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BY J AMES W. JONES. The Southern Whig, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. TERMS. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fii st number, or four 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 ad vance; and no paper will be discontinued until nil arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. 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For Advertising—Letters of Citation. $ 2 75 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 25 Four Months Notices, 400 Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, 3 25 Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 75 Application for Letters of Dismission, 4 58 Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of sin'dl type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week, 62 1-2 cents for each continuance. If I published once a month, it will be charged each time as a new advertisement. For a single insertion, §1 00 per square. « n 1 . “ PROSPECTIS OF A -VE IV LITERAR Y JOURNAL, ENTITLED THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON. THE Second Number of this Periodical is now before the Public. The very kind fa vor with which it has been accepted prompts the Editor to make renewed exertions to place the work on a firm foundation, and to make it worthy of the patronage it is likely to receive. No effort was made to obtain subscribers, no publicity was given to the design, until the first number was ready for distribution,—because the Editor was unwilling to make promises which he might be unable to fulfil; and he was anxious that the public, before it gave encour agement or approbation, should see the work, and have an opportunity to judge of its merits. A short notice of the. Editor’s intentions and wishes accompanied the first number, and the approbation and indulgence with which his friends and the public generally received it, gave, to him hopes which he had not previously in dulged. That Alabama would give a handsome sup port to such a publication was a matter of ex treme doubt; —owing more to her commercial and agricultural enterprise, than to any want of liberality, or to the. absence of a spirit for lit erary advancement. But the avidity with which fortune has been hunted down, has not taken away the taste ofher Scholars; —and the increase of wealth has produced the best of all results: the opening of the heart, and the gushing forth of the best of feelings: generosity, and a desire to promote every laudable enterprise. The Bachelor’s Button is the only period ical in the State devoted entirely to Original Li teratuie. It is printed in a handsome style— (not inferior in that respect to the best in the country.) The' very medium of publication is calculated to inspire young ambition to vigor ous exertion, and to make the old and experien ced writer happy in the privilege of sending thoughts into the world in such a garb. Alaba ma has talent—talent of an order calculated to command the admiration of her neighbors, however old their experience; however celebra ted their Literati. It is the proudest wish of the Editor that he may call that talent into ac tive exercise ; yet he cannot hope to b« able to do that without the hearty approbation of his friends, and their earnest concurrence in promo ting a cause for whose success he is willing to. devote his entiie time and attention. A Liter .ry Advertiser will be attached to the Bachelor's Button, containing Notices which relate to Schools, Colleges, Books, Banks, Insu rance Companies, &c. at the following rates : For one insertion, per page, $lO 00 “ “ “ 1-2 page, 600 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 400 By the year, per page, 60 00 “ “ “ 12 page, 30 00 “ “ “ 1-4 page, 15 00 This arrangement will not interfere with the literary department, as the advertising sheets will be entra. Persons wishing to advertise in the third Number, will send in im mediately. Mr. W. W. McGuire is our City Agent, and is authorised to act for us. Any letter oi com munication left fit his Book Store, will receive immediate attention. TERMS—“The Bachelor’s Button” will be published Monthly in the City of Mobile, in a pamphlet containing 64 large octavo pages of entirely original matter, on fine paper, and on new and clear type, at Five Dollars a year, payable in advance. Editors friendly to the work will please publish this circular. WM. R. SMITH, Editor and Proprietor notici:, BARGAINS, BARGAINS. THE Firm of Wm. 11. Ehncy, & Co. having closed business, and their whole Stock of Fancy Dry Goods having been trans, ferred to the Subscriber, he *now offers them for sale at il ’irwiu As the Subscriber is anxious to dispose oi them as soon as possible, those who wish Great. Bargains will do well to call immediate ly at the House on College Avenue, formerly occupied by Miss Manikin, where he will be found at all hours. His Stock comprises a great varitety of among which, are a handsome assortment of Fashionable Plaid Russia JLinen Drills, for Gentlemen’s Pants. R. W. CASKIN. June 24—8 —ts. Southern Whig From the American Monthly for July. STANZAS. BY GREENVILLE MELLEN. Next Melancholy', veiled in cloak and weeds Murmured his sullen story. ’Twas of one Who, ’mid the cloister’s shade and pattering beads, His course of mad misanthropy begun ; The sunlight or the shadow of the world Brooded alike on him; he saw no hope In all its day or darkness had unfurled, And the black Future was a starless cope : He woke to penance still, and when he slept Dark dreams his pillow thronged, and fear about him crept. He passed into the desert from his cell, Hating the face of man, and pale with scorn, Spurning the iron bed and matin bell That racked his slumbers and awaked his morn ; Crushed as those tortured spirits that went out From towering capitals, whose gates of old Open'd on deserts where the ocean shout Os the thronged city far and faintly rolled; And as they closed, a solitude was round The exile, as if driven to earth's unpeopled bound. There, by his fountain well and rocky cave, With Nature for communion, he abode. Hoping no other Future but the grave, Where Thought should cease to try or ills corrode. Prayer gave him no response, for the dire God He worshipped sat in vengeance in the sky, Making Life chaos at his monarch nod, And Man a victim for eternity— In misery’s abode, where praise was dumb, And white-robed Mercy through its night could never come! Religion found no temple in his hear’, But all its dull and dark idolatry Was of that sullen nature but a part, 'Which led him from earth's fellowship to fly ; Like him of old, who on the pillar's height Counted his years of loneliness and gloom, And found, as earth grew shadowy on his sight, His cloudy column but a living tomb ! So his deserted soul, malignant still, Reared round the hydra heads he could not crush or , kill. What hopes had such a spirit ?—it had passed * Beyond the boundary of human things; But though the gloom itself had round it cast, It flitted like a bird on palsied wings; He leagued him with Despair, and forth ho trode With steps whose path he reck’d not, writhing yet Beneath the ceaseless and afflictive goad Os hopes he could not, though he would, forget; Till, with a shriek, he leapt the maddening leap j Into the black Hereafter’s spectre-compassed deep. , ——'SgS—— t The Eady of Carogne. 11 was a grand and stately building, that cas- t tie of Argentcuil, where once resided the gen- , tie lady of Carogne; where she lived long in. f her beauty and her youth, a faithful wife to her j brave lord, and was loved and looked up to by 6 her maidens and her menials. The knight of Carogne had been for a while absent upon an s enterprise beyond sea: but, alas! it was not for the advancement of his honor, that he had , departed from the marches of Perche, and from , the fair and sorrowful Aline. There was a , tall, narrow tower, which stood out from the , front wall of the castle, and rose far above the loftiest roofs of the ancient pile. On the sum- ( rnit of that tower the noble lady was used to ( stand for hours, watching for her lord’s ap- , proach, and looking with anxious eyes far over j the distant country; and, if aught like the fi gure of him whom she sought appeared, and gathered as it approached a nearer resemblance to her lord’s person, how quickly the trance of her stillness was broken ! how every feature I and every limb woke into expression, while eagerness and joy, that was half indulged, dart ed like a sunbeam into her eyes, and the crim son blood rushed over her pale cheeks, and glowed in her parted lips. Then most carelessly her soft white arms were flung over the rough parapet, and her tender bosom pressed against the cold stones with heavings of tumultuous delight. Now the i knight of Carogne looked in vain, as he rode along, for her well-known form. Anxiously he strained his sight, but she stood not as usu al on the high tower. Aline, had received the messenger that told of his approach, but she left not the hail till her husband had arrived. With slow and trembling steps she traversed it,and sometimes she stopped and leaned against the wall, in the thoughtfulness of sorrow.— There was no color on her wan check, save the flitting tints which were thrown from the stained glass of the cas< merits towards the west, and her eyes were seldom raised from the veil ings of their lids. The glad shouts of her do mestics told her tha f the knight was at hand, and the lady Aline hastened to meet him. The joyous knight sought to clasp her in his em brace, but silently she glided from his arms, and when he raised her tenderly from the ground, the life seemed to have parted from her 1 feeble frame. He bore her into the open air, ' and she revived. “ Thou art not well, my ow n Aline,” said the I knight, clasping her tenderly to his bosom. “ I do suffer, in the sickness of my heart,” she replied. “I am not altogether well, my dearest lord : forgive my weakness, and believe ' how joyed lam to sec thee. Yes,” she con tinned, “ overjoyed, although 1 weep,” He would have kissed away her tears ; but , Aline gently withdrew herself from his arms, and said, i “ Not yet, my husband, not yet. I have a vow upon me. Ask nothing now. Thou wert ever kind, and tenderly indulgent to thy wife : —bear with her seeming coldness now. En ter again the hall, refresh yourself, and let me lean upon your arm as you go in.” There wore guests at the castle that day, who had come to meet with the knight ofCa rogne, and the lady Aline strove to call up some : ofher wonted dignity as she sat beside her husband at the banquet. Yet looked she ra ther like one in a dreary dream, as she smiled so sorrowfully at the lively discourse of her husband and his friends, and took the cup which all had courteously kissed to her health, ere they drank from it. i The sleeping-chamber of the knight and la , dy adjoined a little oratory, where the young and faithful pair were wont to kneel beside each . other, ere they went to rest, and to pray in a mild and thankful spirit to their God. When the knight went up that evening to his bed , chamber, he found not his wife there—she ' was kneeling in her prayer.closet, her pale hands uplifted, and her lips moving in earnest supplication. The knight lay down, but often did he raise bis head to look for the coming of his wife. She came not, till he had oft-times tenderly besought her, and then Aline slowly entered, and knelt down by her husband’s side. “WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDY.” defer Son. The knight started as the first sound of her voice fell upon his ear, there was so deep a sor row in its tone. “ Let me kneel here,” she said. “I am not wont to kneel but to our blessed Lord, and now I only kneel before Him— beseeching him to witness to the truth of every word I speak.— My husband, do not seek to raise me—take lit tle notice of me with your eyes—let your ears only regard me. Nay, do not touch me yet.” she added, as he held forth his arms toward her, “ I cannot have the strength to speak, if you do; and I have need of more than woman’s, and so you will soon confess. Five evenings since, I was sitting in my greenwood bower. It was the quiet eventide, and I had dismissed my maidens, that I might indulge in many thoughts—blissful they were, for I thought of my dear lord ; and melancholy withal, because thou wort absent. Thou knowest there is a low wall enclosing the small greensward court to which my apartments open—low is it on the side next the court, yet it rises high above the moat surrounding the castle —so that 1 have sat in my bower, and walked on that terrace walk, fearless at all hours. The sun was sink ing slowly in the sky, and the shadows deep ened when they fell; yeti heeded nothing, till it seemed to me as if a man’s figure rose above the wall. I did not stir, but fixed my eyes earnestly on the intruder. Once he gazed fear fully about him, and then passed quickly to the place where I sat. “‘I am in danger—l am pursued,’ he cried, with a fearful and smothered voice—‘ I must speak to thee alone.’ “ ‘ I am alone,’ was ray reply. “ ‘ I would risk no chance of being discov ered here,’ he said, ‘noble kinswoman, my life is in danger ; wilt thou save me ? I know the knight of Carogne is absent, but wilt thou re fuse me V “All this time, as he besought me, the squire Jaques le Grys (for it w r as he) almost grovelled at my feet, and strove to seize my hands, as if imploring for his life. I knew not w hat to do. Methought that once his eyes shrank beneath my steady gaze, but instantly he spake with greater energy. “ ‘ What woud’st thou have me do ? Where could I shelter thee?’ I said at length to him, scarce knowing what I did say. -He caught me by the wrist, and looking me full in the face, muttered with a voice, which seemeth yet in mine ear, ‘•‘The dungeon.’ “ He led the way with stealthy pace —no ear heard us, no eye beheld us.” Thq lady faltered as she spoke—she clung for support to the bed, and bit her nether lip, which quivered with the agony ofher feelings ; then turning her face farther from the gaze of the knight, she spoke as if every breathing of her voice was torn from her bosom. “There is a tale which thou hast read to me,” she said, “the story of a young and gen tie lady’s woes. A matron she was, and fa mous in old Rome She was like me, a faith ful wife, faithful and happy, but not always— you did not chide me, when I wept at her sad story.” Again the lady paused; but her busband speaking not during her silence, she said, “Thou art waiting for the name of that Ro man lady, whose woes resemble mine; know ing her name, you will know my shame too well—Lucrece, the wife of one lord Collati nus.” The lady of Carogne said no more, but bow cd her face upon her bosom, and one blush of deepest scarlet spread over that face and bo som. Neither did the knight reply; but he lay breathless, it seemed* in the stillness of his wrath : his eyes were wide open, but he stared upon her, like one under the spell of some hor. rid drcam. The sweatbeads started from his brow, and the poor lady wiped them away, her tears falling all the while. She could not— as she passed her hand over his broad forehead —she could not bear to turn from him ; and so she stood beside him, with her fingers parting ) away his thick hair, and sometimes pressing her soft, cold palm upon his burning templesT Soon his chest began to heave violently, and the deep, long sighs burst from him, and the large tears gushed from his eyes. He rose up, and clasped his poor, dishonored wife to his bosom. It was break of day, ere their confer ence was finished; and then the poor ladv, who had resolutely, but quietly, refused to lie down by her husband’s side, lay at his feet and slept. Never did the knight hang with more admiring fondness over her lovely face, than when he now gazed upon it, and felt himself a heart-broken and dishonored man. It was noon ere the lady of Carogne awoke, ’ and though thoughts of agony darted across her mind with the waking of her memory, she struggled in her prayers for the mastery over her wretchedness—and she prevailed. Her shame was known to her husband, and now she shrank not from the notice of the whole world. To clear his honor, she resolved to expose herselfto indignity and public disgrace. Secret her wrongs had been, but they had torn her from the husband ofher youth, and she felt it her du'y tn publish abroad the story of her griefs, and the name of the wretch who dishonored her. “Summon together,” she said to the knight of Carogne, “summon, with all haste, my friends kinsmen, and bear me along with them to the earl of Alencon, your liege lord. Tell to him what I have suffered, and let him call me, if he will, to his presence-. Let him confront me with that wretch. Thou shalt hear him con- i fess his guilt and entreat for pardon. The bill of our divorce shall be so given; and another lady of Carogne. of spotless chastity, and faith ful as I have been, shalt thou bring back to this castle. I will henceforth seek no spouse but thy memory! '1 he knight of Carogneand the squire Jaques de Grys, were both of the laud and household ot the earl of Alencon; and the squire was in constant attendance on the earl, his lord, and well beloved by him. '1 he knight was aware of tins and ho determined to lose no time in fol lowing that part of his lady’s advice which he approved: he. therefore, setoff for the castle oi the earl; but he left the lady Aline in tho pro tection ofher kinsmen, whom he called togeth er at her desire. Accompanied by a few of his nearest friends, the knight obtained an au dience of his lord ; Tint he seemed to speak in vain when he recited his wife’s dishonor, so perfect was his affection and confidence in the squire Jaques. He commanded that the ladv should herself appear l in person to accuse, if she would dare to do so, his beloved squire.— As I have before related, the young and tender lady of Carogne, since the night she revealed her shame, had shiken off all futile, timidity, and possessed herself through tho power of God, with a wondrous composure, and dignitv of mien and manner. The dishonor which had boon done to her body, and tho weakness ofthe mere woman, had been forgotten tunid ATHEYS, GEORGIA. SATURDAY, JULY 15, 1837.. the deep and solemn feelings which now occu died her soul. She came into the presence of the earl of Alencon, led but not supported, by her aged father, and she sat down with the quiet dignity of one who appeared there rather to command than to be questioned and judged. As soon ns she had raised her veil from her fair, sad face, the meekness and purity of expression which adorned her loveliness of feature, and the graceful delicacy which dwelt in all her gentle movements, touched the heart of every person who beheld her, so that many wonder ed within themselves, and believed not that such a pure and delicate being was a defi ed, though an unwilling adulteress. XV hen she was called upon by the earl of Alencon to speak, the lady stood up, and a faint blush came over her chock, but passed instant ly away. “It is not mine own dishonor,” she said with a slow, clear voice, “ which has brought me hither; but I have a husbend whose honor has worn nostain till now, and for whose sake I come forth from the privacy, in which I would fain hide myself and my shatre forever; I come into the presence of men, and under the eye of God, to proclaim myself a pollution to my husband’s bed—a disgrace to his house and name—and all through the brutal violence ofthe squire Jaques le Grys. I accuse him by name as the ravisher ol my weak and un willing person. Here do I stand in the pre sence of the lord of Alencon and this noble com pany, to declare the time and manner—to re count, if need be, every particular, of this most devilish and atrocious deed. Let Jaques le Grys be called to answer for'himself, for I do not see him here,” she continued, aftershe had gazed enquiringly around her. “Bid Jaques le Grys to come hither!” said Alencon to one of the attendants. Most unlike a guilty person appeared Jaques le Grys, as he entered the hall, bearing him self with a cheerful carelessness towards all but the lord of Alencon, and tne lady of Carogne. To them he bowed with every expression of courteous respect; and then stood modestly, yet manfully, before the earl as if waiting his commands- No one spoke for some seconds, and when the knight of Carogne was about to break the reigning silence, the squire interrupt ed him, to ask one who stood near, for what purpose so many were assembled together; remarking, with a smiling look, that he had but an hour since returned from off a journey, and that no such meeting had keen mentioned be fore his departure. “Thou canst inform me, perchance ?” he said to the knight of Carogne. “ I think thou wert about to speak, and 1 must crave thy pardon for preventing thee. Now I do bethink me, thou hast been across the seas, good knight—permit me most heartily to wel come thy return. Ah, it may be to celebrate thy coming, that my noble master hath called together all this goodly company. It shames me to appear so late to bid thee welcome—fair lady of Carogne, I must turn to thee.” “ Silence, loose catiff!” shouted the furious knight as he strode to the centre of the hall, his face burning, and his eyes flashing with rage. “ My lord of Alencon, I demand your interfer ence to stop at once this parleying.” Silence was commanded by the earl, who gravely rebuked the intemperate warmth of the knight, and then called the lady of Carogne to bring forward her accusation against Jaques 1c Grys. At the first appearance of her ravisher. the poor lady had felt as if the sickly chills of death were creeping through her frame. Her hus band’s violence aroused her; and, as her self possession returned, she smiled within herself at her own weakness. With a look of fear less composure she raised her eyes, and push ed back the hair from her brow, while the elo quence of truth and virtue spoke in her words. But the squire was not to be confounded; by turns he affected to be surprised, indignant, nay, amused by the strangeness ofthe accusa tion brought against him. With apparent at tention he then listened to the detail which the I lady was obliged to give ; he listened but for a short time, for at last he seemed unable to re strain himself. “ This must proceed no farther,” he said so lemnly. “My most noble lord,” be added “ I beseech you to interfere. I should treat this charge with the contempt it deserves, were my own character alone concerned ; but the rela tion in which 1 stand to yourself, the office which I hold near your person, call upon me to come forward and to challenge the strictest enquiry, as to this mqst valorous adventure which is charged upon me. My lord of Alen con, there is a question which I must ask of thee. Canst thou reeal the day when thy no-, .ble cousin and his bride were entertained in state within this castle?” The earl thought for a momen* and named the fourth of April. “And on that day,” replied tho squire, “ I was at the castle of Argentcuil! So we are told. Let me ask again*—who was in attend ance on thy person on the fourth of April?” The earl answered without hesitation, “ thou wert, Jaques, most certainly; and now that I remember me, thou wert by my side during the . whole of that day, saving lor the space, I should flunk, of three hours. Was not tins the case 1 About three hours?” “It Was, my lord,” replied Jaques. “ Account, then, for the way in which those three hours were employed, and we must be satisfied.” The squire colored deeply as he bowed, and then entreated to be excused replying to that I question ; but he begged to remak that the dis tance from the carl’s castle to that of Argen teuil was about three-and-twenty miles. He desired to know ifhis entrance to the castle of the knight had been observed by any one—if the lady of Carogne had no witness to support her assertions? Aline now calmly reminded the car' of the question he had put to the squire—in what manner these three hours had been employed ? I Deeper still Was the color that mounted over the countenance of Jaques le Grys. He drew near to his master, and murmured a few words in an under tone. The earl paused awhile, and then said,“yes, it will be the surer way of discovering flic truth. One intrigue may per chance conlound the other.'’ He commanded three ofthe noblest gentle men present to go to the lodgings ofßerina Lurano, and to conduct her immediately to his presence. They returned within ten minutes, accompanied by the wanton Italian, and she confessed with an assumed reluctiuice, that three hours, on the fourth day of April, had been passed by the squire, Jaques le Grys, in her society. Would it have been supposed, that with little farther investigation, with no other evidence but that of Benna Lunaro, an Italian courtesan, Alencon declared his squire innocent of tho crime with which he had been charged ! The lady of Carogne had not spoken while the Italian remained in the huff, She waited i- till the earl had announced his judgment, and ,f then she rose with the same self-possession y which had distinguished her, and turning to the e company, thus addressed them : r “It was for justice that I came hither, and . now I will depart, for I may seek justice here ■, no longer. My lord of Alencon, listen to these i my Words, for I would speak thus plainly even j in thy presence. I have :ot been justly dealt r with, and this yoUr spirit will tell you if you /• ask it faithfully. Before I leave you. I would . call these facts to your remembrance. I have t dwelt within your notice since m.y early youth. , My father’s name hath ever been revered, and while I lived with him and my sainted mother, f I was unblamed by you, and by the world, t My honored father has come hither leading his . child with his own hand. Would he have • done this were I the loose, shameless wretch j you take me for? With my husband I have • lived happy, and in the sweetest confidence of i heart: I never hai e deceived him. You know [ that had I pleased, 1 might now have seemed ; an undefiled wife; he would have kept his se- • cret, perchance, as closely as he keeps it now. i But here I stand and openly proclaim my > shame. Here I renounce my husband and my > home; and here I solemnly repent, that Jaques i le Grys, your squire, was indeed the brutal ra . visher of this vile body. The time may come whan you will give full credence Io my words. Methinks it was almost too hard on me, fallen . as I am, to call into my presence that bold I tai t ian wanton, and then to hear her as a more . faithful witness than myself. This was poor , justice—it was unkind, unpitying, to believe I that common wanton before wife, the hon est and devoted wife, ofthis brave knight your [ servant!” When the lady had thus spoken, she turned i away and waited not for a reply. Warned she might be by the look of unconcern which still remained on Alencon’s face. But as she went, she faltered some few times, and clung to her old father’s arm mere closely, and once she bowed her face upon his shoulder, and an hys teric sob was heard. She betrayed, afterwards, no sign of agitation; but with a firm step, and with much dignity she left, in company with her husband and kinsmen, the castle of Alencon. The knight of Carogne was not to be silenc ed, though thus dismissed by the earl, his mas ter. He well trusted and believed his wife ; and so he went to Paris, and laid the matter before the parliament, and appealed Jaques le Grys, who appeared and answered to his ap peal. It was said that the earl of Alencon was sore displeased at the determined conduct of the brave knight, and oftentimes would have had hitr slain, but that the matter was in the par liament. But the knight of Carogne was of great courage, and he persisted that he would maintain his quarrel to the death ; and because the lady could make no proof against Jaques le Grys but by her own words, judgment was given by the parliement that mortal battle should be done between the knight and the squire. And it was judged that if the former was over, come in that battle, and yet survive, he should lose his head, and that the lady Aline should suffer death at the stake. I n the place Katharine, behind the temple, in Paris, the lists were erected. The king and his court, the duke of Burgundy and his train, and thousands of the Parisian populace, were present. The two champions entered the field armed at ull points. The knight of Carogne was seconded by the earl of St. Paule, and • Jaques le Grys by his lord, Alencon. Silence ■ was commanded, and the knight, proceeding to, that part of the lists where the lady Aline was seated in a chair covered with black, thus a«k>’ dressed her : “ Lady, by your information and*; in your quarrel am I about to peril my li/<- ju* battle with Jaques le Grys—you know yfie' cause be just and true.” Her face was deajfllt pale, and her frame, wasted by continual grref, trembled like the frail leal of the aspen; but she rose up and said : “ Knight, it is as I have said—the cause is good and true.” So dis tinct were the tones of her clear voice, that her words were heard all over the field. — When she had spoken, slie knelt down, and lifting her clasped hands to heaven, regardless of the crowd around her, she prayed aloud for her husband’s life, and for victory to his geod cause. The knight kissed her forehead, bless ed her, and entered the field. The high and fearless spirit es the lady left her not again ; though her agony was dread ful when she heard the rushing of their char gers, the shivering of the spears, and the loud, • mad clashing of their swords. Once came a moment’s pause. The lady looked not down ; though the deep murmur ofthe multitude went to her heart. She saw not that her husband was wounded, and was again sweeping fierce ly on his enemy. The blazing of their weapons in the sunshine darted like lightning flashes before her eyes, and dazzled them into tears. The ground shook beneath her feet, and the rapid blows parted the very air that blew over her face. Yet with all this dreadful jense of the passing combat, her mind clung and trust ed to one exalted hope, and that hope did not fail her. Another, but not a silent pause ! A general stirring sounded throughout the crowd, and voices from all sides burst forth, some in shout ings of joy. Her husband’s fate was decided; and slowly closing her eyes, she sunk down in a swoon. Though the attention of the spectators was drawn to the situation of the combatants, yet some there were who turned to the poor lady, and by their assistance she revived. Her husband’s form first met her sight; but neither gashed with wounds, nor stretched breathless and bleeding on the earth. He was standing erect before his king* and she saw that the king smiled upon him—Jaques le Grys was slain, and his corse was yet lying where he fell, lie had confessed his gUilt. Another trial awaited Aline of Carogne, and from it the heroic lady aid not shrink. With her husband she left the field of combat for the church of our lady of Paris, and there they had < on their knees humbly and fervently offered up their thanks and praises to the throne of grace. They bad noW risen and Aline leaned upon her husband’s bosom, and wept freely. She had not ceased* when he led her to a small door, which opened from one of the side aisles, near the high altar, to the cloisters ofthe adjoining convent. Oftentimes did the knight clasp more tenderly in his arms bis young and weeping lady; and oftentimes did he kiss, with trem bling lips, her forehead and pale cheek, and the one thin, little hand which lay upon bis shoul dr. At length she lifted Up h< r head, and a smile played upon her lip, though it scarcely rose into her large melancholy eyes. Once more she sank upon his bosom and their lips met in one last kiss. Then he suffered her to raise her head from his breast, and to withdraw her hand frotn his grasp, and his eyes alone followed with their earnest gaze the form which departed from his sight—forever! 1 From the New-Yorker. r , STANZAS. FROM ‘ LOOSE LEAVES OF A SAILOR'S JOURNAL.' Says Mrs. Hernans—‘Alas for love, if thou wert all, ‘ And nought beyond, Oh Earth!” 5 Where now is Poor Jane ?—perhaps, like her infant, » ‘a clod of the valley’—all her little gifts, tokens ofher ( affection, scattered in different parts of the world; but gratitude for her kindness I hope I will never lose. It was after parting from her, one very fine evening, that • I penned the following, being I believe the only lines I I ever wrote her. ! They met —’ twas in a foreign clime, Beneath a tam’rind tree Just as the moon began to climb Above the silver sea. The whispering of the dark green trees, The shading of the grove, The crimson sky, the balmy breeze, Alftempting seemed to love. And she was fair as boyhood's dreams, As lovely and &s young, And pure as mountain’s purest streams, From Alpine sources flung. And more—her heart had failed to hide What she had fain concealed ; But eyes not ruled by Woman’s pride Her secret had revealed. But he in early youth adored As none had done before; For him Life's bitterest draught was poured, Until tho cup ran o’er. So love's warm smile to his heart As sunshine to the snow ; It might destroy, but not impart Aught of its cheerful glow. Yet, though his heart was hard and seared By cold deceit and wrong, Still, not by him was coldly heard Her mild and syren tongue. For burning were the heart-wrung tears That from his his dark eyes fell, As yielding to his coward fears, He bade that girl farewell. S. From the Knickerbocker for May. LINES. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND GOING TO ETROFE. ■Spring's voice is on the breeze I She calleth home her wild birds o’er the main, And loud they carrol back to her again— Swift winging o’er the seas ! Her breath had waked the flowers! She whisp’reth forth the young leaves from their rest; She woos the soft grass from earth’s parent breast, With her bright sun and showers. She hath unlocked the chain 1 The streams come dashing downward from the hills ; An echo soundeth from a thousand rills To the rejoicing main I And hath she wiled thee forth, Now, in the joyous childhood of the year, To tell to other climes her beauties here. Os sky, and fount, and earth ? Thou goew —uk .ko wwl— With white-wing’d ships o’er ocean’s foaming crest— Thou leav’st for far-off lands the eaglets nest, With mourning ones behind. Kind wishes waft die on I There is an outspread wing above the tide— A ‘strong right hand,’ that will thee safely guide Upon the way thou’rt gone. -ione. Planners of Gentlemen and Ladies in Pub lic.—So much more has naturally been obser by travellers of American manners in sta -1 steamboats than in private houses, that i,all has been said, over and over again, that the , Subject deserves. I need only testify that I do not think that the Americans eat faster than other people on the whole. The celerity at hotel-tables is remarkable; but so it is in stage coach travellers iu Enhland, who are allowed ten minutes or a quarter of an hour for dining, i In private houses, I was never aware of being hurried. The cheerful,nnintermitting civility of all gentlemen travellers, throughout the country, is very striking to a stranger. The degree of consideration shown to woman is, in my opinion, greater than is rational, or good for either party ; but the manners of the American stage-coach travellers might afford a valuable lesson and example to many classes ol Europeans who have a high opinion of their own civilization. Ido not think it rational or fair that every gentleman, whether old or young, sick or well, weary or untired, should, as a matter of course, yield up the best places in the stage to a lady passenger. I do no* think it fair that five gentlemen should ride on the top of the coach, (where there is no ac commodation for holding on, and no resting place for their feet,) for some hours of a July day, in V irginia, that a young lady, who was slightly delicate, might have room to lay up her feet, and change her posture as she pleas ed. It is obvious that, if she was not strons 1 enough to travel on common terms in the stage. 1 her family should have travelled in an extra, or staid behind, or done any thing rather than i allow five persons to risk their health and Sac- 1 rifice their comfort for the sake of one. What i ever may be the good moral effects of such 1 self-renunciation on the tempers of die gentle- ’ men, the custom is very injurious to ladies, j Their travelling manners arc any thing but 1 amiable. While on a journey, women who appear I well enough in their homes, present all the 1 characteristics of spoiled children. Scream- 1 mg and trembling at the apprehension of dan- i ger are not uncommon; but there is something ' far worse in the cool selfishness with which 1 they accept the best of every thing, at any sac rifice to others, and usually, in the South and ; West* without a word or look of acknowledg ment. They are like spoiled children #ben the gentlemen are not present to be sacrificed to them—in the inn parlor, while waiting for i meals, orthe stage, and in the cabin of a steam- i boat. I never saw any manner so repulsive i ois that of many American ladies on board i steamboats. They look as if they supposed 1 you mean to injure them, till you show to the contrary. The suspicious side-glance, or the ■ full stare, the cold, immovable obser ation, the bristling self-defence the moment you come 1 near, the cool pushing to get tho best place* ev- | ery thing said and done without the least trace i of trust or cheerfulness—these are the disa- i greeable consequences of’ the ladies being pet- < ted and humored us they are. The New Eng- < land ladies, who are compelled, by their supe rior numbers, to depend less upon the care of 1 others, arc far happier and pleasanter compan- < ions in a journey than those of the rest of the t country. 1 7*/ie Real Vulgarity of America.— The irai:- < tiers of the wealthy ciasses depend, of course- < upon the character of their objects and inter- t cst; but they are not, on the whole, so ugreea- t Vol. V—No. 11- ble as those of their less opulent neighbors. The restless ostentation of such as live for grandeur and show, is vulgar; ns I have said, the only vulgarity to be seen in the ceuntrv Nothing can exceed the display of it at water. , ing places. At Rockaway, on Long Island ’l l saw in one large room, while the cornpawy i was waiting for dinner, a number of groups which would have made a good year’s income for a clever caricaturist. If any lady, with an eye and a pencil adequate to the occasion, would sketch the phenomena of affectation that might be seen in one day in the piazza and drarving-room at rockrway, she might be a useful censor of manners. Bitt the task would be too full of sorrow and shame for any one with the true republican spirit; for my own parti felt bewildered in such company. It was as if I had been set down on a kind of de batable land between the wholly imaginary society of the so-called fashionable novels of late years, and the broad sketches of citizen life given by Madame D’Arblny. It wns like nothing real. When I saw the young ladies trickled out in the most expensive finery, flirt ing over the backgammon board, tripping af fectedly across the room, languishing with a sventy-dollar cambric handkerchief, starting up in ecstacy at the entrance of a baby; the mother as busy with affectations of another kind, and the brothers sideling hither and thith - er, now with assiduity and now with nonchal ance; and no one imparting the refreshment of a natural countenance, movement, or tone, I almost doubted whether I was awake. The village scenes that I had witnessed rose up in strong contrast—tho mirthful wedding, the wagon-drives, the offering of wild-flowers to the stranger, the nnintermitting, simple cour tesy of each to all; and it was scarcely credi. ble that the contrasting scenes could both be existing in the same republic.— Miss Martin eau. It is seldom such poetry as the following is encounter ed, either in foreign or domestic journals. We find it in a recent periodical, and like many other such gems that are doomed to survive the wreck of time, it is shrouded in the mystery of “ an anonyme. "—Evening Star. fame. To die, and leave behind Nought of surviving fame, Os the divine, creating mind No trace, no single name ? To know no deed, no word. Our memwy to restore, But that when gone, there shall he heard Os us no mention more. Nay, mock not that thou hear'stme sigh ; My friend ! this is indeed te But to live on and on, Among the great, the good, Eternal station to have won ’Mid that high brotherhood; Deep in the hearts of men . Enshrin'd to be; To shine a beacon to the ken Os far posterity:— Who would not days for ages give T Who would not die, such life to live ? What idle words are theirs, • ▼v IH7 uicrxis TKMUIU UUI pu Ul3 -—' To passing pleasures, present cares, Brief as the fleeting hours 1 So deemed not they, I ween. The great of other days, Whose brows still wear the living green, Whose lamps still brightly blaze ; So deemed' not they, who struck the lyre With Milton’s truth, with Homer's fire. No! from a fount divine These restless longings come— This hope in honor’d light te shine Above tlie cold, dark tomb, Oh ! when from life I part, Let mo not wholly die; Still with sweet song to charm the heart. Or raise with musings high; Still live in the remember’d line— Oh ! might this glorious meed be mine Eloquence of Brougham. A late number of a foreign periodical con tains an excellent article on Lord Brougham, from the pen ofthe author ofthe “Great Me tropolis.” ' The following is a vivid sketch of his maimer when managing an important case at the bar, and of the influence which he exer cised over the feelings of his auditors. “ To cases of an unimportant kind he never could apply his mind. How striking the con trast when he appeared in an importalit case especially if it was involving any great princi ple of civil or religious duty ! —On such occa sions Brougham far exceeded iqthe talent and energy he displayed, any who has practised at the bar for the last quarter of a century. He usually rose in a cahn and collected manner enunciated a few sentences in a subdued tone, expressive of the sense he entertained of the importance of the task he had undertaken, and solicited the indulgence of the jury, while he trespassed on their attention for a short time. He then proceeded, in slow accents, and in measured sentences, to develope the generali ties ofthe case, gradually rising in auimatian in ma ner and increasing the loudness of his voice and the rapidity ol his utterance, until he J arrived at the most, important parts of his sub-jF ject. The first indication he usually gave of having reached those points in his spi'lUfll ” which he intended to apply all the energies of his mind, was that of pulling his gown further up on his shoulders, and putting his tall gaunt figure into as erect and commanding a posture as he could assume without endangering his e equilibrium. Then came his vehement gesti-, culation*—-the rapid movemert of his right arm, with an occasional wafture of his left hand, and the turning and twisting of his body in eve. ry variety of form. His eye, which before was destitute of fire, and his features, which were composed and placid as those of a marble statue, were now pressed as auxiliaries into ths service of his client. His eyes flashed with the fire of one whose bosom heaved with tu multuous emotions, and tho whole expression of his face Was that of a man whose mind was worked up to the utmost intensity of feeling. And this was ’•eally the case with Brougham wheneveathe interest of his clients was identi fied with some great principle. His princi ples, unlike those of barristers in general, were really a part of his nature. In vindicating or asserting them, therefore, in the person of his client he was in point of fact, repelling some outrage which had been offered to himself. To have seen him in some of these was tru. ly a spectacle worthy of the name. It was only on such occasions that any accurate esti mate could be formed of the vast recourses of his mind. He then poured from his lips stratus ofthe loftiest ordero eloquence. Ideat<JJuW ed idea, principle succieled prince/ —illus- tration accompanied illustrat" i h ti rapidi. ty which was asto usW One momeut he