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iol. i-w. POETRY. FOR TBIi TIMES. STANZAS. TO MISS ARABELL I've heard of far-famed Persian maids, Tuat sylph-like wander through thoglados In beauty pure and bright, bii gazint; one > tnight think tltey were bat light.wing’d couriers of the air, °l)r fairies of the night. |. u , foamed of Isles in southern seas, tVStre music floats on every breeze Through aromatic groves ; \\ .. ru dark-eyed maids vvf.it raven tress , .p« rich in nature’s loveliness. And burn with ardent loves. la fancy’s realms, wliilp wandering fur ly'jjlh skies be-geiunn and with many a star, O’er fields with tlowrots strewn. ’vc sighed, that I should never see The beauty, that such scenes to me 'Tuose cherished dreams have shewn. j( it , ()! I bless the hour, when flrst l pea my ravish’d sight there burst 'i’he graces ol the Nine. Concenter’d all in one, more bright Than any star that gilds the night, Or diamond of the mine 1 When flrst the radiance of her face, Sliod o’er the vulgar throng, a grace Wove o’er the heart a spell; )i church—yard silence lucre contest trio was by fur the loveliest The peerless Arab k. l! ’ve roamed alar and near to find, •cch beauty and such wealth of mind As gleamed from hor dark eye I Slut all m vain, till brightly shone Vou u Auauuli. Hie peerless one— A meteor of the sky HARP OT TIIE SOUTH. STANZAS. ] think on thee, in the night, 11 Imn all beside is still, Ao4:!ir moon conn soul with her pule,sad light, To sit on the lonely hill ! When tbe stars are all like dreams, Vail the breezes all like sighs, A'.:t:n re cutties a voice fr.un the fur-oil's!reams Lie thy spirit’s low replies 1 1 think on thee, by day, .llijtlie cold and busy crowd, IVhcu iiie laughter of the young and gay Is tar too glad and loud 1 hear thy soft, sad tone, And thy young sweet smile I see ; My Heart —my heart were nil alone, lilt for its dream* of thee 1 Oh! like those fairy things, Those insects otthe east, That have their beauty in their wings. And shroud it, while at rest ; Tint told their colours ofthe say, When earthward they alight, An 1 lias'll their splendors oil the eye, Only to take their flight ; 1 mvcr km*w how dear thou wort, Till thou wert borne away 1 I hau' it yet about my heart, Tuv beauty of that day 1 -hit the rube thou wert to wear, lievond the stars, were given I'm: I might learn to know it there, And seek ’.live out, in heaven 1 VISCELLANEOI I Front an Old Miscellany. ■ thi: iizto.YZE st itue. H’f.mi Lieuwen, a favorite u.inter ia of the deceased king of i’rus-. ■tail under his special patronage and Hoo.u young engineer of high rank, advancement to his notice had! ■ - v'ly due to his merits, Misbat-j ■" d’.ihy tiie Austrian G •». ('lairfait, ■< .his march through th - I. •wlViut- K ’."wartls France, was ordered to sur- H* a small village on the frontiers ini H 1 my's possession. In tiie middle oi i young Ewald entered his cum- tent, and informed him that aj oiuu had been begun by the chief! of this district to admit the j ■*i;u soldiers into an ambuscade, by j ■ ih.-y might surround the French I in the village of Althcim, and! to the sword. “Sir," he ad-j tti.iiictpiainletl witha ]»;itli through skirts the Church-yard. j ■ pleading fifty chosen men tiirougli may enclose the farm and out-hou-. H wine!; these Frenchmen lodge, and ■"o'.e to surrender, without the base- 1 '.Titering their host’s gates in ■'i 1 '" disguised as travellers, and mas-, ■" A them in their sleejt. This vile | ■- lias made the offer in hopes of re- ; .hir wiii.-h he conditions privately. of the bloodshed and ravage' soldiery would spread among Hf : 1 villagers in lit : blindness of ilieir H ‘Ami are right," replied the H ll —“and it would lie well to gain' ■ Ivantagcous post, without disgrace • characters as I’russian s.ddiers,or Mj 1 - 1 ' to the unoffending natives.! wlu>.«- means did this honorable H :: ’ is willing to share the reward?”! ■' . v,| mig engineer east down itis eyes, | .after ;t short anil graceful ■Ration, “lie is my enemy, my lord— H lVc me if 1 do not name him.” ■-'mnt Lieuwcu's brow grew smooth. Lichtenstein.'’ he said, with a lamiliarity he seldom used. except m : " Ins heart was tonelied. “well— "'ill be no surer way. I see, to se both our military credit, and litis ■' r v 'Hage ir mii plunder, than to give H '!■’ ''"mmaii'i ol' th*- affair. Choose wmmsm, I'ttISTKD A.\l> PUBLISHED KV HIAKXADCKG 3. SLADE, AT THREE DOLLARS PER A A ALTS. j your comrades and conduct them. Hut . how is it that you know the avenue of this i obscure place so well?” Ewald was silent for a few moments only, because he was conscious of feelings | likely to make his voice less firm. vVhen : he had stilled them, he replied, “to you | who know my humble birth, and have re l medied it so kindly by your patronage, I need not be afraid to confess this tallage v. as my birth place, and that farm which the provost intends to deliver up to-night for tiie purpose of massacre and riot is—or was—” lie could not add his meaning, but count Liewen felt it. Brushing a tear from his eyes, the old soldier bade him take his detachment, and obtain posses sion of the place in the manner he deemed fittest. Ewald departed instantly, and returned in the morning to announce his complete success, without the escape of u single Frenchman. He brought besides, a valuable despatch, which his advanced guard had intercepted; and the count delighted with tbe important result of the affair, and with the generous spirit it had exhibited, offered his young lieutenant a thousand crowns, the sum tor which the treacherous provost’had negociated, gal lantly saying his sovereign would more willingly pay it as the recompense of a hazardous and well performed duty, than as the premium of a traitor. “If,” said said the lieutenant, modestly, “your lord ship thinks this village worth a thousand crowns to his majesty, I ] tray you to con sider them due to my senior officer, Dorf fen: \ our personal kindness induced you to waive his right, and to give me the command of last night’s affair ; yet it is just that he should have the price of what he deserved to win.” “He shall have it,” answered Lieuwcn, compressing his lips sternly—“but now 1 know wiio would have bought what you have won honest ly.” The first care of this brave veteran on his return to Berlin, was to lay the cir cumstances of this fact before the king ; the consequence was Ewald’s promotion; and before 4 the war ceased, lie rose to rank even higher than count Liewen ; and tbe last favor his old commander asked at court was,that his adopted son might be appointed bis successor in the fortress oi'l’lacen, which his age rendered him averse to govern longer. This high distinction was granted ; and the king, to suit the new governor’s title to his impor tant office, added the rank of Baron to the Cross ofthe Black Eagle, already worn by Ewald dc Lichtenstein. These unexpect ed honors did not alter the temper of the young hero—still preserving the bland ur banity of Marshal Turennc, whose eleva tion he had imitated so successfully; he was proud to hear his comrades hint that he too was a miller's son, and always strove to remind them how much he re sembled bis noble predecessor in benevo lence and grace. But when he had of fered his grateful obeisance, he solicited permission to absent himself one month before he assumed bis new duties. Count Licuwen’s friendship, and tbe peaceable state of the country, made the royal as sent easy, and Ewald de Lichstcntein left Berlin to dedicate this short interval to his private happiness. But Ewald, with all the splendor of his professional success, had not altered the j iiumility of that private happiness, lie had no hope so dear as to return to the village of Altheim, which ten years be fore, be bad preserved from destruction : and to reclaim the farmer’s daughter with whom the first affections of his boyhood had been exchanged. During the vari ous and busy vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, no correspondence had been possible, and he had time to snatch only a short in- ! terview when he entered the village with a hostile detachment. He took with him one attendant, a soldier of his own regi ment, but unacquainted with his birth place, though sufficiently attached to his person to insure the secresy he required —not from mean fear of exposing his humble origin, but from a generous wish to avoid displaying his new and self ac quired greatness. The journey was te- I dious to his fancy, though he travelled rapidly, for the pleasantest dreams of his youth Were ready to be realized. Ilis servant had orders to make r.o mention of | bis name or rank when he arrived at his place of destination, and the little village of Althcim came in sight in till the beauty ! ofa summer evening, and a happy man's i imagination. As he entered it, however, he perceived that several cottages were in ruins, and the housq where Josephine ! had lived was half unroofed, and its gar den full of grass. Ewald’s heart misgave | him, and his servant went on to enquire who occupied it. Schwartz brought his ! master intelligence that the niece of the j former occupier had married a farmer, I whose speculations bad ended ininn-keep ; ing with but little success. There was no other inn; and if there had been one. lav “ W “ • N,:Vi:!t DSB,AIR °f •'!“• tiiinu #j.m 111 i: ecioc, WK iinix ,»u k. MILLEDGEVILLE, GEOKGIA, JULY 24. JS33. | aid, notwithstanding his heart-burnings, would have chosen this. He renewed his cautions to his servant, and entered the miserable house, where the master sat surlily smoking his pipe in a kitchen with broken windows, and hearth almost cold. To his courteous request for accommoda tion, this man, whose suitable name was Wolfcnbach, hardly returned an answer, except throwing him the remnant of a chair, and calling loudly at the door for 1 his wife. A woman in wretched appa rel, bending under a load of sticks, crept j from a ruined out-house, and came fear fully towards him. “Bring a faggot, drone, and cook some fish,” said her ruf fian husband: “where is the bread I brought litis morning, and the pitcher of milk?” “There was but little milk,” she answered, trembling, “and I gave it to our child.” “Brute, idiot!” he muttered with a hideous oath, and pushed her for ward by a blow which Ewald’s heartfelt. That moment would have discovered him, if the inn-keeper had not left the house to attend his servant; and Ewald, as lie looked again on Josephine’s face, had cou rage enough to restrain a confession which would have aggravated her misery. Per haps she had been left desolate—perhaps her husband had been made brutal by misfortune ; at all events, he had no right to blame a marriage which circumstances had not permitted him to prevent. She might have had no alternative between it and disgrace, or Wolfenbach might have possessed, and seemed to deserve her choice better than himself. This last thought held him silent, as he sat with his face shaded near the fire. Josephine took but one glance at him, and another at the cradle, where a half-starved infant lay, before she begun her humble labours to prepare a supper. Ewald attempted to say something, but his voice, hoarse with emotion, appeared unknown to her, and she turned away with a look of repressed pride and shame. Yet as she could not but observe the earnest gaze of the stran ger, her cheek Hushed with conscious re aecollection, recovered some pavtofits for mer beauty,and Ewald had taken the infant on his knee,when Wolfenbach returned. His guest overcame the horror which almost imp died him to throw from him the off spring of a ruffian so debased, intending to con vey into its cradle some aid for tiie unhappy mother, which might suffice ‘to condbrt her wants without betraying the giver. He hid a purse of gold within its wrapper, and gave it back to Josephine ; | while tbe father,! murmuring at such pests, rebuked her slow cookery. But Ewald could not eat; and tasting a flask to propitiate the brutal landlord, with drew to the bed meant for him, and was seen no more. Late on the following morning, two men, as they passed near a spoiled hay rack, perceived motion in it, and heard a leeble noise. They took courage .to re move some part, and, led on by traces of blood, examined till they found a body, yet warm with life, but wounded in a ghastly manner. They conveyed it to the village surgeon, and collected help to | surround the house of Wolfenbach, whom they remembered to have seen on the ! road, mounted on a horse which had been observed the day before entering Altheim with the wounded man and another stran ! ger, Skill and care restored this unfor ; lunate stranger sufficiently to make las deposition. He named his master, aid stated that the gloomy looks and eager questions of the inn-keeper had alarmed him on the night of Ewald’s arrival, espe cially when he was desired to sleep in a ruined out-house. He had left it, and ap- j plying his ear to a crevice in the bouse door, heard Woltcnbach menacing his wife with death if she betrayed bis search in the travellers portmanteau, which had been left below ; for probably in the heedlessncss ofanguish, Ewald had not thought of’attending to it. He also hea;d Josephine’s timid expostulations, and the shriek of her child in its father's savage grasp, held perhaps as a hostage for her silence. He went to warn his master,and by calling through the casement of the loft where be lay awake, drew him iron) his bed. The stroke of an axe felled him to the ground, and he remembered noth ing more. Tiie fate of Ewald might be easily surmised. Detachments of pea sants traversed the country round to gain intelligence of him, but without success, and, without knowing his elaims'on them as their countryman, they were all eager in their zeal to trace a man of rank and honour. Couriers met them from Berlin, despatched to hasten his return ; but al ter six months spent in the most earnest search, even his parental friend, Count Lieuwen, despaired of seeing him more, an 1 believed him the victim of a ferocious robber. Wolfenbach had been seized with the horses oi’Ewald and his servant, which he Itad taken to sell at the nearest fair, and could not attempt even a plan -1 sible account ol them. His miserable wile was in a state of delirium, which un- j litted her to give coherent evidence ; but the subject ol her ravings, the purse of gold found in her infant’s cradle, and a ring dropped near the traveller’s bed, j were powerful presumptive proofs against; her hush-.id. The rifled portmanteau! was also discovered in a well, and the axe,; covered with blood. Wolfenbach main tained an obstinate silence, duriug a long trial, which ended in a sentence of death, received with acclamations by the popu jlace. He was carried to the scaffold, at tended by no friend, and died without! j confession. Count I .ieuwen resumed the govern jmentot tbe lortress he had resigned, but j |! °t till he had made repeated inquiries and 1 ! offered large rewards for any trace of his j lost favorite, without effect. And when, ! after some years bad passed, a public du ty compelled him to visit the country in which Ewald bad perished, be travelled hastily, and loathed tbe necessity which forced his equipage to rest at Altheim for a few hoars. During the few hours, the master ot tbe new inn found means to in troduce himself, and beg bis guest’s atten tion to a rare curiosity which he possess- 1 ed. Finding, from his valet’s account, that this exhibition was a tax, imposed on every traveller, the Count assented, and listened patiently to his host’s history of a bronze statue, found in a peat bog, at a short distance, and from thence brought to his house, lie went into the room where it was deposited, prepared to see some an tique relic or cunning counterfoil; but he saw, with feelings that need not be told, tbe body ot bis beloved Ewald, in the travel ing habit he had seen him wear, petrified by the power ofthe morass, to the resem blance ofa bronze statue. He stood a few moments aghast with astonishment aful horror,not uncomrningled with gladness at this testimony of the truth preserved bv a special operation of nature ; for on the forehead, and in the neck of the seeming statue, two deep seams rendered the fact of Ewald’s violent death unquestionable. But he had presence of mind enough to suppress his agitation, and affecting to be lieve flic inn-keeper exhibited, as ho sup posed himself, a strange piece of ancient sculpture, gave him a much larger sum than had been expected, even from a no bleman of his known-munificence,and car ried ofi'the prize. But lie caused it to be conveyed to Berlin without noise, and made it no subject of conversation among his attendants. Count Lieuwcu’s return to tbe metropo j lis was always followed by banquets given I to his friends, and on this occasion be cel ebrated his arrival among them by invi ting the chief nobility, and all the military officers who had shared anil survived bis campaigns. After before any had departed, he spoke of a rare specimen of sculpture, which he had roeerved for their last regale. “ You all know,” said he, “ my tender affection for Ewald tie Liehston stein, my regret’for bis untimely loss, and wishing to preserve bis memory, 1 think you will agree with me to erect a monu ment, if we could decorate it with a repre sentation of him, suitable'to bis merits and I bis fate, But though we all know his tne j rits, where shall we find an artist able to I give a symbol of bis death, since we know ! neither the time nor the circumstance?” | The Count cast his eyes round the ta , hie as lie spoke, and met approving and ! earnest looks from all his companions, ex ! ceptone, wh * ' head was averted. “ But,” lie added, rising after a short pause, “ 1 think I have found a statue sufficient itself for his monument ’’ A curtain drawn aside discovered the bronze statue of Ewald, lying «n a bier j composed of black turf. A silence of sur [ prise and awe was followed by acclama -1 lions of wonder at the exquisite sjftnmetry ! ofthe figure, and at the expression of the ! countenance, so nearly resembling its u sual character, except in the half closed eyes and lids, parted as in the pangs ot death. Some gathered round to observe the accurate folds of the drapery, and re cognize every part of iiis traveling appa rel. ‘■There is even tbe shape of the seal ring he wore upon his finger,” said one of the spectators, “and here is the ribbon he received the day before he departed, from tbe kin"—but where is the Cross of the Black Eagle?” “In his grave,” replied Count Lieuwen, ' fixing his eyes on a guest who had never spoken. That guest was Dorften, tbe se nior officer superceded by Ewald. He I suddenly lifted up bis head and answered —“lt is noir The terrible sound of bis 1 voice, the decision of his words, made the \ assembly fall back from him, leaving him I alone standing opjiosite the corpse. His i features wrought a few instant in convu lsions, ami his lips moved in unconscious | mutterings. “Then (said a voice from a • mong the croupe) lb* 1 murd-pt robbed »*-■ ■■> yst arxxv • '-igi-—■- „ _ 1 him ofthe Cross?” : VYo.no—l robbed him of nothing—he robbed me of me of my place and honor, and ol that cross which 1 might have earn ed at Altheim. We met alone—we were I map to man ; it was night, but 1 won ] the cross fairiv, and now let him take it ! back.” The self accused murderer made a des perate effort to throw it from bis breast, and fell with Lis whole weight, and a laugh of madness, at the foot of the bier. The crowd raised him, but be spoke no more. ILs last words wcie truth, as subsequent enquiry, proved. Accident or i a hope of vengeance had led him to the neighborhood of Ewald’s village; thev had mel on the road, and fatal opportuni ty completed Dorflen’s guilt. He was buried under the scaffold, and the Bronze hitatue remained a monument of Ewald’s fate and of retributive justice. A THRILLING TALE. The fbPowing thrilling title is said to have been related by Sir Waller Scott, and furnished by a correspondent of Camp bell’s Magazine; It happened several years ago, when 1 was traversing the Highlands, along with a much beloved, but now departed friend; one of the true men of the old school; one who was rich in classical and legendary lore, but still more in sterling and mo; al virtues, for it has been my lot to possess friends and companions from whom 1 have been ever gaining, till my store has be comc somewhat bulky. Alas! there are so many deserters from the corps bv this time, who shall no more return, that 1 wish to cherish tbe persuasion, that to bej 1 gone and be with them, will be far better. My friend and 1 were among tbe thickly J strewn mountains and ragged rocks ofthe wildest branch of Highlands, where there I is a remarkable ravine, which we visited and explored. It is, rather than a ravine, a feartui pit or dungeon, descending deep among the yawning rocks. It is as if a volcano had boiled there, but in course of time had spouted out his lava, forming strange adjacent peaks all around, thus leaving the furnace or crater dry and emp ty. ft is a terrible throat wide open, on the very edge of which one may stand ar.d look down to the bottom. There is a mode of descent into its depths which visitors may command. This is by means of rope and windlass, as it were into a coal pit, which arc fixed and ! worked from a prominent brow of the j highest frowning peak. To the main rope 1 a machine is attached, called a cradle, by four shorter cords, that tie to distinct cor ners. He that descends takes bis stand or seat in the cradle, within the stretch ofthe lour diverging cords that meet his head. | A rough old Highlander presided at the windlass, who appointed my friend first to ! go down. Ere the cradle came up tor me again, a presentment of some horrid acci dent about to happen to 011 c of r.s began to take hold of my nature, and I could not resist inquiring if all was right with my friend below. “ 1100, surely,” was the answer. “And the cradle will be ready for you in a minute ; ye are as heavy as twa o’ him.” “!s the rope frail ?” “No very awa : the last one was roticnor ; it broke, and let a man fa’,” was the alarm ing reply. “ Was he killed, say you?”— “lliileff l though he had a hundred lives, he wad liae been killed : he was smashed to pieces down on yonder jagged rock," quoth the hard-hearted Celt. 1 examined the rope, and it appeared much worn, and to be old. “ How old is it ?” inquired I. “ Just five years old ; the last was a month auldcr before it brake,” was the next piece of tantalizing information. With some ir ritation of manner, I put it to him, why he had not been provided before any risk could attend a descent; and to make things worse, he provokingly announced, “ we are to get anew ane in the morn ; ye’ll J likely be the last one to try the auld.” But already the cradle* waited for me to step into it; I could not disappoint my companion by not doing as he did ;.and ashamed to seem *to hesitate before, the Highlander, at once took my seat. It was perhaps to encourage me, that he said, as he let me oil’, “A far heavier man than you gaed down yesterday.” “ Then iie strain ed the rope,” cried I: but it was too late to return, and, after all. I got safe down. The sun shone brightly, and made every 1 intricacy, even in the deep crater, clear and open to the eye. The floor might al low a hundred and fifty people to stand on it at once, and consists of a fine sand that sparkles with pebbles,wliich have dropped from the surrounding and impending rocks. The face of these l ooks is also gemmed by thousands of the same sort that glittered beautifully in the sun-beams, all of which has naturally suggested the idea of a work of enchantment, lor it is called the Fairy’s Palace. But I confess, though a palace, it had but few attractions for me ; for be sides tlr' dishcartenings the Highlander ! fined me with, ere my descent, my friend, now that J was down, though without any mischievous intent, crowded my tears, by giving with startling effect, the following narrative; “ A young man once ascended from tins, but when lie came to the top, lie incautiously stood bolt, upright in the cradle, and the moment ere it was landed, being impatient to get out of it, he made an adventurous leap for the breast of the rock. Bui the cradle being still pendant 111 the air, without a stay, tied back on the impulse of his spring, and fearful to think, let him fall between it and the landing place.” •• Horrible ! most horrible 1” was my most natural exclamation. “ But, continued my friend, “ keep ye your seat in the cradle till it be firmly landed ( on the rock, and all will be safe.’ He ascended, and 1 prepared to follow. 1 thought of the young man’s leap and fall; 1 figured to myself the spot where lie alighted, and the rebound he made when he met the ground, never more to rise. And as I took my seat, my limbs smote one another, and my teeth chattered with terror. When 1 had descended I kept my eyes bent downwards, and was encouraged the nearer 1 got to the bottom. But op my ascent, though I looked all the while upwards, i was trembling alive to the fact, that 1 was ever getting into higher danger. I held the spread cords as with the grip of death, never moving my eyes ivoin the blackened creaking main rope. “ There ! there it goes!” 1 grasped the words ; for did I not see one ply of the tri ple-twisted line snap asunder as jt happen ed to touch a pointed piece of granite?— And when once cut and liberated, did the plv not untwist and curl away from its •coils? Did 1 not see another ply immedi ately follow in the same manner; leaving my file to the last brittle thread, which al so began to grow attenuated, and to draw so fine, that it could not long have borne its own weight? 1 was speechless: the world whirled round ; I became sightless, and when within one short foot of being landed, 1 fell into the grasp of my friend, who seeing 111 c about to tumble out of the cradle from the stupor,opportunely snatch ed and swung, cradle and all, upon the rock. When strength returned, I ran from the edge of the precipice, still in the utmost trepidation—shaking fearfully and giving unintelligible utterance to the agony of my awe struck soul. And if my hair did not undergo an immediate change of color, I was not without such an apprehension; for certainly it stood on end during my ascent from the floor of the Fairy’s Palace. BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT. ItV WASHINGTON IRVING. Man is the creature of interest and ambi : I ion. His nature leads him forth into tbe struggle and hustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of Jiis early life,or song piped in the intervals of tbe acts. He seeks fov lortunu, low u|ui«o in tl»o u orltl’a thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life is a history ofthe affections. The heart is her world ;it is these her ambition strives for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasure. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure, she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affeo bon ; and if ship wrecked, her cause is hope less, for it is a bankruptcy ofthe heart. When disappointed she is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at ils heart. Wo find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. Wo see it drooping its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf until wasted and perished away. It falls even in the stiliniss of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunder belt that could have smitten it with decay. FLORENCE. Mr. Willis seems to he enraptured with Florence (in Italy.)—ln his fortv-sixth No. of “First impressions in Europe,” he giv<« a loose to his feelings, us follows; “ We looked down on tlieEdeu like valley of the Arno at sunrise, and again inv heart leaped to see the tall domes of Florence, and the hills all about the queenly city, sparkling \\ ith palaces, and bright in a sun that shines no where so kindly. If there is a spot in the world that could wean one from his native home, it is Florence! “Florence the fair,” thev call her! I have passed four of the seven months 1 have been in Italy, here; and 1 think |I shall pass here as great a proportion of the rest of my life. There is nothing that can contribute to comfort arid pleasure, that is not within the reach ofthe smallest means in Florence. 1 never saw a place where wealth made less distinctu-n. ’The choicest galler ies of art in the wot Id, are open to all coiners. The palace of the monarch may he entered and visited, and enjoyed by all,’? An elegant writer observes; “the coin flint is most current among mankind is flattery ; the only benefit of which is, that by hearing what arc vve not, we maybe instructed in what we ought to be.” v