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THE COCKIER*
BY J* G. M’WHOKTER*
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THE MAN WITHOUT A SOUL.
My next door neighbor beats the tabor,
His children beat the drum;
There’s Mr. .Morgan plays the organ,
With one eternal hum:
There’s no more music in my ear
Thao in a horse’s foal;
My sister says, she’s sure that I
Must be without a soul!
T have no pleasure in the notes
Os Braham and Rossini;
In vain, alas* the time to pass,
1 visit Paganini,
And pretty Inverarity,
■ Her prettier tones mav roll;
They bring no vision orElysian,*-
I am without a soul!
I I never have heard Malihran,
And only once beard Pasta:
| .Fast as old Orpheus moved the brutes,
He would have moved me faster;
I once heard half an Opera
But could not stand the whole;
Alas! it is a mournful thing
To be without a soul!
; . Ah! Music,—let my father talk
H rnself into a passion;
Oh! Music,-—let enthusiasts rave.
Because—it is the fashion;
Let amateurs the trumpet sound
Till they are black ss coals;
, --X don't believe for all their boast,
4 That they themselves have souls!
The bagpipe! play outside my house,
* My cousin plays within;
My brothers shout their songs about,
To the piano’s din;
Where’er I go its always so.
And if fiom pole to pole
X wander, there is music stHl
For one without a soul!
1 never played a single tune,
I never sung a song;
1 very seldom go to church,
I know its rather wrong.
Ah! would that every instrument,
And evety music scroll,
Might never, never more offend
The man without a soul!
From the New York Mirror.
THE UNEDUCATED WIFE.
(concluded.) '
Her letter was short, but tender and
impressive. It concluded by saying, “It
will be useless io seek me, for I leave no
trace behind ; if you hear nothing from
me in five years, think me with your bles
sed mother, and obtain a wife of whom
sbe would not be ashamed. If I can
make myself worthy of you, I will return.
Fitzgerald was in an agony of grief; he
remembered nothing but her artless love*
liness ; felt a thousand fears for her safety?
scoured the country in every direction ;
spent months in seeking, but without even
getting a hint to guide his search beyond
the night on which she left the stage.—
He went up to the log-cabin, but the In
dians had heard nothing of her since sbe
sent them presents of blankets, beads for
their moccasins, dec.
A year passed away, and'Fitzgerald
began to ’hink he should never see her
more. He left his beautiful residence,
where he could not remain, for every
thing reminded him of his lost wife and
departed mother, and removed to the city.
Year after ybar rolled on, de. the lovely
Isidore was forgotten. Even Fitzgerald
tho’t of her only at times, and as a lovely
vision that had long since passed away,
for he had ceased even to hope that he
should ever behold her again.
And where was the heroic girl who had
made such sacrifices for him she loved ?
It would be beyond the limits of this nar
rative to relate all the perils she encoun
tered ; the toils, the dangers, and the dif
ficulties she overcame before she reached
her Aunt Waldotff in Germ any, where
she at last arrived in safetv, and was kind
ly received ; for Madam Waldorff, though
she bad her prejudices, and disliked the
Americans, (rebels, as she always called
them.) was an elegant and accomplished
woman. She en<ered warmly into tjie
plans as her lovely niece, procured for
her every instructor necessary to improve,
cultivate and strengthen her really pow
erful mind ; and Isidore was astonished at
her own progress, It was indeed rapid,
for what will Jove accomplish ? The
first years were entirely devoted to Ker
mind and heart, the last to accompl.ish
meuts. Music was her favorite among
O "bJ h"
She said to her aunt, one day, after
playing for her some time J
“I have succeeded on this instrument
beyond my most sanguine expectations ”
“My dear Isidore,” said Madam Wal
dorff, “I am pleased and proud of your
progress; but I shall grieve to part with
you. 1 have often, since your arrival, la
mented that I did not takeyou from your
grandfather; but I felt vexed that your
father should have been urged from his
home, and thought the general deserved
all the anxiety he felt. I have long since
overcome such feelings, and now, my dear
child, you are wound round my hftart ao
firmly, that it will ache to pari \vith You.
I have seen fur some time that your
thoughts are wandering to that dear ode
for whom all your exertions have been
made. You are anxious tv see your hus
band in your assumed character, and tho
I dislike all deceit, I think ifit ever was
excusable, it is in your situation. I have a
friend io whom I can confide, on the eve
of embarking for America. You shall go
with him as a relation, which you really
are, though distant. He knows your sto
ry, and will aid you in every way. You
shall see your husband. He cannot know
you, for you are no more hke the little
trembler that came here five years ago,
than I am.”
•'How good you are, my more than
mother. Do you think my husband will
not know me V' said Isidore, as she walk
ed up to a large mirror. “1 am very tall
now, and have, I believe, a rather more
dignified and womanly appearance. But
he wilt know me by my hair, which is of
a peculiar colour.”
♦‘l think not; beside, my dear, you can
easily conceal it with a head-d:ess.”
"Ah, true ; but I shall betray myself,
dearest aunt, by my emotions.”.
•‘lsidore, have you overcome so many
difficulties, shown yourself so superior to
most of your sex, and have not yet learn
ed to control and conce 1 your own feel
ings 1 Be yourself, my child, and all will
be well.”
- “I wonder if Mr. Campbell, when he
. now sees me, will recognise the the
fool." Isidore blushed as she said this,
for she did not exactly liMffthe resentment
that rose in her bosom. *‘Alas, my dear
aunt, I have so many faults and foibles
yet to'correct I for I would not return
with any feelings but those of affection
and tenderness towards my friends. My
only wonder is, that my husband ever
could have loved me. But now, I am sore
that I am worthy of his love ; sure that I
can make him happy; sure that I possess,
in the resources of my own mind, trea
sures that, but for your kind attention to
me, when I came a little igntjjant child
to your bosons would- have been lost for
ever.”
Isidore left her hind aunt soon after
this conversation, with the friend she men
tioned, and was on her return to America.
• •••••••••
“Can you tell me, Emma,” said Major
Harcourt to his wife, as he seated himself
beside her on a sofa, “ who that elegant
looking female is, leaning on an elderly
gentlemao's arm, by the door ?”
“Yes; it is the beautiful stranger I told
you of; a relation of Mr. Weiland’s the
great Holland merchant; and some say,
heiress to his immense wealth. She is
very much admired. Is she not lovely?”
“Exquisitely beautiful indeed, and uo
comm> nly graceful. I have been watch
ing her for some time.”
“Come, I will introduce you to her,
Henry ; she is as intelligent and accom
plished as she is beautiful. But you seem
amazingly struck. See, your earnest gaze
has quite disconcerted her ; that fair face
is covered with blushes, and she has turn
ed to her protector, with whom she is
conversing very earnestly.”
Harcourt felt a singular interest in this
beautiful stranger, and said,
“Lot us follow her, Emma. I never
saw but one being that inteiested me half
so much looking expressively at his
wife, and pressing her arm as he spoke.-
They were soon by the side of the person
who had attracted their observation,
where they spent an hour delightfully.—
Emma promised to call for Miss Walstein
next day, to walk on the Battery, and ma
jor Harcourt, as they rode home, declared
he had never conversed wi'h a more in
telligent and agreeable woman.
“My dear husband,” said Emma, “if I
was at ail inclined to be jealous, I think I
have some little cause for it now, for you
have appeared perfectly fascinated with
Miss Walstein, and have scarcely taken
your eyes from her face.”
“ Indeed, Emma, she reminds me so
much of some one I have seen, though
for the life of me I cannot tell who, that
I thought we must have met before ; but
it cannot be, as she told me it was her first
visit to this city. I will go with you To
morrow, and take Campbell; he will lose
his heart, you may be sure, as she is ex
actly the woman I have heard him often
describe and wish to obtain.”—Emma
smiled.—“ Why that smile ? Do you not
agree with me ?”
“I think, my dear husband, your sud
den and warm admiration is not consistent
with your usual prudence and judgment.”
“True, true , and I will say no more.
Albert would have a fair right to laugh at
me, should he know of my sudden and
warm admiration of a beautiful woman.”
The conversation then dropped. Em
ma told her husband that Campbell had
tailed to say adieu ; he was to sail for
France in the morning
Major Harcourt had made a most judi
cious choice when he selected from the
beautiful and accomplished women that
he visi’ed, Emma Green. She was ra
ther plain in her person, though graceful
and elegant in her manners. He was sure
of an agreeable companion, for her mind
was well cultivated, and her disposition
amiable.
Often would Fi zgerald, who was very
intimate there, when he witnessed their
perfect union and happiness, sigh and say,
“Ah, Harcourt, why was I so weak as
to be fascinated by beauty alone? The
voice of the good old general still sounds
in my’ ears ; *son of my friend, do nothing
rashly? Why did I not listen to his ad
vice i”
“My dear Albert, you have learned a
useful lesson, and I hope your next choice
will do you honor.”
“ I shall never marry again,” replied
Fitzgerald.
In a few weeks Sophia Walstein and
Mr. Weiland were famil : ar guests at Ma
jor Harcourt's.
si'id Emma to her husband,
“that Fitzgerald rather avoids us of late.
I met him this morning ae we were walk-
ing in Broad wfty, and introduced Sophia’
to him ; but he had little opportunity of
seeing her as her veil was down, aud none
of conversing witfi her, as she was seized
with one of those fits of trembling that a
larmed me so much the day you returned
with him from the country. I hope she
<is not nervous Albert ordered his car
riage, and the ride soon restored her. I
wish h%- would become acquainted with
her. She is exactly calculated to make
him happy, and it is quite idle to suppose
he will ever bear from Isidore.*’
•’I think as you do, Emma ; but still
his situation is an embarrassing one, as it
would be dreadful indeed to marry one
woman, and be claimed by another.”
‘‘True, true, Henry; but it is now al
most six years since she loft him ; and
could he obtain this lovely creature, he
would be fortunate indeed. I never saw
aoy one so much admired, and so worthy
of admiration, that valued it so little She
prefers a social evening with me to ilie
most splendid party, and a game at romps
with your pet, Albert, to a walk with our
most fascinating beaux. To-morrow she
spends ’he day with ns, aud I am to send
for her harp. Bring Fitzgerald home with
you, and say nothing of our guest.”
“I will,” replied Harcourt.
After a day of social and refined enjoy
ment with her new friends, at evening
Miss Walstein took her harp. She was
playing a Scotch air when Harcourt came
home with Fitzgerald. They stood some
time at the open door, charmed with the
melody. The latter seemed spell bound.
Was it the music that entranced him, or
was he admiring the beautiful creature
that touched the string' with her white
and delicate fingers T His eager audad
miring gaze delighted Emma, and she
spoke to hirn F—The music ceased, and
the fair nausictao hung over the instru
ment, pale and tre.nbling. Her agitation
Was attributed to fatigue from plaving so
long ; but she soon recovered. Fi’Zger
ald was constantly examining her face,
when he could do so without absolute
rudeness ; though after an hour spent in
her society,he listened more than ne look
ed, for he thought her uncommonly agree
able-still he appeared thoughtful, and at
every pause in the conversation, quite
dull.
Days and weeks passed, and Fitzgerald
visited Sophia Walstein every day.
“Harcourt,” slid he, “you have drawn
me into the society of this charming wo
man, whom it is impossible to know and
not to love; and yet, whom it would be
dishonorable for me to seek to obtain.
Why do you smile I Do not trifle with me,
Henry; you know not the struggle be
tween my attachment and my sense of
honour. I sometimes wish 1 had never
seen her.”
“I would not trifle with you, Albert ;
but you must have discovered Sophia’s
preference for you. Why not declare
yourself?”
“Arc you mad, Harcourt 1” Am I not,
a married man 1 The lost Isidore is for-,
gotten by the world: her beauty and her
virtues buried in oblivion; but I cannot
forget the tenderness with which I once
almost adored her. Yet I love Sophia
devotedly, ardently. There is something
about her, though I have never mention*
ed it before, that often reminds me of Isi
dore. The expression of her eyes some
tiinas, when she gazes on me; the tone of
her voice, particularly when it is a tone of
tenderness, brings thu artless, self-sacri.
(icing creature before me, so forcibly that
her name is involuntarily on my lips. It
was this resemblance, that first drew me
to her; but it is her noble, cuitivated r and
accomplished mind, and lovely, amiable
temper, that irresistibly attach me to So
phia Walstein. It has become almost im*
possible for me to conceal my feelings to
wards her, and this night I will tell her
my history. It may be unavailing, and
perhaps selfish; but I cannot resist the I
impulse that prompts me. If she dispises
and avoids me, I can but relinquish her
society, which is already become so dan
gerous to my peace or mind, and quit a
country in which I seem doomed to meet
with nothing but sorrow de mortification.”
Fitzgerald walked the apartment in an
agony of doubt and anxiety. Harcourt
endeavoured to soothe him, by telling him
to fear nothing, and striving to convince
him that he might indulge his attachment
and seek its return with honour; but he
continued pacing the room until the ser
vant announced Miss Walstein, when he
to >k his hat and rushed into the street.
He returned more composed, &. seat
ing himself beside the object of all his so
licitude, attempted in vain to converse
with his* accustomed freedom. Sophia
was talking of (he importance of education
to femalas.
“Will you hear my story, Miss Wal*
stein?” at length he somewhat abruptly
said. “It is a tnelanch >ly illustration of
what you have just been saying; but I
think I can tell it to you, though I scarce
ly know why I ask you to listen to it.”
She turned very pale, and trembled ex
cessively, when he spoke of his wife; her
artless loveliness, his regret and sorrow
for her loss, and his long search for her.
She looked on him with a tenderness that
assured him he was beloved. Still he be
came embarrassed as he began to speak
of himself.
“ This,” said he, taking Isidore’s last
letter from his pocket, “will explain what
—my”—
Sophia started from her chair, threw
off the head-dress that confined and cov
ered her luxuriant tresses, and letting the
rich glossy ringlets fall over her neck and
shoulders, cried,
“Well, well do I know the contents of
that letter; Albert, my dear, beloved hus
band !” and sank almost lifeless into his
arm* I
He gazed on her as if he doubted the
evidence of bis senses, then pressing her
to his heart, exclaimed.
“Isidore I My wife !” with such a fran
tic cry of joy, that Harcourt and Emma
rushed into the apartment.
To describe the surprise and happiness
of all interested, would be impossible.
‘‘Dear Isidore,” said Fitzgerald, when
they were all quietly settled, ‘‘how could
a young, timid, and ignorant girl—pardon
me for the word—leave her home, her
husband, and thus alone travel to Ger
many, without leaving any trace behind I
It was the last place in the world I should
have sought for you, as I knew you had a
perfect dread of Madam Waldroff, on ac
count of her treatment to your grand
father.”
“Ttue, Albert; but he told me in his
last moments, if I never saw you again,
to go to her; and said she was noble and
well educated, though proud. I knew she
was rich, and had ample means to do for
me all 1 wished. Had you examined your
old Wardrobe, you would have missed two
suits of boy’s clothes, that your mother
had preserved, because, as you told me,
your life had been saved in one, aud the
other you wore on your return from your
first absence; these 1 wore after the first
day, cutting off my hair, and staining my
skin. You could not have known me
yourself. You ask how I could leave
you? To make the effort, it needed all
the consciousness I felt of my unworthi
ness for the station in which you had
placed me ; needed all the misery that I
constantly suffered, and the mortification
I caused you. Oh, Albert! before I
could summon resolution to leave you, 1
heard myself called a fool I ye*, a fool,
and by your best friends. Ido not won
der at it; fur how can any one perfectly
uneducated and ignorant even of the most
common things, appear other than a fool,
in the most polished aud intelligent socie
ty 1 Riches may dazftlo, and beauty may
fascinate, but a highly intelligent and cuk
tivated man cannot long love an ignorant
woman ; and you will acknowledge that
it is a dangerous experiment for any such
man, to take an uneducated girl, however
beautiful, for a wife.”
“ Yes, yes, my love, I will,” said Fitz
gerald ; *’ unless every Woman was an
1 Isidore.**
A GOOD ONE.
The editor of the York County Far
mer has placed at the hymenial head of
his paper, as an appropriate emblem, a
plate representing a mouse trap, in which
are two mice endeavoring to get out; and
immediately following are these lines:—
“Link’d in a heavenly tie’”— Moore.
“I cau’t get out.”— Sterne.
A sailor about to sail for India, a citi
zen asked him where his father died.—
“Why, where do you s’pose he died, you
land lubber; on a ship wreck, to be sure.”
“And where did your grand father die.”
“As he was fishing a storm rose, and he
and his companions perished.” “And
your gteat grandfather?”—“He also per
ished from shipwreck.” “Then if I was
you I would never go to sea.”“l say (pul
ling up his trowsers and slapping him on
the shoulder) my hearty, pray where did
your father die?” “My father, grandfather
and great grandfather, died in bed.”
“Then, if I were you,” retorted the son
of Neptune, “I would never go to bed.”
The Magpie. —Wherever it be, wild
or tame, this is the monkey of birds, full
of mischief and mimicry. A gentleman
told Mr. Mowit, that one he hept, having
stolen various articles, was watched by
him narrowly; and was at length seen by
him busy in the garden gathering pebbles,
and with much solemnity and a studied air,
dropping them into a hole about eighteen
inches deep, made to receive a line post.
After dropping each stone it cried ’car
ack!’ triumphantly, aad set off for another.
Making himself sure that he liad found
the object of his search, the gentleman
went to the place, and found in the hole
a poor toad which the magpie was stoning
for his amusement. — Notes of a Natural,
ist. ———
Talking of incongruities puts me in
miud of the steamboat, and a conversation
between two parties, one conversing of
their children, the other settling ingredi
ents of a wedding dinner, whose joint col
loquies, as I sat between them, fell upon
my ear in the following detached senten
ces : “Thank Heaven Imy Sally is bles
sed——with a calf’s head and a pig’s
face,” “Well, if I should have another
baby I shall have it immediately—skin
& cut into thin slices.” do love to see
little Tommy well dressed—in a fish
kettle over a charcoal fire.” “To be
hold the little dear dancing before one
"in the frying pan.” “And to hear
their innocent tongue ■ » babble and
squeak.” “My oldest girl is accomplish
ed—with plenty of sauce.” “I al
ways see the young (oiks put to bed my
self—and smothered in onions.”—
“And if they have been good children, I
invariably order-- - -the heart to be
stuffed and roasted, the gizzard to be pep
pered and deviled, and the soul to be fri
ed.”—New Monthly Magazine.
Soap ley has been accidentally discov
ered by a soap boiler to be excellent for
garden walks or houseyards. He spread
in a wet state the black sulphurous resi
duum of the ley tubs on the alleys of his
garden—which would not raise grass or
weeds afterwards, nor permit any growth
within some inches of the place. Delight
ed with the discovery, ho had merely to
put a covering of the sand over the refuse
to obtain the finest walks possible—and
having had occasion to repave his yard,
he used the like soft refuse instead of mor
tar, which soon hardened and cemented
the stones so well that the heaviest car
riages occasioned no disadjustment.—
Rev. Ency. apud Silliman.
Martin Luther.— A genuine portrait of
the great Reformer, Martin Luther, has
been discovered, says a London paper,
and* is in fine condition, considering that
it has been painted 360 years. I: is on a
thick oak pannel, circular shape, the head
of the Holcien size, and it is said to bo by
the hand of Albert Druer.
VISIT TO A BOSTON ‘HELtA t
The public papers have informed u«
of several suicides in Boston within a few ’
months, of persons who have once moved 1
in the higher circles of society; audio e* '
very case, we believe,the crime has been !
traced to despair growing out of some 1
species of gambling. The awful deaths
of Ackers, Curtis and others, fallowing
each other in quick succession, have had
the effect to arouse the community, and
we are glad to find that there are some
Zealous spirits determined to bring to de
served punishment the met ciless authors
of so much misery. Mr. Snelling, the
editor of the New-England Galaxy, a
few days since, visited in disguise a fa
mous gambling establishment on Craigie’s
bridge,cailed“the gymnasium”for the pur
pose of obtaining such evidence as would
enable him to prosecute to conviction sev
eral noted blacklegs who frequent that es
tablishment, and we are happy to learn
was completely successful. On his evi
dence, George Coolidge, a famous gam
bler, John Brown,the keeper of the gym
nasium, and several others have been fin
ed and punished. Mr. Snelling gives the
following account of his visit, which it
seems was made on Fast day.— N. Y.
Obsrv.
This gymnasium is kept by a Mr. John
Brown. The building, beheld from the
outside, resembles a barn, except that a
grog-shop is kept on the lower fl >or, and
that it stands on piles sunk in the river.
We entered, and went through a door in
the back part of the shop and up a flight of
stairs. The upper stories were divided
into bowling-alleys,in all but one of which
parties were actively engaged. At the
door of the exception stood a large table,
’ covered with decanters and glas'ses. We
wereabout to pass if,when a fellow whose
very looks made os scratch, stepped
up, pointed to the table, and asked us,
‘‘if we uid not intend lo do something for
the good of the house.” Among wolves
you must howl, aud we are no enemy to
an occasional glass of whiskey; so we
drank one. The room—*but its descrip
tion deserves a separate paragraph
The infernal region was redolent of
. the fumds of sick stomachs,gin and tobac
co. There were about a hundred per
sons assembled; blackgtfkrds, swindlers,
and reprobates of every discription. Ma
ny of the sons of the aristocracy of the
city were there, as well as others, who,
from their garb, one would have taken for
honest gentlemen. The rest were foreign
ers and unwashed villains. To the hon
or of the colored population be it spoken,
not one of them was there. Here was
seen the busband, whose wife sat lonely
at home, pining far his company; there
the father, whose children were oying
far the bread he was casting on the waters,
not to return again. There stood the
hopeful urchin, whose father, good man,
supposed bis pride and boast was at that
very meunent edifying in church. Full
half the assembly were boys from ten to
sixteen years old. It will presently ap
pear that they were preparing t<» graduate
from the state prison and to die on the
gallows. -
In the middle of this earthly hell was
a polygonal inclosure of boards, nbout 10
feet in diameter, the floor of which was
strewed with tan, to drink the blued of the
cocks. Here two of the gallant birds were
engaged. Round ’.he south end of the
hall were ranged a score of tea chests,
in each of which a cock was crowing at
his neighbors. As many more were hang
ing in bags at the walls of the building.
In one corner stood a genteel blackguard,
singing an obscene song, to tho infinite
satisfaction of his auditors# Right oppo
site to him sat a bloated wretch, viscera
eructans cum gemitu, and in the intervals
of his intestine syncope, holding forth in
praise of temperance. Oaths and blas
phemies rang on every side, and a few
fisticuffs were exchanged.
On entering we went stiaight to the
cock-pit, where a slate-colored and a
red bird were striving to kill each other
with steel spurs, which had been affixed
to their legs, probably because the natu*
ral weapons could not draw blood fast o
nough for the taste nf the spectators.
The feathers flew and the gore streamed.
Presently the slate-colored cock drove
his gaff through the brain of his adversary,
who fell dead on the spot. We turned
away to a gaming table, which stood in
another part of the room with a sensation
of relief.
The play was Roulette. In the centre
of the table was a wheel, resembling
wheels of fortune, gaudily painted and
marked with hieroglyphics. There were
little compartments round its edge—an
ivory ball was made to run round its pe
riphery, and as it stopped the gamester
lost or won. On each side of the wheel
was painted parallelogram divided into
squares, with figures, on which the play
ers placed their stakes. One ill looking
gallows-bird turned the wheel, and ano
ther marked the phases of it. The mark
er had under his hand a pile of silver and
gold eighteen inches high,which had been
won. We observed that the bank gained
five times out of six. The management
of the table was heathen Greek to us;
nevertheless, we put down aud lost to the
amount of seventy-five cents. We did
fhis that we might the better be able to
swear to the facts, and identify the two
scoundrels wbe kept the table. We have
seen them since on 'change among honest
men.
A boy about fourteen years old staked
his last fourpenny piece and lost it. He
stood for a moment the image of despair.-
Then tears gushed from bis eyes. He
went out tearing liis hair and exclaiming,
“O my poor father! O my poor mother!
What will become of me? O bow I wish
my boss had not sent me after that mo
ney.” This incident >as a mine of mirth
to the gamesters—a horse laugh shook the
building.
But now Coolidge with a stentorian
voice and a bottle swagger, proclaimed
that two more cocks were to be
He<ook a cock out of a bag, and called
to a brainy Irishman who stood aHiand,
“Henry, give me my saw! a dentist’s saw
was produced, and the villains proceeded
to our inexpressible horror to saw off‘the
biped’s spurs close to his legs. The blood
streamed down and the operator proceed
ed to fasten the gaffs upon tho raw stumps.
When a second cock had been accoutred
tn the like manner, Cooledge and Henry
held them up and excited them to peck
at each other. When they were sufficient
ly furious, they were set down, and the
set-to commenced.
One of the birds was red, the other
black. They several times drove the gaffs
into each other’s bodies, but this did not
abate their ardor. Bets ran high.—At last
the red thrust his spur through the black
cock’s knee joint, and they both fell en
tangled together. They were raised dis
united and set to fighting again.
The black could now hardly stand. A
thrust in the brain quelled his courage, and
he hopped over the enclosure. Coolidge
took him up, smoothed his feathers, wiped
away the blond that blinded his eyes, and
put him again into the pit. Ohl it was
cruel, savage, bloody. The poor bird had
not, however, much more to suffer- A
second stroke in the brain laid him asleep
forever.
Thus the sport continued till faur the
next morning, and so it is carried on eve
ry Saturday night and Sunday morning.
We have lodged a complaint with the city
marshall, who shall be heartily welcome
to our evidence, and by this time the of
fenders are probably in custody, lie has
also the names of other eye-witnesses of
what we have related.
LATEST FROM EUROPE,
The ship Chtrlemange. st New York from
Havre brings papers to the Sth April, and the
ship iniliam Byrnet, also at New York from
Llverpo >l, brings London journals of the 3d and.
Liverpool of the 4th of the same month.
The Pacha of has refused to
mako peace with Tu key on the terms
proposed by the French Ambassador at
Constantinople.
The protested draft drawn by the Sec
retary of the Treasury on the French
Government came back in the Charle
mange.
In the House of Commons Ap’il 2, a
clause was introduced into the Mutiny
Bill, then under discussion, abolishing
flogging in tho army, except far open mu
tiny, thieving, and drunkenness on guard.\
The vote was 151 to 140, majority ll*-
The announcement of the numbers was
attended with loud cheesing.
The subscriptions in Paris in behalf of
the Exminister Lafitte, amounted, so far
to alfout 300.000 fiancs.
‘''everal petitions were presented in the
House of Lords on the Ist ult. praying
for the better observance of the Sabbath.
Several petitions were also presented
praying for the abolition of slavery in the
West Indies. Lord Grey expressed a
wish that emancipation should be as speedy
as it could be rendered safe.
TURKEY AND EGYPT.
London, April 3.—Considering our
relations with the Ottoman Porte, we
conceive (and in this we are supported by
the general feelings here,) that our Gov
ernment cannot be 100 sufficiently alive
to the passing events in the Mediterrane
an. Tha voracious and self aggrandizing
Russian Eagle now hovers over the Tutk
ish Empire with a gloating desire io
pounce upon it with her talon#', at the
firs’ fitting moment. When ire contem
plate what may be the result of the pro
posed alteration on our Oriental empire,
we must press upon the public attention
the important necessity of preserving our
selves the integral power of an over-land
communication with India. From infor
mation we have reason to believe that t’
French and English Consuls struck th
flag at Smyrna immediately on the o
pation of that place by Ibrahim
By the tenor of the account from V
it has been supposed that some
litical movement is anticipated, since they
bring a decline in the funds of oue pr. ct.
Bijection of the French propositions by
the Pacha of Egypt.
The latest intelligence from Turkey is
contained tn a communication from Paris,
under date of April sth, and is as follows:
“We have received by an extraordina
ry conveyance, news of the highest im
portance from Alexandria of the recent
date of the 11th March* This news ar
i rived at Toulon by the brig Le Cygne,
which at the same timo conveyed des
t patches t<» be forwarded with the greatest
t haste to Government. The following are
i the particulars of this news.
The Pacha of Egypt Mehommed Ali,
. has refused to accept the propositions
[ made by France on the subject of the war
, between Egypt and Turkey.
Admit al Roussin having dispatched an
express to Alexandia, to make known to
our Consul General, the terms of the note
which bad been agreed on atConstantino
pie, in concert with the English and Aus
trian Ambassadors, to anest the march of
Ibrahim & remove every pretext for the
intervention of Russia, M. de Misault,
the Freneb Consul General. demanded
obtained a conference with
Mahommed Ali.Tbe Pacha,who had also
received despatches from Ibrahim,receiv
ed our Consul coolly,and flatly refused to
transmit to his son restrictions on his '
march to Constantinople. It appears that
he was indignant at the part assigned hio»
in the propositions of the powers, and
practically when be learned that condi*
’ tioos were made for him without previ
ously consulting him. Our Consul imme
diately expedited the brig Le Cygne to
carry this news.
It will be seen that this nows is of the
highest importance. It explains sufficient
ly clear the conduct of Ibrahim, and bis
military movements executed after the
convention concluded between Admiral
Roussin and the Porte. It further aug
ments the emoarrassmeot in which our
Ambassador at Constantinople must find
himself and renders the iflterveßtioo of