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BY JAMES W. JONES.
The Southern Whig,
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. PROSPECTTS
OF
A NEW LITERARY JOURNAL, I
ENTITLED
THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON.
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WM. R SMITH, Editor and Proprietor
VALUABLE LANDS FOR SALE?
rpHE Subscriber offers for sale Thirty-one
thousand \cres of Land, situated in the
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ter and Randolph.
These Lands lie in bodies of5001"3000 Acres
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Mr. Wm. Dennard is authorized to sell and
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~ .. J - COWLES.
Macon, March 4,—44—tf
LAW BLAm
For Sale at this Office.
Southern Whig
JWsceltaiuotw.
From Waldie’s Literary Omnibus,
k THE RETRCSPECT OF AGE.
r 1 know not, and I care not how
Tlje hours may pass me by,
Though each may leave upon my brow
A furrow as they fly.
■ What matters it ? each still shall take
One link from off the chain
Which binds me to this grievous stake
!. * Os sorrow and of pain.
’ Time like a rower plies his oar,
And all his strokes are hours,
1 Impelling to a better shore
j Os sunshine and of flowers.
I’ve tasted all that life can give
Os pleasure and of pain;
1 And is it living, thus to live
When joys no more remain ?
All nature has had charms for me,
, The sunshine and the shade,
i The soaring lark, the roving bee,
The mountain, and the glade.
r I've played with being as a toy,
Till things .have lost their form,
Till danger has become a joy,
, And joy become a storm,
I've loved as man has seldom loved,
t So deeply, purely, well;
. I’ve proved what man has seldom proved,
Since first from bliss he fell.
i Mine eye again can never see
What once mine eye has seen ;
This world to me can never be
, What once this world has been.
Speed, then, oh! speed, my bark, speed on,
Quick o'er life's troubled waves,
The one that comes—the one that’s gone,
What is beneath them? Graves.”
From the Metropolitan Magazine.
The Gambler’s Fate.
A TRUE TALE OF AN ITALIAN NOBLEMAN.
A? the duchess was sitting alone one even
ing in her dressing-room, the duke, her hus
band, being then at the Ho’ se of Lords, her
brother Paleotti suddenly opened the door, and
I stood before her, with looks so wild and disor
dered as to startie her not a little. His hair
was unpowdered and dishevelled, hislitien soil
ed, and his whole appearance slovenly, and
different from what she had ever before seen it.
“ Magdaline I must have cash—instantly, or I'm
e..tiiely ruined.
“Good heavens, Ferdinand !'* said the duch
ess, much alarmed ; “ what can be done ? The
duke, you know, is not at home, and I cannot
—indeed I cannot —command more than fifty
pounds at this moment; but if that will do,
you shall have it.”
As she spoke, Magdaline rose to go to her
scrutoiro ; but Paleotti, laying his hand upon
her arm, said hurriedly, “No, uo, it will not
do ; I must have at least fiv» hundred pounds.”
“ Aon cannot have what it is not in my pow
er to give you,” said she, mildly but firmly.
“Then take the consequences!” said the
marquis, drawing a stiletto from his breast.
Magdaline screamed; “Oh, Ferdinand!
dear Ferdinand ! what do you mean ?”
“To have the money 1 require, or destroy
myself before the unnatural sister who will not
help me- in my ueea. Once again, hear me,
! Magduii.ie, my necessity for that sum is mon
than pressing. I must have it or die; for I
will not survivejmy dishonor. You have jew
els :—give me them :—I can raise money upon
them to answer my present purpose.”
Magdaline was silent. Paleotti sini’ed bit
> terly. “ You pause betwixt your love for these
| baubles and my life. Come, no trifling ! Yes.
’or no!’ and he extended his band that grasped
i the stiletto.
| “ Indeed, indeed, you should have the jew.
| els,” cried the agitated duchess; “ with the
I duke’s sanction, I would most freely give them;
but in his absence, to —to”
j • Will you give me them or not?” cried the
marquis impatiently, and elevating his voice ;
j “ this delay maddens me;” and his dark eye
' flashed like tho red lightning on the stormy
I deep.
The duchess spoke not; but going into an
adjoining closet, returned immediately with a
, little ivory casket in her hands. Paleotti put
forth his hand to take it.
“Stop,” said Magdaline, “I must open it
first.” Then applying a small key that hung
at her watch chain, she lifted up the lid and
displayed to the eager eyes of her brother the
splendid set of diamonds with which the duke
had presented her on her marriage. A su
perb tiara of brilliants, necklace, earrings,
stomacher, and breast-k- ots of the same pre
cious gems, Magdaline took out, one by one,
and gave into Puleotti’s hand. At the bottom
of the casket lay the miniature likeness of the
duke, set round with a triple row of brilliants.
Magdaline wept for some moments after her
brother’s departure. Her heart was full of
trouble. She feared she had done wrong in
giving the jewels to Paleotti. The duke would
blame her for her weakness: yet what could
she do when her brother’s life w-s at slake?
“Ah!” said she, “I was like poor Eve: my
best guide was not with me to help me, to help
my weaker judgment: and so, overcome by
my fears and affections, I gave away the gifts
ot my dear husband’s love mto hands—ho.v
unworthy!”
Thus lamenting and blaming herself did
Magdaline pass the time till the duke’s return,
to whom she was resolved to tell the whole of
the unfortunate business : her noble and ingen
uous nature disdaining all subterfuge and con
cealment from a husband, duty and
affection alike prompted occasions,
to disclose both her motives of
them. Ihe duke was the disclo-
sure of .Puleotti’s to obtain
the jewels, and despised the unmanly threats by
which he had worked upon the feelings of a sis
ter. Howi v< rcut of ccntidcratiuu ol IntfMag
daline, he forbore to notice the marquis’s con
duct in the way it merited, contenting himself
with giving her money to redeem the jewels;
which she promised to do, solemnly assuring
the duke that her brother should never have
them from her again. “Were your brother
merely extravagant in the pursuit of his pleas
ures,” said the duke, “ I should less object to
affording lum such repeated supplies, hoping
that time would open his eyes to the folly ol his
conduct; but Paleotti is not only a man of
pleasure but a gamester—a character, which,
of all others, I deprecate, as being obnoxious j
alike to all principles of justice and feelings of |
humanity. You might as well expect to move i
the impenetrable reck as to soften the hard I
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT 13 THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY. ”—Jej/er«O».
heart ofth" gamester, —a man who lives by tho
immolation of his fellow mtn, and who upon
the altar of a most cold blooded selfihnees,
would sacrifice all the world without a pang.”
Magdaline felt the truth of the duke’s re
marks: but still the thought of her brother’s
situation was a great affliction to her tender
nature ; for with all his faults, she loved him
with a sister’s love. Her thoughts, however,
were soon called off from her brother to a dear
and more deserving object, one who indeed
merited all her fears. Au incurable disease
attacked her soul’s idol, her beloved husband
and excited in her mind an intense agony of
fear. She tended him with all the unceasing
care and assiduity that a fervent and devoted
love alone can prompt, but, alas! in vain :
The Duke of Shrewsbury was gathered to Ins
fathers and the dark dark curtain of eternal se
paration in this world dropped between two
that had never willingly separated even for a
brief day, of their wedded lives.
After the death of the duke, Magdaline felt
that she must shut her heart against tha fre
quent applications of her brother for money to
defray his gambling debts. She therefore de
termined to leave Loudon, and parting with
her town mansion, to seek among nature’s qui
et shade for that peace rhe world cannot give.
******
One morning as the duchess was returning
from the city, where she had been shopping,
and just as htr carriage entered Leicester!
Square, a vast mob of persons, of all descrip
tions, came rushing along, and blocking up j
every avenue, so that the coachman was oblig
ed to rein in his horses and draw up to a shop
door, till the dense mulytude had swept past.
Followed by the shouts and hisses of the mob.
a mau was now seen led, or rather dragged
between two constables. His hat was off,
and from the glimpse Magdaline had of his
figure, she could perceive it was no vulgar per
son. Presently they came near to the carriage,
—so near that tjie-criminal’s face was fully
seen by the duchess. It was Paleoitti! Ut
iering a piercing scream, Magdaline fell back
fainting at the side of Agues, who called loudly
for help. The footman coming to the window,
and seeing the state of his mistress, ran into
the shop at which the carriage stood.
“ Poor lady !” said the young shopwoman,
who brought out a glass ; “ si.e was frightened,
I suppose, at the mob.”
“Yes,” answered the footman; “do you
know what the man has done that they are
dragging to prison?”
“No” said tho girl, “they could not tell
me.”
“ ’Tis one Lord Pallihoty, or some such out.
kindish name,” said a countryman standing by.
“He’s one from (he popish country. He out
with his sword mid stabbed his poor devil of a
servant in cold-blooded malice; because he
had brought him no money from somebody he
had sent him to. The poor fellow said so,just
as he was a dying, to a constable.”
“ Oh ! he’ll get off presently, if a duchess is
his sister,” said a bystander.
“I don’t know that,” said the countryman
'hrustiug his brawny hand into his breeches
pockets; “there’s been lords hanged afore
now, is good as this fellow. I’d walk some
distance to see the halter put round his neck—
that I would; a cowardly rascal to attack a
man without giving him a fair chance for his
life ! Depend upon it he’ll swing at Tyburn.”
“ Poor man said the young shop-woman
“ what a pity !”
“Pity, mistress!” echoed the countrymen
contemptuously: “what’s a lord more than
mother man? For my part I think poor Jack
Sheppard, that’s to be hanged, a king to such a
fellow!”
It may be easily imagined in what state of
mind the. duchess returned to her own house,
where Mr. Talbot, her counsel shortly after
wards waited upon her to break, in as delicate
way as possible, the distressing event, and 01
which he had gained a more particular ac
count. Finding, however, that tho widowed
sister of Paleotti was fully prepared fertile tale
of horror he confirmed the truth of the vulgar
report. The marquis, being entangled by one
of his gaming debts had directed poor Claude
to go and borrow s itne money. After meeting
with repeated denials, Claude returned to his
master, who was walking in the street, to re.
port his ill success. Paleotti then told him to,
go again to one person, who had before refused.
Cluude entreated to be excused, and the mar
quis still commanding him. he at last positively
necliued to go : when drawing his sword, Pa
leotti in the rage of his demoniac pride, killed
his defenceless and faithful servant on the spot.
As the foul deed was done in the open day, .
and crowded street of the metropolis, Paleotti
was soon secured, and committed to prison to
take his trial at the ensuing sessions.
Painful as was the task, Magdaline detei min
ed to visit her guilty bro her. Mr. Talbot at- <
tended her to the prison; speaking, as they ,
went, such words of consolation, kindly meant
though ineffectual, as friends usually have re
course to, in the seaaon-of affliction. She had i
no hope of her biother’s life. Ina strange i
country, without interest or powerful friends,
to arrest the uplif ed arm of the law, there was ;
no ground for hope. Since the Duke ofShrews- I
bury’s death, his widowed duchess hud be
came a cipher in the great world. The sym- <
pathies of those who had formerly flocked to
partake of the hospitality ami gayety of his en- I
tertainments, were diverted into other chan- i
nels, and expended upon newer objects. With- <
out pride, ami truly pious Magdaline felt less I
the death that awaited Paleotti, than the tm- !
prepared state of his soul to meet that awful
hour. “Merciful, but just God!” said she, <
looking upward, “into thy hands do I commit
the cause ofmy wretched brother. Thou alone <
canst tell the measure of his guilt—alone sift 1
the motive of every deed ; for none but thou
canst look into the secret heart, and decide the i
degree of its innocence or criminality. Yet, i
O ! fear I me, io thy sight my brother is con
detuned, beyond the condemnation of men— ,
beyond all hope, but in the Redeemer’s blood,) (
to'wash out and efface his offence from the :
books of thy judgments.” 1
When the duchess reached the prison, where <
Paleotti, like the chained lion of the woods, i
was maddening with rage and bitterness against i
his bonds, she became so faint that Mr. Tai
hot tried to persuade her to reli iqnish a trial so
painful to her. “No, uo,” said she, recover- i
im> herself, following the turn-key. “I must ,
see him.” Paleotti was silting on the side of
bia rude bed, his dress soiled and neglected, i
and his hair hanging wildly over his pale and i
disordered visage. He took but little notice ,
of .Magdaline,on her fu>t entrance ; for like all ;
men u hose conscience has been darkened bv i
a long course of vice, be laid tho grevter per i
tion of his guilty actions upon her a id other
s friends," ho-bv withholding from him the means ■
! for his prodigality, had (ns he endeavored t<,
persuade himself) led to tho distress which eo- :
| in the murder us hu- fJthful servaut.
ATHEYS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JUNE 24, I *37.
j Paleotti was bitter in his invcc ives against
1 the laws of the country, ami complained of tin
, injustice that hud been done him. “What!
’ said he to Mr. Talbot, “is a nobkman to be
. imprisoned, tried, and condemned like a low
, born malefactor? Are these your boasted
r laws, of which the English prate so proudly to
i other nations? Am I, the desce .daut and re
, presentative of one of the noblest families of
r Italy, to be amenable to your English laws,
1 and judged by your plebian jury, for killing my
> own servant? Is a mere slave-—is the bfe of
I one who wears the budge of Servitude, to be
f put on a level with that of a man of my rank ?”
From such conversation as tl/is, Magdaline
saw the real state ofher brother’s mi d to be
■ auythig but one of sorrow and repentance for
i the crime he had committed; and that pride,
. always his besetting sin, seemed to gather up
i all its dark and hostile array to banish hit, i
thoughts from that heaven to which she had
hoped his imprisonment might Uave drawn
nearer.
Still her affection aud Christian pity led her
daily to his cell, where her sisterly care provi
ded all things conducive to his bodily comfort.
At lust the day of trial arrived, anti Puleotti ap.
peared at the bar, to submit his fate to the im
partial decision of twelve honest men—a mode
of investigation very different from any thing
he had ever witnessed or heard of in his own
country. He had the advice of the most emi
| nent counsel, and their assistance in drawi ig
up his defence; but all was unavailing. The
j jury pronounced the awful verdict of guilty,
which at ance and irrevocably drvw the cur
tain of an almost immediate separation be
tween the cimiua! aud that world whose first
and most general and solemn law he had dar
ingly violated. The judge, after an aff-ctmg
allusion to the abuse of God’s gifts of fortune,
rank, and intellect, passed the retributive sen
tence of death upon Ferdinand Marquis de Pa
leotti, who was ordered for execution on thr
17th of March, it being then the 14th of that
month.
Overwhelmed with grief, Magdaline hasten
ed immediately after the trial was over, to co >
dole with her unhappy brother. She found
him sullen and silent. A Roman Catholic
priest was sitting beside him; and the con
trast of the silver headed minister of God and
the criminal, was striking in the extreme. In
the countenance of the one were depicted peace
resigna’ion. and hope ; in that of the other, the
war of wild passions, impatient suffering, aud
fearful doubt.
VVheu Magdaline rose to go away, a slight
convulsive movement appeared on tho lip of
Paleotti, and the tone of his voice was soften
ed, as he asked her if she vrould cwtne to see
him on the morrow. The duchess bowed her
head, tears obstructing her speech. Drawi g
her veil over her face, she then folio ved th
turnkey out ol the prison, and getting into her
carriage. thr>-w herselt back, and indulged
freely the grief that oppressed her. The nex
morning on entering the cell, what was th • as
tonishment of Magdaline to behold seated at
ihe side of Paleotti, Ellen Conway. ' Oa see
i g the duchess, Ellen burst into tears, and hi'
her blushing and still lovely face with both h r
hands.
“Ellen, is it indeed you that I see? You,
my once innocent Ellen 7”
“ How, madam ?” said Paleotti, sternly, t<>
bis sister, “do you come here only to upbraid
the poor girl, whose love for me made her re
mounce those sillv forms your women of boast
■d virtue value, from no better motive tha.i ap
pearance?”
“ 0 Ferdinand !” answered the duchess, “at
tempt not to vindicate her conduct or your ow
—and especially your own, in the seduction of
an orphan, a friendless gi'l, whom you foil .<i
innocent and happy, with i vory principle of
virtue and every prospect of good. I sent her
to a safe and honorable asylum, fiotn which
you have decoyed her to her ruin—the ruin ot
her character in this world—aud of her im
mortal squl in the next.”
“Ob, spare, spare me!’’ cried the weeping
girl, throwing herself at Magclaliue’s feet. “ I
have been—l am still—very guilty ; for, with
all my wrongs, I love the marquis.”
“ Ellen, my poor Ellen !” said the duchess,
softly, and with great emotion, as she raised
the kneeling girl, “my heart weeps tears of
blood for you. But now, I thought 1 could
endure tio de- per sorrow ; but this meeting has
filled mv cup to oveiflowing.”
A long pause ensued. Paleotti sate sullen
and silent: Ellen spoke ti'-t but by her tears, i
At last the duchess said, “You will go home i
with me, Ellen ! my door?, my heart, are still
open to you.”
Paleotti looked moved to som< thing like feel
ing. He ruse and paced the cell with quick
and agitated step. Ellen spoke not, moved
not; bit rested her head o.i the back of her
chair, the big tears stealing through her clos
edeyes. Magdaline rose to go away. “Come i
Ellen.”
At these words the poor girl started, and I
clasping her hands forcibly together, exclaim- i
ed, “Ono ! not now ; ask me not to go now. ;
A little—very little while, and I will follow I
you any where. Only let me stay with him i
till—till ” tears obstructed her speech. i
“ Yes, yee,” said Paleotti. hurriedly, •• let her i
stay, sister, till I leave this cell fur ” ;
Here a convulsive movement ot the marquis’s i
features, betraved the inward agitation of his ;
soul. The duchess drew her veil over her face, |
and moved towards the door. Ellen fle ,v after I
her, and seizing her hand, pressed it to her
burning lips. i
•• Bless—bless you !” said she, “ for the kind I
offer to take home the poor lost Ell -n.” I
“You will go with me, then?” said the <
duchess, benevolently looking upon her through I
her tears. <
“Yes, indeed,” sobbed out Ellen ; to-mor- I
row I will go home with y u—and die I” she i
mentally ejaculated. i
Magdaline never went to bed all that long <
night, w hich preceded the dawn of th it awful t
day, that was to close the hie and crimes of I
a brother; and al the appointed hour for her t
last visit to the cell of the noble criminal, the '
duchess, arrayed in deep mourning and leant g t
upon the arm of Mr. Talbot, proceeded to the
carriage, which drove offal a rapid pace to
wards the prison.
The marquis, attended by his confessor, was
standing with folded arms, and eyes fixed up
on the floor, when Magdaline entered the cell.
With a pride so characteristic of him, h« had |
taken unwonted pains with his person that '
morning. His hair was arranged with much <
care, and his laced cravat and linen were of i
the finest sorts.. He wore his full colonel’s 1
uniform, of the imperia! army ; and even those
tin t did not know the man, nay, even those i
who did, could not but melt ut the sight of so I
graceful and noble looking a person, chai ed s
hand to hand,, and foot to foot, like a commo i
malefactor. A little behind Paleotti, and seat- ;
cd on a low etoolfh’. r head muffled up i>j the J
i ho *d that helped to disguise her pallid looks,
wan with grief and night Watchings, sate the
! most mournful figure in that mournful group—
the poor heait-bioke.i Ellen.
The unhappy Paleotti spoke not; and the
1 duchess, after regarding him for some tun
> with wistful looks, said, “ Oh, my brother!
nave you any Cammands —any wishes which
I’ ,1 can fulfil? Speak, dear Ferdinand! all you 1
, wish done, I will do:—any thi ig—every thing
you can require.”
” The marquis then mentioned Elie.:, recoin- !
: mending her, in a very touching matmer, to her 1
cure. “Promisa me,” said he, “never to de
sen her, for she has never deserted me.”
Here the s bbi .gs of Ellen were audible.
“I do promise you,” answered thr duchess,
“that Ellen shall ever find iu me a friend and
a sister.”
“ Let me,” co tinned Paleotti, “have hon
ourable burial, worthy of the illustrious race I
sprang from.”
As he spoke, bis dark eye flashed with all its
wo.ited brilliancy, aud his pale cheek crim,
so ied with the hue of health. Aias! how of.
ten do we see family prit’e darting, like the
grave-fed meteor, through the loop-holes of a
mt d, destitute of all proper pride aud proper
feeling.
The great clock of the prison now struck,
and its deep sonoraus warning Was equally felt
by all. The priest crossed himself devoutedly :
the marquis became pale and thoughtful; and
Magdaline and Ellen covered their faces, and
wept. Another hour, and that u .happy ma .
would be led forth to the gaze of the rude rab
ble even then gathering from all parts of the
metropolis, to witness th.it sight, of all others
the most appalling to a thi.iki g mind—the
launching of a guilty soul, by a violent and yet
a judicial death, upon the dark and fathomless
waters of eternity. Th priest now broke si
lence. “My son. there is but little time left
you: the last sand of life ts running to waste
11 this conflict of feelings, painful to all and
yielding to none those sweet and holy fruits
that should sanctify the approach! ig trial.—
Take leave of your friends, and let us give the
1 is: hour to Him who has given you so many,
that you might have tune and opportu >ity to
know all the wonders of his mercy to merciless
men.”
The parting between the brother and sister
was brief, but solemn and touching. Manda
rine wept upon his bosom, prayed, and blessed
turn; and implored him, in the name of the
Saviour, to lift up his heart to him, who was
above all earthly judges, and all mortal kings.
Next came Ellen, the lust of lovt g ones to
look upon his features—the last to fbrg< tthem.
Wild was her look, and wilder still her actions,
SI e clasped his neck, us if by her ch.igi.ig
i here, could have saved it from the ignominious
eord. She kissecfhis tettered'lu.ids ; she k elt
down and embraced his manacieU knees; a.d
with a voice heart-rending to hear, caHed up >.■
him, as if he had only been going 0.. an earthly
journey, to love her, and remember how she
had given up all for him. The priest then
• pproached, (impatient of delay) a.<d gently
drew her away, waving for the duchess to fol
low. But Ellen, strong in affection, bur.-t from
the holy man, and exclaiming, “ Oh, let me look
upon his tucu ugai..—once ugam !’’ rushed to
wards the spot w here Puleotti stood, and fell
senseless at his feet. In this lifeless state she
was borne to the carriage, and the duchess fol
lows g, Puleotti was left alone with his con
fessor.
In a short time they came to knock o. the
irons of the noble criminal, still wet with ihe
tears of Ellen, and then, preceded by the priest
bearing the crucifix, Puleotti got into the coach,
w hich in courtesy, was allowed him, and was
driven to 1 yburu.
When arrived at the fatal spot, Paleotti’s de
meanour under other circumstances must have
won the applause of all ge..erous mills. As-
Ccudi .g th< scaffold with a firm step, he stood
erect and dignified, looking calmly aiou. d at
the countless beings that were gazing upon
him ; then turning to the sheriffs lie requested
his bod , might not be defiled by touching the
bodies ot the u happy Englishmen doomed to
suffer with him but that he might die b. fore
them, and alone. This petition, so character
istic of the foolish pride of acnstocracy, th
sheriff’s granted, in court' sy to a stranger.
After some little time spent at his devotions,
at which the venerable priest, bare-heuded,
with looks of gentle pity and holy zeal, assist
ed, with lifted eyes, and hu ds elevuti g the
symbol of redemptio , the cross, occasionally
swept by his silver hairs, as he lowered it t>>
receive the homage ot’his reverend lips, the ex
ecutioner approached Puleotti; and while
binding with a sash those free arms, that had
o. ce been active in the field ol glory a flush of
crimson passed over the pale cheek of the cri
miual; and the wild flush of his dark ey<-, ti..d
bending b.ickw urd his proud head, showed, like
the reined courser, his dt.sdam of the curb.
The priest spoke to bun, and lie became culm,
had drooped his head upon his breast. The
ignominious cord was next put urou.d his
graceful neck, the u..sightly c. p dr .wn over
his classic features, and then the handsome, the
noble, and the accomplished Marquis de Pule
otti, the ornament of the court, the pride
camp, and the ido' of one bre.ki g heart, died
amid the assembled thousands—in example to
all of the justice of those glorious laws of En
glishmen, that show no distinction bet ween the
peer and the peasant, seei g that crime makes
both equal.
To conclude, the duchess, faithful to the pro
mise given to her unhappy brother, treated El
leu with all a sister’s sympathy and affectio ;
but it was soon visable to every one that look
ed upon the suffering girl, that earth would not
long be herabidi g place. Silently she wast
ed away to the mere shadow of her former
beauty. Shame, deep shame, and deeper sor
row, preyed upon her heart, as the worm feeds
upon the flower, and destroys the delicate bloom
of’its summer vests; and in a few weeks after
the death of Puleotti, Ellen breatlied her last
fl rewell sigh to that world that held nothing so
dear to her as the unho’ oured grave of him
whom she had loved to the.last, with all a wo.
mu. .’s enduring te derness and fidelity.
“ For man, every danger fond women will brave,
. And, unchanged by adversity's blast,
Bhe will share his dark prison, and cling io his grave,
Loving on—loving on to the last."
Mind your P's and. Q's. — The origi i of this
phrase is not generally known. In ale-houses,
where chalk scores were formerly marked up.
on tho wall or behind the door of the tap-room,
it was customary to put tlxnse initial letters at
the head of every man’s account to show the
umbel of pints and quarts for which he was
in arrears; and we may presume many a friend,
ly rustic to have tapped his neighbor on the
shoulder, whe ihe was itidulgi ig too freely m
his potations, and to have exchimed, as h
pointed to the score, “ Giles! Giles !mi d your
P’s and Q’s.” —Whan Toby, the learned pig,,
was i ; the zemth of his popularity, theatrical peral career, wh-ther baski ig iu the sunlight
wag, who atle dd th performance malicious- of prosperity or groin,ing beneath,the pressure
ly set b' forc him some pe; s—a temp's ion of poverty, home retai s its supreme sway
which the ammal could not resist, aid which over oar affections. Death may invade its
immediately caused him to l<>we> his cue.—Th E :en-lik b .w. rs, misfortune may pay its uo
pigexhibter rerno strated wiih the author of trie dly visits, but still our hearts cling to it
the misschief upon th ■ Unfairness of whut he as th ivy to the dead oak.
had dour. “I only wished,” said th- wag, If home appear more i>ter*sting at one time
“to see if Toby minded his P’s and Q’s.” than another it in when we are overtaken by
-I. ■i .. sickness among strangers. We have been at.
The following beautiful lines, from the Rnickerbocher, t-.ieked by disease in unk .ow.f, lands, and we
V* from the pen of Geckos W. Grsxnz, Esq., Amer- ve exp-.rienced thr pai falness, the unensi.
tcan ■ uusul, at ome. ij 'SS, that arise 1 "the bosom of him who has
RF.nE.nBRANCES. , . a- r i ti
Oft at the hour when evening throw. a ™- v frora h ? me - How power-
Its gathering shade o’er vale and hill. hI,S i ' bsenC ’* ‘ ' ,^ ht , U3 the ™ lue 8
While half the scene tn twilight glows. ? .“T "7 ''’7 COr, ’ ulta " nn/ “
...... How dreplv h v w felt the want of a fa-
_ n , m sun-ig t g ones tti . ther’s support o' of a >-ist. r’s love. And when
The thought of all that we have been, sh( . f , v r d hijl , (er; whe , , hp aeetll .
And hoped and feared on fife’s long way- ed op in£Z t() e(i;br iCe us; how h ., Ve PUr spir .
Remembrances of joy and pain, il9 su R W|thin ~a at r „fl. . ct i«». „ that S’ran.
Coxae mingling with the close of day. g rs u »i »teresv< d, u related str*ugc ra t would
The distant scene of Youth’s bright dream, ia.v -air head upo . its last pillow!
The smiling green, the rustling tree; <o dl" at h in I How agreeable it is to the
The murmur of the grass-fringed stream, !« der f-eh &of the soul! What are all our
The bounding of the torrent free- jou ney. gs; whut are all our wanderings if
The friend, whose tender voice no more We _ C '’ ,7J u ’ U- 'T° ° Ur **7’ d ’ !
Shall sweetly thrill the listening ear, -Should duty, business or fate keep us from
_, , , T , • th< societv of <>ur relatives, through life, we
The glow that Love’s first vision wore, ... . . ~ . . ’ ,
will not c re; but wbe disso uttou appreach.
And Disapputntment’s pangs—are here. . i. k .l t . i . k -C J
«s, I fus b at home. Let our last breath be
But soft o’er each reviving scene draw., i i the place where our you g hearts
The chastening hues of Memory spread; bat w *'h expectatio .8, let our last 10-k be up.
And smiling dark though: between, th ' ,Be wh ‘ ,s cou tenances We first saw, let
Hope softens every tear we shed. our pilgrimage end where it commenced.
O thus, when Death's long night come on, ■
And its dark shades around me lie. From the American Monthly for June.
May parting beams from Memory’s sun rose to The DEAD.
Blend softly in my evening sky! >Y sigourxxy.
.Ilirab au.
Ch iteaubri tnd thus baldly sketches off the
the likeness of Mini beau, the ge.ius of the
Revolution:
“ Connect' d by the excesses and accidents
of his Ilf- with the most remarkable events,
and with the existence of felons,, ravishers,
nod adventurers, Mirab an, the .nbu.ie of aris
tocracy, tlie deputy of d inocracy. p <rtook of
the characters of Gracchus >.;d D<> Ju ti, of
Catali lea td Guzma i d’AI ifarach--, of Cardi
nal de Richelt. u and Cardinal d ■ Retz, of ihe
profligate of the rege cyan I the s v.geof the
Revolution ; there moreover flowed in his v< ins
the blood “f the-Mir b 'aus, a exiled Floren
tine family, which r tai .ed somewhat of those
armed pal ices and thus? great f.ictio s illus
trated by Date ; a Fre ch naturalized famtlt,
in which the r -publicti spirit of Italy duri g
the middle ages, and the f udal spirit of our
ow . middle age, were found combi red i.i u
successio of extraordinary men.
“Th- ugliness of Mirabeau, laid upon a
grou d of b auty, for u hich his race was dis
tinguished, produced a itn-ag «f one of the
powerful figures i. the Last Judgment of Mi
chm l Angelo, the compatriot of Arrigh iti.
The ma.ks 1.-ft by rhe small-pox <> the orator’s
face rather bore the appeara c- of sc rs oc
casio .ed by fire. Nature seemed to have
t mould d his h -ad for > tnpire or the gibbit, to
have shaped his arms for the pU'-pos of cub
tug a natio i or carryi g off a woin.i.i. When
I he shook his mane, with his ey-s fixed upon
the mob. he suddenly checked th ir progress;
when he raised his foot and show d his claws,
th'y ra . furiously. Amidst the most frightful
riot, of a sit t g, I have seen hitn tn th.- tribu e,
. dark, hideous, aud motio less; he remi d d
s me of the Chaos of Milton, impassibl and
t shapeless—the centre of his own confusion.
“Twice did 1 me t Mirabeau at an enter
, taimnetit; on one occasion at the house <>f
Volt.tire’s neice, the Marchio ess de Viilett- ;
on another, at th • Palais Royal, with deputies
. of the oppositio ~ with whom Chapelai had
tnad me acqu i .ted. Chapelai. w. s co..vey
[ eu to the s> tiff >ld O ' the same tumbr I wiih M.
. de Mai sh« ibes a- dmy <>wti brother.
, “Our discusst'i-i after di tier turn d upmi
| the subj ct <>f Mirabeau’s e .cmies ; I happeo
. ed to be next to him; aud, with the litnidty of
, a > oung mu., u known t<> all, h>d not uttered a
word. H look dme full in the face with his
eyes of wickedness and ge ius, and, layt gins
broad hand upo . mv should, r, said, *'hev wt'l
never forgive n.e my superiorly.’ M thi ks
I still feel the impressio of th.it hand, as it
Satan had touched me with his fiery claw.
“Too soon for his ow sak . too late for
thatof the the court, Mirab au sold himself to
the la ter, a d the comt bought him over. He
hazarded the stake of his fame for the pros
p-ct ot a pension and an embassy; Cromw 11
was at the point of excha gi g his future
prospects tor <t title and the Order of the Gar
ter.—Notwithstanding his pride, he did ot
set a sufficient value upon hinis If; thesuper
abu dance ot mot. y aud places has raised the
price of men’s co sei nces.
“Death released Mirab. au from his promi
ses, a.id rescued him from dangers which he
would | r-b.bly be u able to overcome; his*
life w..ul 1 have demonstrated his i .capacity for
good; by his death h was left i > the height
ot his power for evi .”—Vol. ii. pp. 159-161.
From the New Y orfe Mirror.
PESEN I I WENT.
BY tV. C BRYANT.
“Oh, father let us hence—-fir hark!
A fearful murmur shakes the air;
The clouds are coming swift and dark—
What horrid shades they wear!
A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh, father—father, let us fly !”
“Hush, child—it is a grateful, sound,
That beating of the summer shower;
Here, where the boughs hang close around,
We’ll pass a pleasant hour—
Till the fresh wind that brings the rain
Has swept the heaven clear again."
“Nay, father, let us haste—for see,
That horrid thing with horned brow!
His wings o'erhang this very tree—
His scowls upon us now !
His huge black arm is lifted high—
Oh, father—father, let us fly!"
“Hush, child"—but as the father spoke,
Downward the livid firebolt came;
Close to his ear the thunder broke, —
rind, blasted by rhe flame,
The child lay dead ! while dark and still
Swept the swift cloud along the hill.
"May you die among your kindred. Wliai
sensitive mind has never cherished the feeling
expressed in this sentiment!
‘L t me die at home,’ is the wish of all
hearts, the anguuge of every tongue. Wan.
dert g over the desert of life, buffeted and af
flicted, we ue er lose sight of home. Our
trucks may be varied, but whenever we move
ih - attractive i fluence of our birth place is
felt. Through all the vjcisiiudea of our tuna-
Vol. V—Ao. 8.
I pluck'd a rasa for thee, sweet friend,
Thine ever favorite flower—
A bud I long had nurs’d for thee,
Within my wintry bower,
I group’d it with the fragrant leaves
1 That on the myrtle grew,
> And tied it with a silken string
■ Ofaoft cerulean blue.
I brought the rose to thee, sweet friand.
And stood beside the chair
Where sickness long by thy step had chained—
But yet thou wert not there.
I turn'd me to thy curtained bed.
So fair with snowy lawn;
Methought the impress'd pillow said,
‘Not here—but risen and gone.'
Thy book of praye r lay opsn wide.
And 'mid its leaves was seen
A flower with petals shrunk and dried.
Lost Summer’s withered queen:
It was a flu wer I gave thee, friend,
Thou lov’dst it for my sake;
“See, here a fresher one I bring!”
—No lip in answer speak.
Then from her sofa’s quiet side
I raised the covering rare—
“Sieep’sc thou ?” —upon her forehead lay
Unstirred die auburn hair.
But when to leave my cherished flower
Her gentle hand 1 stole,
That icy touch I —its fearful chill
Congealed my almost soul I
Ah, friend—dear friend I—and can it be
Thy last sweet word is said J
And all too late my token comes
Tu cheer the pulseless dead!
Here, on the cold, unheaving breast,
The promised rose I lay—
The last poor symbol as a lovo
p That cannot fade away.
' But thou, from yon perennial bowers
Where free thy footiteps glide,
Or from those shores' of bliss that meet
Life’s never-wasting tide—
Yea, where beside our Saviour’s throne
Doth grow th’ immortal treo,
Pluck thou an angel’s stainless rose,
p And keep it safe for me.
1 The Resting" Place.
BY J. N. MAFFITT.
| “So man lietli down, and raiseth not, till the
i heavens b no more, they shall not wake, nor
I b rinsed oar of their sleep.”
However dark asd disco solate the path of
• life miy seem to my man, thure is no hour
, of deep and quiet repose at baud, when the
. body may si k into a dreamless slumber. Let
n -t the itn igi ation be startled, if this resting
| pl ice, instead of the bed of down, shall be the
. ‘ bed of gravel, or the rocky pavement of the
tomb. No matter where ihe poor remains of
; wearied mat may lie, the repose is deep and
u disturbed—the sorrowful bosom heaves no
, more —the tears are dried up iu th-ir fountains
the achi g head is at ease, and the stormy
waves of earthly tribulation roll unheeded
over (he place of graves. Let arini. s engage
- i fearful conflicts over the vary bosoms of tha
pale nations of the dead, not one ot the sleep
ers shall h. ed the spirit stirring trump, ocrea
po d to the rendi ig shouts of victory.
p c „. lit =e eoa ttvss mittibns slumber
in the arms of their mother "eurt ’ The voice
of thunder shall not wake them ; the loud cry
of the el. me.its —the wi ds—the waves, nor
even the gnul tread of the earthquake, shall
be able to cause au u.iquirtude i i the chambers
of d ath. They shall rest securely through
ages; empires shall rise and pass away; tho
last gn at battle sh ill be fought; and then a
silver voice, at first but just heard, shall rise to
a lempes tone, md penetrate the voiceless
grave. “ F r the trumpet shall sou id. and the
dead shill h -ar its voice.”— Miss. Chris. Ha
rald.
Effect of Coffee Drinking on stature. —A
singular property has rece itly been ascribed to
coffee, when drank habitually from childhood
to the age of puberty, which it is worth while
to ex >mine with physiological accuracy. It
is said that the effect is to prevent th it devel
opemant of the bones which would take
place were this delicious article never intro
duced into the stomach. That it acts in this
wav, i i every case, is certainly questiontibia;
some indviduils grow exceedingly tall, and
would, were they to drink strong coffee every
hour i i the twenty-four, the first ten years of
their existence; but no one will deny that out
ofthe e urn population of any particular dis
trict which might b‘ selected, a majority of
the whole, living in tbs ordinary mode—that is,
using coff. e— Would full b low the madium
stature of five fe« I nine riches. Scarcely one
man i-i seve . hu idred, on the average, in New
E glang measures si T feet—and perhaps those
towerf.g above that altitude am hardly iu ths
ratio of one to eighteen thousand.
Before and for many years after the Ameri
can r v.dution, travellers uniformly spoke of
th.; yank es as bei ig aTMI, well-built race ot
men, The females were i qually distinguished