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BY JAMES W. JOKES.
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OF
A A* EW LITER A RY JO UR N A L,
.THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON.
FJIHE Second Number of this Periodical is
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\VM. R. SMITH, Editor and Proprietor l
GEORGIA, CLARK COUNTY.
Rule Nisi.
Inferior Court sitting for Ordinary purposes. I
adjourned Term, 12th June, 1837.
1T appearing to the Court that Howell Elder I
S in his life time executed his bond for titles to I
William Appling, for one House and Lot in the ■
Town of Watkinsville, occupied by Mrs-Ste
phens, and a Lot fronting said lot joining Bar- :
nett, and the Land joining said Lots and bound- i
ed by Murray and Harden, now in possession j
of Mrs. Stephens; audit further appearing to j
the Court that said Bond has been regularly as
signed to David Stephens deceased, and the con
ditions ot said Bond having been complied with.
It is therefore ordered that the Administrator of
the said Howell Elderdec’d. be directed to make
and execute titles to the said House and Lot,
and adjoining premises embraced in said Bond,
within the time prescribed by law to the heirs
general of the said David Stephens deceased,
or shew cause to the contrary—And it is fur
ther ordered that this Rule be published once a
month, for three months in one of the public
Gazetts of this State.
I certify that the foregoing is a true, extract
from the "minutes of said Court, this 13th June,
1837.
GREEN B. HAYGOOD, d. c. o. o.
June 17,—7 — m3m
Southern Whig
From the Philadelphia Saturday Chronicle.
NIGHT.
BY JOHN S. DE SOLLE.
“How beautiful is Night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;
No mist obscures, no cloud, no speck, no stain,
Breaks the serene heaven.
In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine,
Rolls through the dark blue depths
Southey Thalsba.
I love thee, Night!
Thou laughter-featured, starry-eyed brunette :
Thy dark browed beauty, and mysterious light,
i Are fraught with sad, yet exquisite delight;
Joy, tinctured with regret. —
Hove not Day's voluptuous gorgeousness, ,
When the proud sun walks proudly o'er the earth ;
When the blue sky puts on a garish dress,
Os glittering white, and gold,—and, peeping form,
The tiny stars, in vain their little eyes,
Ode to the blazing flood that clothe the skies ;
When every wind with labour tones swelling,
Os toil, and care, and grief, most eloquently telling 1
But thee I love, O, Night!
Thy careless, toilless, fairy-footed hours,
So darkly beautiful, so dimly bright!
With thy wind-quivering leaves, and' fragant flowers;
Thy rippling streams, that, in the moonlight glancing,
Tc-ss in th’ air, the silvery-sheeted spray ;
While through the gloom dim, arrowy forms, go dancing.
Like shadows 'mid the green arcades at play.
I love thine hour of high, and solemn noon;
Which the pale student, o’er his huge tome dozing,
Starts at the watch-dog’s melancholy moan ;
When the hushed earth in slumber seems reposing,
And even one’s life-breath hath a mystic tone :
Thme hour when visions throng the winged mind ;
And, the dark cerements bursting, of the < >mb,
Terrific phantoms mount the couchant wind,
And hideous fancies conjure, as they roam.
I love thee, Night! for thou hast many a charm,
Around life's chain of good and evil wound,
Wreathing its Enks with gladness, as the form
Os the young ivy twines the rude oak round.
For the parched flower, thou hast refreshing dew,
And the worn spirit,—child of hopes and fears, —
Fevered, and flushed, with Days exciting cares,
Thou hast for such a kindly influence too!
Thou hast gay, festal hours, —thou hast the song—
The breath of music, and the joyous dance :
The ball, the banquet, all to thee belong,
And many a glorious thought, w’hose memory haunts
With its bewitching light, long after years,
Like a bright beacon star, amid
A firmament of tears.
Yet there are those who chide thy lingering stay;—
The weary watcher, near the sick-bed lying;
The busy brain to sleepless thought a prey.
And the lost, wretched one, that hopless, dying,
Feels with earth's rivers, life’s stream ebb away; *
Aye, unto such, thou art not welcome all!
Wealth unto wealth hath its affection still,
The light, and laughing spirit, they may call
Upon thee openly, and Mirth may fill
To the brim her cup,
And tlie Gay ma y sup.
Os the honeyed poison, yet it shall not kill:
'Tis but the weak,
Who may not speak,
But fate stands gaping at, to work them ill;
Fur whom, the earth beneath.
And the air they breathe,
All seemed venomed with peculiar skill!
The guilty dread thee, and the sad, and lonely,
Fearfully shudder at thy solitude—
’Tis but the joyous, and the joyous only.
Who deem thee ever in a kindly mood ;
Who still thee lovely, find, and willing to be wooed ' j
* Death a! night, is said to occur, usually atZoio water.
An £»ciile»t of lhe Revolution.
[by MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.] 1
** * * The morning dawned on the I
unfortunate Male’s confinement just as he
had committed to paper and secured the
information he had forfeited his life to ob
tain. Me knew that he gazed on the bles
sed sun for the last time, lie felt that in
a few short hours, a portion of the beauti
ful earth, now spread out so gloriously,
would be lying a cold mass on his bosom.
Me knew this, and his heart cramped like
a deceased thing within him. Be thought
of his parents in their bereaved loneliness,
of his betrothed, in her broken-hearted ’
I grief, and again it expanded with sorrow- 1
: tug tenderness. lie was as brave a man ■
i as ever confronted death, still he felt it was ;
■ a fearful thing to yield up life in its young 1
I hopes, to enter into the unknown bound-
i lessness of eternity, with a lew hours’ pre
i paration. lie asked for the company of a
, clergyman, but none came ; for a bible,
i but none was procured. Me knelt down
in his last prayer, and the out-pouring of
his soul was broken in upon by those who
came to conduct him to the gallows tree.
He went forth to his execution, not seek
ing a man’s applause on the very brink of
' eternity, by a false bravado against nature.
; rushing, with his proud soul cased in pride,
' up to the very presence of the Most High,
overcoming natures’s just fears, and chal
lenging after ages to admire the boldness
with which his ambitious soul could pass
to the awful face of Jehovah. There w;-.s
no such presumption in Hale’s death.—
With a full and solemn sense of the awful
| event, be went to meet his fate as aChris-
I tian—a soldier. His soul was bowed in
i humility to God; and his last words were,
-Oh, that I had more lives to offer up to
I my country.”
I•#* * * * *
It was a splendid scene, the dinner ta-
■ ble of the English commander. Fir m
his own land of luxury had he imported
! the massive plate and delicate china that.
! covered it, loaded profusely with viands,
i British gold had purchased the tory far
' mors cutlery, goblets sparkled with wine.
I like ‘moltern rubies or liquid amber,’ and
brimmed to the lips of the gay young offi
cers, who in their glittering uniforms sur
rounded by song and wine, revelling on the
brink of intoxication. Loud rose their
voices of merriment in gleeful chorus, when
a servant entered with information that a
! female had arrived at their camp with a
i Bag of truce : and demanded an interview
with General Howe,
| A haughty smile curled the Englishman’s
■ lip. as lie addressed an Aid-de-camp.—
’J 1 What trick is this think you? The rebels
' must be in extremities, indeed when they
! send us women instead of ambassadors.’
“WHERE POWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THERIGHTFUL REMEDY.”— JejferSOn.
ATHENS, CrEOR&SA, SATIL’RSJAT, AL 7 5<luST I©, 1537.
I The aid-dc-camp answered his general’s
| smile, and demanded of the servant it the
i lady were young or old?
j ‘ Young, sir.’
I ‘And pretty?’ asked a dozen voices at
[ once.
I “Rather pale, your honors.’
‘ Young and interesting; our gallantry
lis bestirring itself;’ exclaimed some of the
same voices; ‘general pray admit her.’
‘Silence, gentlemen, silence, the wine
has made you noisy,’ replied Genera!
Howe, rising from the table, and ordering
the servant to admit the visitor immedi
ately.
Most of the young officers were on their
feet, and all eyes were turned to the en
| trance as Sarah Eason advanced —herdeep
1 mourning rendered her pale features al
most ghostly, and her crape veil thrown
back so as to display her white forehead
and eyes, touchingly sweet in their expres
sions, even while resting on the form of
him who made her heart desolate. Not a
word was spoken by the group that sur
rounded the dinner table ; the merry smile
was quenched on the warm lips of each
gay individual as he looked on the young
American who stood before them in the
beautiful majesty ofher grief. Howe ad
vanced with stately politeness to receive
her but she shrunk from his approach, and
with steady dign'ty, requested the body
of Nathan Hale for Christian burial.
Howe was evidently surprised at the
nature of the petition, but courteously an
swered that it could not be granted, Cap
tain Hale having already been buried three
days.
■ Yet surely he might be disinterred,’ per-;
sisted she, eagerly stepping forward—then
seeing denial in his look, she added be
seeching, ‘you will not refuse his old par
ents a last look on the face of their son ; ■
if you are a father you cannot be so cruel
ly deaf to humanity.’
‘ .Are you the sister or wife of the de
ceased, that you thus urgently ask for his
remains ?’
‘Neither, oh neither,’replied the tortur
ed girl, pressing her hands over her eyes
to hide the burst of tears the question had
unlocked. A young officer pitying her
distress, handed her a chair. She sat \
down, and was endeavouring to check her
untimely tears, when another advanced, a
thing of laced scarlet and huge epaulettes,
and touching the tip ofher white neck with
his insolent finger, demanded ‘ if she were
neither the wife nor the sister of the hand
some spy, what else could she be, unless it
were a sweetheart?’
The blood flashed into the marble check
of the insulted girl, like a sudden sunset;
but without answering him, she turned to
Gen. Howe and said— ‘ I expected at least
to be secure, but as 1 nnd myself mistaken.
I request an answer to my petition and li
i berty to withdraw.’
Howe cast on the young impertinent a
look of stern anger; then turning to Sa- !
rah he said with smooth suavity of manner j
so common to the unfeeling man of the .
i world, and difficult to contend against, so ,
! artfully does it charm away opposition— j
j ‘ Young lady, I regret that it is not in my i
; power to grant your request. The re
! mains you seek have been disposed of ac
i cording to the law in such cases, and must
! not be disturbed. I should be extremely
happy to gratify you, but in this, as I have i
said.il is entirely out of my power.’
Sarah was about to speak again, but I
with a bow of dismissal he requested the
: young officer who had handed her the chair
j to conduct her to the boat, in which she
j came. Sarah shrunk from the offered arm
of her conductor, though much her trem
bling limbs needed support, and walked si
lently to the shore; but just as she was
stepping into the boat he drew close to her
side and whispered— ‘ Be in that little cove
i yonder at midnight, and I will help you to
the possession of the body you are so de
sirous to obtain.’ Sarah with a stifled cry
of joy seized his hand.
‘And will you indeed help me? God j
i bless you.’
j ‘ Restrain yourself,’ we shall be observ
i ed ; sail out of sight of the camp ; and at
( midnight come as 1 have directed to the
j cove—the grave is near by—you can sec
the tree,’ —he hesitated, but too late;
Sarah’s eyes had fallen on that fatal old
oak, standing bleak and alone, spreading
its huge branches against the sky, like the
congregated arms of giant executioners.
* A remnant of rope dangled from one of
; its gnarled limbs. Sarah gave one long,
i piercing look, and her heart seemed for a
I moment in the clutch of a vulture; then
! with a shuddering grasp of horror she
i sprung into lhe boat and shut out the fear
' fu! sight with her locked hands.
The same moon that had witnessed the
parting of Hale and his betrothed, now
shone upon her as she sat by the side of
his old father in the boat that lay upon her
oars in the cove, rocking to the swell of
the rising tide, and drilling by degrees to
wards the shore. The watchers were
anxiously looking for lhe appearance of
tl-.e generous Englishman, within hearing
of the sentinel stationed near the grave.
His heavy, measured tread, at length ceas
ed, and the sound of some voices came
from where he was standing.—There was
silence for a few moments, a crackling in
the brushwood that skirted the cove, and
I then the young officer stood on the beach
i within a few paces of them.
‘ Quick, pull on shore’—he called out in
I a suppressed voice—‘ J have got rid of the
i sentinel for half an hour—quick, or we shall
! not have tune.’ Two or three strokes of
i the oar brought the boat to his feet. The
! old man arose, the very picture of stern
I grief, the moonlight displaying the still lin
-1 eaments of his pale face, as lie grasped
I with both of his, the large white hand ex
i tended to assist him on shore. The boat
[ man followed, and Sarah was left alone.
It was a fearful half hour to the poor
j girl, the waves moaning like unquiet spir
! its about her, and the dreadful sound of
I shovelling earth and rnuffied voices coming
! from the distance. She dared not look
! after the three as they went towards the
■ grave, for her heart sickened at the thought
of again looking on the gallows-tree with
its horrid appendage.
A suspension of sounds caused Sarah to
raise her face from the folds of her shawl,
where she hac buried it; no living being
was in sight. But the black shadow of the
bloody oak had crept along the waters like
a vast pall endowed with vitality, till its
extremity lay upon the edge of the boat,
and was insidiously moving towards her.
‘V'ith a cry of terror, and shuddering all
over as if the unearthly dew of another
world was upon her, tht? poor girl snatch
ed and shoved the boat out into the moon
light. Again she looked up, and the three
who had disinterred the dead appeared,
bearing him over the bright grass, wrapped
in a cloak of lhe Englishman, the feet sup
ported by the generous officer, and the gray
hairs of the father streaming over the bo
som of his lifeless son. Noiselessly they
came to the shore. There the old man
left his burthen in the arms of the officer
while he took his seat in the boat; and then
his quivering arms were extended, and the
body of Nathan Hale, shrouded in its mil
itary winding sheet, was laid across the
lap of his father, while his head rested on
lhe chilled boson of his betrothed wife.
They went out upon the waters —the liv
ing and the dead, when old Hale raised his
grey head and spoke to the young girl.
•Sarah,in our mourning for the dead we
must not forget the duty we owe to the
country. Let i:s search for the papers
we are to carry to Washington.’ Then
with his old quivering hands he unfolded
the cloak and found the papers containing
the information purchased at so great a
sacrifice, secure 1 in the vest. In taking
them out of the bosom the corpse was laid
bare. The mocnlight poured full upon its
broad, white front; and there, just over
the pulseless heart, Sarah with a cry of
agony saw that long, bright ringlet of her
own hair.
IS OLD ENGI.ISBI CiSSISTMAS CARCE,.
I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne :
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Or his own changing mind an hour,
He'll smile in our face, and, with wry grimaco.
He'll wither your yongest flower.
Lot the summer sun to Ins bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me ;
When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be;
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train ;
And when love is too strong, it don’t last long,
As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Os the modest and
Has a far sweeter sheen forme, I ween,
Than the broad t and unblushing noon.
But everv leaf awakens my griaf,
As it lieth benea.h the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for Christmas stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold :
A Lumper I drain, and with might and mam
Give three cheers for this Christmas old.
We’ll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his j .ycus heart,
And we'll keep him up while there's bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we'll part.
In his fine hottest pride, he scorns to hide
One jot of his hard-weather scars,
They’re no disgrace, f . r theru’e much the same trace
O.i tlie cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing ’till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wa'i to wall —
To the stout old wsiglit fair, welcome to-night,
Ai the King of the Seasons al!!
ThelßriiLH Etc!
A TALE OF BOSTON IN THE OLDEN TIMES.
lii a retired avetiue it; th» roar of Washing
ton street, and nsar tlie ever to lie remembered
‘Old Snuth,’ stands a venerable pile, surmounted
by the u..couth figure <’fgrim son of the for
est, yet. kiown as the Prevmeo house. This
builuiisg was once the gay head quarters ofthe
Commander iu-Chiet of E'.g’and’s colonial
troops. Yes, flint antique, relic of a departed
age where now tis busy and important ‘cit’
resorts toenjov his Havana,’ and recruit his
temporal men. with life’s hreurics. was in olden
times the proud court cl a ki g’s military am
bassador.
Some six mo;-thq• after th ' incidents preced
ing, were seated ro«i.d a table in this mansion
a few gav voting officers ofthe English army.
Mirth and hilarity seemed to reign triumphant.
A. non.g the number not the least conspicuous,
sat Lord B ; and if the‘human face divine’
be an index to the heart, ho would have been
pro onneed the happiest o' the group.
‘Mv Lord B——said young Col. G., a
conceited .and good humored officer, ‘what a
lucky dog are you ! Ami then the mortifica
tion and envv you Have caused a score of oth
ers by your good fortune. Pon honor, I was
just on tile point of attempting an assault on her
myself. A lovely wife—and, what is better, a
plum bv the way ofsettlemettt on your marri
age—a tj prospect for a king’s officer in trits
cursed Yankee, land. I wish to Heaven there
was another wealthy and beautiful loyal nymph
hereabouts. 1 would make her happy as I
live, fur we h-iva uothitig else to lay seige to at
present.’ Aroit of merriment followed lhe
Colonel’s confident speech.
•My gaiiant colonel,’ said a more grave ma
jor, d tear you will never succeed in your fem
inine sieges. You always get the lucre fore
most in the articles of war. Believe me you
will never gain a damsel’s heart by courting
the daddy’s breeches pocket.’
‘Doni bo too hard, my good major ; my mind
wanders to that which is most needful. T hese
Yankee sharpers can drain British purses, even
though they excel in nothing. But lot us drop
this, arid drink to the health of the fair Miss
H. and our good Lord Arthur not forgetting
the approaching festiiily, which thank heaven,
will be one bright spot in our dark career.’
We leave this merry company, mid return to
the quarters of Lord B . S ated cn a
couch in his apartment, is the youthful messen
ger, Engctie. But how changed since the c
veutful night of oh arrival. A lew months ot
deep corroding anguish had made a fearful
contrast in his fair form. The jolly short cur
!i >g h iir is thrown aside, and from the fair
brow flow luxuriant locks of beautifully tinged
au iburu, Tlw ft fiti ig i' arful < ye;, the flush
ed cheeks, the firmly closed lips and heaving
bosom, reveal to the reader the ardent, devoted
Lady Julia. Near at hand stands, regarding
her with respectful look, the Valet Ralph.
After a long and agonizing indulgence in her
woe, the lady raised her head and spoke.
‘For this painful confirmation of my suspicions
I thank thee, my kind Ralph Now that his
falsehood is truly unmasked—now that I feel
he has filled my cup of bitterness to the brim—
I will witness with my own eyes these blast
ing events to my young hopes. O, Ralph,
what have I not sacrificed for this man ? this
base hearted monster! Havel not suffered
exile from my native land, and passed even the
bounds of my sex to behold his smile—to
breathe the same air that is charmed by his
presence? Have I not sacrificed home,
friends, comfort, perhaps my own proud name,
for this false wretch ?’
‘T rue madam. But cannot your feigned re
port of loss of fortune, and your great distance
—the long period since his leaving England—
be some attonemeut for master’s untruth.’
‘No, Ralph, this will not atone for wrongs
like mine. 11 is but a foolish romantic whina
of mine, to witness its effect on him ; for '.bis
I bore to him my own letters—and oh I lhe
love and devotion he showered on my thirsty
spirit on that night of our meeting. Little
knew he who listened and feasted on his every
word. Had the fond delusion of that excited
night unbroken for one short week, how gladly
would 1 have thrown off'all disguise, and sur
rendered myself, my fortune, and my whole
soul to him ! But to be thus cast off, slighted,
and forgotten! Shall the list of my proud and
ancient line be thrown aside by him who once
thought, lived, and breathed but in my presence;
and all this for an acquaintance of an hour?
No, Ralph, I have fed upon his bounty like a
dog, and of late his very brute has had more
smiles and kind looks than the neglected and
despised Eugene. But I have passed the bound
of maiden honour—from shame and an insul
ted spirit there is no retroat. There yet re
mains revenge 1 Revenge, such as woman’s
heart can only dream! My kind Ralph, you
have been faithful to me—be silent yet, and
leave me.
Another flood of scalding tears burst from
her wild and flashing eyes, and she bent her
aching head upon the couch in silent agony.
Bright and joyous was the festal on the
night destined for the marriage of Lord Arthur
B , and the lovely Miss H . Her fa-
ther’s mansion was filled with fair ladies and
gay officers of the king, and the bright lamp
shone o’er bright women and brave men.—
Sweet m isic filled the hall, and proud figures
clad in scarlet and gold, blended with those of
virgin whiteness, flitted through the mazy
figures of the giddy dance. All present ap
peared joyful and light, hearted, save one. In
the deep recess of a window stood a pale boy.
And unnatural brightness beamed from his
dark eves, and he seemed not to note the gaie
ty before him. The gushing melody that flout
ed through the brilliant apartment, and the
ringing laugh of youth, fell not in gladness on
Illa C<X» • O ««r <3 vv Alli-
in the bursting heart of that lone boy.
The hour for the ceremony drew near, but
where a re the happy beings for whom this fes
tive circle is gathered? In a secluded arbor
in the garden sat a youthful couple, conversing
in a low confidential tone; and how many
blissful dreams ofthe future, and what high and
happy hopes urged their delusive visions on
the minds of that young pair. They are a
waited for at the altar. The aged father of
the voting bride approaches the pale Eugene.
‘Tell thv master that the hour is at hand.’
The boy started like one awakened from a
dteam—he looked around with a wild amaze
ment, then answered in a voice of hoarse, un
earthly tone, ‘I will.’
The agony expressed in those brief words
rang strangely on the happy group around.
The boy had vanished.
Suddenly a shriek rang th-ough the mansion
that blanched the blood from many a lovely
cheek. All rushed to the arbor. The young
nobleman lay stretched upon the earth—the
life’s blood gushed from his heart, tinged with
yet deeper shade his crimson attire. Sinking
by his side was the slight figure of a youth ;
his open garment revealing the white bosom ot
a female, with the undrawn dagger yet flash
ing within the faintly throbbing heart. With
the last exertion of fleeting life she exclaimed,
‘This is my revenge! This is the fearful
price of a blighted name of woman’s wrongs !’
The bodies of those victims of broken truth
were borne to their far distant native land.
The fair Emma H has long since been
laid in the family vault of ancient ‘Copp’s.'
All has since changed save the certainty that
mankind are prone to falsehood ; and that vows,
like bubbles, are as easily broken as made.
NloMsit Sinai.
From “ Incidents of Travel in Egypt, Arabia, vfc.
BY AN AMERICAN.
* * * At eight o’clock I was break
fasting! the superior was at my side, offer
ed all that the convent could give, and
urging me to stay a month, a fortninght, a
week, at least to spend that dav with him,
and repose myself after the fatigues of my
journey ; but from the door of the little
room in which I sat I saw the holy mountain,
and I longed to stand on its lofty summit.
Though feeble and far from well, 1 felt the
blood of health again coursing in my veins,
and congratulated rnysell that I was not so
hackneyed in feelingas I had once suppos
ed. I found and I was happy to find for
the prospective enjoyment of my farther I
journey, that the first tangible monument |
in the"history of the Bible, the first spot;
that could be called holy ground, raised in |
me feelings that had not been awakened I
by the most classic ground of Italy and
Greece, or the proudest monuments ofthe
arts in Europe.
* * * Continuing our ascent, the
old monk still leading the way, in about a
quarter of an hour we came to the table
of rock standing boldly out, and running
down, almost perpendicularly, an immense
distance to the valley. I was expecting
another monkish legend, and my very heart
thrilled when the monk -told me that this
was the top ofthe hill on which Moses had
sat during the battle ot the Israelites and j
the Amalekites, while Aaron and Hur sup
ported his uplifted hands until the sun
went down upon the victorious arms of his >
people. From the height I could see clear
ly and distinctly, every part of the battle
ground, and the whole vale ofßephidim
and the mountains beyond; and Moses,
while on this spot, must have been visible
to the contending armies from every part
ofthe field on which they were engaged.
* * ■ I stand upon the very peak of
Sinai—where Moses stood when he talked
with the Almighty. Can it be, or is it a
mere dreamAt’tan this naked rock have
been the of that great interview
between man and his Maker ? where, amid
thunder and lightning, and a fearful quak
ing of the mountain, the Almighty gave to
his chosen people the precious tables of
; his law, those rules of infinite wisdom and
goodness which, to this day, best teach
rnanhit' duty towards his God, his neigh
bor, and himself?
The scenes of many of the incidents re
corded in the Bible are extremely uncer
tain. Historians and geographers place
the garden of Eden, the paradise of our
first parents, in different parts of Asia;
and they do not agree upon the site of the
tower of Babel, the mountain of Ararat,
and many cf the most interesting places
in the Holy Land ; but of Sinai there is
no doubt. This is the holy mountain; and,
among ail the stupendous rorks of nature,
not a place can be selected more fitted for
the exhibition of Almighty power. I have
stood upon the summit ofthe giant Etna,
and looked over the clouds floating be
neath if; upon the bold scenery of Sicily,
and the distant mountains of Calabria;
upon the tup of Vesuvius, and looked
down upon the waves of lava, and the ru
ined and half-recovered cities at its foot;
but they are nothing compared with the
terrific solitudes and bleak majesty of Sinai.
An observing traveller has well calledit
“ a perfect sea of desolation.” Not a tree,
or shrub, or blade of grass, is to be seen
upon the bare and rugged sides of innu
merable mountains, heaving their naked
summit to the skies, while the crumbling
masses of granite ail around, and the dis
tant view of the Syrian desert, with its
boundless waste of sands, form the wildest
and most dreary, the most terrific and de-1
sedate picture that imagination can con-'
ceive.
The level surface of the very top, or
pinnacle, is about sixteen feet square. At
one end is a single rock, about twenty feet
high, on which, as said the monk, the spir
it of God descended, while in the crevice
beneath his favored servant received the!
tables of the law. There, on the same
spot where they were given, I opened the
sacred book in which those laws are re
corded, and read them with a deeper feel
ing ofdevotion, as if I were standing near
er, and receiving them more directly from
the Deity himself.
SUFFERINGS OF TWO SAILORS.
Two sailors belonging to an English fiigate
at Malta, having been ashore on liberty, and
much intoxicated, undertook to go on board in
the evening in a lit le boat. Ole of them,
named Cope, fell asleep iu-the
rticboai.—amt Chambers, his shipmate, after
having lost overboard the oar with which he
was sculling, followed the example of his com.
panion. The boat drifted out to sea, and on
awakening the next morning, they found them
selves several miles from land, with the wind
offshore without sails, and only one oar to aid i
them in returning to Malta. They continued
in sight of the island for two days—but on the I
third day. they found themselves in the midst |
ofthe Meditteranean—no land in sight—with- j
out ptovi-iotiß or water, and drifting about at j
the mercy of the winds ami waves. This j
was but the commencement of their sufferings }
—which were soon more than one would sup- 1
nose, human nature could bsar. Once or twice I
they caught a little water, when it rained in /
the bottom of th .‘boat, but it was so mixed
with salt water, that it tended to increase, ra
ther than assauge their thirst.
O.i the first day, not having seen any vessel
they gave up all hope, and resolved to meet lhe
dreadful death, which seemed inevitable, wi h
due resignation—comforting themselves with
the reflection that the boat would probably be
picked up, and their dead bodies would prove (
that they had not wilfully deserted from their
ship. They engaged bv solemn oaths, that in
ease one died before the other, the survivor
should not feast on the body of his shipmate.
Another day passed, when the boat leaki g,
and being nearly half Hilled with Wat r, Cope I
made an effort to bail out the water with his |
hut. But Chambers jjaVe himself up to de-j
sp it—his reason at length deserted him—
cramps had seized his limbs—he was the pic
ture of famine—the prey of a devouring fever
—his mouth foamed—his tongue was swelled J
to a frightful size, and his eyes had lost all
their wonted brilliancy. On the eigth day.
Chambers made a convulsive effort, and jumped
into the water—Cope threw towards him a
rope—but the hapless maniac noticed it not,
and soon sunk to rise no more. The next day,
twemv-six hours after the death of Chambers,
a vessel hove in sight, steering a course direct.
!v towards the boat. Cope had hardly ’he
strength necessary to make a signal of distress
by wav: g his hat. It proved to be an lonian
polacre, bound to Constantinople. Cope was
taken on board, and being treated with kind
ness and prudence, soon recovered. It was
on rhe fifteenth of last April that the boat was
driven to set 1 from Malta—and was picked up
on the 24th, in the course of which time, these
poor men had taken nothing into their stom
achs but a few mouthfuls of brackish water—
a case probably unparalleled in the annals of
shipwrecks. This was paying a fearful pen
alty foe Intemperance.— Boston Journal.
English and American Speculators.—
We once heard Baron Stieglitz, a German, one
ofthe wealthiest bankers and most enterprising
merchants in Europe, residing at St. Peters
burgh, whose shrewdness and knowledge of
human nature cannot be questioned, express
the following ideas in relation to the difference
existing in the characters of the American and
the English merchant. We believe that the
truth ofthe picture will be admitted without
dispute.
An American is enterprising and impetuous,
sanguine in his expectations, and desirous of
g in. An opportunity offers for a speculation;
and without calculating the chance of success
—without a moment’s deliberation—controlled
bv the spirit of adventure, he embarks his
whole capital in the uncertain enterprise, and
is afterwards astonished to find that his ruin
is complete!
On the otherhand, an Englishman carefully
measures his steps. The same speculation is
proposed to him—he deliberates—'tis the sub
ject of his conversation by day, and of his
dreams by ntght; and he calculates with math-
Vol. V—No. !«•
ematical prolixity the probability of success;
and thus prepared, apparently without a shad
ow of excuse tor the error, he embarks in the
same adventure. They both arrive at the
same goah the one with his eyes wide opeu>
the other blindfold.— Boston Journal.
CITY—w.—COUNTRY.
I affect the country, with a most engrossing
and strong attachment. It awakens my ten
dcrest feelings and my sweetest associations.
Delicious reveries descend upon my spirit, as
I walkthrough the meadows and clover
when the earth is white with summer, and
glowing with beauty. To see the wide land
scape u .deflating around you; to hear the cling
clang of the mower’s whet stone, as he shar
pens his scythe, while the heavy swaths are
lying around; to see the loaded wain rolling
onward to the garner, with fragrant hap, or
nodding wheat sheaves—embodiments of plen
ty, —these sights are pleasant, reader: and you
who reside in cities, where unwritten odours
of a most questionable salubrity assail your in.
dignant nostril; who breathe chimney-smoke
and dust, and suffer the secret back-bitings of
numerous bugs,—mostly of metropolitan origin*
—you, I sav, can have no imagination of the
delights of a country existence. Your hap
less ears are bored at morn with the superna
tural shriek of the tniik-man, or the amphibious
voices of the unmusical clam-dealer, oyster
man, or sweep; and you lie upon your bed,
tossing in restless disquiet,—you snore male
dictions, and think daggers, though you uss
none.
But out of town, —oh. it is perfect. Your
milk is fresh, yonr strawberries fresh, rich,
and succulent. The first commodity has not
been watered at the public pump, nor are the
latter luxuries bruised and unclean. I must
drop this topic, for iny mouth beginneth to wa
ter, a complaint, no remedy being nigh, that
is unpleasant to the last degree-
I affect the country, because my first im
pressions of this breathing world were formed
amid its hallowed scenery. I was cradled
among ttie hills; blue mountains melted in
the distance from my bed-room window; broad
fields, and woods, and rivers, shone between ;
the huge rains made melody on the roof of
home for my unsophisticated ear, and I be
camesteeod tn th» passionate love of nature.
It has never left me. I rejoice as I call back
those pleas.mt times, when in the casement of
our seminary, I rested my telescope on my
shut up Virgil, and locked off among the far
off hills in the lap of which the edifice was
naveled, and saw the pretty girls of th • f; rm
houses, whitening their long pieces ot brown
tow cloth, fresh from the loom—picking rasp
berries in the green hedges—drawing cool
water, in the swinging oak-bucket, to make
switchel withal, for the swains, as they Came
home for their forenoon lunch—or milking
their balm-breathing cows, ‘in the cool evening
tide!’ Those were happy days! and if I
learned mv Latin badly, ••nd made blunders in
recitation, I got many a leaf from the book of
nature, most deeply by heart.
♦ ♦ » ♦ ♦ ♦
rrw SSmTJ- -OiTTS~ ft siei>inDlish
one object—it softens the heart’ It awakens
the affections, and leads to contemplation.
‘God made the country, and Man made town.
In the former, there are no artificial wants,
prejudices, or fashions—all is cordiality, com
fort, and peace. We lock abroad upon the
j sol inn hills, the shining streams, and wav.ng
j wo idlands, and we feel that God is there!
i His hand placed the rock-ribbed mountain on
i its throne, and rolled around it its crown of
; misty glory. His breath fills the blue vault
| that swells above, until immensity, as it were,
, is visible: and His smile is shadowed only in
■ the sunbeams which those abysses of mystery.
How majestic is the coming of a summer
! storm ! We sit at the window of some rural
' mansion, to which we have fled from the thick
air amt h at of the metropolis; we see the
far off clouds arise like giant forms against the
horizon, with spears of fire, and robes of pur
ple a id gold ; then, as ny som • sudden alche
my, they melt into a mass of solid gloom, from
whose bosom the lightning dartstis vivid chain,
while its source
• Hangs o'or the solemn landscape, silent, dark.
Frowning and terrible.”
[“ Ollapodiana’ ’■—Knickerbocker.
Tom Patten's Exploits.— About the middle
of January when the Grenadiers, the 28th-,
were on duty in Spain, a daring fellow, an Irish
man, named Tom Patten, performed a singular
feat. At the barrier there was a rivulet, along
which our line of sentries were posted. To
the right was a thick, low wood, and during
the cessation of hostilities, our officers had
again become intimate with thoseofthe French,
and the soldiers had actually established a traf
fic in tobacco and brandy, in the following tn.
genious manner:—large stone was placed
in that part us the rivulet screened by the wood,
opposite to a French sentry, on which our
people used to put a canteen with a quarter of
a dollar, for which it was very soon tilled with
brandy. One afternoon, about dusk, Patten
had put down his canteen with the usual mo
ney in it, and retired; but though he returned .
several times, no canteen was there.
waited till the moon rose, but still he fou«K
nothing on the stone. When it was ne*.
mor ing, Tom thought he saw the same sentrte
there who was there when he put his canteetE
down; so he sprang across the stream, seized
lhe unfortunate Frenchman, wrested his fire,
lock from him, and actually shaking him out of
his accoutrements, re-crossed, vowing he would
keep them until he got his canteen ofbrandy.
and brought them to the piqnet-house. Two
or three hours afterwards, just ag we were a.
boui to fall in, an hour before day-break, the
sergeant came to say that a flag of truce was
at lhe barrier. I instantly went down, when
I found the officer of the French piquet in a
state of great alarm, saying that a most extra
ordinary circumstance had occurred (relating
the adventure), and stating, that if the sentry’s
armsand accoutrements were not given back,
his own commission would be forfeited, as well
as the life of the poor sentry. A sergeant was
instantly sent to see if they were in the ] iqnet
house, when Patten came up scratching his
head, saying, “ He had them in pawn for a can
teen of brandy and a quarter-dollar,” and told
ns the story in his way, whereupon the things
were immediately given over to the French
captain, who, stepping behind, put two five
franc pieces into Patten’s hand. Tom, how
ever, was not to be bribed by an enemy ; but
generously handed the money back. The
Frenchman was delighted to get the firelock
and accoutrements back; and the joy of the
poor fellow who was stripped of them may be
conceived, as, if it had been reported, he would
certainly have been shot by sentence of court,
martial within forty-eight hours. Patten,
however, was confined, and reported to Sir