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’i o ct vi) > bm fe/ 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< ‘