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BY JAMES W. JOKES. The Southern Whig, yUBLISIIED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING. TERMS. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the fit 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 ah arrear ages are paid, except at the option of the pub • Usher. Persons requesting a discontinuance, of their Papers, arc requested to bear in mind, a settement of their accounts. 'Advertisements will be inserted at the usual i rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered out. Ail Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paiv in order to secure attention *5- Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty da vs previous to the day of sale. The sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to the day of sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that Application will be made to the Court j of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne- I groes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters j of administration, must be published thirty j days and Letters of Dismission, six months. , For Advertising—Letters ot Citation. $>2,5 Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 325 Four Months Notices, •* DO Sales of Personal Property by Executors, Administrators, or Guardians, 3La | Sales of Land or Negroes by do. 4 <a Application tor Letters ot Dismission, 4 on Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of sin'll type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, and 50 cents for each weeklv continuance. If published every other week, 62 1-2 cents for each continuance. If published once a month, it will be charged each time as a new advertisement. For a single insertion, 00 per square. _ pitOSi’E € T V § OF A A* EW LITER A RY JO UR N A L, .THE BACHELOR’S BUTTON. FJIHE Second Number of this Periodical is JL now before the Public. The very kind fa vor with which it has bq.cn 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. 1 A short notice of the Editor’s intentions and wishes accompanied the first number, and the approbation and indulgence with which Lis friends and the public generally received it, gave, to him hopes which lie had not previously in dulged. That Alabama would give a handsome sup- 1 port to such a publication was a matter of ex- | treine doubt; —owing more to her commercial ' and agricultural enterprise, than to any want > of liberality, or to the absence of a spirit f°r pt- | erarv advancement. But the avidity with which | fortune has been hunted down, has not taken j away the taste of her 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 terature. It is printed in a handsome style— I (not inferior in that respect to the oust 111 the i countrv.) The very medium of publication is ! calculated to inspire young ambition to vigor- I ous exertion, and to make the old and experien- ! ced writer happy in the privilege of sending j thoughts into the world in such a garb. Alaba- j ma has talent—talent of an order calculated to ; command the admiration of her neighbors, > however old their experience ; however celebra- I ted their Literati. It is the proudest wish of j the Editor that he may call that talent into ac tive exercise; yet he cannot hope to be able to j do that without the hearty approbation of bis j friends, and their earnest concurrence in promo- j ting a cause for whose success he is willing to i devote his entile time and attention. A Liter .ky Advertiser will be attached to | the Bachelor's Button, containing Notices which 1 relate to Schools, Colleges, Books, Banks, Insu- 1 rance Companies, &c. at the following rates: For one insertion, per page, $lO 00 | »< “ “ 1-2 page. 600 *> “ “ 1-4 page, 400 Bv 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 their notices im mediately. | Mr. W. W. McGuire is our City Agent, and ■ is authorised to act for us. Any letter 01 coni- j munication left at 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 1 this circular. \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