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Foi the Ilernld.
fii’O *"**
Go then, and let no vain regret,
That I was dear to thee;
E'er mi thy roving bosom set,
Or pain thy memory.
Co if thou wilt, go! thou art free,
To join the wo.ld’s gay ilirong;
Forget the love I bore to thee,
So deep, so j me, so itrrmg.
Go whisper in some other ear,
The Icvc cnee whispered me,
Nor ever let one truant tear
De shed for me by thee.
Go then, and in the coming years,
When roses round thee bloom;
Think fieri of these hot gushing tears.
And mourn Love’s blighted duotn.
G. Ji. C.
C.N V*lE DEATH OF
The Ettrick Shepherd.
BY WORDSWORTH.
first, descending from the moorlands,
I saw the stream of Yarrow glide
.Along a bare and open valley,
The Ettrick Shepherd was mr g.dde.
When last along its banks 1 wandered,
Thro’ groves that had begun to shed
Their golden leaves upon the pathways,
My steps the Border Minstrel led.
The mighty minstrel breathes no longer,
’Mid mouldering ruins low he lies;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Has closed the Shepherd-Poet’s eyes.
Nor has the rolling year twice measured
From sign to sign his steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge,
Was frozen at its marvellous source.
The rapt one, of the God-like forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in ‘•artb,
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountai. summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother
From sunshine, to the sunless land ;
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber. o ,
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice that asks in whispers,
Who next w ill drop and disappear ?’
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness,
Like London, with it’s own black wreath.
On which, with thee, O Crabbe, forthlooking
] gazed from Hempstead’s breezy heath;
As if but yesterday departed,
Thou too, art gone before ; yet why
For ripe fruit when seasonably gathered,
Should frail survivors heave a sigh ?
No more of old romantic sorrows
For slaughtered youth and love-lorn maid;
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten,
And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead !
Ry dal-Mount, Nov. 30,1835.
Lines I»y Byron.
“ ‘ I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green, and of mild declivity, the last
As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Os woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men,
Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoko
Arising from such rustic roofs; —the hill
Was crowned with a peculiar diadetn
Os trees, in circular array, so fixed,
Not by the sports of nature, but of man.
These two, a maiden and a youth were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath,
Fair as herself-—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were fair, and one was beautiful:
And both were young—yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon in the horizon’s verge,
The maid was on the verge of woman-hood :
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to hiseyo
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.’ ”
«- — ' ' 1
The Moon.
I have sate and gazed
Upon the silent moon, as she pursued
Her journey to yon blue celestial height.
Pilgrim of heaven! the white translucent clouds,
Through which she wanders, fall away, nor leave
A taint upon her spotless orb: Shall I,
O Lord! emerge in purity as stainless
From the dark clouds that dim mine earthly course ?
The Siinooni.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JACOB FAITHFUL.”
* * * • A dark cloud ap
peared upon the horizon; it gradually increased,
changing to a bright yellow ; then rose and rose
until it had covered one half of the firmament,
when it suddenly burst upon us in a hurricane
which carried every thing before it, cutting off
mountains of sand at the base, and hurling them
upon our devoted heads. The splendid tent of
the Emir, which first submitted to the blast,
passed close to me, flying along with the veloci
ty of the hcrie, while every other was either lev
elled to the ground or carried up into the air, and
whirled about in mad gyration.
Moving pillows of sand passed over us, over
throwing and suffocating man and beast; the
camels thrust their muzzles into the ground, and
profiting by their instinct, we did the same,
awaiting our fate in silence and trepidation.
But the simoom had not yet poured upon us all
its horrors : in a few minutes nothing was to be
distinguished,—all was darkness, horrible dark
ness, rendered more horrible by the ravings of
dying men, the screams of women, and the mad
career of horses and other animals, which break
ing their cords, trod down thousands in theiren
deavor to escape from the overwhelming fury of
the desert storm.
1 had laid myself down by one of my camels,
and thrusting my head under his side, awaited
my death with all the horror of one who felt that
the wrath of Heaven was justly poured upon
him. Foran hour 1 remained in that position,
and surely there can be no pains in heli greater
than those w hich 1 suffered during that space of
time. The burning sand forced itself into my
garments, the pores of my skin were closed, 1
hardly ventured to breathe the hot blast which
was offered as the only means of protracted ex- i
istence. At last I fetched my respiration with ~
great freedom, and no more heard the howling of j
the blast. Gradually I lifted up my head, but ■
my eyes had lost their power, Icould distinguish !
nothing but n yellow glare. I imagined that I was
blind, and what chance could their be for a man ■
who was blind in the desert of El Tyh. Again
I laid my head down, thought of my wife and
children, and, abandoning rayself to despair,
1 wept bitterly. j
The tears that I shed had a resuscitating ef
fect upon my frame. 1 felt revived and again 1
lifted up tny head—-I could see! I prostrated my-■
seif in humble thanksgiving to Allah, and then j
rose upon my feet. Yes, I could see; hut what j
a sight was preseated to my eyes 1 J could have ;
closed them forever with thankfulness. The I
sky was again serene, and the boundless proa- i
pect uninterrupted as before ; but the thousands 1
who accompanied me, the splendid gathering of
tr.cn and beasts, where were they 1 Where ■
wefe the Emir Jladjy and his guards? where I
tl:e racmelukes, the e.gas, the janissaries, and the i
holy sheiks ? the sacred camel, the singers and ’
musicians? the varieties of nations and tribes
who had joined the caravan ? All perished 11— I
Mountains of sand marked the spots where they '
had betn entombed, with no other monuments ■
save here and there part of the body of a man or ’
beast not yet covered by the desert wave. AU, \
all were gone, save one; and that one. that
guilty one, was myself, who had been permitted ,
to exist, that he might behold the awful mischief
which had been created by bis presumption mid ;
his crime.
For some minutes I contemplated the scene,
careless and despairing; for 1 imagined that 1
had only been permitted to outlive the whole, i
that my death might be even more terrible. But
ray wife and children rushed to my memory, and
t resolved for their sakes to save, if possible, a
life which had no other ties to bind it to this
earth. I tore off a piece of my turban, and
cleansing the sand out of my bleeding nostrils,
walked over the field of death.
Between the different hillocks I found several
camels, which had not been covered. Perceiv-I
>ng a water-skin, I rushed to it, that 1 might j
quench my raging thirst ; but th” contents had
been dried up, not a drop reman ed. 1 found
another, but I had no better success. 1 then de
termined to open one of the bodies of the cam
els, and obtain the water which it might still
have remaining in its stomach. This I effected,
and having quenched my thirst—to which even
the heated element which I poured down, seem
ed delicious. 1 hastened to open the remainder ■
of the animals before putrefaction should take :
pli ce, and collect the scanty supplies in the wa- ;
‘er-skins. I procured more than half a skin of
water, and then returned to my old camel which
I I.ujl laid down beside of, during the simoom.
I sat en the body of the animal, and reflected up- I
cu the best method of proceeding. 1 knew that’
i I was but one day’s journey from the springs;—
but how little chance had 1 of reaching them 1 j
I also knew the direction which I must take,—
The day had nearly closed, and 1 resolved to ;
make the attempt.
As the sun disappeared, I rose, and with the j
akin of water on my back, proceeded on my hope - '
less journey. 1 walked the whole of that night, i
and, by break of day, I imagined that 1 must have j
Tin tie about half the progress of a caravan ; 1 had,
therefore, still a day to pass in the desert, with
out any protection from the consuming heat, and j
then another night of toil. Although 1 had suffl- i
cient water, I had no food. \\ hen the sun rose, '
1 sal down upon a hillock of burning sand, to be
exposed to his rays for twelve everlasting hours.
Before tho hour of noon arrived, my brain be- i
came heated—l nearly lost my reason. My vis-j
ion was imperfect, or rather 1 saw what did not
exist. At one time lakes of water presented |
themselves to my eager eyes; and so certain
was I of their existence that 1 rose and staggered ‘
till 1 was exhausted in pursuit of them. At I
another, I beheld trees at a distance, and 1 could ;
see the acacias waving in the breeze ; 1 hasten
ed to throw myself under their shade, and arriv- <
ed at some small shrub, which hud thus been i
' magnified.
• So was I tormented and deceived during the i
• whole of that dreadful day, which still haunts
me in my dreams, zVt last the night closed in, '
and the stars as they lighted up, warned me that
1 might continue my journey. I drank plentiful- i
ly from the water skin, and re-commenced my
solitary way. 1 followed the track marked out
by the bones of camels and horses of former car
avans which had perished in the desert, and
when the day dawned, 1 perceived the Castle of
Akaba at a short distance, inspired with new
life, I threw away the water-skin, redoubled my
speed, and in half an hour had thrown myself
down by the side of the fountain from which 1
had previously imbibed large draughts of the re
freshing fluid. What happiness was then mine!
How heaveuly, to lay under the shade, breath
ing the cool air, listening to the warbling of the
birds, and inhaling the perfume of the flowers,
which luxuriated on that delightful spot! After
an hour 1 stripped, bathed myself, and, taking
another draught of water, fell into a sound sleep.
A Funeral at Sea.
The following touching description of a Funeral
at Sea, is an extract from a volume recently pub
lished in New York, entitled, “ Ship and Shore,
or Leaves from the Journal ota Cruise to the Le
vant, by an officer of the United States Navy :”
“ Death is a fearful thing, come in what form
it may ; fearful when the vital cords are so gradu
ally relaxed, that life passes away softly as mu
sic from the slumbering harp string —fearful when
in his own quiet chamber, the departing one is
surrounded by those who sweetly follow him
with prayers, when tho assiduities of frindsbip
DEVOTED TO POLITICS, LITERATURE, AND GENERAL INTELLIGENCE.
col riViEsu®, wosi&m, viMucss 15, is:s®
and affection can go no further, and who dis-1
courses of heaven and future blessedness, till the |
closing ear can no longer catch the tones ol the
long familiar voice, and who lingering near, still
feel for the hushed pulse, and trace in the placid
slumber, which pervades each feature, a quiet
emblem of the spirits serene repose. What then
must this dread event be to one who meets it
comparatively alone, faraway from the hearth ot
his home, upon a troubled sea, between the nar
row decks of a restless ship, and at die dread
hour of night when even the sympathies of the
world seem suspended. Such has been the end
of many who traverse the ocean, and such was. the
hurried end of him whose remains we have just
consigned to a watery grave.
He was a sailor, but beneath his rude exterior ;
he carried a heart touched with refinement, pride. •
and greatness. There was something about him !
which spoke of better days and higher destiny ;
but by what errors or misfortunes he was reduced
to his humble condition, was a secret which he ,
would reveal to none. Silent, reserved and I
thoughtful, lie stood a stranger among his free,
companions, and never was his voice heard in
laughter or in jesl. He has undoubtedly left be
hind many who will long look for his return, and
bitterly weep when they are told they shall see
his face no more.
As the remains of poor Prether were brought
tip on deck, wound in that hammock which
through many a stormy night has swung to the
wind, one could not but observe the big tear that
stole down the rough cheek of his hardy compan
ions. When the funeral service was read to that
most affecting passage —“ we commit this body
io the deep,” and the plank was heaved, w hich
precipitated to the momentary eddy of the wave
the quickly disappearing form, a heavy sigh from
those around told that the strong heart of the sail
or can be touched with grief, and a truly unaffec-:
ted sorrow may accompany virtue, in its most un
pretending form, to the extinguishing night cf j
the grave. Yet how soon is such a scene fcrgot-
“ Ae from the wing the sky no scar retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel.
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”
There is something peculiarly melancholy and
impressive in a burial at sea; there is here no
colfin or hearse —procession or tolling bell
nothing that gradually prepares us for the final
separation. The body is wound up in the drape
ry of its couch, much as if the deceased were only
in a quiet and temporary sleep. In these habili ■'
meats of sleeping slumber, it is dropped into the
wave, the waters close over it, the vessel quickly
passes on, and not a solitary trace is left to tell
where sunk from light and life, one that loved to
lock at the sky, and breathe this vital air. There
is nothing that for one moment can point to the
deep, unvisited resting place of the departed —it
io a grave in the midst of the ocean—in the midst
of a vast untrodden solitude ; affection cannot ap
proach it with its tears, the dews of heaven can
not reach it, and there is around it no violet, or
shrub, or murmuring stream.
It may be superstition, but no advantages of
wealth, or honor, or power, through life, would,
reconcile me al its close to such a burial. J
would rather share the coarse and scanty provis
ions of the simplest cabin, and droop away un
known and unhonored by the world, so that my
final resting place be beneath some green tree, by
the side of some living stream, or in some famil
iar spot, wiiore the few that loved me in life
might visit me in death.
Power.
BY EDWARD EVERETT.
It has been as beautifully as truly said, lhai
the *• undevout astronomer is mad.” The same
remark might with equal force and justice be ap
plied to the undevout geologist. Os all the ab
surdities ever started, none more extravagant
can oe named, than that the grand and far-reach
in<r researches and discoveries of geology are hos
tile to tiie spirit of religion. They seem to us,
on the very contrary, to lead the inquirer, step by
step, into the more immediate presence of that
tremendous power, which can alone account for
the primitive convulsions of the globe, of which
the proofs are graven, in eternal characters, on
.besides of its bare and cloud-piercing mount
ains, or are wrought into the very substance of
the strata that compose its surface, and which are
also day by day, and hour by hour, at work, to
lead the fires of the volcano, to pour forth its
molten tides, or to compound the salubrious ele
merits of the mineral fountains, which spring in a
thousand valleys. In gazing at the starry heav
i ens, all glorious as they are, we sink under the
i :v, o of their magnitude, the mystery of their se
' orct and reciprocal influences, the bewildering
conception of their distances. Sense and sci
ence are at war. The sparkling gem that, glit
ters on the brow' of night is converted into a
mighty orb —the source of light and heat, the
j centre of attraction, the sun of a system like our
own. The beautiful planet, which lingersin the
' western sky, when the sun has set or heralds ,
I the approach of morning,—whose mild and love
' ly beams seem to shed a spirit of tranquility, not
; unrntxed with sadness, nor far removed from de
; volion, into the very heart of him who wanders
forth in solitude to behold it--is in the contem-
' plation of science a cloud-wrapt sphere ; a world
lof rugged mountains and storm}’ deeps. We
study, we reason, we calculate. We climb the
■ giddy scaffold of induction up to the very stars.
We borrow the wings of the boldest analysis,
and flee to the uttermost parts of creation, ami
i then shutting our eyes on the radiant points that
twinkle iu the vault of night, the well instructed
mind sees opening before it, iu mental vision, the
i stupendous mechanism cf the heavens. Its
‘ planets swell into worlds. Ils crowded stars, re
; cede, expand, become central suns, and we hear
! the rush of the mighty orbs that circle around
them. The bauds of Oiion are loosed, and the
sparkling rays, which cross each other on his
I belt, are resolved into floods of light, streaming
' from system to system, across the illimitable
; pathway of the outer heavens.
> But tn the province of geology there are some
I subjects, in which the senses seem, as it were,
; led up into the laboratory' of Dvine power. Let
i a man fix his eyes upon one of the marble col
umns in the Capitol at Washington. He sees
there a condition of the earth’s surface, when
the pebbles of every size, and form and material
which compose this singular species of stone,
■ were held suspended in the medium in which
they are now embedded, then a liquid sea of
marble, which has hardened into the solid, lus
trous, and variegated mass before his eye, in
the very substance of which he beholds the
record of a convulsion of tho globe. Let him
go and stand before Vesuvius, in the ordinary
state of its eruptions, ami contemplate the lazy
steam of molten rocks, that oozes quietly at his
feet, encasing the surface of the mountain as it
cools with a most black and stygian crust, or
lighting up its sides at night with streaks of lu
rid fire. Let him consider the volcanic island,
which arose a few years in the neighborhood of
Malta, spouting flames from the depth of the
sea; or accompany one of our own navigators
from Nantucket to the Antarctic ocean, who
finding the centre of a small island, to which he
was in the habit of resorting, sunk in the interval
of two of his voyages, sailed through an opening
in its sides where the ocean had found its way,
and moored his ship in the smouldering crater of
a recently extinguished volcano. Or finally, let
him survey the striking phenomenon which our
author has described, and which has led us to
this train of remark, a mineral fountain of salu-
, brious qualities, of a temperature greatly above
that of the surface of the earth in the region I
where it is found, compounded of numerous in-I
Igrcdients in a constant proportion, and known to j
have been flowing from its secret spring, as at*
the present day, at least for eight hundred years,
unchanged, unexhausted. The religions sense
of the elder world, in an early stage of civiliza
tion, placed a genius or a divinity by the side of
every spring that gushed from the rocks, or
flowed from the bosom of the earth. Surely it
would be no weakness for a thoughtful man,
w’ho should resort for the renovation of a wasted
frame, to one of those salubrious mineral foun
tains, if he drank in their healing waters asa gift
from one out-stretched, though invisible hand, of
an every where present and benignant Power.
From tho London Court Journal. I
Sfcei-ry lYlead Priory.
The Residence of E. L. Bulwer, Esq. M. P.
In all times the residence of a celebrated man
has been an object of interest and of curiosity.—
Vancleuso is as well known as Petrarch ; and
Pope’s Villa, with “ its grapes long lingering
on the sunny wall,” is as much, if not more, in
Shcnstone’s pastorals are forgotten ; but every
one knows the Leasawes, at least by name ; and
Horace Walpole bequeathed his memory to
Strawberry Hill. The place gives “ bodily form
and pressure” to our imaginings. We like to
trace the taste which chose lhe locality it af
terwards adorned. Berry Mead Priory, the
present residence of Mr. Bulwer, is one of those
old picturesque places which are exclusively
English. It is situated near Acton, formerly
called Oak Town, where Henry the VHlthj
held carousal with the jovial Prior. The house
is built in the castelled Gothic style, and the J
high walls that surround it are covered with ■
ivy—that graceful but gloomy parasite which:
suits so well with northern architecture. The!
bench trees at the entrance are remarkably fine ;
no small triumph in the present day, when the
brick and mortar world increases so much on the
green and growing one, that we expect in a little
time a fine old tree will he shown as a show, and
advertised as “that wonderful production of na
ture.” While on the .subject of trees, we must
not forget the fine terrace, at tiie back of elm j
trees three hundred years old, and even at this
season of the year carpeted with violets. You
enter by a vestibule, on whose walls the golden
crucifix yet hangs, and the colored light of one of
the arched windows fails on a fine cast from Sir
Joshua Reynolds, Samuel praying. A flight of
steps, adorned with antique vases and flowers,
leads to the hail, whose walls are painted in com- ■
partments representing the conquest of Peru by
the Spaniards. On one side are morning and
and drawing rooms ; on the other is the library
—and this we shall enter first. It is fitted up in
boiserir of carved oak. and the ornaments are of
bronze. There is a splendid full length bronze >
copy of the Apollo in the Vatican, while the
book-cases are surmounted by busts of Socrates,
Plato, Cicero, Horace, Bacon, Locke, Voltaire,
Shakespeare, Milton and Pope. The pictures
are equally appropriate, as they illustrate a peri
od celebrated for the first struggle of the princi
ples which Mr, Bulwer advocates. There is
Andrew Marvel, our English Ciucinnatus, and
and an original portrait of Milton aged 19 —that
age which Mr. Bulwer himself so beautifully
describes in hia noble poem cf Milton, when —
‘Wrapt in rivh dienir.s ot light, young sLlto:i lay ;
For iii’urtlie earth bciaaiiii, the keaven above,
Teemed with t:ie carlie. ■ . piing of joyous : • /h,
Sun bine and flower; ,wd rague a:.d bglii love,
Kind!:.' ; ins tenuorc.'t U ion-, intotrith ,
While I’oi'.'-y’ sweet voic« sang ovei ill,
Il ■ ci-i:tiiton r. monf )uu<iical.
Alone lie Jay, and to the laughing beams.
His long locksglittered io their golden streams;
Calm on Ills brow sat wisdom ; yet the while,
His lips wore love, and parted with a smile.’
vr x- »’* w- "A r* #
‘ Dreams he of nymph, half hid in sparry ca.e,
Or Naiad rising from her mooned wave,
Or imaged idol < irlh has never known
.Shrined in his lu-iiii, and there adored alone ?
Or such perchance as all divinely stole,
In later times, along his charmed soul:
When from his spirit’s fire and years beguiled
Away in hoarded passion, and "the wild,
Yet holy dreams ofangel visiting?,
Mixed with the mortal’s burning thoughts which leave
Even heaven’s pure shapes with all the woman warm ;
When from such bright and blest imaginings :
The inspiring seraph hade him mould the form.
And show the world the wonder of his Eve
Over the chimney-piece is another portrait of
the same time: the Duke of Gloucester, the
youngest child of CHiarles I, he who received his
father’s last blessing lhe night before his execu
tion, and was warned against accepting that fa
tal crown which had only bowed his parent’s
head to the scaffold. But lhe credit of the taste
shown in the arrangement of this charming room,,
is due to Mrs. Bulwer, who took the opportunity ;
of her husband’s recent absence, to fit up and i
decorate his library-
The drawing-room, whose vaulted ceiling has
been so much admired, was built by Lady Wort
ley Montague, when Horace Walpole had set
the fashion of the Modern Gothic. There is a
happy union of dillerent styles in its furniture ;
the rich velvets and carved gilding of Louis
XlVth’s chairs, stand beneath the simple and
classical lamps which Mr. Bulwer brought from
Pompeii; and there is that c/rej' d'atuvre ot mod- '
ern art. Gibson’s exquisite Flora. The. busts !
are in white marble ; the four great Italian _ o-'
els —Dantee, Tasso, Petrarch, and Ariosto, and <
that lovely head of Laura, by Canova. There!
are also two modern heads by Burlowe, the busts !
of Mi. and Mrs. Bulwer. The ideal and Roman
cast of his features is admirably caught; hers
we think wants the beauty of color. There is,
however, a very lovely painting on ivory, by
Lover She is holding her little boy on her arm,
one of those sweet children who realize what
someone prettily said, that they are angels with-j
out wings. Landseer, too, has painted a capi
tai likeness of Fairy, a favorite dog. By the!
bye, we nave a theory of our own about Blen
heims ; they make us believe in the doctrine of
transmigration. We have not the least doubt
but that the soul of a petted, pretty, spoilt, ca
pricious, graceful French Marquise, goes to ani
mate a thorough-bred Blenheim. Among other :
pictures, are a head of Laura di Medici, one of ;
those haunting faces which “ seen becomes a ■
part of sight,” a wild and imaginative scene from
Faust, by Van Holst, where Mephistophiles i
turns the wine into fire —an astrologer’s study by
Rembrandt; Peter striking the High Priest, by
Paul Veronese; Banditti dividing their spoil, by
Salvater Rosa, and an original portrait of Eliza
beth of York, wife to Henry the VlHth. There
is also a holy family, by Poussin, where the
■ countenance of lhe Madonna is lhe ideal of sub
dued loveliness. But it is not the luxury, nor
even the taste, that constitutes the attraction of
this delightful house ; it is tiie charm of associ
ation. Almost every thing is connected with
some picturesque reminiscences. In one room
are golden candlesticks, and a clock, belonging
to the ill-fated La Valliere ; in another, the ivo
ry chairs, inlaid with gold, which Warren Hast
ings gave as a peace-offering to Queen Char
lotte, and which were sold after her death. The
charm of association is the great charm of the
place. We own that in our eyes it has another,
viz: Berry Mead Priory is only four miles from
London ; a villa forming a boundary to Kensing
ton gardens. It is the very place for a fete cham
pctrc ; so we conclude commending this hint to
its beautiful mistress.
A great Man. —There is no harm in not be
ing a great man, but there is much in trying to
appear without the heart and mind of great
ness.
/ Fiaaractca’-s of Men.
WASHINGTON.
I One Reuben Rousy, of Virginia, owed the Gen-
I oral about 100/ While President of the United
States one of his agents brought an action for the
money; judgment was obtained, anti execution
issued aginst the body of the defendent who was
taken to jail. He had a considerable landed es
tate, but this kind of property cannot be sold in
Virginia for debts, unless at the discretion of the
person. He had a large family, and for the sake
of his children proffered lying in jail to selling
his land. A friend hinted to him that probably
Gen. Washington did not know any thing of the
proceeding, and that it might be well to send
him a petition, with a statement of the circum
stances. He did so, and the very next post from
I Philadelphia, after the arrival of his petition in
’ that city, brought him an order for his immediate
release, together with a full discharge, and a se
vere reprimand to the agent for having acted in
such a manner. Poor Rousy was, in conse
quence restored to his family, who never laid
down their heads at-night without presenting
prayers to heaven for their “ beloved Washing
ton.” Providence smiled upon the labors of the
grateful family, and in a few years Rouzy en
joyed the exquisite pleasure of being able to lay
the 100/with the interest, at the feet of this truly
great man. Washington reminded him that the
debt was discharged ; Rouzy replied, the debt oi
his family to the father of their country and pre
server of their parent could never be discharged :
and the General, to avoid the pressing importu
nity of the grateful Virginian, who would not be
denied, accepted the money—only, however, to
divide it among Rouzy’s children, which he im- !
mediately did. I
EARL FITZ WILLI AM.
A farmer called on Earl Fitzwilliam to represent
that his crop of wheat had been seriously in
jured in a field adjoining a certain wood, where
his lordship’s hounds had, during the winter, fre
quently met to hunt. He stated that the young
wheat had been so cut up and destroyed, that in
some parts he could not hope for any produce.—
“ Well, my friend,” said his lordship, “lam
aware that we have done considerable injury,
and, if you can procure an estimate of the loss
you have sustained, 1 will repay you.” The far- j
mer replied, that anticipating his lordship's con- ■
sideration and kindness, he had requested a friend ;
to assist him in estimating the damage, and they
thought that, as the crop seemed quite destroyed,
50/ would not more than repay him. The earl
immediately gave him the money. As the har
vest, however, approached, the wheat grew, and
in those parts of the field that were most tram
pled, lhe corn was strongest and most luxuriant.
The farmer went again to his lordship, and being
introduced, said, “ 1 am come, my lord, respect
ing the field of wheat, adjoining such a wood.”
His lordship instantly recollected the circum
stance. ” Well, my friend, did I not. allow you
sufficient to remunerate you for your loss ?”
“Yes, my lord; I have found that I have sus
tained no loss at all. for where the horses had
most cut up the land, the crop is most promising;
and I have, therefore, brought the 50/ back a
gain.” “Ah!” exclaimed the venerated earl,
“ this is what I like ; this is as it ought to be
betw’een man and man.” He then entered into
•' conversation with the farmer, asking some ques
tions about his family, how many children he bad,
Ac. His lordship then went into another room,
and. returning, presented the farmer w’ithacheck
for 100/. “Take care of this, and, when your
oldest sun is of age, present it to him, and tell
Lha the occasion that produced it.”
THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD,
When the Ettrick Shepherd was first heard of,
J ho had indeed but just learned to write by copy
ing the letters of a printed ballad, as he lay
watching his flock on the mountains : but thirty
years or more have passed since then, and his ac
quirements are now such, that the Royal Society
cf Literature, in patronizing him, might be justly
said to honor a laborious and successful student,
•is well as a masculine and fertile genius. We
may take the liberty of adding, in this place,
what perhaps may not be known to the excellent
managers of that excellent institution, that a
■ more worthy, modest, sober, and loyal man does
not exist in his majesty’s dominions than this
distinguished poet, whom some of his waggish
friends have taken up the absurd fancy of exhib
iting in print as a sort of boozing buffoon ; and
who is now', instead of reveling in the license of
tavern-suppers and party politics, bearing up, as
he may, against severe and unmerited misfortunes
in as dreary a solitude as ever nursed the melan
choly of a poetical temperament. — Quar. Jleview.
ABIBUSill!?-
A New-York Dandy. —(me youth of this kind
I know,—a dolt of the very first water,—who
said to an acquaintance recently, in my presence :
“ Do you know the Miss ’s of Noo-Yark ?
What develish susceptible crechures they are,
to be su-ah ! I called on them a few months ago,
and sang to them ‘ Zurich’s Waters,’ and ‘ Me
Sister Deah,’ —and don’t you think they both
’ fell in love vith me! Egad, they did so,—but I
■ could’at relievo, and so I cut them. I vow T
won't be cruel to any one if I can help it, —I
i won't positively.,--—would you?”
: This was at an Ordinary. “I say stranger,” ■
’ said a rough-looking pedlar from Illinois, who |
sal near this scented braggart, “ you are not a :
Mi<zn, are vou ?—a full bound man? You don’ll
sartingly answer to a masculine title, do you / —j
1 should take you for a pocket edition of ai
sheep. Them’s tny sentiments, and you have
I’em gratis. You hav’nt brains enough to fas-!
cinate a kitten,—yet you raally fancy you are
something oncommon ! You are too flat to keep i
your eyes open, fully,—and I’ll bet a wolf trap, |
that the sight of a fall blown poppy would set
you to sleep, any time. Oh, psha! Landlord,
give this thing a weak lemonade, scented with
rose water, —and tote me a pint of brandy,—hot:
with a red pepper in it, and a common segar,— i
l’ll go bail for the bill.’’
The irresistible young man walked off, with |
a mingled look of inanity and anger. — {Knicker-
I bijckcr. j
A Learned Character. —“Give me Venice
i Preserved,” said a gentleman last week, on go
ing to a celebrated bookseller at the West-end.
“We don’t sell preserves,” said an apprentice
newly imported from the country ; but you will
get them next door, at Mr. Brown’s, chemist.”
London paper.
This little bon mot brings to our memory an
anecdote of that eccentric character, Joe Preach
er, who flourished in our town when we were
in our childhood, as the very Pacolet of the ,
theatre, as well as prime director at all funerals,
and major domo at all feasting and merry
makings. In the prosecution of one of his mul
tifarious occupations about the theatre, Joe had
posted lhe bills for the tragedy of “ Venice Pre
served, or a plot discovered ;” but in conse
quence of a heavy rain, the manager thought
proper to postpone the play, and Joe was depu
ted to make proclamation of the same through
the town, in the character of a bell-man, which
he executed in this wise: “O yes! O yes !
The ladies and gemmen are respectfully inform
ed that, owing to the rain, the play of Ven’son
Preserved, and the pot uncovered, is put off,
and on Thursday evening will be per formed the
grand tragedy of the road to run in, with the
face of the Rump. Hurra for old Virginny !”
Norfolk Herald.
[four, at the expiration of the year.
[Voluqbbc I.—lVaiißsbeß* 3.
ißistrnctive.
Singular System of Duelling. On the bor-
ders of Austria and Turkey, where a private
pique, or a private quarrel of a single i idividual,
might occasion the massacre of a family or vil
age, the desolation of a province, and perhaps
even the more extended horrors ot a national war,
whensoever any serious dispute arises between
two subjects of the different empires, recourse is
had to terminate it to what is called “ lhe custom
of lhe frontier.” A spacious plain or field is se
lected, whither, on an appointed day, judges of
the respective nations repair, accompanied by all
those whom curiosity or interest may assemble.
The combatants are not restricted in the choice
or number of their arms, or in their method of
fighting, but each is at liberty to employ what
ever he conceives is most advantageous to him
self, and avail himself of every artifice to ensure
his own safely, and destroy the life of his antag
onist. One of the last times that this method
of deciding a quarrel on the frontiers was resort
ed to, the circumstances were sufficiently curious,
and the recital of them may serve to illustra!>.
what is mentioned. The phlegmatic German,
armed with the most desperate weapon in the
world—a rifled pistol mounted on a carbine stock,
placed himselfin the middle of the field; and
conscious that he would infallibly destroy his en
emy, if he could once get him within shot, be
gan coolly to smoke his pipe. Tiie Turk, on the
contrary, with a pistol on one side and a pistol on
the other, and two or more in his breast, and a
carbine at his back, and a sabre by his side, and
? dagger in his belt, advanced like a moving ma
gazine, and gallopping round his adversary, kept
incessantly firing at him. The German, con
scious that little or no danger was to be appre
hended from such a marksman, with such weap
ons, deliberately continued to smoke his pipe.
The Turk at length perceiving a sort of little ex
plosion, as if his antagonist’s pistol had missed
lire, advanced like lightning to cut him down, and
almost immediately was shot dead. The wily
German had put some gunpowder into his pip-,
the light of which, his enemy mistook, as the
other had foreseen would be the case, for a flash
in the pan; and no longer fearing the superior
skill and superior arms of his adversary, fell a
victim to them both when seconded by artifice.
Naval Punishment in the time of Elizabeth.
A cotemporary author gives the following ac
count of the Naval punishments in the reign 'of
Queen Elizabeth :—The arms of the offender
were placed across a capstan bar, and a basket of
bullets, or some other weight fastened round his
neck. In this position the delinquent was kept,
either until he had confessed the crime, or until
the time of his penance had expired. The bil
boes was another species of punishment: Iron or
a kind of stocks that pinched the delinquent ac
cording to the degree ofcrime. Malefactors were
also very frequently “ ducked” in the water,
which was effected by a rope being placed around
the waist of each, slung from the yard arm, and
in the next plunged him into the Sea. Some
times men were towed through the water, which
was termed “ keel hauling,” and in that position
a gun was fired over their heads. If one seaman
killed another, he was bound to the other man and
cast overboard. If any one attempted to strike
his captain he forfeited his right -arm.
If any one stole the goods of another, he was
‘ ducked’ and sent on shore on lhe first land they
met, with a loaf and a can of beer. If any one
stole any of lhe property of her Majesty’s ships,
the men was to be hung by the heels over tho
sides of the vessel till his brains dashed out, and
i then cut down into the sea. For sleeping o t
' watch the following punishments were inflicted ;
for the first time, to be headed with a bucket of
water ; for the second to be suspended by tho
waist, and to have water poured down his sleeves:
third, to be bound to the mast with irons and to
have gun chambers or a basket of bullets tied, to
his arms; for the fourth, to be hung at the bow
sprit, with bread and beer and a knife, either to
cut himself into the sea or to starve. Desertion
was punised by hanging. Mutiny about victuals,
bilboes. All petty officers were punished with
whipping. — [Army and Navy Chronicle.
Hope.
Hope is a pledge of glorious rest
To weary mortals given ;
We cultivate the flower on earth
And reap the, fruit in heaven.
i What a solace to the care-worn and sorrow
stricken bosom is hope, sweet hope! In the
gloom of adversity and affliction, heaven born
hope whispers, in accents of peace, that rest
and comfort are yet in store. It stimulates us to
penetrate the dense clouds which hover over us,
and enjoy its promised good, while it is only in
i prospect. Misfortunes and disappointments
encompass us about, the heart is drear and des
olate, when hope, angel of mercy, steals into the
desponding soul, and like the soft moonbeams
upon the obscure paths of the forest, directs our
course among flowery meads, and beside still
waters. She not only strews her flowers in our
pathway through this fluctuating world, but she
points to the skies, to the blest abodes of peace,
where the fullness of her promised pleasures are
realized. Surely the hope of rest in heaven is a
pledge we fondly cherish, a flower we will de
light to cultivate, whose odors shall cherish us in
life and carry us on smoothly to the elysian
fields, where we shall feast upon the fruit in full
fruition.
ABiccdotes.
During lhe late assizes at Lancaster, a man
who appeared to have his “ beer on board,” was
staoro-ering along Market-street, when a friend ac
costed him with “ Well, neighbor, how far are
von going now ?” “Only to Skirton,” replied
the jolly fellow. “ Why, that is rather a long
way for you,” said his friend. “ O, dang it,” re
plied our hero, hiccupping, “ I don’t mind tho
length, it’s the breadth that bothers me.”
A jack tar just returning from sea, met his old
messmate Bel Blowsy. He was so overjoyed
that he determined to commit matrimony ; but
at the altar the parson demurred, as there was
not cash enough between them to pay the fees ;
on which Jack, thrusting a few shillings into
his cossack, exclaimed, “Never mind, brother,
marry as us far as it will go.
A young aspirant for literary and fashionable
.distinction, who had in vain laid the foundation
for what he had hoped would luxuriate into a
large pair of whiskers, lately asked one of our
village belles what she thought of them. To
which she replied with much naivette, “ that
they were like unto the Western country—exten
sively laid out, but thinly settled.”
A little boy who had been sent to the post-of
fice after letters, on his retnrn, with the greatest
earnestness imaginable said to his father, who by
the way was a land speculator—“ Daddy, they’ve
riz on letters—tother day I got one for Zen cents,
and now they ask ninepence.”
A village pedagogue in despair with a stupid
boy, pointed at the lettgr-A, and asked him if he
knew it. “ Yes, sir. “ Well, what is it?” “ 1
knows him very well by sight, but rot me if I can
remember his name.”
A boy was lately asked by the catech : st of the
school, who first bit the apple, to which he re
plied, “ I don’t know, but guess ’twas our Bets,
for she eats green apples like the devil.'' 1
“I know well enough,” said a fellow,M where
fresh fish comes from, but where they catch those
’ere salt fish, I’ll be hanged if I can tell.”
