PORT - GIKSO \ HERALD-

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kifc ' Vol. 2. Port-Gibson, Claiborne County, Miss., November 30, 1843.ch; No» 13.*°n.

iv I L 1'1 A ** H • JA€OBS; music of the heart & lip,one born to be editor and proprietor. an angel isconverted into a weak,silly

thing, attractive only while she sits still winks, smiles, and says nothing. Think now how many of the forms of beauty grace, levity and folly, that throng streets, our drawing rooms and our churches, attach themselves to novel reading as the great business of their lives. Is it not a melancholy prospect for the country, that mothers so lull of sentiment and romance are to train the future generations of this republic? As I glance from my window into the garden I have before my eyes a morti­fying illustration of the truth of these remarks. There is Beatrice Somer- villc,just out of her teens. The ne­cessity -was imposed on me to watch

I her education, and I have observed I with pain the gradual fleVfclopement r of her mental habits under the very regimen which ] here condemn. To the eye she is beautifuhhcr Countenance is radient with the light and glow of ge­nius. One can see at a glance that nature richly endowed her, not only with the graces of person, but with cn ergy and sprighiliness of mind. But alas! fashionable education has thwar­ted the kind intentions of providence, and she too is ruined. Up to the age of ten she was a scholar, her mind in­dustriously gathered to itself the lilt le stores of science which were suitable and possible to be acquired at her ten­der age. Then was the time to begin polite accomplishments. The pencil em­ployed her the first session, and though it slackened her zeal in severer studies she still made progress. Another term introduced her to the singing master and from that time she neither lost or gained in the sciences but nearly stood still»

s: or unfortunately, she resides where op­portunities do not occur but twice a year to display her powers in skipping and jumping, She can paint; but it is two years next Christmas since she painted for young Herkimer, her beau a watch-paper, and she has attempted nothing since. She sings more than she paints, which is a misfortune; for she neither sings nor plays well, nature having granted her nogifjt for either, Every time she attempts it the listen­ers are at their wits end; for admira­tion of her person and disgust at her performance struggles for their maste­ry in their bosoms. Now consider that this spoiled maiden, who is yield­ing the strength & activity of her mind to I he ignoble plcasuie of reading no­vels and cultivating sentiment, might have become a lady of fine parts, and written volumes for the edification of mankind.

Who is to be blamed for the failure? First, society, for its hurtful fashions; and second, her mother must be con­demned for submitting to be governed by thosë fashions. I know something of the power of fashion. It is cruel ty­rant. It has inflicted on men more la­bor and agony then the enthroned ty ­rants of all time have caused them. But many have broken away from her chains, and defied her incantations. Where such interests are at stake as blend with the mind and immortalities, cannot parents spurn its dominion? Will they not? They must do it, or they must agree in their own minds to have the education of their children superficial in their knowledge and con­ceited in their m inncrs, ready to launch into the pleasures of the world without guidance or restraint, and yield them­selves to their intemperate pursuit and fruition. There is scarcely a more sad spectacle on earth than to see parents who are fond of their children, and would be a blessing to them instead of a curse, swayed by popular usage from the only conduct which promises to se­cure their happiness and usefulness in this life, and their eternal blessedness

From the Crescent City.A GfelFFIN.

“Are you aware that at least the third part of I he population of Bengal thrown into the river by their relations af­ter death? that such is^popsidered the moat religious mode of disposing of their mortal rerria'ns?”

Jerry looked very blank as he whisper­ed out a negative.

“Well then; my dear sir, allow me to inform you that such is the fact. As you prdCtecd further up the river, you will meet with huddrtedfe of dead bodies daily, now the only thing you have to do is, to return this carcass to the water as soon possible, lest ydit are accused of sac­rilege.”

“Good gracion^L you don’t say so?— Will you kindly oraer some of your people down andchuck it-in the river?”

“I am sorry to sâÿ that is impossible.— No native would touch it: he would lose cast if he <jid.

“What then, what am I to do?”•‘Why, as you brought it here, so lake it

back again.”Jerry was

predicament, long before, he was sustained in his dread­ful task by the belief that he was doing a sacred duty, an act of justice; but now to parade through the streets w.Hh the dead body of d dative; with the folly of having pickd it up in the river attached to the act, was more than ever Jerry could con­template, and he was about to make some remonstrance, when his late boatmen suddenly rushed into the toorrt; ahd, throw­ing themselves on their knees before the chief magistrate, began to call out, “Mof- carrow, mofearrow, Burrow Sahib, mof- carrowl” Justice, justice! great Sir, grant us justice!

Presently their statement was made, and the high magistrate; turning to Lang- stave, addressed him:

“Were you longer in the service, sir, it would be my duty to report tills strange case"to the civil authorities for their notice but as you are but just arrived, I am will­ing to believe you erred from ignorance, rather than from any design to injure therefore—”

Here Langstave would have spoken, but the magistrate interrupted him.

“Don’t speak, sir; you will only make the case worse. You have commited a sad offence,although,I hope,unconsciously. By drawing a dead body from the river you have been guilty of sacrilege; you have insulted the religion of the natives, which is strictly forbidden by our laws to be interfered with. By placing the said body iu the boat you have defiled it: no Hindoo can ever make use of it again.— Think youself lu^ky, therefore, that 1 am inclined td dëa! itiercifully towards you.

Langstave once more breathed.“Look ye, sir, for the dishonor you have

brought upoti these poor men, you must pay two gold mohurs (£4 sterling;) for their boat and appurtenances, two hun­dred rupee (£20 sterling;) to which add another gold raohur, and I will get a Eng­lish sailor 1 am about to fèleas from pris­on to carry down these putrid remains, and throw them back into the river.”

Now it so happened that poor Jerry had not above thirty pounds irt the whole world. He was therefore about to reply, but a look from the justice gave him a hint that it would be better to pay the money, and have dotie with it. So, with a look of sorrow, he thrust his hand into his pocket, and was about paying down five sixths of all his worldly store, to depart, when the worthy magistrate managed to whisper to him.

“Take my advice, my vouhg 3parK; leave Calcutta as soon as you can; for de­pend upon it; iß this city you will be sure to find yourself the reviled and abhorred by the natives the butt of ridicule of your own countrymen» Bdt wherever you roam, take my advice, never interfere with religious customs,—never volunteer to pick up dead natives.

“Thank ye,” replied Jerry,“your advice is so good that 1 promise to abide by it. They may stuff, roast’ and eat each o- ther, without my ever taking the trouble to interfere again.”“Bohtit dichar,” rejoined the magistrate. Consommer, show the gentleman out.

As Jerry left the hail, lie heard the wor­thy dispenser of justice audibly exclaim to a friend that stood near. “What a Griffin!!”

THE JOYS OF HOME.Ah! what so refreshing, so soothing,

so satisfying, as the placid joys of home!

See the traveller—does duty call him for a season to leave his beloved circle? The image of his earthly hap­piness continues Vividly in his renierri brancc—it quickens him to diligence—- it rriakes him bail the hour which his face fumed towards home; it com­munes with him as he journeys, and he hears the promise w hich causes him to hope, ‘Thou shalt know also, that thy tabernacle shall be irt peace, and I ho# shalt visit thy tabernacle, arid not sin!’ OhJlbc joyful re-unron of a divided family—the pleasures ;of renewed in­terview and convention after days of absence!.

Behold the man of science-lie drops the laborious and painfpl résearch-clo* ses his volume smooths bis wrinkled brow—leaves his study, and unbending himself, stoops to the capacities, yields to the wishes, and mingles with the di­versions of his children.

». areBV H. R. ADDISOK.

Jerry Langstave was aboutas unsophis­ticated a griffin (a term always applied to new comers in India,) as ever exchanged a cloth,coat for a white chunamed (starch­ed) jac§pel. He was, however a good fel­low, am every one liked him. Ever rea­dy to |tan hrs çash to a friend, or accept of a bad, bet from a knowing acquain­tance. Jerry was universally ahd de­servedly popular.

Jerry’s arrival in India was attended with peculiar circumstances—circumstan­ces which I shall at once relate, and show the character of the man. When the vessel which bore him^o Bengal arrived near Éfciden Reach, for èomy^nfMÜMli reasons (reasons with which I am Wholly unacquainted,) it was deemed advisable for her to come to anchor—a manœuvre which ill-accorded with the impatient dis­position of Master Langstave, who in­stantly hired a boat td Convey him, with­out loss of time, to Calcutta.

1 have before in similar sketches at­tempted to set forth the beauties which now struck the eye of the enchanted youth. The picturesque scenery, the strange costumes, the fairy-like bunga­lows, threw Jerry into raptures ahd he blessed the goddess Fortune for having sent him to such a land of delight.

After thus skimming along for about half an hour; Langstave perceived a dark object floating on the water, over which a bird of prey kept continually hovering. Now,curiosity formed a prominent feature in Jerry’s character, so he desired his dan­dies (boatmen) to pull towards the mys­teries subject which had attracted his at­tention. The mferi explained t'c him in Hindostainee what the said object really was; as our friend was wholly unacquaint­ed with the language, he gained little in­struction from the explanation, and still persevered in ordering his people to row towards the dark mass. An Indian may demonstrate, he may hang down his head and look grave, but he seldom disobeys the order of a superior; so in a few min­utes the boat cut aeross the stream, and scared away the vulture, which, with a cry of rage, flew off’as the bark drew near. Jerry started back with hofror; his first suspicions were in a moment awfully con­firmed, and he gave himself much credit for his foresight and determination. Yes, the object before him was a dead body half putrid) Eadfy mutilated^-thb mortal re­mains of an urtlucky native were floating down the tide:

In a moment Jerry jumped at the con­clusion that the corpse thusstrangly found was that of some murdered man, basely assassinated on shore, and thrown into the river to conceal the crime. Longstave made up his mind in a moment, determin cd to sift the matter to the bottom. He instantly ordered his boatmen to lift the body into the boat; this they one and all refused to do with undisguised looks of horror. He had a brace of pistols in his belt; he pulled them out, and presented them at the head of the principal dandy, swore roundly he would shoot him if he did not instantly comply with his wishes. Every native does not understand English, but they understand the danger of diso­beying a inati with a cocked pistol in his hand, so with many exclamations of an­noyance and disgust, they managed, with their oars, and the assistance of a rope, for they seemed afraid to touch the corpse,

,to drag the body into the boat. As they rowed along, Jerry examined the remains before him, and felt every instant more convinced that a foul murder had been perpetrated. The conduct of the boatmen also perplexed him. Surely they could not be privy to the dreadful act; yet from their evident wish to get rid the body, their averted looks, and their steady refu­sal to touch the now inanimate form, the way in which they called out to other dan­dies on the river, and the sudden flight of those persons so addressed, began to instil strange misgivings into the mind of Lang­stave.

Presently they arrived at the principal ghaut (landing-place) at Calcutta. Di­rectly their freight was perceived every boat pulled away and left the spot clear for Jerry to step on shore. This done he desired his men to take up the body and follow to the office of the chief magistrate In another instant they had followed him on shore, and fled as fast as their legs could carry them, so our friend, bon gre molgrc was left but two alternatives, tha of abandoning the affair altogether, ol taking up the cofpsè himself and carrying it to the police office. He chose the lut ter, and, to the horror of-every one he met, strutted off, with the body of the black man dangling over his shoulders. Some thought him mad; others believed that lie thus acted for a bet but one and all gave him a wide berth, and refused to share the odious task he had undertaken.

Arrived at the magistrate’s, he was in stantly admitted, arid after laying dowi his ghastly burden, he at once expiai ne the whole circumstance, an'd the susp cions they had given rise to.

“So you picked up this body in the river?”

“I did.”“What said your boatmen to you when

you did so?”“They grumbled and objected, I be­

lieve, but as I dont understand Hiridoffo- nee. I’m not quite sure.”

“And you have qo reason for believing that this man was murdered, beyond the fact of finding him in the water?”

“None. But surely, is Wot that strong proof presumptive? Whb but a murderer would thus disposé of a body, indéed, un­less the unlucky man committed suicide;” and a new light seemed to break étf fhe mind of Longstave.

WIM IAM F. ElSELflr?,K

PUBLISHER.,e, our»,

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THE PRISONER FOR DEBT.«k secsfi AndBV JOHN fi. WIIITTIRH.

Look OH him, through his dungeon-grate,

Feebly und cold the morning light

Comes stealing round him dim and late,

As if it loathed the sight.! Reclining on his low straw bed,

I »lis hand upholds his drooping head—

His bloodless check is seam’d and hard,

Unshorn his grey, neglected beard;And o’er his bony fingers flow

llis long, dishcvell’d locks of snow.

No gra\nd vet the winter’s breath is chill;

Ami u,er his half clad person goes The frequent ague-thrill !

I Client—save ever and anon,

À sound, half murmur and half groan,

Forces apart the painful grip

Of the old sufferer’s bearded lip;0, sad and crushing is the fate

Of old age chained and desolate!

Just Clod! w hy lies the old man there!

A murderer shares his prison-bed,I Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair,

Oleum on him fierce and red;

' ;\nd the rude oath and heartless jeer

Fall ever on his loathing ear,

And, or in wakefulness or sleep,

Nerve, flesh and libre, thrill and creep,

! Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb,

Crimson’d with murder, touches him!

What has the gray-haired prisoner done?

Has murder stain’d his hand with gore?

Not so: his crime’s a fouler one,

God made the old man poor!I For this he shares a felon’s cell—

The fittest earthly type of hell!For this—the boon tor which he pour’d

[His young blood on the invader’s sword;[ And counted light tho fearful cost—

lbs blood gamed liberty is lost!

• *And thou for such a place of rest,

Old prisoner pour’d thy blood as rain

Ou Concord’s field, and Bunker’s crest,

And Saratoga’s plain!

Hook forth, thou man of many scars, [Through the dim dungeon’s iron bars!Ill must be joy, in sooth, to see

[ Yon monument* upreared to thee—

' Filed granite and a prison cell—

The land repays thy service well!

l;e, ring the bells and fire the guns,

And fling the starry banilcf Out;

Shout “Freedom!” till your lisping ones

Give bark their cradle shout.

Let boasted eloquence declaim

Of honor, liberty nnd famcj

Still let the poet’s strain be beard,

With “glory” for each second wold,

Aud every thing with breath agree

To praise our “glorious liberty.”

And when the patriot cannon jars

That prison’s cold and gloomy wall,

And through its grates the stripes and stais I Rue on the wind and fall—

■Think ye that prisoner’s aged cat

Rejoices in the general cheer?

Think yc his dim and failing eye

[Is kindled at your pageantry?

Borrowing of soul, and chain’d of limb.

What is your carnival to him?

?)own with the law that binds him thus!

Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse

Of God and human kind!Open the prisoner's living tomb,

And usher from its brooding gloom

The victims of your savage code,

To (he free sun and air of God!

No longer dare as crime to brand

The chastening of the Almighty’s hand!

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teful fire before him glows—

now in ft most unpleasant When he had borne it a->11«,

b “He will not blush that hath a father’s heart,In childish play, to take a childish part;But bends his sturdy neck to play the toy,That youth takes pleasure in. to please his boy.”

Take the man of trade—what recon­ciled hliti to the toil öf business? What enables him to endure the fastidious« ness and impertinence of customers? What rewards for so many hours of te­dious confinement? By-and-bye Ihç season of intercourse will arrive ;he will behold the desire ot his eyes and the children of hisltive, for whom he resigns his case and in their welfare and smiles he will find his recompense.

Yonder comes the laborer. He. has borne (he burdemmd heat of the day ; —the descending sun has released him from his toil and he is hastening home to enjoy repose. Halfway down the lane, by the side of which stands his cottage, his children run to meet him. One he carries and one he leads. The companion of his humble life is ready to furnish him with his plain repast. See his toil worn poiinteriàncç assume an air of cheerfulness! his hardships are forgotten; fatigue vanishes; he eats and is satisfied. THe evening fair; , he walks around his garden—enters agalri retires to rest! aqd ‘the rest of a labor­ing man is sweef, whether lie cats lit” tie or much.’ Inhabitant of his lowly dwelling! who can be indifferent to thy comfort?

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let, I-ie*e.Ic,

The next session she commenced lessons in dancing, and thenceforth her school books were distasteful. She could turn with some relics from pain­ting to music, or from music to daucing hut she could turn from neither to grammar or agebra. The ßtc WbUld

! not mix together. As usual, there was ; a contest between her and her teacher.The authority of her widowed mother jn the life which is to come, was called in, and she appealed to me If parents would train their children I counselled as follows: “Let Beatrice (especially their daughters, whose minds delay her dancing lessons now for arc peculiarly sensitive lo those influ- they are not important; and if dancing ences that awaken romantic impres- must be acquired,let her wait two years sions) in such a manner as will secure As she has no ear nor voice for music to them all good in each state of being let lier give that Up forever. Let her they must aim to educate them not use the pencil, because she has a genius fashionably, but scripturally. And a- for it and it will not interfere with her | bove all, their children should be fur- studies.” This proposition pleased nei­ther the mother nor the child. Both

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shmshed with books selected more carc«- CHARACTER OF A WELL BRED

MAN.BV A LADY.

Some have supposed the tine gentle­man and well bred man to be synorii- mous characters; but I will make it ap­pear that, nothing can appear more widely different; the former leaves na­ture entirely, the latter improves upon her. He is neither a slave nor an ene­my to pleasure^ hut approves,or rejects as his reason shall direct. He is above stooping to flatter a knave, though in an exalted station: ami never overlooks merit, though he find it in a cottage* His behavor is affable & respectable yet not cringing or formal, and his manner easy and unaffected. He misses no opportunity, wherein he can oblige his friend, yet uoes It In sô delicate a man­ner that he seem3 rather fo have re­ceived than conferred a favor. He does not professa passion lie never felt* lo impose on the credulity of a silly wo­man, nor will he injure another’s repu­tation to please his vanity* He can­not love where he does not esteem, nor ever suffer his passion's to overcome his reason. In his friendship he is steady and sincere, and loves less for himself than his friends-

c-ifully and skillfully than the dresses which they wear. The furniture of their libraries has certainly more to do with their future respectability and happiness, than their wardrobes can possibly have. The color, texture and fit are of small moment compared with the shades of though which arc spread out at the eye of their minds. The former can he changed at any time, and leave no trace upon their persons; but the latter strike deep into the mind, color its very thoughts aud emotions, and will probably abide there foiever.

tsbagreed that they might as well be out of the world as out of fashion, and Bea-

j trice pursued polite accomplishments, I to the neglect of literature and sci­ence, and greatly to the detriment of her education.

Another evil followed, much leisure onhef îiâfîds;rind to fill up her vacant hours, she commenced no­vel reading. From ti c age of eleven to seventeen she accomplished almost no­thing, except lo paint, sing, dance, end read fictions» The conscience was, that she herself became a fiction.— Could you see and converse with her one day, you would confess that this is no exaggeration; and unless a great change comes upon her, she will main a fiction through life.

1 had not seen Beatrice for three years, when she came to pay us a visit. My concern for her character and for­tunes led me carefully to mark her behavior. The morning of her arrival was damp and chilly. This was the avowed cause of a fit of the “blues.” Though politeness demanded cheerful­ness, she sunk into the horrors; and in­stead of an effort at conceal merit, seed­ed purposely to make a show of her un­happiness. She was affectedly “low spirited.” In an hour all the means of entertainment within the friach of the family were employed to rouse her,

I but in vain. The more we consoled her S Females are naturally seutimental. j the less she was consoled. At last she

Defective education renders them still ; found her way to the library, where toore so. W hen they escape from the j she discovered an old neglected copy schools, they ha ve a slight acquain- ; 0f the ‘Children of the Abbey.’ which

d ^llance with grammar, rhetoric, history, j she said she had not read for more than As to French, they know nothing ofit ! a year. But she read it all during the

t^le*r profit. They can paint a little night, and not finding another novel in■ and make a noise with the piano; but my library, she was the nextday as bad ■not one in one hundred should as ever. 5ihe has been with us three

Hin decency practice either. There are weeks. My neighbors have been cal- ■;l few exceptions from this reproach, led on to contribute books for her

) ^■'nriit were bold to deny that the gene- amusement, and she borrowed and read ■al rufe is as above stated. some twenty volumes of the baser sort

What is to hinder such females, with When she has no books toentertain her tempers purely sentimental, from devo* she sinks into despondency, and uoth- ftng themselves to the perusal of love ing but another novel can restore her. tales? The stupid novelist brings out During her stay with tfs, she has not fes sickening productions, destitute of been known to touch a volume of his literary value, and of the merit of in- tory, travels, biography, philosophy, Motion, for generations of just such fe- science or literature. She particularly males. His office is to corrupt their loathes them, and wonders how any hearts and render them fools. And one can have patiente t(f read or write

, women enough can be found who will tncrfi. But I see her coming from the■ spend whole days and nights, regard- garden, and she is now, I fear, in one

r ■ less of the sacred duties of wife and ®o- of her refitimenta! moods. Such is I ■ther, to feast on these productions. Beatrice. What must that woman be fl IThe understanding is thereby enfeebled who goes about training a child to such - ■& reduced almost to idiocy by this «eff* a wretched undone state? And which

■destroying process. But the passions of my readers is anxious or willing to •ire cultivated, and the fair one be- reach such a state? comes all sentiment and* eorig. Love “But then she is accomplished !” Yes ditties, reciting painful and tragic tucw she is accomplished, Bhe can dance cesses or disappointments, become the , with grace and spirit; but fortunately

8

$hc had

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!ot*‘Coming the Bread Act.’—“Please

sir, to give me a penny, to buy a loaf of bread,’said a dirty faced, meagre little vagabond, whose tattered garments scarce covered his nakedness, to a gen­tleman who was passing along Fifth street the other day.

Have you got a father?” said the gentleman.

‘Yes—but he drinks whiskey, and don’t buy s’.ster and me nothing to cat —and mother’s dead, and father beats us when we cry—and I hain’t had no­thing to cat since morning, so I h.Tin’t. Hoo-hoo'rhoo!’ and the little rascal cried as naturally as possible.

Thé gentleman moved with compas siön, ât ms fbrlorn condition, gave him some pennies, and the urchin walked across the street, and joined a parcel of his comrades,as ragged and dirty as himself.

‘Now, boys,’said he—and his eyes sparkled with g!ec at the thought of the fun—‘now boys, I’ll pitch coppers with you—I’ve got four.’

‘How did you raise’em, Jim?’ said one of hrs companions; come the grab game, eh V

‘No,sir: I doesn’t steal; but do you see that gentleman up at Boleman’s Founderÿ; fhe one Os has brass buttons on his coat, I means?’ .

‘Yes.’‘Well, I corned the bread act on

him.’‘Dicf, eh? -weit, he’s greeff.’The other put his thumb on his nose

and the little ragamuffin moved toward the steps of the Theatre, to engage in the delightful amusement of ‘pitch pen­ny,’ and ‘crackloo.’

The dreumstaore above alluded to, actually occurred last week. ‘Human nature is but hifmari nature,’ as old Stapleton used to sa y.-Pittsburg Chron­

icle.

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♦Bunker Hill Monument. GOOD ADVICE.Now that the election in ofit citj is

over and wear© all pleased, let us read and well digeit thq iollowing good ad­vice from an old author.—Natchez Courier.

‘flow lo make money.—Let the busi­ness of every body else a tone, and at*» tend to your own, don’t buy what you don’t want; use every houi* to advantage and study even to make leisure hours useful; think, twice before you throw away a shilling, you will have another to make for it,find recreation in lookin after your business, your business wi not be neglected in looking ftfter re* creation; buy low,'sell fair, and fake care of the benefits; look over yoriT books régulai ly rind if,you find an er­ror, trace it out, should a strokè bt mis­fortune come upon you in trade, re­trench, work harder, ‘but never Ôy tho track;’ confront the difficulties wrfh flinching perseverance, arid thr^ wi!l disappear at fas«.; though y0u should fall in the struggle,yo*; whj be honoied; bat shrink from tue task and you will be despis^i. *

Vu

1ISCELLAMEOI1S.L-

l ADIES AND ROMANCES.

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Noisy Famii»y*—An old lady read- ing the account of thp death of a venc*

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r of the Phstated to be the phia Bar, exclairped-‘Poor man he had a dreadful noisy set of children,”

It is observed of gold, by an old epi- grairiatist thvtf to have it is to be in fear and to want it, to be in sorrow.

Priest Ridden.-—The Alleghany Ban­ner says: ‘We saw a heeaftiful young lady walking along Federal street, with a Bishop on her back and a Cardinal on her shoulders,

Wear you learning like your watch in a private pocket, and don't pull it out to show that you have one; but if yoif arc asked what o’clock it is, tell it.

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