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BY JAMI'S W. JONES. The Southern Whig, PVBLIS HED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. TERMS. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fii st number, or fur dollars if not paid within the year. Sub scribers living out of the State, will be expect ed in all cases, to pay in advance. No subscription received for less than one year, unless the money is paid in advance; and no paper will be discontinued until all arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance of their Papers, are requested to bear in min J, a settement of their accounts. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered put. All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in order to secure attention. Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale. The sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that Application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne groes, must be published four months. Notice thqt Application will be made for Letters jo administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months. FROSPEETI’S OF THE S@TOIO» WEB®. nn at paper formerly edited by Wm. E. j 0- Jones, is now under the direction of the undersigned. The growing importance of Ath ens, the state of parties in Georgia, and the agitation of pertain questions having a direct influence on southern interests; render it neces sary that the northwestern part of Georgia should have some vigilant, faithful sentinel always on the watch tower, devoted to a strict construction ofthe true spirit ofthe constitution, the maintainance of (he rightsand sovereignty of the Stat.s, the retrenchment of executive patronage, accountability ail > W ' ’• . \ •.r- gmai articles, and selections " irofit" the mos- | popular works of the day in the various depart! : snents of Agriculture. Literature at d the Arts. To Georgians the undersigned is conscious he appeals not in vain for an increase of patron age —land he respectfully asfis the friends of constitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob tain subscribers. The Southern Whig is published weekly in Athens Qepfgia, at Three Dollars per annum pavable in advance, Three Dollars and fifty ccfita if P a id within six months, or Four if not paid untjl the end of the year. J. W. JONES. Athens, Aug. 8,1836. THE INDIAN’S PANACEA, FOR the cure of Rheumatism, Scrofula or King's Evil, Gout, Sciatica or /Zip Gout, Incipient Cancers, Salt Rheum, Siphilitic and mercurial diseases, particularly Ulcers and . painful affections of the bones, Ulcerated Throat j and Nostrils, Ulcers of every description, Fever Sopes, and Internal Abscesses, Fistulas, Piles, Scald Head, Scurvy, Biles, Chronic Sore Eyes, Erysipelis, Blotches, and every variety of Cu taneous Affection; Chronic Catarrh; Headache, proceeding from an acrid humor; Pain in the Stomach and Dyspepsia proceeding from vitia tion; Affections of the Liver; Chronic Inflama-f tion ofthe Kidneys, and general debility caused by a torpid action of the vessels of the skin. It is singularly efficacious in renovating those con stitutions which have been broken down by in judicious treatment, or juvenile irregularities. In general terms, it is recommended in all those diseases which arise from impurities of the I blood, or vitiation of the humors, of whatever name or kind. Some ofthe above complaints may require some trifling assistant applications, which the circumstances ofthe case will dictate; but for a geheraj remedy or purifeator, to remove the cause, Inman’s Panacea will generally be found suffiicicift,. For gale by REESE <Sc LORD. May 14 2 ts. ~CAREY’S ÜBRAHY Or CHOICEEITEK.ITI RE, HAS now completed its first Six Months of publication, and the publishers offer the fo'lowihg works in testimony of the fulfilment of the promises made to the public in the origin al prospectus. Life of Sir James Mackintosh, by his Son. Kincaid’s Rifle Brigade. Characteristics of Hindostan,by Miss Roberts. One in a Thousand, by G P. R. Janies. Rienzi, by E, L. Bulwer. Random Recollections of the House of Com mons. The Second Volume has commenced with •Selections from The Dramas of Joanna Baillie, and Confessions and C-imes, or Posthumous Re cords of a London Clergyman— a work resem bling in style, and supposed m be by the same author, as the celebrated Tates from the Diary of a Physician. ' The First Volume can be had separate, with put subscribing to the work,'‘upon the remit tance of $3 50 to the publishers. ' The Library is published weekly, containing Twenty imperial octavo pages ? and the Literary- Advertiser, which accompanid- it, four pages, and is bound up at the end of I every volume. Price per annum, in advance, $5. Address, E. L. CAREY A. HART, Or, LOUIS A. CODEY, Philadelphia. CLUBBING. A remittance of Five Dollars will command the first volume of the Library and the Marry att Novels, complete in 8 numbers, containing Peter Simple—Jacob Faithful—Pirate and Three Cutters —King’s Own—Newton Foster —Pacha of Many Tales—and Japhet in Search c 1 his Father —or First Volume of Library and Lady’s Book. Q^r - Papers exphanging with the Library will c niter a favor by inserting the above. Two Apprentices, WILL be taken at this office.’ Boy; from the country will be preferred. Southern Whig. From the Knickerbocker. BABE, DYING <N THK MOTHER’S ABSENCE. He lay ’tween life and death. The priestly hand Was lifted o’er him, and with tender touch Laid the baptismal water on his brow- While earnestly a solemn tone bespoke A place in heaven, for that departing soul, In Jesus’ name. The half-closed eye was still, As a dead gem set in a lily’s cup, But the small hand thrill’d like a living bird, Within the nurse’s clasp. She was not there. Who nurtur’d that fair boy, and day by day Mark’d his smooth limbs to fuller roundness swell, And garner'd up each tiny, gleeful shout As music in her heart. She was not there. Had she but known his peril, what had chain’d That rushing traveler? Not the mountain’s steep, Nor the swol’n flood, nor midnight’s wildest storm, Had won a thought from her, whose yearning soul Was knit to his. Or had one darken’d dream, ;, ’Mid the sweet intercourse of distant friends, I Brought the chang’d image of her cherub babe, | Not as she left him, fresh and full of sports, But sleepless, starting from his cradle-bed, His pearly teeth clos’d strongly in his pain, With a harsh, gratingsound, and the poor tongue Untrain’d to language, murmuring out his grief, ' Or had she seen him from his favorite cup Still put the spoon away, until his lip, So like a rose-bud, sallow grew, and thin, How had she burst away, to see him die, Or die with him! But now, ’tis all too late; 1 One quivering gasp upon a hireling’s breast, 1 And all is o’er. Methought some secret tie Bound him to earth. What did thy pale hand seek, With such a groping eagerness, poor babe? Thine absent mother? Didst thou long to feel 1 Her kiss upon thine eye-lids, or her breath Parting thy curls, and passing up to heaven, 1 A winged prayer! Would that I could forget The weeping of that mother, when she takes That ice-cold baby to her bursting heart, Or, even for that too late, doth frantic press The pitying sexton for one last drear sight Ofher lost darling, in his desolate bed, amid the mouldering throng. ” ' fr 0 m crac^c d charge As vA%fc , V' r 7> nt l‘fe l ,e draws -*-* ” him, as the soul ’Y \boon on earth gaze, | Exploring earth’s broad scenery, buy one hour Like his sweet, breathing slumber in her arms? 0 no, no, no! So, take thy priceless meed, The first young love of innocence, the smile Singling thee out from all the world beside, And if amid this hallow’d ministry Heaven’s messenger should claim the unstain’d soul. Be thine the hand to give it back to God. l. h. s. .gHtscellanecus. From the Southern Literary Journal .eople ‘ T HE KO XI AXT I t GI K E . F ' Miss Martha Hunter, (or as she choosed , i to be called, Kate) was a romantic girl. I had known her amidst society. 1 had seen her, when a train of admirers, bowed to the shrine of her beauty. Every thing ' in her personal appearance was exquisite- j ly handsome —her every manner fascinat ing. It was sometimes even said of her, that she had “ Grace in every step—Heaven in her eye— In every gesture, dignity and love.” But what mostly pleased my young genius was, that Kate was a romantic girl. i Her father lives on the bank ofthe Ili ! wassee river, in the midst ofthe most dan | gerous and warlike part of the Cherokee I Indians. Once a solitary spot—(save that every member of the Col’s, family were a host within themselves) —but now how changed—and which change, is the occa sion of my story.) Kate was surrounded j by a magnificent mountainous country. ‘ She was daily accustomed to look on the most inviting landscape—the most grand waterfalls, and woodland wild flowers, of the most bewitching variety; all which, . perhaps, contributed to her romantic dis , position. Still we have sometimes thought, that she sighed for the sweets of society. Hence perhaps, her hearty welcome of her visitors—led hither by the story ofher charms—hence her willingness to conduct him to the most romantic situations, of this most romantic country —the perpendicu-1 lar and rugged cliffs, denominated Ly her, * the lover’s leap, as being the most fitting j place, to terminate the existence of one, j ( who has become . crossed, in tins s' • sions. ' | lam visit to •.?'•**' Ms 'v thF x-- - I- ' ---- 1 'hl-.,'. . .» - ... ’ ; a •■•• •' okl ' i j ha& ’* •• • .. f health and I into thc i ' < and perhaps i ! eve?ji|t l .'‘^'* > ’\ . *‘id last seen, so! 1 , gay, the grim mon-' r ! ster, wliSt^'- youth nor beauty. ! 1 Withinplace, 1 was met ! r by three in the American I uniform. Their tale was soon told. They were soldiers, stationed at Camp Hunting- II ton, under the commaad of Gen. W- 1. It needed only for them to know that my destination was thither, and they readily became my escort. Here, reader, my 3 story commences. la front of the large family mansion, which twelve months be- '-x»-s'——-—T--——T— — - ■ r-aren rr A v r vnT RTFN ANUL L i FIC ATION OF THE AST J 3 THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.’ 7 JetferSOH. “WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE aOT ELLIN fore, had presented a picture of solitude — a hermitage for a family, who could not have found enjoyment, save in their intel lectual endowments —lay the “ Soldier’s tented field.” A busy camp. Six hun dred horsemen in full parade. The hoarse voice of officers, drilling them in the dif ferent evolutions of modern tacticks. But why stop to describe a military parade; or why attempt to give you my reflections at the change. The hermitage had become the soldier’s tent. I was in front of the mansion of Col. Hunter. I was in the beautiful flower garden of the romantic Kate. But, I met her not there. There freshly grew the thousand plants of her collection. In every bed of tulips, and in the weaving ofthe rose and other vines around the summer houses, you might see the work of her gentle hand. But, in one corner, stood the head quarters of the I commanding General, and through the walks paraded the proud orderly and other sentinels. The private family mansion seemed to he converted into a fort. Yes; for through it moved the richly uniformed officers of the United States Army. In the parlour nor at the piano, did I see the lovely Kate. She was laid of a fever Under the care of the Surgeon General of; the Army. One or two faces only I recognized. — They bore no command. They were not of our people, I had known them as mem- ! bers of the church—as missionaries of the ! altar—as interpreters between the minis- | ters of God and the Cherokees. From i their manly bearing I would have suppos- j ed that, in the sentinels language, “ all was I wells But not so. I conversed with i them as in days of yore. ’ learned that they were prisoners. “ Great God,” | thought I, “ and has it come to this?” “And ■ where is your missionaries?” I enquired, i “Your minister?” “The commander has : thought it best to remove him from the ! country.” I forebore an expression of opinion. I i knew that the crisis had arrived when the ! Cherokees must be removed, I heard the I arguments, the cogent and powerful argu- ; ments of Judge H g. the head of the i Indian bureau, with the stubborn Chero- ! kee. The propriety, the advantages, the necessity, of his people going from among J the whites. I saw that no one conclusion obtained even the silent assent of the sul- i len Cherokee. “Ah sir!” said he, “ neces- i sity leaves us no choice—your govern- j ment leaves it not with us to determine.” ( An exposition of the General’s course con- i vinced me of the necessity, and the entire ! propriety of the measure. The Cherokees had been called on, to give their assent, to the treaty made by their Chiefs, with the United States Gov ernment. Its justice they would not ac knowlede—its terms they sullenly refused to accept. Their council with the Gene ral, they had dissolved in disorder. Some had, inconsequence, been made prisoners. An order had been issued that all should ! surrender their Srms to the commander. I And now, reader, comes the affecting part ’ of my story. I saw approaching the General’s quar ters, a white flag, borne by an aged Cher- f okee chief. Ilis silvery locks, and fui row- ‘ ed copper cheeks, plainly denoted that he i had seen the day when uqnnie jyere i powerful —when/ MclutoiMi; Fowl?., ? Meriwether; .Monroe; f dou, Barron. ■' Xvaik secr.T t 1 pie fallen. His flag was ui< .J native oaken sappling of his forest. The upper end bending, somewhat in the form of a bow, as if indicating the broken spirit of his people. But what a spectacle fol lowed ! Fifty of his tribe came up aftei him, in single file—their usual procession. They followed, the one straight after an other. Their eyes bent to the ground; they seemed not to observe the parading sentinels—nor the anxious spectators.— ! But they carried with them other distinc- I tive marks of mourning. They marched ! with “ arms reversed.” The flag being planted over the Gene-! ral’s quarters, they all proceeded without ! a word, to surrender to him their arms. | They would obey the order which depriv- j ed them of the means of killing game— I i their very subsistence—in sullen silence. | ! And as sullenly would they have departed. ■ (A tear had now gathered into my own eye, which deceived me into the belief, that ■ 1 saw it in all.) The humane General had yet something ' to offer in exchange for their guns. It was | an offer, based upon the very principles of ! the treaty, which had forced this necessi- j ty. That, willing or unwilling, they would give them that which is better. “True,” said he, “the Government has ! made it my duty to enforce the treaty.— . Sotiie of your people have manifested a ’ hostile disposition. It is therefore neces-! sary, that 1 should deprive you of your | Lrtins, lest in a mad moment, you might be ! to strike a blow, which would be ! of your people. If you re-! /Wv '‘‘ c > fI’CV will shortly here- 1 ■ ’ U '• mean time, you must not' ~"':~'f R«LS t en thousand rations in ; iZ'jjrCorn, Tobacco. Accept U d } ° ur o u,ls " 1 I' o Govern- in terms ofthe treaty,” ..-•’My people have plenty—they need I them not—they will go away when the Government say so—but they want not ! the Governments provisions,” said the chief ! ami they marched away. “They arc the Chrowse Indians,’, px-’ claimed a sweet and well known voice ! ! from the sick room of Kate. j The truth of a secret Hashed across my 1 ! mind. I approached and felt the flag. It, was of the finest lawn. It was embroider-! ed with most elegant taste. Kate is a romantic girl even in sickness.! thought I. Her hand has been, unseen, 1 in this thrilling display. The officers knew ! it not. Let it pass. She is a romantic GIRL. One of the Cherokee Townships. SATURDAY, ©UTOE&ER S 9, 188 S. —s From the New Yorker. THE SWITZER’S BETUBX. A BALLAD. Farewell to the land of the lovely and brave, Columbia, bright Queen »f the West! Whei e the banners ot Freedom exultingly wave, And the exiled and weary find rest. Still though Peace waves her shadowy wing from the skies, And falls her soft dews on the shore, The soul ofthe Switzer impatiently sighs To behold his loved valleys once more. Farewell to thy splendor, thy glory and pride, Bright land ofthe Freeman, adieu ! My gallant shalloop dances oyer the tide, And the home of my childhood’s in view, 1 see the sweet chalet where first I drew breath; I feel the sweet scent ofthe flowers, That blossom so free in my own native earth, And woo to their kisses the showers. In fancy I chase the wild chamois at morn, Exult in the free mountain air; Again 1 awake to the sound of the horn, And wander at eve with my fair : Clear lakes, laughing streams, and ye mountains of snow, I return to your bosom again; j With the friends of my youth, lovedin sunshine and wo, In the land of my birth to remain. Paris, July 19,183£, Falconer. From the Knickerbocker. STANZAS. WRITTEN IN A FRIEND’S ALBUM. ' - L Some love to have their memories kept In records on the sculptured stone, ! For crowds to see—let me be wept ! But by one faithful heart alone. Some strive to seize the flowers of fame, ! Forgetting that,though blight they’re brief:. But prouder far am I to claim From Friendship’s wreath the simple leaf. I 11. ! Oh! from the world I’d pass away, Like snow-wreaths from a wintry scene; Or as a cloud of yesserday, Forgotten, as I ne er had been. ! Yet in one place my name shall be, ! And in one tablet have a part; That place, thy faithfil memory— That tablet, thine own gentle heart! From the Knickerbocker. A I. L THE WO It I. B’S A STAGE. ' Coleridge says finely of Shelly, I think, ! that ‘he lived neither in space nor time, ; but as if by the way.’ He meant. .1 sup pose, that he was so little affected or in terested by the circumstances around him, anil the times in which he seemed to exist, as not to belong to the age or the world, but was as if he had stepped aside from the track of time, while the world, forgetting its passenger, moved by him. The world used a remissness in his case with which iit is seldom chargeable. What agent of j what line or mode of conveyance ever ' used the diligence, or had the success, of ! the world, in decoying or hurrying, nolens ■ volens, into its moving machine, the hesi ! tating traveller? To turn the poet’s words ■ to ourown account, all the world’s a stage,* i and with the capacity of an omnibus, the > punctuality of a steam-car, and the inflex l.ibility of a rail-road, it chooses a direction, finds a place, for ail moving sphere, signal. Trie ■ f ' ‘ govern ail d mo -irw- illy to delay I Yj he’s^privafc^convenienee yon tram where we behold in simultaneous motion the dwellers in an hundred homes, than to question the right ofthe world to go when, and where, and at what jog, it pleases. If it is a sufficient apology for hurrying bu siness, breaking engagements, neglecting friends, that the steam-cars leave at four; how much more for all omissions, defi i ciences, and imperfections, that ‘so the I world goes !’ ! He who has travelled much, knows very i well that travelling is a condition of great i license. One may then indulge in habits ! seriously condemned at home. Actions ■ become innocent or indifferent which in ! a state of rest are esteemed injurious and i immoral, The stage or the steam-boat ! are no places in which to be prim and de- I corous. One must relax a little from his I dignity and propriety, and fall in with the j ! prevailing tone of feeling. It is folly to j ! assert his personal character, or strive to : ! exert his personal influence, with compan-! ! ions of a day. Example cannot be of J I much weight, which is to bo manifested ’ ! for so short a season, and before men who ! I are not expecting to see models of excel-1 lence, Forsooth, they are travelling too, j I and men do not support characters when ! they journey. The toil of the jaunt is ; enough, without the restraints of propriety. ; And where one finds this spirit, he must !be accommodating. He must sink his pe [ culiarities, be they those of virtue, deco- 1 ! rum, or profession, in a stage-coach. He ] cannot, again, be very particular in the ob-1 I servanceofhis usual and conscientious hab ( its, while ho is moving from place to place. ! ■ His private duties are inconvenient. This ! sleeping two in a room leaves him no pri-' vacy. In fine, he must wait till he gets ! home, before he can renew his accustom-! cd habits and duties, of however private j and personal a nature. He must get home, before he can act aright. The world may be said to be on one everlasting journey. Itisonegreat,crowd !ed stage-coach. Accommodation is here, ! too, the principle of action. ‘So goes the j world," and at the signal vie may fancy j mankind with one universal rush, as if to i the last coach, scrambling into the impa- ■ tieut vehicle. A!! have in their hurry left their characters, their habits, their princi- I pies, behind them. Behold them seated ! ; I here is a universal congratulation at. their j successful settlement. A common jour | ney excites a common interest, and with j out inquiry into, or minute observation of, i * A ‘staqe,’ as a stnge-coacli, is a new read mi;' <»t Stiakepe.r.re, ivliielj is 'r.'spc'.-t'ully su'u ; mittcil.’ the feelings, pursuits, and pnnciplesoftheir fellow travellers, it is ‘hail fellow ! well met,’ all around. Now is no time for nice distinctions. They are travelling. Shall ’ private feelings and peculiarities be per mitted to disturb the common sentiment ’ of good will ? Will any one be rude enough to object to the general tone of feeling, or confess any distaste to the com mon topic of discourse ? Is it not the only wisdom to fall in with the sp.ipt of the place? Will one sit like a churl, iti the corner of the coach, cloaked in unsociality'? Will not silence be taken for stupidity— the frown of virtue for the cant ofliypocri sy—the dignity of rectitude for the self complacency of pride? Can the world's passengers, a promiscuous throng, appre ciate our motives, our good sense, our force ot character? Are they enough self-pos sessed in the excitingjourney, to perceive, regard, and be influenced by a good ex ample ? Have not they, Co, (est their cha racters at home? Did they not leave in a hurry, unprepared to meet honesty, de corum, or religion on their tour, and so have dressed themselves in their worst suit, careless of their appearance before the transient crowd? Andis it not es teemed untravelled and in bad taste to ex pose to the joltings of the way and the crowd, and to the dust of the road, the starch and gloss of one’s best attire ? The passengers of‘the world’ are like a traveller who roams the earth for a rest ing place He looks forwmrd to every ' stage as the end of his journey. He ar-! I rives there—looks about for a moment — ! : the bell rings—‘stage ready!’—and loath i i to quit his companions of a day, he orders ! !on his luggage, and is again a rover. So J I with the stagers of the world; they antici- j pate the goal and the time, when a home i I different from the world shall receive them ! to its quiet bosom; where friends shall sur- ! I round them—where there will be motive, i ( and reward for acting out the character | they would exhibit, without the fear of any I misconception—where there shall be rest i and retirement for forming habits, acting ! up to principles, for living a conscientious i and a Christian life. But as the journey i i progresses, the goal travels too. ‘So goes ! . the world,’ rings in the ear of the way- , worn traveller forever. There is no place ! I so retired and out of the way that the ! ( world does nut pass it. It dines, and sups, i ; and rests, at eiery town in the country. ! | It has its public house in every hamlet. | j Its bustle, its business, its hurry, its crowd, i disturb the quiet of every village. The ' stage stands before the door of every house, i ■ The workl, the/f.qrjd,’ is_ heard calling up its pa« jlreet and un- ■ named a l'ovmlK./ invi tation to c iutt, (thus j has the world to virtue cheapened its lare’J and occupy its seats, and be whirled off upon its unend ing tour, where dust shall dim the eye, J noise dull the ear, crowds deaden the feel j ing, variety cloy and corrupt the taste, till | the senses become the inlets of impure, ! distorted, unreal, indiscriminate ideas. i In these days of universal travel, not to , journey in the world ! a n narrow-minded, I bigotted, or hypocritical prejudice. It is ! quitting the most wealthy, tonnish, and } notorious society. It is confessing a dis ! taste for the fashions, the diversions, the ! occupations of the polite, which are the tine arts ofthe age. It is to be, as it were, ' the servants of the world’s proprietors, I i who, while they are on their foreign, sash- ; iorjable, and finishing tour are at home to ■ ! take care of the estate—to watch over ■ and instruct the children—to feed and ad ! vise the poor, who hang on to the world’s ' establishment; it is to be left at home to ! see that the fences are not broken down, !that the gardens are not robbed, that the walls are not dilapidated; to look after the finances, without which the world’s own ers could not travel—in fine, to keep the ! world’s great edifice from going to utter ! ruin, and its estate from hopeless bank- J ruptcy, through the neglect and extrava- ! gance of its masters —to do ail the work ! which enables them to be doing nothing. ! This it is not to travel in the world. It is ' to be the veriest drudges and slaves to the I severest toil—to have one everlasting ! working-day. It is to be both school-mas-' ter and guardian, both curate and consta- ! ble, both steward and clerk—and this too, I ! in an establishment which has fewer ser- ! j vants than masters. Can one hesitate ; j which to efioose —to travel in the world 1 and fly from toil, or to stop ‘by the way- to i ! perform ail the work that the world makes? I ! It is to choose between riding over the ! ! road, and working upon it! To live ‘by j I the way,’ is to make this the deliberate choice. It is to withstand the thousand j I invitations ofthe day, to occupy a stuffed j j cushion in the easiest vehicle, with the ) most sensitive springs, and the gayest com- j panv, and to walk off from the even and i easy track into the jolting, stony path ‘by ! the way,’ encumbered with ail the obstruc- ! j tions which the world has thrown from its ! I route, in its labors to smooth, and level, i I and speed its course. It is to stand still) j while all is in motion—to seem to the ; world's untiring, unflagging speed, a fixed, ! diminishing, evanished point. It is to be ' a sworn foe to all internal improvements ■ which shorten the arduous routes over ! which honesty and principle are wont to \ plod, with their small and patient mer- j chandise. This it. is to live ‘by the way,’ : I Nevertheless, commend me to a life ‘by | | the way.’ If’space’ is the arena ofthe; world, and ‘time’ the spirit of the age, I would live neither‘in space nor time,’ but as if 'by the way.’ To all who have taken passage in the world, I give warning that it runs a dusty r>a I. It seeketh the le velest and smoothest, but u is the lowest route. It crosseth sands and deserts, and the I’ontmc marshes. It never emergeth , ■ from the shade, nor ascendeth to the clear , - i sunlight, and the wide and spreading pros-; 'j pect. It speedeth, till one cann it count . ■ j the dwellings by the way, and observation , wearieth of monotony. Danger is the •' only one ot all t!ie shitting company that: ; sitteth constant by thy side throughout the j " liournev. 'i Doc.lv try cl' ■' be ad-, i.ic l, Quit thy i I resolve. Even at some risk, leap from the world’s conveyance, and walk ‘by the way!’—live ‘by the way !’ H. W. B. Cambridge (M.ass..') Avgust, 1836. From the New Yorker. BALIA d. Thy step is light In the dance to-night, And Pleasure's throng is round thee ; And thy life is gay, and thine eye is bright, AsthoiJgh no promise bound thee: And fair brows, wreathed with rose and gem, Are in that hall of splendor— With witching smile and melting tone, To force thy heart’s surrender. Tuy cheek is bright At the board to-night, And the wine-cup foams before thee ; And thy spirit kindieth in the light Os Beauty’s glance thrown o’er thee; And to the lute, and to the song, A charmed ear thon lendest; Yet well I know with all thy glee An absent form thou blendest! Though thy heart seem light, ’Mid the crowd to night— Though with honey’d tone thou’rt knreling To lips of love and eyes of light, ’ I’is but the show of feeling; And thou mayst give them careless words, Since I know thy true heart keepeth Language for her amid whose thoughts Thy memory never eleepeth. Stella. ANECDOTES OF NAPOIEON. In the beginning of his consulate he often used to escape from lhe Tuileries disguised in a big great coat and a large round hat, so that even the soldiers did not kn.ow him, and go early in the morning to Gen. Sebastian’s lodg ings, awaken him, and walk arm in arm along th.: Boulevards. In one of these morning walks. Bonaparte, wishing to make a handsome present to his beloved Josephine, stopped be fore a large store of precious curiosities. They found a chambermaid cleaning the store, went in, and asked for the master of lhe house. ■ The servant answered in a dry tone, that there : was no master of the house, looking with a j ■ suspicious eve upon the two intruders, whom ! i she thought might be a pair of rogues who h id entered the store so early, truly with no very favorable exterior, their boots and great coats ' covered with mud. She ran quickly into a ; bed-room where two young clerks slept, and ' awakened them in haste, whilst the two stran gers looked upon each other and smiled. One ofthe voting men came hastily and he If cloth ed from his room, and asked their pleasure. Bonabarte’s eyes fell upon two large a d beau t.ful transparent vases ofan exquisite workman ship, whilst Sebastiam spoke with the clerk,/ who sent immediately for the mistress ofthe 1 store, when Bonaparte in his abrupt and per emptory maimer, asked the price of these vases lhe widow measured him from footti h ad a id said dryly, ‘that their price was beyond his reach—‘This may be, madame, said Bonaparte irritated, but still in a moderate to :e,‘but I think it would not cost vou much to answer my question.’ ‘ Ten thousand francs, sir,’an swered the lady in a dry tone. ‘Well, m idame. is that your lowest fixed price” ‘Yes, sir, I have but one price, as every one of mv cue- i tamers knows.’ ‘Well, madame, I think I shall bus - them; be so good as to place them aside s i that nobody else may take them.’ ‘But, sir,’. said the asto ished lady, ‘how then? I shall j say thev are sold, but—but ’ ‘What but. I madame ?’ said Bonaparte,growing warm.— ■ I S ibastiani gave him a hint, and said,‘Madame i is right; she does not know us, and ot course is not to be blamed for asking at least some! hi- g by which she might be assured that we were i i earnest.’ He handed her at the same mo ment a bank note of one thousand francs. The widow, still more astonished, received the note, turned and re-turned it, and handed it to a clerk, directing him in a whisper to go to a neighbor's and see if it was not a forged one, and then addressing herself to the two strangers, said, with the Parisian gracefulness | so characteristic ol’ail these female shop-keep- I 1 ers—‘Gentlemen, I ask your pardon; you ap- | i pear to bo fine and well-bred gentlemen, bin ! ! God knows, since that Corsican has been at ! .he head ofour government we are overrun : with rogues and vagabonds, who have even attempted to commit forgeries, (which was true) . and, therefore, I have sent to my neighbor’s who is an agint de change (a broker) and who ! understands his business well.’ ‘But how I them madame, I thought Bonaparte was a good ! Frenchman,’ said lhe consul, ‘and all he ugh born in Corsica, that he had never ceased to be a Frenchman!’‘Yes, yes,’ answered the mer chant, smiling, he has been a good Frenchman, because he was too greatly interested to be otherwise.’ Sebastiam saw that Bonaparte began to grow warm, and interrupted the lo quacious lady by asking her “what she had now to say of the first co isul if he had not crushed anarchy, re-established order, put France in a flourishing state” ‘les, he has so well re-vs- , tab!ished order ‘hat we have now instead of I laws, bayonets—instead of liberty, slavery. ' a id a legion of miserable spies, wh j denounce I and arrest every one who dares io speak against : him or his adherents,’&c. This woman was of au exalted character, I very handsome and bold, and astonished both j b .' her vehemence and the facility with which she talked to them. Bonaparte could notresis j interrupting her in saving, ‘but, madame. you forget yourself by touching these very delicate ■ political matters, in which you e mnot have th- i least concern, b i r obliged often to deal with I the first consul’s friends and adherents; and it . we should belong to them, what then, madame? —would you not fear to be arrested?’ ‘I fear j to be arrested !’ said she, laughing loud; ‘vou. - g.-mtlemen, could vou denounce a poor widow > who has five little children to provide for?—! No. certainly no, I have nothing to fear from you'.— vou apnear to bo too honest and good ! gentlemen to wish to ruin apocrwom in h ■- I cause she used with freedom th r only gift of i God, her tongue, which the usurpur has left her. I On leaving tfie store, Bonaparte told h r ' he would send the money, and for the two j vases. In walking out they took a hackney i coach, and stopped at a short distance from i I the Tuileries, i i the rue de I' Echelle.— Bona- j I parte, although not well treated by this spirit- - ; ed ladv. was. nevertheless, the first who said i that he, liked her frankness, but that she deserv ;ed some good lesson for the future. As soon jas he arrived at the Tuileries, he sent Gen. j ! Lasnes with o e of +iis carriages in seat ch ! I of the widow, with a polite invitation to come! ! immediately with him to see. the gentlemen j I who had bought the vases, as they wished to< Vol. IV—Wo. 96- ■ 1 speak with her upon other purchases, and t • . ' pav her what they owed. The unruspecti I lady seeing a gentleman clad in citizens cloth •’ j and an elegant, but plain coach, was soon rei.A jdy to go, and off they went at full speed. ! O.i the rqad she inquired very anxiously after, 1 the names As tfi .ge gentlemen —if he (Lasnes) ■ wi>s th:-ir friend, and many Giber questio : ■ which Lasnes was expressly prohibited from I answering. But what was her perplexi; ! when she alighted at the great staircase of th • Tuileries, and saw that she had to deal wi'li, : one of the generals attached to the co.isu j Bhe exclaimed at various intervals. ‘Oh, m m j dleu, what vyill become of me if these gentle j men should denounce me to the consul.’ Lasims who although a very rough soldier, was nev ertheless humane, and of a good heart, assure, her, as well as he could, that not the least har; \ was intended against tier. But what was hm terror when the fi’-st consul’s cabinet opened, andstre revugntzeti in i>lm —u.— she had spoken so freely. She was ready I>. faint, and fell upon her knees and wept bi - ter’y,humbly ashmg pardon. Bonapaftehim self was moved, helped her up, led her to a chair, and requested her to be quiet and com posed. These Kind words restored her spirit:,, and she was able to listen to the following friendly words: ‘Madame, you have been i. little imprudent in speaking so freely of me t <, strangers; h ily for yotl these vrords hay n< -t been heard by Fouche or one of his agents you would not have come off so easily. L this be a warning toyou for the future. Her is your money, and give this (20,000 franc ). to your children, and say to them, that if tn ; mother is not my fr:e id, I wish at least t.i : children might be !’ It was by such mean ■ that he made himself popular. Compare him, now with L >uis, i’hillippe and his popularity. Napoleon was accustomed, (says a recent, writer, in the London Mirror,') to wear a co.it of mail under his loth 'S, and which he very rarely went without. O.i his departure so ' B iliiium, he thought it best to guard again those dangers with which he was threatened., having all Europe leagued against him, by ev ery means in his power. He, accordingly,, s-ut for a clever workman,, and asked him i he th >ught himself competent to make a co,.t of m ill, of such a texture that no weapons whatever could penetrate. On the artificer i answering in the affirmative, Bonaparte agree : I to give him 18.000 fra ;cs, the sum askec. ' On tl|e dav fixed, the man brought his wor ; to the'palace. Napoleon quickly exami >cd i . and ordered the workman to put it u:i hnnseh. The man obeyed. Napoleon then took two pistols,savi :g, “We shall now see if this co:' of mail is of the texture you promised me.'* He fired the first at his breast: the cuirass re sisted. “Turn round.” The man obeyed; the second ball struck his back, and with tlm same result. The poor artificer half dead with fright, thought these trials would be sufli cient, hut he was mistaken in his calcula'icn, Bonaparte next arm ‘d himself with a long. ! fowling piece, and made th : Sime exp jiiinotr., j oa the shoulders, back, and breast, of the poor, I trembling patient, Happily the cuirass resk j ted, and saved the inventor from so cruel a tri ■ i al. “How much am Ito pay you,” said Na poleon, “after this noble exploit?” “Eighteen thousand francs,” stammered out thefrigh'en, ed artificer, almost deprived of his senses.— “No such thing, sir,” replied Napoleon, yl I shall givq you thirty-six thousand;” and gave I an order on his treasurer for tha' amount. I Napoleon, in his campaign against Prussia, ! having found at Potsdam the sword ot Fr-.'de [ rick lhe Grea', the b It which this njonarch j wore during th • seven years’ war,and the grand linsigias of his orders, exclaimed, on takkg j possession of th: ne trophi s, “I prefer them t • jail tin’ treasures >fth? King ofPrqsaia-®! ' will send th. mta my vetera-.s of the cam : paigus of Hanover; the governor ofthe Iriva . ! id ’S will guard them as a certificate of tac victories of the grand army, and of the revengo which was taken for the disasters at Rosbach.’’ Among the other co-tly relics beio iging to. one ofthe richest convents in Valladolid, there was a brick of massive g >ld, ot nearly one foot in length by an inch thick, which contain ed a thorn, said to be from the crown which Christ wore on the cross. It was presented to Napoleon by one of his generals, a id he re- i ceived it; but, taking out the thorn, “There,” ! s iid he, ‘ give that back to the monks—l keep : the brick.” T»ic Hindoos, There is no class of people among the | vet unenlightened, who attract such uni-. ’ versal attention.and who at the same time j are so imperfectly understood as the Hin | doos. We can only account fer this by 1 allowing tiie fact, that their national char acteristics and their religious forms arc, more numerous and peculiar than such a> distinguish other uncivilized tribes. It ap pears that their social and civil govern ment is entirely based upon, and almos. identified with, their religious tenets-ther bv affording themselves a most formidable excuse for the severity and injustice which their forms impose. , It. may not, perhaps, be amiss to enu merate here a few of those superstitions ’ and cr eds which belong to this order. It is tin!versa ly supposed among them, ! that L.v the cmmiandof their principal ■ deity. Brama, they were dhided into four j distinct tribes, or castes, viz: The Bramin, the Khatry or Soldier, the Rhyse or Hus (bandman, and the Zoodera ot La orer. Os these the Bramin is the most noble, ta ! king precedence even of Princes. When ! one of these disgraces himself he is expel! I ed from Ivs tribe or caste, and when thu.-, . disgraced, forms a fifth < lass called Pari ah.s or Chandalas. It is furthermore be-. j lieved bv this people, thM Brama, (wfio k ! allowed't »be supreme) after having crea ; ted (he world, gave existence to a female ! deitv, called Beaxioy. who is esteemed by the Hindoos the mother of the gods, be ' cause she is said to have produced three ’. eggs, when sprang Brimlia. Vishnon. and I Sheevah. represeu afives of the wisdom, j goodness, and power ofthe supreme. ' It is also firmly believed by the Hindoos, I that they were the first created, and con sequent iv the most ancient people in the , world—and likewise that they were the ! first inventors of the game of Chess.—-S'. L. Journal, “How the <ieuce happened you to lose your j leg?” said an imrudent, inquisitive dog, thcoth -1 er dav, to a person who was stumpi ig along i the street, with but one peg. “Why,” s.iys he, j “it is ven vulgar now to walk on two legs—, • every body does it; so I took mine off!”