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8..S* -4f ...«*.. «, rtf J| jMT a' V .* k** Ji r*rjrTBB WWMI.wmw*B VOL. IV....NO, 43w PUBLISHED WEEKtT, BY JfiO. B. RUSSELL, Tsi*8 OR SCBSCHIPTIOW.—Two Dollars per an* is ABTAJfCK. When payment is noi made in _ce 8n additional charge of Fifty Cents will be I for every three months delay, until payment Subscriptions for a less term than one will be charged at the rate of Three Dollars, Advance payment required. (rt* No paper dis Ltinucd until arrearages are paid, except at-the Mtion of the publisher. RITES OF 1st C1 Tn '-u„ the number of insertions, will be continued Iniifordered out, and charged for accordingly. ,y- Liberal deductions made to yearly advertisers. I Letters addressed to the Editor, in oraer to ive attention, MUST BE POST-PAIO. COOPERING. r%TM. BEVARD of Mount Arrarat, Louisa Co \Y would inform the citizens of the surround try that he id at all times prepared to furnish thing n his Iine on the shortest n\ ,)*1,'thereon, Ihiip rt SCOTT HICHMAN, Bloninington, Iowa. U. just ri v SON. ilr !y ETT. and I SON. iSON! WON jurt red k coj sale bj & COj sale bj & (id for i & CO. 1T wBicb srV' rw ADTK*TIM*«-—For a square of 16 insertion, $100 each subsequent insertion, I cenu l^ger ones in proportion. Advertise- scll to the office for publication, without des- notice, and wi" all his Woik. Hrving furnished several es- 4linents in Bloomington with barrels, the fol gentlemen testifying to the good workman- from knowledge and experience. Con- for any quanty of work are solicited. We the undersigned, Merchants and packers o »rk and Beef, in Bloomington, having used barrels i, at the manufactory of Wm. Bevard, of Louisa ntv have no hesitation in saying that we have ml them, without exception good and tight, and ISrfuily recommend those of his manufacture to LL engaged in thrt business. |Aoseenok be $NEtT $ Co W GILLETT, JR BENNETT, JOHN ZIEGLER, DEBAUN, Packer. April 5,1944-22-tt —"TAMES MACKINTOSH, 111„„fc Binder, I*w* dtp.-Old Books and It lV-rioilicals bound in the neatest style and on 'V .hortcst notice, and as soon as his apparatus i Blank Books and all work ..ibi. hne i -:.c executed with despatch. T. k. rarvin oi »Wm?ton is our authorized Agent for that place c: viciiTity. April 26-25-3m. patent Medicines, &c. i^WUM^ Panacea Houcks Panacea, Orris IS 'tilth wash, Chloiine tooth wash, Sappingions K-nhaws ague pills, Lees pills, Morrisons DruiJreth* pilU, »ias' pills, Tomato pills, j,'. Uc-Jts, Andersons, Hoopers pills, fluid cx ,f Sirs.iparilla, nerve and bone Linament iir'rh'fs Linament, Hays Linament, red Lma Lt.V .Utile Linament,Opodeldoc Godfrej s Cor- a,tem*ns Drops, Balsom of Life,Dalhys Car i.e eiUlen tincture, Oil Spike, British Oil, ,!• Oil, Lemon Acid, No. Six, Thompsons ,v„cr, Tooth ache drops Tooth powders, pile ,r n,Oav\lson-, magnesia, Essences of all kinds empvve ointment, C\.-velands vegetable i' Jnps an infallible cure for fever and ague, to vr with a variety of medicines ofa similar kind. 5,ilij by JOHN B. DOUGHEim Mav 31st: 1844 30-tf Attorney at haw \V. RICHMAN, wholesale and retail gro m, a id forwarding and commission mer Bloomington, Iowa. ^a"' 5 HUTCHISON & CO., Boot aud Shoe mjhers, would respectfully inform the inhab of this place, and the surrounding country, !.fy are now prepared to execute all orders in •iiae in a neat and subctantial manner, at a re Dnin price proportioned to the state of the Iffi at,Dry Hides, Tallow,Beeswax,etc.taken siwnent for work. .. IX I Shoemakers and others can be supplied fiPejs. Bloomington. Nov. 3, 52 I ALL fe HOLMES, Marble Cutters, contin ue to furnish, on the shortest notice, and at prices, all descriptions of MON UMEN TAIJ 'Ri, executed in the neatest modern style. Or =rma distance, if accompanied with the cash, 1 "esponsible reference given, will be prompt y Iowa City, Oct. 1843. i:'lauthority for sale] &co| rs' 49ay CHARLES ATTOON, Attorney at Law and Xtlary Public, Bloomington,^ Iowa. Will, prompt attention to all professional business which he may be favored. He has full pow- to administer oaths and take ac- 'fJ^ments, or proofs of deeds, mortgages, pow ittorney, and other instruments of writing. ^Office in the Court House. March 17,'43 M. COVELL, Surgeon aud Physician, Umt Iowa. Having well supplied himself rh medicine is ready to attend to all calls. wilful for past patronage. a,Iowa, Jan. 28, 184? .. ^VRVIN, Attorney at Law, Blooming ton Iowjt He is 14tf ICBOCHOUSEJ. B. Covell,respectfullyin foims the public that he continues to keep a l^ic House at Salem, Muscatine county, Iowa, I*1 the best accommodations can be had, between [n?ton and Davenport. Private rooms to be P« times.—His stable is good. and at all times with all kinds of provender. He invites of these statements. Several comfortable ''orent. Salem, Iowa, Jan. 28,'42 I4tf SWAN'S HOTEL sdbscriber begs leave to inform his old r''iends and customers, and the public in gene J11 he has refitted and repaired at much cx *nd trouble, his large and commodious Hotel [^accommodation of members of the legislature ^"'others who may favor him with a call- His afe tressed JJ liepaidj^ well furnished and warm and he has pro "servants who he guarantees shall be attentive [''cotamodating. His table will be furnished ^est the market will afford, and his terms !8 will be satisfactory to any gentleman who .^r him with a call. In connection with the '"itnent, he has a large, commodious and whjch will be furnished with horses, '^sleighs, &c. Sic. Hotel is situated convenient to the Capitol pavement connecting the two—and d°or HfKET1 from the Post Office—and he flatters j! ^at he will be able to accommodate his (""1 the public in a style of convenience and LT'^'lif not superior to any hotlel in the L,.' therefore, respectful! solicit® share "ac Patronage in his line ofbusineas. ,„ n 1 CHAUNCEY 8WAN. U, 1843—3-tf. f» ft ff .'•' y. The voice of the departed shed A ghastly blessing there. An earnest soul was flitting fast ?t i •&*,»j- From Goudy's Lady's Book. I THE SHOMEJV t*onK BT MISS ELIZA. X. DUPCT. Authoress of The Conspirator' Wilful One,' etc. 'Twas murmured not in festive lialls, Where mirth is light arounlj. v -,' ik echoed not from stately walls- Blent with the music's sound. 'Twas sighed not forth in bower or d4j^4 Amid the op'ning flowers, The woodland hath no tale to teU Of these long vanished hours. "Ttras uttered o'er a dying bed. Asked by a dying prayer—-«* -J When those deep words were sa»§— The i, 1 v ling'ring tones her lips that passed Thrilled hollwed o'er the dead. Twilight was darkening into night, the first faint star of evening gleamed from the far blue heavens, and the hush and re pose of nature seemed too holy to be bro ken by the strife of human passions —yet how painful did the quiet of thai evening scene contrast with the passionate grief of a young heart mourning over its first sor row. Ellen Sinclair was a newly wedded bride. She was but seventeen the youn gest daughter of her father's house, and the spoiled pet of the whole family, her life had passed as one long bright day of sunshine and flowers. She had been wooed by one she had known from child hood, and with the consent of their mutu al friends they were united. The day after their marriage the bridal pair left her father's house for the resi dence of Mr. Sinclair in one of the interim or counties of Virginia, A few happy weeks passed, when Sinclair proposed to his bride to visit a gorge in the neighbor ing mountains, from which the rising sun frequently presents the singular spectacle of the looming of the mountain—-the same phenomenon which is witnessed ir. the Straits of Messina, and known by the more poetic name of Futa Morgana, or the castle of the fair Morgana. Ellen was delighted with the proposed excursion, and searched every book in^the house which afforded any information on the subject. The excursion, which promised so much pleasure, ended in despair and death. They reached the destined spot in safety. 'I he morning was favorable to their wishes the ascending vapors caught the rays of the rising sun, and formed themselves into the most gorgeous and fantastic scenes. Ellen was so much absorbed in this wonderful and magnifi cent spectacle, that she forgot the caution Sinclair had given her at the moment of mounting her spirited steed. He turned from her side an instant to speak to the servant who followed them the move ment startled her horse —the reins was lying loose on his neck, and feeling him* self free from a guiding hand, he dashed off at full speed. Sinclair and'he serv ant both followed, but were unable to overtake her Fortunately she met a gen tleman who succeded in stopping her per ilous career. Sinclair checked his horse loo suddenly, that he might express his thanks to her preserver. The animal reared, and threw him with great violence, je was conveyed home in a senseless ~tate, and surgical assistance hastily sum*' moned, but the force of the fall had inflic ted some internal injury which bafled the skill of the physicians. It was beside his bed in that calm twi ight, that the young wife knelt with scarce a hue of life upon her features. Oh Ellen, my beloved, calm yourself —this sorrow unmans me,' murmured the dying roan passing his hands carelessly over the head which was bowed upon his pillow. A deep suffocated sob was the only re* plv to his word. It is hard to die,' he continued, 'when I was looking forward to years of such tranquil happiness with you, my sweet Ellen but 'tis the will of heaven, my best beloved, and we must submit.' Oh Henry, my own Henry, you must go down to the cold, cold grave, where I can see you no more—never more here the tones of your dear voice. Oh, it wil break my heart!' was the almost inarticu a e e y My poor Ellen, this is a hard trial for vou, but you are too young to grieve al ways. The thought is torture to me, but —even you may love again—may wed another and his voice was nearly stifled with painful emotions. Never, never Oh, Henry, how can yon harrow my soul at this awf«I with such a supposition! Wed Mta Give the wreck of my buried another! Oh, no, BO ken promise should mar your peace of mind.1 Henry, hear me,' said Ellen, in a sol emn tone. •Should I ever so far forget my faith to your ashes as to lend my ear to the language of love, my heart to the voice of affection for another, may your form on my bridal evening come to me apd reproached me for my faithlessness.' A bright smile passed over the face of the dying tnan. He murmured— Repeat those words again, my Ellen —they take from death its sting—in heav en you will bo all my own. Forgive my selfishness, dearest but I have so loved you, I cannot think another shall win His voice ceased to articulate, and again the deep tones of the young mourner thril led the air with the repetition of those aw ful words. As they passed her lips, she felt the hand that clasped her relax its grasp—a faint fluttering consciousness seemed to hover a moment on his features, and in an instant they wore the calm and passionles repose of death. Ellen Sinclair buried herself in the se clusion of her own heart. A calm and gentle melancholy succeed the first vio lence of her grief, but she betrayed no de sire to mingle in the world. Clad in the deepest mourning, she was seen nowhere but at church and those who looked on her felt deep sympathy for one so young and so bitterly bereaved. Vainly had her own parents sought to draw her from her solitude. Two years passed, and after many fruitless efforts they at length suc ceeded in obtaining a promise of a visit from her at the annual re-union of their family on Chistmas, for that season is stili held as a festival in many parts of Virgin ia. Ellen was once more beneath the roof of her father, and many and painful were the emotions which struggled in he bosom when she looked around and remembered that the last time she stood beside her na tive hearth, she was a gay and happy bride. Those who looked on her could not a void remarking the change which two years had wrought in her appearance.— The girl just budding into maturity had expanded into the beautiful and self-poss essed woman, with a quiet grace of J»ar» ner, and an air of pensive reserve which was extremely captivating. Her parents were worldly-minded peo ple who could not bear that their fair daughter should pas3 her life in solitude to which she had doomed herself. They surrounded her with agreeable company, sought to amuse her mind and draw it from the contemplation of the terrible calamity which had destroyed her dawn ing hopes of happiness, and they succee ded to implant in her mind a distaste for the idea of returning to her late abode. Week after week passed until months were numbered, and she began to think it her duty to remain with her parents.— She was their youngest child, and the on y one without lies which served them in measure from the paternal roof. Ellen, my darling,' Paul father, when she spoke of returning home, you will not again forsake us We are old, and you are the only child who is free to remain with us. You must live here I cannot think of permitting you to return to that lonely home of yours. 1 It is lonely,' replied Ellen and I fear that after breaking through my usual hab its, I shal! find it difficult and wearisome to resume them.—Yet, my dear father, if censent to remain, there is one request must make.' What is it, my daughter Are we not ever mindful of your wishes? Ah yes, dear father, more mindful than deserve. But'—and her voice sank to low agitated whisper—4 there must be no looking forward to a marriage for me —no attempt to alier my views on that subject. I have made a vow to the dead, and it must be held sacred.' 100 i lhe 11,0 1 ww1'1 liili YU& •I doubt not you think so now, love but time works strange change in this world of ours. We know not what we may do. 1 wish to exact no promise from vou. The thought is bitterly painful to me, but should your present views change I do not wish that the reproach of a bro What!' exclaimed her father. was Sinclair ungenerous enough to exact from you a promise not to marry again?— young and inexperienced as you. were, Ah no, father, wrong him 0*4'He was too kind, noble. He asked no prom ise—I made it voluntarily and as the words left my lips his spirit departed. Oh no, my father, never ask me to break that vow—it is a hallowed one. Well, my darling, let it be as you wish I shall prefer keeping you with us but at the same time, if you should ever meet with one you can love, and who is worthy of you, it will be very silly to suf fer a few words uttered when, you was scarcely conscious of their meaning, to prevent you from making the home of an honorable man happy. Why, child, you are only nineteen. Do you suppose that the death of one person, however dear, can chill your feelings into ice at that age! I must then in the sincerity of my soul pray to be delivered from temptation, .said the young widow, with a faint smile for I shall never marry again.' As time passed on, Mrs. Sinclair could not help acknowledging that she was far happier than when in her mountain soli BLOOMINGTON, IOWA, FRIDAY, AUGUST 23, 184* «e fe •*»,»•- 1 i K* tude. Her spirits were no longer weari ed she no longer felt that life was a bur* then she would gladly lay down. She needed the excitement of society, and the social and highly cultivated neighborhood on hich her father's residence was situ* ated, afforded every facility for its enjoy ment. The third year of her widowhood was drawing to a close, when she received an invitation to the marriage of a favorite cousin, who would take no refusal. El len replied that if the bride would excuse her sombre dress and pensive face she would attend, and the consession was bailed as an omen of future success in drawing her into that world she was so peculiarly fitted to adorn. There was a motive for these efforts of which Ellen little dreamed. She regu larly attended the church near her father's residence, and her mother had several times called her attention to a remarkably handsome man who sal in a pew nearly opposite to them but she had not remark ed that his eyes frequently wandered from his prayer book to her own fair face.— His height, and the turn of his head re* minded her of Sinclair, but there the re semblance ceased. The broad brow, fine ly chiselled features, and clear dark eye of the stranger, were all unlike the youth ful bloom of him who had won her young affections. She frequently heard Mr. Peyton spoken of as a man of distinguish ed endowments, who had spent several years in the South of Europe with an on ly and beloved sister, for the benefit of whose health the journey had been vainly undertaken. These circumstances had nearly passed from her mind when she was introduced to him at the wedding as the intimate friend of the groom. Peyton had fallen in love with her from his casual view of her at church, and the eulogiums of his friend's affianced bride, who looked on Mrs. Sinclair as a bright particular star,' had deepened the impres sion. The circumstances of her marriage threw a romantic interest around her his tory, and when he looked on the youthful brow with a shade of placid pensiveness that seemed to breathe a hallowed charm over her beauty, he felt that she was the only woman he had ever known, before whom hi* heart could bow with the hom age of affection. Yet how speak of love t© ©ne who still wore the deepest mourning—who never joined in the mirth of the light-hearted It would seem almost like sacrilege to breathe into her ear the wild passion that filled his heart, yet its very hopelessness appeared to add to its fervor. But ere long a new hope dawned upon him. Ellen was surrounded by the gay and joyous of her age. Her disposition was naturally buoyant her spirits rose the chord she had believed forever snap ped, again thiilled to the touch of joy.— When the bonds of grief were once sev ered, the reaction was complete. She still referenced the memory of her first love, and ft her heart had whispered that she could ever be faithless to his ashes, she would have shuddered Willi auper.-iUiuuo horror at the thought. The possibility of breaking that solemn promise had never occurrcd to her—but time teaches many strange lessons. Peyton lingered in the neighborhood, a constant visitor at Wycombe, but his at teniions were not sufficiently marked to attract the observation of others. Her own family were too desirous of the match to hazard the final success of the lover by lluding in any manner to his passion for her. Peyton won his way slowly but surely. The fair widow began unconsciously to regret the vow which had ascended to Heaven with the spirit of her dead hus band. At length he spoke of love, and she listened with trembling awe to the out-pouring of a spirit which was too no ble to be trifled with, fe8iier lOIAs J* and too highly ap preciated to be given up without a pang. lie drew from her quivering lips the history of her vow, and divested of every feelings of superstition himself, he could not conceive that a few words uttered in a moment of excited and agonized feeling should stand between him and his hopes of happiness. He did not understand the impressible and imaginative tempera' ment of the being who listened to his rea soning, willing, nay, anxious to be con vinced against the evidence of her own parents agreed with the lover in his views of the case-and urged on all^sides, her own heart a traitor, Ellen yielded to their wishes and betrothed herself to Pey- the day appointed for her marriage drew near, the words of her vow appear ed to be ever ringing in her ears. With a restless and fearful spirit she saw the hour approach which was to witness her second espousal. Preparations were made for a splendid bridal. All the mfembers of the family as sembled beneath the paternal roof.andev ery effort was made to divert her mind from dwelling on the lantasy that possess e3le appoinfed evening arrived^ and lb# HERALD. 41 1 Mfr Jt& ISfM) *-0JPM i I TJM ceremony which made her the bride of another was performed. Several hours passed in dance and song. It was near midnight when Ellen found herself stand ing on the portico the bright moonlight with Peyton beside her. The gay throng within were still dancing, and the sound of merry voices mingled with the bursts of music that swept by on the dewy and fragrant air. Ellen started as Peyton spoke beside her, and for the first time for several hours the recollection of her fatal vow intruded on her mind. What a glorious night,' she remarked. never saw the moon shine with greater spleandor.' May it be a happy omen to its, my fair Ellen,' replied Peyton—and as he spoke he turned to a white rose bush which had wreathed itself around one of the pillars of the portico, and culled several of its half blown flowers. While he was thus employed, Ellen was gazing abstractedly on the fantastic shadows made by the trees in the yard.— Suddenly she grapped the railing for sup port, and looked with eyes fascinated with terror on a white shade which seemed to rise from an open space on which the moon's radiance was poured without ob struction from the surrounding shrubbery. The shadow arose slowly, and gradually assumed the waving outline of a human form wrapped in the garment of the tomb. It approached the spot on which she stood and the features of Henry Sinclair, wear ing a look of sad reproach, were distinct ly visible to her as the shade glided be tween herself and her newly wedded lord. With a faint cry she would have fallen had not Peyton turned and sprang forward in time to receive her senseless form in his arms. Long, long was it before she recovered from her deathlike swoon. She then rela ted what she had seen, and clung to the belief in the spectral visitation with such tenacy that reasoning and soothing failed to calm her mind. Before another day drawn she was raving in the delirium of a brain fever, and in one week from her ill-omened marriage she was laid beside him whose spirit she believed had sum mond her to join him. Thf incidents on which the foregoing pages are founded are literally true. That the supernatural visitation was the off spring of an over-wrought imagination and superstitious mind, a real case of mono mania, there can be but little boubt. The vagaries of an excited imagination are producing results on Mormons and Miller ites quite as inexplicable to sober reason as the catastrophe of 1 The Broken Vow. MIDNIGHT*—^The clock is striking twelve. How finely do the sweet full tones sweep past through the air, as if they would take up your thought and carry it to the friend you are thinking of at the moment. How many haunts of wretchedness hid from the human eyes in the depths of human hearts have these cold vibrations reached while they are dying so carelessly under our ears! What tales miaht they tell of secret misery, sickness un watched. and Drevinsr fOfrow, and[ fear and care, and the tbousaud bitter cankers mat lie and teed at the very heart-strings, beyond the reach of all medicine, perhaps of sympathy. Many a wife sits watching, with a bleeding heart, for her husband's step, many a mother for her child's—and many a veniurons mer chant lies haunted with fears of shipwreck and fire, many an undetected defaulter fancies voices at the door, many a young girl, just flndincr out that lovo is only a heaviness and .. tea^ muses bitterly over the caprice of a moment or an unmeant trifle. And these are the only watchers, for the happy are asleep, save the bride, on her daintily wrought pillow, murmuring a low tone in the ear that will soon.tire of its monotony, or to the poet, building up his dream in the darkness^, and hi, poise mounting with the leaping freedom of angel's, folgetung the w«ld will trample out hie fiery spmt to eshes, and 1 the fine work tow- laugh to scoru ering fancy. A DISSTRRSSED MOTHER.—A WIDOW ady living in Cincinnati, formerly y name of Earl, but now by the name o Henderson, has heard a flying report that her son James Earl, has been drowned off some steamboat between St. Louis and N Orleans, on which he travelled in the ca pacity of cook boy. He was about li years of age, long auburn hair, weak eyes and stout built. His mother who is a Scotch laby of respectable standing, says that his father, Mr. Earl, was drowned three weeks after they landed in this country. Any information will be thank fully received bo a distressed mother. CLAY'S SOUTHERN FACE —Extract from Henry Clay's Southern letters 1 never was in favor of duties being so high as to amount to prohibition of arti cles on which they were laid. I have thought it best for all interests that there should be competition. The prohibition of the fabrics of foreign countries, would transfer the monopoly to the home manu* facturers in the United States. 1 he true interests of the consumers are best pro moted by a competition between the for eign and the national supply. The luev itable tendency of that competition is to reduce prices as all experience has dem ons irate d. *-A w|al CJL pJTl *,v ''O-t •&< ~-£Tjft RESPECT FOR MECHANICS* It is true that there are those in this country of civil equality, whose sociat practice proves that they submit to the op* eration of the political theory only becaus# they cannot help it but it is also true thaf they constitute a very small numerical mi«t nority, insignificant as compared with thd vast number of those having equally good reason to assume to themselves a superi* ority of worth, and hence to argue their right to special privileges, but whose pri vate feelings and social practices are inp exact conformity with that theory of polite ical equality which lies at the base of oue national republican fabric, and gives vitals icy, force, virtue, and efficiency to our system of government. The former re-» duce the principle to practice only in their political capacity they do it ex necessi tate rei, and of course reluctantly, though they not unfrequently find it necessary as a matter of good temporary policy, to ap pear to do it willingly, and then they put a good face unon the matter the latter| acting in the same civil sphere, do no vi-r olence to their feelings. They simply o-r--||^ bey the promptings of a cardinal principle! in our Republican code of political ethics, and they carry it with them out of the public ways into the walks of private life. These are to be found in all parties, though not in every clique, or self-consti tuted 'class and they are of that kind who in making up their estimate of the individual man, reject the accidents of birth, as well as those of either wealth or poverty, and make his moral and intelec lual worth, as seen in his conduct and de veloped in his conversation, the chief ele ments in their calculation. They are al so to be found in every walk of life, pub lic and private. Wealth cannot destroy the good principle in some,*nor elevated public stations in others. An illustration is before us Mr. Buchanan of Pennsyl vania, recently, it appears, addressed a letter to the editor of the Newark Post, authorizing him to contradict some state ment made at that place prejudicial to his character. What was said against him we know not, nor have we seen his letter, but from the following extract, which we find In a contemporary journal, it would! appear that he had been charged with say* ing or doing something disparaging to the character, and prejudicial to the interests, of mechanics. He says: So far from having ever said or thot* any thing to the prejudice of mechanics, one of my nearest and dearest relatives, upon my urgent advice, was bound an ap prentice to a trade, and is at the present moment a mechanic and this was a mat* ter of choice, not necessity. I have thus afforded the strongest practical evidence of the estimation in which I hold this highly meritorious class of our fellow cit izens.' •Good practical evidence* this? nil* doubtedly as good as any man conld give who was too far advanced in life to learn a trade himself. There was no false pridd or vanity, but good sense, sound judg* ment, and coirect principle. Hi3 young iclailvc, IICJUCO* auJ »nd«f no present necessity to learn a mechani cal trade that he might get a living, yet by his advice he is now a practical mechanic,i nstead of studying a profession,' amf flattering himself with the delusive idea that therefore the future had in store fot him a far higher degree and order of re* spectability than could possibly be derived from the labors of the workshop. If thenf be any thing in elevated and honorably public station desirable, as there appearaL to be, or any thing calculated to promot# the true happiness of the incumbejnt| which is doubtful, it may yet be his, ear* ly years in a lawyer's office, reading the. perfection of human reason,' and dream» ing of his future elevation to 4 himself Ji »Cf j* |te Whole no. 197. ki the highest office in the gift of the people.' And why not? Is there any thing the occupation of the mechanic to disqual ify him for political elevation Nothing in this country. Or for social elevation! Nothing. The history of the country gives copious evidence that the mechanic mav render himself competent to discharge the'duties of the highest and most import tant public stations with credit and honor to himself and benefit to his country^ while the annals of privata life most bundantly testify to his competency tg make equal to any and inferior t* none in all the qualities that render tb# social circle agreeable to the wise and good. The American mechanic oughlf therefore, to be proud of his occupation always—-never ashamed of it. If he wiH estimate it is inferior to no other, and ao cultivate his mind and his moral system* that he may rise to the honorable level of it, and never fall beneath it, he will no! long have to complain of a want of rt* spect on the part of those who have becfli wont to arrogate to their own spheres a monopoly of respectability, and to look with contempt upon the occupation mechanic.—Baltimore Sun* A judge in Alabama lately decided thatft is obtaining goods under false pretences let voung ladies to efctaiB fiosbatws fcy iaa*™* use of bustles.