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The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware register. (Wilmington, Del.) 1824-1825, September 09, 1824, Image 1

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AM) DELAWARE REGISTER.
81, Market-st. (three doors above the Farmer's Bank,) at $2 50 per annum, payable half y early in advance, or #3 at the en d of the year.
Printed and Published, every Thursday by MENDENHALL Ü 1 WALTERS, No.
NO. 48
WILMINGTON, DEL. SEPT. 9, 1824.
VOL. 1.
has
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TERMS. —Aiivr.ierisr.Mi:NTS not exceeding
one square will be inserted four times for one
dollar, and 20 cents for each subsequent inser
tion....If continued for three months, i'~ 50—for
six months, $4 50; or for
qtj- Subscribers arc entitled to the privilege of
having their names, place of residence, and occu
pation, inserted ill the Réfuter, mû ris.
Aw subscription trill be discontinued until all ar
r etmi"CK tire paid, and lieu week's notice given.
: vear $8.
The following beautiful linos arc from the
obituary notice of Miss Amanda M. Lightncr of
Lancaster County, Penn, who died at Baltimore,
the 21st ult. much regretted by all who knew
on
her.
Breathe not a sigh for me
When 1 am gone;
Bat let my grave-place he
Dreary and alone;
Let the rude tempest rave
Tt tnv grave,
A requmni
Hut sing thou none.
Yet place a wild rose near
My narrow bed;
Emblem of one ton dear,
Still dear, though dead!
Cherish its tender root,
Let no rude strati
Mow down its head.
Yes! 'twas a lovely flower
Mv bosom wore;
Vast was its beauty's pou V—
Alas! 'tis o'er.
Death, in a gloomy hour,
Tore it from Love's own bower,
r Po bloom no more.
Winter will blight the rose
Thou plalit'st for me!
Spring will new-life disclose—
'Twill flourish free;
And my heart's flower shall bloom
Brightly beyond the tomb,
Eternally !
foot
A. WOMAN'S LOVE.
A woman's love deep in the heart,
Is like tlie violet flower,
That lifts its modest head apart
In some sequester'd bower;
And blest is lie who finds that bloom,
Who sips its gentle sweets;
He heeds not life's oppressive gloom,
Nor all the cares lie meets!
j
in
!
. I
Thc following lines, saul to be written by an i
American lady, have lately been set to music and
sold ill London. They are entitled the Mis
sionary's Farewell."
I .and where the hones of ourfatlicrs are sleeping,
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are
A woman's love is like the spring
Amid the wild alone,
A burning wild o'er which the wing
Of cold is seldom thrown;
And blest is lie who meets that fount,
Beneath the sultry day;
I low gladly should liis spirit mount!
Ilovv pleasant be his way !
j
1
1
I
!
A woman's love is like thc rock
That every tempest braves,
And stands secure amid tlie shock
's wildest waves;
And blest is lie who knows repose
Within its shades is given;
'1'he world, with all its cures and woes,
Seems less like earth than heaven.
!
weeping!
Land where the light of .1 chovuh is shining!
Wc leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.
Dark is our path o'er the dark-rolling ocean;
Dark are our hearts, but the fire of devotion
Kindles within—and a far distant nation
Shall learn from our lijis the glad song of salva
tion.
Tliiil to the land of our toils and our sorrows!
Land of our rest!—when a few more to-morrows
cold pillows,
'cr thc billows.
* er our heads, we will seek
And rest in our graves, far away
Look not thou upon liquor when it sparkfcs,
" when it givctli its Jolor lithe cup, when it mnv- m
ctl. itself aright, at the last it biteth like a set- i
pent and atingeth like an udder."—S oldmox. |
.. , . ... I it
Would you learn how like a serpent clnin- |
kenness biteth and how like an adder it :
stingeth—then contemplate the disgusting !
figure and the deplorable circumstances of 1
.. , . s, . s, , I
Silenus. Beaold tins miseiable wreck of a ■
man !—He is not yet turned of forty, yet tot- f
ters in his steps like one of fourscore.—See , I
him weakened in intellect, morose in temper, !
, , , , ' I
lost to all sense either ot honoi ot sham-, ;
lost to all affection towards tlie wife of lus
bosom, and tlie children of his own body,
Mark thc stupidity of his countenance, the
morose aspect of lus hlood-sliotten ejes, his ,
palsied hand, and the leprous tetter that
covers his skin.—Turn now and behold his
wife-there she sits in that corner covered
. ..
till ot coals. — See hei pale and emaciated
her eyes dim with weeping, and her checks
furrowed with tears.—Hapless woman ! who
can hut nitv thee ? who can hut mingle his
. J . T . *., . . f
tears with thine. Look next on those sut
fering children.—They receive nought but
frowns and curses and blows from the man
, ,, , ,, I, I
Yvhom they had been taught to call by the en
dcaring name of father:—yet they havjMa
friend whose bosom throbs with tendcriMs
toward them - hut her hand is too feeble to
toward them, but hci liana s too tccoie to
supply their needs.— They ask Jlieir mother
for bread, but she has none to break to them,
-The storm howls through the broken
SERIOUS REFkECTZOZTS.
windows, and they say, " we are cold"—She
answers them only with sighs. Alas ! she
has none to hind up her own bleeding heart.
And is tliis the once sensible and sprightly
Silenus, fortune's child, who inherited a
large patrimony ?—the same 1 —" How fallen,
how lost !"—And wliat has wrought tliistcr
riblc reverse in their circumstances ? Y\ hat
has turned ttiis man into a brute ? \\ hat lias
plunged this woman into the deepest distress,
inasmuch as that lier tears arc her meat ?
What has rendered these children miserable?
Wliat ^ciirf lias poisoned and destroyed the
happiness of this whole family ?— 1 hat curs
ed fiend is drunkenness.—Time was when
Silenus was a kind husband and an affec
tionate father, when his company gladdened
the heart of his wife, when his little prattlers
used to meet him at the door and receive his
fond caresses.—Time was when every room
in his mansion was gilded with domestic hap
piness, when lie ranked in society as a usc
I ful member and an ornament, and when the
j eyes that saw him blessed him, and the car
that heard him was respectfully attentive.
!— But Silenus looked oil the sparkling liquor
! while giving its color and temptingly moving
1 itself ill tlie cup—lie tasted, lie at length tip
! pled daily; the habit became riveted—lie
I plunged occasionally into intoxication, and
j became at last a downright sot.—His estate
! is consumed, and of all poor people, his fani
! ily are among the most wretched—" Dig
I they cannot," having never been taught to
! labor—" to beg they are ashamed." This is
! not a romance :—there are many families in
j our country, whose deplorable situation cor
responds with this description.
;i NOTON I AN.
Full THF.
I KNOW BEST.
j This short sentence may occasionally lie true
in the mouths of those who use it; yet perhaps
! there lias not been one more abused.
It was ill
the serpent's mouth when he beguiled Eve. /
know best, was his language to her—/ know best,
substance, to lier husband
feof
was tier language, ii
—aiul to this day, / know best is the langu;
some men to their wives, and wives to their 1ms
bands, and by exampling after them, children
soon learn to know best-, next in order, the ser
vants think they know bent, and not unfrcqiicntly
let their thoughts be publicly known. Men and
women, in gay circles, generally speaking, each
j know best; disputants on matters of interest, poli
1 rv, and religion, individually Inune best. Indeed
1 v. c have only to listen with our cars, and if we
I are not incredulous, must believe that every body
! knows best.
0 7
!
OLD LETTERS
I-, r „„i„,.i.,,,„i f,.i„.:„„ is
I know of nothing more calculated to hi mg
hack the nearly-faded dreams of y outh— thé ]
almost obliterated scenes and passions of our „
boyhood—-and to recall the brightest and
best associations of those day s j
When the young blood ran riot in the veins,
And boyhood made us sanguine—
. ... *.ii
liotlung that more easily
ternatejoys and sorrows ot matuiei ytais—
the **°*V™~*^ times ]ronc
l •mli'iiiiiiate
by , and the breathing ioims and inanimate
objects that wound themselves mound oui
hearts, and became almost necessary o o n
existence, than the pel usai ot old Ietteis.
They are the memona s
records of affection—the speakmg-ti umpets
through which those whom we esteem hail
us from afar, niey seem flowed by the
brother s grasp, the sistu skiss, the fathers
blessing, and the mother s love. W hen wc
look on them, the friends whom dreaiv seas
™d distant leagues divide from us are again .
m our presence. Wc see their cordial looks, J
i and hear their gladdening voices once more.
| Flic paper has a tongue m every clia.i
I it contains—a language in its very silentness.
| Thcy speak to the souls of met, like a voice
: from the grave, and are the links ot that
! chain which connects with tlie hearts and
1 sympathies of tlie living an evergreen re
I membrance of the dead. 1 lune one at
■ ])is moment before me, which, aitliougli
f ime h a s in a degree softened the regret that j
, I felt at the loss ot him who penned it, I dare
! scarcely look upon it. It calls.back too j
I forcible to my remembrance its nohle-mmd- ;
; fd aut | im .—the treasured friend of my ear- i
p es t mul happiest days, the sharer of my i
puerile hut innocent joys. I think of him as.
he then was-tlie free-the 1
gav—tlie welcome guest in every circle |
, v |j ere k i lu i feeling lrad its weight, or frank
ness and honesty had influence: and, in an
insta..t comes the thought of what lie now
is ; and pale and ghastly images ot death are
poor and wasting asnes. I mark a stiungei
closing his powerless lids—a stranger toilow
ing him to the grave—and I cannot trust my
sel ? a S a ) n to open his lust letter It was
written but a short time betoi e he tell a mo
tim to the yellow fever m the West Indies,
a inl told me, in the affecting language ot
Moore, that
Far beyond the Webern sea,
Mas one n is • ' >
On hearing of his death, I wrote some stan
zas which I have preserved.—not out ot any
iu tU . vel . se ' s themselves, but as a to
ke n of esteem for him to whom they were
addressed, and a true transcript of my feel
lags at the time they were composed. 1
i ;is
!
i
as
in
make no apology for inserting them litre.
Those who have never loved, nor lost a
friend, will be backward in persuing them
—those who have, will recur to their own
feelings and not withhold their sympathy.
STANZAS.
Farewell! Farewell! for thee arise.
The bitter thoughts that pass not o'er ;
And friendship's tears and friendship's sighs
Can never reach thee more.
For thou art fled, and all are vain
To call thee to this earth again.
And thou hast died where strangers feet
Alone towards thy grave could bend ;
And that last duty, sad but sweet,
Has not been destined for thy friend ;
He was not near to calm thy smart,
And press thee to his bleeding heart.
He was not near, in that dark hour
When reason fled her ruin'd shrine,
To soothe with pitv's gentle power.
And mingle bis fain sighs with thine
And pour the parting tear to thee,
As pledge of his fidelity.
He was not near, when thou
Bv others to thy parent earth,
To think of former days, and mourn
In silence o'er departed worth t
And seek thy cold and cheerless bed.
And breathe a blessing for the dead.
Destroying death ! thou hast one link
That bound me in this world's frail chain
And now I stand on life's rough brink,
Dike one whose heart is mitt in twain;
Save that at times a thought will steal
To tell me that it still call feel.
Oh! what delights,—what pleasant hours,
In which all joys were wont to blend,
Have faded now, and all hope's flowers
Have wither'd with my friend.
Thou feel'st no pain within the tomb,
But they alone who weep thy doom.
I
vert borne
j
I
I
j
I
j
Long wilt thou lie the cherish'd theme
all their praise—
Of all their fondness
In daily thought and nightly dream—
In crowded halls and lonely ways ;
And they will hallow every scene
Where thou in joyous youth hast been.
;
Theirs is the grief that cannot die.
And in their hearts will he the strife
That must remain with memory—
Uncanccll'dfrom the hook of life,
Their breast will he the mournful urns
Where sorrow's incense ever burns.
But there arc other letters whose perusal
makes us feel as if receding from the winter
of the present to thu spring-time of the past.
These are from friends whom we have long
known, and whose society wc still enjoy.
There is a charm in contrasting the senti
ments of their youth witli these of a riper
age ; or rather, in tracing the course of their
ideas and following them up to their full de
velopement ;—for it is seldom that the feel
ings we entertain in the early part of our
lives entirely change—they merely expand,
as the grown tree proceeds from the shoot,
or the flower from tlie hud. YY e love to
turn from the formalities and cold politeness
of the world to the " Dear Tom," or " Dear
Dick," at the head of such letters.
is something touching about it ;—something
mg tp at awakens a friendly warmth in the heart.
thé ] t ; s shaking the hand by proxy—a vicarious
our „ , raorl . ow have a whole packet of
and su gh letters from my G -, and there
j s sca rccly a dash or a comma in them that
is not characteristic of the man. Every
word bears the impress of freedom—in true
currente columo stamp. He is tlie most
convival of letter-writers—the heartiest of
. t]ers Thcn therc is N -who al
ways seems to hear in mind it is " better to
be brief than tedious," for it must indeed he
an i m p ortaut subject that would elicit trom
oui nuire than three lines, nor has his rib ai
n ot thc eaeoft hea scribe,uli about
But there are letters differing in charac
aU that i llavo vet mentioned—
hail * t d from the'wreck of earlv
the ,, f sph-it-lmoving hopes
rcmcm i„. a | icca of : oy _Thcy perchance re
wc us tllattl . J lo V e has Jet in tears—that
seas those h opes WC re cruellv blighted—that our
. . f ovevcT . When we look on them
J )
tU.tci-—- —No time
Can ransom us from sorrow.
the adoptcd of mise -
that rv _n a r,,* s lo nè inheritors. The bloom has
and > j ^ . ij vcs • a chilling blast has
re- 8, own oycl . our souls ' '
ill
/
ser
and
we
There
_structecl
"" ..'*
j COLLECTA3ÏEA. !
_ j
j |
; KI.MAUKABJ.E 1 Ii.iai, liu i \. !
i The praetor had given up to the Triumvir, a i
i woman of some rank, roiideiniieil fur a eapilal
crime, to he executed in the prison. He a ho
1 ^
| her birtli, did not liiniiediatclv put lui to (hath.
He even ventured tolrtlmrdauKUterliave access
to her m prison, carefully searciiuig her, liowcv
er, as she went m, lest il s joa < e.un '! 1 ' '?
S"r muTof cöür S^ fo want, lu'nï the !
' olded. Some d:«vs nasdnr in this nuunu*r,
t | ie triumvir be^'m to wonder that the daughter
st;Ucamet0 v f s i t Ucnnothcr, and could bv no
meanscomprtfhcnd> i, ow tlie latter should live so
j 0 Watclving, therefore c:a*efullv, what pass
* n the interview between them,* lie found, to
his great astonishment, that the life of the mother
had been, nil this while supported by Hie milk of
the daughter, who dime to thc prison every day,
mgivciu'r mother herbreast to slick. The strange
contrivance between them was represented to the
judges, and procured a pardon for thc mother,
N or was it thought sufficient to çive to so dutiful
a daughter, the forfeited life of her condemned
mother, hut they were both maintained afterwards
by a pension settled on them for life. And the
grauiul, upon which the pr.son stood, was conse
When Alexandria was taken by the Mahome
tuns Amrus, their commander, found there Phi
loponus, whose conversation highly pleased him,
i ;is Amrus was a lover of letters, and Philoponus a
! 1,....rned man. On a certain day Philoponus said
i to him; 'You have visited all the repositories or
public warehouses in Alexandria, and you have
sealed up things of every sort, that arc to be
found there. As to those things that may be
useful to ion, I presume to say nothing; but as to
things of no service to you, some of them perhaps
av lie more suitable to me.' Amrus said to him:
» it von want ? 'Tis the philosophic
iliedhe) preserved in the royal libra
avs Amrus, is a request, upon which
de. You desire a thing where 1 can
from Omar, the
crated, and a temple to Filial Piety built upon it.
What will not filial duty contrive, or what haz
ards will it not run, if it will put a daughter upon
venturing, at the peril of her own life, to maintain
her imprisoned and condemned mother in so unu
sual a manner > For whutyvas ever heard of, more
strange, than a mother sucking the breasts of her
own daughter* It might even seem so unnatural,
as to render it doubtful, whether might it not be,
in some sort, w
parents is the first law of nature.
rung, if it were not, that duty to
DESTRUCTION OK THE ALEXANDRIAN
LIBRARY.
"And what
al books ( ri
ries.' 'This
I cannot dci
■dors till t have le;
issue no
commander of the faithful.—Letters were accor
ding! v written to Omar, informin
j Philoponus had said; andi
I hv Omar to the following purport:
I books, of which you have made mention, if there
Pained in them, what accords with the book
j of (iod (meaning the Alcoran) there is without
I them in the book of (iod, all that is sufficient.
But if there lie any thing in them repugnant to
that book, wc in no respect want them. Order
them therefore to be all destroyed.* Amrus upon
this ordered them to be dispersed through the
baths of Alexandria, and to lie ther.c burnt in ma
king the baths warm. After this manner, ill the
space of six months, they were all consumed."
The historian, having related the story, adds
•II feelings, "Hear what was done, and
him of wliat
vas returned
'As to the
unswei
from his o'
wonder."
Thus ended this noble library and thus began,
j ifit did not begin sooner, the age of barbarity and
; ignorance.
Y QU YKF.U'S LETTER TO HIS WATCHMA
w herein lie should go.
t HinU, and when I ponder thereon, I am ver
q v 0 f opinion, that liis body is foul, and
t] ' e w hole mass is corrupted. Purge him,
therfore with thv charming physic, from all
pollution, that lui may vibrate and circulate
according to the truth I will place him foi
a f ew Rays under tay care, and pay for Ins
i Knnvi] bs tliou renuirest it. In tliv Inst, thou
L harRest mc with one eighth of a pound.
I whic h l w ill pav when the work deserves it.
! j cntl . e;lt tliel, friend John, to demean tliy
j sc] f 011 this occasion with a right judgment
j (lccor diine to the tflft which is in t..ee, and
thyself a workman that needs not be
Wanted. And when tliou layest thy cor
rcctimr hand on him, let it he without passion,
u-st tliou drive him to destruction. Do
j thou regulate his motion for the time tocome,
bv the motion of the light that ruletli the
dhv, and let him learn from that m.cring
KU ; cle tlie true calculation of liis table and
equation and when tliou lindest him convert
f J f rom the error of his wans, and more con
formahle to the above-mentioned rules, then
scnd trim home with a just bill of
dl .avvn out bv the spirit of modem
t ion md it shall be sent, in the root of all evil,
to tht ' e ' _
, ,
THF, ALPIN L IIUKN.
Thc Alpine Horn is an instrument con
with tlie bark of the cherry tree ;
and w 'nich like a speaking trumpet is used
! to convey sounds to a great distance. When
j the last rays of the sun gild the summit ot
| the Alps, the shepherd who dwells highest
! on those mountains, takes Ins horn and calls
a i ;i joutl, ' Praised he the Lord !' As soon as
]' lt . al . { f 5 j_j ie neighhoving she]iliei'ds leave
alu i repeat tliose words. '1 he
lMt for every echo
.. tJ muun tains and grotto ot the rocks re
™ the name of God. How solemn the
!. celie , Imagination cannot picture itself any
thing more Sublime ; the profound silence
! that succeeds, the sight of those stupe.,duous
the mind to enthusiasm.
In the meanwhile, the shepherds bend
no their knees, and pray in the open air, and
so soon after return to their huts to enjoy the
repose oi innocence.
to __
of AMERICAN HEROISM.
During one ot the former wars imvocu i rauoo
and England, in which the then colonies bore an
active part, a respectable individual, ^a mem ber ot
thc Society ot Friends, ot the nameo
manded a fine ship, winch sailed troni ant caster
port to a port in England. Hus vessel hada
strong aud effectiveicrevv, but was totally « na ™
ed; when near h< -*' tYcnch*ve«s d of
aud ultmiatcly overhauled bv a French ura-1 oi
I herewith send thee my pocket-clock,
which greatly standetli in need of thy friendly
correction; the last time lie was tit thy friend
ly school, lie was no ways reformed, nor even
ill the least benefit thereby; for I perceive,
by tlie index of liis mind, that lie is a liar,
aiul the truth is not in him; that liis motions
are wavering and irregular; that his pulses
are sometimes v ery quick which betokeneth
not an even temper; at other times itwaxeth
so sluggish, (notwithstanding I frequently
urge lii'ni,) that when he should he on his du
t'.q as thou knowest his usual name denoteth,
I find him slumbering and sleeping—or,
the vanity of human reason phraseth it, I
catch him napping. Hence, 1 am induced
to believe he is not right in the inward man.
Kxamiw him, therefore, and prove him, 1
beseech tliec, thoroughly, that tliou may
est, by being well acquainted vv itli liis inward
frame and disposition, draw him from the er
■ of his ways, and shew him the path
It grieveth me to
a
nil
. Her commander used every endeavour to
escape, but seeing by the superior sailing of the
Frenchman that his capture was inevitable, he
quietly retired below; he was followed into the
cabin by his cabin hoy, a youth of activity anden
terprize, named Charles Wager; he asked his
commander if nothing more could be done to save
the ship—his commander replied that it was im
possible, that every thing had been done that was
practicable, there was no escape for them, and
they must submit to be captured. Charles then
returned upon deck, and summoned the crew
around him—he stated in a few words what was
their captain's conclusion—then with an elevation
of mind, dictated by a soul formed for enterprise
and noble daring, he observed:—if you will place
\ ourselves under my command, and stand by me,
l have conceived a plan by which the ship may
he rescued, and wc in turn become the conqucr
ors. The sailors, no doubt, feeling the ardor,
and inspired by the courage of their youthful and
gallant leader, agreed to place themselves under
his command. liis plan was communicated to
them, and they awaited, with film ness, the mo
j ment to cany their enterprise into effect; their
suspense, was of short duration, for the Frencli
man was quickly alongside, as the weather was
fine, and immediately grappled fast to the unot
fending merchant ship. As Charles had antici
pated, the exhilerated conquerors, elated peyond
measure with the acquisition of so fine a prize,
poured into his vessel in crowds, cheering and
huzzaing, and not foreseeing any danger, they left
hut few men on board their ship. Kow was the
moment for Charles, who, giving his men the
signal, sprung at their head on board the opposing
diile some seized the arms which had
been left in profusion on
which they soon overpowered the few men left on
board; the other by a simultaneous movement re
lieved her from the graphings which untied the
Our hero now having the command
war.
to
ssel,
her deck, ami with
two vessels.
of the French vessel, seized the helm, and placing
her out of boarding distance, hailed with the
voice of a conqueror tlie discomfitted crowd ot
Frcnclnncn which were left on hoard of the
peaceful bark he had just quitted, and summon
ing them to follow close in his wake, or lie would
blow tliatn out of water (a threat they well knew
he was very capable of executing, as their guns
were loaded during tlie chase.) They sorrowful
ly acquiesced with his commands,while the gallant
Charles steered into port, followed by his prize,
—The exploit excited universal applause the
former master of the merchant vessel was exam
ined by the admiralty, when lie stated the whole
of the enterprize as it occured, and declared that
Charles Wager had planed and effected the gal
lant exploit, and that to him alone belonged the
honor and credit of the achievement. _ Charles
immediately' transfered to the British navy,
appointed a midshipman, and his education care
fully superintended. He soon after distinguished
himself in action, and underwent a rapid promo
tion, until at length he was created an Admiral,
and known ils sir Charles Wager. It is said, that
lie always held in conversation and esteem, the re
spectable and conscientious friend, whose cabin
hoy lie had been, and transmitted yearly to Ins old
mûrier, as he termed him, a handsome present of
Maderia, to cheer 1ns declining days.
VV II 3
a
the aggregate.
esteem among the peasantry as a very per
feet intimacy with Mozart, Handel or Ros
sun, is m circles more polite. An Irish
swain in describing his mistress to you, wtl
place hr:- perfections in this ratio: "Ah!
hut she is a very clever girl, with a white
skin; and (shaking his head) she has a>e
cry with her.' I have actually known of
many conquests made by well-graced maid
ens ; and what appears still more extraordi
nary, conquests planned by them, in the
train of a funeral, and in tlie wailing of a
friend's death ! 1 have heard the perfor
mers in those singular choruses taken to
nieces in a cottage coterie on the subsequent
evening, with as much malice, and as great
an affectation of critical acumen, and as lit
tie of human mercy, as is here exhibited in
tlie dissection of the young performers in a
Lent Concert or Oratorio. "Why, Mary,
V o« didn't cry to-day at all at all."
deed , then, hut it wasn't that there was no
room for worse than Mary," said a third.
.. Well, to he sure, it isn't good to judge ; but
if ever e'er a girl did make a viutham- ot hcr
i sc )f t Xs.ifty K'ilmartin was that girl this day.
! she made the whole cliurch-yard laugh,
There she was, with her yellow jack and
hcr white handkilcher and her /my colour
ribbin and she erving tor the bare life, and
sorrovv a note she had, no more nor the gor
mon that drov the truckle ."—" I wonder
what would Tliady say if lie seen her."—
Who is Thady ?-" A boy of the Galalioos,
tant,) and—'there's ^ a month there since—
she went to mass with one of the mistress's
books, with a fine red cover ; but what should
Thady he doing hut sitting behind her, un.
knovvnst, and she having the wrong side of
the book to-rj arils her. Thady seen how
'twus, and he never come nigh 1 .' after;
and, ('tisn't good to judge,) In Kitty Kil
,■ , t ... f or rv aver the dead
"Z Jc i-ASoZHoatha /"
y ()U sce therefore, that sincerity is not
eV en thought of. But I have been fortunate
^ t0 & hear lhis melancholy and wild
hl its perfection, for I
P ... , it—nv sincere—-when it sprung
from and gave expression to the real feeling
tiom ana gave i
From the Literary Gazette.
THE IRISH FUNERAL CRY.
I sit down to tell you a little circumstance
of which I was myself a witness, some
months since, in a little village in the south
west of Ireland,—a district which has late
ly excited a melancholy interest. Tlie cus
tom of crying aloud at funerals in that coun
try is well known, and has certainly a very
powerful, though not a very pleasing effect
on those who have been accustomed to the
silent and cold decorum with which we fol
low tlie remains of our acquaintances to
their long home in this. But those who close
tln ir ears at the first intrusion of this strange
simultaneous wailing of many voices and fevv
hearts, are very widely mistaken if they
imagine that it is the easy acquisition of all,
or that it is so unmusical in solo as it is in
It is held just in the same
" In-

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