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a JFantUj! aa,ttosaj)ersa=fflrteote to attcraturr, Hit arts, Srfrnce, aarlmUttw, JHttttanlts, BUnratlou, jForrtßii an o<mwst(c SntcUCßencr, fgumour, Ut. VOLUME I. INVOCATION TO POETRY. Ia nd to the spirit of poesy, Come back, thoa art my comforter.” Come back, come back, sweet spirit, I miss thee in my dreams; I miss thee in ihe laughing bowers And by the gushing streams: The sunshine hath no gladness, The harp no joyous tone. Oh, darkly glide the moments by Since thy soft light has flown. Come back, come back, sweet spirit, As in the glorious past, When the halo of a brighter world Was round my being cast— When midnight had no darkness, When sorrow smiled through tears, Arid life’s blue'sky seemed bowed in love, To bless the coining years. Come back, come back, s-.veet spirit, Like the glowing flowers of spring, Ere time hath snatched the last pure wreath From fancy's glittering wing : Ere the heart’s increasing shadows Refuse to pass away, And the silver cord wax thin which binds To heaven tne weary clay. Como back ! thou art my comforter! What is the world to me 1 Its cares that live, its hopes that die, Its heartless revelry ? Mine, mine, O! blessed spirit, The inspiring draught be mine, Though words may not reveal how deep My worship at thy shrine. Come back, thou holy spirit ! By the bliss thou may’st impart, Or by the pain thy absence gives A deeply stricken heart. Come back, as comes the sunshine Upon the sobbing sea, And every roaming thought shall vow Allegiance to thee ! From the Ladies’ Companion. THE MOTHER’S COUNSEL. BY MRS. EMETINE S. SMITH. Tiie shadows of twilight were creeping over the streets of a large city. Amid the busy throng that crowded one of the prin cipal thoroughfares, two little boys going in different directions, met. and stopped, as if by mutual consent, in front of a bookstore, to gaze admiringly upon the fine prints and elegantly bound volumes that decorated the newly-lighted window. There was a strik ing contrast in die appearance of the two children ; one was about ten years of age, tall and well formed, with the hue of health on his cheek, and the light of happiness in his eye. His face, however, was unpleasing, for its general expression was harsh and sel fish. He was richly dressed, and the ela borate care evidently bestowed upon his whole person, from his curled locks to Ins neatly-covered foot, proclaimed him the pet ted favorite of fortune. His companion, though in reality one or two years older, was much smaller in stature, and, butfor the mature expression of his countenance, might have been thought considerably younger. It was easy to see by his scant and humble nttire that he was the child of poverty. His face was beautiful, and its every feature lighted with intelligence beyond his years, but alas, his body was delicate and deform ed, and he was incurably a cripple. One glance upon his high pale brow, where pre mature care seemed already seated, and one look into the depths of his eloquent eye, which thus early glowed with the light of lofty thought, was sufficient to assure the observer that the knowledge of his misfor tune was a weight that rested heavily upon the boy’s spirit, and a cloud that darkened the beautiful spring time of his lifo. He seemed a fitting subject for the sympathy of every heart, as he stood there gazing so earnestly and wistfully at treasures which it Was evident lie could not hope to obtain. “ Don’t you wish,” said the larger boy, interpreting the thoughts of the other, and glancing, at the same time, at his coarse at tire, “ don’t you wish your father was rich enough to buy you some of those elegant books]” “ L have no father,” replied the deformed, anu even the sound of his voice, as he ut tered these few but touching words, was eloquently expressive of the sadness that ■had settled upon his heart; it had nothing ■of the lightness and ch erfulness of child hood, hut its tones were low, soft and sub dued, like the accents of one v ho has long ?ieen acquainted with grief. “ Ah, that is a pity,” carelessly said the Hither ; “my father buys mo many such hooks—more than I know what to do with. 1 don’t read half of them, for I don’t like reading.” “ But what do you with them, then ]” asked the deformed. “ Oh, I look at the pictures, if they have pictures, and then throw them aside; some times I tear them up, just for spoit. “ Don’t you think it wrong and wicked to do that ]” mildly asked the deformed. There was a look of mingled astonishment and indignation on the face of the spoiled hoy, which plainly told that he was not ac customed .to such questions, as he said, or rather shouted— “ How dare you ask me such an imper tinent question, you poverty-stricken fellow] One would think the hump of your back, and that laine log, would teach you better manners.” At this coarse and unfeeling speech, the 80VVBXII MXBCII&AKT. poor deformed seemed ready to sink to the earth. His face grew deadly pale, his breast I heaved, and his limbs trembled as if they Ino longer would support him. For one in stant he darted an angry glance at the speak er, but the insult was to keen to awaken any feelings save those of anguish, and, spite of himself, the tears started to his eyes, and he was forced to run away to couceal them. VVitli a tortured spirit and trembling steps, he left his unfeeling companion, and sought his home. It was a lowly and a humble one —scarcely containing the necessaries of life, and barely affording ashelter from the “pelt ing of the pitiless storm”—yet was it to the stricken child, who now sought its precincts, a heaven of rest, and a sanctuary of holy joy ; for there he was ever greeted by the look of kindness, and gladdened by the mu sic tone of love ; and theie, despite the gloom that had gathered over his spirit, the Howersof hope and happiness would spring up in his heart, and blossom beneath the genial influence of a mother’s approving smile. That mother was a widow, and he her only son. According to the peculiar nature of maternal tenderness, her’s was more lavishly bestowed upon her boy, in conse quence of his infirmities ; but there were many reasons to render him unutterably dear to her heart. She had once seen better and happier days—she had dwelt amid the comforts of affluence—she had been blest with the love of a kind and noble husband —she had been the mother of many child ren ; rosy, smiling, lovely children, whose presence filled her home with light, and her soul with bliss—but one by one of these many blessings had been taken away. First, reverses came, and surrounded her with the chill atmosphere and rude storms of pover ty. Then Death, the spoiler approached, and the chosen of her youth—the beloved partner of her days—the revered father of her children, fell beneath that all-conquer ing hand. Then one after another of her beautiful band was Jsnatched away by the same relentless power, until she was left with no hope and no solace but her poor, delicate and deformed hoy, who was then to the heart, what the oasis is to the desert, the one green and fertile spot in a wide waste of desolation. Then he became the precious link that united the spirit of the holy and happy past —the sole and sacred tie that bound her to life. She had mourned her losses deeply, and almost despairingly ; but the bitterness of grief bad at length passed away, and her heart now rested peacefully, if not happily, upon its last and only hope. She now had but one earthly wish, and that was, to see her poor boy happy. For this I she would have made any sacrifice, or en- ‘ dured any suffering ; for this, so all absorb- ; ing was her love, she would willingly and cheerfully have perilled her life. The hapless, heart-stricken child reached his home. There were the bare walls, the uncovered floor, the dying fire, the scanty food, and all the cheerless accompaniments of poverty, but there, to compensate for the want of every other comfort, was such a smile of love as migh't light the face of an angel, and such words of greeting as might welcome a repentant spirit of Heaven. The mother, with a quick eye of affec tion, discovered that something unusual had pained her son, and the kiss she imprinted on his pale forehead was fonder than ever, and as she drew him towards her, and fold ed him to her bosom, there was such a holy tenderness in hermanner, that the poor hoy’s heart was comforted. But it was only a transient gleam of peace, shooting athwart his mind, like a flitting sunbeam on a stor-’ my landscape, for soon the remembrance of the bitter words he had heard, came back to darken every hope, and burying his face in his mother’s bosom to bide the tears that would come, he.sobbed — “ Mother, mother, I would like to die. What right has such a maimed and miserable wretch in this perfect and beautiful world I Even now I am looked at with contempt, and spoken to with scorn. If 1 live to grow up to manhood, nobody will love tne, and I shall have none to love. Some will pity, and some despise, but all will dread my pre sence, and shudder at my approach. Oh, mother, what has life for me ?” ’ Who shall describe the agony of that lone widow as she listened to these words 1 For years, long and weary, years, she had striven to keep the knowledge of his misfortune from poisoning the mind of her son. For this she had, whenever she looked upon the blemishe- which wru.ng the heart, checked every rising sigh, and repelled each bursting tear. For this she had labored, to gain the means of educating him, that, in the enjoy ments of mind, he might forget the infirmi ties of the body. For this she had toiled beyond her feeble strength, and spent the hours of needful rest in fervent prayer. She knew that her boy was growing up a sor rowful being; she knew that his misfortune had burdened the light-heartedness of the child, and brought the premature thought fulness of manhood ; but she did not know, until that miserable moment, how deeply and despairingly the fearful knowledge had fastened upon his heart. She had ever fear ed some cruel lip would taunt him with his infirmities ; and now that she knew it had been so, she felt she had not anticipated half the misery the event would awaken. How was she to answer the passionate ap peal ? How reply to those burning words which proclaimed her son in feeling, if not in years, a man ? She paused and pondered well ; she raised her sorrowful eye to heav en ; she breathed an inaudible but fervent prayer ; she sought the aid of a wiser than man eio she spake the words which she felt were to exercise a mighty influence. Oh, PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY C. R. IIANLEITEtt, AT TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. MADISON, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, MAY 3, 1842. that mothers would thus pause and ponder ere they give the counsel that may color a ’ whole existence ! How many a young heart has. been led to good or evil by a few words heard in the moments of deep and uncon trollable feeling. How many a life has been guided and governed by the influence of i single lesson acquired in the season of pas sionate thought. Oh, ye, to whom is en trusted the glorious task of forming and di recting the useful mind, reflect well upou the serious importance of your charge, and let not the innocent eye of childhood look up to you in vain for that example of that teaching which is to lead it unharmed and unscathed through the licry ordeal of the world! They formed a fine picture, the mother and her son, standing together in the sha dowy light of that dim and dreary room— she with her pale brow and imploring eye raised to heaven, and he with his earnest and asking gaze fixed upon the face that was ever a heaven to him. The widow’s prayer was ended ; the light she sought had dawned upon her spirit, and she moved her lips to speak. “ My son,” and her voice was low and solemn as if burdened with intensity of feel ing, “my son, kneel this moment and ask forgiveness of thy Father in Heaven for the wrong thou hast this night done. Thou hast despised the great and glorious gifts which he has granted thee ; thou hast counted as nought the priceless attributes of mind and sighed for the perishing beauties of the bo dy. Thou hast said ‘ what is there in this life for me?’ Oh, my child, there is much,look round upon the visible world; have you not an eye to admire its beauties, a heart to feel its power, and a mind to comprehend its magnificence ? Go with me, at morn, away to the pleasant places of nature and listen to her perpetual hymn of praise. Have you not an ear to drink in its melody, and a voice to join in the universal song? Never again, my dear boy, ask what is there in life for thee. Thou are gifted with mind and un derstanding far beyond thy years ; turn theu to the fount of knowledge, and obtainjthere, that which will make thee forget thy infirmi ties, and value the body only for the imper ishable gem it enshrines. Seek the aid of Virtue and she will arm thy spirit with strength to bear the ills of life. Use well the noble gifts that God hath given thee, and despite thy misfortunes, the glance of pity and the tone of scorn shall be changed into a look of approval and the word of praise.” The mother spoke with the serious earn estness of a priestess uttering a solemn pro phecy, and the hoy listened with an interest as intense as if life hung on every word. By degrees his tears ceased, his brow he came calm and his eye beamed with the ho ly light of peace. When the admonition, which though so lofty in its character had been perfectly comprehended by the mature mind of the child, was ended, his face was radiant with a lofty resolution, and, kissing the speaker fondly, he said— “ Mother, dear mother, I am happy. I will live to follow thy teaching, to honor thy name and to comfort thy days. Forget that I ever complained and I give you a promise, which I pray God’tojhelp me to keep, that l never more will mnrmurat my misfortune, never more pain thy heart with useless re grets, to follow the glorious path you have*this night marked out.” And the boy, child as he was in years, kept his promise with a resolute firmness that would have done honor to manhood. Never, after that memorable eve, was he heard to utter one complaining word. Nev er again, at least, in presence of his mother, did Itis brow wear the cloud or his eye the shadow of gloom. He went forth among his companions wrapped in an armor of de termination that defied all malice and turn ed away all reproach. This change in his feelings was productive of the most benefi cial and happy results. Day by day he be gan to acquire a strength of constitution and elevation of character which could nev er have been his if despondency had con tinued to exercise its blighting influence ov er his young and tender spirit. His fond mother marked the change with delighted eye ; and when at length, by the aid of a small legacy left her by a distant relative and her own unparalleled industry and eco nomy, she was enabled to gratify the dearest wish of her heart, that of giving her boy a classical education, she felt herself blest in deed beyond her most sanguine expecta tions. Her son passed his collegiate term with honor to himself and his teachers, and left j the institution with the admiration and re spect of all who had been his associates. He chose the profession of the law, and, though for a time he had to struggle with many disadvantages and difficulties, he nev er despaired of obtaining the meed he sought —an honorable and useful station in society. The excellent counsels of the mother guid ed the man as they had governed the boy, and led him with unerring step to the posi tion he desired. Gifted with a mind of the highest order and a heart filled with noble and generous emotions, it is not surpri ing that he at length emerged from the obscuri ty which had darkened his earlier years. Those Who had known him in his friendless, needy and afflicted boyhood, and who only looked upon the “ outer man,” watched his progress with a doubtful eye and wondered at his ambitious dreams. But those who looked deeper into the inner world of his mind and marked its lofty aspirings, its noble aims and untiring exertions, deemed that success would crown his efforts, and believ ed that the smiles of fortune, the adulation of friends, and the unfading laurels of fame would be his well merited reward. Many years after their first meeting, the deformed and the chance companion of his boyhood stood together again in a different scene and under far different circumstances. One of these two was arraigned at the bar of justice for the fearful crime of murder; the other was there as counsel for the accus ed. Need we say which was the criminal ? The evil passions which had so early mani fested themselves in one of the children had “ grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength,” until they had gained complete mastery over his heart. In youth they had led him into many a situation of shame and sorrow, and now in manhood, they had brought him before men, charged with a deed of the darkest die ! From some circumstances connected with the transaction it was fair to suppose that the prisoner was innocent of the actual crime of murder; but his unfortunate disposition militated strongly against him, for,as he was universally known as a man of an ungovern able temper, it was generally thought that he had, in one of his fits of rage when he seemed capable of any excess, committed the oreadful deed. The public voice was loud against him, and many hearts had al ready condemned. These knew not how many minute circumstances had combined to place him in the light of a criminal, and they reflected not how much their own j u dg ments were biassed and swayed by the deep prejudices which his former faults had awak ened in their minds. The belief of his guilt had gone forth to the world—it had circula ted widely ; it had poisoned almost every nind and fastened itself upon almost every heart. Before he had passed the ordeal which was to establish his guilt or innocence, the prisoner had been unfairly condemned! and his advocate, whose duty it was to see justice properly awarded, felt that it must be a mighty effort which could avert the doom which seemed almost inevitable. To the young lawyer this was a case of peculiar interest. It was of more moment than any he had ever tried. He had almost considered punishment by death a tragedy ihat should seldom or never be performed, and he was now placed in a situation where his efforts might have some influence to pre vent it. He felt that the culprit, however guilty in the eyes of the world, did not me rit the severest penalty of the law. f Added to this, the prisoner was one who had been the indirect meaits of his own prosp’ritv, and he felt towards him a sentiment of gnu itude which would have prompted him, had there been no other consideration, to use ev ery exertion, to strain every nerve, and to toil with almost super-human energy in his behalf. The last day of the trial had come ; hun dreds of people curious or interested in the result assembled to witness the proceedings. The prisoner had in early life, as we have shown, been the favorite of fortune, but ere he grew to manhood the smiles of the faith less dame were withdrawn, and he who had been reared in the expectation of a proud inheritance was compelled to go forth and seek subsistance by his own exertions. The changes which followed this event—the ne cessity of mingling with those whom he once despised—the falling off one by one of bis “ summer friends,” tended to embitter a disposition naturally so violent, and goaded his haughty spirit almost to madness. The added bitterness of his temper had driven away the few remaining friends whom ad versity had not alienated, and now, in his trying hour, he was unsoothed and unsus tained by all save two persons connected to him by the nearest ties of kindred. But these two were powerful pleaders in his behalf. They were his young wife and aged mother. The former was a pretty and interesting young creature, with her pale cheek anti sunken eye telling a tale of the mental agony she had lately endured. The latter seemed a fine subject for a painter, as she stood with her time-worn brow and her dim eye uplifted to heaven, as if she sought there the only consolation that could be found for grief so poignant as her’s. Her mind seemed nerved with heroic fortitude to bear the worst, for her mauner was dignified and calm, but despite all the resolution she could call to her aid, her heart would send some signs to the face to speak more elo quently than words of its intensity of suffer ing. The muscles of her mouth would of ten twitch convulsively, her brow contract like one in pain, and a largo tear would gath er every few moments and roll unheeded and unfelt down her furrowed cheek. Ma ny an eye in that vast assembly looked tear fully upon that picture of woe, and may a heart, that had before condemned the pri soner, now beat with an ardent wish for his acquittal. During the previous day of the trial the testimony had closed, and the assembled multitude awaited now with deep interest the summing up of counsel. After a few Ereliminarics the prisoner’s advocate arose. [is appearance was interesting in the ex treme, anti all eyes were instantly rivetted upon him. He bad outgrown in one respect j his early deformity, and there was nothing now save iris lameness to detract from his personal appearance. He was dressed in a plain suit of the deepest black, which form ed a fine contrast to the pale and al most marble-like complexion. His face, ever remarkable for its intellectual beauty, was now rendered strikingly elegant by its lofty and spirited expression. He seemed deeply sensible of the important consequen ces attached to his endeavors, and his man ner was dignified, solemn, and impressive. He looked calmly around the expectant au dience and then began in a low, serious and subdued tone—“ He who sheddelh man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.” He then paused until the last lingering sound of his strangely musical voice had died away, and then, amid the thrilling silence that en sued, he resumed in a louder tone —“These words of holy writ are unmistakable in their import ; they tell us plainly as words can tell that a murderer should not go un punished—but th£se very words impose up on us a solemn obligation to look well and wisely ere we perform the fearful act of punishing by death. Life is a glorious gift— it is a spark of divinity—a portion of God. Should we not tremble to quench the taper lighted by an Almighty hand ? Even when we look upon one whom we are told has stained his soul with the blood of a brother, should we not ponder deeply and consider wisely ere we condemn the accused ? He stands before us, erect in the pride and glo ry of manhood ; his brow lifted to heaven, bis form fashioned in the likeness of his di vine creator, and his mind a portion of God like intelligence ! It i hard to think a being thus created would forget bis lofty birthright, and degrade himself below the brutes that perish. It is hard to think a being thus en dowed and thus blessed would turn from his high destiny to do a deed which humani ty shudders to contemplate. And yet the prisoner at the bar is charged with such a deed ! Oh, if there is a doubt of this guilt, should we not admit that doubt, and if there is a hope of his innocence, should we not turn to that hope and let its blessed light lead us to mercy ?” He then proceeded to comment upon that. portion of the evidence which favored the belief of the prisoner’s innocence. He made good use of it, and placed every favorable circumstance in the best possible light. He came at length to speak of the relatives of the accused—of the young wife, with the sweet and trusting love of woman; with her dependence for comfort, her hopes of happiness, her every thought and dream and wish centered in die one dear object whom ‘ she had chosen as her protector. He pic tured the pleasant home, the cheerful fire side, the happy wife listening witli smiling face for the sound of approaching steps. He described the change that would come over this scene, if he who stood at the bar ofjus tipe pleading for mercy should be condemn ed. The wife’s utter desolation of heart— 1 the destruction of her every joy—the wreck and ruin of her every hope. The desolate ! home, the darkened hearth, the ceaseless 1 tears, and all the gloomy accompaniments of woe. He called attention to the aged pa rent, and then his own soul responded to the same emotions that thrilled the hearts of his auditors. Oh! how touchingly and feeling ly did he paint the holy love of a mother for her son ! Her suffering in giving him life ; her tender and untiring care over his helpless infancy, her unwearied watches by his cradle-bed in the hours of sickness, and her holy teaching in the days of health ; her constant prayers for his happiness and her ceaseless affection through every chance. Then he asked if such prayers and such love were all in vain—if, despite their sa cred influence, their beloved object should sink to eternal infamy, and the grey hairs of that aged mother go down in shame and sor row to the grave. And then he conjured those who heard him, by every generous feeling of their hearts, by every blessing they held dear, by every hallowed tie that bound them to parents, wife, and child, to shut from their minds all belief of the pri soner’s guilt. There was a magic charm about that ora tory which fascinated every hearer. Old age forgot his weary thoughts and listened with the enthusiastic feelings of youth. Manhood laid aside his busy cares and am bitious schemes to give his undivided atten tion to the speaker ; and youth his brilliant dreams of the future to fix eve ry thought upon the present. But what were the feelings of the accused as he drank in every eloquent word ? The speaker seem ed tohim a blessed being invested with pow er to snatch him from eternal woe and give him anew existence. Fate hung upon the sound of his voice, and as he pleaded so eloquently, so powerfully, and so convinc ingly, the wretch who once despised could have knelt and worshipped him as a superi or being. When that thrilling speech was ended, there was one deep drawn breath from the multitude who had been so long almost mo tionless as statues, and then arose a tumult and thunder of applause which shook the stately ‘building to its foundation. Long continued and oft repeated was that burst of admiration and the speaker bailed it as an omen of success. Ihe trial went on ; the prosecuting attorney made his plea. He spake ably and powerfully, but he spake to ears that heard him not, or to hearts that had already decided against him. The Judge’s charge was favorable for the prisoner and the jury retired amid faces bright with the hope of an acquittal. A few moments of suspense passed, and then the men up'ui whose lips hung the fiat of life or death, re turned with a verdict of “not guilty !” The shout of applause that pealed from the dis persing crowd told how satisfactorily that decision was received. The prisoner was pressed in the arms of his delighted relatives ; and then the aged i mother and the young wife and the bewild- j ered acquitted knelt, and with tears of grat- [ itude called down blessings on the head of him who had exerted himself so nobly in their behalf. It were hard to say who was the happiest of that group—the man releas ed so unexpectedly from a noisome cell and the fears of an ignominious death—the re- * latives lifted so suddenly from the depth of shame and sorrow to the pinnacle of hope and happiness—or the advocate whose be nevolent heart exulted in the reflection the good deed it had done. That evening the widow and her son com muned together again in their home. It was no longer a lowly and cheerless one, but lofty and spacious and surrounded with all the comforts and elegances of life. As for the mother, words may not seek to describe nor thought endeavor to imagine the 1 Ay joy and gratitude that revelled in her heai Suffice it to say her griefs were all lorgol ten, heryears of care and anxiety, her count less tears, toils and troubles all recompensed; more than recompensed by her newly ac quired bliss. And her son, her glorious child—glorious despite the doubtful pro mise of his spring-time; had not his ami tious dreams and lofty aspirations been, t* day, abundantly gratified. After many moments indulgence of u happiness too deep for words the mothc. spake—“ Said I not, my dear boy, that the glance of pitty and the tone of scorn wool ‘ be changed to the look of approval aru t’ word of praise. Has not the exp . i nee c; this day proved that I told thee aright ?” “ It has indeed, dear mother—to thee l owe the triumph. But for thee and thy bless ed counsel I should now have been a miser able wretch, despised by society and debat ed by my own heart. Thy excellent teach ings have made me what lam and to thee my eternal gratitude is due.” “ Not so, my son, not to me but to tfcy Father in Heaven be all praise awarded. Let us kneel, my dear child, and pray for a fitting spirit to bear this excess of joy.” BOLINBROKE. As an orator, Bolinbroke was rated very high by his contemporaries. His successors in life, (Pitt and Brougham,) have estimated him the very first of English orators. Lord Chesterfield thought him superior to the ancients. But, in his printed works, he is infinitely beneath Burke—who, singularly enough, commenced his career by an imi tation of Bolinbroke—which proved supe rior to the original. We can imagine him, however, a very popular speaker. He had all the arts of oratory, and a fine person. He was quick, brilliant, energetic, fiery; his manners, soft, elegant, refined; his schol arship, daizling, and deceptive. He wub also, when necessary, untiring in business; and perhaps,’ the best negotiator and diplo mat, among the English statesmen of bis time. “ The personal character of this brilliant knave ” was, in early life, grossly sensual; — he was a sort of Marquis of Waterford; only rivalling him in reckless licentiousness. He kept the most expensive mistress in the kingdom, and boasted of being able to drink more than any other man could bear. Ho once ran a race naked through Hyde Park. Lord Byron was quite a puritan compared with Bolingbroke. His lordship’s ambition, when a collegian, and until the age of near thirty, was wholly of the puerile sort that distinguishes rich young men of fashion of the present day. As he advanced toward maturity, he be came the statesman and political leader. After tlie loss of power and influence, be turned philosopher. It may look like want of charity, but we confess we suspect it to be true, that philosophy was the last resoit of Bolinbroke; as politics has been said to be “the last resoit of a scoundrel.” And it is astonishing, how men are allowed to conduct the affairs of the nation, whose pri vate business is entirely neglected, and whose personal character is highly valued, at the very smallest premium. Religion, Bolingbroke repelled with dis dian; but rested firm in the consolations of philosophy. He died at an advanced age, and holding the same doctrines to the very last. Apologue on printing by steam. —During a wonderful period of the world, the kings of the earth leagued themselves together to destroy all opposition, to root out, if they could, the very thoughts of mankind. In quisition was made for blood. The ears of the grovelling lay in wait for every murmur. On a sudden, during this great hour of dan ger, there arose in a hundred parts of the world, a cry, to which the cry Blatant Beast was a whisper. It proceeded from the wonderful multiplication of an extraordin ary Creature, which had already turned the cheeks of the tyrants pallid. It groaned and it grew loud: it spoke with a hundred tongues: it grew fervidly on the ear, like the noise of a million of wheels. And the sound of a million of wheels was in it, to gether with other marvellous and awful voices. There was the sharpening of swords, the braying of trumpets, the neighing of war-liorses, the laughter of solemn voices, the rushing by of lights, the of impatient feet, a tread as if the world were coming. And ever and anon there were pauses with “a still small voice,” which made a trembling in the night-time; but still the glowing sound of the wheels renew ed itself; gathering early towards the morn ing. And when you came tip to one of these creatures, you saw, with fear and rev erence, its mighty conformation, being like wheels indeed and a great vapor. And ever and anon the vapor boiled, and tlie wheels went rolling, and the creature threw out of its mouth visible words, that fell into the air by millions, and spoke to the uttermost parts of the earth. And the nations, (for it was a loving though a fearful Creature) fed upon its wordsslike the air that breathed: and tho Monarchs paused, for they knew their mas -1 levs.—Leigh Hunt. NUMBER 5.