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Sunday dispatch. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1845-1854, August 16, 1846, Image 1

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Su n b a d w|| BigipattK
VOL. I. NO. 37.
At 41 Ann Street,
Or One Dollar a Year in Advance by Mail.
Will be inserted at the rate of One Dollar per Square
(of sixteen lines) the first insertion, and Fifty Cents fo r
every subsequent insertion. Advertisements for a lon
ger period at the same rate.
WILLIAM BURNS, j Publishers.
Fly when Betsy calls Thee.
Air—“Gj where Glory awaits thee”
Fly when Betsy calls thee,
If she roughly mauls thee,
Thou wilt remember her !
When her face was glowing,
When her tongue was going,
Thou didst remember her !
When for “ husband I !” bawling.
When you got a mauling,
When you ran off equaling,
Thou hast remembered her ?
When for home returning,
Soul for comfort burning,
Thou dost remember her !
When you think of “ Caudle,”
Shedding tears a puddle,
Thou must remember her !
When with females talking,
Then one thought is balking :
Thou most remember her !
When you visit, sighing
Families displaying
Love and peace undying,
Thou dost remember her !
When quite near your dwelling,,
When your heart is failing,
Thou dost remember her -
When you sound your knocker
Bringing out a shocker,
“ O I’ll REMEMBER thee !.
Cold your blood is running,
Broomstick is no funning ’
_** O UN-rem ember. me !”
When Morn's gab's unwinded,
When Moon’s slack’s suspended,
When Night’s Lecture’s ended,
Wilt thou remember her I
When heave’n is unfolding,
(Where there is no scolding,)
Thou’lt not remembee her !
Lancaster, Ohio.
ollje Rlevcev’s Wife.
He who has looked into Stow, or any other
writer on the antiquities of London, (if he be a
Cockney, we will not suppose he has not,) will
learn that in days of yore, Bucklersbury was in
habited by dealers in drugs and simples. But,
like all other localities in the great metropolis, it
has changed its aspect, and all trades exist or
thrive where the herbs “ ’pothecaries’ stuff”
once wasted their fragrance. ’Tis true that one
warehouse of this description still remains, (we
know not whether it has descended from father
to son since Stow wrote,) at the corner of Barge
yard, but there is no other establishment of the
kind, that we know of, in this neighborhood.
Bucklersbury is nowquoted for its eating houses
—which are, we believe, superior to any of the
kind in London. There is also a coffee house,
yclept the Imperial, where, with every comfort,
a luncheon, a dinner, or a cup of tea, may be ob
tained “ upon the most honorable terms,” and in
a style of neatness, not to say luxury, at which
our forefathers would have marveled. What
would not have a “ glorious John," who, we are
told dined ata three-penny ordinary, said of and
felt at such a place as this I Even “ honest Ben”
might have felt more at his ease, and left us no
fewer of his fancies. We have always been
friends to these establishments; first, because
they afford rest and refreshments at a very rea
sonable rate to those whose avocations compel
them to spend the greater part of the day in the
city; and, second, because they have taught
young men to be content with a cup of whole
some coffee, and the magazines and newspapers
instead of seeking excitement in the bottle
Though our nature is social, we abhor drunk
eness from our very soul, and therefore we say,
long live these establishments, where the cup
may be had that t( comforteth the braine, and
helpeth digestion.”
But least the reader should imagine that, like
George Morland, who painted out his ale-house
scores, we have run up a score at the Imperial,
and are writing a puff for the proprietor to get
ourselves out of the debt, we must leave modern
Bucklersbury, and tell our friends something
In th* reign of Henry the Fourth, there stood
in Bucklersbury, a few doors from the end of
Walbrook, an ancient house, with an ornament
ed gable, surmounted by a weathercock. Its up
per stories jutted the foot path, and its windows,
on the ground floor, were well defended by stout
iron bars. Besides these precautions of the oc
cupant, the shutters were always kept close bar
red, and the was upon all occasions first opened
with a chain attached to it, in order that the vi
sitor, if an unwelcome one, might be excluded,
if desirable or expedient. Here dwelt Moses
Lyons, a remnant of the scattered tribe of Israel.
Why he was suffered to dwell there, was perhaps
best known to some of the aidermen and spend
thrifts of that day. At any rate he was permitted
to take up his abode in Bucklersbury, instead of
among his own nation, in the quarter alloted to
the Jews in London.
At the close of a fine Summer’s day, while the
bells were ringing for even song, a youth of slen
der frame, clad, like a page of that period, with a
hood of purple velvet and a jerkin of the same co
lor, hoseot murrey-colored serge, and long piked
shoes, came tripping down Bucklersbury, flour
ishing hiß light staff, and affecting the air cox
combical. From the embroidored belt with
which he was girded, hung a short broad weapon
resembling a wood-knife, and underneath the
belt was stuffed a small elongated bag, the two
ends of which seemed loaded with something
which was certainly heavy, if it was not valua
ble. The youth proceeded direct to the house of
Moses Lyons, and rapped with his staff on the
door. The summons was not heeded, for Moses
was often annoyed by “ runaway knocks,” from
the ’prentices and idle boys in that neighbor
hood. The knocking was repeated again and
again, and at length a small wicket was opened
in the huge door, and avissage appeared. It was
Rachel, the housekeeper.
“ What want ye 3” queried the beldame, in a
tone that was anything but inviting.
“ Thy master,” was the laconic reply.
“ What would he have with him this even
ing. He hath gone to his bed and will not be
Humph,” said the youth, tapping nervously
with his heel on the ground, “ that’s unlucky,
mine ancient portress; but say I have a pawn, a
jewel of price.”
Instantly the face disappeared, the huge chain
which helped to secure the door was heard to
fall, and sundry bolts creaked and groaned. Im
mediately after, the door opened slowly, and the
page entered, the bolts and chains being again
put in requisition, as it closed upon him.
Hobbling along the gloomy passage, and beck
oning the page to follow her, old Rachael bade
him wait for a momeut at the door of a room
which he entered. A moment after, he was
ushered into the presence of Moses, who, seated
at a table, was busily employed in the making
entries in a large account book with huge black
“ Well, what ish it you want at this late hour,”
inquired the usurer, eyeing the page with a scru
tinizing glance.
“ 1 want money, Moses,” said the youth, with
an embarrassed look, “ and men say you have
plenty—that a legion of angels are at your bid
The world is fond of falsehoods, young man.
lam not rich; lam old and poor; but what have 1
you got m that little bag I”
The page drew forth the bag from under his
girdle, and emptied its contents upon the table
sundry costly rings, a gold chain, arich carcanet
of jewels, and a clasp set with large rubies.
“ I would fain exchange these baubles for
coin,” said he.
The Jew’s eyes were instantly fixed on these
articles of bijouterie, and counting them over, he
asked his visitor whether he wished to pledge or
dispose of them at once.
“ Give me what thou canst for them,” said the
page, “ my master hath no farther need for them,
he needs the current coin.”
“ What moneys does he want for them 3” in
quired the old fellow.
“ Fifty good nobles,” replied the page.
“Fifty good noblesh!” echoed the Jew, with
feigned surprise, though he well knew the arti
cles before him were worth half as much again,
“ your master ish mad, young man.”
Vary lik.lj-,** vbo. rvcU Ujc page, ill > ly, Im
he wants fifty nobles for these ornaments, never
“But I cannot give such a sum.”
“ Then I can try some one who hath a con
science,” and the youth began to gather up the
different objects, and deposit them again in his
“ I will give you forty-five nobles,” said Mo
ses, “ and a basilard of fine almain work for
thyself, to boot.”
But he had little time to marvel at the youth’s
honesty, and seeing him deposit the last article
in the bag, he hastily took from an iron chest a
bag of gold, and began to fumble with the string
with which it was tied, muttering to himself all
the while, “ Feefty noblesh! feefty noblesh! it is
a ransom for an earl.”
The page watched him closely, and placing the
nobles in his bag, he tucked it under his girdle
and departed.
The page on regaining the street, heard the
bolts and bars again creaking under the hand of
the Jew’s housekeeper, who never wished him
good even, but seemed rather to rejoice that her
master had dispatched him so promptly. He
bounded up Bucklersbury with light step,and was
just passing into the Chepe, when the narrow en
trance of the street was darkened by a figure at
which the page “ sfaftle3TiEe~aginltyTnnig?’
It was now twilight, but he quickly recognized
the features of the sober clad citizen who was ad
vancing towards him. To a casual passenger the
tremor which shook the young man’s frame might
appear like a fit, and so indeed it was, but no one
of the ordinary kind. His heightened color
changed to ashy paleness, his knee? smote each
other, and supporting himself on his light staff,
he seemed to gasp for breath.
“ Hey dey!” cried the sober looking and grave
ly clad citizen, advancing towards the trembling
figure, whom his presence had so much alarm
“ You are ill, young sir ! prithee take my arm
for awhile and move into the Chepe, where the
air is fresher-”
The page hurriedly pulled his hood over his
face and spoke not, but he waved his hand
and shook his head in such a manner that indi
cated his unwillingness to accept the offer of as
“ What ■' you refuse to take the arm of an ho
nest citizen! thy belters have lent upon it ere now
young man.”
Still he remained silent, and with his head
averted. The citizen smiled bitterly and again
addressed him.
** "Why, what ails thee, young man, does my
prase nee offend'! I wot not that there was aught
terrible in Matthew Fitz Arnold—prithee throw
off thy hood, and this fit will leave thee in a
Ashe spoke he layed one hand on the youth’s
shoulder, and with the other made an attempt to
unclasp his hood ; but the page, evidently alarm,
ed at his pertinacity, freed himself in an instant
and laid his hand on his dagger. Master Arnold
apparently startled at this demonstratiov, recoil
ed from the object of his attentions, and at the
same moment a voice saluted him in no very
courteous accents.
“ How now, gaffer ! what has the yonth done
to offend thee.”
The citizen turned and beheld the person who
had accosted him—a tall, elegant figure gaily ap
pareled,and girt with a handsome broad belt sus
taining a sword and dagger. The half hood which
he wore was of a scarlet, richly embroidered and
set off the dark locks which clustered about his
temples. His complexion was pale, but his eye
was bright and piercing , and a beautifully form
ed aqualine nose—a rare feature in an English
face—contributed dignity to a countenance,
which many a city dame had considered passing
comely. Sir Mark Courtenay was, in fact, the
handsomest man within the city gates, and it
must also be said io his shame that he was the
most vicious. He had wasted a princely fortune
in riot and debauchery, and had been for some
time living, to use a modern phrase “on his
wits ;” which is as much as to say, in a manner
no one knew precisely how. Wealthy men of
rank had long sinca discarded him, and the citi
zens with few exceptions were ill inclined to
brook his haughty temper: but enough of Sir
Mark and h's qualities or the present. The ci
tizen whom he had addressed so rudely, was not
a man to be bullied ; he had in his youth been a
soldier, and was a man of stalwart frame
anh tried courage; he replied to the uncivil words
which had been addressed to him in a manner
that indicated something more than mere indig
“ Ho! good Sir Poppinjay ! dost thou set thy
feathers at me 3”
“ Ay, Sir Mercer!’’ was the reply, “ ’against
thee or thine —let the boy pass ; what has he done
to merit thy rudeness 3”
He is a graceless gangrel,” said the citizen,
grinding his teeth with rage ; “ and thou art an
ass, and I will crop thy ears if thou art a mala
The Knight laughed aloud, but it was a forced
laugh, and his left hand mechanically clutched
the scabbard of his sword as if to prepare for an
encounter which he saw was inevitable.
“ Ha! by the mass I cried he, “thou art mad
sir Mercer. Ass though Ibe I will not be ridden
by a euckody loul like thyself. What the good
day, are we to—”
The remainder of his speech was cut short by
the violent gestures of Master Fitz Arnold whose
rage seemed to have reached its climax, at this
last epithet. His grey eyes flashed fiercely on the
gallant who had uttered it, and then on the page,
who stood a mute, though by no means uncon
cerned in the brawl. At length his ire found vent
in a torrent of incoherent abuse,which he crown
ed by spitting in Courtenay’s handsome face.—
This was enough; swords were unsheathed in an
instant, and several ineffectual blows were ex
changed. The weapons clashed sharply, and the
page uttered aery ofalarm. Suddenly, several
citizens who had been attracted to the spot by the
noise of fighting, entered Bucklersbury, and the
foremost of them unsheathing his sword, struck
in between the two combatants, and prevented
further mischief.
“ Unhand me, and let me cut the dog’s throat,
cried Fitz Arnold, who foaming and struggling in
the grasp of his friend and neighbor Peter Neave
of the West Cheape, seemed by no means pleased
with this interruption. “ Unhand me, I say—l
would slay my brother for that vile word;” but
his friend held him fast, while Courtenay, who
had been released from the hands of the others
upon a promise that he wouldnot renew the com
bat, sheathed hissword and adjusteu his appa
“ We shall meet again,” said he in a calm tone
to his antagonist.
“ The blessed virgin grant me that blood !”
cried the mercer, “and if I don’t humble the sau
cy crest, I pray heaven mine may be forever laid
The knight uttered not a word in reply,but ma
king a very significant and provoking gesture to
the enraged citizen, he turned on his heel and
walked leisurely down Bucklersbury.
The crowd which had been drawn together by
the scuffle described in the previous chapter
quickly disappeared, and Master Neave led his
friend and Gossip into the Chepe, anxious to
know the cause of the quarrel. It should be men-
tioned, than in the height of the tumult the page
had decamped no one knew whither. Master
Fitz Arnold replied to his friend’s questions by
monosyllables only ; but when Neave stopped at
his own door, he readily accepted an invitation
to supper.
Neave was a rigid bachelor,but a good hearted
fellow, and as the two friends sat at supper.it
was evident that some sectet grief gnawed the
heart of Mathew Fitz Arnold ; he ate not, spoke
not incessantly. At length Neave pushed his
trencher from before him, and looked inquiring
ly in the face of his friend, thus addressed him.
“ Matthew Fitz Arnold, my honored friend,
what means these meagrims 3 you sigh like a lo ■
ver, though more vehemently, but you have
passed the age for such follies, and art, besides,
wedded to a woman whom most men account ex
ceeding fair—you have
Here Neave’s address was suddenly stopped,
iiv oUaorved that Fitz A mold’j Hp quivered, and
that he touched unwittingly upon a disagreeable
subject; but ere he could change the theme, the
mercer burst into tears and sobbed like a school
The tears of bearded men are of all others the
most distressing. The sorrow and the tears of
infancy are transient, and those of women are
but as the heat drops of a summer’s day—soon
dried and soon forgotten. Far different are those
which relieve, while they convulse the proud and
unyielding heart of man. So thought Peter
Neave; and as he witnessed his friend’s grief,
the tears stood in his own eyes. Neave's aston
nishment, however, was fully as great as his
“ Why, neighbor, Fitz Arnold ! why, my hon
ored friend and gossip!” cried lie, “ what means
this fit 3 I never saw a tear in thy eye before.”
The mercer lesponded by a deep and long
drawn sigh. “ Neaves, lam the most wretched
of men!”
“ Nay, nay, friend Matthew, you rave; this is
but a phantasy. Some witch hath charmed ye.”
“ Ay, witch indeed!” screamed the mercer,
starting up, and pacing hurriedly to and fro
“Wicked and wanton, as she is fair and win
ning! Peter Neave, I was once happy, and had
a virtuous wife, I am now, (he crashed a. bitter
oath,) what that vile coxcomb styled me; and
you, you Neave, stepped between me and mine
“I thought it a common street brawl, and you
know well that these popin-jays are'always fa
vored, let the quarrel end as it may,” remarked
Neave, in a tone which showed that he was not
pleased at the reflection. “Sam Basing was
fined three marks for ruffling with one o[ those
gentry last Shrovetide, and lost his thumb to
“ I would have given a hundred marks,” cried
Fitz Arnold, “to have cleft the knave to the
chin; but we shall meet yet. Neave, Neave,
thank the saints thou art a bachelor.”
Here Fitz Arnold grasped his friend’s arm
lightly, and his voice fell until it reached a
scarcely audible whisper.
“ Saw ye a boy in the crowd to-night 3” he
“ Ay, gossip, he had a purple hood, a fair strip
ling, with a lady face ; at least so it seemed to
me ; but there was little light ye wot.”
“ Whiter did he fly 3”
“Of a truth I cannot tell. I took no special
note of him.”
“ That boy—that page was a woman !” said the
mercer vehemently.
Neave gave a prolonged whe-w! and muttered
something about the city being scandalized by
such doings.
“ Thou hast more to marvel at,“ said the mer
cer, “ that woman was thy friend's wife — was
Isabel Fitz-Arnold!“
Neave looked awfully blank at this strange an
nouncement ; but recovering from the surprise
which it had occasioned him, he ejaculated, “ It
cannot be gossip, thou art dreaming 3“
“ Would to God it were so,” exclaimed Fitz-
Arnold, as his eyes again swam with tears;
“ prove to me that it is a cheat upon my senses,
and I will, wealthy though I be, exchange all I
possess for a pedlar’s puck and a light heart; but
no, no, no, ’iis too true, Neave ; all I have heard
is confirmed. Yet, beshrew me if lam not
ashamed of these tears for the loss of one so
worthless. Revenge is still left me, and revenge
I will have, though I die in achieving it."
“ I would fain believe thatthou art deceived,
said the goldsmith. “ You will bring the gallant
who has done you this shame before the mayor.”
“ No, Neave,” said the mercer, in a cool, de
termined tone, brushing away with the sleeve of
his doublet the tear that still lingered on his
cheek, “ I will not proclaim my shame at Cross
or Conduit; I will meet the villain who has
robbed me of that I valued most, and carve my
vengeance on his brazen front, or meet the death
I now covet—l am resolved. Hearken ; I have
learnt all from my wife’s maid. My name is dis
honored, and my valuables converted to the use
of that vile felon. This day—this very evening;
my graceless, in ths disguiseoFTt page,-pledged
with a Jew in Bucklerbery, sundry trink
ets, which I valued highly. Her leman, who
dared not be the bearer of them, hovered about
the neighborhood. Oh, that the crafty rogue had
conveyed them thither himself! Well, mark i 1
met the wife of my bosom in that unseemly garb
—she quailed like the partridge when the hawk
hangs in the air—but I feigned not to know her.
A grievous fit overtook her, and I proffered my
arm, when on the instant, up came my enemy ;
thou knowest the rest.”
“Nothing,” observes Lord Bacon, “ openeth
the heart like a true friend. Fitz-Anioldthus un
burdened himself of the grievous load that had
oppressed him for some days past. Neave en
deavored to console him ; but like Rachel he re
fused to be comforted, and shortly quitted his
friend’s house, with reiterated vows of vengeance
on the author of his unhappiness.
(Concluded in our next.)
2Vn InMan Qlonnril:
A Startling Incident.
The subjoined sketch of the Council of
North Bendi shows the cool courage of Col.
George R. Clarke the American Commissioner.
It is from a work by Judge Hale entitled “ the
Wildernesss and the War Path ”
An Indian council is one of the most imposing
in savage life. It is one of the few occa
sions in which the warrior exercises the right
of suffrage, his influence and his talents in a ci
vil capacity, and the meeting is conducted with
all gravity, and all the ceremonious ostentation,
with which it is possible to invest it. The mat
ter to be considered, as well as the details, are
well discussed beforehand, so that the utmost de
corum must prevail and the decision be unani
mous. The chiefs and sages,—the leaders and
orators—occupy the most conspicuous seats ; be
hind them are arranged the young braves, and
still further in the rear appear the women and
the youth as spectators. All are equally at
tentive. A dead silence reigns throughout the
assemblage. The great pipe, gaudily adorned
with feathers, is lighted, and passed from mouth
to mouth, commencing with the chief highest
in rank, and proceeding by regular gradation to
to the inferior order of braves. If two or three
nations be represented, the pipe is passed from
one party to the other, and salutations are cour
teously exchanged, before the business of the
council is opened by the respective speakers.
Whatever jealousy or party spirit may exist in
the tribe it is carefully excluded from this digni
fied assemblage, whose orderly and close atten
tion to the proper subject before them, might be
imitated with profit by some of the most enligh
tened bodies of Christendom.
It was an alarming evidence of the spitit now
prevailing among them, and of the brooding
sterm that filled their minds, that no propriety
of demeanor marked the entrance of the savages
into the council room. The usual formalities
were forgotten, or purposely dispensed with,
and insulting levity substituted in its place. The
chiefs and braves stalked in with an appearance
of slight regard, and seated themselves promis
cuously on the fioor, in front if the Commission
ers. An air of insolence marked all their move
ments, and showed an intention to dictate
terms, or to fix a quarrel upon the Americans
A dead silence rested over the group; it was
the silence of dread, distrust, and watchlulnss,
not of respect. The eyes of the savage band
gloated upon the banquet of blood that seemed
already spread out before them; the pillage of
the Fort and the bleeding scalps of the Ameri
cans, were almost within their grasp; while that
gallant little band saw the portentous nature of
the crises, and stood ready to sell their lives as
dear as possible.
The Commissioners, without noticing the dis
orderly conduct of the other party, or appearing
to have discovered their meditated treachery,
opened the council in due form. They lighted
the peace.pipe and after drawing a few whiffs,
passed it to the chiefs who received it. Col.
Clark then rose to explain the purpose for which
the treaty was ordered. With an unembarrassed
air—with the tone of one accustomed to com
mand, and the easy assurance of perfect securi
ty, and self-possession he stated that the com
missioners had been sent to offer peace to the
Shawanoes; and that the President had no wish
to continue the war : and that if the red men de
sired peace, they could have it on liberal terms.
“ If such be the will of the Shawanoes, let some
of the wise men speak. ”
A chief arose, drew up his tall person to its
full hight and assuming a haughty attitude threw
his eye contemptuously over the commissioners
and their small retinue, as if to measure tneirin
significance in comparison with his own nume
rous train, and then stalking to the table, threw
upon it two belts of wampum, of different colors
the war and peace belt.
“ We come,” he exclaimed, “ to offeryou two
belts of wampum ; they are of two different co
lors you know what they mean, you can take
which you like !” And turning upon his heel,
resumed his seat.
The chiefs drew themselves up in the pride
of having hurled defiance m the teeth of the
white man. They had offered an insult to the
renowned leader of the Long Knives, to which
they knew it would be hard for him to submit,
while they did not suppose he would dare.resent
it. The council pipe was laid aside. Those
fierce wild men gazed intently at Clark. The
Americans saw that the crises had arrived ;
they could no longer doubt that the Indians un
derstood the advantage they possessed, and were
disposed lo -uee-it-; and the-common sense of
danger caused each eye to turn on the leading
commissioner. He sat undisturbed and appar
ently careless,until the chief who had thrown the
belts upon the table, had taken his seat; then
with a small cane which he held in his hand, he
reached, as if playfully, towards the war belt,en
tangling the end of the stick in it, drew it to
wards him, and then with a twitch ot the cane
threw the belt in the midst of the chiefs. The ef
fect was electric. Every man in council, of each
party, sprang to their feet ; the savages with a
loud exclamation of astonisnment, “ Ugh ! ”
and the Americans in, expectation of a hopeless
conflict, against overwhelming numbers. Every
hand grasped a weapon.
Clark alone was unawed. The expression of
his countenance changed to a ferocious sternness,
and his eyes flashed, but otherwise he was un
moved. A bitter smile was slightly perceptible
on his lips, as he gazed on that savage band,
whose hundred eyes were bent fiercely upon him
as they stood like a pack of wolves at bay, thirs
ting for blood, and ready to rush upon him, when
ever one bolder than the rest should commencec
the attack . It was one of those moments of inde
cision, when the slightest weight thrown into
either scale will make it preponderate: a moment
mlwhich a bold man, conversant with the secrei
springs of human action, may seize upon the
minds of all. around liiin, dird sway them at hi?
will. Such a man was the intrepid Virginian
He spoke, and there was not a man to gainsa;
him—none that could return the fierce glance of
his eye. Raising his arm and waving his hand
towards the door, he exclaimed; “ Dogs you may
go!” The Indians hesitated a moment, and then
rushed tumultuousfy out of the council room.
The decision of Clark on that occasion, saved
himselt and comrades from massacre. The
plan of savages had been artfully laid he had read
it in their features and conduct, as plain as if it
had been written on a scroll before him. He
met it in a manner unexpected ; the crises was
brought on sooner than was expected, and on t
principle too that, by which when a line of batth
is broken the dismayed troops fly before ordet
canbe restored. The new and sudden turn given
to the proceedings by the energy of Clark, con
founded the Indians, and before the broken
thread of their schemes of treachery could b<
reunited they were panic struck. They had
come preprared to browbeat, to humble and
then to destroy;'they looked tor remonstrance and
altercation, for the luxury of drawing the toils
gradually around their victims ; ol beholding
their agony and degradation, and bringing on
the final catastrophe by an appointed signal,
when the scheme shoud be ripe. They had ex
pected to see on our part great caution, a skill
ful playing off, an unwillingness to take offence,
which were gradually goaded into an alarm, irri
tation and submission. The cool contempt with
which their first insult was thrown back into
their teeth surprised them, and they were foiled
by the self-possession of one man. They had no
Tecumseh among them, no master-spirit to
change their plan so as to adopt anew exi
gency; and those braves, who in many a batth
had shewn themselves to be men of true valor,
quailed before the moral superiority, which as
sumed the vantage ground of aposition they could
not comprehend, and therefore feared to assail
Qllje Noble 0on:
Or. Merit Rewarded,
“ You are too parsimonious, Henry,” said Mr.
D. to one of his cleiks, as they were together in
the counting room one morning ; “ give me
leave to say you do not dress sufficiently genteel
to appear as a clerk in a fashionable store. Hen
ry’s face was suffused with a deep blush, and in
spite ot his efforts to suppress it, a tear trembled
on his manly cheek. “Did I not know that you)
salary was sufficient to provide more genteel ha
biliments,” continued Mr. D., “I would increase
“ My salary is sufficient, amply sufficient,sir,”
replied Henry, in a voice'choked with emotion ;
but with that proud independence of feeling
which poverty had not been able to divest him—
His employer noticed his agitation andimmedia
tely changed the subject.
Mr. D , was a man of immense wealth and am
ple benevolence—he was a widower, and had bui
one child, a daughter, who was the pride of his
declining years. She was not as beautiful as an
angel, or as perfect as Venus ; but the goodness,
the innocence, the intelligence of her counte
nance! and you had but to become acquainted
with, to admire, to love her. Such was Caroline
Delaney when Henry first became acquainted
with her. No wonder that he soon worshipped
at her shrine ; no wonder that he soon loved her
with a deep and devoted affection; and reader,
had you known him, you would not have won
dered that love was soon returned, for their souls
were congenial, cast in virtue’s purest mould. —
Henry was the very soul of honor, and although
he perceived with pleasure that he was not indif
ferent to Caroline, still felt he that he must con
quer the passion that warmed his bosom. “1
must not endeavor to win her young and artless
heart,” thought he. “I am pennyless, and can
not expect that her father would ever consent to
our union—he has ever treated me with kindness
and I will not be ungrateful.” Thus he reason
ed ; thus he heroically endeavored to subdut
what he considered an ill fated passion. Caro
line had many suitors and some who were fully
worthy of her; but she refused all their overture!
with a decisive firmness. Iler father wondered
at her conduct, yet would not thwart her inclina
nations. He was in the decline of life,and wish
ed to see her happily settled ere he quitted th:
stage of existence. It was not long ere he sus
pected that young Henry was the cause of her in
difference to others,the evident pleasure she took
in hearing him praised; the blush that overspread
their cheeks whenever their eyes met, all server
to convince the old gentleman, who had not for
gotten that he was once young himself—that they
felt more than common interest in each other’. 1 -
welfare. He forbore making any remarks on th<
subject, but was not so displeased at the sup
position as the pennyless Henry would have ima
Henry had now been about one year in his em
ploy. Mr. D, knew nothing of hisfamily, but
his strict integrity, his irreproachable morals, his
pleasing manner, all conspired to make him es
teem him highly. He was proud of Henry, and
wished him to appear in dress as well as anyone.
He had often wondered at the scantiness of his
wardrobe, for though he dressed with the most
scrupulous regard to neatness his clothes were
almost threadbare. Mr. D. did not think that
this proceeded from a niggardly disposition, and
he determined to broaoh the subject, and if pos
sible ascertain the cause. This he did in the
manner above related.
Soon after this conversation took place, Mr.D.
left home on business. As he was returning,
and riding through a beautiful little village he
alighted at the door of a cottage and requested
a drink; The mistress,{with an ease and polite
ness which, convinced him she had not always
been the humble cottager, invited him to enter.
He accepted the invitation, and here a scene of
nnvertv n nd neatness presented itself, such as he
never had before witnessed. The furniture which
eonsisted of nothing more than was absolutely
necessary, was so exquisitely clean it gave
charms tb poverty, and cast an air of comfort all
around. , A venerable looking old man who had
not seemed to notice Mr. D., sat leaning on his
staff, his clothes were "clean and whole, but so
patched you could have scarcely told which was
ihe original piece.
“ This is your father, I presume,” said Mr. D.
addressing the mistress of the house.
“ It is,sir.”
“ He seemsto be quite aged.”
“Heis in his eighty third year; and has sur
vived all his children excepting myself.”
“ You have seen better days 3”
“ I have ; my husband was wealthy—but false
friends ruined him ; he endorsed notes to agreat
amount, which stripped us of nearly all our pro
perty, and one misfortuae followed another, un
til we were reduced to complete poverty. My
husband did not long survive his losses, and two
of my children soon followed him.”
“ Have you any remaining children 3”
“ I have one, who is my only support. My
health is so feeble that I cannot do much and my
father being blind needs great attention. My son
conceals from my knowledge the amount of his
salary, b’ut I am convinced he sends me nearly all
if not the whole of it. ’
“ Then he is not at borne with you 3”
“.No, sir, he is clerk fora merchant in New
“ Clerk for a merchant in New York > pray
what is your son’s name 3”
“ Henry W .”
“ Henry W t” reiterated Mr. D , “ why
lie is my clerk: I left him at my house not a fort
night since.”
Here followed a succession of enquiiies, which
evinced an anxiety and solicitude that none but
a mother can feel; to all of which, Mr. D , re
plied satisfactorily.
“ You know our Henry 3” said the old man,
raising his head from his staff, “well, sir, then
you know as worthy a lad as ever lived ; God
bless him for the goodness to his poor old grand
father, ” he added, in a tremulous voice, while
the tears ran down his cheeks.
“ He is a worthy fellow, to be sure, said Mr D.
rising and placing a well filled purse into the
hands of the old man, “ he is a worthy fellow,
and shall not want for friends.”
“ Noble boy,” said he mentally, as he was ri
ding leisurely along, ruminating on his late in
terview ; noble boy, he shall not want for wealth
to enable him to distribute happiness. I believe
he loves my z gir), and if he does he shall have her
and my property into the bargain.’
Filled with this project, and determined if pos
sible to ascertain the true spirit of their feelings
towards each other, he entered the breakfast
room the morning after hia arrival at home, “tso
Henry is about to leave us and goto England to
try his fortune,” he carelesily observed.
“ Henry about to leave us !” dropping the work
she held in her hands, said Caroline, “ about to
leave us and go to England,” she added in a tone
which evinced the greatest interest.
“ To be sure, and what if he is, child 3”
“ Nothing, sir, nothing, only I thought we
should be rather lonesome,” she replied, turn
ing away to hide the tears she could not sup
“ Tell me, Caroline,” said Mr. D, tenderly
embracing her, “tell me, do you love Henry 3 you
know I wish your happiness, my child, I have
ever treated you with kindness, and you never
hid anything from your father until now.”
“ Neither will I now,” she replied, hiding her
face inhis bosom. “I do most sincerely esteem
him; but do not for worlds tell him so, for he ne
ver said it was returned.”
“ I will soon find that out, and without telling
him too, ’’replied the father, leaving the room.
“ Henry,” said he, as he entered the counting
house, “ you expect to visit the country shortly,
do you not 3”
“ Yes, sir, in about four weeks.”
“ If it will not be too inconvenient,” rejoined
Mr D., “ I should like to have you defer it a
week or two longer.”
“ It will be no inconvenience, sir, and ifit will
oblige you, I will wait with pleasure.”
“ It will certainly oblige me, for Caroline is to
be married in about five weeks, and I would not
miss having you attend the wedding.”
“ Caroline to be married, sir.” said Henry
■starting, as if by an electrical shock. ‘ Caroline
to be married ! is it possible 3”
“ To be sure it is, but what is there wonderful
in that 3”
“ Nothing, sir, it is rather sudden, rather un
expected, that’s all.”
“It is rather sudden, to be sure, replied Mr.
D., “ but 1 am an old man and wish to see her
have a protector ; and as the man of her choice
is well worthy of her, I see no use in waiting any
longer, and am very glad you can stay io the
“ I cannot, sir, indeed I cannot,” replied Hen
ry, forgetting what he had previously said.
“You cannot,” rejoined Mr. D., “why you
just said you would.”
“ Yes, sir, but business requires my presence
in the country, and I must go.”
“ But you said it would put you to no inconve
nience, that you would wait with pleasure.”
“ Command me in any thing else, sir, but, in
this respect I cannot oblige you,” said Hen
ry, rising and walking the floor with rapid
Poor fellow, he had thought his,' passiou sub
dued ; but when he saw that Caroline was so
soon, so irrecoverably to become anothers, the
latent spark burst forth into an unextinguishable
flame ; and he found it in vain to endeavor to
conceal his emotion.
The old gentleman regarded him with a -look
ofearnestness—“Now Henry,” said he, tell me
frankly, do you not love my girl 3”
“ I will be candid with you, sir, replied Henry,
conscious that his agitation had betrayed him,
“ had I the fortune such as she merits, as you,
sir, have a right to expect, I should think myself
the happiest of men, could I gain her love.”
“ Then she is yours,” cried the delighted old
man. “ Say not a word about property my boy,
true worth is better than riches ; I was only try
ing you Henry, and Caroline will never be mar
ried to any other than yourself.
The transition from despair to happiness was
great. For a moment Henry remained silent,
but his look spoke volumes. At last—
“ I scorn to deceive you, sir,” said he, “ 1 am
poorer than what you suppose—l have a mother
and a grandfather who are—
“ I know it, I know it all,’* said Mr. D. inter
rupting him ; ** I know the reason of your parsi
mony, as it is called, and honor you for it, it was
that which first put it into my head! to give you
Caroline, so she shall be yours, and God bless
you both !”
Shortly after this conversation, Henry avowed
his love to Caroline, soliciting her hand, and it is
needless to say that he did not solicit in vain
Caroline would have deferred their union until
the succeeding spring, but her father was inexo
rable. He supposed he would own one falsehood
le said, and they would willingly have him shoul
ler two ; but it was too much and he would not
mdure it. He had told Henry she was going to
>e married in five weeks, and he would not for
feit his word ; but perhaps,added he, apparently
recalling himself, and turning to Henry, perhaps
we shall have to defer it after all, foryop have
important business in the country about that
“ Be merciful, sir” said Henry smiling, ‘‘l did
not wish to be witnesssto the sacrifice of my own
“ I am merciful,” replied the old gentleman;
“and torthut reason would notwish to put youto
the inconvenience of staying. Yousaid thatyou
would willingly oblige me, but you could not, in
deed you could not.”
“ Youhave beenyoung sir,” said Henry.
“ I know it,” replied he laughing heartily, ‘but
I am afraid too many of us old folks forget it,—
however, if you can postpone your journey, I sup.
pose we must have a wedding.”
We have only to add, that the friends of Hen.
ry were sent for, and that blest with the filial
love of Henry and Caroline, the old people passed
the rest of their days in peace and happiness.
The Stage Supernumerary.
The following sketch is taken from a work by
G. A. A. Beckett, entitled the Quizziology ofihe
British drama. It is an amusing account of that
class of “actors” who do the heavy work of the
stage, but whose dignity will not permit them to
speak Alas! there is not in the range of dra
matc character a more striking instance of the
weakness of theatrical humor thna is presented
by the Supernumerary ; whose career from the
last bar of the overture to the speaking of the
“tag,” is one continued course of feeble minded
vascillation, abject subservience, or abominable
treachery. He is led away by a bit of bombast
from any ranting hero who will ask him if he is
a man, or a Briton or a Roman, or whether the
blood of his ancestors runs through his recreant
veins, and he will agree at a moment’s notice, to
take part in any desperate enterprise. He will
appear at one moment as the friend of freedom,
dressed in green baize, pointing with a property
sword to the sky borders,and joining some twen
ty others in an oath to nd his country of the ty
rant ; but he will be found five minutes afterward
rigged out in cotton velvet, as a seedy noble in
the suite of the very identical tyrant. He will
swear allegiance to the house of Hapsburgh at
half past seven, and by the time the second piece
comes in, he will be marching as one of a select
party of the friends of freedom who have taken
an oath to roll the house of Hapsburgh in
ihe dust. Perhaps, like a perfidious villain as he
is, he will be carrying a banner inscribed with
the words, “ Down with the Tyrant,” on one
side, while on the other—which he keps conceal
ed in order to keep his treachery from the au
dience—are emblasoned the arms of the house
ofHasburgh of which the alleged oppressor is the
chief. On the field of battle lhe conduct of the
stage supernumerary is contemptible in the ex
treme ; for he either falls down before he is hit,
or takes a mean advantage of a fallen foe by
striking an attitude, with the loot resting on the
chest of one of the vanquished enemy. Some
times the supernumerary gives himself up from
seven until ten to a reckless career ofcrime; ca
rousing in a canvass cave, or plundering paste
board caravans, except at intervals during the
evening, when, perhaps, to swamp the voice of
conscience, he drinks half and half in the dres
sing room with his wicked accomplices.
The face of the Supernumerary generally shows
the traces of a long career of crime and burnt
cork; nor is there a feature upon which remorse
or rouge has not committed ravages. He fre
quently has his arms or legs bare, and his skin
nr fleshing is frequently too large for him, and
forms fold of a most extraordhiaiy kind at the
joints of his knees or elbows. Sometimes his
chest is left bare, and his skin as far as the neck,
appears to be of a rich orange color,but the throat
which is cut off, as it were, by a distinct line, is
ofa different shade altogether. Sometimes when
the scene is laid in India the Supernumerary has
his skin tied on to him ; from which it would
seem to be a theatrical theory that the darkness
of color 1 peculiar to the negro race is owing the
use of leggins and waistcoats of black worsted.—
The Stage Supernumerary is something like the
antelope in his facility of descending a precipice,
and he will make his way with the greatest ease
among rocks that appear inaccessable. He will
come from the very highest mountain pass in two
or three, minutes, and he undertakes needless
difficulty by going a round about way and traver
sing the ground several times over; though he
knows that the remotest peak is not a minute’s
walk from the footlights. Though the Stage su
pernumerary is frequently’ a ruffian while upon
the scene, he is exceedingly harmless and hum
ble directly he gets to the wing ; when he isglad
to creep into any quiet corner, to avoid being or
dered out of the way by the prompter, tumbled
over by the call-boy, and sworn at as well as
knocked down by a blow from a flat by one or
two of the carpenters.”
Mrs. Pace.—The following tribute to this no
ble lady is Irorn the pen of the editor of the
United States Gazette :
The table on which I am now writing, is cov
ered with a newspaper, in which a short article
gives an account of the death of Captain Page,
late of the Army of Occupation, and the subjoin
ed paragraph has tw’enty times arrested my at
tention :
“ He was accompanied by his devoted wife,
who continued to nurse him with true conjugal
tenderness, denying herself all relief and rest,
until she was taken exhausted from his bedside,
a few hours before his death.”
There is a mark of greatness set upon our
country, a lofty destiny which she is to fulfil.
Every effort ofher infant struggle was Herculean.
Her cradle exhibited the serpent strangling of
the young Alcides, and her youth is marked by
all the successful efforts which distinguished the
labors of the hydra-quelling hero. May she
avoid his end, and when she wraps herself about
with the coverings of newly acquired territory,
may she be spared the fatal consequences of that
But it is not in the greatness of military
achievements, nor in the benefit of mechanical
invention and labors, that our nation is fulfilling
a great destiny. There is a loveliness that ac
companies her strength, a beauty that decorates
her full proportions. The acanthus gathers at the
summit of the massy pillar, and its foliage and
flowers are delicately entwined, so that the su
perstructure of our institutions seems to rest as
much upon the beauty as upon the strength of the
From the moment that the wife of Captain
Page started for the Sonth to meet and soothe
her wounded husband, she has been the object
of special consideration; and her movements
have been noted with an interest not less than
those which the action of the army excited, tho’
of a different character. From that moment,
too, she lost the right of entire seclusion. Her
name and her interests became matters of public
consideration. Her life, which was before a part
of the life of a public servant, became now the
shield and protection of a public benefactor. In
stead of being an appendage she became a por
tion, and rose from the condition of a wife of an
officer, to that of a “ daughter of the Republic.”
Henceforth it is to be no encroachment upon fe
male “ retiracy,” to mention her name to the
world, to place her movements or her condition
on public record. She is a part of the jewels in
the chaplet of the Republic, and her safety and
her welfare must be a part of the public care.
Isreal had her Deborrah and her Judith—France
boasts her Joan and her Lavalete. Two of them
“unsexed” themselves in the excitement of
battle ; one stained her hand with the blood of
the unresisting, and the third risked nothing by
her successful efforts. But the American heroine
with the eclat of a female warrior, rushed for
ward to the place of peril, to share the danger,
and to have all the care, of a military hospital
near the field of battle, and in a most pestiferous
climate. She asked forno distinction, she tho‘t
of no consequences; her own heart answered to
the tidings of her husband's disaster. In the
pomp and display of his military command ; in
the flush of his manhood, and the firm step of
pride and hope, she sent him forth with her bles
sing and shrunk back with the delicacy and fear
of a woman, deeming it unmeet that her face
should be seen in the crowd, and thinking that
she would do some treason to female delicacy
by gazing after the host. That is woman—a
part of woman. But when afar, amid the tumult
of the camp, the rudeness of border warfare, that
husband is stretched out mutilatod and depend
ant upon aid almost for
sprang forward regardless of danger and uncon
scious of weakness. “ God do so to me, and
more also, if I forsake thee,” was the language
of her heart and of her conduct. That was wo
man—a part of woman! And she is an American
woman, a part of the priceless wealth of our
land, the home jew'els of the American name.—
And shall she not be treasured 3 She has served
the country, and that country should be grateful.
If this generous woman, who has done so much
to illustrate the virtues of American wives,
should staitle at the theught of a public consid
eration for what she deemed ihe private impulses
of her heart; if she should say, in exercising
the virtues of a wife, what have I done for my
country 3 let that country answer, the heroes
ot Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma are my
children, and inasmuch as you have done good
to one of them, you have done it unto me.
"Woman’s confidence —The fairest and bright
est trait in the character of woman, is yet the
greatest source of her sorrows and her ruin.
There is nothing more pure, more holy, than
that instinctive, confiding spirit, which leads a
fair young girl to pour out the treasures of her in
nocent heart at the feet of one whom her soul
loves, and who to her, is all that is good, up
right and honorable The heart of woman is
ever prone to love; it is the pervading, govern
ing feeling of a woman’s heart. She must have
some one to love, some one to confide in, to look
up to, and when she once pours out the garnered
treasures of her affections upon an object, no
time, nor sorrow, no blighting of hopes, no
frowns of the world can root out the pure and
holy impulse, but it nestles within the secret
cells of the heart, and abides there till death.
How often is the soul pained and the roek of
feeling struck until the waters of pity gush freely
forth, to see some young spirit bowing in all the
simple-hearted purity and confidence of an inno
cent mind, at some one of clay, which the fancy
had decked and ornamented with all that was
virtuous and good, when the gush ot love had
blinded the judgment, and hidden from her view
the rock which was to wreck her forever And
when me full truth came stealing darkly upon
her, and the iron entered her soul with all its
ghastly pictures and withering thoughts, how
true, how fatally true did she yet turn, and
through weal and woe, through vice and shame,
cling with the desperation of woman’s love to
him who was all unworthy of a sentiment so
near angelic. And then the world—the fastidious
perfection exacting world, looks coldly on and
cares nought for the agony of a spirit broken and
perishing ; but its finger is raised and another
shaft sped into that bleeding bosom, while with
prudish tongue it recounts all which should be
forgotten, yet forgets all that should be remem
bered. There is none of the mildness of mercy,
nothing of pity or palliation in the world’s judg
ment, but with unsparing lash, it drives the poor
sufferer, betrayed by the best feelings of her na
ture, deeper down into the abyss of grief, and
claims her there until the grave gives her spirit
freedom once more. This no overwrought pic
ture, no wandering of the fancy, but it is a sor
rowful truth, one that ought to be true no longer.
We see such cases almost daily, and he must be
worse than a brute who can regard them without
emotion. Love, indeed, is the fairest and holiest
sentiment of a woman’s heart. It was designed
to bless—but, alas! how often does it prove a
sorrow and a blight! —ZJosC. Slui.
A Mysterious Box.—We find the following
account of the opening of a suspicious package,
in one of our exchanges:
A long, nanow, mysterious-looking, rough
pine box arrived at our office a few days since—
from nobody knows where—directed to “one of
us” at present on his way to the wars. The card
expressly requested that the box might be kept
dry, and one particular side kept uppermost wuh
care. The article was safely deposited in a cor
ner of our office “on end,” and has been daily
an object of curiosity and speculation ; and nu
merous have been the conjectures and opinions
as to the probable nature of its contents. Opin
ions varied; one thought it contained “some
sort of a saw” another “ Mexican trophies,”
another “the sword and epauletts of the ‘Hon’
ble Wm. Linn Brown, from the Spanish Main,’ ”
and another “Santa Anna’s resurrected] other
leg.” Yesterday the mail failed ; the subject of
the box was broached ; and in solemn conclave
it was determined to broach the box. One reck
less individual suggested that it contained “ live
rattle snakes,” which created a momentary pa
nic, and implements of defence were in immedi
ate requisition. OurEvelike curiosity had to be
satisfied, however, even if the serpent should
come to punish us like our first mother—and
“Sandy” was summoned, with a hatchet, to
knock off the cover. After being fully apprized
of the danger of the experiment, he commenced
operations, superintended and directed by divers
individuals, who had mounted upon chairs and
tables, in distant parts of the room, for safety.
A portion of the cover was started—the excite
ment was intense. We imagined we heard a
host of serpents hissing and wriggling—it was a
water cart in the street! “Sandy” pried open
the cover to get a sight into the interior, but in
stantly snatched out the hatchet and commenced
hammering in the nailsagain, exclaiming, {while
his eves almost started from their sockets: “ De
Lord ! ’Z?s a snake, as sure ‘as you’re alive I” A
shriek of laughter, excited at the ludicrous con
duct of the operator, was all the sympathy he re
ceived ; and after having discovered by sundry
shakings that nothing living was within, the cov
er was taken off with much trepidation and dis
closed two enormous rattlesnake skins, stuffed,
and full six feet long. One of them was nine
inches in circumference m the largest part, had
a rattle of ten joints, and must have been quite
seven feet long when alive. The other probably
a female was quite as long, but not so large.—
3 hose who have seen them concur with us in
the opinion that they are “ pretty respectable
A Farmer’s Life.—l wish I could see in all
farmer’s a disposition to magnify their calling,
but I have been grieved in many a farm house
to listen to lamentations over what they termed
their “ hard lot.” I have heard the residents on
a noble faun, all paid for, talk about drudgery,
and never having their work done, and few or no
opportunities for the children ; and I have been
especially sorry to hear females lament over the
hard fate of some promising youth of eighteen
who was admirably filling up his duties and train
ing .himself for extensive usefulness and in
fluence. They have made comparisons between
his situation—coarsely clad, and working hard—
and that of some college cousin, or some young
man who has clerked it in a store till the boy has
become dissatisfied, and begged off from his true
interests and happiness.
I am conversant with no truer scenes of enjoy
ment than I have witnessed in American farm
houses, and even in log cabins, where the father
under the influence of enlightened Christianity,)
and sound views of life, has gone with his fami
ly, and taken up his abode in the woods.* The
land is his own, and he has every inducement to
improve it: he finds a healthy employment for
himself and family, and is never at a loss for ma
terial to occupy his mind. I do not think the phy
sician has more occasion for research than the
farmer ; the proper food of vegetables and ani
mals will alone constitute a wide and lasting field
of investigation.
If the establishment of agricultural societies
and exhibitions, should have the effect of esta
blishing one farmer in every district to manage
his land and stock upon the best principles of
husbandry,there would be a wonderful and spee
dy alteration in the products of the earth, be
cause comparison would force itself upon his
friends and neighbors, and his example would be
certainly beneficial, for prejudice itself will give
way to profit.
Duelling punctilio.—The petty character of
the difficulties which sometimes lead to deadly
combat, ought to throw the whole system into ri
dicule. Some one has collected a few examples,
and recounts them as follows: Col. Montgomery
was shot in a duel about a dog; Captain Ramsay
in one about a servant; Mr. Fetherstone in one
about a recruit; Sterne’s father in one about a
goose ; and another gentleman in one about “an
acre of anchovies;” one officer was challenged
tor merely asking his opponent to enjoy the se
cond goblet; and another was compelled to fight
about a pinch of snuff; General Barry was chal
lenged by aCapt. Smith, for declining a glass of
wine with him at dinner in a steamboat, al
though the general had plead as an excuse, that
wine invariably made him sick ; and lieutenant
Crowther lost his life in a duel because he was
refused admittance to a club of pigeon-shooters.
Blessings of toil -The following is an ex
tract troni a recent speech of the Honorable Dan
iel Webster, delivered in the United States Sen
ate. It contains much for serious consideration
—especially for those who are fretting because
they do not live in ease and luxury : “ Sir, it is
employment that makes the people happy. ’ Sir,
this great truth ought never to be forgotten; it
ought to be placed upon the title-page of every
book on political economy intended for America
and such countries as America. It ought to be
placed in every farmer’s almanac. It ought to
head tl.e columns of every farmer’s magazine
and mechanic’s magazine. It should be pro
claimed every where, notwithstanding what we
hear of the usefulness—and I admit the high
usefulness, of the cheapness of food—notwith
standing that, the great truth should be pro
claimed everywhere, should be made into a pro
verb, if it Could, that— thoro io work for the
hands and the men there will be work for their teeth
Where there is employment, there will be bread
And in a country like our own, above all others
will this truth hold good—a country like ours
where, with a great deal of spirit and activity
among the masses, if they can find employment
there is always great willingness for labor If
they can obtain fair compensation for theirlabor
they will have good houses, good clothing, and
good food, and means of educating their chil
dren, from their labor, that labor will be cheer
ful, and they will be a contented, and a happy
Civilization.—The progress of mechanical
science, and its fusion of nations one with ano
ther, will assuredly render war as absurd and
impossible, by and bye, as it would be for Man
chester to fight with Birmingham, or Holborn
Hill with the Strand. Before the light of civili
zation, many crimes have ceased, many maladies
have disappeared, and the life of man has in
creased in a manner commensurate with his en
joyments. Human nature has become less cruel.
The scaffold is not so often used; lhe stake is
not visible; the faggot is no longer lighted; the
various instruments of torture, with the rack and
wheel, are preserved only as objects of curiosity
in our museums, and when seen, are beheld
with a grateful adoration to Providence, that hu
man nature is no longer subject to such inflic
tions and such abomination. Knowledge is now
freed from the monopoly of cloistered indolence
or exclusive societies. A bright prospect opens
to our view. The energies of the human race
appear in the main to have taken the right direc
tion—a sense of justice pervades the communi
ty; the minds of men are opened; information
is continually increased, and the superior extent
of talent displayed by the journalists of our time,
when compared with former days, is manifested’
Numbers now can obtain infoimation and enjoy
literature, to whom the new mechanical powers,
now brought into general use afford sufficient
means and leisure to acquire knowledge.
The Mexicans.—A correspondeut of a New
Orleans paper gives the following account of the
mongrel character of the soldiers of Mexico :
“ Were these indeed the brave soldiers of the Blh
and 9th, who had about them their ghastly titles,
that showed they had been in the thickest of the
fight 1 Were these men Mexicans ? Were such
varieties of colors all equal in the social condi
tion ? Even so. The Castilian with auburn hair,
the swarthy Indian with straight, the dark negro
with kinked, and with all their intermediate
mixtures lay side by side, all Mexicans, all of the
RAme svmnathies. filing, language. All moved
in their winding sheets, evidently equal in mind
tend body. To the American, who makes dis
tinction in colors, this strange mixture of races
in one people, causes the greatest surprise.
Their countenances were hideous from natural
physiognomy, every style ot expression was re
presented; lhe African with low forehead and
protruding lips, the besotted Indian, his straight
hair hanging over his regular features, giving it
additional ferocity; the Maylay-looking mongrel
with tawny skin, slight moustache, and cold
blooded treacherous eyes; the low,cunning, yet
intelligent brutish white man. All these various
faces peered out from among loose folds of white
cloth that fall about them, giving them the look
of Arabs, or some eastern crew of a pirate ship.
And yet these were all Mexicans, and might
have been, without offence to that people, blood
relations, members of the same family.”
The Moon is not inhabited. Dr. Scoresby of
Ireland, whose admirable discourses on Astro
nomy have been arranged after the examination
of the solar system through the magnificent in
strument of Lord Rosse, remarks in a recent lec
ture, that with regard to the lunar orb, every ob
ject on the moon’s surface is now distinctly to
be seen; and he had no doubt under favorable
circumstances, it would be so with objects sixty
feet in hight. On its surface were craters of ex
tinct volcanoes, rocks and masses of stones al
most innumerable. He had no doubt that if such
a building as he was then in were upon the sur
face of the moon, it would be rendered distinctly
visible by these instruments. But there were
no signs of habitations such as ours—no vestiges
of architectural remains to shew that the moon
is or ever was inhabited by a race of mortals si
milar to ourselves. It presented no appearance
which could lead to the supposition that it con
tained anything like the green fields and lovely
verdure of this beautiful world of ours. There
was no water visible, not a sea or a river, or
even the measure of a reservoir for supplying
town or fictory—all seemed desolate.—Hence
would arise the reflection in the mind ofa.Chris
tian philosopher why had this devastation been?
It might be further inquired—was it a lost world?
Had it suffered for its transgration ?—Analogy
might suggest the question—had it met the fate
which Scripture told us was reserved for our
world ? It was obvious that all w’as mysterious
The following is a “ mean contemptible
slander of course ; and we only place it on record
to show how far peoples evil tongues will go :
“The number and size of skirts, or petticoats
grass, cloth, coffee bags—now worn by the la
dies of Boston, is absolutely frightful— amount
ing in some instances, as we are credibly in
formed, to no less than thirty three immense en
velopes I The weight of these unnatural cover
ings being very great, it has been found necessa
to shorten them in length, to keep them from
dragging on the ground ; and a fashionable wo
man now bears a striking resemblance to a com
mon hogshead, marching off on turkey’s legs.—
It is said that duringthe exhibition of fireworks,
jon Boston Common, on the 4th of July, a young
woman dressed in the extreme of fashion, was
mistaken by some boys for a public tent, and they
had actually crawled some distance under the
canvass before they discovered their mistake I
A great invention. —An Irish soldier (says
the Reveille,) was noticed at Resaca de la Pal
ma, on the battle of lhe 9th, performing prodigies
of valor, and around his body was swathed a
bulk, as if he had distributed the contents of his
knapsack about him for more easy transporta
tion. On he dashed into the very teeth of dan
ger, and was among the first who broke into the
Mexican camp. Here, while standing among a
group of comrades, some one of them inquired
what he had wrapped around him. “ Is it this ?”
says he; “och, by Saint Patrick, but that’s a
great invintion intirely; didn’t I walk into
into them yallow rascals without the laste ap
prehension, for I had my air tight life preserver,
(flowed up to its full tension, and divil a one of
their bullets could do peas to me I”
A real treasure.—Virtue is certainly the
most noble and sure possession that a man can
have. Beauty is worn out by time or impaired
by sickness; riches lead youth to destruction ra
ther than welfare, and without prudence is soon
lavished away: while virtue alone, the only
good that is ever durable, always remains with
the person that has once entertained her. She is
preferable to wealth and a noble extraction.
Beautiful moral —Look not mournfully into
the past—it comes not back again. Wisely im
prove the present—it is thine. Go forth to meet
the shadowy future, without fear and with a
manly heart.
A poet puzzled.—A celebrated English poet
once advertised that he would supply “ lines for
any occasion.” A provincial sought him shortly
after, and wanted a line strong enough to catch

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