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BY JAJIES W. JONES. The Southern Whig, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. TERMS. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fit 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 m 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, arc requested to bear in mind, 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 out. £5“ 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 g.oes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters jo administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months. PROSPECTUS OF THE THIS paper formerly edited by Wm. E. 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 certain 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 tnaintainance ofthe rights and sovereignty of the States, the retrenchment of executive patronage, reform, and a strict accountability of ail public officers; moderate, yet firm and decided in his censures, “nothing extenuate or .setdown ought in malice,” —to expose prompt ly abuses and corruption when and whereevr discovered —such an one the undersigned pro poses to make the Whi"; while it will contain the most iufoppati<m < • o:: 11 < 11 he h e re’SectfuHT^aS The friends or] ■constitutional liberty to make an effort, to ob- i tain subscribers. ! The Southern Whig is published weekly in Athens Georgia, at Three Dollars per annum payable in advance, Three Dollars and fifty cents if not paid within six months, or Four if not paid until the end of the year. J. W. JONES. | Athens, Aug. 8,1836. THE INIMAN’S PANACEA, I'XOIt the euro of Rheumatism, Scrofula or King's Evil, Gout, Sciatica or /Zip Gout, Incipient Cancers, Salt Rheum, Siphditic and mercurial diseases, particularly Ulcers and painful affections ot the bones, Ulcerated Throat and Nostrils, Ulcers of every description, Fever Sores, 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; Pam in the Stomach and Dyspepsia proceeding from vitia tion; Affections ot the Liver; Chronic Inflama tion of the 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 blood, or vitiation of the humors, of whatever name or kind. Some of the above complaints may require some trifling assistant applications, which the circumstances of the case will dictate; but tor a general remedy or purijicator, to remove the cause, Tub Indian’s Panacea will generally be found sufficient. For sale by REESE & LORD. May 14 2 if. NOTICE. AS the Government of the United States, has entrusted to my care, the superintending of that branch of business, connected with the valuation of Cherokee Improvements; and be ing anxious to do ample justice to the parties concerned .-—and having been informed that at tempts will be made by some individuals, to practice fraud upon the appraising agents, by having the labor of white men presented for val uation, as Indian improvements, I would res- Sectfully ask the favor of such persons as may ave information of frauds, of whatever char acter, intended to be practised upon the Agents of the Government, to give the earliest notice thereof, in writing, over their proper signatures, either to the Appraising Agents for that section of country in which said frauds may be design ed, or to the undersigned at the Cherckee Agen cv Post Office, Calhoun, East Tennessee. y BEN. F. CURRY. Superintendant Cherokee Removals P. S. All Proprietors of Presses within the Cherokee country, as well as tliose near the border thereof, are requested to give the above notice three insertions, and forward their ac .eounts for settlement. Nov. 19,—29—3t W A.XTEi*. A Respectable Gentleman who can come well recommended as a Teacher of good moral character, to take charge of Philomathia Acade my in Ruckersville. The School to commence by the 10th of January, 1837. By order of the Board, J. A. CLARK, Scc’y. Oct. 8,—23 —tlJan. FOUR months after date application will be made to the Honorable the Inferior Court of Clark county, when sitting for ordinary pur poses, for leave to sell all the Lands belonging to the Estate of the Orphans of Henry llouze dec’d., for the benefit of the Orphans of said deceased. DARIAS T. HOUZE, Guar, pept. 10, 19 4m nw 3 E iWill ' ‘S I'SJly 11 ; !S t l S Fua IMs From the Knickerbocker. SATURDAY E VEN I SO IN THE COUNTRY. Soft twilight, with a gentle power, Falls lightly o’er the earth— Droops with her dews each blushing flower That sends its fragrance forth; Slow moving down the sloping hills In winding lines, is caught From flocks and herds the bell thqt fills The pensive man with thought. Amid this solemn silence, hark As yonder waters go, And leap the cliff’mid shadows dark, Down to their pool of snow— Hark to the anthem, as it swells Along the silent air! The music which in rapture tells Os Him who guards them there. Far through the dim, uncertain light The giant mountains stand, Their summits melting in the night Which links the sky and land; These are the thrones which Nature built, And baptized in the flood; The thrsnes unsootted—free from guilt— And all aloof from blood. Amid the mist that floats on high, In circles gliding round, The speckled night-hawk holds the sky, And wheels at his own sound; While, with a sweet and solemn tone, The modest whippoorwill Sings to the listening earth alone, From yonder wooded hill. Cool is this twilight, the pure air That wanders lightly by, Is all perfume— it seems to bear The sweets of earth and sky; The wild rose and the clover bloom Their fragrance here have wed, With zephyrs from the pine-grove's gloom Upon yon mountain spread. Sureiy, this hour was never made For hearts of hollow mirth— There’s something in the evening shade That is not of the earth; A voice of eloquence—a hymn Os sweet and soft control, Which, like the harps of seraphim, Lifts up the glowing soul! OLD FASHIONED ELOPEMENT. In the month of June, 1832, the ship Fame, Capt. Jones, arrived in this port from London, and moored at one of the docks North river. Her commander, I will pass over light- !<^M|^lishman, rough, untutored, a thorough-bred ; HBLv fitting ti’.r.ii to NjjMr,iin<l<‘r him. sF3 ct 11«; 11, the he ro of the present sketch, was the only and cherished son of a wealthy planter from one of our slave-holding States, then de ceased. He had been educated in the most liberal and expensive manner by his fond father, who spared neither pains nor expense to perfect him in any thing he wished to acquire. At an early age and while at College, Charles acquired (unfor tunately his father thought) a passion for the sea. which grew with his growth, and strengthened with his strength, until it be came absolutely too strong for control.— i He was of noble, high-spirited nature, very ! handsome for a man, brave and generous i to a fault, and withal, his whole existence | was but made up of a romance. He was i never happy, never contented, except he j was engaged in some enterprize in which he could call forth and exercise to the full extent, all his powers and energies. He disappeared suddenly from College, and after wandering around the world for three or four years, while his father and friends mourned his death, returned to his native land, in time to receive his father’s ! forgiveness, and to take possession of his j estate and fortune to the great disappoint ment of about 50 cousins. His passion for I the sea, however, did not leave him, and ' having received an offer of the berth of the chief-mate of the Fame, he left all his af fairs in the hands of a trusty agent, and went to sea, and as such wo now find him in this port. ! The vessel had been in four or five days, and the cargo was nearly discharged. It was a warm sultry day, and the men who had been at work all the morning were at their dinner in the forecastle. Capt. Jones was walking backwards and forwards on the quarter-deck, smoking, and Charles was seated aft without his coat, apparent ly in deep thought, his eyes fixed on the deck. “Isthe Captain on board 1” inquired a soft, melodious voice, which caused Capt. Jones to stop suddenly and turn round to gaze upon the querist. Charles arose and for a moment was utterly paralyzed. The person who had asked the question yet unanswered, was a girl apparently about 18, handsomely clad, but of a beauty and loveliness that baffles my powers of description. Iler hat, which was small, but half concealed the finest head jet black hair in the world, in wavy ... of surpassagK>f , ’ -■ forehe^jk’• p,/ as '■ pit** •’ fill'' i y(» ’ T >g, that one | I dfomm, without fi, f » • * . . r ana almost rc- vedl 3* A- board 1” repeated the Captain and his of- their eyes upon her ma’am,” bluntly and half rudely replied'Captain Jones, puffing his segar, and walking close to her with a lewd, loose a i r They call me Captain for want of a bC “Will you marry me, sir ?” inquired the lady. WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NL’LLIFICA'I ION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGH 1 FUL REMEDY. Jejfei SOIL. ! “Well, I’m d dis that aint a good ' one—marry you ! why, my dear, I have a wife in Liverpool now, and I don’t know how many children, so I cant’t marry you for good ; but I’ve no kind of objections to marry you while I stay here.” The proud lip of the fair girl curled with prouder scorn, and her bright eye flashed . with redoubled brilliancy, as she gazed for one single instant upon the rude boor. She curbed her feelings, however, and turned from him with an expression on her bright, beautiful face, that made him puff his se gar with redoubled fervour, and to hide his shame he retired to the cabin. She turned to Charles—he was stand ing near her, his bright, intelligent eyes in tently fixed upon her. One look sufficed for her. She saw he was no second Capt. i Jones. j “Will you marry me, sir 1” she asked with ■ a firm, steady voice, but downeast eyes. The sound of her voice aroused him 1 from the statue like posture he had fallen ' into on first seeing her. He paused, he gazed upon the lovely being who stood be fore him preferring this singular request, but his lips refused to utter one word. “Must 1 go further, or will you marry me ? Oh God ! Is there no hope ? and the lady buried her face in her hands and sob bed. Charles felt ho was himself at once.— j He felt his spirit of gallantry and romance ; rising strong within him. A thousand ill I defined thoughts rushed through his head, but he felt he was a man and a lovely young I woman was before him—perhaps she was in distress—perhaps—before he had time [ to form another opinion,.the lady had turn ed to leave the vessel. “ Stop, lady—your request is singular— very—let me ask one question. Are you in distress ?” “ Distress ! Oh God !do not deem me crazed. Indeed—indeed, lam not— think nothing now, but answer—will you j marry me?” j “ Whoever you are, or whatever you ’ may be, J know not; can I not serve you j in any other manner ? Perhaps you may I repent a resolution formed “ Talk not to me of repenting, sir, and | do not waste my time—now it is precious I —you can only serve me by marrying me —will you do so ?” “By Heaven, I will! exclaimed Charles enthusiastically ; “ There is that about you that tells me I, at least, shall never rue it; I am ready, wait but a minute.” Charles went into the cabin, and put on j his jacket, which he had taken off while j working, and in a moment he was at her side: “Come, then lady, whoever and whatever you may be, I will abide the re sult.” He took her on shore, and placed her in a coach which was standing near, and drove j off to a friend’s house. He was shown in- j to a room; the door was locked and the lady threw herself on a chmr. She did not weep, nor sob, nor did she appear to be in the least affected by the novelty of her situation. “ Sir,” said she, rising, “whoever you are, 1 can trust you : you are no common sai lor, nor am 1 what 1 seem. 1 have now no time to waste in words ; I will explain all in a few hours. Trust me, believe me, serve me, and you shall never repent it. What is to be done must be done at once. I have but a few hours to spare, and if 1 am discovered before they expire, 1 shall ! be wretched indeed. Here, sir, is money : 1 go and purchase ail you wish, be quick, and do not delay now”— cd him a roll of bills. “Thank you, am not indeed whatfc til I return; you are sa> LvflW. mitt will return in a few moments; do not De alarmed.” Charles went out and left her alone— b.e went to a fashionable tailors in Broad way, and in ten minutes was changed from a rough, dirty-looking sailor, to a fine, man ly, handsome fellow, and his dress set off to admiration his fine figure. He return ed instantly to the lady, and when he en tered the room where he had left her, he found her walking backwards and forwards but not in the least agitated. She had evi dently steeled herself to the worst, and w as prepared for any thing. “ My name, sir. is Ellen Moran—let that j suffice for the present. Are you ready ?” [ said she firmly, and without betraying any emotion. " 1 am, lady.” They went again into the carriage, and drove to the Mayor’s, and in a few mo ments were man and wife. When they left the Mayor’s house, Mrs. Barton gave orders to the coachman herself, but in a voice whose tones were not heard by her husband. •• Will you return with me ?” inquired Mr. Barton, as his wife entered the coach, •‘No, sir, we are going to your house, where your presence will be required.” Mr. Barton looked very steadily at his wife for a moment, as she uttered these words, and for the first time began to think he had entered upon a very silly scrape. The idea even entered his head that she might be a little out of trim aloft, and it did not make him very comfortable. feUf he door was closed and the coach was a word was spoken on either the whole drive, which was a t least so it seemed to him. ■ • ■ vas intently thinking upon his was half inclined to regret UShness, but one glance at his sweet, new-married wife, settled that point. The carriage stopped at the door of a house of elegant exterior, in one oi the most fashionable streets in the city. He alighted first, and handed out his wile in silence. They ascended the steps and she rang the bell. The door was opened by a servant in a handsome livery. “ Is my uncle at home yet ?” “No,miss, he is not,” replied the man, respectfully bowing. Mr, Barton cast a furtive glance around him. Every thing wqs arranged in the most reciterc/ie style, and with the most lavish expense. She led him into a parlor (Sumptuously furnished. ATJIEA’S, GBOE&IA, SATUREDAT, DEEEJIE3ER. 3, 2 830. [ “All that you behold,” said Mrs. Bar l ton, as the door was closed, “ are mine, ■ sir. They are now your own. Believe me, sir, I speak the truth. Remember that you are the master of this house, and all in it, and whatever may occur, do not I forget your own right.” I “ You surely cannot mean deceit,” said 1 Mr. Barton, utterly at a loss to account for j the singular conduct of his wife, “Trust me, sir—try me—believe me. I will tell you now all I can—all I have the time to tell. Four years ago, my father, one of the wealthiest merchants in this city, died, leaving to me all his property. My uncle, who will soon be here, was made mv guardian until I should marry, and he had charge of the estate left by my father until that should occur. As he had no j thing of his own to support himself, he has I kept me secluded from the world, and in I confinement, almost closely, since my poor i father's death, well knowing that on my ' marriage the propertv would pass from his hands. His conduct at times has been harsh and cruel, and particularly of late. To-day I found means to escape from the house unseen. The rest you know’.” She then arose and rang the bell; a ser vant came to the door. “John,” said she, “ send everv servant in the house up here.” Mr. Barton sat perfectly stili and said . nothing, but he was mentally resolving I how to act, and was more than half inclin led to think his wife a lunatic. The ser | vants came up and stood in the parlor, ! awaiting for orders. “ Mr. Barton,” said his wife,“these are • yourservants. Every thingyou see around I you was mine, all is now yours. You hear me,” addressing the servants. “ This gen tleman is my husband and your master; obey him as such. Retire. Now sir, all I have to request is, that you will assume and maintain your rights.” Further she could not say, for the par j lor door was suddenly and violently thrown open, and an elderly, hard-featured, coarse i looking man entered and stood for a mo j ment gazing alternately at the lady and j Mr. Barton. | “ What is your business here, sir?” de- | manded he austerely of Mr. Barton, who j as he entered had seated himself, and re- I turned look for look. Mr. Barton made no reply. “Miss Moran,” said he, turning to Mrs. Barton, “ can you explain why this man is here ?” “ She need not take that trouble, sir,” re i plied Barton, arising. “ That lady is my | wife, and I am master of this house, and allow me now to ask, sir, what is your busi ness here ?” “Your wife—your house—upon my word —ha !ha! ha !’’ and Mr. Moran seated himself and laughed most heartily and scornfully. i “Come, sir,” said Mr. Barton, “your presence is disagreeable. If you have any business to transact, finish it quickly. We wish to be alone.” “Why, you impertinent scotind ” The word was not fully uttered; Mr. Barton caught him by the collar and shook him till he was black in the face. “ Scoun drel you would have said, you lying, cheat ing old villain. If you were not so old, and so contemptible, 1 would not leave a whole bone in your lubberly carcase, i tell you again that lady is mv wife—this iis my bouse. 1 know you and your tricks, ! and if you arc here in one hour from this 1 time, and I sec you, 1 will have you sent to I the police office, where you mav be forced some disagreeable confessions. pack up." and Mr. Bar- Id of the terrified old "AfV' i. doran, for he it was. seated him ; | seif to gain breath. “Do you mean to sav | that you are married to that man, Ellen ?” ■ asked he contemptuously. She did not deign him a reply, but sat in silence, awaiting the issue, and he turn- ■ ed to Mr. Barton for further explanation. ’ “ Don’t look to me, sir. That lady, God • bless her, is my wife. She has told me • ail your infernal villainous conduct, and ■ i the sooner you quit this house the better it > may be for you.” “And who the devil are you, sir, that dare to speak to me thus in my own house? Who are you, sir ?” demanded Mr. Mo ran, arising and coming close up to Charles. “ Mr. Charles Barton, str. at vour ser vice. The son of a better man than your self, and one who will love, honor and pro tect this lady, my wife. So be warned in time, I have said my say, and now be off at once.” Mr. Moran arose and moved towards the bell rope, no one attempted to stop i him—he rang it. and the servants, who expected a scene, came in. “Turn this fellow out of doors at once.’ said he, half choked with rage, pointing to Mr. Barton, who stood unmoved. Not one stirred to execute the mandate. •John,’ said Mr. Barton to one of them, ‘go into Mr. Moran’s room, pack up every thing there, and have it sent according to his directions. Be quick too.’ •Yes, sir,’ said John, pnd he made his exit. •You see. sir,’ said he, turning to the astonished uncle, who had seated himself in a stupop, “/ am master here, do you wish further proof that my words are true? if {you do, 1 will have yourself turned out of the house in one moment. Shall 1 show you, sir ? Will you then be convinced ? Mr. Moran cast a look of mingled ha tred and revenge upon Ellen, who stood a silent but firm spectator ofthe whole scene. “And you, you hussy— you •Dare to call that lady such names, and I fear I shall f rget you are an old man,’ said Mr. Barton, again seizing Mr. Moran. ‘ Do not tempt me too far, you infernal old scoundrel. lam not blessed with much patience; you are trying what little I have verv severely.’ •Unhand inc, sir, and tell me by xyhat I right you dare io use me thus,’ said Mr. j 'doran, scarcely able to utter one word I plainly, so enraged was he. J • Easy done--I. have told you once—l will tell you once more—l have married this lady—she was mistress and owner of this house, and lam now master Does that explain? You had better be off quick —I may callfor accounts you know, which may be difficult to settle. The less said on that subject the better, I expect Mr. Moran said no more, but darting a look of the most fiendish malignity on his niece, he retired. Ellen had hitherto said not one word. She had in silence watched the conduct of her husband, and she was proud indeed to think and fee! as sne now did, that he con fided in and believed her, and would main tain her just rights. As Mr. Moran retired, ! she arose and placing her hand in her hus i band’s, and looking in his face with an im j ploring, confiding look, said, ‘ May I prove ! worthy of your love, and may you never I repent your marriage, hasty as it was.’ I Mr. Barton pressed his lovely wife to : h's bosom, and before he could utter a ■ word in reply, the report of a pistol was I heard. Ellen turned pale as marble— i Charles seated her on the sofa, and say ; ing, ‘ That d—d rascal has been doing rnis ! chief,’ rushed out of the room, but Ellen I arose and followed. They went to the j room of Mr. Moran whence the sound is ! sued, and on entering (for the door was not locked) he was found lying on the floor i dead, one side of his head blown entirely . off. and the room strewed with his brains ! and blood. In one hand was the fatal pis te!, in the other apiece of paper. Charles I took it and read: ‘I die cursing you, and ; may my curses blight you.’ Charles took his wife from the scene and I sent at once for the Coroner. He came, an inquest was held over the body of the miserable suicide, which was removed to its final resting place. Charles soon made his wife acquainted with himself aad his affairs, and she was not at all displeased to find, that chance had thrown in her way a husband fully her equal in every respect. His fortune was quite as large as her own, and his family connections of the first standing. As there was no particular attraction for Ellen here, her husband easily induced her to go south I with him. They are now residing in the interior of North Carolina, among some 1 distant relations of Mr. Barton’s, and it is } said by all who have ever seen them, that ' they are the handsomest and happiest couple ever seen in that State. The Bridle’s Farewell. BY MRS. HEMANS. Why do I weep! to leave the vine Whose clusters o’er me bend— The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mine! The flowers I loved t > tend. \ A thousand thoughts of all things dear,. Like shadows o’er me sweep, I leave my sunny childhood here, Oh, therefore let me weep! I I leave thee, sister! we have played ' Through many a joyous hour, i . here the silvery gleam ofthe olive shade Hung dim o’er fount and bower. Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore, In song, in prayer, in sleep, Have been as we may be no more— Kind sister, let me wesp! I I leave thee, Father! Eve’s bright mxon Must now light other feet, W ith the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune Thy homeward steps to greet. • 1t ou in whose voice, to bless thy child, i Lay tones ot love so deep, Whose eye o’er all mv youth hath smiled I leave thee! let me weep! Mother! I leave thee—on thy breast ! Pouring out joy and wo; I have found that holy place of rest ; Still changeless—yet I go! Lips, that have lulled me with your strain, Eyes, that have watch’d my sleep! W ill earth give love like yours aggin! I Sweet mother! let me weep! From the Edinburg Literary Gazette. Tile Soldier’s Return, i The following beautiful instance of filial at. | feciion,deserves to be handed down to the | latest generations: —Some travellers from Glasgow were obliged to stop at the small ; burg of Lanark, and having nothing better to i ergilge our attention, said one of them, we ; amused ourselves by looking at the passengers from the window of our inn, which wasoppo ' site the prison. Whilst we were thus occu- • pied, a gentleman came upon horse-back, very ; plainly dressed, attended by a servant. Ha had I scarcely passed our window: when he alighted, ; left his horse, and advanced towards an old man ; who was engaged paving the streets. After havi.ig saluted him. he took hold ofthe > hammer, struck some blows upon ti.e pave j meat, at the same time addressing the old man, I who stood amazed at the adventure:—“This | work seems tube very painful for a person of i vour age; have you no sons who could share : in your labor, and cornfort your old age.” | “Forgive me sir, I have three lads who in ; spir dme with the brightest hopes, but the I our fellows are not now \v ithin reach to as sist their father.” ““Where arc they then?” ■‘The oldest has obtained the rank of captain in India in the service ofthe Honorable Com. pany, The second has likewise enlisted in the hope of rivaling his brother.” The old man paused, and a momentary tear bedimmed ! his eye. “Ai d pray, what has become of the | third?” “Alas! he became a security forme* , ihe poor by engaged to pay my debts being unable to fulfill the undertaking, he is—in pris on.” At this recital the gentleman stepped aside a few paces, and covered his face with his hands.—After havii g thus given vent to his feelings he returned to the old man and ■ resumed discourse. “And has tlje oldest— ! this degenerate son—this captain—never sent ! you any thing to extricate you from your mis I i r z s: “‘Alii call him not degenerate; mv ' son is virtuous; lie both loves and respects his I father.—He has oftener than once sent me ; money, even more than what was sufficient j iormy wants; but I had the misfortune to loose it by becoming security fur a very worthy man mv landlord, who was burdened with a verv ; large family. Unfortunately, finding himself unable to pay, he has caused mv ruin. Thev have taken my all, and uo.hing now remains for me.” At this moment, a young man, pass ing his head through the gratingso; a window in ike prison, began to cry, “Father' Father! if my brother William is all ve that is he; he is the gentiemau who speaks • willi you.”—-Yes, roy friend it is he,” replie d the gentlema i, throwing himself into die ok 1 man’s arms, who like one”beside himself, att empttng to speak, and sobbing, had not recc vered his senses, when an old woman, dece: tly dressed,.rushed from a poor looking hut, ci ;i >g “wh re is he then? where art thou, iny dear Willi.tm? Com tome, come and embrace y < tur motht?” The captain no sooner observed ' ler, than he quitted his father, and wenttothrov f himself up >u the neck of the good old dame . The scene was now < werpoweri ig; th<> travellers left their room, and iticreas >d the number of spectators, wi ti .esses of this most affecting sight. Hr. Wils' on, one of the travel-1 lers made way though tl ie crowd, and adva i. j cing to the gentleman, tl hjs addressed him; | “Captain, we ask the ho< io r of your acqu iin. taupe; it is impossible tb express the pleasure we have had in being w itc esses of this meet, ing with your family, we request the favor of you and yours to dinne r ia the I hi.” The Captain, alive to the inv\tr dion accepted it wi.h | politeness; but at tae s< me time replie J, that ;he would neither eat oir. l.i ,k until his young. I est brother had recovc re< I his liberty. At t!> • I same instant he deposi.teu' the sum. for which he had been iucarcer.i ted, a,id i i a very short time after his brother joined the partv. The affectionate William in the midst ofa multi tude who were loadi ig him with caresses, all of which he returnee’ i with the utmost cordiali ty- As soon as there W'as. an opportun.tv for free conversation,, the good soldier unbosom ed his heart to his parents and the travellers. “Gentlemen, said h i,’’today I feel, in its full extent, the kiadaes s. of Providence, to whom I owe every thing. My u .cle brought tne up to the business of ,i weaver, but I requited his attentions badly; f< >r, having contracted a hab it of idleness a. <l dissipation, I e listed i.i a corps belonging the* East India Company. I was then little: mciee than eighteen. My soldier like appea ranc-e had b :en observed by Lord Clifton, this commanding officer, with whose best effici ancn and exhaustible gener osity Europe ise.cqusi ited.— My zeal for the service inspired l.airn with regard; and. thanks to his cares, I rose step by step to the rank of Captain, a. d was entrusted with the fu ids of the regiment. B-y dint of economy, and the aid of commarc >, I amassed honorably a stock 0f£3,030. At that time I quitted thus .Tvice. It is true that I made three remittances to mv father; bat the first only, consisted of £203, reached him The second fell into th ■ h i .ds of a man who ’had the misfortune to become insolvent; and I trusted the third to a Scottish gentleman, who died upon the passage, but i hold his receipt, and his heirs will account to i me for it. j I After dinner, the Captain gave his father ! £2OO, to support his most pressi ig wants, and iat the same time secured to him, ns well as jto his mother, an annuity of eighty pou ids, ■ versible to his brothers. Besides, ha present ed £§oo as a marriage portion to his sister, >ho was married to a farmer in indifferent circumstances; and after having distributed £SO among the poor he e tertaiied at a a ele gant dinner with the principle inh ibita its o. the burgh. By this generous sensibility, too. he showed indeed that he was worthy of the j distinguished honors so profuselv heaped up i o.i him by the illustrious Lord Clifton. IJehuv or ot females in Company. Gue of the chief beauties in a female char ■ acter is modest reserve; that retiring delicacy j which avoids the public eye, and is even dis ; concerted at the gaze of ad niration. Who i a girl ceases to blush, she h is lost a most pow j ert’ul charm of beauty. This extreme se-.si I bdity which it indicates may be considered as I a weakness and incumbra .ce to the other sux. ’ but in females is peculiarly engaging. A b u *>h i ing is so fir from being necessarily attendant i on guilt, that it is the usual company of i mo- I cence. That modesty which is so essential to the sex, will naturally dispose them to b rather silent in company especially in a large one; people of sense and discernment will.iev er take such silence for dullness. A person tnay take a share in conversation without ut j teriug a syllable—the expression ofthe coun i tenauce i-hows it, and this never escapes an I observing eye. Converse with men with that i dignified modesty which may prevent the ap proach of the most distant familiarity, and coa- I sequently prevent them feeling themselves I your superiors. Wit is the most dangerous talent which a female can possess. It must be guarded wi h great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies. Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy, yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become in toxicated and lose ail self command. Humor is a different quality. It will ur-ke your com pany much solicited— but be cautious how you indulge it;—.it is often a great enemy to deli cacy. and a still greater one to dignity of ch ir act r. It may some times gain you applause, but it will never procure you respect. Beware of detraction, especially where your oivu sex are concerned: You are generally charged with being particularly addicted to this vice, perhaps unjustly; men are fullv as guilty of it when their interest interferes. But as your interests frequently clash, and as vour feelings are quicker, your temptntio s to it are more frequent. For this reason be particular ly c ireful of the repu a ion of your own sex. Consider every species of indelicacy i > c.< n versation as shameful in itself, and highly dis gusting to modest men, as well as to you. 'File dissoluteness of some men’s education nrtv al low them to be diverted with a kind of wit, which yet th y have delicacy enough to be shocked at when it comes f rom the mouth of a female. Christian purity is of that delic.its nature that it cannot even bear certain ihj gs without contamination. It is always in th ■ power ot woman to avoid thes : no man but a brute ora tool will insult a woman with con versation which he secs gives her pai i; nor will he dare do it if she resent the i j iry with becoming spirit. 1 here is a dignity i i con. seious virtue which is able to awe‘the most shameless and abandoned of men. Yon will be reproached, perhaps, with an affectat o i of delicacy; but, at any rate it is better to ru i the risk of o. mg thought ridiculous than disoiisti.ig. The men will complain of vour reserve- fhev will assure you that a frank beh .vior would make you more amiable; but thev are not si >- cere v hen they tell y QU BQ . h mi£ j lu o „ sotne occasions render you more agreeable as com panions; but it would make you less amiable us women,an important distinction, of which many ot the sex are not aware Have asacr d regard to truth. Lving is a mean and despicable vice. Some who posses sed excellent parts have been so much addicted ffi cyffid not be trusted in the rq, Vol. IV—Ao. 31. | latioii of any story, especially if it contained | any thing of the marvellous, or if they them selves were the heroines of the tale. 1 here is a certain gentleness es spirit and manners extremely engaging in young women; not that indiscriminate attention, that uumean. tug simpe - , which smiles on all alike. This arises from an affectation of softness, or from perfect insipidity. Gut you g female friends nut? perhaps think that by persuading them tq attend to the precedi g rules, we wish to throw every spark of ature out of their Composition, and to make 1 h ‘tn entirely artificial. Far from it; we wish hem to possess the most perfect simplicity ®f heart and Thev may posses® dig nity without pride; affability without mean ness; and simple elegance without affectation. A/ Iton had the same idea when he (aid of Eve— “ Grace wm in all her steps, heaven in her aye, la every gesture dignity and lave.** . I saw a temple reared by the hands of man, standi >g with its high pinnacle in tfie distant plain. The streams beat upon it; the God of b■idjHJhis..thunderbolts against it, and yet it stood firm as iiaiimanr. • Miuu;. i i its Ji .Ils—ih ■ gay, .be happy, th; young, and tho b.utii’ul were there. I returned —audio* the temple was no more! Its high walls lay i i scattered rui is; moss and wild grass grew ra kly there; a-d at the midnight hour, tht* owl’s erv aided to the deep solitude, Tha von g a id gay who reveled there, had passed away. i I saw a child rejoicing in his youth—th® i idol of his molh-r, and the pride of his father; I retur ied, and th it child had become old. Tretubiiiio with the weight of years, he stood tue last of his generation, a stranger amidst tho desolation around him. I saw the old oak, standing in all its pride upoi the mou itatn —the birds were carroling on the boughs; I returned, and the oak was leafless and sipless; the winds were playing atiheir pastime through its branches. • ♦ * -‘Who is this; destroyer?” said I to my guardian angel. •’ll is time,” said he, “TFTien the morning stars sa ig together with joy over the new-mada world, he comm meed his course; and w-heu ha shall have destroyed all that is beautiful oftha earih—plucked the sun from his sphere —veil- ed the moon in blood —yea, when he shall have rolled the heavens and earth away as a scroll, then shall an angel from the throne of God come forth,and, with one font on the sea, and one on the land, lift up his hand towarfl heaven, and swear, by Heaven’s Eternal —> Time is. Time was, but Time shall be no lony gerl"— [Pu.uldi.ig. From the U. S. Gazette. “The Summer’s Gone.” The summer’s gone—and every flower, That waved its beauties to the sun. Has bloomed its brief but lovely hour. Has slg'd its fragrance—and is gone. The summer’s gone—and many a hop* That budded with the early spring, Has seen its blossoms brightly opo To wither like a blighted thing. The summer’s gone—rand many an yye ’•'fiat brightly shone, in dust is shrouded; And hearts that loved us, withered lie, j Or worse than this, by coldness cloudsd, i Th? summer’s gone—-but soon again, I Shall blush and breathe upon the air, Th’ enamored flower, and paint the glen. But those I loved will not be thero- QRIQfN OF GENIUS. Columbus was the son of a weaver, and weaver himself. R <b -lais sou of an apothecary. Cl iude Lorraine was bred a pastry cook, M diere, son of a tapestry maker. (’erva ites served as a commun soldier. H irn r was a beggar, H “ssiod vas the sou of a small farmer. Demosthenes, of a cutler, 'l'ere ice was a slaye, Richardson was a printer. () i ver Cromwell the son of a brewer, Howard a«i apprentice to a grocer. B-mjamin .Franklin, a journeyman printer, Doctor Thomas, Bishop of Mforceater, son of a li.ie.i.draper. Daniel Defoe was a hosier, and the aqn of a butcher. Whitfield, sonofan innkeeper at Gloucester. Sir Cloudesly Shovel, rear-admiral of Eng, la id, was an apprentice to a shoepaker, and aft rwards a cabin-boy. Bish ip Prideaux worked in the kitchen ft! Exeti r College, Oxford, Cardi al Wolsey, son of a butcher. F rguson was a shepherd, N -ihuhr was a peasant. Thomas P.iitifi, son of a staymaker at Thet ford. D an Tucker, was the son of a small farmer i i Cardignshire. and performed his jQuypeys to Oxford on foot. E Imii id Halley was the son of ft soap-boiL er at Shoreditch. Joseph Hall, bishop of Norwich, son of a. farmer at Ashby de la Zouch, William Hogarth \yas put apprentice to an “I’graver of pewfer pots. Doctor Mou itaia, Bishop of Durham, wa| rhe son of a b ggar. Lucian was the son of a statuary. Virgil of a potter. Horace of a shopkeeper. Plautus, a baker. Sh ikespeare, the son of a woolstapler, Milton of a money scrivener, Cowley, son of a hatter. Mallett rose from poverty. Pope, the sou oi a merchant, Gay was apprentice to a silk mercer. Doctor Samuel Johnson was son of a book, seller at Litchfield. Ak -'side, son of a butcher at Newcastle, Colli s son of a hatter. S irniiel Butler, son of a Ben Johusmi worked far same time as a brick'ayer. Rob rt Buris was a ploughman tn Ayrshire, Thomas Chatterton, son of the Septan of I| ed< lits ■ ( hurch, Bristol. Thomns Gray was the son of a maney scriv ener. M itthew Prior, son of a joiner in London. He uy Kirk White, son of a butcher at Not ti igham. Bloomfield and Gifford were shoemakers. Addison, Goldsmith, Otway, and Canning, were sons of clergymen. Person san of a parish clerk. Saturday Courier. “Betty, your mistress is sick— get her a bo| brick.” •‘Yes, Ma’am! must I b;lc