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The Delaware Tyeekly Advertiser, 0 * AND FARMER'S JOURNAL. VOL. I ] DEVOTED TO GENERAL SCIENCE, LITERATURE, MECHANISM. MANUFACTURES, AGRICULTURE, POLITICAL ECONOMY, ^ND CURRENT NEWS. Price of Bub.cm>tioi\ $2, In advance, to those who pay postage, and $2 25 to those who? do not, or »3 30 if paid within tile year, and R5 if paid at the end ofthe year. 5 [No. 33. Ç Advertisements will be conspicuoifely inserted at the customary price«._A liberal C deduction will be made to subscribers who msy advertise by the quarter MAY t, 18ï8. year. PUBLISHED EVERY THURSDAY, BY W. A. MENDENHALL. iVo. 81, Mar litt -Street, Wilmington, Del. \ POETRY. The following lines are from the pen of a young man erly resided in Wilmington. They scribed to the memory of hi* sister, who died and was buried here a few years ago. For the Delaware Advertiser. lccy'-s grave. Faraway o'er the turbulent wave. Far away from this soft azure sky. The zephyrs around the sad grave Of my Lucy at eventide sigh; Full oft to that grave, when on high The pale moon looks pensive and clear, On the light wings of fancy I fly. And shed o'er my Lucy a tear. T-he same moon looks down on the place Of her placid and peaceful repose, And the sun, when retiring apace, His parting beam over it throws ; The tall summer grass on it grows, Gently waving when light winds ' And the night-hawk, al evening's sweet close, Hovers round it and plaintively cries. in England, but who form in is of of a is At for er, are do evil eral til the rate his he And there, o'er my lov'd Lucy's grave, In battle the thunder clouds meet, And round it the wintry winds rave. And the hurricanes dismally beat; Yet thy slumber, my Lucy, is sweet As the spring flower» that o*er thee bloôm, And as silent and soft thy retreat, w that falls As the light thy tomb. Yes, my Lucy, far q/fi is thy grave From the home of thy infantine glee. But tho' thou art o'er the wide wave, Thou art oft times remembered by me; For cold must my young bosom be To.forget thy affecti And those virtues and graces in thee That made thee beloved every where. and care, But thy spirit is flown To those That But the pure and the humble like thee« And the thought isconsöling to Thou art gone tothat hippier sphere. For life «journey is rough as the sea And embittered with many a tear. Fare thee well then, my Lucy, farewell, Long shall peace finger round thy last home, -.-»•While the night-hawk above »«-«ms to tall at thy premature doom— thee bloom— The zephyrs at evening shall sigh— beams flow down to thy tomb From their beautiful fount in their sky. And the Brandywine Romantic and wild as of yore; And at night when the winds Thy requiem shall be its deep Fare-thee-well, my lov'd Lucy, A long and a fervent farewell,— , when my journey is o'er, In the land where the purified dwell. to the skies, regions from misery free, not for the brave or the wise. Of her The spring flowers shall And the thee shall flow > blow, moi I, M 1 - j. n. THE UNKNOWN DEAD. Before the discovery of America by Colum bus, among many tokens indicative of the exis tence of another continent, Dr. Robertson men tions tile following: "Canes of an enormous size had been flouting on the waves, which resem bled those described by Ptolemy as productions peculiar to the East Indies. After a course of westerly winds, trees torn up by the often driven upon the coasts of tho Azores; and at one time the bodies of two men with singu lar features, resembling neither the inhabitants of Europe nor Africa, were cast ashore there." Ye dead of an unknown distant land, What do you here on our sea-girt strand? Have the wild waves torn you from your home In a world like ours, or do ye come From Ocean's cavcm'd bed? Is the hope of the venturous seaman true, That points to a far coasts shadowy blue, O'er pathless seas, whose billows lie Dark as the shores of futurity? Awake, and say> yc Dead! We have seen the tall majestic Borne prostrate on the heaving main: And trees up-rent by the western blast, The rolling tide* of our isles have cast,— These shew of verdant bowers. But ye, though your features bear no trace Of kindred with our fairer Ye tell us of breathing sentient forms Haunting those groves o'er the ocean's storms— Of human griefs like ours. fate But ft Awake, awake!—But those dusk forms lay Cold silent things in the sun'9 Wound in the coils of their long black hail 1 , In death's dark, dreamless slumber there: 4- Unwitting that strange ,, The gaze of inquiring wonderment: 'If Nor saw they that isle of their exiled graves, ^Norhuard they the hoarse assassin waves Booming along in their sullen pride, * ray. o'er them bent as in the it Aa the deep sea called back her rebellious tide. Ye are mute—still mute—but ye are here, Sad tokens of some existent sphere, Where never bark of our ancient world ^umphantly her white sails hath unfurled, Nor teen her pennons stream, voices that told in days of yore Of,another clime, a far distant shore— The fight of ssienca that then was viewed As a phantom lamp, by fools pursued, a dream Mpi \NCHOI Y There is m melancholy, no doubt by which the ... ia expanded, while the heart ia made better; a tempered sadness, a sober ear. nestnesa, which by occasionally reeillinw us to the contemplation of an ideal world, toftens and refreshes those feeling, which habitil.l inter, course with society is .pt to hsvden. This is that melancholy which is the true source ofpuet ical inspiration, because while it refine, our feel ings, and enlarge, the sphere of our eenceptiens, it leave, u. a. active as ever In the eavrci.e of social duties, and thu. preserves that ment. al equilibrium, that balance of th. intellect, the feelings, and the fimey, which is the character isrie ofthe highest orderofgenius.-Very differ. its eff ect., when it i. e.rried to eacess. Excessive melancholy, like exceKive levity, is a selfish feeling 3 nd.r. ua solitary, auspicious, querulous, ■vmpathy for others, while it — - Is ent and deadens increases our sensibility for ourselves. Those social energies which should connect us with ftllow-men, grow indolent and dormant; Ibeac tive duties of life are forgotten in the passive: gradually we lose our relish for the common and natural feeling, the simple mirth and tears that make up the mass of human life, and learn to substitute glaring and distorted portraits, which the reflection of our own morbib peculiari ties, for those simplet* forms of universal truth and beauty, which all hearts acknowledge at and admire. APOPLEXY. The sudden deaths so frequent of late years among distinguished men, and persons in what is termed high fife, have theii cause very often doubt in luxurious und dissipated living Of the dead who have prematurely fallen by excess indulgence in eating and drinking, it i less to speak. But it is impossible to look through our cities and among public out a feeling of strong repugnance a bition of gross indulgence which every where prevails. It is by no means disreputable to eat four times as much as is necessary, and drink brandy ar.d wine enough to preserve it; but it i very dangerous. The consequences are ex day seen in the sudden blow up or popping off of individuals who thus indulge themselveB.— What is the practice of most of our countrymen of all grades and professions' Is it not to take a little something before breakfast, especially if travelling, or attending upon the legislature, or engaged at court, or in any other public huai ness' Must not eleven o'clock forenoon, be at tended too with a brandy or gin cocktail: and if ever I take any thing it is about this time in the day—which means any time. Dinner of course always apologises for brandy and water, and if there ia a good time for a bottle of wine it is between.fourand five when dinner i At the South the water i thing in it to make it go down good—in New York it is so bad no one thinks of drinking it without brandy—and at the North it is too cold for health without the taken tea, and walked out a square or two, hot whiskey punen is the sort if it is cold weath , with the exhi it needs tome mixture. Having punen er, or if it is hot, cold punch is coolingA-and "thus runs the world away " The drunkard is dirty, debased and beastly enough, but a glutton more so, and when both are united, "what a consummation!" Thf only consolation and the only hope of case, is, that some hot day he will blow up, the torpedo will let fly. It was a remark of the Em peror Napoleon that he xvho eats the least al ways eats too much; and there is no doubt of it. Especially it ia true of men employed at the ghter avocations of life, or engaged in study or professional business. Continually, therefore, do we find such men fallihg by apoplexy, and diseases affecting the action of the heart or the tone of the stomach. They take exercise which renders the farmer robust and gives energy to the digestive organs; and yet, perhaps, they devour daily more fowl than a la boring man should, and that of a luxurious and in digestible quality. The muscles of such become flabbid, and hung upon the bones and sinews with a feeble tenacity, the bloodvessels become weak and enlarged, and. siona of an overloaded, stimulated and irritated stomach, he i face! and dies i Intemperate and luxurious living i evil among us, fixed and deep beyond eradica tion. Societies and individuals and the press, may, indeed do something, but we despair of seeing, by any effort thnt can be made, any gen eral or important reformation The tide of dis sipation is moving on, and it will continue to swallow up its yearly, mighty congregation, un til that all powerful agent in worldly affairs— fashion, shall make that unfashionable which is now genteel., for it ia among the fashionable, the genteel, the middle and higher classes, that dis sipation is most extensive, and with them rests the example and all its powers, which ia to ope rate upon the rest of mankind. Continual and most alarming warnings are not sufficient to check indulgence in one who has long consulted his palate. He will continue to feed as though he were a "calf of the stall," and "follow strong drink, until wine inflame" him. He cannot be in such a ..! t li.i 1 to fall suddenly upon his reclaimed by any effort that fate is fixed, and he must be left to encounter it. But there ia a field for every right feeling on this subject, and who knows the luxury of a fo'al abstinence from all intoxicating drinks—in his tKÊÈÊlttÊt dren. There his example and hia precepts, rightly enforced, may leave an impression ami benefit mankind, when the vices of mankind longer claim his pity or excite his disgust.. be made—his who has a family—among his I DIAMOND MINES. Tbe high value attached to diamonds doe* not depend so much on their beauty and hardness, as on the great scarcity, and the labour and — pense necessary in procuring them. Hitherto they have been observed in the torrid rcnc z lone; and Brazil is the only part of the Americas in which they have been found. The historical account of their discovery in that country ia as follawa. Near the capital of the territory of Serro do Frio, flows the river Milho Verde, whero it "»»• the custom to dig for gold, or rather to extract it from the alluvial soil. The miners, during their search for gold, found several diamonds, which they were induced tB wide in consc quence of their particular shape and great beau ty, although they were ignorant of their intrin sic value. fc The diamond works on the ri » r = <l«t»oribe-d by Mr. Mawe as the moat.import J"t m the Bnunlian temtin The nver, m depth î"? "" «".»in'emacted by acanal bene«, the head of winch it Is stopped by an «*»»*«•»» of severalthnuund bo P of sand, da 'leeper parts being laid dry by cham-pumps. The mud .. now washed away, and thecuslo««,, or earth which contains the diamonfs, dug up î" d '■emr.wed to a convenient place fi washing., T . l,e P. ro " M jbod,! capwUl» ? f u ' ,ri K h J l P° 8t *; "W"* « W 11 « 1 !* """r' 1 .■'"i'"™ of a parallelogram, m length about ninety feet, and in width fnrty.fiye. . Do "' n "" Tf" 1 ' " r ?" * c ,lr «-nt of water 'Z*™'*?* * covered wit h pUnt, f ron ? '* elT ' in length, imhedderl '"dlay, extending the-whole length of Ihe ahed, and having a gentle slope from the cartel. This noorin * *» ment. or troughs, each about three feet wulo by means of planks placed on their edge; and K per end of these troughs communicate e canal, being so forced that water is admitted into them hetwern two planks about un inch separate from eachother. Through this opening the current falls about six inches into the trough, and may be directed into any part of it, or stopped at plensmp,- by means of a small quantity of clay. Along Ihe lower ends of he. troughs a «mall channel id dug, to carry off the water. - » ' On the heap.of the earih, at equal distances, three nigh chairs are placed for the overseers, who are no sooner seated than the negroes enter the troughs, each provided prith a rake of a pe culiar form, and having a short bundle, with winch hr rakes into the trough from . 50 to 8ft pounds weight of the earth Thu water being then allowed to pass in by degrees, the earth is spread abroad, and cnntimitill/ raked up to,the head of the trough, so as to he kept in constant motion. This operation is continued for a quarter of an hour, when the water begins to run clearer and the earthy particles having been washed a way, the gravel-Jike matter is raked up to the end of the trough. At length the current flow ing quite clear, the largest stones are thrown , and afterwards those of an infrri When a negro find« one, he immediately stands upright, and claps his hands: he then extends them, holding the gem between the fore finger and the thumb. An overseer receives it from hhq, and deposits it in a bowl, suspended from the centre of the structure, and half filled with water. In this vessel *11 the diamonds found in the course of the day ate deposited, and at the close of the work are taken out and delivered to the principal overseer, who, after they have JMtonhonha with t to the principal overseer, who, after they have been weighed, registers the particulars in u book kept for that purpose. When a negro is so fortunate as to find a diamond of the weight of seventeen carats and a half, the following cerimony takes place: he is crowned with a wreath of flowers, and carried in proces sion io the administrator who gives him his freedom by paying his mister for it. He also receives a present of next clothe?, arid is per mitted to. work on his oxv; account. For smaller stones, proportionate ptemiums are given;,—' while many precautions are taken to prevent the negroes from strfulinÇ the diamonds; with which view they are frequently changed by the overseer *, les*t these precious gems should b«* concealed in the corners the troughs. When a negro is inspected of fallowing a diamond, he is confined in a soli tan apartment, and means taken to bring the gem tj> light. SALT MINES èF CRACOW. . These celebrated miles distant from the city of Cracow, in a small town named Wieliczà, which is entirely mined, the'Cavities reaching extent boyond its limits T . HIM , about five der to a considerable he length of the great mine, from east to west, is «ix thousand feet; its breadth, from mirth to south, two thou sand; and its greatest depth eight hundred: but the veins Of salt are not limit*] to this extent, the depth and length of them, from being yet unknown, and their breadth only hith erto determiried. There are at ■ shafts, hut not a single spring lias ered throughout the extent' of the mine.l In descending to the bottom, the visitor is surprised to find a subterraneous commonwealth, consisting of many families, xvho huve tliair [ culiar laws and policy. Here ate likewisfc pub lic roads and carriages, horses being employed to draw the aalt to the mouth of the mine, where it is taken up by engines. These horses, wlteq arrived at their destination, never more to west; present ten the light of the sun; and many of the people seem buried alive in this S'rançe abyss, having been born there, and never atirring out; while others are not denied frequent opportunities of breathing the fresh air in the fields, and enjoying the surrounding prospects. The subterraneous passages, or galleries, many of them chapels salt. In these passuges- crucifixes very spacious, and in hewn out of the rock set up, together with the images of saint9, before which a fight is kept constantly burning. The places where the salt is hewn out and the cavities whence it has been removed, are called cham bers, in several of which where the water has stagnated, the bottoms and sideä are covered with very thick mentations of thousands of salt crystals, lying the other, and many of them weighing half a pound and upwards.— ■■■ placed before them, the nu merous rays of light reflected by these crystals emit a surprising lustre. In several parta of the mine, huge columns of salt are left standing, to support the rock; and these are very fancifully ornamented. But the most ctirious part, in the inhabited part, or sub terraneous town, is a statue, which is considered by the immured inhabitants, as the actual trans mutation of Lot's wife into a pillar of salt; and, in proportion as this statue appears either dry or moist, the state of the weather above ground is inferred. The windings in this mi numerous and intricate, that the workmen have frequently lost their way; and several, whose lights have been extinguished, have thus per ished. The number of miners to whom it gives employment, is computed at between four and five hundred; but the wholeiamount of the picn employed in it is about seven hundred. When candles From the Mirror of the Bellesiettres. THE GORED HUNTSMAN. The night was drawing on apace. The even ing mist, as it arose from tho gronnV, began to lose its thin white wreaths in the deep shadows of the woods, Kochenstein, separated from him companions of the chase, became particularly desirous of discovering in what direction his route lay, but there was no track visible that could guide him to his home. He raised his sil ver mouthed bugle to his lips, and gave a loud and sustained blast. A distant echo plaintively reneated the note. He listened for another an • with the attention his situation required, in vain. "This will neve.* do," said he, cast bin horse's neck. "Sec, good help thy master at this ." Theanim hut tng the reins on Reinzaum, if thy wit ■pinch; it has done so before al seemed to understand and appreciate the confidence placed in him. Pricking up his ears, and uttering a wild neigh, he turned from the direction his rider had hitherto pursued, and commenced a new route at an animated trot_ For a while, the path promised well; the defile down which it lay, between gigantic larch and twisted oaks, seemed mani festly intended ed opening. But the horse suddenly stopped. The glimmering light that yet remained just enabled the baron to perceive the impervious enclosure of thickly planted trees, that surrounded the little natural ampitheatre at which he had arrived. "This is worse and worse," exclaimed the disappointed rider, as he cast a disconsolate glance There was not a single star visible, U the deep gloom in which the woods were-envel oped. Weary of remaining in one «pot, he rode round the enclosure in which he found him self thus unpleasantly placed. He repeated the every side, almost too great to discover to him the massy trunks under the branches of which he rode. At length he atop, ped suddenly. "Is that a fight," said he inward ly, "that glimmers through the-No, 'tisgone: it comes again! If I could but reach it!" The light remained stationary. He was perplexed whether to remain where he wa-, with this pro voking light before him, and the probable chance of remaining «11 night in the womb, nr in aban don his steed, and endeavor to penetrate through the trees to the spot whence the light issued.— Neither alternative was to his liking. I fortner case, he must abide the cold air and damp mist till the morning; in the other he in curred the risk of loosing his steed, should he be able to retrace his way to the spot! In not the fault of his char of extend reaching its termination, the to some upwards. exercise, gazing wistfully though the darkness decision, however, acter; and, after a minute's hesitation, he sprang from his horse, fastened him to a tree, and began to explore the xvood in the direction of the not leg and then the other from by not a to be easily diverted from his purpose; und he labored amain. His hands were bruised by the branches he had torn down when they im peded his co.tr se; and the heat-drops on his brow 8 , raised by his exertions, mixed with the chill and heavy night-dew that fell around him. At length a desperate effort, almost accom panied with the loss of his boots, placed him free from the morass through which he hud »led. He stamped and shoolc his feet when dry land, with the satisfaction that such a de liverance inspires. To add to his jov, he per ceived that the light he had so painfully sought than fifty ells distant. A moment O'' two brought him to the door of a low dwel ling, overshadowed by a beetling, pent-house like roof. As far as he could discern, the build ing was of considerable antiquity. The portal of stone, and the same material composed the frames of the windows, which were placed far from the ground, and from which proceed ed tl»e light he had sought. Our huntsman lost little time in applying to th** door, at first with a gentle knock, which, being disregarded, increased to a thundering re ve'rberation of blows. The gentle and the rude knocks were of equal avail. He desisted from his occupation to listen awhile, but not a sound met hia ear- "This is strange, by the mas!" he said. "The house must be inhabited, else whence the light' And though they slept like the seven sle*»pers, my blows must have aroused them. Let us try Another mode—the merry horn must awaken them, if aught their sluggish natures." Once fnore sorting to hi4 bugle, he sounded a reveillee. A jolly cheering note it would have been at anoth er time, but in the middle of the dull night it seemc' most unfit; a screech-owl's note-would have harmonized better. "I hear them said he, "praised he the saints!" On this, other occasions, however, the aaiuts got thanks than their due. An old raven, disturbed by the baron's notes, flapping her wings in flight, had deceived his ears. Site was unsceq in the congenial darkness, but her hoarse croaking9 filled the air as she flew. Irritated at the delay, the baron made a form al declaration of war. In ai loud a could, he demanded entrance; and threatened,in to explore the xvood in the direction of the fight. The difficulties he encountered were not few. He sionaliy found some troubl ih squeezing through interstices where a worse-fed passed ungrazed. Briers and thorns wanting, and the marshy ground completed the catalogue of annoyances. He toiled and toiled, extricating first the deep entanglement in which each turns plunged, while the object of hi# attend seemed as distant as ever. But he a portly personage, and would have hi A ioud laugh, as from a dozen revellers, was the immediate reply. A piece of the trunk of a young tçee lay near him; he took it tip, and dashed it with all his strength againt the door. It was a nvghtv blow; but though the very building sho..c before it, the strong gate yield ed not. Before he could .--peat the attack, a hoarse voice greeted his "Begone with thy noise," it said, "else I will loose the dog on thee." "1 will break the hound's neck, and diminish his caitiff master by the head, if thou open the door this instant. What! is this the way to treat a benighted traveller? Open, I say, quick r it seemed that the inmate w:n about to put his threat into execution, for the deep growl of wolf-dog was the only answer to the baron's remonstrance. He drew bis abort hunting sword, and planted himself firmly before the door. He waited awhile, but all was silent. He again had recourse to his battering-ram. The door resisted marvellously, but it became evident that it could not long withstand such a siege. As the strong oak cracked and groaned, the baron redoubled his efforts. At length the voice he had before heard, again accosted him. "Come in, then, if thou tvîft. Fool! to draw down thy fate on flice." i The bolt« "Lift up the latch." The baron troubled not himself to inquire the ) meaning ofthe ominous word« of the speakne, | hut obeyed the direction given, and entered.— ! He found himself i undrawn. a spacious apartment, that appeared to comprise the whole tenement. He looked around for the foes he expected to roeet^ and started back with.astonishment. The only occupant of the apartment was a la* dy, the rich elegance of whose dresi. would have attracted admiration, had not that feeling been engrossed by her personal loneliness, white silk garment clung to a form modelled to perfection, and Her fastened her waist by a diamond clasp of singular shape, for it represent ed a couchant stag. A similar ornament confin ed the lonç tresses of her hair, the jetty black ness of which was as perfect as the opposite hue of the brow they shaded. Her face was pals, and her features were melaecholy, but of exquis itely tender beauty. She arose, as the baron entered, from the velvet couch on which she was seated, and with a courteous smile motioned him to a seat opposite her own. A table wfea ready spread by its side, Jaden with refreshments. He explained the cause of his coming, and apol ogised with great fervency for his rude mode of demanding admission. "You are welcome," said the lady, again point ing to the vacant seat. Nothing could bo three words, but the sound of her through the hearer's sense into his soul. She l-esumed her seat, and he took the offered place. He gazed around* and was convinced, to his amazement, that they were alone. Whence then came the voice with which he had held converse, and whence the uproarious laugh which had first assailed his hearing' There could riot, he felt certain, be another chamber under that roof capable of Containing such a number of laughers. The dog, too, whose savage growl had put him on his guard, where was he ? The baron was, however, too genuine a huntsman ordinary than thes« voice thrilled surprise or to prevent him from «Lun# justice to th«* «*xr.flh>nt rn®al be fore him, and to which his hostess invited him, declining, however to partake with hér guest_ He ate and drank, therefore; postponing his meditations, except an anxious thought on the situation of his steed. "Poor Reinzaum," thought he, "thou wilt suffer for my refreshment. A warm stable would be fitter for thee than tho midnight damps which chill thee;" and the bar on looked with infinite satisfaction _ ing hearth, the ruddy gleams of which almost eclipsed the softer light of the brilliant lamp that hung from the ceiling. As his appetite became satisfied, his curiosity revived. Once or twice, ns he raised his eyes, he met the bright black ones of his entertainer. They were beautiful; yet, without knowing why, he shrank from their glance, for they had not the pensive softness of her features. He filled his goblet, and in the most courteous terms drank the lady's health.— She bowed her head in acknowledgement, aad held to him a small golflen cup richly enchased, He filled it; she drank to him, replaced the cup. and arosç from her seat. * "This room," said she, "must be your lodg ing for the night. Farewell." He was about to speak. She interrupted him. "I know what you would say—yes, we shall meet again. Take this flower," she added, breaking a rose from a wreath that twined around lier hair, in full bloom, though September had commenced, and the flowers of the gardens and. the fields were long since dead; "on the day - that it fades, you shall see me once more." Sh« then opened a small door in the wainscot, and closed it after her. The baron felt no disposition to *sjeep, *nd paced about the room, revolving the events of the evening. The silence ofthe hour was favor able to such an employment, and the soft carpet that covered the 'floor prevented even his footsteps from being heard. Wearied with hi* fruitless ruminations, he was beginning to relievo the blaz himself from his lonely wan» of occupation, by taking note—more minutely than before—of tho handsome, though antiqne furniture of the aport ment, when hit attention was claimed by the sounds of a harp. A few bars only had been played, when the music was sweetened by a voice, the softest he ever heard. The words of the song applied too strikingly to himself to e«f cape his ear. "Wo to him whose footsteps rude Break my fairy solitude! Wo to him whose fated grasp Dares undo my portal clasp! Wo'to him whose rash advanee Dooms him to my blighting glance! ' In the greenwood shall he lie, On the bloody heather die." The voice and music ceased together, leaving the baron oppressed with unwonted fears. When he awoke, the ashes on the hearth were sparkles«, and the morning, casting away her gray mantle, beginning to dart her gayer beams through the narrow windows. H« perceived that th« door through which his hostess had retired waa ajar; he ventured to look through the door way, and observed only a closet, which was entirely empty, lie opened tho entrance door, and found his horse, which he had left tied* in tho wood, ready for departure, and apparently in excellent condition. "Woman or witch," h exclaimed, "I owe her a good turn for this_ Now, -Reinzaum, keep up tby credit," and, springing on his horse's back, he pursued a track that seemed to lead in the direction he wished; and, without aid of whip Kochcnstein in an hour. His first act water. Day by day he visited it, and found it« bloom unabated. When three months had pass ed away, without any visible alteration in the beauty of t)ie fl the remembrances connected with it, and gazed it with indifference. He even displayed it to the inmates of his castle, and among others, to his only daughter, the death of whose mother had'left hirti a widower. Frederica seventh year, and within a few day* of its pletion. To her earnest entreaties for the flow er, her father promised it should be hers birth-day. Tne child was overjoyed of a present, to which much importance xVas at tached in her eyes; for the ever-blooming rose was the talk of the whole castle; and every hu man creature in it, except its lord, ofle^ed many conjectures respecting, the flower, all very ingen ious, and all very absurd. On tbe morning of his daughter's birth-day, the rose was dead.— Though a man of courage apd thirty-two quar Ofrirgs, he changed coToot tvben he beheld the lia spur, he al to place the rose in a d , he be less sensible of in her her