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SPAIN
Aye, wear the chain, ye tlial lor once have
known
The -we< tsof freedom, yet could crouch
(n Min.land trenihlinc ivor*lti|> to a throne;
A \ e,\\ ( ir—for > c aie w orlhy—wear the chain
And bow, til! ye are weary to the yoke
That onre your patriot* broke.
Deirene rate Spaniards I let the priestly band
Vaaiti possess vonr realm, and let them wake
The tires of pion* murder o'er trc land.
And drag your best and braves* to the Make,
\ud tread down truth, and in the dungeon bind
The dreaded strength of mind.
tlive up tlie promise of In ir hi days that cast
V f lory oh your nation from afar,
('all ba< k flic darkest of the ages past,
To ipiench the holy dawn’s new risen star ;
Tot only tyrants and their slaves he loimd
Alive on Spanish ground.
Vet mark ! ye east the gilt of heaven away;
And your best blood for this shall yet he shed ;
t he lire shall wa-te your borders, andtiie day
l(awn sadly on the dying and the dead,
Ami vulture of the cliff on every plain,
Feast high upon the slain.
The spirit that of yore did sleep so long.
Then woke and drove the Moors to Afric's
shore, [strong—
T.ive*. and repressed, shall rise, one day more
jtise and redeem \ our -.hackled race once more
And crush mid showers of blood mid shrieks
and groans,
Mitres, and stars, and thrones.
s** -
SOU I I DF.
Seek not for happiness midst leaves and flow ers
But on the sands that void and voiceless lie,
Wher * not a shade reveals the passing hours,
And Time seems lost into Eternity /
And where—like wrecks upon a sullen sea,
Milking solitude more sad —we tread
O f r cities long >ost from things that lie,
U here touring like tall phantoms of the
dead,
Haunting their descit tomb dim columns rest
their head.
But where the stars look down through night's
dull veil,
And o'er the Arab’s slumbers shed their
beams— •
And suit as Beauty's eve at Sorrow's tale.
Then is the desert peopled with his dream#—
W ith fairy scenes creative fnuev teems ;
11, u>('. the blue-robed daughters <*t the sides
Wave on his spirit—where the crystal streams
Stray through cool shades.and every air that
sighs,
\\ afts o’er immortal bowers the songs of Para
dise !
Jonathan's visit to Uncle fiam's
Thanksgiving.
Did you evrrs;o up to 1 hnnksgivinp ?
I <sy. aggers ! u hat oceans o'cakes !
•CoTifoiuiHei! fine lots o'rnnrl living,
VV hat a tiarn'd sight o’ htsset it takes.
By Golly ! what rlannit great chickens !
Vs big as old roosters, 1 \ an !
Ami turkeys as tat as the dirlrem,
l never did see such, I swan I
And thr4\ there’s the gravy and tatur,
Gaul darn it ! how mealy and fat !
And puddings! it does beat all nature!
I could’nt gel one in my hut.
M> stars ! wh.it a thundering great pie !
Made right out o’ pumpkins I gucs-, !
1 wonder t the crust s made o’ rye ;
I swaggers ! Hi rat ti whole mess.
By thunder! only just look o’ here,
And see whut u big gob o’ plums !
And cuke tidl o’ latxts, Ob dear !
Od rot it! how it sticks to niv minis!
And then there's the fiddling and dancing,
And gait! ull ns cult as a whistle !
The fellows arc kicking and prancing,
t heir legs are as limber as giistle.
By mighty ! if there arn’t our Sal,
Jumps up and down like, a grasshopjicr /
Gosh snicks/ what's got into the gal!
r don l spose the l)e\ il can stop her.
By the powmrs of mud / how they Maw il,
V’ hut durn.d rvriutis capers / 1 snow /
Oh 1 w ish I knew how to go it,
I'd kick tipabobery 1 vow
TOM TEAZLE.
gVG.Gf C H IWJSjjhr
THE BROKEN VOW.
“ But, let the world say wind tt will.
Though sorrow s may aw Idle Intrude,
Fair wisdom’s voice is faithful still,
Still, to be blest,is —to be good. ’
* He tv ill not come to night,’
said Emma, as dte looked out of
tier chamber window on the still
and depopulated streets, and saw
the ciork rain clouds gathering in
tit s ; ‘he will not come to night
—it i- past his hour—ah, he cl id
not use robe so careful about the
weathei—hut 1 will not indulge in
disquietude—he has promised'—
‘1 he word died upon her lips ; he
recollected the coldness—the tone
of ambiguity with w hich that prom,
ise h..d beeu tepeated, when 1 heo
d> < last visited her, and in a con
fi s cl and embarrassed manner,
tl gh with much parade of his
ic gi ctand disappointment, assured
lur it would be impossible foi him
to conform.to his engagement, and
many her at the time appointed.
She remembered, how her heart
sunk within her at the moment,
nr.d the stiange, mysterious pres
entment that crossed her mind.
‘1 hat then, for the first time felt
the force of the remaik, which she
had so often heard,
* Men's voWs are brittle tilings.’
Still, the natural buoyancy of her
spirits forbade her the imperious
necessity of the measure, and she
had acquiesced in it. True, he had
not fixed the more distant period ;
he had left the final hour indefinite,
hut she had his promise ; she had
his oath ; she would not believe
him unfaithful ; she could not be
lieve him perjured. At last, af
ter an absence of a week which
seemed to her a year, he visited
the hose # again ; be once more
mingled with the smiling family
circle ; he seemed the same he had
always been, and she was happy.
But he retired before the fam ly ;
this cost her a night’s rest ; it was
not his usual manner, and she
wondered why, at this particular
time, he should have so much more
business than usual. Still, she
endeavored to put the most favota*
ble construction upon every thing;
she strove to acquit him in her
heart.
But love has eagle ey es,and from
their piercing vigilence, duplicity
must be coupled with most consum
ate art, if site would avoid detec
tion. Emma was carressed by a
large circle of acquaintance, and
iheodore was also a favorite ; in
parties they- frequently came togeth
er, and there when the spirits are
up, and all reserve thrown oft, the
heart unmasks itself. There r l he
odore often forgot his caution, and
not only abated his usual display
of partiality’ for Emma, but lavish
ed his fondness on another. The
generous girl forgave him until
forgiveness became a crime com
mitted aga nst her ow n heait. She
resolv ed to lead a more secluded
life and in prosecutingh#r resolve,
she soon found ample evidence of
what she most feared. His visits
grew less and iess Sequent until, at
length, they w’ore discontinued al
together.
W oman-like in the deepest of
her sorrows, she retired, as it were
within herse f, and secure ;n the
confidence that not even her near
est relatives or friends knew any
thing of her disappointment, she
nursed her grief in secret, and put
on a. smile as sweet, if not as gay,
before the world. But heroically
as she plated this new and decep
tive part, her feelings gradually
obtained the victory of her frame ;
she pined and pined away day af
ter day ; the paleness of departed
health blanched her young cheek,
at.d roved in the stillness of the
evening among the tombs of her
faih ers in the church yard, like a
thin shadow of the past. None
knew her grief but he who was its
cause ; and he shuddered at the ru
in he had made.
ller friends perceived with con
cern the rapid decay of her health,
and as the family had some rela
tives in Bermuda, they had resol
ved to send her there. Ihe voy
age had a salutary effect ; the
< hnnge of scenes and circumstan
ces; new friends and acquaintances,
and the kindness she experienced
in her new abode dispelled much
of the cherished gloom that press
ed upon her heart, and athled life
to her almost inanimate frame.
lhe glow of health gradually
returned, and she shone in the ma
turity of her beauty, a star of no
common lustre in the fashionable
w orld of (hat delightful island.—
A year had not elapsed, before the
hand ol one ol the wealthiest mer
chants in the island was offered
her. He was all that the young
maiden-heart admires—generous
noble and virtuous ; and of years
suited to her own. She accepted
it and became a happ\ wife.
Having left Philadelphia with
the intention of returning, she now
waited anxiously for the opportu
nity ; hut a \a iety ot causes pre
vented it, year after year, and a
beautiful family of bovs and girls
grew around her ; her husband was
deeply engaged in an extensive
and lucrative business, and twelve
years passed by before she was
ble to accomplish her wishes in all
which time, she had never made
an enquiry about or heard from
her former lover. Now Mr. Lefe
re retired from business, and pro
posed accompanying her, with their
family to America. They reached
Philadelphia in safety, and walked
up N\ alnut street to the old family
mansion. It remained unaltered ;
her father nd her mother, the old
servants, her former friends, who
remained, ail welcomed her to her
ancient home, ‘lhe shrubs she
planted in the yard had grown tip
beautiful trees. Her name remain
ed where she had engraved it, on
the sash of her chamber, twelve
years before, and she sat down by
it—called buck the recollections of
past times, and, yet these were
tears of naingied joy- and sorrow.
Mr. Lefere took a fine establish
ment in Chestnut-street, and lived
in splendid style. Emma used to
ride daily in an elegant carriage
with her infant family ; and, as
had long been her practice, she
carefully sought out such objects of
distress, as she deemed it would he
chaiitable to relieve. One day,
riding in the suburbs of the city,
she saw a poor half clothed man,
lvtng on the ground, and a tattered
child crying bitterly by his side,
to which he paid no nttentiou. —
She directed the coachman to stop
and calling the man, inquired why
he disregarded the child and whose
it was? ‘lt is my own,’ said he,
‘ I came out, hoping to get a place
for it in yonder house, and could
not; it is almost starved, and 1
have not the means to procure food
for myself or it.” bhe gave him a
small sum and directed him to call
at her house the next day. He
received it with tears amfipromisetl
compliance.
At the hour appointed, the poor
man with his helpless child, waited
in the kitchen for the call of his
benefactress. Mrs. Lefere sent for
them into the breakfast room, as
soon as the family had dispersed
and desired to know by-what means
he had brought himself to poverty
and want. The man spoke out
honestly. Intemperance, he said,
was the great cause hut his trouble
had driven him to that; “I once
saw better days.” said he, 4 ‘ I w*as
a partner in a mercantile concern—
-1 married—l was deceived—the
mother of this poor child after in
volv Log me in ruinous debts, left
me with a libertine, whose address
es she had long received; I drowned
my sorrows, and sunk my charac
ter in habits of vice and intoxica
tion. I lmve been twice imprison
ed for crime—l am destitute of
friends and employment.
‘ And w hat is your name ?” ask
ed Emma.
‘ 1 heodore W ,he replied,
alter a moment’s hesitation, lhe
kind lady turned pale and trem
bled ; she gazed at him—she re
cognized in him the faithless ‘1 he
odore.
‘ At last, then,’ said she affec
ting to be calm, ‘ you have learned
to keep your promises—you called
at the time appointed—i will pro
vide a place for yourself and child.’
‘Ah, said he, ‘you know me.
W hen you asked my name, 1 dared
not tell you an untruth ; but 1 ho
ped it had been forever blotted
f i oin \ our memory, 1 wacched your
fortunes—l rejoiced at your pros
perm—l cursed my own folly un
til 1 had exhausted all m\ powers.
But broken \ ows come back to their
author in the end and mine has ru
ined me for ever.’
lie covired his face and wept. —
She left him, and having consulted
with Mr. Lefere, procured him a
situation in an honest occupation
and placed the child at school.
Thus was the maxim verified,
1 ali is lor :h- best to the innocent
and the virtuous and thus it is,
that vice works out its own reward
at last.
AN AS I \ 11C SCENE.
‘1 he following description of the
country near the Ganges, during
the rainy season, is from the pen
ot Mr. Howe, a Baptist missionary.
“ We a*e just emerging out of
what we call the rainy season. Du
ring a great p2rt of this period we
live a sort ot amphibious life, sur
rounded with water, and the heat
and profusion ot perspiration is
sometimes so great that we our
selves seem almost reduced to flu
id. At this period of the year the
prospect is altogether such as would
be new to you. We have no hills
and vales to feast our eyes upon,
but the surrounding country pre
sents a flat, extending as far as the
eye can reach in every direction.
I’he Ganges overflows’ its banks,
and inundates the low lands. Hence
the natives build their towns and
villages on spots of rising ground,
and during a considerable part of
the rains the country around us
looks l.ke a Pacific ocean, covered
with innumerable islands. Men,
women, children, and cattle are all
looped up together on the little el
evated spots on which they have
built their habitations. l*or days,
or even weeks, some of the villages
have no intercourse with other vil
lages, unless they are possessed ol
a boat.
To evade the rapid stream of the
Ganges, boats that are going up the
river, sail among these towns and
villages, over fields which at other
seasons of the year are covered
with waving crops of grain, for
days together. The river Ganges,
the bed of which is here about two
miles in width, rolls down its migh
ty torrent within a few feet of the
bungalow where I reside, carrying
down daily an immense number of
boats of various sizes and descrip
tions. Many boats and many lives
at e lost on the Ganges during this
stormy period. A few weeks ago
a boat was upset a mile or two
above Digah : a number of fishing
boats immediately put oft’ to pick
p parts of the boat, her cargo and
the crew if any of them happened
to float down’pretty near them. So
little do they think of the value of
human life, that in general they
would hardly row fifty y-ards to
rescue a fellow creatuie from a wa
tery grave, unless tern [tied by the
hope of gain. 1 saw two men be
longing to this boat floating down
in the strongest part of the stream,
and unable to get towards the shore;
in addition to which a storm had
gathered and was just ready to
burst over them, but no boat oflfer
jed to go to their assistance. At
the moment I stopped a fisherman
on his way to share the plunder,
and offered him a reward, on con
dition of his bringing these two men
to me. On the strength of this
promise he set off, and after a while
returned with the men. The poor
men were nearly exhausted. Ihe
unnatura’ practice of throwing
dead bodies into the river, and be
ing accustomed to see them King
alxmt on the shore, and floating
down the stream, has no doubt a
i tendency to blunt every humane
and benevolent feeling.
Dangers of the Tiger Hunt.
In the beginning of May, 1815,
our aimy, from the hot winds and
bad weather, (says Lieut. Colnet,
in a letter dated from Secrota, in
Oude,) became so sickly that we
were ordered into quarters. On
the sixth ot that month, we passed
through a forest, and encamped
on its skirts, near a small village,
the principle man of which came
and entreated us to destroy a large
tiger that had killed several of his
men and had only that morning
wounded his son. ihe animal was
in the daily habit of stealing his
cattle, and the leilow implored us
so earnestly to give him our assis
tance, that another ofhct-r and mv
selt agreed to attempt its destruc
tion. Y\ e immediately ordered
seven elephants, with attendants,
to be ready, and went in quest of
the creature. We found it sleeping
under a bush, but the noise made
by tile feet of the elephants soon
w aked it, and 1 had the honor of a
salute iioin it, lor it seized upon
the shoulder oi my elephant. The
other six turned about and ran off,
notwithstanding the exertions of
their riders to detain them, and
thus i was left to cope with the
savage beast. I had seen many
tigers before, and been at the kill
ing of them, but 1 never witnessed
so large a one as this. My ele-|
pliant shook him from her shoul
uei ; i then tired two balls and he
leii. lie however, almost instant-;
iy recoveied himself, made a spring
at ti.e, arid falling short seized the i
elephant by one ol her hind legs, j
She kicked him violently, and I
tired at the same mom nt, which
induced him to let go and fall a
second time, flunking he must
now be disabled, 1 very unfortun
ately dismounted, with a pair of
loaded pistols, intending to put a
speedy end to his existence, ihe
monster it appears s\ as only* crouch
ing to make another spring; he
pounced upon me, and seized
me round the body, taking in
my arms, with his mouth.
—lt pleased God to give me
strength and presence of mind.—
I made use of the arm that was
least conHned, and fired one ol
mv pistols into the cieature’s body.
1 his however, had but li ale effect;
soon alter getting the arm entirely
out ol Ins mouth, l seized my pis
tol lrom the other hand, and di
rected it at his heart. 1 his termin
ated his existence ; but I lound
that, in the struggle, i had recen
ed no less than twenty-five severe
wounds, some of which were
conceived to be mortal. lat . r
recovered, and had the satisfy*
of reflecting that I had “K*
the poor villagers from their aW
for which they were very gratef * !
Jffnans of Preserving
In 18C0 a tradesman of I ‘,
the permission of the Prelect of p
lice to sell, in the market, ewg
had been preserved a year in a c
position of which he kept the smU’
More than 30,000 of these ptv. B ‘
sold in the open market, without •?',
complaint being made, or any niff’
taken of them, when the board
health thought proper to
them, they were found to be
iVctly fresh, and could only be ilhp
guished from others by pulveroj.
stratum of carbonate of lime, rem ar r’
ed by M. Cadet to be on the egg sh e p
This induced him to make a
experiments, which ended in hhdj,
covering that they were preserved „
lime water highly saturated. M f 1
det recommends the addition of
small quantity of muriate oflimc.but
gives no reason. They may also be
preserved by immersing them twentv
seconds in boiling water, and then
keeping them well dried in fine sifted
ashes; but this will give them a *rev.
i-sh green colour. The method of
serving them in lime water has been
long the practice of Italy : they m a v
be kept thus for two years. This use
ful mode is well known in many pan,
of England, and cannot be too muc.t
recommended.
Christmas Pie. —An eminentproich
er of the present day had, whenabov,
committed some offence, for whiebthe
father decreed as a punishment, that
he should be excluded from the family
table on Christmas day. When the
young delinquent saw the vast culi
nary preparations made for the feast
from which he was debarred, he was
moved less with envy,than with a con
tempt for the sort of pit nishment which
had been imposed on him ; but mixing
in his disposition a good deal of the
satirical with the serious, he resolved
not to be without his joke on the oc
casion. He contrived to obtain e
cret access to a veal pastry on which
the cook had exhausted all her skill,
arid carefully taking off the ewer, ,c
as to avoid any mark of fracture ortl'is
turbance, he took out the greater par
of the meat, and filling the dish with;
quantity of grass, replaced the cove
as it was. ’The company met, andth
, dish was served up to them in tk
j state. It fell to the lot of the youn
I wag’s father to break up the pie, am
his surprise on doing so can easily!)
conceived. Stirring the grass abci
in a fit of rising indignation, his tor
encountered a slip of paper, on vvhii
he read these words, “ All flesh i
1 grass.”
Origin of the word Yankn
Yankee is the Indian corruption
of the word English — Verifies,
Yang lees, Yankees , and finally M
bee. It got into general use as a
term of reproach, thus: about the
year 17-14, one Jonathan Hastings;
a farmer at Cambridge, in New
England used the word Yankee as
a cant word to express excellence,
as a Yankee (good) horse, Yankee
cider, Sic. The students at col
lege having frequent intercourse
with Jonathan, and hearing him
employ the word on all occasions
when he intended to express his
approbation, applied it sarcastical
ly ; and cal.cd him Yankee Jona
than. It soon became a cant phrase
among the collegians to
a simple, weak, awkward person;
from college it spread over the
country, till, from its currency in’
England it was taken up and appl^ 1 -
to New Englanders generally,asa
term of reproach. It was in con
sequence of this, that the song cat
led Yankee Doodle was composed.
The following singular obituarf
notice is from a Northern pap tr ;T
Died, at Eastport, (Me.) Capt. Eli
as Hates aged 52. By bis will he
directed that his body should f> e
inclosed in lead, bound with hoops
of the same, and instead of bcint;
committed to the earth, to he take o
to sea, three miles S. S. VV.
Sail Hock, (West Quoddy H eJ( •
and theie,at sunrise, commitu’ 1 ' tu
the deep, with his lace towards 1 (
Sun, “ in reverence to that sec o )* 1 ’
C>od of Nature, whom he worshi
ped,’’and to ensure compliance'’' 11,1
these directions, he gave very f° n
siderahle legacies to two perse”
on condition that they carried tI H " 1
into full effect —and they were c° ni
plied with. He also directed 1 ‘
the mourning dress should he l ‘’
silk, with the sun painted on the
arm, ami the plate on his colha
bear also the emblem of the - ‘
which directions have been fclo' yt< ‘