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□cuotetr to literature, Science, (Util Art, tije oon3 of temperance, iTelloroslpp, ittasoitrt), anti ©encral intelligence.
VOLUME I.
gsftzcvsd test si.
OLD GRIME'S SON.
Old Grime’s boy lives in our town,
A. clever lad is be—
He’s long enough, if cut in half,
To make two men like me.
He has a sort of waggish look,
And cracks a harmless jest—
His clothes are rather worse for wear*
Except his Sunday best*’
He is a man of many parts,
As all who know can tell—
He sometimes reads the list, of goods,
And rings tho auction bell.
He’s kind and lib’ml to the poor,
That is, to Number One—
He sometimes saws a load of woocfl
And piles it when he’s done.
He’s always ready for a job—
(When paid)—wher’er you choose—
He’s often at the Colleges,
And brushes boots and shoes
Like honest men, he pays his debts,
No fear has he of duns—
At leisure, ho prefers to walk,
But when in haste, ho run3.
His life was written some time since,
And many read it through—
He makes a racket when he snores,
As other paople do.
When once oppress'd he prov’d his blood
Not covered with the yoke
But now he sports a freeman’s enp,
And when it rains, a cloak.
He’s dropped beneath a southern sky,
He’s trod on northern snows—
He’s taller by a foot or more,
When standing on his toes!
In church he credits all that’s said,
Whatever preacher rise—
They say he lias been seen in tears,
When dust got in his eyes !
A man remarkable as this,
Must sure immortal be —
And more than all because he is
Old Grimes’ posterity!
OBlffilSAl fAll.
= “the sisters.
nr h. m. c ——.
CHAPTER I.
’ \ little learning is a dangerous thing 1
Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring.”
In the latter pari of December, lady richly
■ dressed, might be seen alighting from hes car
■ and tripping up the steps of a fashionable
I mansion in Henry street, New York. She rang
I the bell and inquired of the servant who answered
I the summons, if Mrs. Atkins was at home ; on
I being answered in the affirmative, she followed
I him into the drawing room, whilst he carried her
I card to the mistress of the mansion. She soon en-
I tered; and after usual salutations, and common
I topics of the day had been discussed, the eonver-
I sation very naturally fell upon the subject of edu-
I cation, were both the mothers of daugh-
I ters, nearly grown.
“My dear Mrs. Atkins,” said the visitor, “do
| you intend removing vour daughters from,Madame
1f- , 1 have heard they do not intend returning
ader the hollidays.”
“Wc have not decided,” said Mrs. Atkins, “ as
I yet, Mr. Atkins, does not think they improve at all,
I and speaks about changing the school.”
Alter a few more remarks of no consequence
I as bearing on the subject under discussion, the
I lady arose to take leave. And now with your
permission, lady reader, we will retrospect a little,
I and by way ot indulging your feminine curiosity,
I tell you who, and what are the Atkin’s we have
I been bold enough to introduce to you.
I William Atkins, had commenced his mercan-
I care er, as clerk in a retail drv good store, and
I hunks to his handsome face and fine person, had
■ le d the only daughter of the principal, a
f i oVv |. oi eighteen who had just finished a
I u education , or, in otner words.
I ou speak a little French, understood a little of
mus j c; an j left her with but
e nca j, th and no energy of character to com
\ j. CnCe . 1 e * or when does a woman commence.
sten <*b I mean the realities , if not when
of a e r on hers elf the duties and responsibilities
*, a anc l a mother. On the death of Mrs.
and - U)s which happened a few years after
eirmarrmge, her husband sold out the estab-
ment, and joined a wholesale firm in William
” r ' et ’ In w hich firm he is at the commencement
present story.
I Paying the listener to conversation which
| P iac e between the husband and wife, a few
inn S .^ revaous the opening of this tale, we shall
w hy Mr, Atkins was desirous of removing
ind a^ters k° m Madame P ’s charge, and
chJil to some less fashionable and
1 P e r establishment.
“Anna,” said Mr. Atkins, looking up from the
newspaper he had been apparently reading,
“business has been rather on the decline for ihe
past two years, and we must reduce our expenses
so that they may at least correspond. What say
you?
“ I am perfectly willing, tfly dear,” she replied.
“ if you will only tell me how, and where we can
commence in our system of retrenchment.”
“ I have been thinking over the subject,” con
tinued he, “ and nothing at present, suggests itself
in the item of expenses, in which we may call
ourselves extravagant except in Mary’s and Em
ma’s hills at Madame P ’s. I was under the
impression they were improving, and was therefore
very ready to submit to this expense ; but on ex
aminating them a day or two since I was astonish
ed to find them so ignorant, with regard to any
thing like useful knowledge. They appear to
have skimmed over the surface of every kind of
study and learned nothing in the end ; I have in
consequence been making some inquiries where
1 could find a school conducted on a different plan
and to-day, I have heard of one which I think
will suit, if you approve of it. It is a school
where the girls are taught to make bread as \Vell
as a graceful courtesy; to know the propel place
for the dipper in the kitchen, as well as finding
the constellation of the same name in the heavens;
and are likewise taught the use of the ifoning
as well as the blackbqard. What do you think of
it? You know it suits me, for I was ever an ad
vocate for practical education.”
“ Where is this school ? I did not know there
was such a One in New York City.”
“ It is not in the city, my deaf* but in Massachu
setts. I felt sure you would not object, when you
considered how much it would he for the girls’
advantage to have them taught not only those
branches usually considered a school education,
hut those also of domestic economy. When you
were young, you were never taught them; and
since your marriage your health has been such as
to prevent your attending to them. Now, you
know from experience the want of such know
ledge, and the importance we must attach to it,
l hope you will agree with me, and endeavor to
get the girls ready for the commencement of the
Springterm, fori think at the ages of twelve and
fjurteen we can trust them from home.”
“But, William, you know Mary’s health is so
very delicate ! 1 have always been afraid of her
exposing herself to the changes of the weather,
that I dread trusting her to her own unadvised
conduct. And then too, her manners are so
gentle, that I should not dare to trust her with
those rude girls, as they must be accustomed as
they appear from your description, to household
work ; and although I should like to have my
daughters acquainted with domestic affairs, yet
even for the sake of this I could not hear to see
them unladv like or vulgar in manner.”
“ But, Anna, it does not follow necessarily that
a woman should he rough or vulgar because she
understands how to do her own work ; or visa ver
sa that she should he a lady, because she is fash
ionably educated. In my opinion, if a girl has
pure religious principles ; —just ideas of proprie
ty, —delicacy of perception —and a good English
education to enable her to converse with her guests
or compeers, she is a lady no matter where educa
ted.”
“ Well! William, I will consult with the girls ;
I should not like to coerce them, to such a school,
against their inclination.”
The subject was now dropped, and Mr. Atkins
returned to his store, to pander over his liabilities
and to embark in some fresh and daring specula
tions, which should release him from that incubus
of the tottering merchant —protested notes. Mrs.
Atkins, on the other hand, to receive and return
fashionable visits, among a coterie where her ideas
as regards education, was ihe received and gen
eral one, and where her prejudices as regards the
practical, were strengthened and renewed. On
consulting with her daughters, Mary at once joined
her mother, and declared she would hot go —The
younger one, Emma, with a more natural and
irirlish taste, delighted in the freedom from city
restraint, and at once begged to he sent where she
mioffit frolic with the girls and occasionally throw
a snow ball without being dubbed as hoydeuish
and shockingly vulgar; and where she would be
at liberty to wander in the woods, with a merry
crowd laughing gleefully without being checked
because their light laughter had a tone from the
heart and was rather beyond the fashionable
simper prescribed by the etiquette of Madame P.
And so she went! But we will not follow her,
or linger over the next four years which she spent
at her new school, whilst Mary still continued with
her former instructress I will only sav
education was conducted according to hei father .>
plan. She had no decided talent for music, there
fore that was abandoned, but for acquiring the
modern languages she was an adept and at the
age of 17, became mistress of both French and
SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27. 1849,
Spanish. Her manners too, without being affect
edly soft, were such as must ever emanate from
a good and pure heart; which is as desirous of
securing the happiness of others, and as careful
of their feelings, as of her own.
CHAP. 11.
“ Sweet are the uses of adversity—
Which, like a toad, ugly and venoriious,
Wears yet a pivcious jewel in his head.’*
Shakspt ire.
And adversity came to this family. The firm
which for the last .five years had been tottering,
now fell, and in its havoc and ruin carrying off
the property, the self-esteem, and finally, the
health and life itself of Mr. Atkins, for a brain
fever, which terminated fatally, was brought on
by intense anxiety and excitement during the
struggle incident upon the bankruptcy.
And Mrs. Atkins, impoverished and having no
resources to meet her unexpected poverty, what
must she now do to support herself and one
daughter at least? for Mary, though now eighteen,
was as little fitted to battle with the world as
when she first started in the race of life. She
was tall atld delicately beautiful as regarded so m
and feature, decidedly fashionable, accomplished
too, for she could play and sing a few Italian airs
and Pravura songs, could dance most gracefully,
had been much admired at the balls the proceed
ing winter, and bid fair to become One of the
belles of the subsequent one, had not fate willed
it otherwise. And Emma'', who was at home also
at the lime of her father’s death, was not without
her share of good looks, though not as beautiful
as her sister. Exercise and pure air had freshened
arid brightened the roses of her cheek and given
elasticity to her light, active figure, whilst her
smiling, frank countenance, and dancing brown
eyes was decked by her soft ringlets of dark
chestnut.
In the same room where five years ago we
listened to the conversation between husband and
wife, Mrs. Atkins again sat in her widow’s weeds
weeping silently and hopelessly. On a lounge
opposite reclined the listless figure of Mary, with
the skirt of the black dress upon which she had
been employed,lying on the floor whilst she had
given herself up to her despondency. The light
curls wefe disheveled and drawn off from her
brow, so that the wearied and hopeless cast of
countenance stood boldly revealed. What a con
trast to Emma, who, sitting at her little work
table, was busily plying her shining needle in
making the body of her sister’s dress, and though
her usually happy and joyous face was shadowed
over with the cast of thought, ’tw T as not like
Mary’s, hopeless and despondent, for Emma’s
character was two energetic to allow of her sink
ing on the first blast of fortune. She sorrowed
for her father, hut she, at the same time, felt there
was a duty owing to herself and others, and was
perfectly conscious of her own resources. This
was the object of her present thought, for these
girls must now seek the wherewithal to make life
comfortable to their mother and themselves.
“My dear grds,” said Mrs. Atkins, “what are
we to do? Your father’s creditors are willing
we should remain in the house, furnished as it is,
for one year, hut how are we to subsist? J have
but lit tie money, and know not from what source
[ can obtain more.”
Mary’s only answer was a hurst of tears. —
“Mamma,’’ said Emma, looking up from her
work —I did not wish to disturb you before but 1
walked to Madame P ’s this morning to see
if she would employ Mary and I as assistant
teachers; she said, she did not know of what
sister was competent to teach* but on examining
myself she agreed to give me my hoard and suf
ficient to cloathe me, for instructing in French
and Spanish and said in the course of another
vear she would increase the salary. She advises
me not to attempt a school bv myself as I am so
young, l toid her I could not possibly accept her
offer, as Mary and myself must decide on some
means of support for you as well as onrselves.”
“M adame P ” said Mary, interrupting her
sister “ was right, I cannot teach, for she never
taught me anything thoroughly enough for that.”
“Well! sister,” said Emma, “as we cannot
accept of Madame P—-~’s offer to myself (for I
will riot accept of a comfortable home whilst you
and mamma are unprovided,) we must learn a
trade.”
“ Lrarn a trade /” scoffed Mary. “ What! go to
a low woman and sit with a crowd of mechanics’
daughters ! I should die .”
“If you so much dislike that idea, what say
you to learning to make flowers? 1 have been
informed it can be learned in a few weeks, and
what is of more importance, it pays well. It has
also another advantage, the flowers can be made
and sold without our exposure, to our customers,
as in a dress maker’s or miliner’s.”
“Is there noihing else, Emma, you can think of,
it is so dreadful to have to learn a trade.”
j The discussion was now interrupted bv the en
trance of their only servant —an Irish girl—who
boisterously entered with : “ a letther, ma’am, for
the young misthress, master Brigg’s tnan ses he’ll
call in the mornin’ for the ansther”—and out she
bolted.
The beautiful lips of Mary curled with an ex
pression of scorn, and the crimson blood flushed
her before pale countenance, as she took the letter
and breathed out with a derisive laugh, 44 1 cannot
be bought, sir, poor as you think me.”
“What is it, Mary?” inquired both.
44 Read it, Emma, I cannot.”
Her sister took the letter, and with a scarcely
concealed smile, read as follows *
My Dear Miss Mary, As I met you verv often
last winter, ami never tried to hide how much l
admired you, I am sure von are aware of my
sentiments, 1 hardly dared think you would marry
me when your father was living, but now you are
poor I thought may be you would rather be an
old man’s darling than a young man’s slave. I
have bought a handsome house, carriage and
horses, and every thing necessary for a wife to
enjoy herself, and now if you will consent I shall
be just fixed, say, my dear miss Mary, will you
take me for better or for worse, as the song says*
Awaiting your answer, I will sign myself
Your most devoted admirer
Nathaniel Briggs.
“Who on earth is Nathaniel Briggs V” said
Emtna.
“A horrid, vulgar creature,” said Mary “ who
has amassed a large fortune by keeping a grocery
and then retiring with a full purse, people have
forgotten how the money came. I have spoken
to him and one night, I am ashamed to say, I
paid him rather more attention than usual, because
I wished to pique a beau, whose attentions 1
wished to secure. You now see the consequence,
in his presumption I shall, however give him the
pleasure of reading his own letter again, as I
shall send it back in a blank envelope.”
“By-thc-bye, Mary, what has become of that
young lawyer Wra. Layton ? He used to be } T our
shadow, when I was last here at vacation.”
Again the smile lit up Mary’s rather listless
beauty, and the blush now came from a different
source as she answered her sister, for the sweetest
chapter in her existence was passing in review
before her.
“ I do not know where he is now,” said she
softly and tremulously, “about a month previous
papa’s death, he returned home; recalled, l be
lieve, by his mother’s illness. Whether he has
returned to the city since, I do not know, as I
have not heard from him.”
Will. Layton, was the son of a farmer in Mas
sachusetts; and though not a man of wealth, was
a man of education; and on his son’s evincing
decided talents, had him brought up tor the bar.
It was about two years after he had commenced
his practice of law, that he first saw Mary and
and struck by her beauty, soft manners, so differ*
ent from his own plain energetic, cousins, that he
sincerely loved her, yes but with the timidky ever
attendant on true love, he was afraid to hazard a
declaration of his sentiments, for his income
amounted only to a few hundreds. He saw she
received bis attentions with pleasure ; and content
with the present, weaving schemes for *he future,
he suffered the days to glide on happily, till his
mothers illness caused his recall, where he was
at the time of Mr. Atkins’ death, and from whence
he had not yet returned.
Concluded next week*
The Uses of Adversity. —It is sorrow which makes
our experience ; it is sorrow which teaches us to
feel properly for ourselves and others. We must
feel deeply before we can act rightly. It is not in
the tempest and storm of passion we can reflect*
but afterwards, when the waters have gone over ovr
soul; and like the precious gems and the rich
merchandise which the wild wave casts on the
shore out of the wreck it has made ; such are the
thoughts left by retiring passion.
Reflection is the result of feeling ; from that
absorbing, heart-rending compassion for oneself,
(the most painful sensation almost of which our
nature is capable,) springs a deeper sympathy
for others; and from the sense of all our weak
ness, and sell-upbraiding, arises a dis
position to be indulgent-—to forbear—and to for
give—so at least it ought to be. When once we
have shed those inexpressibly bluer tears, which
fell unregarded, artel which we forget to wipe
away, oh how we shrink from inflicting pdin !
how vve shudder at unkindness ! and think all
harshness, even in thought, only another name
for cruelty! These are but commonplace truths
l know, which have often been a thousand times
better expressed. Formerly I heard ihem, read
them, and thought I believed them ; now I feel
them ; and feeling, I utter them as if they were
something new. Alas! the lessons of sorrow are
as old as the world itself.— Mrs. Jamieson.
NUMBER 30
