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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-