faith, like the great band of saints, who displayed the
triumphs of the cross at the stake, and enlightened the
darkness of the world with the fires that consumed
them, and then turn to their early lives, it will not be
difficult to see a warning light, and a plainer path to
purity free from hypocrisy. Now my failins were not
of the same sort, but equally lamentable, and, no doubt,
a peep at them may be of some benefit to the young.
I was saved in time to be safe, and that was all.
When about ten years old, I was taken from the re
tired piny woods of Dooly to Warrenton, to school; a
place, then and now, as notorious for rattlin “respon
sibilities and pledges,” as any other in the world. The
first Jay I entered, every eye scanned me in a moment,
and, in about ten minutes, wads of chewed paper were
sent to bid my head “pood monin,” with such fright
ful velocity, and with such palpable application to my
nose, that I bellowed manfully for help. A search waa
made, but no culprit found. Sam Dix*n soon left hia
seat, and ciept silently into a ssat by my side, and
commenced the followin confab.
44 Your name’s Barlow, ain't it V'
“ Yes, sir,*’ said I.
“ Did you ever go to school before.”
No, sir.
“ Well, the first lesson is always a swinger to new
beginners; you will have to recite what that class is
' goin to recite now, and if you don’t know it, you get a
! whippin.”
j Then fear seized hold on me, for I believed every
; word he said, and imagination went forward to the
■ drubbin which would certainly follow the recital of my
j first lesson. I was not allowed to indulge in such re
j flections long, before Sam Grove a pin up to the head
; in ruy body, so that I leaped over several babies sittin
in chairs before me, and astonished the house with my
1 cries. Sam was in his seat in an instant, hard at study
, —the teacher boxed my ears for this second disturb
i ance, and composed me.
j “ Now, you may proceed,” said the teacher to the
j class that had been waitin ten minutes for silence. A
A beautiful slender framed girl, with raven ringlets,
i lips like rubies, and voice like music, commenced,
“ Tanta belalika umin ina me skandalisthete,”
i 800, boo, hoo, oh lordy, oh lordy!
1“ What’s the matter,” said the teacher, as he jerked
j me off my scat, heels up and head in solemn contact
| with a neighboring bench.
j “ You dunce you, you are not expected to say it.”
Sam looked at me, softly smiled and dived again into
1 the deep mysteries of Webster’s spellin book. Eleven
1 o’clock rolled round—l had recited A, B, C, three times,
j on the verge of death, when Sam again honored me
i with a visit.
i 11 Barlow,” caid he, " you are the d—deat fool I ever
saw.”
Sir, said I.
“Why, Isay you ar« the d—dest fool that ever came
into tliis school-house.”
What docs that mean ? meekly inquired I.
“ Why, it means just what your question answers.”
“Now, sir,” continued he, “ if you want to distinguish
yourself—when the last class, with four young men in
it, comes up, you go and sit down in the middle, with
out lookin off of your book, and the teacher, when it
comes to your turn, will tell you, you bein so young,
and after school out, he will give you a ticket for merit.
That’s the way all scholars do the first day they come.
But, Barlow, 1 am a friend of your’s, and don’t want to
see you imposed on. Jack Logan daubed your nose
with that paper this mornin, and he says you are a liar
and a villain, and every thing else that’s bad; you
must fight him.”
I don’t know about that, said I.
“ Why you infernal coward you, won’t fight when
imposed on ! Won’t you give him the lie back J”
What, lay his back on the ground 1
“ No, tell him he’s a liar too.”
I don’t know, innocently replied I.
“ Why you admit, then, that you are a liar. I’ll tell
him, for your honor’s sake, that you said he was a flea
bitten stump-sucker. But, Barlow, who cut your coat ?
I'll be darn’d if it ain’t the thing—don’t you sometimes
get lost in it ?—old Cole could’nt cut a neater fit.”
Miss Pamela Fhebc Piper, who cuts for the neigh
borhood, m«d T
j “ That’s darn’d alliterati<^» n _and while she is cuttin
| one salt sack like that, CU ta a dozen characters
into doll-rag?, eh?"
I don’t know, said I.
“Well, that class is up- you go foot instead of mid
dle walk there as if you j xist wanted to change your
seat—hum and haw, whe i k asked a question. I’ll g 0
and curse Jack Logan for cr wirsinyou.”
I took my seat, as directed, while the thoughts of the
honor which a ticket of re w- a rd would confer, kept me
from cryin.
“lake the sth said the teacher. Tho
head man made an Aon time Mack bonrd, like the one
jin my book, then two cros* lines under the line which
runs through the middle. Now’s my time, said I.
That’s an A, bawled 1, li>l,J enough to be heard a
hundred yards—while die commenced. “ Tho
nngles at the base of an isswoscclcs triangle are equal,
and if the equal sides be jz»roduced, the angles on tho
opposite side are equal.” __All was confusion and up-'
roar the teacher smiled. Sain was convulsed while
I set up a howl that drowno- I the deafening peals of up”
plause.
School soon "turned ov*. t." Jack asked me if f
called him a liar. I was tro offing him with dignified si
lence, when a handful ofboj*.^ s from the indignant Jack
nearly upset my dignity up*«r>n the ground. I returned
tiie compliment with sucl* good chccr, that the blood
started trom his nose. We ’ww-erc flogged by the teacher,
which made two drubbing I received, the first thres
hours I ever went to school _ from that time Jack and
Sam and I were boon coxsipanions. Small circum
stances result often in sat consequences. I soo»
thought they were funny, a.«rc»d said many smart things,
I soon could swear, and ctsi Sabbath we were every
where else but at church. One evening we commit
ted ail “ assault and ba.t -»ery, with intent to tsar
| clothes,” upon all old negre* woman who sold us cake*
that w ere “grilty.” 1 wasa taken home on account of
j rudeness. A mother’s sorr<» w silenced my oaths, and
soon they ware disgusting, wvliilc her advice reclaimed
| me. I will conclude with -she observations of Parson
Hampton, in a letter he w**—otc to me soon after I left
school. They were above m comprehension, ’tis true,
hut lie did’at know it. “Tl*.*; natural bent of the mind
1 to mischief, and sometimes rime, is greatly increased
in the purest heart, and co* » firmed by the least touah
of corruption. Confidence An companions leads us ta
the commission of that wl A c h, under other eircum
; stances would have been Freedom from
parental restraint is the of loose morals, and
he who sends a child to schcsol should be careful to pro
vide moral companions, and -search for an instructor m
famous for morality and rigi«_M discipline as for learning.
Nothing can save, when heart is tainted, but th«
j virtuous example and gentle admonitions of a mother.
I The youth thus shielded w*L_ll love the guardian angel
who protected, amid his reputation and happi
! ness, and, when her chidiw* voice is hushed in tha
grave, no allurement can ter* -»pt, without the accents of
that voice being heard from t Wae tomb. And the import
ance of early moral instructions will appear more forcibly,
if wc reflect that the seeds of vice are difficult to be de
stroyed. Sown in the you« s and tender mind, they
grow with the growth of the U»-ody, as years revolve, and
the harvest of age, will he rk. fie with poisonous weed*.
Store the youthful mind witfcm. the sublime truths of mo
rality, that they may shine t *-» youth, and brighten the
evening of life. That when he days of boyhood have
passed away, happy may travel back to the
flowery fields of early hope, u a id early associations, and
find, in the recollections of pas* virtue and present purity
of purpose—a balm to heal t fie heart, when betrayed
and pierced Boyhood integrity,
linked to the aspirations and of after life, “ can
lighten the burthenotilie ikh>»» -nJc heat," and gild with
the light of promise the darling- -as of the nightfall of daath.
And when the storm prostrate* the vigor ol 'manhood and
the strength of hope, a thought, of the pnst can annle o’ar
tha prostration of ill, and a«2- minister happiness; lika
the souad of a familiar voice, i. * can calliha tsar of yuy u
the forsaken exile, as ilbrings hums tbs happy
associations of his father-land.
Dooly, Warren County,
Gtvrgia, Dd. li, 183i
tha Soaiharn Fu*t
Evening T angaries.
| Dread winter with hi* withring bloat* Ibilows chew
upon the footsteps of gay utrH buoyant aummer. AJ
' ready his chilling breath as it -whistles about our eom
: sortable domes, forewarns us* of the approach of th*
gloomy Monarch from icy touch all nature
; shrinks. The clock strikes ele w- *-n,yet[hrraia dcscamls,
! and as it patters against my wwvindows, reminds me of
' the comforts I enjoy. The laawt lingering wagon with
ils tinkling bells has retired fro*—ii nnr streets, and nought
is heard hut the sudden hark «nf some ill-natured cur
as he is disturbed in his lair, or the straying step of
•some midnight reveller ns he f j viickly strides the pave
ment. All nature sleeps, and man, reflecting man, is
left to converse with himself a.l wone; the mind, like th®
Divinity which gave it cxisterx«3c, views all things pre
sent ; the past, by memory’s creative touch, springs
into existence and stands be- us • Alone, in th®
solitude of a dreary room, we «an in a moment bring
around us all the scenes of ou*r- childhood, and again
enjoy the unalloyed pleasure* of early life; and the*
with a rapidity known only to thought, we can pene
trate the future, and if wc can v—*ot see things exactly as
they will transpire, can create a world of our own, in.
which we can live, and move, :and act our parts. I sit
alone and gaze at the fire as it t-»lowly consumes its fuel,
and my wandering and thoughts return. Th®
ghosts of departed days gather i*.round me, and as friend
to friend I hold with them sw— eet converse, I see the
companions of my youthful spo-arts all springing around
me into active life. The narrows** confines of space and
distance are soon passed again I stand in the yard of
our ancient school-house, who wi the master with his
iron rod taught our young how to shoot. Tears
have rolled away since last I spot, endeared
to us by so many tender associa. t ions. When last there,
the house was in a far
twittering swallow had built he *- nest in the mouldering
; chimney, and the wren had fit; <1 thither as a place of
safety to lay her eggs; the rank grass waved in the
stirring breeze ; the spider spu*-*_ his web uninterrupted,
and the lizard crept forth with n«rr»ne to make hint afraid.
I stood in the yard which once resounded with tho
shouts of youthful merriment, the same oak with its
wide-spread arms, under whicka we had so often played
was there? the same spring from which we had so often
drawn the cooling draught, still gushed forth from tho
bank —the moss covered roof as it bent under its own
weight told that it could star* cl the wind of but few
more winters; the sun shone for -*h upon the scene, and
with a yellow, sickly light, as if l -»oth to behold the deso
lation which time had made, I gazed upon the sceno
and with a deep-drawn sigh, asl*.«?d where are the youth
ful spirits which once gave life and happiness to tho
plncc? and where t
The little mound which rises in mhat sequestered grove
tells where the remains of one lie another I remember
well; He was my bosom friend- he grew up uuder the
fostering care of kind parents, E*nd entered life with,
brilliant hopes of success. 110 trhoosc for himself tho
profession of the Law, his friends encouraged, and even
he himself was astonished at the success which crown
ed his efforts. I saw him who wt he first came to the
Bar to plead the cause of injured innocence ? the Court,
room was crowded, and he triumphant. Elated
with his success, he, with his boae*a companions, sought
the intoxicating bowl, and in an hour he fell a prey
toils allurements. Now ho w « a. Iks the streets of his
native village and scarcely any tie bids him welcome.
Mortified, chnrgjincd, and lust *—all hope of rofiinua-