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been once misplaced, he did not become mis anthropic, nor less hopeful, when his purpo ses were defeated by the man’s villainy. He married a woman, worthily beloved by him for her fine qualities of heart, and the rare cultivation of her mind. lie never dreamed that the want of wealth could be an objection to her. They were happy in their home, which was ever “ A sunny realm of poetry and love,” and none the less happy were they, that their circumstances, but more than that, their pe culiar and more elevated tastes, prevented their participation in the fashionable follies of the great world, in which, however, a po sition was assigned them, by right of those very tastes and accomplishments, had they chosen to occupy it. Their sons grew up around them, dutiful, high minded, and gifted with distinguishing talents, which their pa rents had appreciated, and properly directed. Their daughters were loving gentle girls, with hearts and souls trained by their noble mo ther, until each became like herself, “ a per fect woman.” During his early life, and a few of his ma turer years, Frank had struggled hard, with the tide which had set in against him ; for in addition to the great misfortune of his life, he had met with another which had more mate rially affected his success. His heart had told him to go security, for a near and dear friend, when his head would have told him differ ently—and the payment of large sums threw him far behind in his course towards prosper ity ; but his affection was satisfied, and his conscience did not condemn him—so he w T as not unhappy. Old age came on, and in our friend Frank it was beautiful to see, for “ his spirit’s fervent youth, His wisdom sweet, his fearless truth, Had uever known decay.” His wife loved, more devotedly than ever, the unchanged heart which had first won her affections; his children profited by his mis takes, and the world had gone prosperously with them; but infinitely more than wealth did they prize the lessons his true heart taught them; and the memory of his goodness was a richer, and alas! a rarer legacy than gold and broad lands. I knew him in his declining years, and re garded him with loving reverence. I re viewed his life as I listened to its records, and called him a wise and happy man; but I heard proud and ambitious, and rich men, the worldly-wise and prudent, call him a fool ; and such I find to be always the world’s judgment of men like Frank Sprague. Os how little worth, then, is the applause of such a judge! ijomc (lorrcsponbcnce. For the Southern Literary Gazette. NEW-YORK LETTERS-NO. VII. Rathbun’s Hotel, ) New-York, June 15, 1848. ) My Dear Sir , —The great fever of curiosity and anxiety is over —the nomination of the Whig Convention has reached us, and we are “ preparing to piicker,” in the cause of the hero of Buena Vista ; that is to say, those of us who don’t hurrah for General Cass. Cer tain politicians of each party, dissatisfied with the nominees of their respective conventions, are uniting in an independent race, under a union of leaders —Clay for the Presidency, and John Yan Buren as his Vice. Though, of course, the question as to the next tenant of the White House, is virtually settled, and we may safely begin, as soon as we please, to speak of “ His Excellency President Tay lor.” Even had the General been thrown out by the Philadelphia Convention; there is very little doubt that he would have been cast hack upon us again by the people. They are de termined to have no other man than he, be his policy what it may. Principles appear to a®is tt nan & m n, nit&a aa y ©asstt'O's. be entirely abandoned for men. Old, vora cious office-seeking politicians, of both par ties, find some slight consolation, under this inevitable destiny; the Whigs, in the hope that their candidate may, after all, turn out a genuine Simon Pure; and the Democrats, that he will prove so little of a party man, as to allow them, while they behave themselves with propriety and keep reasonably dark, to pocket a gratifying share of the spoils. General Cass would stand a better chance of success, if his name were more available in verse, and suggestive of less questionable rhymes. I fear that all the poetic talent in the land would not avail him. I have, by way of speculation, staked a beaver on each -side of the question, so that whatever the re sult, I shall still be safe, as I have no doubt the “country,” also, will be. Mr. Cass made us a visit last week, as the guest of the city, and was duly paraded through Broadway, like Mr. Clay and General Scott before him. The affair, however, went off rather shabbily, exciting but slight attention, and still less en thusiasm. He was accompanied by General Houston and Benton, Mr. Allen of Ohio, Foote of Mississippi, and other honorable gentlemen. Walking up Broadway after dinner, my path was obstructed by a motly crowd, greedy for speeches from these distin guished visitors, who had, then, just entered the Astor House. As one of them came for ward to the window, his foot slipped, which gave occasion for a general cry, from the boys on the awning-posts and in the shade trees, of the ten-pin watchword, “Set him up!” fol lowed by a universal roar. You can form but a poor idea of the droll effect of such in terludes as these, unless you are familiar with peculiar style and sui generis enunciation, of the slang of our immortal “b’hoys.” You should stroll down the Bowery in the eve ning, observe one of these characters, with his jauntily placed “ tile,” his hands thrust in his pockets, and a cigar in his mouth, as he swaggers up to a stranger, with the fraternal and courteous salutation of “ Look-a-hear, Mister—doh yer waant toh pick a muss, cause if yer do, I’m one of the b’hoys!” I once heard one of these chivalrous gentry, in the Art-Union Saloons, trying to “pick a muss,” with the superintendant, who was politely in timating to him that the Art-Union would al was’s feel exceedingly flattered by his society, but that it was incumbent upon visitors, to leave their sticks and cigars at the door, and, (unless the thermometer was extravagant,) to wear some or other species of coat. The es timable democrat found exceeding difficulty in realizing the force of the superintendant’s ar guments, but finally sauntered slowly out of the gallery, whistling a negro air by way of compromise, between the aristocratic requisi tions of the Gallery and his own ideas of “ liberty, fraternity and equality.” Did I ever mention to you the anecdote of the man with the cloak, who visited the Art-Union last winter ? As he was passing out of the sa loon, he kept very near the wall, as the rea diest way of making his way through the crowd, and in so doing, brushed his cloak against the pictures. When one of the guar dians of the exhibition observing this, called his attention to it, and suggested the propriety of a little more care in his walk, he very quietly thanked him for his politeness, and proceeded to brush the pictorial dust from his injured garment! Speaking of these democratic gentlemen, reminds me of the French Revolution and of the new coins of the Republic. I have a five franc piece in my purse, which I assure you is exceedingly pretty. The group on one side of two female figures, “ liberty and equality,” supporting the stalwart frame of the “frater nity,” is very happy and artistic. The suc cess of the Republic is certain, if they only issue enough of these pretty “ circulars.” Apropos still—the foreign news by the Acadia, which reached this port on Saturday, is of considerable importance. The abrupt and singular dismissal of Sir H. Bulwer, the English Minister at the Spanish capital, may give us some interesting London items by the next steamer. They seem to have had stormy times again in Naples. The aspect of mat ters in Ireland, is not such either, as to banish concern and speculation The new emeute in Lyons, and the dissatisfaction in other por tions of France, though unsatisfactory intelli gence, is yet of far less import than the want of union between the National Assembly and the Executive Commission. It will be very unfortunate for the young Republic, if La martine should resign, as reports seem to in timate. The lingering hopes of the Bourbons to regain a footing in France, are scarcely less absurd than the tone of the correspondence attributed to the excellent de Joinville. But the letter of your London correspondent will probably supply you with sufficient comment upon these events, and anticipate whatever I might say. Signor Felix Foresti, has taken his depar ture from New York, to aid his brethren in Italy in their struggle for freedom. He came here a number of years since, as an exile for political offences in his native land, where he had previously suffered severe hardships, even to the extent of thirteen years imprisonment in chains; and after standing too, upon the scaffold. He is an accomplished gentleman and scholar, and a devoted patriot. While here, he nobly earned his subsistence by his labors, chiefly as a ffiacher of his native tongue. He has left behind him scores of ad miring, and sincere friends. Last Tuesday evening our Historical Soci ety held a regular and very interesting meet ing. It was the very important occasion of the introduction of strawberries and cream for the year. The Historical Society dotes upon strawberries even more than on “pa pers.” Neither is this delicacy the only crea ture comfort in which the learned body indul ges. Coffee and chocolate, and divers sun dries enable them to swallow, without dan ger, the dry documents to which they me con tinually called to listen 1 passed an hour or two very pleasantly on Saturday evening, in the drawing-rooms of the Poetess, Miss AnnaC. Lynch. Saturday nights are the occasions on which she is al ways at home to her friends; and she never fails, if the weather be not absolutely awful* to draw around her a gay assemblage of au thors, artists and others. On the visit of which I speak, I met a number who bear names familiar and favorite with the public—*• among them Miss Clarke, (Grace Greenwood,) Mr, Bayard Taylor, Mr. Griswold, Darley, etc. You will meet there, also, with Mrs. Osgood, Seba Smith, Miss Sedgwick, Headly, Willis, and indeed, every body in time and turn. But as I purpose in another letter, to speak further of Miss Lynch and her agreea ble re-unions, I will not anticipate my tale. To-morrow, I purpose starting on a few days exploring expedition in the “Jerseys,” which I mention by way of exordium to the fact, that as I shall be frequently, and for longer or shorter periods, absent from town during the summer months, you may occa sionally fail to hear from me, but, I will write as regularly as possible. You will observe that I have, this week, raised the banner of my hotel—the “ Rath bun,” at the head of my letter. This Ido in honor of some “great and glorious” improve ments in the house, which my indefatigable landlord has just completed, in the shape of multifarious additions of new rooms, an ele gant ladies’ ordinary, second to none in the country—a unique bar-room and so on. Then, too, we Rathbunites are becoming quite proud of our house and host, as our limits extend and our glory increases. We now cover one hundred and forty feet of the fairest portion I of Broadway, and extend rearwards ad libitum. If I could but enclose you a bill of fare of our table d’hote, not a single word more would be relevant on that touching theme.. Mr. Rathbun’s cusine is second to none in this great land of liberty, and indeed, in this city of modern hotels, is notorious. Our host has a remarkable genius in his profession; and though the “Rathbun” is young in years, it is already grey in renown. We have had very singular weather here, for a long time past; nothing but clouds and rains, making the atmosphere damp, and the temperature chilly. Just exactly that sort of weather, which the oldest inhabitant fails to remember, and of which the poet speaks, when he says, “ It seems as though the scullions of the sky, Had had a general washing-day on high, And hung their dirty clothes to drain —not dry.” But since I am reduced to prattle of the weather, you will probably think it time for me to bid you good-night, or rather, morning, for the small hours are now passing. FLIT. ©rtginal JJJoctrw. For the Southern Literary Gazette. TO WILLIE. BY LEILA CAMERON. I have not known you long, Willie, And yet it seems to me, That many years could not increaso The love I bear for thee. For when the heart is true, Willie, True hearts will quick respond, Nor wait the lapso of years to bind Their souls in friendship’s bond. We’ve passed some pleasant hours, Willie, Together, since we met, The memory of which shall live Within our spirits yet; And o’er our future hours, Willie, Like some sweet dream ’t will creep, To fill our hearts with happy thoughts, And bless us when we sleep! Health glows upon your cheek, Willie, An<l on your youthful luvm The cares of life have left no trace. To shade its beauty now ; But you will boa man, Willie, And in that bright, dark eye, Now dancing merrily, a world Os deeper thought will lie ! For like each child of earth, Willie, Must be your destiny To struggle ’gainst the tide of ill, That checks life’s current free. And when your barque is tost, Willie, Upon that troubled stream, You will awake to sterner thoughts, From pleasure’s youthful dream ! A few more budding springs, Willie, A few more summer suns, Will cast their blossoms at your feet, Ere man’s stern duty comes : Then nerve your heart to meet it, Willie, And faint not in the race ; Press onward still undauntedly, To win a noble place! And while you tireless strive, Willie, A honored name to earn, Fail net, above all other things, This lesson true to learn That he who would be great, Willie, Must first himself subdue, And thus the noblest conquest gain E’er held to mortal view. I hope to hear your name, Willie, Among the good and wise, Ere Time has silvered o’er your hair, Or dimmed your beaming eyes ; And then I shall recall, Willie, My merry youthful friend, Whose form with pleasant memories Os happy hours shall blend. We may not meet again, Willie, Till life with us is o’er ; Till with the hopes and fears of earth, We part forever more. Yet you will often think, Willie, Os one who loved you well, And ever in your loving heart Hor memory, shall dwall. 51