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• 1 The ferment of a free, is preferable to the torpor of a despotic, Government.” VOL. II* ATHENS, GEORGIA, MARCH 23, 1833. iUntvvi A Ballad, written hy Charles Jeffries. THE BRIDE. Oh! take Hor, 1 it 1* faithlbl Mill, And may the l>rkl 1 vow Be i.icr'd .eld in after years Ami -a.-nnly I reitlicd us now. RcmemVr ’tis no common tie TJn.t hinds Her yoothful heart: ’ I’is one that oniy truth should weave, A nd only Death should part. The joys ofChildhood’s happy hour, The Home of rij>or years, The treasur'd scenes of early youth, . In sunshine and in tears; , The purest hopes her bosom knew, When her young ho rt was free, All these and more she now resigns, To bravo the world with Thee. Her lot in life is fixed with thine, Its good and ill to share, And well I know ’twill be tier pride, To sooth each sorrow there ; Then take her. and may fleeting time Mark only Joy’s increase, And thus your days glide sweetly on In happiness nnd peace. jtttorr llang. From the Neu-York Traveller, Timet and Journal A YANKEE “SINGED CAT.” Turfmen readily understand the meaning of the twolastwords inour caption, which to their sorrow, while inexperienced,they have not un. frequently encountered; but for the informa* tion of those who may not beau /ditto this tech nical of the Turfite, we will just state, that the term “ singed cat” when applied to a horse, is understood something after this wise : A horse is entered for a sweepstakes, dr other purse, whose appearance is rough, and ungain' ly ; who perhaps is just taken out of harness, ami apparently can hardly show his heels, with i.o murk of training or even decent sta- bling—looking lor all the world, as if the crows hud a n.ortcage on him lor twice his worth. Bin when he has secured ail lets against him. self, from (lie “ green-horns,” he discovers lii.s mettle, and the excllence of his speed and bottom, telling dreadful talcs of pockets “to let” at the close of the heat among his rivals. “Mam a time mid oft,” have we listened to recitals of these “encounters dire,” which are never told with more real gusto than by the su.ierer himself. We have thought some, tit t< s of giving our readers a few stori s of these “dire mishaps,” which almost every o 1 ! Sportsman of the Turf can relate so hap. pily, but have been spared the exertion, by that indefatigable disciple of Momus, Dr. Greane, lute of the Constellation. It is one of Ins best conceits—founded on fact, and will In read with great pleasure by all. We heartily bespeak for it the attention of our rea ders. • It may not be considered out of place here, to state that the following story is a selection from a work in press, entitled “ .4 Yankee anion* the Xu/hificrs,” and purports to be re lated t >the author, by n South Carolinian. THE TIN TEDLUk’s “8LKEPV DAVID.” “ The V ankees, as 1 said before, are pt to be too cute for us in every thing except horse, flesh, and even sometimes in that. It was this day three years a: o, and on this very spot, that I entered my hors Southron for a purse of two thousand doll .rs. He had won a like some two years before with all ease. In short he was the best horse at that time in al! Carolina. ’I here were to he sure two Ollier horses, and very line ones too,' entered agai.ist him ; but they were no touch to South- ron, and I was as sure of winning as I am of sitting here at inis moment—when who should come along but a d d Yankee with a tin- cart'! He had the shabbiest, worst looking horse you ever set ey es on. He was a lean* slab-stded, cross-legged, rough-haired, milk- and-molasses-colored son of a gu: , aS ever Wmt on lour fogs. He Stood ail the time as if he was asleep—-in fact; his owner called him Sleepy David. In short, sir. he was such a horse as would not have brought twenty dollars. Ii was near the hour of starting, when th pedler whose exterior corresponded marvel. Ions!- v.'.ih that of his ltor3C, and who said . h** wus Zadoc Darker, to the astonish- ment of all intinr fed a wish to enter his horse alo. . with the rest; ‘ v - ' ‘V‘ ' rlK,rs '' •' exclaimed I; wl.ot, that sleepy looking u. \u there I You’d better cater him for the turkey .buzzards.’ -•’■ ‘ Not’s you know on, Mister,’ retained the Y unkce, with some show of spirit! * To be sure r he critter looks rather sleepy ts he stands, and on that account I coll him Sleepy David; but hc& a jo-tired smart horse for ail that. He is like a singed cat, a darned sight better than he looks. I should like tarnation well to try him against some of your Sout h Carolina horses. To be sure 1 didn’t come all the way from home on purpose; but as I was coming out this way with a load of tin and other Indians, I thought I might time it so as to kill two tun Is with one stone ; for, thinks I to myself, if ‘ I can win. the purse and peddle off my not ions at the same time, I shall make a plaguy gt 'ey speck. * But 1 had to hunry on the natit »n, to githere in season; and that’s one reason it boss looks no kind sof shabby “‘d out oTIdl ter this morning. But for all **** he’ll p tXl ^ >rm like days work I tell you Opposing h e had no idea of running his horse, and that all he said was merely to grat ify his propensity for talking, I bade him be done, and not trouble me with his d d Yankee palaver. Why Mister,’ said he,«this is a free coun- trv, and a man has a right to talk, or let it afone, jest as he can afford. Now I’ve takcn a good dealofpai ts to git here this morning in order to run Sleepy David against some of your Southern hosses. I aint a joking, sir, I’m in airnest. 1 understand there is a purse of two thousand dollars, and i should like amazeingly to pick it up.’ You talk of picking up a purse of two thou- sand dollars with that bit of carrion of yours ! Away with you, and don’t trouble us any further.’ Well, if I can’t run, then I spose' I can’t; but it’s darned hard any how for a man to take so much pains as I have to come to the races, and then can’t he allowed to run arter all.’ ‘It’s too late now; by the rales of the course the horse should have been entered yesterday; however, if you’ll plank the en trance money, perhaps you may get in yet.’ I said this by way of getting rid Of the fel low, having no idea he could command a fourth part of the sum required. * How much might the entrance money be?’ drawing out a purse containing a few shillings in silver and a few pence in copper. ‘ If it aint mor’n a quarter dollar or so, I’ll plank it on the nail.’ «It is two hundred dollars.’ ‘Two hundred dollars!’ exclaimed the Yan kee. ‘By golly, what a price! Why they axed me only a quarter of a dollar to see the elephant and the whole Caravan in New York. Two hundred dollars! W’hy you must be joking now. Bless me! my whole load of tin ware, hoss, wagon and all wouldn’t fetch that. But Mister, don’t you think I could gel in for ten dollars ?’ ‘Nothing short of two hundred; and that must be paid in the short space of five min utes.’ We now thought we had fairly got rid of the fellow; but he returned to the charge, and usked if fifty dollars would’tdo,theu seven ty-five, then a hundred; and finding he could not make a bargain for less than the regular sum, he engaged to give it provided he could find any one to loan him the money, for which lie offered to pawn his wagon load of notions and Sleepy David to boot. He asked one, tnen another, to accommodate him with the loan—declaring that as soon us ever he took the purse, the money should be returned, and he would give a dozen of tin whistles in- to the bargain. He, however, got more curses than coppers, until some wag, who had plenty of cash, anu liked too sco the sport go on, lent him the two hundred dollars out of sheer mal. ice. Though, ;is it afterwards turned out, the Y ankee had money enough about him, and was merely playing the ’possum all the while. His next object was to borrow a saddle.— Here also he was accommodated; and taking Sleepy David from the tin cart, he scrambled upon his back and took lus station on the course. You never saw a fellow sit on a horse so awk wardly in all your life. Every body said he would fall before he had gone a hundred yards, ai.d some out of compassion urged him to withdraw. ‘ Not by a darned sight,’ exclaimed he— ‘ Why do you think I’m such a tarnal fool as to pay two-huudred dollars, and then not run arter all ?’ , Others, who wanted to see the sport, though it should cost some broken bones, encouraged him to proceed—saj ing, as they laughed tanced in one day, especially by such a mis- crable looking devil as Sleepy David. The second heat was now commenced;— and, if I had before felt confident in the entire superiority of my noble horse Southron, that confidence was strengthened, as I again saw him coming in ahead of the rest. I consid ered the purse now as my own property.— In imagination I had grasped it, and was about putting it safely in my pocket, when— Io and behold i the pedler’s. horse, which was behind oil the rest, suddenly shot forward as if the devil kicked liim on end ; and, stretch ing, his neck like a crane, won the heat by a throatlatcli. Every body was astonished.* «That horse mustlbe the devil himself,’ said one. «At least he has the devil to back him,’ said a third; ‘ I was sure he would play you some Yankee trick before he had got through.” Such were the observations that passed from mouth to mouth. The Yankee, in the meantime, offered to plank another thousand dollars; but nobody would take the bet. And it was well they didn’t; for at the third heat, Sleepy David not only distanced every horse, but even came in a full Quarter of a mile ahead of South. jon himself. , ‘ There, by gauly !’ said the Yankee, as he dismounted, ‘ I’ll take that are leetle purse if you please, and the tother cool thousand ! I knew well enough that yuor Southron hoss es couldn’t hold a candle to sleepy David.’ ” From Irving's “Tales of a Traveller.” Mv Mother.—Buckthome had gone out into the world; had experienced the coldness of its selfishness, and the bitterness of its ad versity, and had returned again to the haunts of his childhood, to spend the remainder of his days: As I was rambling pensively through a neighbouring meadow, in which I had many a time gathered primroses, I met the very pe dagogue, who had been the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had sometimes vowed to myself, when suffering under his red, that I would have my revenge, if I ever met. him when i had grown to be a man. The time had come; but I had no disposition to keep j my vow, — rocked to sleep in a mother’s arms, and was without care or sorrow. «0 mother,” ex claimed I, burying my face again in the grass of the grave ; “ O that I were once more by your side ; sleeping never to waken again on the cares and troubles of this world.” I am not naturally of a morbid tempera, ment, and the violence of my emotion grad- ually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, hon est, natural discharge ofgrief, which had been slowly accumulating, and gave me wonderful relief. I rose from’the grave, as if I had been offering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted. I set down again on the grass, and plucked one by one the weeds from the grave ; the tears trickled down my cheeks, and ceased to be hitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrow and poverty come up on her child, and all his great expectations were blasted. Cure fob the Consumption—An English chemist of high fame, Mr. John Murray, of Hull, F. 3. A. dec. has discovered what he firmly believes to be a cure for the tubercular phthisic, or fargone consumption. His work on this subject which is dedicated tothe Duke of Wellington, contains the result of twelve years inquiry, during which period his thoughts have been exclusivly bent to this noble and philanthropise object. In the progress of his investigation, he came to the very rational con elusion, and one which has impressed many other minds, that if any remedy should ever be found out for structural diseases of the lungs, it must be some one which may be brought into immediate contact with the dis eased surface, and when there,have the power of subduing the morbid action, without dimin ishing the general tone of the system. At length Mr. Murray believes that he has dis covered such a remedy in the vapor of nitric acid; and this fact is the more worthy of atten tion, since it came from a source where em, pyricism cannot be suspected.—Boston Medi cal and Surgical Jour. Columbus By the Genoese and the Span iards he was regarded as'a man resolved on The few years which had matured \ a “ wild dedication of himself to, unpathed waters, undreamed of shores and the court me into a vigorous man, had shrunk him into j decrepitude. He appeared to have had a par alytic stroke. I looked at him, and wonder ed that this poor helpless mortal could have been an object , of terror to me; that I should have watched with anxiety the glance of that falling eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling hand. He tottered feebly along the path,und had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran, and assisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but t^id not re cognize me, and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains he had taken, and the blows he had in- dieted, h id been equally useless. His re- peated predictions were fully verified, and I felt that little Jack Buckthome the idle boy, had grown to be a very good-for-nothing man. This is all very comfortless detail ; but as I have told you of my follies, it is meet that I show you, how for once 1 was schooled for them. The most tlio l fotless of mortals will some time or other h^ve ifis day of gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on tliis occasion as if I hail a kind of penace to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of my past levity. Having pass ed a nijit at Leamington, I set off by a pri vate path, which le ids up a hill through a aioud, that they had no doubt but he would j grove, and across quiet fields, till it came to carry oii the purse. ! the small village church. It is an old low ‘That’s what I mean to do,’ said he—‘I j edifice of gray stone, on the bro»\of a small haint come here for nothing, I can .tell you. , hill, looking over fertile fields, towards where Woke up Sleepy David, and look about you; you the proud owners of Warwick castle lift them- must have your eyes open to-day ; it’s no time j selves against the distant honzon. MIL £L G. FOSTER’S ORATION BEFORE TIIE Demosfhenian Society OF FRANKLIN COLLEGE. DEMOSTHENIAN IIALL, February 19 th, 1833. On motion of Professor Hull, the following reso lutions were unanimously passed: 1st, Resolved, That the thanks of the Society are due, and be tendered to Mr. Foster, for the able and .eloquent Oration this day delivered before us. 2d, Resolved, That a Committee be appointed to wait upon Mr. Foster, and request a copy of his Oration for publication. % B. FRANKLIN, P. CLAYTON, £ Committee H. JACKSON, Athens, February 20th, 1833. Dear Sib :—It is with unfeigned satisfaction that tha Society, through their Couunittc 3, present to you their thanks for the very able and eloquent Oration delivered before them on the 19th inst. Believing that it will meet the approbation of the public, the Society politely requests a copy for publication. With sentiments of regard and best wishes for your future welfare, we remain your friends aud fel low members.' BEDNEY FRANKLIN, 1 PHILIP CLAYTON, [Committee. HENRY JACKSON, J 1 Athens, 20f& February, 1833. Gentlemen I have received your highly compli- mentary note, requesting in the name of the Demos- thenian Society, a copy of the Oration I had the honor to deliver before yon on the 19th inst. and herewith send you the Address, together with my sincere thanks for your flattering opinion of its mer its. When I entered upon the duty, I expected no other reward than the approbation of the Body which called me to it. If I have gained that, I am content. Accept my best wishes for the welfare of our So ciety, and your individual happiness. A. G. FOSTER. Messrs. B. FRANKLIN, 1 P. CLAYTON, [Committee. H. JACKSON, 5 of Portugal endeavoured to rob him of the glory of his enterprise by secretly despatch ing a vessel in the course which he had poin ted out. He used to affirm that he stood in need of God’s particular assistance in that voyage of discovery; like Moses when he led forth the people of Israel, who forebore to lay violent hands upon him because of the miracles which God wrought by his means. « So,” s id the admiral, « did it happen to me on that oyage.” «And so easily,” says a commen '.tor, “ are the workings of the evil one ovei 'ome bv the power of God!” “ His person,’jsays Herrera, “ had an air of gran deur. Bis hair, from many hardships, had long beej gray* Ih liim you sawaman of uncon querable courage and high thoughts ; patient of wronfo, calm in adversity, ever trusting in God: arid had he lived in ancient times, statues qid temples would have been erec ted to hm without number, and his name would have been placed among the stars.” Histoiy.—Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future, predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, and far from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. The man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow wanner among the ruins of Iona. to be snoozin when there’s money at stake.’ The horse, as if he understood what his master was saying, opened his eyes, pricked up his ears, and actually showed some signs ofiite.. - ' The signal was now given to start. Away spr. aig Southron, with the speed of lightning, ana away sprang the oilier Southern horses, leaving Sleepy David far in the rear, and the pedler Verging from side to side, as if he was just ready to tall off. Tae horse went paw ing along with his tail. clinging close to his haunches, and liis nose stuck out straight be fore aim; and you never beheld so queer a figure cut by any man and horse us tlus an gular pair made. But they improved as they proceeded; the pedler sat more jockey-like, and the horse ev idently gained upon the others. But it would not do. He came in half a mile behind South ron and . a little less behind the others. It was now thought the Yankee had got enough of .the race* and. would wUhdraw be fore the next heat. Contrary jto all.. expecta tion, however, he persevered; and even offer ed to bet a thousand dollars on the issue of the race. * The fellow’s a fool,’ said one. _ .‘■He don’t know which side his bread is buttered,’ said-anothcr, * or .else he wouldn’t risk any more money on so desperate a stoke.’ * He’s safe enough there,’ said a third, < for he has no more to risk.’ ' Here however, every body was mistaken again, for the pedler hauled out an old grea sy pocket book and plunked the thousand dol lars. It was covered of course. But I con fess I now began to be. staggered; and to suspect the Yankee urns, after all, more knave than fool. I had no fears, however, for the purse. Southron was not a horse to be djs- A part of the church-yar 1 is shaded by large trees. Under one of them my mother lay buried. You have no doubt thought me a light, heartless being. I thought myself so ; but there are moments of adversity which let us into some ieelin s of our o-vn nature, to which we might otherwise remain perpetual strangers. I sought my mother’s grave; the weeds were already matted over it, aud the tomb stone was half hid among the nettles. I clear ed them away, anc they stung my pained hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for mv heart ached too severely. I sat down op tiie grave, and read over again the epitaph on the stone. # It was simple, but it was trie. .1 had writ, ten it mvself. , I h id tried to write a poetical epitaph, butiu vain: myfeelin s refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been tilling during my lonely wanderings ; it was now charged to the brim, and overflow ed. I sunk upon the grave and. buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as* I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother’s tenderness while living! How heedless are we in youth of all ier anxieties and kindness! But when she is dead and gone ; when the cares and colduesu of the world come wither ing to our hearts, when we learn how hard it is to find truesy rapt ithy,how few love us forour- selves, how tew will befriend us in ourmisfor- .tunes—then it is tliat we think of the mother we have lost. v _ It is true I loved my mother, even in my most heedless daytt; but*I felt how inconside rate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the days of infiin. ORATION. To follow man through all the windings of his history, from the commencement of his existence to the present time, would be a la borious as well as a useless task. Spring ing up in Paradise, he commenced his course, like some small rivulet which rises in the wilderness ; feeble at first, but gathering strength and vigor from every humble tributa ry which pours in to lend its aid. At one moment rolling a gentle stream, without wave or ripple to disturhthe tranquillity of its bosom, anon sweeping along to the dreadful precipice, leaping from rock to rock, and from clitf to cliff, till gathering all ils energies, it plunges into the roaripg abyss below. The rising foam and heaving waves tell the mighty con cussion of rushing waters, and. massive rocks, which meet together in dreadful conflict.— But soon quietness returns tothe troubled sur face, it fiows along a placid stream, its banks presenting at every view a variety, and beauty of scenery; on one side rises the mountain rock decked with all the wildness and sublimity of nature, here the vine twines its tender branch es about the clinging shrubs, there the gen tle flowret springs and unfolds its beauty and its fragrance to the senses of the passing traveller; while the vale clustered with shrubs and evergreens, stretches itself’out to the foot of the distant hill. All this mix ture of beauty and sublimity, never fails to excite in the beholder ideas, grand and de lightful. Between all this and the course of man, there exists much similarity. In one age, or ] under one government, happiness and prosper ity may appear to' dwell in every quarter; public institutions may flourish, the arts and sciences may be cultivated, orators may shine in brilliancy, philosophers may teach, and po ets siag. Tlfe great men of every profession may be enrolled upon the page of history, to be envied by after generations, as having liv ed in an age or a country most fortunate to There is nothing people are so much ashamed man * The surface of society may be cairn of as truth. It is a common observation, that those wliose writings are most melancholy, are often most lively in conversation. They are ashamed of their real nature; and it is a curi- ous fact, but one which all experience owns, that people do not desire so much to appear better, us to appear different from what they really are. A part is to be played in compa ny, and most desire that part to be an attract ive one; but nothing is more mistaken than the means. A sincere wish to pleasejus sure to be successful; but instead of wishing to please, we rather desire to display. The eye is restless to watch its opportunity—the lio feverish with some treasured ’phrase; we grow jealous from competition, and envious with apprehension! and all things march on in peace and harmo ny to the consummation of the great designs of nature. In such an age or country, virtue may have reigned and gathered the people under its protecting wing, to save them from the destructive toffs of vice and immorality. In another age, under another government, faction may have come like a raging storm, and rent asunder and scattered to all the winds, every sacred ligament which served to bind together and save the people. Or despotism may have laid its withering hand upon the people, and spread over the land one wide scene of horror and despair. Nothing like virtue may hav^been there to lift its warning voice, and intercede in behalf of the inhabi tants./but one wide moral desolation have we think of ourselves till wp forget those very others for.whose applause we are striving: dis- brooded over the ean.. appointment comes, as it often docs, to even well founded hopes—then how much more so to exaggerated expectation? mortification suc ceeds, and vanity covers all as agarment, but a poisoned one, like the centaur’s, envenom- ing and inflaming every wound. • Discharging a Load.—A bachefor in Es- sex county, who was somewhat stricken with years, had been some time enamoured with one of the maiden sisterhood, but could not muster courage enough to pop the question. One day he was resolved to make the attempt. He accordingly went .to the house, knocked at .ne door, and his lovely dulcinea made her appearance. After a mutual nod, the following laconic dialogue ensued: “ Do .yoit want'to change your condition?” “No.” —“ Nor I neither.” Aq,d turning about, our bachelor concluded 'the conversation with, BBBBBBBPRRWWWWWUP “ Thank heaven i Tve got that load off my cy, when I was led by a mother’s and stomach.’’'—Dedham Ado. ‘ The same country is often seen under a variety of forms, at one time it presents a pic ture of affairs which indicates A huppy, and glo rious'nation. At another, nothing is found, either iii the government, or among the peo ple, at all indicative of prosperity, but on the contrary, every thing inspires a belief that the nation is in a state of absolute decay, and must soon give signs of utter ruin. There is always some leading principle whieh char acterizes the actions and movements of eve- ry government, and on this leading principle depends the prosperity or decay of the nation. Among one set of men, it may be laid down as a principle, that moraliyis the foundation of all gfeat and good governments. Witu others it'may be taken for granted, that to follow the dictates, and be governed only by the light of nature, in regisrd to all moral ac tions, constitute the basis of all true greatness. And in reviewing the past history of all na tions, .we find that so far as the former maxim m i. ; r—ia—■awBMEMli is obeyed, and the latter avoided, so for docs a nation attain the ends after which it seeks. I lay it down, then, as the foundation for my remarks, that morality makes a nation great. And in pursuing the subject, it becomes ne cessary to take a general • review of the past ages ot the world, and draw conclusions from the different nations that huve existed,the mo tives which urged them to action, the princi ples on which they acted, and the final end to which such actions led them. The history of the world may be V divided Into three grand intervals, commencing at the creation, and extending to the present time. Of the generations which preceded Noih, lit tle is known ; no human miad is able to pen etrate the darts! gloom which oversprei.d the world during the time of the deluge, and read th.' transactions of men who figured there so many thousands of years ago. The history written by Josephus, and the facts related in the Old Testament, throw but a glimmering light upon those known as Antediluvians; yet, that such a people existed we have no doubt, and the faint picture we are enabled to gain through the dark vista of time, shows the great depth to which they were sunk *:i mis ery and wretchedness, by actions vicious and immoral. But as a minute investigation of the actions, and characters of the Antedilu vians is inexpedient on the present occasion, we leave it to the scrutiny of the antiquary to ascertain aud communicate to the world the important events which transpired during that period of man’s existence. The second grand interval extends from the deluge, to the establishment of the Olympic games. From the uncertainty of the events of that period, and from mixture of fabulous tales, and mythological stories with the histo ries of the times, it may be termed the fabu lous age. Gods and demigods wen numer ous as the cities and villages of the several nations of the earth. Yea ! every virtue and every vice was known by the name of some supposed overruling Deity. Every* thing re corded as having transpired there, seems (o be touched with the highest colouring of the im- agi iution. Enthusiasm was the gal at whose shrin the hero knelt. Battles were fought, and wars carried on, not for liberty or the rights of man, but for martial renown. The people of that age had their great men, and their presiding gods, their heroes in the field, and their sages in the counsel. Hero the dauntless Ajax stood, there the immortal Achilles—here the god-like Hector, arrayed his warriors, there the idolizing Paris doated on the object of his affection—while in the councils of the Greek sages, Nestor stood and quelled the rising tide of faction. Superstition which is natur.il to man, be comes tenfold mors powerful when .acting up on ignorance. And the want' Of^lirtowledgo among the men of that, age, rendered, the- world one wide temple, filled' with gods, aftd oracles, before whom the people knelt, and worshipped. A few bright meteors of sci ence il-ished across the benighted world, but they were only objects of wonder tu the pop ulace, who looked on and became more igno rant. Philosophy looks back and smiles at the actions of the sons of infant times groping their way, ignorant from whence they came, unknowing whither they tended; conscious off ah existence, yet ignorant for wiiat purpose ; catching at every system of superstition, and hanging their hopes upon every object which addressed their eager imaginations. But for antiquity we cure little, in. compari son with the events of more modern times-.— The politician'and tiie statesman—ftic law maker and the economist, may wish to aaa- lifce ancient institutions, that from, thence they may g::in experience, and be enabled to adopt such measures' in governnK-nt, fir lay down such rules in economy, as may best suit the interest and circumstances of foe present age; Blit he who is not over-scrupulous about ancient customs, and by-gone institutions, the nearer he comes doWn in chronology to his own age, feels the more i iterost in t he. trans actions of men. He has little care for things which are scarcely visible through the dim ness of distance. Quitting, then, the r.ge of fiction and unc er tainty, lei us take a view of what lias trans pired during the last and greatest period of the world. Many nations have risen tin! fal len, mAuy generations have come and gone since history began to assume aii aspect of authenticity. And first, hail Classic Greece! the birth.place of freedom—the hc inrs of the muses: thy sons first taught the rig its of man t —4hy bards first sang the: exploits of freemen. The-monuments of thy b etter days yc~'s and objects of emulation for sluggish raiJerns.—- Thy heroes are yet unrivalled,-,thy orators are yet without a parallel. Tlxe 'decaying cpl-- umns of the portico yet tell.of the S.oic, white the untrodden walks of the garden, speak' ©f the Peripatetic. High on the brilliant list of fame, Philosophers and Poets hams, .?•. ’ • Eternal glory round them shed, And great Socrates at their head. The sons of Greece .were virtuous, |>a’rip - ic, brave, but the invader came. The virtue of her citizens died with the precepts of her lawgivers, and the spirit which arm jd them at Thermopyke, expired on the plains of Chero- niaj. Hear glory is enfemfod with, tier heroes, and her learning lies hid in the urn of b.er phi losophers. The nithleaJ oppresBcr h;is long- since profaned her temples, and trampled on her altare; a sullen stiliicss prev.ftls where once was life, bustle and businsts. j Nd moB? doss the orator plead, (>r the poe* sing-—ho more is the busy artist liaard, dr ihe painter