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CMf- ,J '“ / F* T * Lecture concluded from first P^ge-J precious understanding to bo tampcied with by a inan of no rnind—he will permit that •on’s temper to be handled by one who can not control his own, and who, by his injudi cious treatment, may sour his Ipirit, or dis courage his efforts, or harden him in obstina cy, and give him an everlasting disgust against learning. We know not how many young persons have been ruined or injured by un skilful management at school. I would by | no means attribute all, or even the greater; part, of the unsuccessful cases of education, j to the fault of the preceptor. I know that the natural indolence and |>erversenes2 of the I human heart will often baffle the best man-J yageinent, and account for numbers turning, out badly without supposing blame on the! part of the teacher. But every candid and ! sensible instructor will see and acknowledge ! that he often errs, will feel that to manage human nature, especially human nature un der the influence of the levity, tho passion j and the inexperience of youth, is a most ar- j duous and delicate task, and will rejoice to j receive any hints by which he may succeed | better in his design. lie has the best inten-j tions, lie makes continual exertions; but still ■ he laments that his achievements come far [ short of his wishes and his aims. Let there he established throughout the j United States three or four schools for train-[ ing teachers, and let a fund be raised by every community for the purpose of sending one of; their youth of promise to such an institution, that he may come back to them an accom plished teacher, and they will be amply in. j (lemnified for all their expense by his superi or usefulness. POETRY. YOUNG THOUGHTS HAVE MUSIC IN THEM. Young thoughts have music in them, love And happiness their theme; And music wanders in the wind That lulls a morning dream And there are angel voices heard In childhood’s frolic hours, When life is but an April day Os sunshine and of showers. There’s music in the forest leaves VV hen summer winds are there, And in the laugh of forrest girls, That braid their sunny hair. The first wild bird ti.at drinks the dew From violets of the spring, Has music in his song, and in The fluttering of his wing. There’s music in the dash of waves When the swift bark cleaves their foam ; There’s music heard upon her deck, The mariner’s song of home, When moon and star beams smiling meet At midnight on the sea— And there is music once a week In Scudder’s balcony. But the music of young thoughts too soon j Is faint, and dies away, And from our morning riream6 we wake To curse the coming day. And childhood’s frolic hours are brief, And oft in after years Their memory comes to chill the heart, And dim the eye with tears. To-day the forest leaves are green, They’ll wither on the morrow, And the maiden’s laugh be changed, erelong, To the widow’s wail of sorrow. Come with the winter snows and ask Where are the forrest birds? The answer is a silent one, More eloquent than words. The moonlight music of tho waves In storms is heard no more, When the living lightning mocks the wreck At midnight on the shore, And the mariner’s songof home has ceased, His corse is on the sea— And music ceases, when it rains, In Scudder’s balcony. MISCELLANEOUS. THE I \ia U“PY MAN. It has been the remark of some poet, that the bee draws honey from a flower, while the spider will light upon it and extract poison. It is thus with men ; some will go through any trouble—witness the wreck of their pro perty ; the loss of their friends; he surround ed with nil the ten thousand vexations of hu man lite ; yet gather knowledge from their misfortunes, and feel happy that they are no worse. They return their meditations rather to the blessings than the cares of the world ; and when they retire at night to their family, they talk, laugh, amuse themselves and all a round them w ith a flow of pure sport—deter mined to he happy—and arc so. There are other men who are exactly the reverse. They take a deal of trouble to liud out their misc i • ' around them, and brood over every care with a gloomy illnatured disposition! that marks them for misanthropists. Such a one is my friend. He is the most miserable being ! ever saw. \Y ith a strong mind and a proud spirit, lie easily discovers what he considers imperfections ot mankind, and seems rcallv too haughty to be happy. The other day 1 took the trouble to ask him why it was tlmt he never enjoyed the things ot this world, and was so wonderfully trou bled with the blue devils. “ Why,”said he, “I’ll tell you what it is: I don’t know the reason—but ever since 1 can [ remember, I have been a most unhappy man. Look around you,' said he, contracting his i brow and drawing up Ins person, as if be felt the most supreme contempt toi every thing m the world, “ look around you and behold all the cheating and hypocrisy of this misera ble, miserable world. See that store, which its owner has bedecked with gaudy crapes, and all the finery of woman’s wardrobe—with Leghorn hats, large enough to turn the wheel of a wind mill, and velvet cloaks to set off some foolish creature who thinks site is more beautiful because she is extravagant. He has purchased those things cheap by crying down their merits and nmv he will palm them oil tor double their value by praising the things lie has just condemned. Faugh! who ean feel pleasure in a scene like this? I would kill myself but that were foolish; though lean hardly endure life, for it is but a succession of sorrows. YVt have hopes that ire blasted—affections that arc betrayed; (jo) a that are fleeting; and pains that last for-! ever.” He paused, and we walked on a few mo- j ’ meats, when he continued— 11 they talk ol; amusements' I went once to the theatre, to ' j see • great actor perform a favorite part.— j I When 1 first entered, I thought the house was ; beautiful and splendid' 1 took the pains to { examine: and found the pictures were coarse, much of the architecture was painting, and ; the splendor of the building was all sham. 1 ! ! turned away in disgust, mud awaited the ris- 1 mg of the curtain. The play commenced;! 1 and to say the trutb,Lwa«at first much pleas ed ; but when 1 recollected that the tears and laughter were but introduced for the occa- . sion ; tflvHqjhtning was powder ; and instead ; of real elevated thunder, crashing its mighty way along a vaulted sky, we had some black supernumerary beating a large drum. I was ; ashamed to be interested in such ridiculous j stuff. There was a romantic forest with a h..ndsoine floor—and huge rocks, that if one touched, shook like an aspen leaf. I saw a man’s arm behind the scene, pushing along with the greatest ease a mighty castle, fortress, j tower, out-houses and surrounding grounds ;; with some fine misty mountains, lifting up ; their beads in a cloudy sky, All these ab-; surdities entirely destroyed the pleasure of the evening, argi .1 home with a heart heavier than when I came. Nothing can . please me. I never can be contented with the fashions of the day, The very day itself is oft'.ii disagreeable : it is either too hot, or i too cold ; there is too much sunshine, and| the light hurts my eyes; or it is as gloomy j as a dungeon. Sometimes 1 have been tired j with the world, and glad to catch a little re pose during the night, but there ten chances to one but some rascally mosquito comes sing ing about my nose, and awakening me to the consciousness of my sorrows. I used to have as much money as I wanted, but I was yet unhappy, if Igo out to dinner, the foolish ness of the customs entirely unfits me so pleasure. If a ludicrous story is told, I am half inclined to think I am the hero, and a slight laugh and a shrug of the shoulders will entirely undo me. Misery haunts me every where : when I go I home, the little boys knock at my door and i run away. I havo been awakened a hundred I times from a little nap in iny back parlor by these littlo rascals. Sometimes I have gone to the door in expectation of beholding some I friend who might soothe my melaucholy ; 1 ; open the door—poke out my head—perhaps a cold winter night — and no one to ue seen, j A stifled laugh meets my oar, and l see j the coat-tail of some ragamuffin tittle rascals ' just turning the corner. Oh the villains! I 1 threw a bason of water on them once : but! though I felt a little satisfied at their duck iug, yet even then I had reason to feel the truth of the proverb, “ there is no pleasure - without pain,” for my beautiful now china; basin, for which 1 paid an enormous price— my poor basin fell and dashed to pieces. 1 ] thought, however, I had rid myself of my tor menters, when one evening I heard a knock. Betty went to the door, and returned with the news that there was no one there. Now thought I, they shall be punished—another knoex—quick Betty, quick. I was obeyed, with the utmost caution I crept up to the win dow, opened it—another knock—the pail was ready, and on tho very instant another thun dering rap rung through the house. With triumphant eagerness I emptied the contents; ! iooked forth with the delighted hope ofen! I joying their confusion ; when to my utter con ! sternation, there was not a person there!—the i street was clear ; tho water had fallen on the j walk; and the knc«kcr, though touched by the I no visible hand, moved up and down with in creased rapidity. The very devil! said I, j the very devil himself has entered into league ; against me. I rushed to the deufr, and—Oh, ; all ye powers of mischiefs and rascality, what a sight was there ? a long string was attach ed to the knocker, and these tormenters of my life had hold of one end which reached round the corner, and were thus amusing j themselves at my expense. They are worse , than musquitocs, said 1, as 1 re entered the j house. ; and the little rascals made me un i happy for a month. I actually went into the (country that they should lorget to plague me, ; hut when I returned, Monsieur Tonson came ( again! so I took off my knocker—tore down j my hell—and live as lonely as a hermit. It seems as if fate delights to tease ine—l I was a few months ago taken dangerously ill, j and expected to die, and I therefore gave my j children, who are nmv settled in life, each a portion of my property. Well, to make a J long story short, 1 recovered; but when I I confidently asked tile return of my fortune, : to the completion of inv sorrow, they refused. ! Can you believe it? they refused ; and lain 1 now living a poorinan dependant on the ge i nerositv of those I have enriched.” By the time my unfortunate friend had fin ished his story, we had arrived at the street where we were to part. I shook his hand, and could not but attempt to comfort him. I suggested, that although there was indeed no pleasure without its dain, yet, on the other hand, there was no pain without a pleasure. Concerning his unfortunate visit to the thea tre, 1 told him he ought to try and forget the imperfections of the place ; attend rather to the beauty and talent of the performers, than to the action of the play that is performed; and I urged to him, that if he would but ob serve with candor, the great powers of Coop er,or watch the beautiful eye, and intelligent countenance oi Miss Johnson, as she was de lighting every one else with the chaste ele gance of her acting, he could not but have forgotten, at least for a time his miserable fate, and he would have passed his evening like a happy man. “Forget,” said he, “forget—how can I but sec, that a man is a fool w ho will weep at the misfortunes that lie knows are but or laugh at the ludicrous situations that are but planned for his pleasure ? As for Coop er, lain ashamed that he could bring a tear into inv eye : and Miss Johnson, to sav the candid truth, Miss Johnson, did please me. I was delighted, and the only fault I found with her was that I could not sec her more of ten.” As he 'poke a light breeze came sweeping down the street; blew the dust in to bis eyes, as he faced the point whence it came—took away his straw hat, and deposit ed it in the gutter. When he regained it he placed it upon his head, and as a passenger smiled at his ludicrous appearance, he cast an angry look at ine, and exclaimed—“ There, that’s always the way for me.” He moved off with a most tremendous frown upon his brow, and 1 have no doubt he mourned over the little accident all the night. This is an [ unhappy man:—there are men who pride theuiselvcson being miserable.—A. Y.Mir. WOMAN’S* ELOQUENCE. “ Woman cannot plead at the bar, or preach , in the pulpit, or thunder in the senate house, j Yet hers is no triflingeloquence. Its power, | though unostentatious in display, is mighty in , result, in the retirement of her own family, > in the circle of her friends and acquaintances, I yi the various intercourse of life what a charm ; can woman spread around her : what a zest j to every other enjoyment she can impart— what encouragement she gan give to virtue,, and nliat reproofs to vice, what aid she c:n - afford to the cause of religion ; in short, what an amount ol good she can accomplish, and j wiiat an immense influence exert,by her mere j conversation. Is it not, then of vast impor- j taric.c that tier powers of conversation, should' be cultivated as a part of the course of her j education and not left as they too often are, to take their whole character from the adven titious circumstances of life in which she j may be placed? But you will enquire how is j lliis to be made matter of instruction ; must j it not be the result, and the result only, of a / young lady’s intercourse with polished and in- j telligent society ? I think not. I would al low to such intercourse all the tflic.aey which it deserves, and doubtless this efficacy is great i But I would go deeper than this; 1 would go; farther hack, even to that period of life, when females arc not yet considered old enough to mingle in promiscuous society, and especially to bear their part in the conversation of oth ers much thetr superiors in age and intelli gence. I would have the mother, to all the extent of her power, and the instructress, as a part of her course of instruction, devote j themselves to this great object. This is the j very way, too, in which all tho knowledge | that a young lady is acquiring at school may ! be made of practical use ; for it may all be ! introduced into convcisatiou, either for the [entertainment or instiuetion of others.” THE ELOPEMENT. BY X. P. WILLIS. One sauntering, sunshiny summer’s day- j soon after the introduction of Berlin iron or- j ; naments and sleeves alagigot, (I like to; | date by epochs,) there stood at Fontaines’* : counter, No—Broadway, (you know the shop, ! lady, I dare swear,) a gentleman in whiskers, | [(then a little ultra,) and a lady in French j slippers, (then a rare article.) They were tossing over together, with looks of profound | | attention,a heap of some thousand gloves of every description, which bad been accumula ting from every quarter of the store for the last half hour, without any approach, which the astonished shopman cculd discover,to the satisfaction of the lady’s taste, or the gen- \ tlenmn’s approval. An immense piece of; | damaged barege, hanging in a festoon actoss ; the corner in which they stood, screened 'them from the notice of the passing custom ers ; and when at last they had rejected ev ery glove in the shop, and tile impertubable little fellow in a bandanna cravat stood lean ing with his two bands on the counter, and looking silently on the three hours’ work they had made him, they quictlv turned their I backs upon him, and drawing further into {their sheltered position, continued their dis j cussion of colors, (or some other equally in j tcresting topic,) with increased earnestness, j They had been thus occupied twenty mi j nutes, (perhaps longer, for Irish watches j and certain people lose half an hour in that; * time,) when a conversation arising between j ' two gentlemen, who had just entered, respect-; j ing the identity of the small foot that was patting the; floor violently within the curtain, they fell to tossing over the gloves again, and selecting a pair hastily, the lady took the! gentleman's arm, and left the shop. Miss ([wish I dare tell you the j pretty name those two black lines stand for— ■ but it’s a true story, and of course you know, ! I can’t; so, till I see you where I can whisper it in your ear, we’ll call her, if you please, j Cecile. Cccile, then, was a belle of some I two winter’s standing. I hate descriptian in j a real story, and so I’ll just say, that she was ! a sort of Aurora-Itaby-looking beauty, (don’t! ! look for the description, Miss, it is anaugh -5 ty book, Don Juan,) dark eyed, dark haired, j and with the foot and hand of a Peri. She j was a glorious creature, a real angel by can-| j die-light, and by day-light something between | Honor O’Hara, Fenclla, and D’Vcrnon, but j j twice as lovely as either. The men adored; ! her, and the women (nothing hates like a wo- j j inan) were eating their hearts up about her. [ j They abused her tout-a-tuut. They said she j j was not stylise, (that’s the word, srnce gen* j teel is exploded,) but, like other angels, she 1 was a sort of witch, and knew the fashions a | month before the milliners. They said she ! was proud, but pride is bewitching in a wo | man whose lip 1$ pretty. They said she was a Art, and sarcastic, and r.ouid’nt read with out spelling, but on these points tout le mondc el sn sirur had a different opinion. Nothing would do;she was a belle in spite of them— [ and that reminds me to go on with my story, j Cecile, I was saying, had been a belle for two winters—that is to say, within that num of seasons she had refused the “three fine men,” (there are never more at a time,) and provoked, beyond endurance, the three bun dred fine women, (of whom there may he any quantity.) She had worn what she fancied, and the milliners had not resented it—said what she choosa, and visited where she i pleased, and cut all stupid people, authentic jor not—and still the men swore (and the women admitted because they swore) that [ i she was divine. Like another great conque ror, however, she soon exoausted her inateri- I al, and wept for new worlds. Tile same ex | ternal beaux kept at. the same external dis j tancc—the same eternal vows from the same eternal wlnskcra—the sunn; eternal day-light and candle-light, with eTernaf walks, suppers, and dances—it was too much j for even angelic patience—Cccilc was ennuy ce a mort! And who wonders ? Who, that has made a campaign of fashion in the city of Gotham,! wonders at a feeling of toujours perdrix, at the very sound of its name, forever after? Broadway is well enough, but who loves to look all dev at a The parties are brilliant—but who lores to make one of a belle’s cordon, composed of every nation,and speaking every language under heaven 1 Or to maintain a monologue to a pale, exhaus, ted, over-dressed creature, who would rather ! die than he at the trouble of a sentence? i Then the eternal oysters, pickled and stewed, stewed and pickled, (the only variety seen ! at a party through the season,) with a sallad ; concocted « la Goth, rolled into the rooms upon round tables, and rolled out again, be fore lie who eats like a Christian could select I and transfix one of p/oper proportions ; and the pink champaign, sweet and sickish ; and the short, ill cravated, indigenous beaux, and i the tall, discontented-looking exotics—stere otyped .Manuel heads crowding upon the eye j like trie multiplication of an incubus, and the slavish similarity of every article of dress to its neighbor—Bennett fast asleep over his cremona, and cotillions dancing upon two feet square—who, we again ask, in the name of the foul fiend, would not, of such a routine, tire and sicken ? Far be it from me, however, to indite an unqualified philippic against the metropolis of our land. There is no place this side the water which gathers so much of the rich and rare—tio place where the feet of women are smaller, or the enterprise of the men more laudable—none where the pace is so brilliant ly thronged, the simple more dexterously en lightened, and the plethora of the pocket more speedily relieved—none, in short, where there are united such a foci of the people i and tilings, or where one may learn faster the necessity of combining, in his individual per son, the accomplishments of Briareus and Argus. It is London diminished Noplace like it “to take the nonsense out of you. The 1 first person singular is, to all but itself, a very indifferent pronoun. Nobody cares whether you “cock your thumb” or no. Fanny Wright is no lion in Broadway, and the Frugal House wife might eat her “hard gingerbread,” and swear it was “nice,” uncontradicted. How different from Boston ! Here, every ; body at their business. You cannot stir j without feeling your importance. Avery j little stranger makes a “very splendid tiger,” ; and a peculiar tie to a cravat gives you a i three month’s immortality. Your birth, re ! ligion, earlv history, finances, and probabiii. ! ties of distinction transpire with your arri j val. “Good society, - ’at the same time, doubts ! while it discusses you ; and though you are j the cynosure of ail eyes, you are suspected to J be a rogue till you are known, by better than nature’s authority, to be a gentleman. The shopkeepers are professedly honest,street smoking is disreputable, small feet and French slippers are not much worn, and the Tremonl is the finest hotel, and Dudley the j daintiest frizeur in the known world. Eor j society, the belles are slightly blue, the sup pers, exquisite as a dream, and the beaux honest gentleman traders, innocent of puns and neckclothiana and good subjects for mat rimony. Literary people die of the digito monstrari. Fanny Wright is held profane, and lay editors beat the at Billings gate. Virtue here deprives no man of “cakes and ale'” Whiskers are no letters of intro duction. Good English is preferred to bad French, and the pale of Uuitarianism is the limit of gentility. We have a great mind, since we are “i* the vein, to show up Philadelphia’, with its comi cal contradictions—its rectangular streets, and its graceful women—its excessively ! dressed dandies, aud its decent quakers—its | strict religion; and its European luxury. We I should like to sketch Baltimore, gay ami wick ed ; and Charleston learned and aristocratic ; and all the places and people in this salma gundi of a nation,but we were talking ofCecile She was, as I said before, tired of every thing about her. She got up in the morning, and could not think why she should be at the trouble of dressing. She walked, dined, dressed again, dissipated, and went tubed, wondering, with the naivete of a seraph, why such a stupid world had been created. It was at this crisis of things that Mr. Hyperion St. John, the very eidolon of a cravat, joined her one morning, as usual, in Broadway. He was the best specimen of his class, and ha ving borne the caprices of my lady with more i constant bienseance than his fellows, stood \ rather the first in her graces. She took his; arm very much as oric leans upon a fence in I j June, and lounged down towards the Battery,: ] listening to his cxquisitisms as one in the same i j idle month, listens to the running bv of a i ! stream. Mr. Hyperion had never seen her in , iso an inoffensive a mood. He laid his lore- I I finger against his dickey, to preseve its integ-1 i rity, while he should look round at her face; j and Cecile, at that moment having dropped j her head to watch, for want of better amuse- i ment, the gliding in and out of her own love-! ly feet, it suddenly occurred to him that it , was very like what, lie had heard called “a j symptom”—his curricle to a jarvey, the lady was in love with him ! * * * With a silent blessing on Wheeler, (he had the grace to remember who made him) he rallied his brains, (which having rarely been rallied before, did not readily obey,) and re membering that in all the stories he had read the next thing to love was elopement, he coolly, as if it was a matter in course, begged to know whether she would prefer his bays or his grays on the first stage of the journey. The diversion of this subject star tled Cecile from her castle-building. She looked up, and seeing tho unwonted smile of satisfaction on tho face of her admirer, repea ted his question twice over to herself before she quite comprehended him. Her fust thought wss “how absurd!”—her second, how “refreshing!” Here was novelty ! The world had not quite come to an end. She could do something she had never done be- 1 fore- Run away ! —the thought was heaven-1 ly. She thanked the goth, aa she turned on nKirNß’ps up Broad way, they stopped to arrange matters more conveniently at Fontaine’s—where ourstorv found them. Ceeilerose front the table at six o’clock that afternoon,leaving her p.ipa dosing over Ilia Moselle and snuff-box, and ringing sot tier inaid, ordered »trunk ami band .oxes in to her dressing-room. She then turned the j key. and laying herdresse? all out upon chairs, i sofa, arulfiavteuil selected two or three of the I prettiest, (a plain white one among them,) i and folded them in the trunk. She threw in next two or three handsful of cameos, coral' necklaces, and other ornaments—some in definite articles of dress, a muslin night-! cap, and a vinaigrette to be used in the faint- j ing scene—next a pair of French slippers and a Bible—and last, a lovely French apron 1 of anew pattern, with which she intended ! to astonish her lord at the first breakfast sub- j sequent to the ceremony. Having chosen 1 her prettiest hat, and laid it aside, every | thing was complete, and she threw herself up- i on the sofa, to dream away the time till the I arrival of the note from Mr. St. John, an-] nouucing the hour when his bays would be at j the door. I shall not attempt to describe the j dream, because the lady did not attempt it! her--ilf in telling me the story. It was, no j doubt, like all city visious of matrimony, a long vista, closed in the blue distance by a j four-story brick bouse and iron railings, a | servant in livery cleaning the door-plate, and j a child in a pink frock and white pantalettes, ( playing in the verandah. The arrival of the note, whatever it was, put a stop to it very effectually. It was written on rose paper, and, being June, sealed with a cameo wafer. The first sentence or two, being sentiment, Cecile passed over till the second perusal. The essential part of it was the naming of; the hour, and glancing her eye down, slid read,“l shall be at the door in my IcurriArle’ - j it was quite enough. To run away with a ! man thatcould’nt spell!— ob, no ! She look j her pen and wrote a note declining the hon-i or, rang for her maid, dressed and went to a j party. Six months after, she took matrimony (as ; the doctors phrase it) “the natural wa_v;”and [ when I saw her last, was the loveliest of Ma- i donnas, in an oiled silk apron, getting very learned in corals and teeth-cutting. DIARY OF A HEATED ATTORNEY, j Monday Morning, five o'clock A. M. — Half awake—some inclination to get up; bed j feeling as if it were warmed like Will Wad- j die’s by a baker’s oven ; endured the genial! warmth an hour longer in spite of milkman, baker and patent-sweeper, who were peribr-1 niinga trio in the street under my window. [ Six o'clock —Hotter and hotter. Agreea- j bly entertained by the buzzing »fa score of! blue-bottles, and most amazingly titillated by) their lightning ever and anon upon tnv nose-! Tried desperately to annihilate one or two,) succeeded in blacking my own eye. Mortal! could no longer stand or lie it, forced to be j up betimes, rose, with a at the insects j and phe—w. felt as if I had been dribbled i through a pipe-stem. Seven. —About half dressed, awful work,— J Mem.—l have to make a ca!<! this morning;; looked for a collar with double starch, found one which a man might have broke his shin over—determined that it would at all events, lastout the morning. Eight. —Breakfast—toast and salmon— coffee, steam and flies. Mem.—Butter all | gravy and, flies not cooked—quere, which is j wotst, the pestering insects or the labour of i whisking them?—finished halfa cup—dat half jan hour to cool—pulling on boots terrible. Mem. to buy boot-hooks with long handles— j ready to go out—ail out of the window look ing like the inside of a steam boiler—made iny mind tip to the attempt—last peep in the looking glass. O Venus! my collar all dicky, pendant over iny stocklike a wet towel hung; over a fence to dry- Nine. —Arrived at niv office—windows shut—atmosphere gives a vrry good iihaof the interior of the crater of Vesuvius—let out a little of the heat and darkness, as Pat says —quills, wafers,(lust, parchment, and pigeon holes—pretty prospect, but not qriitc so re freshing as that from Cattskill mountain—at least just now. Three letters to write and a bill in chancery to finish—letters to be car ried two rrrilesto the gentleman who has un dertaken to forward them—partner out of town, and no postponement possible—rare anticipation—gives one some idea of the feelings of a heretic on the eve of an auto-da fe. Eleven. —Hotter and hotter—peeped at thermometer,ninety-two—tried port wine an I water as a cooler—unsuccessful.camc through the pores of my skin as if 1 had been a can vass bag. The Bar-room crowded, steam rising in more ways than one. Standing near the post-office, felt an unusual warmth in iny left shoulder, turned to ascertain the cause, and found myself almost in contact with an old gentleman whoso nose was red hot—removed from such an inflamahle neigh borhood in all haste. Twelve. —Set out on my walk. Vulcan protect me—thought ol Shadrach, Meshech, and Ahednego, and compared myself to Bona parte in Moscow. Saw a scorched bird’s wing lying in the gutter—poor creature, no doubt it had been consumed in its own ele ment, and perished on its rapid course like a moth in a candle. Felt my heart crisping in to a cinder, and watched mv shoes smoking like slow-matches. One.— Found my friend at home—Sorry 1 had endured so much trouble ; had changed his mind, arid was not going- -Knew a friend who was ; lived onl t a tni!o oil’—pleasant consummation ; no remedy, however—com fortable reflection. On my return,saw sever al people gazing at a large puddle of water ; inquired and learned that three voting la dies and their fat mamma had just incited a way; how lamentable—Thought of Arethu sa and the sisters of Phaeton—Mean to com pose a sonnet on the subject when the wea ther cool. Two. —Thermometer ninety-two and u half. Spent an hour in trying to find tho coolest corner of the office, couldn’t fund it. Took off coat and stock ; founTmy collar al! ® o ns • curious effect of heat. Looked out of t hi. window and saw two little boys fighting f ftr a fan. \\ ondered if it were any cooler on the water ; wished I dare venture out to trv Tried to cool myself by thinking of Alni/n' scenery, islands of ice, sleigh riding ,k! North Pole, and Miss whose presence would now be a desirable thing ; I nev would have believed it before ; for she would bean excellent refrigerator: but “who «• hold fire in his hand by thinkingefthe f ros tv Caucasus!” ‘ Three. —Dinner : horrible idea. Sat (low to the task like Hercules to his labors : meat too rare: took a slice, and found beforel I could cat it, that it was thoroughly done Like to died of thirst, not being able to drink as the liquid turned to steam before I could swallow it. Every body at table looked as if they as well as the joint, had just come out of the pot. Asked to w ine by madver tentiy took brandy ; never discovered the mistake except by smell—found mv corpo. real substances so thoroughly imbued with ca. loric, that the mustard and pepper lost jlj taste to me. Deseit, an attempt at j ce . cream, vastly like a raw custard—custards oft he consistency of ciumbtcd cheese, the quid part having evaporated. Tried to say a civil thing to Miss : couldn’t doit; broke down in the middle-reception of mv compliment the first cool thing i had felt ail day. Five. —Nap—dreamed 1 was a snow-haii in a thaw; awaked by a gentleman wanting to see me—gentleman proved to be a dealer in old coats; him out of the house tried to sleep again—wouldn’t do. Thet mometcr down to eighty-eight—finding the weather grow cool, changed dress, “went out a walking;” visited Blood—found the female part of his Household fanning themselves— told me that they bad used up fifteen fans a piece during the dev. Seven. —Tea did the business for my se cond shirt collar. Chat, scandal, and claret and water —thermometer falling—found the end of in) nose dry and growing pale—good sign. Nine. —Hour of love felt as if no addition* flames were necessary—kept civil and cool. Ten. —Thermometer down to eighty found myself gradually drying— ventured i tiff of Bramin, and an idea of water, and wem home wondering whether or no the devil had not been during the day making one of hi* permitted peregrinations to and fro on the face of the earth, or w hethor the expected ct met’s tail had not been sweeping over ua lib a flv-hroom, or whether the sun had not caught fire, or Captain Symme’s interna world been consumed—and whether to-mor row would be any cooler. OLD TIMES. At the battle of Ynrktown, whilst the aids of the American cnief were issuing his order* along the line, a man was discovered a short (li.-tance from it, w ho presented rather a gro t'-sqne appearance,being dressed in the coarse cornu on cloth worn nt the tunc by the lov er orders in the back country, with an otter cap, the shjipe of which very much roses hied the steeple of a meeting-house, and i broad leather apron. lls equipments const ted of a small woodchuck’s skin, sewed % gt tlier in the form of a bag, and partly filled with buck shot, an ox born filled uit/i po»- eler, and an old rusty gun, which tncasurtd about seven feet, eight inches, from themui B| zle to the end of the breech, and which probably lain in the smoke ever since landing of the pilgrims. One of the passing him in the course of his rounds, quired of him to what regiment he “l belong to no regiment,” said the after lie had fired his “long carbine." fi:w moments astir the officer rode kjtH gain ; but seeing the fellow very sweating with oxcrtionjie oner, more to w hat regiment he belonged. “In no giinent,” was the answer, the speaker at same time levelled Ins piece at a “red who was preparing to fire, but who dead before he had half raised his gun. wli.it company do von belong?”— to panv—“ to vvliat batlallion do you belong! to no Irttallion—“then where ihe devil you belong, or who are you fighting “Dang ye, (said tlie fellow,) I don t any where, lam fighting on iny own hook.^D- Frog-Eating.—We copv the follow®, from the Baltimore Gazette: We perceive from an advertisement in a adelphia paper, that the good people ofih.il ty—the modern Athenians —have taken toe..tr^^B frogs' Ii can hardly be necessity which ven them to this whimsiccal expedient for Tying hunger. It is the progress of , But whatever it be, it must be comforts them to iliiuk that the late seasonable j weathrr has put the marshes around Phi's (in fine order for frog-hunting. The hue » ties are no di.uht hopping about in large I ties. This sort of diet may improve the esnn™ of the Philadelphia belies ana bwnl.h u ' spoil their voices for singing. , If they are made into pies, weinsyp 3f<> > nursery song and say , •‘Sing a song of sixpence a pocketful! o (J * Four and twenty bull-frogs baked in a !'ie. When tho pie was opened the frogs • Wasn’t that a pretty mess tor Philadelphiafoll^B! Or perhaps tho following original!vers* s answer better for the purpose cf bcicgs 1 sin, by some of those composers " , , imitate all kinds of noises, from 'h® 1 thunder to the blood an nuns and croa" I Irog: , f^^Bi. i Philadelphians f.im’d for feasts, fro tidious free, r est j^B'c j Fancy frisky frogs, fine fare tor feet* n i : If bak’d in a pie, when ‘‘ should croak, . - I Food and fright and fun ’twould ; ; delphia folk. Tho Storekeeper referred to lowing anecdote is qualified , .or Joe Bunker’s abstruse problem - “Ilovv much Now England Rum, sixpence a gallon, musi lie tm* c Maderia, at thrce-anffifourpence, good nine idiilling Cogniac /prBE Anecf/o'e, —“And ho" much s"? ar A B