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-•■gp-•* aefacst fWSBEK*"-" mam mI BBS ssss ■* a-n ■f ■ «mu nrapi Ja P i^i J.u f ram fa IT m il 3 S — ï j i m fc——i——^ i— Q Open to all Parties— IqflnÇeneed by Hone. iL ï A \ ÜPçuoteb to literature, Jftcdjanism, arts atti> Btieuces, agriculture, Ucbucatiou, JHoralitn, amusemeut, Coral JHatter, loreigu an5 domestic News, anî> (general Intelligence. PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JOHN N- HA RKER, CORNE R OF SECOND AND SHIPLEY STREET 8, WIL MIN G T ON, DEL. 91 60 payable in Advance. *2,00 within Six Month ■■si If WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1848, Vol.lI. No. 22. [Written for tho Independent Delawarian.] ROSA BLANCH. Or tile bltghtod Rose of the Dairy. BY ROMEO. PART IV. e*ror blights his He may the breach rastore ; But woman, when she stoops to shame, la lost for evermore. When once wijhin the dark vortex, No hand extonds to save— Condemn'd by man—Spurn'd by her sex, 8he sorrows to the grave. Thus Rosa, when she would return, The cold, unfeeling world, Refus'd her back, with mandoto etern, And insult on her hurl'd. An outcast from the human . She saw no pitying eye, The poor-houso the only placo, Where ahe might weep and die. e nearly run ; She feols her sands Her soul must soon depart ; No friend i To eooth her troubled heart. the lonely At that dark hour, when the soul, Shrinks back at every groan, And death drops from the forehead roll, t «lone. Poor Rosa No, not alone !—for • With an attentive Is list'ning with a father's love, Her dying prayer to hear. Though all tho world mny disappear, He is forever n«gh, And sees the first repentant Fall from lhe mourner's eye. The shaft is sped—she gasps for breath— The grave yawns-nt her feet— A spirit through the shades of death, rect. Speaks consolation beyond her present A brighter world than this, Aud mildly sinks io death'9 repose, IV dreui^y bliss. Her nnuvo cot nppcaj j , (m x :g . u drç j* Now peering through tho gloom, Her fathor sits within the door, And beckons her to She hoars again the lowing herd ; She culls the blushing flowers ; Above her head the yellow bird, Chirps in his leafy bowers. A light unearthly marks her eye, And then a mist comes o'er ; A half drawn breath—a smile—a sigh, And Rosa is She A coffin made of unplaucd boards— Rude shap'd and nailed secure, vis all 80 cieiy afford?, ~ «jliantllcBH and the poor. The They laid the ! rose within, /took ; 'Njqd she kill, And little pains tfi* friends, To take tho last sud loo She Imd hammered clolfcv^ oithcr end, the narrow house, The coffin lid And They took her Unfollowed by a friend. V bear'd around— No smother'd sobs No ceremony said— No fun'ral hymn, vfilh mournful sound, Was rais'd above t^p dead. heap'd upon her breast— No stone, marks out the spot, Where Rosa lies in peaceful rest, Unknown—unwept—forgot. Thou blighted one, no minstrelsy, Mourns thy untimely doom ; No epitaph is Except the flower's bloom. Thpy say when blooming in the Spring, And when they fade away ; Thus did shebioom a fragile thing, And thus did shq decoy. The clods to for thoo, l / [Written for the Independent Delawarian. ] THE SILENT HEART AND LUTE. BY ELLENE. of huppincss, Talk UQt to Of friends that love me yet ; Ye are all dearer Then how I forget f laugh a merry laugh— ~ a song ; JIow could I smile, or sing t< The songs neglected long ? They would recall too painfully, of yore, When gaily flew the sunny houqf, ipore. You bid me You ask ir >*night, The happi Which I shall know Then ask The songs I used to sing, Or round my weary, aching brow, A flowery wreath to fling. not to smg again, Those fairy blossoms would but mock, The wretohodness beneath ; Once they'd have lightly decked my brow, . take back thy wroatb. But My lute has lost its silvery notea, My apirit loved to hear— Not one faint sound can I make, Which charmed the Usiner' s ear. Oh ! memory thou'rl a fearful thing— A thorn within iqy breast ; Oh ! for one draught of Lethe's bright wave, To quiet this atormy guest. Then I would tune my harp again, To my full spirit's words. Until it Utbke in fTcfinosaTidfth, V* Wak'ning ita silent chords. Alas ! 1 cannot still the storm— * It will not yet depart— Upon the Lute no sound will wake, For bleeds the minstrel's heart. Select Èales. benefit ;— From the Salem Sun JBtam. The Nobleman's Bride. BY JOSEPH B. HOAG. This world .is replete with that which is wonddVful in the extreme. Do we wish to find that which is really remarkable and strange, we have only to turn to facts of al most every day occurrence, and we can easily become acquainted with that, which for being remarkable in its character, far outvies anything which is the product of the most active imagination, or soaring fancy. The observer of the facts of hu man life, finds at almost every step of his investigation, fucts, inexplicable in their charucter, which the deepest genius cannot divine. There are seeming anomalies in the history of almost every individual which fill us with wonder and astonishment, were we to became fully acquainted with it.— But l will not be prolix in preliminaries. The leading features of the following as strictly true; the tale may be relied writer having been furnished with them from the most reliable source. Reuder, I would conduct you (in imagi nation at least) to a splendid mansion ualed on the buffks of tlte Hudson, rounded by every appenfah and comfort. It is wealthy Mr. Gorman, wh the best treasure he possesses ; for his sullied reputation anv one might envy. He has always been a friend to the poor, and his name is lisped with accents of gratitude by many whom his bounty has relieved; and whose wants he has , sit— s ur oTTvoalTfiT the residence of the wealth is not administered to. In that splendid mansion the; owner lies a couch of sickness, to which he has long been confined. Every means within the range of human power has tyeeu resort ed to, in order to check lhe progress of the disease, and restore him to his wonted health; but in vain, his physical tells him he must dje. All hope has forsaken him, and he resigns hitnseli to his me. He has an infant daughter, Ins otiitTcAuld, and she must soon be left destitute of a lather's protection. If ho cqu seewre her future well being, he can easily hicbune reconciled to leave the wot Id. f'* For this purposed lie suinlnonstohis bed side his friend and neiglddor, Charles Hen his carev They are schoolina es— .ililey have always been friends, ajidjn/*him the dying man fondly 'hopes he may re^so confidence ; and with out hesitation and reluctance he consigns her to his care and p&tection. After having, as he supposes, made all necessary arrangements, and placing a large amount of money in Mr. Ilcftton's hands lo defray the expense of his daughter Caro line's education, and for a fortune for her when she-should arrive at maturity, he leaves the world in peace. The scene now changes. We will take you, reader, to the town of Williston, in the State of Vermont. Sixteen years have elapsed since the opening of our tale. We approach a state ly mansion, surrounded by tall shade trees and gravel walks ; no pains have been spared to iflake the phice beautiful anjJ lovely. It is the residence of Charles Hen ton, Caroline's guardian. This enure prop erty was'purchaacd with the money left him by Caroline's lather, for her benefit. But where is Curoline ?—She resides her« f hut her's is the station of a menial—rher life one of toil and hardship. She. who was amply provided for by a dealing father in his lust moments, has been treacherously wronged out cf her father's bounty, by the dishonesty of her guardian, who, forgetful of his vows to her dying father, has appro priated évery farthing of the property which her father left her for his anfl instead of occupying the elevated sta tion iu society, which her father designed, and for wjucli he made ample provision, she js doomed to a life of servitude. He has adopted her as his daughter, and she, ignqrant of her true parentage, really sup poses him lo be her father. 1 / Her education has been neglected, hMt she is beautiful in the extreme, and the ad miration of all who saw her ; yet she goes but little into society, from the fact that h^r unfeeling guardian, who ha* deprived her of her father's bounty, and in whose service she had thus far spent her life, denies her the necessary apparel to appear in society respectably« She knows that he whom sl}e calls her father is wealthy—much more so than most of his neighbors; yet while most ton, and consigns her of the young ladies of the neighborhood en joy the benefits and pleasure of society and fashionable apparel, she is doomed to soli tude through his parsimonousne ss. In order to obviate this difficulty, after she has performed the labor of the family, she spins for the neighbors, and with Her wages thus earned, she purchases clothing for herself; and in this way alone?does she become the possessor of anything like finery. Hard is thy fate, p*>or girt, and deeply art thou wronged, though ^jnorant of the full extent of that wrong, or the vile treach ery of him who uttered the most solemn vows to thy dying father, which vows have been disregarded and broken ; yet despair not, for an angel of mercy is hovering over thy path with balmy wings, and a brighter destiny awaits thee. Reader, we must now return to the man the banks of the Hudson,-the for sion mer residence of Mr. Gorman—Caroline's father. Caroline's mother still resides here, but she is no longer the widow Gorman. For seveial years she has been the wife of the talented and wealthy Henry Overst. Her ignorance of the rrue condition of her daughter is explained by the fact that she has frequently received letter* from Mr.Hen ton, giving Battering accounts of Caroline's advancement in literary accomplishments, and of her perfect happiness. Shehasnev er known uught of the facts in the til this morning. A few weeks since, a neighbor of Mr. Overt's having occasion to travel through the western part of Vermont, was requested to ascertain the location of Mr. Henion, and bring them intelligence oftheir daughter. This morning they have received a letter from him, stating that he has visited Mr. Heaton—that there is living with him a beautiful and interesting young woman, apparently about sixteen years of age, by the name of CarStine, whom he calls Ins daughter; that he has been informed by Mr. Heaton's neighbors that she has al ways been subjected to the necessity of working like a slave, and has been forced to work out, to clothe herself. • This news is like a thunderbolt to Mrs. Overst, who chides herself for having so long neglected to ascertain the true condi tion of her daughter, and she resolves to take measures lo find her immediately. We must now return to Caroline. It is a sunny afternoon in September ; she is spinning hi the clmmbcV of-a neighbor, she lias jusi been odd that the stranger who 1 called at Mr. Henron's, tirade cuqutri specting her, and that something mysteri rests upon her history. She feels mel ancholy and sad. She can arrive ut no definite conclusion by what Bhehas heard; yet it renders her unhappy; she looks out of the window and by two beautiful horses, slowly winding up the lane that leads from the road to the house; «lie feels, she knows not why, that there is something good in store for her, and her depression of spirits suddenly gives wuy to her wonted cheerfulness. She sees a lady and gentleman alight from the car riage and enter the house. in a few moments she is summoned to the parlor—she obeys die summons and after a few questions put to her by the strangers, she is told that that lady is her moi her, and that gentleman, her step-fath er. We will not attempt to picture her emotions, which can be more easily imag ined than described. She is taken ut once from her unfeeling guardian, and placed at school, where she remained two ye rs a»4 made ordinary proficiency. Mr. Overst soon after was elected a member of Congress, and took Caroline and her mother with him to Washington. There, beauty and amiable ness wins hei many admirers. She moves in the highest circles, and is the admira tion of all. Again the scene changes. You must now accompany US, reader, to England.— Here we approach one of the finest castles of this far famed Isle. It is the dwelling of Lord Henry Stuart. A gay party had as sembled at this Lordly mansion. Here the noble, the high-born, and the grand have met. What can be the occasion of this as semblage! We gain a view of the apart inents, and every appearance of grandeur meets our eye. Why have bled who are England's high-born, to spend a night of festivity and mirth? Lord Hen ry Stuart has just returned with his bride; and they have met to celebrate the occa sion and congratulate him ;—but who is she who hangs on Lord Henry's arm as his bride! It is Curoline, the heroine of our tale. Lord Stuart was Minister Plenipo tentiary, from England to Washington, at the time Caroline's step-father was mem ber of Congress ; and her lady-like appear anee won his esteem and »flection;—he married her, conveyed her to England, and now Caroline, who was once treated with the utmost severity, was compelled to Icad a life of servitude, and was most treacher ously wronged by one who had a>sutned the relation of a parent to her, and most solemnly vowed tojjdischnrge t|ie duties of that relation ;—enjoys all the affluence and S andeur of an English nobleman's bride, ut what, you ask, became of her unpriucl rewafd 111 ] a carriage drawn an eminent lawyer, who prosecuted it wjth vigor, and the result was that Renton was siripped of all his property, and his cltil dren turned him out of doors, and he be came a penniless exile in a foreign land, many assein pled, and cruel guardidn ? He ed for hi9 dishonesty by a most dread re tribution. Previous to Mr. Overst taking his seat in Congress, fie com mane«' anaiust him. which lie left in ihö Ik and died unpitied, among strangers, with none to receive his parting sigh or wipe the death damp from his brow. Reader Î from this brief, but truthful history, we may draw some valuable inferences.—Here we may learn that guilt, will, soorièrot later, be discovered, and meet with avjetretribution —and that virtue, and meet with a reward. filia^ob^bence will They Can't FoeilSe. * Suspicion is a heavy armor, and With its own weight impede* Billy Keene'* peculiar boast was the ut ter impossibility of being hottxed, or in his expressively phraseology, fooled .— " They can't fool me/" was ever at his tongue's end, and so evident were his at tempts to impress this fuel upon all with whom he had any thing to do, that he not unfVequently made a fool of himself! Billy always made a point of expressing his disbelief of every thing, however plausi ble, that reached his ears, which by the way, were exceedingly easy of access, he ftig not more than five feet two inches, from the ground, when their owner stood upon his feet. moi e m l^y Suspicion was always the "one idea" his mind; he suspected everybody of some abortive design to gull him—from the most respectable friend, down to poor old Isaac,who had no more idea of a practi cal joke, than a polar bear might be pected to have of a baby-jumper. Billy was not naturally hard-headed, but he was so suspicious, that he turned twenty beggars from his door, where he relieved the necessities of one. In vain was the imploring eye raised, and lhe wasted hand extended to him for aims.—The moro pit ious the story, the more evident was it to him a hoax. " It all sounds very pitiful," he would exlcaim; 44 but I have seen too much of the world—I've heard too much of such stuff—its no use—you can't fool me!" and the wretched medicanC was compelled to seek in otbet quarters for that charity which believeth all things, which thinketh no evil. % Billy was once married, boilit was a long time ere he was fooled into \the state of '« double blessedness," yet. {a*J te himself ha» acknowledged) he often ir.gt with hair breadth escapes^befhre he wq*aydly hook? ed- VVe recofmct his boastingfi'ce, during IrktY WotreJvrrmp,'Mud lhe only daughter of a neighboring m/penant, was endeavoring to snare him i:i|p the matri monial noose. He w ex akifjg the boast to his particular friend " other people don't notice it," said he, but it is as plain as day to me. She thinks I don't see her plan ! ha! ha!~slic can't lool me/T-Folks says her father will give her a cool ;en thousand ; humbug. If she's got the fspoons why should she be so anxious to get into my good graces! that's the question. She's rather pretty to be sure, but I wonder if she tlflnks that I believe her comnlexioh and teeth natural! Guess sWii Jind I ain't quite so verdant asshe thinks lam. No sir, she can't fool me !" Billy accompanied these words with a si? wink of peculiar expressif, and gave no little cause of astonishment to his friend, who for reasons best known to himself, was aware that the young lady wi$ innocent of any such intention as Billy iiimuted to her. Billy was no less astonished me next day, at hearing of the marriage oj* his friend, early «hat morning with the identical Ern B-, whose ten proved to hfl fifteen thou sand, and whose peisonal charms were all natural; maugrt Rill's suspicions. His friend found rti Emma a lovely; devoted wife, while he, still wrapped iu his " heavy armor," remained a bachelor. But at length, as we have already told you, our hero u as married, II any mor tal of Eve managed to fool him into an tiniou, is now, aud ever must remain to us a profound mystery. We are certain how ever, that he was inarriqd, for~we find him at fifty, a widower, with an duly daughter, a beautiful girl of eighteen. Our worthy friend was proud of his daughter Mary; aud well indérd he might be ; for she hud a sweet, lovely face, ami a faultless form, and there was 4 word of mirthfulness and mischief in her sparkling black eyes. Nor was irstrange that others should Jove her bciides her suspicious old father, who couldn't be footed:' There a village rumor (and we caqnot deny that Madame Uumor, for once, told the truth,) attachment between Mary aud Edward Seymour, a young merchant of the neighborhood, of whom every body spoke iu the highest terms of praise. All commetuIiÉius good nature, iranknes-and HfiiBilly always stemmed the opinion, he haa the pene fratiàRo perceive that these lauded virtues ereaulnocmshine; that in their estima tion of Sejnmur, the vfprld were all wrong, and so he Ibsoiutely Imposed the contem plated uiiiln. . He Was inexorable, and finally Mari, out ofjpspect for him, yielded an apparent compTfance to his wishes, and Seymour's visits and communications with her, were discontinued ; and 'hough she tried to appear as mirthful and happy as ever, yet her heart was ill ip ease, and her imprisoned love would betray itself iu her xyery look and action. k At length Edward, whose (< hopes never died," laid a plan for possessing hunself of m ary ' 9 hand—in fact the desperate and al most hopeless project of tooling old'Killy Keene! Did he succeed ? Have patience, reader, and you shall hear all. of a w ■ability y current ? One sultry July afternoon, a pale faced young gentleman; whom Billy remembered lo have seen in the street,but with whom he had no acquainfhricë called at his house and requested to see him immediately 44 on important business." He was shown by Mary into the parjor and oqr hero $qoq en tered. The pale-faced young man first introduc ed himself, and then the objeqt of bis vigil. "I hate an unpleasatft disclosure to riThh*», which is of the greatest importance to you, and to the happiness of your daughter. You ore of course aware that Edward Seymour has succeeded in making his friends believe that he has given up all hopes of marrying your daughter; this is merely to fool your suspicions, but I am confident that you h too much acuteneBs to believe it." " Certainly," said Billy, highly gratified, "go on, he can't fool we." " Well, as I was going to rf mark, my room at the Eagle is next to Seymour's and this morning I overheard him relating in hige glee, to some one in the room a plan for over-reaching you ! and eloping with Miss Mary! I detest eaves-droppiug, but he was talking in a loud tone, and lifsdoor was a Ijttle way open—so \i was forced upon me." " Ha! ha! roared Billy, ""thinks he can fool me ! the poor idiot l I should jest like to have him try it, how is he going to do it!" is " His plan," raid the pale face,"is deeply laid, but he is a fool to imagine that he can deceive you by any contrivance of his brain. He has employed a little black boy, who brushes boots and slices and does odd jobs at the Eagle, to call at your house, just af ter dark this evening, with directions to tell you that your sistcrffemima has been taken with a dangerous attack of her old com plaint and wishes you to come to Piueville, to see her immediately , and while you are gone, he intends to take your daughter in a carriage, to Jone's tavern, on the river road. quire Curtiss is to go with them to perform the ceremony, winch will make them and wife." 44 A dutiful daughter, Mary #9, indeed ; the jade, to consent to such a deception on her poor old father. I'll Jock the huzzy up 'till she comes to her setisys, and i'll wor ship the nigger,and pull Seymour's nose— PL teach ' " Calm-yourself, I entrent you, nr; dear sir," öaid the pale faced young man, "Reflect that «ticl) a oDuiM.uf-|>ro««Ktkng wvafTid to try to fool me." _ DOt, only make the affair public, but it might seriously affect your daug/iter's reputation ancf happiness; to be sure she has been guilt} of disrespect to you, but then she has undoubtedly been drawn into it by that vag abond Seymour. I know sir, that you could not have been duped by two such green ones, even if I had not discovered their plun to you, but at the same time, (if I may pre sume to offer you iny poor advice) I think that you had better pretend to believe the yarn about your sister's illness, and under cover of going to Pineville, proceed straight to "Jone's Tavern,' wait for the runaways, break up their plan, cover them with con fusion, and bring your daughter home.—■ Tins would convince them forever, of what they ought to know already, that they might as well give in—that they can't fool you." jto " Capital'idea!" said Billy, "much in debted to you,sir. You're right, they can't fool me ! Good day." " Good day, sir." 41 Billy indulged in an immediate fit of laughter, when his pale faced visitor was gone. " So Edward Seymour was going to fool me, was he!— ha! ha! I guess he'll find a tqugh one though ; guess he can't be fooled so easy neither' and so deuced kind in him, tor*, to put me on my guard. He's a gentleman, and no mistake." The afternoon, dark and cloudy, soon passed away, and after it came a black nighty aud a black boy. Billy he«rd the message of the latter with well counterfeit ed concern for Jemima's illness, and bid ding old Isaac saddle his mare, was soon on the road lo J one's." The night was black, and a drizzling rain chilled his bones, but still he muttered ((Hliihself, us he slapped his arms (ogeilieo, to accele.ute tho tardy circulation. " Cracky, how they'll look, when they find we waning for them at Jones! S'pose they think I'm half way to Pineville by this time. IIu? ha; guess Jemima ain't wry bad. They can't fool me /" 11 Why bless iny soul, Mr. Keene, what brought you here in this storm," said the burly Jones, as our worthy friend, drench ed to the skin, reined the old mure up to the door. His only answer "was, "you'i see something presently, Mr. Jones' that'll tickle you some, 1 calculate ; they canH fool The old mare was soon in the comforta ble stable, while her bwner, pacing the bar room floor only uttqred at intervals, " you'll see some sport presently, Mr. Jones, ?lhey cau't fool me." An hour passed away—another—eleven o'clock and 110 carriage. "That pale faced Jackass couldn't have been fooling me, could lie!" thought the suspicious Billy. "No, by jingo!— here they come. Now, Noiv, Mr. Jone«, if you want to see some rare fun, just step ! J in , 1 1 to tlie door ; they can t fool mt." 'Ilie carriage rattled up to the door furious haste; the driver reiuçd iu the reek- ; ing horses, and sprang from his seat ; the steps were thrown down:—Edward Sey- ; mour leaped out—assisted Mary to alight, j l and Squire Curtiss followed. Billy conceal- j ed himself behind the fjoor, until the happy trio were jn the sitting room, then with an of triumph, he very cooly walked in, exr claiming- smart set, *öu be! thought Jou couid fool mb, did you ! ha ! lia 1 come, Miaa Jack-a-nape«, you'd better putySor bonnet on again, sister JeminJa ain't dangerous d better be getting towards hörne ; ha ! lia ! fool me, will youî" Mr. Keeue lookcjJ around ta see what fiKdtr one seemed at all surprised ; Mary did not ns might have been expected, faint away on the occasion but stepped forward, lialf weeping—half smiling, site broke the awful pause with— « I'm ready to go this mmute, Pa ; but first let me introduce to you mt husband-, Edward Seymour ; we were mar r|ed quietly at borne about an hour after you started. It was so kind of you to go away amj leave gs to make cpr own arrange inents, that we thought it would be too bad to make you ride home on horseback in this storm so WE came to fetch you back, and offer you a seat in our carriage. Now you'll forgive us won't you Pa ?" " I'm «Id, give me your hand Seymour, was ever fooled Tend and it'spruty late, so this is the first time I you are life fir*t person who could ever fool God bless you my son," said the old man, affieottsd to tears, "you've done what no other living man ever povild do—you've on her, and you're worthy of her." The remainder of the me. scene, our pen, though made of the stoutest steel, is too feeble to describe. Old Jone«, who had been a wondering spectator of the singular meeting, shook hands with Billy, andassur ed him mat he had seen much more fun than lie had anticipated ; and when the wed ding party started for home, Mr. Keene rec ognized by the coqçh light, the pale faced young man transformed into a driver. Our hero is still living, surrounded by a lovely group of grand ciuldien, and he still is firm in his own belief that he can't be fooled. The last time saw him, he was listen ing to an account given by Seymour, on his return from ilie city, of that wonderful invention—the magnetic telegraph. "I der," said the old all that yarn about writing and talking by lightning, or about sending a letter from New York to Buffalo in a second ; no ! nor in twenty-four hours either; It's no use, Ed., yon may tell tliut 1« lho wxne:) 4 ol!;j and the children, b^t you can't pull the wool over my -eyes Again ; I' too much of) the world; yotf <an't fool me !"—Geneva Gazette. won " if Ed thinks I stick loo old—i've THE MIND. O r all the noble works of God, that of the human mind has the grandest. It is, however, like ail else created, capable of cultivation ; and just that degree ps the mind is improved aud rendered pure, is man lilted for rational joyruent and pure happiness. That person who spends a whole existance without realization of the great ends for which he was designed ; without feeling a soaring of die soul above mere mercenary motives and desires ; not knowing that lie is a por tion, as it were, of one vast machine, iu which each piece has a part to perform, having no heart beating in coiqmon with those of his feljow "'men, no feelings in which self is not the beginning and the end, may well be said not to live. His mind is shut in by moral darkness, and he merely exists, a blank in the world, a .d goes to the tomb with scarcely a regret.— »Such beings we have seen and wondered at—wondered that a mortal, endowned with so many noble qualities, and capable of the highest attainment of intellectuality, should slumber on through a world like our's, in which is everytl mg beiutiful aud sublime, jto Cifll forth his energies and exçjte his ad juration—a world which affords subjects I for exercising every lively attribute with' which we are gifted, and opens a scene of the richest variety to lhö"eye, the mind, and the heart, and of such a diversified churac ler, that we may never grow weary. If, ihfij*. you wish frt live, in il»*» truo •ouÿft.of lhe term, cultivate the mind, give vent to pure uffecrions and noble feelings, and pen not every thought aud desire iu self. Live moro for t ie good of your fellow inen, aud in seeking their happiuessyou will promote your own. been considered a CONTENTMENT. It it not the independence secured bp the possession of immense wealth, nor all the gauds of pomp, or lhe gratilicuiious of idle vanity, that can secuie for the mind that reßose after which mankind is cotitiu ually yearning. No, itisthexunsciousness that we have not forgotten the high duties which we have been placed here to per form, and that we have sufficient pluloso phy to enable us to bear " the slings and at rows of outrageous fortune." " Poor and content, is rich and rich enough," and he who can bear the evils of this life without repinuiug—who can regard the splendors of opulence without envy—and while lay ing his hand 011 his heart, can conscien ciously aver that he has done unto others as he would have others to do unto him- ol litl man it may be confidently asserted that lie has fulfilled the beaucsts of the wise Dis penser of good, and that he has approach ed as ueany to a state of perfect happiness as we are permitted to enjoy in this proba tionary life. w. . . . , „ - **"'W tolearn from lie States ? „ al Lafayette, in the neigh Î I"™* °^ ew ? r . e "'. l . s > Ihal 'he Sabbath h \ ® rr lP^ at, ° a ^y » day °f rest in **?. . , ISo <*•> Ba - V8 lhc editor, * who rfB " lcd l ""8 >» <1»» community can fail ZZTZe « rea ' chan K e « hielt in this («»*« *»u,k shops are 2 * rt " al, J' etmed and the business ol the ! ■ ' 1,d "T e ' he hou,e " of public wor • lll P. are "»«d Mltl ' "»en'tve listeners, and , <,Ule ' °" d * ubrle, J' 8 e, ? er *ffS' cha f "' ""''.r 1 "i ,or " on the city." It h New Orleans, also, has irnprov d , '** rts Pi't' ' V1,h '" a fe ' v f 6 "'*- Tliii !? 8 T" 8 ' foT *' e believe, what « "»" "to a republic, """HI"'I 1 . <vitlull its religious assoerations ls ,,lrt, Ve"»»ble. Republics, like volcanoes, l ,0 ; bLSÖ 11,1 themselves the material of rull ' : i remove moral and religious restraints "r 2 . Uie da - v . of , 1 latlo " al <lestruction is near." 7 • " l,b e cliaraol< ' r ° r Americans have ""'fved, and lhe prospects they have of i; o! *trcalIy regenerating the world, will go down in the same grave which entombs the Sabbath." THE SABBATH. t . NEW YORK'DANDIES. The city editor of the N. Y. Tribune ves the following graphic portraitures of a roadway swell and a Bowery boy. Gfeatly » the characteristics of the dandy differ iq different cities, it will be seen that there is but little more likeness between these orna mental gentlemen in diffeient parts of the same city. No one who has ever seen the originals will deny the accuracy uf these portraitures. The dandies of N are a distinct and peculiar specie* of thu genus exquisite, and are not to be confound ed with any others in the United States, ^even pond. "The people in (he Bowery look as if they dressed in a hurry—with the excep tion of now and then, of a notability who is known as a Doiccry dandy. The style of this gentleman's costume is startling and extraordinary. Blazing colors—stark sttfr ing blue for coat, brick• ed fur teaistcoaf, breeches with a portentious green stripe, bnrshqrl-Tip-t.j ihe~fcighrSfc gloBS, slnny Town the Bowery, a perfect meteor, before whose slightest scintillation a Broadway exquisite would dwindle to undislinguishubie nothingness. The Broadway dandy dresses snug and small, reducing his person by stays and pulleys, close-fitting coats, pants, vests and gloves. The Bowery dandy would impress you with an idea of largeness, strength ; he swells his chest, makes broad the brim of his hat, the skirls of his cuui—cuts close ■his hair, which conveys a notion of vigor— and as for gloves, his muscular, broad, brown hipicl speaks for itself-—he has never been known to wear them. You see no children in Broadway—the little tricked out things in fringed pantalelts, fantoccini coals and South American castors scarcely to be reckoned cUildreu in the Boweiy they swarm and multiply—the real bare legged, bread and butti r eaters ; they pour down from up above, flood in from side streets—seem to spring mushroou fashion out of the very ground. York ■ the other sieje of' the herring -hat as a new kètile— lie rollsd are ENERGY. Energy is everything. How mean q thing is man with little motive power ? All the abilities nature has givén him lie use* less, like a great and mighty machine, ready at every point for useful action, but not q wheel turns for want of a starling power. A great mun is like a great machine. He has a great power to sei in motion the various and immense projects which he has in his hand ; little motives can neither start nor stop him, they may set iq motion tho pow ers of an ordinary man end render him a respeotable, nay, even u beautiful piece of mechanism, but never a magnificent one. Yet there is one thing which renders man supreme!}' above the machine. By ilie work ing of his own mind he can improve and exult himself; by directing his eye to what is great ond good, he may become so. If then, we can beCoiqe what we wuJi to be, what high objects should we aim at, and what resolute mid energetic efforts should we be ever making to uiiuin them ? SOCIAL AFFECTION. How sweet is social affection! Wheq the world is dark without, \ye have light wi»hjn.—Wheu cares deslurb the breast— when sorrow broods about the heart—what joy gathers in the circle of love! We for get the world, with ail its animosities, while blest with sooial kindness. That man can not be unhappy, who has hearts that vibrate 111 sympathy wiili his own—who is cheered by the smiles of affection aud the voice of tenderness. Let the world be dark and cold, —let the hate and animosity of bad men gather about him in the place of business —but when he enters the ark of love—his cherished circle—he forgets all these, and the cloud passes from his brow ant} the sorrow from the heart. The warm sympa thies of his wife and children despel every shadow, and he feels a* thrill cf joy iq his not auequale to express. He who is a stranger to the joy of social kindness, has not begun to Ijve bosom which words