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mimmwm
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tfoL'l GREENVILLE, S. C.: FRIDAY MORNING, NOVEMBER 3, 1854. NO. 25.
"fTi-wiirr-'j-:w'' - ? r
fie Imttymt (gntrrprifit,
A REFLEX OF POPULAR EVENTS.
^ ! vsyaLWLaAaa jp? ipmaoaj,
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR.
t. X ft W. P. Price, Publishers.
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CLUlfcS of TEN and upwards SI, thr r.;c?ey
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ADVERTISEMENTS inserted conspicuously at
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For tfr? Boothsrn Enterprise.
J o "*q 1: Ir i e n d?
BT OLA STA
Uxeoxacioim Slekt aim! tameless (touring Thought,
Ghastliest Woe, and wine-flushed Revelry,
And holy Prayer nnd bloody-handed Crime:
These nru Wight's children?yet I lovo the Sight
1 love in her still hour to open wide
The book of Memory, tho' its pages oft
Are darkened by the hand of dusty Cnre
And shadowed by the ebon wing of Grief;
For here and there amid its folded leaves
The bright sweet hours I have spent with thee,
I'eep forth like little stars of joy, my friend.
When Sleep my soul a captive holds I dream
That thou art near to elieer my loneliness ;
i,r I dream upon my flushed and fevered brow
v Thy gentle hand lies lovingly and cool?
* And 1 am oomforted. Methinks thy voice,
"Whose tone is my life's music, murmurs low
A love-.word in mine ear;
And thy bright face with nil its nameless beauty
Bends kindly o'er me, and thy loving eyes
]<ook ofl me vtrith a pittying tender gaze?
And I am blest
All! there were few to love me,
When thy deer voice first woke within my heart
A thrill which none may ever wake aarain.
Since then I've won and lo?t full many a friend?
f V*-* Or many who have borne the empty name?
Hut thou art faithful! There were few to bless ma
When thou didst twine the tendrils of thy love
About my lone heart, even as the ivy
Clings tolU broken turret tenderly.
Since then rvelearned full innny a painfulleeson:
fre learned that there is not
A bed of roses on this blooming earth,
Where iron-handed envious Cruelty
Hath not a thorn to plant I?and there are thoee
Who dare to trample on a human soul,
And lay a tyrant's galling flksn there?
Hushing the inusic of that harp which God
Hath tuned to love with his own loving hand!
I've learned that hearta can change and lips can
, He! *
And words or* naught, and Constancy a word.
I've learned that FsUefitkxl walks this lovely earth
A gurgou-viaaged monster I But, sweet frieud,
Thou on the aliarof whose guileless heart
Faith, Hope and Love kindle the snored flame!
Oh! thou from out the shadow of whose eyes
I/Ooketh a spirit strong, and wild, and free,
And full of gladness-?yet so beautiful,
And, good and truthftil?I have learned that thou
-ait jminjiu uui / <y
OreenMl< Cbfefcr 17<A, 1854.
a Stimtifnl ?tonj.
-.. '
ywh>?i1 frttn tk* Q*nau for tbo Soil Eaterprto*.
The Bellows-Mender of Lyeja.
BY O. II. *S! i
. /; :'
Mr native place is a small hamlet near
Montelimar, in southern France. My father
was an intelligent but poor man, who never (
lost an opportunity to win*the smiles of the {
fickle'goddess'Fortune, but despite all his
sndwvoii to ftaa himself of poverty could
never eacoeeu iu Hik Lia di ?ge he ;
made a sorrowful living by the Manufacture ,
nod mending of bellows, Laving leafncd the
imde in hi# y?uj&, ' This wm the vocation ,
to which I Waedodicatad. Kind nature had (
given me sagacity and qufek comprehension, .
ond being w?ll endowed in body and mind, ,
was soon Mgyv of my craft. Having some (
Ambition, t *earohed for an enlarged sphere
of action," fdtfmgjnduatry in Lyon had met
there with ?uih aucceaa hat before long, be- (
ing the favorite of all chamber-siVridtf and ,
cooks?-my principal employe*, whose (
heart* my youth and handsome fa#e awaken ,
ed a lively interest, 1 never wl) out of em
% I bad lired already two year* in fcLyom ,
prben mm evening, having finUhed my work, ,
mU going httfefcnr well dremed young men ,
' flMt to me "and made noma bantering re- ,
.iHKfeujUn my trade. 1 poeeeeeed some a
I^BKWWed with good natured je?t and ha- (
MdT^rtfegey eallke, which appeared to ;
f?PT Mrw then exchange ]
. V*
significant glances with each other, and
heard one of them whisper to the rest: "This
is the man we are in need of." These words
at first terrified roe, but my fears were soon
allayed, when one of the four men spoke to
me as follows: "My friend, you shall eat
supper with ns to-night; we havrf a plan on
band which will benefit you very much. In
case should you not like it, you will never
on that account receive the least injury from
us, provided you aiwny* keep our secrets,
therefore don't be afraid to come with us I"
They, appearing to me to be honorable and
intelligent persona, I immediately accepted
their offer, and went with them. The four
young men led me through a numlier of
lanea and atreetato a distant part of the city,
and having arrived at last in front of a fine
looking house we soon found ourselves in h
largo room, occupied already by six other
young men who seemed to have awaited the
arrival of my companions with impatience.
Sonic explanations having passed between
them, we all sat down to supper. Young,
frivolous, jovial nnd careless, as I was, the
social disposition of the compan/made mo
lively, amusing, and entertaining to every
body. Gradually one after the other became
serious and thoughtful, whilst oue of them
got up, addressing me as follows: MMv
friend, these teu persons, whom you have eaten
with to-night are all engravers and painters,
citizens of Lyon, andevory one opulent
*i " *
?uivu|jii iuc {iritcuce oi uicir art. We are
friends, and formed a happy society to the
very momont when love excited discord
among us. In the street St. Dominique, lives
a dealer in pictures, very much respected on
account of his wealth, otherwise quite an ordinary
person, hut with whom we are connected
by virtue of our profession. This gentlemnn
has a daughter, a wonderfully fine,
charming girl, endowed with all those attractions
which will enslave the heart of man,
but she has ono fault, that obscures her excellent
qualities, and that is a boundless prido
and arrogance, in proof of which I need only
confess to you, that with the knowledge and
consent of her father, who in me appreciated
only the wealth I possess, I solicited her hear t
and hand, but the proud beauty replied to
me in the most insulting manner, 'Monsieur,
do you flatter yourself for a moment that I
will stoop so low as to l&ome the wife of
an engraver!' In short, all of us here experienced
her pride and admired her beaut*
but we are now determined to avenge ourselves
cm this haughty girl, and in so doing,
prove to her that it. is even beyond her power
to become the wife of an engraver. I therefore,
young man, put the question to you,
Will you becomo the husband of a beautiful
woman, to w hose perfection nothing is wanting,
except her pride be humbled and her
vanity be broken ?"
" 'Yes,* I replied, 4 I'll dare it,' overcome
by the excitement of the lqginent. ' I coin-1
prebend what you want me to do, and taking
all the pains iu my power, you never
will have occasion to blush for you pupil.'?
The next thrco months ufter this strange occurence,
were entirely devoted to the preparation
of that role, in which I was to play
such a coMjPicuous part. With reiterated :
promises <*mmlable secrecy, my allies paid
the greatest Attention to transform me, a
simple bellows-mender, into a handsome,
dashing young nobleman. A fine, well
selected, fashionablo wardrobe, the artistical
efforts of a hair-dresser and other preparations,
gave me quite a degree of refinement.
3ocac teachers attend I to my education,
and during the evening hours of each day, 1
eras alternately visited by my allies, who endeavoured
to instruct me in music, drawing,
dancing and other fashionable accomplishments.
My natural talents, with the desire
to learn, and p retentive memory, ensured
Lheir endeavors such suocess, that my friends
were lost iu astonishment at my rapid progress.
I was anxious to appropriate the rudiments
of a good education as soon as possible,
and could scarcely await the time to
inter on my undertaking; but the time was
yet to come in which I was to see the whole
iffair in its true light. \
My friends, judging me at last sufficiently
advanced, and equal to the task, introduced
ins into the Apt 'society of Lyon, undec the
tame and titles of Marquis de liennepont, the
iwnerjt ex tensive estates in the Pauphince.
Undei^Rs title I introduced myself to the
i i i_ Li..?i? ?~ .v " ?
ui picmrw in mo street at.
qu*?-bougty ?ome of kit pwntingt, with the
ynw<*rf*m *brttd pmrchm*. H?r
w*
. ^0> *
ir'lsii 1 + ?'
' A.- r. ik. *
mi n in wiw?WMPMBBWPMPMI
ing now, familiar and freqnout intercourse
with liim, be earl/ one morning sent rae
word, that, receiving lately a valuable collection
of paintings and mezzotints from Rome
would feel highly honored by my calling on
him, to inspect them. This invitation I
eagerly accepted, nnd was received, not by
Monsieur Clermont, but by his beautiful
HaimLfa* n?/?f i- T i? ? '
.?TO4 v.vaxl. a POU VUllb f1"!
for the first time in my life, and for the first
time, also, experienced the power of beauty.
A new world opened to my eyes?I forgot
totally my prescribed role, and fell deeply,
irrevocably in love with her; that feeling
alone occupying my heart?the whole faculty
of tny inind concentrating in that one
idea. Cecily perceived her triumph, and appeared
to listen with pleasure to the unconnected
expressions and confession of iny
love, that stammeringly escaped my lips.?
This occurrence scaled my destiny for ever?
the felicity I felt in her society, forced me
onward, and made tne blind to all consequences.
For months I visited, and spoke
with Cecily ever)' day, and enjoyed an ir?
describable happiness, that was only disturbed
by remorseful feelings and self-accusation
during my lonely hours?which were only
extinquished by the necessity of my calling
occasionally upon my employers for money, |
jewelry, and other requisites.
Finally, the father of my Cecily gave at
his c'ouutry seat a family party io my honor,
and seizing such a glorious opportunity,
forgetting all but my love for his daughter,
throwed myself ?t Cecilyfc feet, a suitor for
her heart and hand. She listened to me
with modest dignity, while a tear of joy
trembled in her brilliant dark eve, shading
its lustre, and proving to me beyond a doubt,
tbat her heart wag not ruled by pride alone
and that I was beloved by her?as she alone
could love. True, I was a cheat, but heaven
is my witness, that in deceiving my charming
Cecily I suffered the greatest pangs of conscience.
In her society, I thought only of
her, but in the quiet hours and solitude of
night, disappeared all that sophistry aud
passion, opening a terrible future before my
enchanted gaze. Again, when I thought of
Cecily and the miserable lot that foil to her,
picturing to myself her delicate taper-fingers
preparing our coarse meals, and scouring a
wretched dirty hut, I trembled with horror,
and sprang, in cold sweat, from my bed; but
vanity and self-love came to my aid, and I
imagined that, loving mo really, she might
still be happy. I vowed, therefore, to dedicate
all my energies in the endeavor to strew
her path through life with flowers. Cecily's
father put unlimited confidence in me, ami
Vw>ll0-trA<) oro??fj -1-?
no ?uom my estates in the'
Dauphinee, a distant province in France,
particularly as 1 insisted that tho dowry of
his daughter should Iks placed under her sole
control. I was free, therefore, from the reproach
of having robbed her. We were
married, and unmanly as it may seem, I
could not help weeping at that solemn occasion,
the lust sign of my departing virtue;
the crowd ascribing my emotion to strong
sensibility.
About a fortnight after our marriage we
left for Moutclimar, according to agreement
between me and my employers, in whose
unconditional power I was. My poor wife
believing us all the time hastening towards _
the estates and castles of my ancestors, so mo
of the engravers and painters accompanying
us in die guise of foot-men, post-boys, grooms
and couriers of out splendid equipage. The ,
moment of inevitable discovery came at last
so anxiously feared by me, and proved to b? 1
far more formidable than I ever imagined.
Arrived in my native place, my companions (
ordered our grand carriage to be driven be- ,
fore the entrance of tho miserable hut where- i
in my poor but roepbetfed father resided, he
setting before tho door, occupied in repairing
sundry old bellows. Now came that tenri
bis discovery : the carriage stopped, and j
helping out my poor, deluded, surprised Cec- *
ily, ail my employers immediately formed r< 1
circle round us, took off their disguises, and j
the man she had refused to marry, now act-, ,
ing as spokesman of the party, addressed <
her in the following atraip: " Madam, you <
certainly were right in saying that your birth J
and education entitled you to higher views
than to marry an engraver; indeed I think ,
such would been too much honor for 11
you; we decided, therefore, a Bellows-Mender,
in every respect Competent to become 1
yofcr future husband, and such you behold '
in him that it now before f?*n ,
V ~ ,
I. V S -w.
Trembling with rago, I whs at the point of
answering them in a forcible manner, when
my late employers witily jumping into, the
carriage drove off, with them also vanishing
my wealth and greatness, like tlio changing
scenes of a theatre.
[conclunkd next week.]
I B I I f?ma
iXXiscHitmmts.
Jtoepfy-six ifouiP3 on n fiqff.
a thrilling narrative.
Peter McCabk of Ireland, who was rescued
from the raft and brought to New York,
publishes a letter, in which, aftor stating that
he remained on the Arctic until the water
reached the main deck, and the vessel commenced
sinking, says:
I left tho door, and gdt upon the raft,
which had been partially constructed from
the spars wo took from the vessel. A great
many persous were trying to get on the raft.
6ome were clinging to it with one hand,
and although it was already crowded, others
were striving to get a foothold. Among
the number who were upon it 1 saw four ladies.
Their names I did not know. Altogether,
there were seventy-six persous on the
raft. The sea. thntierh tint ?".?I.
, e? IUUK"
and the wave*, ah they washed ov?i it, washed
away a portion of its living freight I
shall never forget the -awful scene. There
we were, in the midst of the ocean, without
the slightest hope of assistance, while every
minute one or more of our unfortunate fellow
passengers were dropping into their watery
grave from sheer exhaustion. Those
who had life-preservers did not sink, but
floated with their ghastly faces upward, reminding
those who still remained alive of the
fate that awaited tbetn.
In the midst of all this, thank Heaven ! I
never lost hope, but retained my courage t?
the last. One by one I saw my unfortunate
companions drop off; some of them floated,
and were eaten and gnawed by fishes, while
others were washed under the raft, and ret
mained with me till I was rescued. 1 could
see their faces in the openings as they were
swayed to and fro by the waves, which
threatAed every moment to wash me off.?
The raft at ono time was was so crowded
that many had to hold on by ono hand.?
Very few words were spoken by any, and
the only sound that we heard was the splash
of the waters or the heavy breathing of the
poor sufferers as they tried to recover their
breath ;ifter a wave had passed over them.?
Nearly all were submerged to their arm pits,
while a few could with great difficulty keep
their heads over the surface. The women
were the first to go. They were unable to
stand the oxposure more than three or four
hours. They all fell off the raft without a
word, exept one poor girl, who cried out in
intense agony, uOh, my poor mother and
sisters !M
When I was about eighteen hours on the
raft, there were not more tliau three or four
left. One of these gave nie what appeared
to be a small inap, but which I understood
him to say was a sort of title deed to his
property. In a few moments after I took
it, he too, unloosed his hold, and was added
to the number that floated about the raft.
I endeavored to get the .paper into my
pocket, but found this impossible, on accountof
my crampled position, s<^ I placed it between
my teeth, and held inhere till 1 was
overwhelmed by a wave, when I lost my
hold of it, and it was washed away. Another
who bad qu oiled silk coat on, called on
me, for Heaven's sake, to assist him, as his
strength was rapidly falling, and he must
full if not relieved. As he was about four or
Ave feet from ine it was difficult to reach him; '
but after considerable exertions, I succeeded
in doing so, and helped him with one of my !
knees until I became quite faint, when 1 was
obliged to leave him to fate. J'oor fellow ! 1
be promised roe, if he ever got to New York 1
alive, he would reward roe well, lie clung 1
with terrible tenacity to life; but he, too, 1
dropped off in his turn. <
1 was now left alone on the raft: not a 1
solitary being was alive out of seventy ; but J
still my hope continued strong. The night '
of the second day was about closing on me, 1
and during the whole time I had been in the '
water 1 nau not eaten a particle of anything 1
or drank a drop. My strength, I found was ,
beginning to give way, and my sight had be- 1
come so dim that I could not perceive ob- *
jects a few feet off; even the ghastly face '
of the dead that looked up at me from under 1
the raft, were hardly disoernable. I deter- ^
mined on making one more offort for life ; 1
raised myself on my knees upon the raft, '
?nd though the dusk of the evening I saw, '
or thought I saw a vowel. My strength 1
loomed to revive, and in a few miutes I heard '
the voices of persons in a boat approaching. 1
Ten minutes more, and I, too, would have 1
gone; but Providence had mercy on me,
?nd after twenty-six hours' exposure, I was, 1
by its mercy, preserved from a *
Mr. McCabe is lying in a low oomlftion in 1
New York, and seems at times partially 4?
ranged. Bines taken from the rsfklne
sr options have taken pUce en bis limfe M
ehtch, as well as his bands end are *
& *
i
-- i?J
very much swollen?frpro effect?, ai A
supposed^ of boing immersed j^the water so
l0ng*
Ibe dliii)let' oJ
Let it never come upon yov^Kw^ to that!
(food nngels may protect you ffona thhfterrL
ble evil?the winter of the begirt.
Let no cliillinipnflucnce freeXw the fount,
datioms of sympathy and bapp^Kss in A
depths ; no cold burthen settlfwer its
ered hopes, like snow on the fadql flowers*
no rude bluets of discontent moan awfshriel
through its desolate chambers. *
Your life-path may lead you amid trials,
which for a time seem utterly to impude
your progress and shut out the very light, of
of heuven from your anxious gaze.
Penury may take the place of ease and ,
plenty; your luxurious hoino may be exchanged
for a single, lowly room?the soft
couch for the straw pallet?the rich viands
for the coarse food of the poor. Summer
friends may forsake you, and the unpitying
world pass you by with scarcely a Jook or
word of compsssion.
You may be forced to toil wearily, steadily
on, to earn a li>*elihood; yon may encounter
fraud and tho base avarice which
would extort the last farthing, till you well
nigh turn in disgust from your fellow beings.
Death may sever the dear lies that bind
you to earth, and leave you in fearful darkness.
That noble, manly boy, the sole hope
of your declining years, may be taken from
you, while your spirit clings to him with a i
wild tenacity Avhich even the shadow of the |
t&nb cannot wholly subdue.
But amid all these sorrows, do not come ;
to the conclusion that nobody was ever so .
deeply afflicted As you are, and abandon !
every sweet anticipation of "better days' in i
the unknown future.
Do not lose your faith in human excellence,
because your confidence has sometimes
been betrayed, nor believe that friendship is
only a delusion, and love a bright phantom
which glides away from your grasp.
Do not think that you are fated to be miserablo
because you are disappointed in your
e vegetations'and baffled in your pursuits,
lid not declare that God has forsaken you,
wlfijhiyour wav is hedged about with thorns,
or renine sinfnllv. when lie /.alia
- r?J ' * '? J
ones to the land beyond the grave.
Keep a holy trust in heaven through every
trial; bear adversity with^brtitude, and
look upward in hours of temptation and suf
fering. When your locks are white, your
eyes dim, and your limbs weary ; when your
steps falter on tho verge of Death's gloomy
vale, still retain the freshness and buoyancy
of spirit which will shield you from the winter
of the heart?Olive Branch.
3JUo)rl{!
I have seen and heard of people who i
thought it beneath them to work, to employ i
themselves industriously at some useful labor. I
Beuenth them to work! Why work is the i
great motto of life ; and he who accomplishes J
the most by his industry, is the most distinguished
man among his fellows, too. And j
the man who forgets his duty to himself, his j
fellow creatures, and his God?who so far
forgets the great blessings of life, as to allow
his energies to stagnate in inactivity and <
uselessness, had better die: for says Holy <
Writ, "Lie that will not work, neither shall .
he ?at." An idler is a curuberer of the
ground, a weary curse to himself, as well as
to those around hi in. I
Beneath human beings to work I Why, (
what but the continued history that brings j
forth the improvement that never allows him ,
to bo contented with any attainment he may (
have made, of work that he may have etfec- ,
ted, what but this raises man above the brute (
creation, and, under Providence, surrounds \
him with comforts, luxuries and refinements ; t
physical, moral, and intellectual blessings ? (
The great orator, the great poet, and the great f
scholar, are great working men. Their voca- t
Lion is infinitely more laborious than that of i
the handicraftsman; and the students'life has (
more anxiety than that of any other man. [
And ail, without the perseverance, the in- t
leniion to real industry, csnnot thrive. *
Hence the number of mere pretensions to (
tcholarship, or those who have not strength i
i J i- i w-i i -i i . ? - 1
tuu niuuiury to u? real scuoiara, UUl slop halt ,
n ay, and are smatterera,'a shame to the pro
fesaion. {
Beneath human being* to work I Look ,
n the artist's studio, tlio poet's garret, where .
the genius of immortality stands ready to
leal his work with an uneflaceable signet, t
md then you will only see industry stand t
by his side, ,
Beneath human'beings to work! Why, t
[ had r&ther that a child of mine should la- g
Dor regularly at the lowest, meanest employment,
than to waste its body, mind and soul,
n folly, idleueM, and usaleMBess. Better to
wear out in a year, than to n?t out in a cen- c
tonr.
Beneath human beings to work ! Why
frhat but work has> tilled our fields, clothed f
>ur bodies, built our houses, raised our minds fl
ind souls? "Work out your own salvation," r
ays the inspired ApoaUrto the Gentiles.
Ha. ?r-y? - ???
Tarm** who oeg&U himself is aive in s
iroe to be neglected by Others. I
I
.
# V ' -*
jje S)nrkmg-JHon.
t Uglricqltqi-e toe JlrofeteipW.
, Whetvpoung men are about completing
th^r education, they very widely ask themaM
^hat t bey all all do. A few, scanning
the variouaaHbits, luckily hit on something
in harmoi^^^&tkeir tastes, while the greater
part loo^^o the professions as the
le^itimato #phewPaf educated men. Notr
this Conclusion ift *11 wrnnir A J?
... 0- " W..VIJ? TOUW
ation aims at a professional life no more than f
any other, but only at a general discipline
and culture of mind, which may be applied
to all pursuits. There are, no doubt, some
in each class, who are adapted to and will
honor any of the professions; but the greater
part aro not, and they enter them rather
because tlnty are honorable than in hopes of
honoring them. But we have little sympathy
with those luminaries which seek toshine
by a reflected light. "We have been taught
to believe that the man should honor his of*
tice, not the office the man ; and that it is better
to move at the head of even aft humble
calling, than follow in the rear of a dignified
profession. We would rather raise potatoes
which somebody will eat than makes speeches
which no one will hear, or write books
which no one will rbad.
But if these young gentlemen will carefully
look srouud, they will perhaps find
other avenues to wealth and distinction, besides
the professions. Take^for instance,
agriculture?not simply the art of plowing
the ground, but agrtculture viewed in all its
practical and scientific bearings, and they
will possibly find scope for the display of at
least n$>derate capacities. Indeed, if we
mistake not, somo enter the professions, who
would not find a waste of talent in agricultural
pursuits, and who are certainly quite
as well suited to them. But so many young
men are captivated with theidea of profesional
or political titles and life, that they overlook
what they call the humbler avocations.
So away they go,talking of Robert Halls and
Dftniel'Webaters, between .whom and themselves
there is no more comparison than between
the Alps and an ant-hill. We would
not be thought to underrate the profession*
by anv means; but we believe strongly in
ati adaption, a fitness for things. If a man
has not a natural capacity for one pursuit.
let him take up another for which he baa a
natural capacity. Better handle the plow
with grace, than make a stupid argument.
Nor yet does this avocation preclude access
to political distinction, to which so many
aspire. Wo know some farmers who stand
as good a chance for office as many of their
professional brethren, and who are as well
able to flourish as delicate a hand, or quiddie
as accurately, or talk as honiedly^ but
in good sense and sound judgement, the e*~ ,
sential elements ot a man?they are by no 9
means inferior. We always like to see such
men, good honest souls !?who lean not on *
the dignity of their professions, but thcm>
jelves. Such men are at once the streagth
and pride of the country.
Let not young men, therefore, think a
profession the qua now" of human
greatness, but let them east about and sew
what they aro fitted and have a taste for.?
They will go to work thoroughly and earnEsstly
and be suro to succeed, while on the
jther hand, they will most surely fail.?
American Agriculturist.
tsi
Young America.?More than two million
boys in the United States are now at;ending
the various institutions of learning
u this country. This is indeed a formidable
irmy, and it may safely be affirmed that the
uture politics and policy of this nation will
mvy soon uepena upon uie political views,
entertained by those now at school. These
xiys will soon be voters, and share in giving
lirections to the vast interests involved in our
'lections. It may therefore be of interest to
ill who watch the 'signs of the times' to ask,
aider what influence and agencies the young
\mericans are subjected. What is the gensral
tone of sentiments among them ! What
?ooks do they read ? What is the characer
of the popular literature of the titn& f?
These are oucslions cf deep import, and %
nir view, tlio future is full of promise, for we
lave no doubt that tho 'All lfail Hereafter'
vill prove that noble aim* and generous
ilea* will be felt in society to a greater ex.eiit
than heretofore. Society in America
low feela the impulse from our material proslerity,
and the aay is not far distant when a
lowerful direction will be given to ' the
bought and moral power of the people from
he hands of those now classed in the census
us 'youth at school.' The young America of
he school rooms will soon be of age, and
peak for itself.
Bkautxxdl is tbd love, and street the kits
if a *iater ; but if you haven't a sister handy,
ry your cousin?it isn't much worse. %
Mak is a curiosity?the less use be has
or money the more he worships it Mbers
ire always folks of vary small s to machos and
10
What will you leave *r?e to your ?(V
aid a lady to an Xriahmjm, Hd iarg m&f
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