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POE FRY.
THE WOUNDED EAGLE
BT MRS. HEManS.
Fn<r 1 "! this i* not thv sp^ Prr !
Wa rior-bird, what seek’*! t h° n ,' prc '
■\V»rrefore bv the fountain’s brink
P *hthv rova 1 pinion 'in' ?
W'ln^eforn on th" v'oM’- b"d
j, » t thou thu : th" droopin'? hra •
TVni that hold’s! th** blast in scorn,
Thou, that wcai’ t the wings of mom.
F.an-M w it thou not arV?
Look noon thin- own bright skies!
p- \ thv glance!—the fierv sun
Tlv re his pride of place hath won,
.ft o-! the mountain 'ark is there.
Arl sweet sound hath fiH’ l the a-r.
Hast thou left the realm on high?
—Oil it can be but to (lie!
Eagle! Eagle! thou hast how’1
E* thine empire oW the cloud .
Th u that ha 1st ethereal birth:
Thou hast stoop’d too near to earth,
And the hunter’s shaft hath found thee,
An-' the toils of death hath bound thee.
—Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
C "nature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thv throne?
Was the skv’s dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might he,
Y >t that mighty wing was free!
New the chain iso’erit cast,
Fr : n Ihy heart the blood flows fast,
—W > lor gifted souls on high!
Is not such their destiny?
SACRAMENTAL, C. P. RL
1.
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4.
“jin dr nyys
(pTt?c= Tec-e;
TG.IW^t-o® .1.”
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Ii\Ji-H R'? P'S,”
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SGP V(i,UofI’-'.ti'F,
Twiyzi'dSp'tSia.”
6.
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.4D A’lPlVdl.iop,
lrU S^yiT’J
GI.TR F.hP-R
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AlrZy^JoP.
MISCELLANY.
my hands show I am your wife—-but
ul the same time let your heart know
singleness in matters of moment.-—1
am uWare of the kind of society in
which you have lately indulged. Tell
me, Edward, for Heaven s sake tell
me!—we arc poor—we are reduced!
we are ruined!—is it not so?”
Edward had not a word for his wife;
but a man’s tears are more awful than
his words.
‘‘Well, be it so, Edward! Our chil
dren may sutler from our fall, but it
will redouble my exertion for them.—
And as for myself, you do not know me
il you think that circumstances lessen
my feelings for you. A wOman's love
is like the plant which shows its
strength the more it is trodden on.—
Arouse yourself my husband—it is true,
your father, has cast you off, and you
are indebted to him in a serious sum
—but he is not all the world!—only
consider you wife in that light.”—A
slight tap was now heard at the door,
and Mrs. F. went to ascertain the
cause;she returned to her bus! and:
“Mary is at (he door—she says you al
ways kissed her before she went to
bed? ”
‘My child—rny child,’ said the fa
ther; ‘God bless you—1 am not well’
Mary: Nay, do not speak to me to
night; go to rest now—give me one of
your pretty smiles in the morning, and
your father will be happy again.’
Mr. F. too was persuaded by his
affectionate partner to retire; hut
sleep and rest were not for him—his
wife and his children had once given
him happy dreams—but now, the ru
in he had brought upon them was an
awakening reality.
When the light of the morning ap
peared above the line of the opposite
house, Mr. F. arose.
‘Where are you going Edward?’—
said his wife. ‘I have been consider-
he replied, calmly, and I am de
to do. The distress 1 have this mo
ment caused was premeditated on ni)
part. It hat hud its full effect. A
mortal gels Lo vice by single steps,
and many think the victim must re
turn by degrees.* I know Edward's
disposition; <»d that with him a single
leap is suffment. That leap he has
taken. He s again in my memory as
the favorite >f Ins poor mother—the
laughing eyei young pet of a—pshaw—
of an old loo!; for why am I crying.’
Little May had insensibly diawn
herself towalds the old philosopher,
and without uttering a word, pressed
'm
feet, render this city of easier access,
ijtiiough me accumulation on tile robis
of the ediliees caused the destruction
of the upper parts of the buildings,
■oome of the ancient inhabitants who
had escaped the dreadful calamity,
appear to have returned, and excav-*
ated in so.ne parts, but were forced
to leave their city immersed in hope
less ruin, and devoted to oblivion for
many ages. The. decomposition of
the volcanic matter, which took
place in the course of time, produced
a rich soil peculiarly favorable to the
cultivation of vines, which, trained up
his hand and put her handkerchief to the steins of poplars planted in groves
his eyes.—-The boy also now left his for thatpurposfe, hang in graceful-fes-
parent, walked up to his grandfather, toons, & produce a beautifully pictur-
and leaning his elbow on the old man s esque effect. Aftera lapse of fifteen
knees, and turning up his round cheek,
said, ‘then you wont take papa away?’
GAMBLING;
OR, Raixi and sunshine.
“ As we turn our backs
From our companion, into his grave,
S . Ins familiars to Ins buried fortunes .
Smiok ail away.”
“Wny do you keep me for so long
a time .it the door?” s id Edward F.
S assionately to his wife. The night
u.i passed, but its colu wind entered
the House, as Mrs. F. with sorrowful
lioart, undid the lock.
. ‘ It is late Edward; and I could not
keep from slumbering.'
tie said nothing in return to this: flung
liLnself into a chair, & intently gazed
on l ie fire; His son dimed upon his
knees, and putting his arms around the
fritter’s neck, whispered, papa, what
has mamma been crying for?—Mr. F.
started—shook of his boy, and said
with violence, ‘got to bed, sir; w'hat
business has your mother to let jou
be up at this hour?’ The poor child s
le ver lip pouted; but he was, at this
time, loo much frightened to cry. His
sister silently took him up: and when
lie had reached his cot, his warm
Heart discharged itself of its noisy
gr’ef. The mother heard his crying
a i l went, to him; but she soon return
ed to the parlour. She leaned upon
frer husband and thus addressed him:
‘Edward, I will not upbraid you on
account of your harshness to me—hut
r im ilore of you riot to net in this man
Bar bMore your children. You are
nv E Hvnrd, as vou used tobe! These
h invy eyes tell of wretehedness, as
of had
‘No! you little impudent rascal
but 1 11 take you away; and when your
mother comes for you, I will treat her
so well, that I’ll make your father fol
low after.”
Thus came happiness at the heels of
ruin.—If husbands of ener apprecia
ted the exquisite and heaven like af
fection of their wives, many happier
•firesides would be seen. One in life
and one in mind, ought to be the mot
to of every married pair. And fathers
would many rimes, heck improvidence,
if they were to make use of affection
and kindness, rather than prejudice &
strictness.
termined to try my father. He lov
ed me when I was a boy—was proud
of me. It is true, I have acted dis
honorably by him. Yesterday I spoke
harshly ofhirn; but I did not then know
myself. Your dear affection my wife,
has completely altered me. I never
can forget my ill treatment towards
you; but I will make up for it—1 will
—indeed I will—Nay, do not—do not
grieve in this way—this is worse to
me than all—your young ones, my
vv.fe—I will be back soon.’
The children appeared in the break
fast robin. M .ry was ready with her
smiie, and the boy was anxious for
the notice of his father. After a short
space of time, Mr. F. returned.
‘Why so pale, my husband! will
your parent not assist you.’
We must indeed sink, my love!
He will not assist me. lie upbraid
ed me: I did not, I could not answer
him a word. He spoke kindly of you
and your little ones, but be has cast
us off forever.’
The distressed man had scarcely
said this, when a person rudely came
in. The purport of lus visit was soon
perceived. In the name of Fs father
he took possession of the property, and
iie had the power to make F. a pris
oner.
‘You shall not take papa away,’ said
the little son, at the same time kick
ing at the officer.
‘Mamma,’ whispered Mary, must
my fattier go to prison—wont they
let us go too?”
‘Here comes my authority,’ said
the deputy sheriff.
The elder Mr. F. doggedly placed
himself in a chair.
•Vou shall not take my papa away.’
cried out the boy to his grandfather.
‘ Whatever may have been ray con
duct sir,’ said the miserable Edward
‘this is unkind for you. I have not
a single feeling for myself, but my
wife —my children—you have no right
thus to harrass them with your pres
ence.’
•Nay husband,’ responded Mrs. F.
‘think not of me. Your father cannot
distress me I have not known you Ed
ward from your childhood as he has
done, hut he shall see how I can din
to you —can he be proud of you in your
poverty, lie has forgotten your youth
ful days—he has lost sight of his own
thoughtless years
The old gentleman directed his law
agent to leave the room. He then
slowly, yet nervously answered thus
‘Madam, f have not forgot my own
thoughtless days. I have not forgot
ten that I once had a wife as amiable
and noble minded as yourself—and I
have not forgotten that your husband
washer favorite child. An old man
hides his sorrows; but let not the
world therefore think him unfeeling—
well us of had hours. You wrong
ijae—you wrong yourself, thus to let 1 especially as that world taught him so pcii to the depth of about eighteen
RUINS OF POMPEII.
Pompeii stands at the foot of Vesuvius,
which rises with inijestic grandeur m
the midst of a plain, called by the an
cients Campania. Its walls were
once washed by the waves but the
sea has since retired to some distance.
Placed on an insulated elevation,
formed of the lava, and by some
thought the summit of a voleauo, on
the borders of a sea celebrated for the
beauty of its shores, at the entrance
of a fertile plain, and watered by a
pure stream, Pompeii offered a posi
tion, strong in military point of view,
and favorable to commerce: nor was
i<s situation less enchanting Loin be
ing surrounded by villas, which, like
so many gems, adorned the neighbor
ing declivities of Vesuvius. The
Pompeians in the midst of their tran
quil existence, in the month of Feb
ruary, A. D. G3, weie surprised by
a terrible earthquake and eruption,
which caused considerable damage.
As soon ns the inhabitants bad recov
ered from their consternation, they
began to clear away the rui-.s, and to
repair the damage sustained by the
edifices; a fact that is evident from
the quantity of parts wanting in many
of the buildings, even at, this time.
Their architectural taste, however,
seems to have become materially cor
rupt, and purer details are covered
by stuccoes, composed in a barbarous
style, After an interval of sixteen
years, during which several shocks
were experienced—on the night of
the 33d of August, A. D. 79, a vol
ume of smoke and ashes issued from
tlie mouth of the crater of Vesuvius,
with a tremendous explosion: after
rising to a certain height, it extended
itself iike a lofty pine, and assuming
a variety of colors, fell and covered
the suriounding country with desola
tion and dismay. The inhabitants,
terrified by repeated shocks, and
breathing an atmosphere no longer fit
to support life, sought refuge in flight,
but were suffocated by the ashes, op
pressed by flames of fire, overwhelm
ed by failing ediliees. Some skele
tons which have been found, shew the
futility of the attempt in many instan
ces:—here a master seeks for safety,
and is arrested at the threshold of his
door by a shower of ashes; he carries
in his hand keys, coins, and precious
ornaments, and is followed by a slave
bearing vessels of silver and bronze;—
there we discover the skeletons of a
group of females, one of whom is a-
dorned with gold trinkets—and the
impressions of some of the forms re
main traced upon the ashes! At
length, after four days of impenetra
ble darkness, light re-appeared, but
sombre, as when an eclipse obscures
'he brilliancy of the sun’s rays
Herculaneum, which lies about nine
miles distant was. destroyed at the
same time; but being imbedded in a
compact volcanic matter, it is cover
ed so as to render its excavation a
matter, it is covered so as to render
its excavation a matter of extreme
difficulty; and its being situate under
two modern villages and several pal
aces, precludes the possibility of con
tinuing the researches alreaijy begun.
The lighter ashes which cover Pom
enluries.acountryman.ashe was turn'
ing up the ground, accidentally found
a bronze figure. This discovery ex
cited the attention of the learned, and
the government immediately appro
priated to itself the right of further
researches, which, however, it did
not commence till the year 1748, a-
bout eight years after the first discov
ery.
The excavations were prosecuted
with little energy till the arrival of
the French, who cleared away the
greater part of that which is now o-
pen. The return of the King suspend
ed the works for a time, but they
were resumed, though with less ac
tivity. This is to be regretted, as
the progress of excavation is so slow
that the present generation will reap,
comparatively, few advantages from
the discoveries.
It has been remarked that Pompeii
bears a strong resemblance to modern
Italian towns, and that in point of gen
eral appearenee, it is superior to them.
More than 500 feet of the town wall
have been completely cleared. It is
from eighteen to twenty feet high,
twelve feet thick, and is fortified at
short intervals, with square towers.
In the main street, whi< h passes in
f ont of the temple of Isis, the portico
of the Theatre has been discovered,
and near the same spot, ten feet be
low the level of the street, was found
human skeleton, - and immediately
beneath it a large collection of gold
and silver medals in the finest state
of preservation, and chiefly belonging
to the reign of Dornitian. •
Beneath a suberb portico in the
street of the tombs a number of skel
etons have been discovered; among
which, are those of a female and sev
eral children. Among the bones
were found several ear-ings, and three
finger-rings. Amon • the vases which
were discovered, there were two
having a small quantity of water at
the bottom. The water was limped
and tasteless in the one; and in the
other it was of a brownish tinge, and
had the taste of lie.—Christian Guar
dian.
F om the Juvenile Miscellany.
THE AMERICAN TRAVELLER
Few men have done so much in a
short life as John Ledyard. When
he was a small boy, he built a canoe
with his own hands, and descended
Connecticut river, alone and unassist
ed. He enlisted as a soldier, at Gi
braitar, and afterwards, in the humble
character of coporal of the marines
he sailed round the world with the cel
ebrated Captain Cook. After his re
turn to England, he formed the bold
design of traversing the northern parts
of Europe and Asia, crossing Bher
ing’s Straits, and examining the whole
of North America, from east to west
Sir Joseph Bankes, famous for his
generosity to men of enterprise, fur
nished him with money for the under
taking- He expended nearlj all of it
in purchasing sea stores and these
most unluckily, were all seized by
custom officer, on account of some ar
tides which the English law forbade
to be exported. Poor Ledyard was
now in utter poverty; but he was
resolute man, and he would not be
discouraged. With only ten guineas in
his purse, he attempted to walk over
the greatest part of three continents
He walked through Denmark and
Sweden, and attempted to cross the
Gulf of Bothnia, on his way to Sibe
ria; but when he reached the middle
of that island sea, he found the wat er
was not frozen, and he was obliged to
foot it back to Stockholm. He then
travelled round the head of the gulf,
and descended to St. Petersburgh.-
Dere he was soon discovered to be
man of talents and activity, and though
he was without, money and absolutely
destitute of stockings & shoes, Jie was
treated with great attention. ^The
Portuguese ambassador invited him to
dine, and was so much pleased with
him, that he used his influence to ob*
tain for him a free passage in the go
vernment wagons, then going to Irk
utsk in Siberia, at the command of the
Empress Katheriuc. He went from
this place to Vakutz; and there a-
waited the opening of Spring, full of
the animating hope of completing . is
wearisome journey. But misfortunes
seemed to follow him wherever he
went. The Empress could not be
lieve that any man in his senses .was
ti a veiling through the ice and snows
of uncivilized Siberia, merely for the
sake of seeing the country, the people,
&c. She imagined that be was an
English spy, sent there merely for the
purpose of prying into the state of her
mpire and her government. She
therefore employed two Russian sol*
dieFs.io seize him and convey him out
of her dominions. Taken he knew not
why—obliged to go off' without hist
clothes, his money, or his papers—he
was seated in one of the strange look-
sledges used in those northern de
serts, and carried through Tartary and
White Russia, to the frontiers of Po
land. Covered with dirty rans, worn
out with hardships, sick almost unto
death, without friends aqd without
money, he begged hi3 way to Connings-
burgh, in Prussia.
In this hour of deep distress, he?
found a person willing to take bis
draft for five guineas, on the Royal
Society of England. With this as
sistance, he arrived in the land of our
forelathers. He immediately applied
to his ever rjeady friend, Sir Joseph
Bankes, for employment. Sir Joseph,
knowing 'hat nothing suited him better
than perilous adventures, told him
that a company had just, been formed,
for the purpose of penetrating into the
interior of Africa, and discovering the
source of the river Niger. Burning
sands, savage negroes, venomous ser
pents, all the frightful animals of the
torrid zone, could not alarm the intre
pid soul of Ledyard. He immediate
ly expressed his desire to go. When
the map W'as spread before him, and
his dangerous journey pointed out, he
promptly exclaimed, “ I will go to
morrow morning.” The gentleman
smiled at his eagerness, and gladly
entrusted him with an expedition in
which suffering and peril were cer
tain, and success extremely doubtful.
He left London on the 30th of June,
fV&8, and arrived at Grand Cairo, on
the 19th of August. There lie spent
Ins time to great advantage, in search
ing lor, and deciphering the various
wonders of that ancient, and once H
learned laud. His letters from Egypt ^
were delightful. They showed much M
enthusiasm, united with the most pa-
ffient and laborious exertion.
The company formed great hopes
concerning his discoveries in Senaar,
and awaited letters from that country
with much anxiety. But, alas, he
never reached there. He was seized
with a violent illness at Cairo; died;
and was decently buried beside the
English, who had ended their days in
that celebrated city.
We should never read accounts of
great or good men, without learning
some profitable lesson. If we cannot,
like Ledyard, defend Gibraltar, sail
round the world with Captain Cook;
project trading voyages to the North
west coast; study Egyptian hieroglyph
ics; and traverse the dreary north
ern zone, we can at least, learn from
him the important lesson of persever
ance. The boy who perseveringly
pores over a hard lesson, and who will
not give up an intrioate problem, un
til he has studied it out, forms a habit,
which, in after life, will make him a
great man; and he who resolutely
struggles against his own indolence,
violent temper,■'or any other bad pro
pensity, will most assuredly be a good
one.
and,
Mortality fifty
~ 2.—M. Chateaunenf, af>
years ago
nowin Europe
ter investigating the subject "with
much care, considers the following
facts as sufficiently established :-Fifty
years ago one half of thfe children
born in Europe died in the first ten
years; now only 38 in 100. Fifty
years ago 74 person's in 100 died from
birth to 50 y.ears, now only. 66 la 100.
Fifty years ago only 18 persons in 100
arrived at the age of 60; now 26 in
100. Fifty years ago there was one
death annually in 32 individuals; now
there is only one death in 40 individu
als.
Mr. Pitkin’s work on the Civil His
tory of the U. States’ Government,
is in the press and will be published
in the course of the ensuing summer
—N. Y Observer*