The Republican herald. (Columbus, Ga.) 1836-18??, March 15, 1836, Image 1

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THE REPUBLICiX HERALD. THREE DOLLARS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE.] By J. B. WEBB & Co.] THE REPUBLICAN HERALD, IS PRINTED EVERY SATURDAY MORNING, BY MARCELLUS FARMER, FOR THE PROPRIETORS. OFFICE, on the East side of Broad-st., in the lower story of the Brick Building, a few doors above the Mclntosh Hall, —where all Subscriptions, Advertise ments, &c., will be gratefully received. (LJ’No paper will be discontinued, but at the discre tion of the Proprietors, until all arrearages have been paid. , O’"’hoever will guarantee the payment of nine pa pers, shall have the tenth gratis. O*All Communications, or Letters relative to the bu siness of the Office, will not be attended to, unless they nr« post-paid. TERMS OF ADVERTISING. I square 1 insertion . . $075 I The usual discount w ill be 1 square 3 insertions. ..1751 allowed to yearly adv rs. HIT Sheriffs, Clerks of Court, Ac., will also be allowed the usual deduction. . (O’Advertisements sent by Mail, or handed in, will be inserted until forbid, and charged accordingly, unless a written or verbal order is given to the Printer, to the contrary. TIME OF PUBLISHING ADVERTISEMENTS REQUIRED BY LAW. O’Each Citation by the Clerks of the Courts of Or dinary that application has been made for Letters of Ad ministration, must be published thirty days at least. ITNotice bv Executors and Administrators for Debt ors and Creditors to render in their accounts, must be published six WEEKS. . . [JJ*Salcs of Negroes bv Executors and Administra tors must be advertised sixty DAYS before the day of sale. (U’Sales of personal property (except negroes) ot testate and intestate estates by Executors and .Adminis trators, must be advertised forty days. O’Application bv Executors, Administrators and Guardians to the Court of Ordinary for leave to sell Land, must lie published four months. in*Applications by Executors and Administrators for Letters Dismissory, must be published six months. [pj” Applications for Foreclosure of Mortgages on rca, estate must be advertised once a month for four ths. Oz j’Sales of real estate by Executors, Administrators and Guardians, must be published sixty days be!o;e the dav of sale. These sales must be made at the court house door, between the hours ot 10 in t.ie niorrnng and 4in the afternoon. No sale from day to day is valid,un less so expressed in the advertisement. (Jj*Ordcrs of Court m'Ordinary, (accompanied vi'.i a copy of the bond, or agreement) to make titles to Lum,, must be advertised three months at least. O’Sherifi'sSales under executions regularly granted , by the courts, must be adv. rii.sed thirty day s—majer ■ mortgage executions, sixi Y days—Sales ot perisuame , property under order of»'mttt, must be advertised, gc,.- crally.TEX days before die day of sale. 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.”