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Bl r JAI2ES W. J®AES. The Southern Whig, FURLISiIED every Saturday xokxixo. tekms. Three dollars per annum, payable within six months after the receipt of the th 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 forless than one year, unless the money is paid in advance; and no paper will be discontinued until all arrear ages arc paid, except at the option of the pub lisher. Persons requesting a discontinuance, oftheir Papers, are requested to bear in mind, n settement oftheir accounts. Advertisements will be inserted at the usual rates; when the number of insertions is not specified, they will be continued until ordered out. All Letters to the Editor or Proprietor, on matters connected with the establishment, must be post paid in orderto secure attention q-*,- Notice of the sale of Land and Negroes, by Administrators, Executors, or Guardians, must be published sixty days previous to the day of sale. The sale of personal Property, in like manner, must be published forty days previous to the day ®f sale. Notice to debtors and creditors of an estate must be published forty days. Notice that Application will be made to the Court of Ordinary for Leave to sell Land or Ne • .oes, must be published four months. Notice that Application will be made for Letters of administration, must be published thirty days and Letters of Dismission, six months. For Advertising—Letters of Citation. 8 2 7; > Notice to Debtors and Creditors, (40 days) 3 2-> Four Months Notices, 4 00 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 50 Other Advertisements will be charged 75 cents for every thirteen lines of snr II type, (or space equivalent,) first insertion, andsocents for each weekly continuance. If published every other week,o2 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, $1 00 per square. BOOM it® ) THE subscriber would respectfully inform the Citizens of Athens and the public gen erally, that lie has established himself in the third’Story of Mr. Teney’s Book Store, imme diately over the Southern Whig Office, where work will be executed at the shortest notice in nil the various branches of his business. Blank Books made ol all Sizes and Ruled to any given pattern. J. C. F. CLARK. Athens, Sept. 23,—21—1f JW. JONES, is now receiving and open . iug at his Store, his supplies of FALL WINTER GOODS, which combind with his former Stock, render his assortment very complete. English Straw Scnnsts. A case ofhnndsome English Straw and Florence Bonnets, just received mid for sale, by J. YV. JONES. Oct. 14,-24—tf S7EGBO SHOBS, 200 pairs Sunerior Negro Shoes for sale bv J. W. JONES. Oct. 14,—24—tf GEORGIA CLARK COUNTY. WHEREAS Edward L. Thomas, Admin istrator on the estate of John W. Thom as, deceased, applies for letters of dismission. This is therefore to cite and admonish all and singular the kindred and creditors of said de ceased, to be and appear at my office within the time prescribed by law, to shew cause (if any they have) why sai l letters should not be grant ed. Gives under mv hand this 17th Julv, 1837. G. B. HAYGOOD, d. c.'c. o. July 22—12—6 m. GEORGIA, HALL COUNTY. WHEREAS, Ambrose Kennedy, Adminis trator off the Estate ofEdward Harrison, deceased, applies tn me for Letters of dismission, This is therefore to cite and admonish all. and singular the kindred and creditors of said de ceased, to be and appear at my office within the time prescribed by law, to shew cause (if any they have) why said letters should not be grant ed. Given under my hand, this 20lh day of Octo ber, 1837. E. M. JOHNSON, c. c. o. Oct. 21, —-2t>—6m GEORGIA, CLARK COUNTY. WHEREAS, Win. Thomas, Sr. Administra- * * tor of Drurv Thomas dec’d. applies for letters of dismission. This is therefore to cite and admonish all, and singular the kindred and creditors of said de ceased, to be and appear at my office within the (time prescribed by law to shew cause (if any they have) why said letters should not be grant- G. B. HAYGOOD, d. c. c. o. August 5, —14—6m TpOUR month? after date application will be made to the Inferior Court of Madison coun ty when siting for ordinary purposes, for leave to sell the land and negroes belonging to the estate of Benjamin Higginbotham, dec’d of said county. JAMES M, WARE, Adm’r. Oct. 7—23—4 m. FOUR MONTHS after date, application will be made to the Honorable, the Inferior Court of’Madison county, for leave to sell the real Estate of Agnes Lawless, late of said coun tv deceased. ’ ’ JOHN B. ADAIR, Adm’r. Sept, Io —20— ______ - - .. months after date, application will be * made to the Honorable Inferior Court of Clark county, when silting for ordinary purpose es, for leave to sell all the real Estate of Eliza beth Goodwin, late of said Countv deceased. THOMAS MOORE, Adm’r. Oct. 28—26--4 in Souter y. -- . _ .. From the Southern Literary Messenger. PRESENTIMENT. Is it a prophet’s dream—the diotiglit That o’er me loves to fling A thousand shapes of evil, wrought By Time’s unfolding wing?— That in each wasted taper’s doom, Or fading flower, I see Some star of hope go out in gloom, That shone to solace me? The sun-sired bow that spans the sky, No heaven-sprung promise gives; But. in each tint’s receding dye, A mystic symbol lives, No buddingjoy entwines my heart, But lurking at its root, Some fang lies ready to impart A poison to the frtiit. When night foretells her coming gloom By evening’s milder shade, A whisper greets me of the tomb— Ob', would I there were laid! Yet why?—this life hath not a care But shadows f irth a text, Thai doth some heavenly teaching bear To fit us for the next. 'Tis not that I must bear the stroke. That my own heart must bleed; For He whose darker mercies broke, Will bind the bruised reed; But ’tis that they whose gentle love Divides my heart with God, Must share with me the pangs I prove, And feel themselves the rod. Oh! may they share the mercy too That mollifies the dart, And feel, with me, its heavenly dew Distill’d upon the heart; Cast down, upheld, disturbed, yet calm, This vale of tears we’ll (read, Forever trusting in the balm By Gilead’s Healer shed. No joy of life but veils a thorn, No sting, but bears a sweet; From those we loved if never torn, We ne’er in Heaven could meet; Then meekly let us wander here, Still seeking as we go, The smile that plays behind the tear, Till tears shall cease to flow. Camden, S. C. N. N N. From tlie Knickerbocker for December. WiiteoM Coaawoi’SSa. NUMBER EIGHT. Although I joined Collins in much of his dissipation, yet I persuaded myself that I had his good at heart; and thinking u change of scene might haven beneficial effect, I propos ed a jaunt to the Falls o( Niagara. It was the month of June; we were in possession of a handsome equipage, and plenty of money ; we had all the means of making the journey pleas ant. C got wind of this project, -and altho’ we had nut spoken tor weeks, he came to my room the evening before our departure, and told me I was a ruined mini, unless I gave up this journey. He. explained to me the reasons of his coldness, and the reserve of others; it was to induce me to give up my association with Collies. He said all were interested for me, and best light me to listen to his advice; that some things hud leaked out respecting Collins, which he was not at liberty to tell me. I knew I ought to hear him. I was convinc ed he was disinterested ; but I remained fixed, fori intended to pass through N .and was in hopes to see Alice once more; and this, after once getting into my heart, I could not get out. • We departed upon our excursion of pleasure, which proved one of pain. With whom is hope more faithful? Following the river, we soon emerged from (he level meadow country, and began to as cend the hills oi Vermont. The moon wus at her full, and we rode mostly in the night-time. Collins eoubl not bear the day, and I was wil ling to give in to his caprices, for the night gave a calmness and amiable tone to his feel ings. His heart was open to the influences of nature, though he. pretended to hate mankind The Connecticut river, in the north, has a swift and sparkling current, so that it makes . music as it flows. Tall trees bend over it, all 1 along its course, as if inclining to kiss its nim ble wafers. These trees are of one kind, and resemble the graceful cl,tn. To tiie lover of nature, I know of no scene so fitted to call out his enthusiasm. After toiling up an ascent of three or four miles, ns you stop to breathe your panting steed, v. bich, il bred in the country, toils so faithfully for you, your eye is filled with all kinds of senrtery. Here on your right reposes a village, with its neat white houses, in a rich valley, the land rising in hills in eve ry direction from it, partly wooded, with here and there a wide pasture of close-cropped green, dotted with the fleecy flock and lowing kino. The riv'er bounds it, on otic side of v. hi' h is a circle of meadow land, and on the other a steep rocky precipice, falling abruptly to the water. It was twelve o’clock at night—a clear moon-light night—when we gained 0:10 of these elevations of land. No sound broke the stillness, save the voice of the ‘ solemn bird of night’ marking by contrast the depth of the solitude of silence. Collins wept like a child. He had associations he would not communi cate to me. Possibly he had been there be fore. lie refused to speak. We stopped at the first public house, and he retired to his room without uttering a word. Until this evening, I had never spoken to Co], lies of my own love affair. I hid never told him of my difficulties, nor let him know th it I had had any. My obj -Ct was to divert his ; melancholy, not to find relief from my own sor- 1 rows. That night, as we sat in silence con- ■ templating the scene, some lines ol’poctry had ' escaped me, w hieh Alice Clair had been fond, of repeating. 1 felt Collins start as he listen ed, and soon after, be gave vent to a torrent of tears, the first I had ever seen him shed. The next morning we rode anil travelled 0.1 ■ in moody silence. Not a word was exehang- ; ed between us. Collins’s w hole manner to ward me had changed. N>w and then 1 dis ; covered a black look upon his lace, as he . glanced toward me. 1 treated him with my' usual kindness. I had, in lite relation of my own u diappv attachment, coiieea'i d the name and personal appearance of Miss Clair, and the t place too. 1 was free from suspicion, stippos- , ed his reserve was a freak, and waited patient!) ■ for the recovery of his usual manner. We now left the river, and struc k t.fi’to th.: ••WHERE TOWERS ARE ASSUMED WHICH HAVE NOT BEEN DELEGATED, A NULLIFICATION OF THE ACT IS THE RIGHTFUL REMEDI." .jejjei SOU. ’ ATEIE7SS, SATSJkWAV, ©ECEn-aBER 30, S 83?. Green Mountains, taking the read to N , where we arrived about dark. All the town knew of our arrival, almost as soon as we were settled in our apartment. I found that Coliti s was known there as well ns niystif, though under a different name. He was greet ed as ‘ Mr. Cowles,’ by every one. and the peo ple stared at him as they would at a spectre. When I asked the explanation of this mys tery, after we had retired to a private room, he stared at. me for some moments, with the glare of a maniac in his eyes, and then sprang upon me, drawing his dagger from his bosom. This was no time for parley. I flu: g him from me, wrested the dagger from his hand, and then allowed han to rise. Seeing that he intended no violence, I sat upon the bed while he walked the room, gnashing his teeth, and mumbling to himself 4 curses not loud but deep;’ then stopping suddenly opposite to mo, lie said : ‘ You, ft end !—why did you seek me ? Can you be the friend w ho feels an interest in me ? Why have you proved a traitor to my pence?’ I assured him his words were inexplicable •o mo. ‘ Where,’ said lie, ‘ did you learn those words you quoted last night ? Do you know her too ? Have you, too, been a victim to those super-human charms? I uni a slave; she bound me ; lam helpless. Oh, God 1--but I have wronged you ; you could not know ; vou are not to blame. 1 had better destroy myself. 1 am crazed—mad! I knew not what I say. O 1 leave me, if yo.t value your life or mine !’ This was all strange. What could lie mean ? He had no acquaintance with Alice. She had told me that she never had an attachment be fore the one she confessed for me. What other lady in town could there be to excite af fections so refined as his? It could not be Alice; this was a vagary too wild to be lis tened to. However, determined to solve the difficulty, I went immediately to the house of Mr. Clair, and asked for his daughter ; ‘she was out of tow;;;’ tor Mrs. Clair; ‘she was sick ;’ for any of the family ; ‘ I could not be admitted.’ Tins was as unceremonious as I could bear ; so I walked back to the hotel, and calling the inn-keeper aside, asked him what had become ol'Mi-s Ci.-ir. Inn-keep rs in a country village know all the small news that a: y one does, for they hear the same story as su ne so many different shapes over the grog they deal out, that by night they become per fectly saturated with a piece of scandal, and give forty readings of the same event to suit the customer. Mr. Shuttle gave me a full account of the affair. He said that Alice was with her sister in Albany ; that she had been very sick, and not expected to live. After 1 had been out of town for a few months, she returned to her fa ther s ; used to go moping about, and neople thought her mii.d was affected ; he wondered that people could be so unreasonable, as to keep young folks that loved each other sepa rate ; ii’/te had been me, he would have run away with her. I did not wait to hear farther, or even to in quire about Collins, but. ordered a horse, left a note for Collins, in which 1 advised him to re turn, as important business required my pres cnee at Albany fora few days; and that 1 could not undcitake our contemplated journey, after what had happened. That very night I started across the moun tains for Albany, and did not sleep until I saw the house that contained all I thought I loved on earth. The visit to old scenes had renew ed all the fervor of my affection. Not wishing to be recognised, I stopped at a c welling in an obscure part of the town, and sent a little boy to the house with a note, directing him only to give it into Miss Clair's own hand. 1 f her health permitted, I requested an interview; but certainl) some t-ken of recognition by the bearer. She was well enough to meet me, and we agreed to fake a walk that afternoon. I pass over the agonizing bliss of meeting. All was forgiven in an instant, She had been sick indeed—sick at heart. She had heard of my disgraceful course oflife in the city, after parting from her. and then again of my relapse at L . She had supposed that 1 had giv- en up al! thoughts ofher, and she said that she had tried to banish me from her thoughts; but, smiling through her fears, her words were : ‘ You know, Conworth, yon were my first and only love. I had determined to run the risk of what I feared would happen. I whs wills’ g to risk something for one who might be so much, if he did tiuiv love me in return as I did him. 1 have been foisaken, and forgotten, and disregarded ; but the fault was in me in the first instance in trusting to you. 1 could hardly expect ymt to change your character for one like me.’ I could noUbear Cuis; I implored her tn ac cuse me, to upbraid me—anv thing but such words; and then I endeavored to palliate tnv faults, and in doing so, I told the exact trutti. I led her back to motives, and temptations, mid despairing states of mind, through which 1 could distinctly trace my own lapses; con vii ci :g her that all rnsntted from my separa tion from her; that ‘could 1 have her uith me Io guide, comfort, and encourage rue. I should, I i It co.didvnt, do every thing to make her happy.’ 4ho idea i f marriage had not crossed mv mind until tins iustint. In consoling her, t-tut draw ing the picture of our union, 1 was so charmed with the notion, that 1 begat) to speak in earnest, tind did, upon ths» spot, adopt the resolution <>! making the attempt to persuade her to imife herself to me on the mstatit. 1 succeeded. She consented. We were to be mt’irted on the next morning. Bv good luck, her brother-in-law was absent from homo, and 1 knew her sister possessed rather a ro mantic turn of mind. The devil lent me cun ning anti eloq ;enco, and I persuaded her it tr»B the only way to save Alice’s hie and mine. To bring this about, I had, without pretned. ' itation, to ii-.vont plans wh.ch should have the appm:rance of having been wcll-digcsted. I told her ‘that I came authorized from my fa ther to bring Alice Io his house, if I could do so as mv w ife.’ I then showed her the wealth that I possesse I —fin' beside my own monev, Godins, on starti: g, had constituted me llis banker—and the w hole story was so we ll got up, that she seemed delighted with the ) ovdty of the scheme. B< ho d me then on the eve of perpetrating marriage. Every thing was prepared. My carriage, (one 1 Ind hired, and called mine,) was at the door; the tru ks weie lashed >.ti, and we were standing before the minister, in her sister’s u :i / .r ; tiie justice’s daughter, and a friend I h id pick, d tip, acting as witnesses, !be eertmony be.’t-.n. Hardly had a word been sp.okon, when the door flew violently open, ano Collins, wiki and haggard, with iii.< dress torn mid soiled, and without a hat, rush '•(I into the room. lie looked about itim tor a few moments in triumph,and then said, slow!) : •i am cme i;> tim;’, false woman !’ He tup- I ped - toward Alice, who. pale and trembling, was sinking to the floor. A dagger gleamed in the madman’s hand. I rushed forward, and taking the blow aimed at her, I fell sense less to tiie earth. When I awoke from my delirious dream, nhich followed the wound 1 bad received, I found myself in a small private house. My Cither was standing by my bedside, ant’, my sister was wiping the cold sweat from my i forehead. I had been thus for a fortnight. My farther and sister hid arrived upon the earliest intelligence after lha accident. They imagined they were journeying to attend my funeral. Would it had been so ! My father took my hand, as my eyes closed, upon meeting his anxious gaze, and said; ‘lt i 1 all well —all is forgiven. Becalm; you arc better, Gad be praised/ I ask no more.’ I could not speak. Ilts kindness, his affec tion, wounded me worse than ten thousand daggers. I covered my eyes with my hand, and wept. When I was strong enough to bear it, my sister told me al! that had happened. Alice had confessed to her every thing. The substance was this: ‘Coltins had some years before mot Alice Clair at a boarding-school in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an exile from home for hts vices, and was liv ing in the city, without plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners, and re ceived his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile when she met him; to be al home when he called to see her; as far as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is just no Way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for his kindness and attentions in biing'ing her new books and mu sic. But with the playful coquetry of a clild, she had impressed the h- art of Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved her. 'i he principal of the school had always allowed his visits, until ascertain ing the knowledge of his true character, and seeing some instances of hts misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no more of him. Soon after, she U turned home, and was con tinually persecuted with letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to F , and behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would have subjected him to arrest, hid he net left town. All these facts were never hinted to me, during my stay at N . Probably they were forgotten, exeej t by the parlies more immediately interested. No wonder some surprise was ma iTested at seeing myscil and Collins ride info town to gether. Well, alter 1 had left Collins, and departed for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither, and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mine) already shattered by excess, and stimulated to insani'y, he imagined himself the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on both of tis. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly prov ed fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral. Mr. Clair followed us, so soon as he got wind of our intended visit, to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of bis child. ‘When you are older and more settled. ’ it said,‘in your views, if you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I tun willing to forget, for the sake of jour happiness and that of my child. You have perhaps unwit tingly destroyed the peace ofm - family. You do not know the- pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Y our case is net hopeless. All depends upon vourself.’ My sister tn a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It needed rot to tel! me where it came from. 1 have worn it next to mv heart ever since that fatal morning. It is now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record this passage in my history, and look upon ail that i.s left in this world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man, but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of profiting by the gift, of her uffi.eticns. Collins was released, bv my father’s request, after the question of my danger nit? over, and went I know not whither. From that day to tiiis, I have never heard of him. '1 he money of his in my possession was placed in the hands of a iawver, and no trace can be found oi' his connections or of himself, by the most careful search. We returned to my father’s house. Hard ly had we arrived, when we heard of the sud den death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fa tigue and disappointment, she was attacked bv fever, which was followed bv delirium ; mid she went, out of a cruel world, uncotisci ous ofher misery. My cup of bitterness was lull. I neither hoped, nor excited expecta tion. Iv. as considered a broken, ruined man. 1 remained some time a burthen upon my fa ther’s hands, leading a harmless but restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of existence. Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar from all vho knew me- 1 made arrangements to receive annually a email sum, to enable me to cany my projects into execu tion, and bidding adieu to tdl those I truly lov ed, and who 1 knew still loved mo, I embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans. OLD AitF. EY Ki.r. C. C. COLTON, AUTIIOR OF ‘LACON.’ Tuou anti-climax in life’s wrinkled page. Worst end of bt:d beginning—helpless Age! Thou sow’st the thorn, though longtbc flow er hath fled; Alive to torment, but to transport dead; Imposing still, through time's still rough’ning road, With strength diminish’d, an augmented load: Slow herald ofthc tomb! sent but to make Man curse that giftless gift then wilt not take: When hope and patience both give up the strife, Death is thy cure—for thy disease is life! EXAM His faults that in a private station sit?. Do mainly harm him only that commit:: I hose placed 011 high a brightexample owe — Much to themselves, more to the crowd below. A paltry watch, in private pocket borne, Misicnps but him alone by whom ’tis worn; But the towmclock, that steeples ofl dis; lie-, By going wrong, leads h; If ;| !C town ae'rsv. THE SINKING SHIP. At the beginning of November, in the year 1807. his Majesty’s line of battleship **** was detached from the squadron in Basque Roads, commanded by Sir Henry Bttrrad Neal, for the purpose of procuring water at the Glennati Rocks, a very strange cluster of both high and sunken ones, lying off L’Orient. On one of the highest stands a fort well protected from British assault by its intricate and rocky situ ation. The November sum, on the Sabbath morning on which our ship was rutmittg care lessly off’ the wind with the top gallant sails and foresails set, almost rivalled a splendid June’s; and as tiie noble warike fabric mo ved gracefully over the waters, amid this dan gerous ciUst-T of rocks, at the rate of five miles an hour, every heart seatneu dilated, and every eye beamed with pleasure, for indeed the duy was most joyous, and, fur the time of year, uncommon. In a moment, and without warning, I with the rest on the quarter deck was prostrated, and heard the solid o; k rent and torn by the hard rock, on which she ran with her bows high in the air. while her stern in proportion was depressed—it must have been pointed like a steeple, for this vast body sailed over and shipped a vast quantity of wa ter through the lower deck ports. Hie shout of surprise and horror from six hundied men, with the universal cry of “ Lower down the port!” was astounding. “ Throw all aback!” shouted the Captain, “ and signaliza Sir Geo. Collier that he is st Hiding into danger.” “ II': has anchored, sir. with the same sig nal to us flying at his must, head.” Our captain looked much agitated, and I thought bis commission not worth a straw, for we had conic into this dangerous predicament without a pilot, or any precaution by chart or lookout; and God knows, our situation could not be worse—sticking on a rock that has al ready sent alongside forty feet of our keel—tn the Bay of Biscay, and insight of an enemy’s squadron in L’Orient, who now, by bending sails, evinced a disposition to finish us. The rush of water into the ship was plainly heard from the lower deck, as I, by the order of the captain, transported the foremost guns aft, the tide being then flowing. “ 1 have sent fur you,” said my captain, witli salerntiit.y, “to give you the same chance as others. The ship will float off’ into the deep water immediately ; but how long she may remain buoyant on that wa ter God only knows ; from the carpenter’s re port, I dread the worst. Cheer them up at the pumps.” At length the swelling tide lifted her off, and she swung round into deep water; all sail was made, standing out on the reverse course to that we had entered. “Telegraph Sir George Collier,-to keep his frigate as near us as possible, as we are in a state of great distress, and making more wa ter than I choose shall be known.” Both ships with miraculous luck cleared the Gicn nan rocks, and bore up fur Plymouth with a favcrable light breeze, al! the pumps going. At six P. M. the mon wcro placed in three watches, and one watch ordered to get their suppers and two hours’ sleep, on the host way they could, by planking it on the- wet deck. At nine the captain gave an order that the officeisof the middle watch should turn in, and down I went, from the very dark night and a murkey sky—water in the vessel rather on the increase—and in two minutes was asleep in my cot, having used that short time’to ad dress the sinner and pi bltcan’s prayer to Hea ven, and God knows I felt every word that 1 uttered. It was one of these dreaming sleeps where the mind, from the midst of danger, turns to the happy past. “ I dreampt of my home, of my dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn, While memory stood tideways half cover’d with flow 'rs, And restored every rose, but secreted each thorn.” From these soothing and delightful visions I was roused by the tenor voice of a midship, mat), who woke me from this blissful state, by telling me that the captain wanted every per son on deck. “What of the leak, and the night?” asked I, putting on my coat. “ Both bad enough,” replied lie, io a tr< mu lotts voice. “The one gaining slowly on the pumps, and he other losing its brightness, for no stars can be seen—not the Frigate’s lights.” “ Why do we not fire a gun frequently ?” “The carpenter thinks that it would have a fatal effect on the shattered frame of the ship.” “May God keep oft' the wind,” said the youngster, “ for it requires veiy little to lav us in Davy Jolies’locker,” and w ith tins conso latory information I reached the quarter-dot.k, on which the sailmaker’s crew were .thrum ming a lower studding sail, by the “light of lantern’s dimly burning;” al! the carpenters •sere repairing the lau eh by the same kind »f light, and getting the boats ready that could only bear otic third of the crew from destruc tion; a blue light on each quarter was throw ing itsghastly glare on the sin roundiiig obj cts, while the noble ship seemed laboring with unusual weight, and much depressed by the head : her maintopsail lay to the mast, and the leak increased as she was pressed through the water. Iho clank of the chain pumps, with the very faint cheers from those : .tl>at worked them, was any thing but exhiiarati'ig, and the great anxiety 0 meed for the sight of, and an swering the blue lights from Sir George Col lier, proved that our situation was not under rated. These sights, in the Bay of Biscay, on a misty November night, struck a damp chill to my heart, and eff. dually bani-duid the beautiful visions engendered by my broken slumbers. “ Did you particularly want mo, sir?” ad dressing my captain, who looked pale aud agi tated. “ Cheer the men a| tho pumps, by splicing the main brace ; and hark ye—water it, fur fear of drunkenness. Send the first lieuten ant and master to assist me in getting the thrummed sail under her bottom ; for under Heaven, that and Sir George Collier are our only dependence. What think you of the night ?” “A Scotch mist,” replied I. “but no wind of consequence under twelve hours, and then, [ trust fair for Plymouth.” “ May God in his infinite mercy so order it!” said the captain, in a very pious tone; for. in the course of my long experience. 1 have al ways found even the most reprobate turn to that power that lias controlled the wind and the waves, and put llnir trust alone in un bounded mercy. At the chain pumps I found the men dis heartened and liiligtii.'d, nnd the words "beech her l (meanieg thereby to run lo r ashore) escaped them, as tho w inches slowly revolved under their diminished power. “ It is an iron-b niud eoast,” said !, “nnd in God 3 mercy, and our own exertions, w e must trust. Spell, oh !” ami a fresh gang took their turn at the winches. A blue light and a gun fiom tiie li ig :‘e, gave us new lift at the pumps, and a midshipman came down with the joyful intelligence that Sir George Collier Was clos< up to us, and the fathered sale wae under her in excellent style, and they were then Lauling on the yard ropes to press it close to the leaks, which gradually soaked it in, and diminished the water one half. “ Hurrah, hurrah !” and round flew the winches with life and spirit. ■‘Fill tho maintopsail on her!” shouted the captain, and the noble ship again breasted the waters. A heavy weight seemed to be lifted from our breasts., and every eye belt med with greater animation. Even the blue lights which sig nalized Sir George Collier did net cast such a sepulchral glare on surrounding objects, and the chain pumps revolved and clanked with more spirit, as Chip, tho carpenter, announced that we gained on the leak ; “ hurrah ! hurrah ! to get her dry out.” and the cranks went mar rily round. It was most merciful that the wind continued very moderate, and even the usual Biscay swell had subsided in our favor. The slightest sea in our shattered state would have proved fatal, and anxious glances at the sky and barometer were very frequent. In fifty-two hours after floating off the Pigeon Rock, off' L'O'ietit, vt e anchored in Cowsand bay, with (he signal of distress, and in want of immediate assistance, flying at our mast head. This was answered by draughts of men from the squadron, who kept us afloat till taken in to Graving dock, where we safely entered with guns, powder, and stores. It was considered a miracle that a ship could float so rent and torn. Friendship:■ —Though tho cultivation of friendship is not made the subject of precept, it is left to grow up of itself under the general culture of reason and religion ; it is one of the fairest productions of the human soul, the cor dial of life, the lenitive ofour sorrows, and the multiplier of our joys—the source, equally, of animation and of repose. He who is destitute of this blessing, amidst the greatest crowd and pressure of society, is doomed to solitude; and however surrounded with flatterers and admir ers, however armed with power, and rich in endowments of nature and of fortune, has no resting place. Tho most elevated station in life affords no exemption from those agitations and inquietudes which can only be laid to rest upon the bosom of a friend. The sympathies 1 even of virtuous minds, when not warmed by I the breath of friendship, are too faint and cold to satisfy the social ciavings of our nature; ilieir compassion is too much dissipated by the multiplicity of its objects and the varieties of distress, to suffer it to flow long in one channel; while the sentiments of congratulation are still more slight and superficial. A transient tear of piety, or a smile of complacency equally transient, is all we can usually bestow on the scenes of happiness or of misery which we meet with in the paths oflife. tut man na turally seeks for a closer union, a more ner rnanent conjunction of interest, a more intense reciprocation of feeling ; he finds the want of one or more with- whom he can intrust the se crets of his heart and relieve himself by im parting the interior joys and sorrows with i which every breast is fraught: he seeks, in short, another self, a kindred spirit, whose in terest in his welfare bears some proportion to his own, with whom he may lessen his cares by sympathy, and multiply his pleasures by participation.. WINTER.—A Forest Song. BY C. WEBBE. C .me, old girl, nnd by the fira Let us comfortably cling, While the surley storm grows higher. And the wild winds hoarsely sing!— This is not a night, I’m thinking. For old bones out-doors to bustle, ' When the stubborn oaks are shrinking From the elemental tussle. Clap the door to!—there, the wind Saves your trembling hands that troubio! Look, your old locks stream behind. And the cold has bent you double! Mind not Crumpiy:—she, I warrant. Finds some where ashed for shelter: ( She can bide the wintry torrent, And the mad storm’s helter-skelter! Night, and gloom, and storms are round us, Heed not—they can ne’er confund us, While our household shines so cheerly Ob, that every thing that's human Cared as little for the storm! Child and old man—weakening woman. Safe and fed, and housed and warm! Thou who pouredst the mighty waters, Be with them that swim the sea! j Be. with thy poor sons and daughters Wandering earth in misery! j Let thy tender hand, outstretched Over their uncovered heads, Keep them, howsoever wretched. Safe as rich men in their beds! From the Knickerbocker—for December. TIIE POOR RELATION. AN AUTHENTIC STORY FROM REAL LIFE. 1 It was in tho early days of Codman county, that Eldred Worthington swung his axe upon his shoulder, and departed to seek his fortune in her almost untrodden wilds. Like thou sands of others, the early pioneers of our kind. “ he kept bachelor’s hall,” until ho had “ made an opening, and reared his rustic cot.” Then, with buoyant heart, he returned to the place of his nativitv. to claim the plighted hand of Miss Abiah Perley, to become hts help mate in hi.» future ItotriO. To those who know anything of the diffi culties encountered by tho first settlers, it will bo unnecessary to portray the toils and hard ships they had to overcome, before thesnvage was driven farther back to his forest-lair. They went forward, growing with the growth ■ of the place; and. in a series of years, rear- j it g n family of eight sons and four daughters. 1 It was a natural wish of the oarents that their I children should not suffer for want of educa tion, as they themselves had done in early life ; nnd hence they yielded to their particular wishes. Benjamin, the eldest, desired t« be a ' limb of the law; the second was for physic, and had his choice; and Thomas, the third, ' also, was much gratified, when arrangements i were made for his departure to a neighboring ' s '.-i.port, (0 serve a mercantile apprenticeship. 1 His father was so fortunate as to place him in the house of an old acquaintance, Mr. John ' Ho-MUi i-il, one of rhe first merchants of the citv. This gentleman, having commenced life with nothing but hts hands. h«d become extensively ; conci-rued ia consource. It was the very I field for the mercantile propensity of Thomas. I Vol. V—No. ‘ He devoted himself with unceasing assiduity * i won the confidence of his employer; was atadc supercargo of bis vessels 111 several voy ages; ai d finally, as the good ship Ajat was bound on an East India voyage, he ugam beds farewell to his friends, anil went forth upon the distant seas. He was faithful to the itu portant trusts reposed in him. ’1 he ship was laden and ready to return ; when, to the sad dismay of all on board, who were greatly at tached to him, he could net be found I Every effort was made, for weeks and wc< ka, but the ship was finally compelled to sail without him. Sad was the news fur his disconsolate pa rents, and his good master, Mr. Howufdi Conjecture followed conji cture, hut all Was mysterious and appalling. The Ajax return ed again to the Indies. The strictest injunc tions were made by Mr. Howard, that no ef* torts should be wanting i;> the endeavor to dis. covor the fate which had befallen his young friend. Captain Bradshaw, n most excellent man, was indefatigable ; but deeply did he de. plore the day that once mote compelled him to weigh anchor, without the slightest 'idings to cheer tho anxious parents. Ti.oiigh no voy» age was made to the Indies f<>r many years nt. lerward, without all possible inquiries, yet the conviction had almost ripened into certainty, that the young man had been murdered, per. haps in the hope of booty, at his last visit to the shore, among an unknown people. Years rolled away. The region of Cod* man countv advanced rapidly in settlement, et terprize, and industry VV itefe onto stood the farm of the elder Worthington, now the thriving, bustling, and enterprising village ot Weckford shot up its aspiring head, with its immense factories, its capacious stores, and rich and tasteful dwellings. It was upon the banks of one of the noblest rivers in the World, where the el ler Worthington had sagaciously sat himself down, relying upon Ins axe and his arm. But how little did he think, that ere fif ty years had rolled away, the acres he then reclaimed would become the abode of thou, sands, and hirnself thereby rendered one of th* wealthiest men of Codman county. Yet this is but one case of that talismanic power which has converted the forest into cities, und giveu to the poor great riches, in the mighty march of enterprize, industry, and intelligence, in ths marvellous realm of fbe New Worki. Week, ford had become a place of great note. It was a central point of t.ade for the surround. iog country, which was peopling with ast on isbiug rapidity ; and all contributed to give an importance to the family of the Worthingtons. Thoy were not only very rich, tut were emi nent in the estimation ot “ all the region reund about.” Tho sons had grown up under all the advantages which wealth and connexion could impart. They had studi'.d learned pro fessions, as a matter of course, and settled in Weckford, reiving upon the immense wealth u hich the extraordinary rise of property had poured into the lap of the family. Honors thickened upon them. Benjamin was twic-a elected to Congress, and all the brothers weru at times elevated to favor in the municipality, or the honors of State partialities. The father and mother of this numerous fa mily were now in the vale of years. The prude ce, economy, and simplicity, which won the esteem of all, and laid the foundation of their wealth, continued to shed a benign tnflu ence over their declining days. They were the very antipodes ot the new races wh'j had come upon the stage of human action ; and often did they deplore, in the bosom of their own domes ic circle, that heartless etiquette and cold formality, which had renderod their children so ambitious to eu’shine others, and to be looked up to as the exclusives of YY’cck. ford. But there was a deeper feeling still, which hung heavily over their wasting years j the pai..lni disappearance of their son, who had ever been th ir favorite, but who had also been regarded by the brothers a: d sisters with that unnatural jealously which such a feeling is apt to beget in the minds of mere worldlings. I t October of this year, the aged veteran wai forewarned, by the insidious influences ot flickering moi talitv, that he was soon to bo “gathered to his fathers:” “ Fur Time, though oH, is strong in flight i’ Years had rolled swiftly by. And Autumn’s falling loaf foretold. The good old man must die;” and, with the prudence, forsiglit, and calmness, which had actuated htm through all bis well, spent life, he sent for his estimable attorney, (he honorable Phillip Longfellow, ai d by his “last will and testament” divided his immense estate equally between his children; but art especial provision was ins rted, reserving in the hands ot a trustee, during the period of* twenty years, an equal portion nf the whole estate for Thomas, the incon e of which waste b • aneually divided among all ihu children. The trustee was to use all diligence in the al most forlorn hop;’’ of endeavoring to gain tidings of the long lost son. The wido v. be side her “thirds,” had some hem fices, which were to go to the lost son, should he ever b« discovered; bat if no intelligence should bo gained, wilhi 1 the twenty years, then the w hole reservations were to be equally divided among the other children. Winter nt h ng’h came, with its awful g». verity to lengthened lite, and the good old Mr. Worthit gto 1 , mourned by all the villagers, was followed to the family vau't. in the Oakland* 1 of Mount Pleasant, at the ripe age of ninety, eight years. There is a wedded sympathy between those who have been United in true love, that but ripens with the lapse of time. Sixty-nine years had passed away, since Miss Abiah Perley left her paternal abode, for Uitf rude but rural cot of Weckford. She had lived, curing this long period, in the bonds of holy love, a pattern ot utTection, kindness, and peace; and the death of her husband severed a chord which nothing on earth had power to unite. It weaned her nffictions from this world, and she sighed only to join him in that “ better country” to which, in th ) fullness of time, he had been called away j and in loss than two weeks afterward, the last rites of earth were performed over her departed spirit* as her mortal nsh-s were laid beside his to whom her soul had so long been wedded. Several years had now elapsed since th® death of the parents. Weckford had contin ued to advance in population and wealth , and, as a consequence, the Worthingtons had grown richer and richer. They bad indeed attained the apparent summit of their ainbi lion, for none assumed to tival thorn in fashion, wealth, or importance. They were the lead ers he t w.i, and the very apex ofthe elite, in al] things. There were two principal streets in the vil. Inge of Weckford. stretching along tho banka of the river, as far as the eve could reach*