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THE COUR<E R *
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■ ¥ DR. D. DARWIS.
MAY;
Born in yowblace of orient shy,
Sweet May, the radiant form unfold;
Vuclose thy bine, voluptuous eye,
And-wave thy shadowy lotfks of gold!
For thee the fragrant x-phyrs blow;
For thee defends the sunny shower;
The rills in (after murmurs Bow,
And brgbter bipMoms rem the bowdr!
Light grace* dress'd in fl Jwery wreath*
And tip-toe joys their hands combine;
While love the>fond contagion breathes.
And, laughing dances round thy shrine
*. FROM THX XSQCIRXR.
A VIRGINIA ELECTION.
4n the good Old Dominion, which may God
ever bless !
On the Southside, but where, I shall leave you
to guess;
In that April fool season when every court
green.
With Stallions and candidates crowded is seen,
When Conventions, and 3yuods, and Jockey
Clubs meet.
And racers cross-jostle with priests in the
street
Their saintships lamenting, in language most
civil,
-That Jockey’s are running headlong to the de
vil;
In that month set apart by our long-settled
rules,
For Elections of statesmen and making of fools,
•Wh.%; the sovereigns flock with delight Co the
pools
To haul their old Delegates over the coals.
Or to hear the poor culprit his conduct e-xplain
And recount the great deeds of his winter cam
paign;
'• In that month, as of course, i t the year thirty
three
An election was held in the county of C.
The day was propitious, the weather was clear,
And two Suitors for popular favour appear;
One a lawyer, well known as both learned and
profound,
The other in wit of the world did abound,
A truant to books, but sagacious of mind,
For while others read books, he was reading
mankind
Proclamation is made aud the voters rush
in,
AM the raurmpr once silenced, the speakers
begin;
First the lawver arose, but it boots net to
tell,
£rom his lips, Rights, all that forcibly
fe.ll
Suffice it to say, that his able oration
ast thought to smack somewhat of nullifies
. tion.
when he had ceased' his supporters huz
zaed.
*Wuile his fii ran ess and worth e’en bis opponents
applaud.
The man ofthe world next arose to reply,
fits manner collected, but keen his grey eye
He spoke ofthe "good Old Dominion" beloved,
Os her school a disciple, her conse he approv
ed
The champion of State Rights she ever bad
been—
vin the battles of liberty foremost was seen;
Her statesman and warriors had yielded to
none,
Since the fight for American freedom began,
‘ln wisdom and prowess and patriot zeal,
Foi American honour, American weal—
And the manner and heart of the orator warmed
As he spoke of the Union their wisdom had form
ed.
Os that star-spangled banner that floats on the
breeze
Triumphantly riding o’er boisterous seas,
And hoped, ere its bright constellation should
set.
It should light us to many a victory yet.
"1 have been to the south, be indignantly cried,
Adi theiicbivairy seen, and their folly beside; ' '
I have been to that laud which now sighs to
secede.
And Nullification rvows as its creed.
There brother prepares to take aims against
brother,
And father and gon "Are arrayed 'against each
other,
But what’s worst of all, ’tis a new source of life
Never heard of before between husband and
wife.
It got ’mongst the women and the evil still sprea
ding—
Like the foul toads of Egypt gets into their
bedding,
In this "good Old Dominion" where blessings a
bound, r
And good wives and good race-horses always are
found—
Our wives will-stick to us as long as they
can
And are always for union, you know, to a
man;
But in South Carolina where her principle
thrives.
The poor husbands alas! hare sad times with
their wives,
With the foes of Secession they deny all com
munion, r ’
Nor will sleep with d.,husband who holds fast to
' '{he .Union. ■
What say you my couhtrymen ! what sort of
lives
Would Virginians lead who can’t sleep with their
wives?” -
He ceased—when a Shout rends the heaven like
thunder—
Let the Union be saved and our wives kept un
der."
Engluh Partiality for Flowers.— The nation
altogether has a particular love for trees and
fioweis. The lord hag in his parks eaks of a
thousand years growth, untouched by the axe
hothouses full of ex Mie plants, exquisite
fruits, &the rarest flowers; there’s not a cottage
in England which has not before it a little piece
of ground foi the ctdtfvation of fioweis, and even
the poor low imprisoned artisan works at his
loom in sight of a pot of flowers, placed oa the
window sill, iwith a mind no less generous than
«ny lord's) in order that also may
enjoy the sight of £zafein Eng.
fcndy
[rum the New York Mirror.
THE UNEDUCATED WIFE.
/ ’ (continued.)
It is impossible to give any idea of the
agony %ud grief of Isidore; she seemed
almost beside herself: and Fi’zgerald.
alarmed for her heath homed her away
as soon as possible after the burial of the
old general, who waa followed to his hum
ble grave by his two children and the
faithful Indians. .
1 shall pass over their journey.—lsi
dore’s wonder at the towns and cities they
visited, a«d the consumation of their wish
es in an union, which, as it was founded
on the most disinterested attachment,
promised uninterrupted happiness.
It was many months af.er their mar
riage, before Fitzgerald took his wife to
his residence on the banks ofthe Hudson.
It was a most delightful place—large, con
venient, and elegant; and the gentle Isi
dore thought, as she wandered through
the superb apartments, howgratified her
dear grandfather would have been to see
her mistress of such an establishment, and
the wife of such a man as Fitzgerald.—
The library was her favourite apartment.
There was a most romantic view of the
windings of the river from its windows; it
was commodious and well furnished with
the most valuable books, and all that was
necessary for the employment of an en
lightened and eqltiavttd mind, and the re
quisites for improving an ignorant one.—
Isidore wa» too timid to ask questions.—
She idolized her husband; looked up io
him with a reverence, a respect, that plac
ed her at such a distance from him, it was
impossible for him to enter into the feel*
logs of her -jind or heart, 'lndeed there
was no one that she could make her con
fidant. ,
They “had now six months married: part
of the time had been speut in travelling,
and part at their delightful residence.—
Fitzgerald had brought homo a distant re
datioß rrf his for a companion and friend
to Isidore. She was fashionable and ap
peared amiable; and he thought that the
genteel Caroline Morland would be use
fulto his lovely wife, as she would need
initiating into the polished circles which
she must unavoidably enter. Many of his
Triends had called to see them; all were
loud in praise of the exquisite little girl he
had married. The house he knew would
-soon be filled with visitors from the city.
He relied upon Caroline as a chaperone;
but still he was too proud to acknowledge
that his beautiful wife needed any instruc
tion; and heTeared it would pain her af
fectionate heart to inform her of her defi
ciencies. He was astonished to see that
the lovely creature, who, in the forest
shades, moved with the grace of a young
fawn, was, in the drawing room, when
Surrounded with a fashionable party, stiff,
awkward aud embarrassed. “But she is
so young—so very young,” he would say,
“it will soon wear off.” Yet the very re
medy he had provided only increased the
evil. Caroline was envious, idolent, and
selfish; and the gentle and amiable Isidore
could not unbosom herself to the cold
hearted votiess of fashion. She sighed
often when she felt her ignorance and
awkwardness. Her devoted love to Al
bert made her so fearful of saying any
thing to mortify or disturb him, that she
would often hesitate, slop and tremble
when she was conversing, and saw ber
husband’s eyes fixed on her. Fitzgerald
had expected, for several days, some par
ticular friends, to whom ha wished his.
wife to be agreeable. He told her one
morning, as she stood by the glass, ar
ranging her beautiful hair, that Major Har
court and Mr. Campbell would be with
them oh the following morning; aud, gen
tly pressing her hand, he added:
‘‘Be yourself, my dear Isidore; imagine
that we are in the forest, that tny friends
are Sanaqua and Watapao; let me see you
easy and cheerful before them. Shake
off that timidity and fear that destroys ail
your movements. They are both elegaut
polished gentlemen, and—”
He stopped—for he felt that Isidore,
though exquisitely beautiful and amiable,
was not a companion for an accomplished
raised her limid eyes to his,
and endeavoured to su»i?e away her emo
tion; but her heart was full, and she took
down her hair again! o hide the tears that
fell upon her bosom. He lifted the curls
from her brow, and gently kissing her, left
the apartment.
“My fears are true!” said she, as soon
as the door was closed; “ho is ashamed of
me! oh! my reveted grandfather, you was
right when you said a child like me, with
out education, could never make such a
man as Albert Fitzgerald happy.”
She pressed her forehead with her hands,
leaned on her dressing table, and wopt
bitteily. Little did the noble-minded &
kind-hearted Fitzgerald know the pain
be had inflicted. He loved the gentle
creature deeply, devotedly, and would
have pierced his own bosom sooner than
wound hers; but he began to see they had
no sentiments in common, except their
love of nature. She looked upon her hus
band almost with wonder, when she heard
him display the rich treasures of his pol
ished mind. Worlds would she have
given, could she have commanded them,
to have understood & conversed with him.
She read, but her untutored mind, with
none to regulate and guide it, was little
benefited by books; besides, they had
crowds of company, and her time hadbeen
much occupied in. walking the grounds, ri
ding, sailing, music, dancing, visiting, dec.
Isidore often thought how much hap
pier she could have been with Fitzgerald
io the wi deiness' There, she was at
home; but Acre,” she would say, “ 1
shall be almost a burthen to him for whom
I could toil forever.”
The two gentlemen came, and Isidore,
knowing they were her husband’s particu
lar friends, took great pains with her at
tire, and she never looked more beautiful
than when she entered the room leaning
on Fitzgerald’s arm. They gazed on her
with'admiring eyes, and soon procured a
seat near hsr. Had her husband left her,
all would have been well; but her wound
ed spirit shrunk from his observation, aud
she answered only in monosyllables. Find
ing it impossible to draw her into conver
sation, they soon retired to another pari
of the room. Caroline Morland, as she
seated herself beside her on the sofa, in
quired,
” What is the matter with tny good
cousin tu-day, you look quite forlorn.
Has your canary bird taken flight, or your
little spaniel runaway?”
Isidore blushed; she saw that Major
Harcourt had heard the salutation, and
she was confused and distressed. Afiei
a few moments silence she said io a low
voice,
“I have been indisposed, and had some
idea of not leaving my room; but I tho’t
a walk ip the air might be of service to
me.”
“You don’t look very ill.” said Caro
line. “I never saw you have more co
lour; but you might as well have remained
there,” she continued in an under tone,
and with a scornful look; “we should
scarcely have missed you.”
’lsidore'felt too wretched even to reply
to this unfeeling speech The visitors
were very animated and agreeable. The
only one who appeared listless and dis
pirited was the innocent mistress of the
mansion. She was unacquainted with
fashionable life, and the fear of saying
something that might displease her bus
band kept ber silent.—He saw she was
dull; and drawing her arm Within his, he
proposed a walk around the garden, invit
ing as many as chose,-to follow him.
“Come, Fiizgeraldj” said Major Har
tourt, as they left the house, “vou are too
selfish; allow me the honor,” &. attempt
ed to take the arm of Isidore; but she
clung to her husband who, conlused at her
sh owing so much reluctance to accept the
proffered attention, said, as he hurried
her down a retired avenue,
“Mr. Fitzgerald is indisposed. I will
return to you directly.”
When they were quite out of hearing,
ho begged to know what was the matter,
and why she appeared so unhappy.?—She
sighed, and a tear shot into her eye.
“I am not well? and—”
“Oh, if you really feel ill, retire; and
I will apologize to our guests.”
She was glad to avail herself of the op
portonity, anil was soon quietly seated in
her own room.
Many weeks passed much in the same
manner, and Isidore grew more and m.:re
weary of society. She was alone! Her
only enjoyment was walking around the
estate, comforting the sick, and playing
with the children of the tenants. One
evening she was returning from such an
excursion, and as the sun was setting be*
hind a rich curtain of crimson aud gold,
she threw herself on a bank under the wall
of a summer house, covered with hooey-'
suckle aud grape vines, to enjoy the scene.i
She had not been there long, when she
heard voices, and not wishing to be seen,
drew still further under the vines.
“It is in vain fur you to excuse her, on
account of her being young. I 101 l you,
Harcourt, she is a beautiful foul; and 1
pity Fitzgerald most sincerely. He has
been fascinated by a pair of bright eyes.
Did you see the expression of his face this
morning, when some one asked her which
was her favourite hero?” >
“I did, Campbell, and felt for the dis
tress of his lovely wife; but do you not
see that it is her timid sweetness united
with her love for him that makes her ap
pear so much embarrassed, and so awk
ward. She looks upon him as a being of
superior order; and her very anXtety not
to mortify him, causes half her mistakes?
There was no cause for her tears this mor
ning. There are many agieeable
polite women who make their husbands
very happy, that know nothing of Julius
Caesar or Alexander; but the limid crea
ture thought she ought to know, and fear
ed that her husband would dispise her for
her ignorance.”
“Well, yon will acknowledge she ap
pears like a fool, and that she can never
make Fitzgerald happy.”
“I fear she never will; but she does not
seena like a fool to a close observer. Ii
was unfortunate for ber, as well as our
friend, that she had not married some
pour man; then the duties and cares of
her station would have wholly occupied
her attention, and she would have been
contented; yet I am convinced that she
has mind enough if it could be properly
strengthened aud cultivated. Were she
a fool, she would be happy here surround
ed with every thing, as she is, to please
the eye; but you see she is not, aud I fear
she never will be, for Fitzgerald cannot
send her away to school Ho would not
wouud her gentle nature; and she has not
resolution to leave him for a few years.
If she had but a real female friend to ad
vise her, if the mother of Fitzgerald were
but alive; but Caroline Morland is too en
vious of her beauty ever to boa friend t j
Isidore.”
“ I see bow it will be; his home \vill
soon be uninteresting to him, and he will
travel again; perhaps go to Europa fur a
few years. Do you thinks Harcourt, ruch
a baby as she, is fit to leave without a
protectorl”
“But you know, my friend, she will
not always boa baby.”
“I don’t know that; L fear she will;
but, soft, here is Fitzgerald coming down
the lawn; let's join him.”
They left the summer house; and the
trembling Isidore, with her heart swell*
ing with grief and mortification almost to
agony, remained until they were out of
sight; then hastening to her room, she
locked the door and gave vent to her feel
ings. When the servant came to call her
to tea, she was really indisposed; she des
ired him to tell his master, that sbe was
in bed with the head ache, but should be
quite well soon, if left alone. When Fitz
gerald retired for the night, she seemed
to be in a sweet slumber, and he stood by
the window some moments watching the
mno n over which the fleecy clouds mov
kcd rapidly. He saw the spire of the church
illumined by its rays. There reposed the
bodies of his parents. He sighed deeply.
“Oh! my mother, my highly gifted and
accomplished mother.” said Albeit, “how
much 1 miss you— I sea
Again he sighed, but said no more. Is
idore was so much agitated she found it
almost impossible to feign sleep. Site
passed a restless night; but'felt more calm
in the morning!, for her resolution was ta
ken. She had determined tu leave her
husband; and, much as she loved him, tu
leave him, for ever, unless she could qual
ify herself for the station in which he had
placed her. She was much more com
posed, aud appeared to more advantage
than she had since her arrival at the man
sion. She felt that she should make a
great sacrifice in leaving one Who was be
loved beyond expression; but the thought
gave firmness to her step, and expression
to her countenance. An opportunity soon
offered to put her design in execution.
Fitzgerald concluded to accompany his
friends to the city and stay a few weeks,
to settle some business. He knew his
wife and Caroline were invited to make
a visit at acountry seat some miles distant,
and told her when he took leave, to ride,
visit, walk aud amuse herself io her own
way—he should not be gone long. Their
visitors had all departed. Caroline
said she should go the next day to Mrs.
Bensels.as the house was two lonely, with
no one but Isidore for a- companion.
‘Now,’ thought Isidore, is the time.' The
first day after Caroline’s departure was
speut by this disinterested and amiable
woman in planning and arranging
her dangerous undertaking; 'he next in
packing ber clothes, and writing to her
husband. She told the old steward that
she wished him to speak a passage for her
in the stage on the morrow, as she inten
ded to visit het* husband.
“Going Alone, madam,”,he asked;“did
not master wish me to take you down in
the carriage!”
“"No, ’David you are to stay here.,, I
shall leave the key of your master’s room
with you; so you can send us what wo
wish for in the city.”
The old man bowed and retired. She
wandered round the roomn,wopt long be
foro her husband’s picture; bfjt retired
early,as the stage was to call for her at se
ven. The next day she was on her way
to the city,to wards which she uavelledun
til night, after which it was impossible to
get the smallest trace of her.
Fitzgerald returned in afew weeks;and,
when he approached his house, was sur
prised at not seeing his lovely wife oven
at the window. Caroline was leaning
quite over thu balcony,& seemed looking
for some one. He asked Tor his wife.
•‘Your wife! why sho went to you
three weeks ago!”
Fitzgerald turned pale; and,sinking on
the steps seemed lost in an agony of
thought. He summoned all the dom.-s
--tics.but could learn nothing,only that she
had left home to join him. He went to her
room, examined every thing, but could
find no clue to guide him.
*'She cannot have left me,” said he.
“oh, Isidore! who has torn you from my
arms!’
At length, oil opening his own d*»sk, he
discovered a letter addressed to him in
the hand-writing of his wife, and what
was his astonishment al learning that she
bad left him, and—for ever !
(to »s continued )
Protn tht Wertern Monthly Magazine for April.
RUIN.
‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!’
J/r. Editor— -Are you aware that our
beloved country is on the brink of ruin 1
Alas I if the dread catastrophe ba not al
ready consummated, if it be not now too
late to raise the warning voice, and snatch
her from the impending danger, we are at
least ou the very verge of the precipice.
And yet hoc? unconcerned do our coun
trymen appear. Look around, and we
see them pursuing the avocations of life
with all the composure of perfect security,
and with the industry of a people who be
lieve their institutions to be perpetual,
and their property to be guaranteed to
their right heirs. Such was also my own
infatuation, until withiu a few days past,
when I left my quiet home in the country
to visit this busy city. My neighbors were
pursuing their rural labors with contented
minds and cheerful hearts. The season
had been healthful, their ciops abundant,
and the market about as good as usual.—
Justice is dispensed among us with an o
ven hand, and we are unanimous in the
belief that our laws are the best, our con
stitution the wisest, and our country the
most free in the world. Al is! short
sighted mortals that we are, that we should
so grossly mistake our real condition I I
have awakened from my delusion—my
dream of happiness is at an end.
I had scarcely alighted from the stage
which brought me here, when I met an
old acquaintance,who answered my cheer
ful greeting and cordial inquiries, with,a
lameptable tale.
‘We are all ruined,* said he.
'You don't say so I what sad event has
befallen your city?
‘We are all broke, that’s all. There’s
no business doing.'
‘1 am amazed,' quoth I, ‘and truly
grieved. Yet I see a few shops open.—
Is the ruin so general ? Have none esca.
ped V
‘Oh—why, a few retailers manage to
keep their doors open ; but they do no
thing, and are more likely to see the sher
iff than a customer.'
‘lt would be wiser in them, to manage
to keep their doors shut.'
Here my friend hastily wished me good
morning and darted away ; and I strolled
slowly along the street, gazing like a raw
countryman, as I am, at the gaudy mer
chandise displayed at the windows, and
the busy ciowd that jostled me st every
step. ‘And is it possible,' thought I, ‘that
all these windows are thus gaily dressed
merely to save appearances,and that these
respectable and cheerful looking people,
are all broken-hearted and bankrupt t
No, I’ll not believe it.’
‘Welcome to town, Mr. Miller, said a
friend, who just then jostled my elbow.
‘My dear Mr. Dividend,’ 1 exclaimed,
‘I am truly glad to see you, for 1 was just
studying about a question which you can
solve. What sad visitation is this that
has afHicted your city, and palsied the en
ergies of its enterprising inhabitants !’
‘Bad enough—this veto, this cursed ve
to, has completely ruined us.’
Well, I’m truly sorry-*—do you say ab.
yolutely ruined —is there no hope V
‘None at all—the blow is struck—and
the deuce is to pay-**
•The bank to pay, you mean.’
•h’s all the same thing. Commercial
credit is destroyed throughout the U. S.
The faith of the government is violated—
confidence is annihilated. Good morning.’
1 now stepped into a barber’s shop,
where one politician was reading a news
paper, while another was submitting to
the operation of having his chin deluded
of its unnecessary external superfluities.
As I enteied, I heard the first politician
exclaim.
‘ Sir, the Union will not stand together
twelve months longer; it is already virtu
ally dissolved.’
‘ I am roly sorry, said L.
The man looked up at me as if io sur
prise, and then very politely condescend
ed to address the remainder of his re
marks to myself.
* Every good man must lament it, con
tinued he, ’but what else C' uld we expect!
I predicted it fifteen years ago. Yes, sir,
when this gigantic bank was established, I
foresaw that it would swallow up the
liberties of the nation. This bank, sir,
has monopolised all the wealth of the na
tion, controlled the operations of com
merce, interfered with the freedom of
elections, and contaminated with base
bribed the purity of our statesmen!’
‘ Then it is not the veto, but the bank
that has hatched the mischief? 1
‘ The veto, sir, was the most virtuous
act of tltie purest patriot in the nation.’
‘ It is to be most sincerely deplored,’ I
observed, ‘that such is the depravity of
man, such the demoralising influence of
wealth, that pecuniary affluence is apt to
be abased, bo'h bv individuals and com
munities. As to this bank, if it has acted
improperly*—
•If V interrupted the politician; ‘ sir,
it has been proved ! improperly ! the word
is inapplicable—it has been conducted
basely, traitorously, diabolically :*
Finding tny politician was getting warm,
and being a peaceable man myself, I
withdrew, and turning my steps mournful
ly towards my lodgings, determined to
hasten home and apprise my neighbors of
the sad condition of public affairs. As I
went along musing sadly, two gentlemen
overtook me, engaged io earnest conver
sation, one of whom observed to the other,
* ‘We are ruined, sir—the constitution is
not worth a brass button—the Cabinet
possesses no energy, Congress is intimi
dated, and the people corrupted.'
‘ I am truly grieved,* said I, turning
round so as tu face the speaker, who also
halted ; ‘I am, gentlemen, a plain farmer
from the country, and being ignorant of
these things of which you speak, would
thank you kindly to tell me the real cause
of this alar ming crisis 1’
‘You must be very ignorant indeed, sir,
not to know that the government is about
tu be dissolved by the nullifiers. Nullifi
cation, sir, is secession—secession is dis
union. We are <>a the eve of a most
dreadful civil war?
‘Where can 1 see the evidence of ibis?’
‘Have you not read the most admirable
document of the age !—the second decla
ration of independence 1’
‘I humbly confess my ignorance,* said
I, ‘I did not know there had been any
more than one.’
‘I allude to Andrew Jackson’s Procla
mation, ’replied the gentleman,w ho there
upon walked off, and I went sorrowing
on my way, marvelling greatly at the lev
ity of the towns people, who would not
stand still long enough to argue so mo
mentous a topic. On entering the Hotel
at which 1 put up, I discovered a knot of
gentlemen, who I learned were from tha
south, discoursing upon the tariff. I drew
near and listened.
'The liberties of the people have been
trampled under fobt,* said one.
‘State rights violated,’cried another.
'Commerce crippled,' said a third.
‘Agricubure destroyed.’
‘ All by the’ doctrine of constructive
powers.*
‘ That execrable tariff has produced this
wide-spread ruin.’
‘Yes, Henry Clay with his American
system, Daniel Webster with his Spin
ning-Jennies, and Andrew Jackson with
his judicious Tariff—they are all alike—
I go in for nullifying the whole concern.
‘I am truly grieved <e bear you say so,’
said I, joining the circle.
‘Why what’s the matter old gentleman!
Are you a sheep owner!’
Before I could answer, the dinoer-bell
rung, and the whole company scampered
off, with an eagerness which showed that
the wrongs of our beloved country, and
the sufferings of an afflicted people, had
not affected the keenness of their appe
tites, or the lightness of their heels.
At the table the same topic seemed to
engage all parties. Tho perilous condi
tion of the country was universally admit
ted ; but I heard almost as many reasons
assigned for the approaching downfall of
tho nation, as there were speakers. The
tariff —the repeal of the tarifl'—the bank
—the veto —nullification—consolidation ;
constructive powers—slavery ! the licen
tiousness of the press—and freemasonry,
was each insisted on. A physician sug
gested that the national calamities spoken
of were produced by a morbid affection of
the brain, which was epidemic; a gentle
man in black, hinted that the depravity of
man had something to do with them; a
schoolmaster laid them all at the door of
ignorance ; and a pale man, who I after
ward* understood are* an author, placed
the whole blame upoo the prenicioui po
etry. . j
One thing, Mr. Editor is certain, howl
ever men may differ as to the cause, wl«
every body says must be true; and all
mil that the United States are en the brink
of ruin. For which I am truly grieved.
Yours, JOS. MILLER.
Cincinnati, February 25, 1833.
MISSOURI LEAD MINES*
Official information has been received
by the superintendent of the
States’ Lead Mines, at Galena, that tiia
Lead Mines on the West bank of the Miafl
sissippi, recently ceded by the Sac aqfl
Fox Indians, will be opened fur lease on|
the first day of Jnue next.
A writer in Galenia states,that new
and valuable discoveries of lead ore have
been made upon the East bank of the
Mississippi river, between the Platte and
Grant rivers, in 'Lown county, M. T.
The ore is said to be of the best qual
ity, found in large bodies , and over au
extensive tract of country. Among the
most valuable discoveries, is a horizon
tal cave, the enhance of which is about
150 feet above the level of the river. It
is from two to four feet wide, and from
six to nine feet high. From this cave,
about 400.000 pounds of lead ore have
been taken, with little labor; and the op
eration was still continued. The
land in of the best quality, and covered
with timber. A town, called Van Buren,
(which name has also been given to the
mines and cave adjacent,) has been laid
out and that part ofthe country is rapid
ly increasing in population.— St. Louit
Repub.
AMERICA AND EUROPE.
“ Every change in America,” says
Douglass, “has occasioned a correspon
ding change in Europe ; the discovery of
it overturned the systems of the ancients,
and gave a new face to adventure and to
knowledge ; the opening of its mines pio
duced a revolution in property ; and thio
independence of the United States, over
turned the monarchy of France, and set
fire to a tr .in which has not yet fully ex
ploded. At every expansion of Ameri
can influence, the older countties are des
tined to undergo new changes. No foico
can arrest the sympathy that already ex
ists and is continually augmenting betqeeu
Europe aud the New World. The eyes
of the oppressed are even now tinning
wistfully to the laud of freedom, anAtl><||
kings of the continent already regard
awo and disquietude, the new Rome rising
in the west, the foreshadows of whose
greatness, yet to be, are intending dark
aud heavy over their dominions, and ob
scuring the lustre of their thrones.”
Parts, March SO.—The following let
ter addressed to M. Belmoulet, a man Off
letters will be toad with interest :
London, March SO.
Sir—The unnccouutable aud to/? real
ptoscription to which I and my fatni?
have bean subject for so many years, wi
prevent me being present at the fete whic
is to take place for the benefit of the in
prisoned patriots, and which is to be pre
sided over by the illustrious friend <
Washington &, the Hon M. de Cormenii
As you are one of the Stewards, I r«
quest you to present my offering. Th
bearer w ill deliver you k> that effect a dt
corat.on of the Legion of Honor, set i
diamonds, which belonged to my brothel
the Emperor Napoleon, which he wcr
in the camp at Boulogne, and during th
compaign of Ulm and Austeilitz, an
-vhich he gave me on his return. I wis
'hat the events which it calls to mint
may so enhance its value, as to render i
of some utility to the generous citizen
who are t'ue objects of the fete, ladd to thi
decoration the sum of 500 ft. for’ihc sam
purpose.
Joseph Napoleon Bonapart*.
The entertainment for the benefit <
the imprisoned patriots referred to in Ju
seph Napoleon’s letter, was to have ta
ken place in the Salle Ventadour," bi
that building was refused by the Prefer
of Police. A hotel, situated in the rod
Sevres, has been hired for the purpose
and the day that is fixed is said tu be th
7ih of April.
The fallowing letter has been addres
sed to the Editor of the National.
London, March 23.
Sir,—Li learn by the journals that a sub
scription has been opened for the purpost
of buying in the hotel or one who in Ju
!y, sacrificed bis furtune with a view t<
insure the prosperity and liberty of hi
country. The people are always gener
ous; they do justice to the pnre iutentioui
of M. Laffitte, and are now rewarding
by a token of their esteem bis strict inte
grity and his noble patriotism. Desiroui
of associating myself wi.h all who art
generous in France, I send you my offer'
ing ; for in exile we are affected, even it
a higher degree, by the glory as well at
by tha misfortunes of our country. Ac
cept, etc.
louis ’Napoleon Bonaparte.
A Popular Preacher.—A short time ago one
of the self-elected elass Divine, who are not in
common excessively College bred, was bolding
forth to his congregation upon a subjoct well cat
culated to arouse the attention of incorrigible
hearts. After blazing away with his subject,
until he had rendered Pandemonium as
Vesuvius, and as black as Martin’s Satan, ha
rounded a sublime peroration with the following
sentence—" Now hearken ye sinners ! 1 tell ya
that ye’ll all go to b—l, as sure as I’ll catch that
fly on the Bible.” at the same lime making a de*
termined swoop with his palm across thesacied
page, to capture the talismanic insect. He then
proceeded to open bis clenched flit, finger by
finger, until the last digit was relaxed, but be
held the poor fly bad eluded his grasp. Looking
surprised and disappointed for a few moments
the Minister at length exclaimed, "By the hoky.
I’ve miss’d him! there’s a chance for you yet,
ye sinful raggamuffins!”
JOB PRINTING.
A LL kinds of JOB PRINTING continued to
be done at THIS OFFICE at the rerv
lowest price.