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EQlTfig T»IO r/AS H VOL. 111. NO. 40. of JBXIP. 3m &D33OFSO.M, Publisher {By Authority,) of the Laws of the United States: OlHce ou Circene Street, nearly oppo site the Market. Issued eveiy Tuesday morning, at $3 per annum No subscription taken for less than a year and no paper discontinued, but at the option of tire publisher, until all arrearages are paid. Advertisemests conspicuously inserted at the usual rates —those not limited when handed in, will be inserted ’till forbid, and charged accord ingly. CHANGE OF DIRECTION. 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Persons wishing to become subscribers to the Standard of Union, are particularly requested to give their attention to this; or they will not have the pa per forwarded to them. mSCEI/DAI¥EOUs7~ jFroai the. Saturday Courier. THE LOST HUSBAND. A TALE OF TRUTH. A sultry day in August had at length closed, and the exhausted citizens of New York were thronging the battery and pub lic Gardens in search of relief from the heated air at home. A stranger landing at the Battery that evening would have star tled and fancied himself on a field of battle, for the benches and grass plats were strew ed with outstretched and apparently lifeless beings—poor sufferers who bad all day long been struggling against their fierce en emy, the heat— some, who might seem wounded survivors of the battle, were sauntering about with heavy steps and slow ; or supporting their weary weight ou the balustrade, at the water’s edge, were inhal ing the blessed sea breeze, which, like a healing cordial, was fast restoring vigour to their listless frames. The gentle waves seemed like things of life, to rejoice in the coming of this cooling air, and danced and tumbled as if in gladness at the departure of their fiery tormentor, the sun. By de grees the imaginary dying and wounded seemed to feel its influence, voices began to be beard in all directions, expressing their joy in every tongue, French, German, Span ish, all save English, which of every lan guage spoken m this city, is the least heard in aur public promenades, which is of itself a standing proof of what is so often ad vanced, that what we are conscious we can enjoy al any time, we are very often apt to neglect. The fire worksand music from the castle shed brilliancy and animation o’er this lovely spot. The inland side of the bat tery presented a complete contrast to nil this gaity. Here, no sound disturbed the sooth ing quiet, save the distant notes of music, and the rustling of the trees as they threw their dark shodows over the moonlit paths, lu one of these walks, whose deep shade was seldom crossed by streaks of moonlight, a lady am* a gentlemen were slowly prom enading in earnest conversation. “Oh Robert! I never, never, can make up my mind to consent to. this,” she ex claimed, and withdrawing from the gentle man s arm. she threw herself on a seat, and covered her face with her hands. Her com panion followed, and in great agitation seat ed himself in silence by her side. “Ah, Sedley,” the lady sorrowfully said, “you are angry with me!—you think me weak but how can I give inv consent to marry you when the fate of my husband is co uncertain? He may be alive—and think, oh think! of my dreadful situation, should he return home after our marriage?” “I am not angry with you, Adelaide, but indeed! indeed! you tax my heart sorely— how often must I tellyou that your husband having been absent seven years, during which time, no one has heard from, or of him, you are free by our laws. He cannot be alive, or he would have written to you, you are still young, and would you doom yourself to a long and dreary widowed life for a mere scruple of conscience! You love .me,” he said, taking her baud, “we have loved each other from childhood with a sin cere and pure affection—is this not so?” “Tic true.’” sighed Adelaide, and she pressed her handkerchief to Iter eyes, to force back the rushing tears. **Our love was unhappy,” he continued, **and from a sentiment of duty to your dy ing father, and of gratitude to Charles Audley, you married him, although your heart was mine. He sailed, you know, a few months afterwards, in a ship which was pever beard from since, and which was re ported to have fouu iered at sen. The wid owsol those who sailed itj her, wore black if fol the dead, many of them have mar ried, and you, you sacrifice me, and long affection, you sacrifice yourself to such idle fears In a few days | shall sail for a dis tant land. Adelaide, you must go with me, ■nd should Audley by a miracle be among the living, he cannot disturb us there. But ■gain I say it is utterly impossible he should be ahve—thmk you he would not have written in eight long years to his beloved Adelajdc?-*,and while we ape convinced he POSTAGE. of must be dead, we shall be happy i,i each lher s love, and in the peace of our ow n consciences.’ Adelaide leaned her head against the tree, beneath which she sat, and wept bit terly, at last she spoke, “If I go with you, Robert, 1 well know, it will not be with a heart and conscience at peace—but 1 can contend no longer. The sight of your wretchedness, and my own misery, take I from me the powerot resisting. 1 owe you ; something for your long and constant aflec- I lion, and to none but you, Sedley, would I j thus make a sacrifice ol my feelings—Rob ert, if we are wrong, may heaven forgive us, hut take me—l am yours!” Robert threw his arms passionately a round her, and silence and tears were the only demonstration of the sad joy that fill ed their hearts. The sound of voices and footsteps aroused them, and once more our lovers resumed their walk, and leaning over the tailings, gazed out on the broad bay and lovely islands, and w hite sails, over all which a soft and brilliant moon was shed ding the light of her beauty. Near Staten Island, a large ship was dimly seen in full sail. Proudly, and silently she came on, . growing larger and more distinct to the g; - zerseye. She passed Governor’s Island and approached the Battery, and now, in I the lull light of the moon, with all her sails floating like fleecy clouds about her, she presented a magnificent monument of the j power of man. Evidently she was from abroad, and some who looked upon her were speculating from what distant port she came, and some on the pleasure now felt by the voyager in arriving at this beauteous land, or on the deeper happiness of those who might be returning to their home and friends again. To one alone of all who gazedon that gallant ship, the glorious spec tacle gave no pleasure. “Alas!” sighed Adelaide, as she turned her steps homewards, “bow can hopes of peace and happiness come to my heart when I shudder at the sight of a distant sail, lest she bear back him whose return to these shores would now bring to me infamy and | despair. The clocks of the city and bells of the shipping had struck twelve—every lounger had departed from the Battery. The lights ol the castle were out; the music had ceased, and the moon was set. All brightness and gaiety had fled, and left this favourite prom enade to darkness and solitude. No sound was heard save the dashing of the waves and the chirping of the catidids.—Even the glorious ship lay motionless, her sails were furled, and she also seemed to be at rest for the night. Soon, however, the sound of oars was heard—a little boat left the side of the foreign vessel, and approached the shore. At the castle’s bridge she stopped, and a man sprang hastily up the stairs, passed rap idly over the bridge, and stood on the bat tery. His deerskin pantaloons, embroider ed with silver, his rich jacket and scarlet sash, and his large sombrero proclaimed him a Mexican. “Ha! native shore!” he said in English, “here then I am again after eight long years of absence, but I returned not for love of thee, my country—this is no pleas ant home for me—no, 1 come for revenge! Revenge! andon whom? on her I loved? Ah, Audley, how art thou changed?—’iis strange, but the very touch of this soil, this silence and sweet air, and the sight of my native city, bring back all those soft and boyish feelings which I thought had left’rny breast forever. Oh, Adelaide, my wife! how I could have loved you, had you not thus, by such heartless coldness, spurned my heart from you, and driven me from my home a desparing wanderer.” The stranger leaned against a tree, he threw his Spanish hatviolently on the grass, and lilted the masses ol dark hair from his brow, as if by violent movements he could thus throw from him those deep emotions . which were fast o’erpow ering him. But it : was in vain—not yet had all his former j good feeling departed from his heart, and i tears would come—he dashed his embroid i ered sleeve over his eyes. | “ Ha, ha !” he laughed wildly, “ what ! would Guerrero, that would Bravo say, I could they see me now ? Am I the reckless ‘ Mexican warrior? Am|l the hero whou as ito revolutionize a country, and place an ; Emperior on the throne ? No, Iturbide, I am thine again—Lack to my heart,” he said, striking his breast fiercely 44 down with such humanly feelings, I am no longer the fool I was when a woman’s coldness could drive me from my home ; no, eight years of wandering in foreign climes, battles and prisons, have changed me ; and now, now Adelaide! 1 come for vengeance. Yes, proud one, your heart shall be wrung as mine has been. Let me see,” he added, I pacing up and down under the elm trees, i“ she must away to Mexico—l need her wealth, and might not obtain it here—once ! possessed of that, I’ll cast her from me, a ■ beggar in that wide land, and then for my I brave soldiers, and my Josephina !” j The next day was fixed for the marriage of Sedley and Adelaide. In the afternoon, Robert sat alone in his piazza : his Madei ra was before him—and while slowly puf fing a cigar he was indulging in visions of happy days to come. A ring at the door, and the entrance of a servant, aroused him, A stranger wished to see him, ami in a few- minutes the Mexican stood before I him. i “ I bring you letters, Senor, from your 1 friends in Alvarado,” he said. Annoyed at the interruption, Sedley took the letters, and having thanked the stranger, and-offered him wine, seemed to expect him to depart. The stranger, how ever, thought not of going, but seated him self, and sipped his wine in gloomy silence. By degrees his face assumed a troubled expression; and, as if unconscious of the presence of Robert, he sighed profoundly, and leaned his head on his hand, as if bu ried in some mournful reverie. Once or ' twice he started up, as if with the intention >itiLl.K, GIW.GIA, MORNING, OCTOBER 18, 1836. of addressing his surprised and vexed host, but he again resumed his cigar and glass in silence. The shades of evening began to steal over the garden, and Robert arose. “You must excuse me,” he said to the singular foreigner; “ but I have business of importance to attend to, and must beg per mission to leave you.” “ Oh certainly, Senior; but I only wish ed to inquire of you about certain friends 1 lift many years ago in this city.” “ No, no—another time,” said Sedley, “ I really must leave you. It is past seven —and by eight 1 must be dressed and away for” Ho stopped, blushed, smiled, and seemed confused. fcAii ha ! Senior is to meet some fair la dyriwjt s ' ie surely will pardon me, if 1 de tain but a few minutes.” “ Fl’t'je I must be plain with you, sir.— To tell the truth, I am to be married, and you mu t now see the necessity|« finy imme diate departure, and excuse my seeming rudeness in thus leaving you.” “ Married ! and may I be so bold as to ask the lady’s name ?” Oh certainly—Adelaide Audley.” “Adelaide Audley,” mused the stranger — 44 ha ! that’s odd. Could there be two ? —pardon me, Senior—has this lady been married before ?” “ Yes.” “ And to Charles Audley, who was lost in the Seraphina ?” “ Yes, yes,—but what is that to you ?” “A great deal, Senior,” replied the strati ger, with a sneer. “ You were only going to marry my wife, sir !” 44 Your wife ! Good heaven ! you are not, you cannot be Audley ?” “ lam Audley,” the stranger said, while his brown grew dark with passion, and his fierce eyes flashed o’er the trembling form of Sedley, “ I have come to bear my wife to my distant home—and truly I am here in time. What! drive me from her stde, and marry in my absence ! —my rival too ? Ha !I am glad of this—l wanted but this to rouse me, and make me a man again. I was yielding too much to old remembran ces. Oh woman !” he cried, furiously striking the table with his closed hand, “ where is your pride now ? Ail awe—all fear of you, which had made me waver— has now fled, and without remorse, 1 can now force you away !” Alfred Robert had sank into a scat—a horrid mist seined around him—fromwhich started out the furious and sneering face of the stranger. He arose—he dashed down a glass of wine—he pressed his hands to his eyes to shut out the hateful vis ion, and to bring back his scattered sen ses. “ And you,” said Audley, with a sneer turning to Robert, while the red hue of rage faded before Hie lividness of a deeper, dead lier feeling—“ Seducer ! how have you meanly tried in my absence to supplant me ! Could you still hope to triumph over me ? VV retch ! how did you dare but look on Adelaide!” “ Come! come !” said Sedley, who had recovered a little from this first stroke, but was still aimostfrantic at the idea of losing her he had so long and so fondly loved, “this is no time or place for raving. She is no longer your wile—by our laws she is free. But how know we that you are him you so bo.dly proclaim yourself? Who will lake a Spanish bravo for a slender youth of twenty, who left these shores in ill health ? No !no ! —you are an imposter!” he wildly exclaimed. “ Away !—quit this place ! or, ere an hour’s over your perjury shall meet its due.” Audley grasped his dagger—he shook with rage in every nerve—the veins in his forehead swelled—and bis white lips trem bled. “Yes, kill me!” cried the almost raving Sedley, “and the gallows shall free Ade laide, if indeed you are her bated husband.” “ No,” said Charles, shearing his dagger with a fiendish smile, “ unless you live, my triumph will not be complete.” He left the piazza—the wretched Sedldy listened to the jingle of his Spanish stirrups as he strode through the hall and down the stone steps---and now when all was again silent he seemed fully aruosed to a sense of bis misery. He dashed his head on the ta ble—then suddenly started up and rushed down to the garden and sought to cool his burning brain on the dewy grass; but heavy, heavy was the load ot wretchedness which pressed on his heart. “And can this be?” he exclaimed. “ After so many years of sorrow, and so near a haven of peace, must 1 again be doomed to misery ? Is my bealiful, my adored Adelaide, to be again torn from me"? Ah ! bitterer far is it to give her up now than when we were first seperated !—But no !it cannot, shall not be—that ruffian shall not have her;—fool, to waste rnv time thus. I will away to her—she knows not Audley is here—and once married we will fly this night where he cannot pursue us.” Eager lo save Adelaide, Robert did not stop to question the feasibility or justice even of his plans, but, jumping in his car riage, he was soon at the door of his belov ed and unhappy Adelaide. The hour ot the celebration of the marriage was fast approaching and Adelaide, in her bridal array, sat alone in her chamber. “ Sweet and bitter fancies” alternately passed thro’ her mind, occasionally a blush of triumph lightened over her lovely face, as a glance at the mirrors around her told her that time, since her first marriage, had added to in stead of taking from her charms. But that first marriage ! as the rememberance of that and of her perhaps still living husband came over her, a sense of guilt banished all those pleasing thoughts which had occupied her aeart before. “Ob, if he should return,” she exclaim ed, starting up, and wildly pacing the room: —“ no, mi, 1 must not think of this now. After this hour he must be as one of the dead, or even with one, whom I so truly i»'tr I'ooKiuim—<>«»• touniry Ssur Jt*arty. love, happiness will fly for ever. Injustice to him, who has so suffered for me 1 must banish all these uneasy thoughts.” Carriages now began to arrive, and when all the guests were assembled, the brides made led down the trembling Adelaide to her expecting bridegroom. The room was filled with beauty and fashion but there was none there who rivalled the brilliant love liness of the bride. Her beauty, however, and her rich attire, failed to attract notice as all eyes were fixed in surprise on the singular appearance ofSedley. His dress was disordered, his face pale and wild, and during the ceremony, he started at every sound, and gazed at the door, as if expec ting some horrid apparation. They were at last married* All were preparing to seal themselves, when the Mexican stran ger strode haughtily into the room. His foreign dress was laid aside, and now, in his usual attire, Charles Audley was recog nized by all who knew him before be left h>s native land. Every heart sank for the fair bride. “ This is well,” he exclaimed, bowing, and lookingareund him ; “but indeed quit** unexpected, to be thus welcomed home l.v so gay and brilliant an assembly. But where is the mistress of these revels ? why does she not come forward to receive her long absent husband ? Ah !” lie added with a sneer, 44 there she stand, the proud, the virtuous, the faithful wife !” Adelaide, on his first appearance, had thrown herself in Sedley’s arms ; she now raised her head, and gazing, as if in horror, at the fearful spectre, uttered such heart broken screams, as drew tears to the eyes of all. “Oh ! take him away !—take him a way !” she cried, while al his approach she continued to step back. “Do not let him come near me, or I shall go mad !” The distracted Robert threw his arms fl round her, and exhausted and almost senseless, she buried her face in his bo som. “ Wretch !” exclaimed Audley r , gazing! fiercely on Robert ; “ how dare you appear here, when, but an hour ago, you knew I was in the city. Villain ! leave that lady, ; and quit the room !” Audley seized the arm of Adelaide, and would have struck Sedley to the earth, but for the interposition of those around him. “ Woman !” he cried furiously, “ leave j the arms of your lover, and come with your lawful husband !” “She is my wife!” cried Robert. “Were we notjust wedded ?—Dare not to touch her—you are not Audley, I can proveit and, impostor as you are, I command vou to leave this house!” “ Mr. Sedley,” said the venerable bishop. “ calm yourself; and you, who call yourself j this lady’s husband ;—there can be no need of all this fierceness. There must be ma ny in this city who knew' you, and violence cannot help to right you. Come to-mor row with one who can swear to your i dentity, and then justice must be done yon.” “ I want no evidence but hers who stands before yon, hiding her guilty face f rom my sight. Adelaide, look on me—deny, il you can, that your hnsband, Charles Audley, stands before you !” “ Adelaide,” whispered Sedley, wildly, “do not be imposed upon. Deny it is him —or, if him, are you not free ?” Come, let us away this moment.” “ My child,” said the bishop, “ weep not thus—look up —you are called upon to end this fearful scene.” Adelaide raised her eyes to heaven, as if there alone she might hope for pity', while her beautiful countenance, lately radiant with joy, now but expressed the deepest an guish. She vainly endeavoured to speak —her agony almost suffocated her. The bishop pressed her hand tenderly, and Sed ley stood looking breathlelsly on her—ho ping, he knew not what—and waiting as if for sentence of life or death. Tears dimmed many a bright eye, and sorrow for the fair bride was felt by all ex cept Audley. Cool and calm he stood op posite his wretched wife, looking quietly down on her agonized face. Adelaide pressed her perfumed handkerchief to her ■ ey es, and at last spoke. ItisCiiarles Audley—it is mv husband ! —alas !”- * | A deep silence pervaded the room, and j even a shade of emotion, al the wretched- I ness of that lovely being, passed over the I countenance of Audley ; but it was momen tary. “ Come, then,” he cried, taking le i pas- ■ sive hand, “ there is no more to ue said, and we must away to-night.” “To-night! and whither?” “ To my ship.” “Oh leave her with us now—she is weak i and faint. To-morrow she will go with I you.” “No,no!” he cried with a ruffianly: laugh; “she cannot be trusted. In die i ship she is safe. To-morrow we sail for Mexico, and 1 have too many affairs to set- . tie to spend the morning in search of a ; rimaway wife. Good night, ladies and gentlemen.” “ Nay. nay,” interrupted the bishop, while her i’rieuds clung weeping around her; “ 1 must insist” “ Away, all of you !” cried Audley, fu riously—“ who shall dare prevent a hus band from taking away his lawful wife!” “ 1 dare I” cried a voice—and the Mex ican cloak and slouched hat, which had en veloped a form at the door, fell to the ground, and a Mexican woman sprang for ward. Her dark, snake-like eyes were fix ed on Charles, and every feature was ex pressive of the most malignant passions, i At the sight of this fiendish apparition all recoiled, and Audley’s cheek was blanched, and his eye quailed before the fierce glare of hers. He was subdued but for a mo ment. “Hu! Josephina !” he cried, «ho\v dare you follow me litre ?” “ 1 came fo'r vengeance !” she screamed;' I came to see if they told me the truth, who whispered that you had another wife at home. No! treacherous Pedro—she shall never go to Mexico to trample on the rights of Josephina !” “ Back! back! cursed girl!” With one bound Josephina sprang to wards Adelaide—but Audley, aware of her intention, threw himself before her, and the dagger of the wronged Mexican wife sank to her husband’s heart! Shrieks, death and horror were around Sedley—but wild joy was his only feeling, for Adelaide was free. From the Knickerbocker. THE VICTIMS OF CONSUMP TION. SKETCHED FROM REAL LIFE: BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘ AMERICAN SOCIETY.’ After reading an article on Pulmonary Consumption, i;: a late number o. the Knickerbocker, my mind r'verted to the many victmis I sptu, during 1 even a Miort pilgrimage along the pathway of life. Strange and sad disease! How mel ancholy is it lo mark thy slow yet sure ad vances—to know that thou wilt throw coil after coil around the captive, until thou hast drawn her into the cold and clasping arms ol death—to see that she alone is uncon scious of thy thraldom, and reaches forth her taper fingers to gather the flowers of love and hope, that others are placing in their bosoms, or twining aronnd their brows. But these blossom not for her; the devotion of the lover—the tenderness of the husband —the soft caresses of infantile love—she must not dream of these—for the grave has claimed her as its own ! Poor Caroline B ! Hers was a sad and an early fate. She passed away like the morning cloud, before the blush of life’s dawn had faded from her heart. Ti mid and gentle as a fawn, she was one of those who seem as if they can only live in the atmosphere of afl’ection. She withered and shrank from the least breath of unkind ness ; and so great was her sensitives, that it became necessary to remove her from the care of an instructress who followed a stern and rigid system of government, as the fear with which she inspired her became a disease, that was prey ing on her spirits and j her health. At this time, we were school-mates ; and ! years passed ere 1 saw her again. But 1 heard her history from one wtio knew her well. She became a lovely woman—a creature of smiles and tears —of softness and sensibility. With strangers, she was timid and reserved, but when with those who loved her, she had all the caressing fondness, the spoitiveness and simplicity, of a child. She could not have been happy without something to love ; her heart was full of tenderness—full to overflowing. Seldom were mother and sisters loved as she lovjjd hers; and when her young affec tions were sought by one w ho had given her bis heart, she yielded them up, in all their fullness. She became devoted to him. The tendrils of her love twined so closely around him, that not only her happiness, but even her life, was dependent on bis welfare and his existence. He was worthy of her, and loved her as man seldom loves. He was yet in 4 the dew of his youth,’ with a heart full of virtuous impulses, and untainted principles—for he had not entered into the dissipations of the world. He was actively engaged in a bu- i sinessthat secured a competence, which, with the simplicity of their tastes, would have been affiuence to them. The time of their union drew dear, and he furnished a home to which he was shortly to take his Caroline as liis bride—the wife of his bo som. B,it sickness came over him —a ma lignant fever, so violent and dangerous, that bis physician gave no hope of recove ry.. Where was bis betrothed ? His fami ly had sent for her, at his request, but be fore she could reach the house, be was ra ving in a delirium, and knew her not. Site hung over him in ail the distraction of hope :.nd fear; and who can imagine the wild agony that rushed through her heart, when she saw that be was djing ! It was seen iu its effects. Her heart was bro ken. After toe death ol h r ,ilh:;r,c, d husband, nirintci< : t :o ii'. ;n„i < .mgs, M.em- l etl lost t > - ■■ ... i, .. , vuihdrew ' to the solitude. , i vl. • . , ..id saw no I one !>ut i.er i.e. 'b.r, •.< i uie fe- male l.i'.-ir;. io v.iiu ti„ y tie dio arouse I her from the grief tin!i had st iileii on her like an incubus. Houraher hour she set with her clasped hand testing on her knees, and her eyes fixed ou one spot, with a strange vacant expression, as if dead to ev ery thing around her. The only circum stance that appeared to bring her to con sciousness, was th • marriage of the sister who had been her nurse and attendant since the atlliclion that had made such ravages on her frame. When the bride and groom e lect came to bid Caroline farewell, as they were about to proceed to the church, where they were to be ' nited, the broken-hearted girl folded her sister iu her arms, and wept over her, as if the separation was more than she could bear. When licr intended brother-in-law offered his hand, she said : 4 No, George, icauuot take your hand— not yet —it seems so hard to take my Mary from me.’ When the bridal party had gone, her friend tried to console her, but she 4 refused to be comforted.’ ‘No !’ said, she mournfully, 4 it is always so; every thing that I love is taken from me !’ Shortly after her sister’s marriage she was taken to the country, in the vain hope that the fresh air would revive her. The beat of June, in the crowded city, had been too much for her enfeebled stale. All ex pectation ol her recovery was gone, for the fatal symptons of a confirmed and rapid i consiimptioi) were upon her, and Ijcp fnepds knew that she must die. She alone was yet unconscious that this was to be her last summer upon earth—that the grave would soon be opened to receive its victim. As soon as 1 heard that she was in the neighborhood, I visited her. We bad not met since we were school-girls. Though nearly of the same age, yet the tranquil seclusions in which I had lived, had kept me in ignorance of the trials and the experi ence of life, while she had drank deeply of its poisoned chalice—and to her it was a fa tal draught. When I first saw her, she was leaning back in an arm chair, with her head resiiug against one of the porch-columns. Her cheek touched the fragrant blossoms of the white jessamine, that twined its light and feathery foliage around the fluted pillars, and mingling with the graceful woodbine, hung their united drapery above her head. 1 had often heard of the peculiar beauty with which consumption invest its victims ; but here I saw it in all its fearful lovliness. The i fragile from, almost bending beneath the I summer breeze—the transparency and pu- ! rity of her complexion, through which you i could trace the delicate tinting of the blue ( veins—her beautifully formed lips, to which { fever had given the coral hue of health— j and her eye!—oh how spiritual, how un like earth was the brightness of her dark blue eye ! As I looked on her high, fair forehead, over which the golden-brown hair was parted in rich waves—on her gentle smile and the soft serenity of her counte nance—l was reminded of the artist’s con ception of a beauty not of earth-’ At times, she became quite animated, and we spoke together of school-days, and of several oc-' currences that had then excited our mer riment, notwithstanding the rigor of our teacher, with whom laughter was a punish able crime. I never shall forget her smile, when she could be roused to cheerfulness. ' There was something so sweet, so peculiar, j so radiant with the loveliness of her charac- : ter, that it instantly won the heart. How ; painful was the reflection, that one so beau- | tiful should pass away from the fair, green i earth, to the cold, dark grave—from life ! and beauty, to corruption and decay ? As soon as the fatal disease became seat ed, the settled gloom that had hung over her since the death of her lover, suddenly pass ed away, and her natural buoyancy of spirits returned. Before this, she was never seen to smile; and though still subject to occa sional depression, yet she was more cheer ful than she had been since the fatal event. She now' frequently spoke of her lost Wil liam, and loved to relate the circumstances connected with their acquaintance, though previous to this, his name was never heard to pass her lips. The world seemed again to become beautiful, and the love of life once more awakened in her bosom. « Oh,’ said she, ‘if 1 could only get strength enough to rove through these woods and meadows, 1 know I should be well again !’ This change ' was one of the strongest symptoms of the melancholy disease. Illusive consumption! , Thou clotbest thy victims w ith new beauty, as thou art about lo crumble them into dust and ashes, ana thou inspirest them with a love of the pleasant things of earth, just as thou art ready lo snatch them from our sight forever.’ The last time I saw die dying girl, was the evening of her departure for the city. The revival produced by the change of air was but temporary. She was sinking rapid- ! ly, and it was tlKiiight better to remove her, 1 wtiile she yet had strength to bear the fa tige. it was a beautiful summer evening, when she was carried down stairs, and laid j upon the sofa. The shutters were thrown , open, and the full moon poured in a radi- : ance oflight, bringing the lovely invalid in to bright relief, as she lay there, like some beautiful creation of fancy. As its pale beams rested on her ’brow, showing the classic outline of her features, she looked like sculptured marble. There was a fear ful beauty iu the sight! Her eyelids were closed ; their long dark lashes lay pencill ed on her cheek, and so death like was the composure of her countenance, that her mother arose, with a cold shudder, and clo sed the window. The sight wns too like a vorjise for a mother to bear. She was ta- ! ken to the city on that beautiful moonlight evening, and I never saw her more. A few days after her return home, she I was told that there was no hope ofher resto ration to Iteaith—that the hour of her! death was at hand. She received the infer-1 mation with calm submission; and as the I patriarch 4 gathered up his feet into the: bed,’ ere be 4 yielded up the ghost, t so did ! ■die gather up her thoughts, that she might be prepared for tlie great awful • hange. She would lie tor hours in deep meditation, and silent prayer ; ard when one of het gay acquaintances wishes to relate to her the news of the day, site waved her hand, and gently said : 4 My dear friend, I have now no interest in the things of earth ; my concerns are with God, and eternity’ She 4 fell asleep in Jesus,’ as tranquilly as the wearied child sinks to repose on its moth er’s Itosom : and the sweet smile of serenity that dwelt on the lips ofher beautiful corse, showed how gently death had done its work in severing her redeemed spirit form its earthly tennement. " | Printer's Wants.— lt is very likely that j f persons ignorant of the poverty of Printers ' generally, must have vague opinions of us men of types and paper. Take up some ! ten or fifteen papers every morning, and ! peruse tiie various advertisements under the | head of 44 wanted,” then observe the pero- I ration of each one is, 44 Apply to the Prin- 1 ter,” 44 Enquire of the Printer,” 44 Cull I al this office,” &.c. One wants a horse, ano ther a cow, another a house, and Another a barn. This one wants a carriage, and that one a farm — one a Man servant, and anoth er a iWairf serv/ZB?.—One, perchance if he has any tiling to eat, wants a Cook, and a nother a Chambermaid. Printers, who are l single men, often make the world wonder o r. i. ftZiSwleSt WBi O NO. 113 by advertising for a dry or a wet nur* Some want active and others sleeping part ’ tiers. In fine there is no end to their ’ “ wants."’ They «// want cash, and many of them want 44 An everlasting now.- -One of our poets, (which is it r) speaks of an everlasting now. It such a condition of existence w ere offer ed lo us in this world, and it were putlo the vote whether we should accept the offer and fix all things immutably as they are, whonre they whose voices would be given in the af firmative ? Not those who are tn pursuit of fortune, or of fame, for with regard to all of as far as any of them are attainable, there is more pleasure in the pursuit than in the attainment. Not those who are at sea, Or travelling in a stage coach. Not tiie man who is shaving hhnself. Not those who have the toothache, or who are having a tooth drawn, Tiie fashionable beauty might ; and the fashionable singer, and the fashionable op era dancer, and the actor who is in the height of his power and reputation. So might the aiderman at a city feast, So would the heir who is squandering a large fortune faster than it was accumulated for him. And the thief who is not taken, nnd the convict who is not hanged, and the scoffer of religion, whose heart belies bis tongue. Not the wise and the good. Not those who who are in sickness or in sorrow. Not I. But were I endowed with the power of suspending Uie effect of time upon the things around me, methinks there are some of my flowers whicl should neither fall nor fade: decidedl/loy kitten should never at tain to cathood ; and I am afraid my little boy would continue to “misspeak half-ut tered words and never, while I live, out grow that epicene dress of French gray, half European, half Asiatic in its fash ion.— The Doctor. Political. BATTLE OF THE THAMES. The subjoined extract from the Natiimal Intelligencer is of interest at the present time, showing as it does, who was tiie real hero of the battle of the thaines. Partizan ship is tampering with history, and errors should now be corrected. From the Nat. LntAHgencer of April 18, 1320. The sword voted to Colonel Richard AL Johnson, by resolution -of Congress, inlrli- , duced by Governor Barbour of Virginia, and urged by a powerful speech, which led to its unanimous adoption, in testimony of their high sense of his gallantry and good conduct, in the decisive battle on the Thames in Upper Canada during tiie late ivarwitlt Great Britain, was presented to that gentleman yesterday by tiie president ol the United States, James Madison. The heads of departments, and many members of both Houses of Congress attended to witness an honor not less distinguished than it is deserved. In presenting to Colonel Johnson this mark of his country’s appro bation, the President addressed him as fol lows. Site—l now perform an office which is very gratifying to my feelings. In the late war, our country was assailed on every side; ou the Atlantic coast and inland frontiers; and iu many quarters at the same time. Honored by your fellow-citizens, you then held a station in the public council, which afforded you an opportunity to render servi ces with which a patriotism less ardent would have been satisfied. But you re paired to tiie field, ot the bead of a regi ment of mounted volunteers, and met the enemy atone of the points where he was most formidable.—at the head of that corps, and well supported by it, you fought with heroic gallantry, and essentially contribu ted, to the victory which was obtained. Your country is grateful for these services, and in compliance with a resolution of Con gress, I present to you this sword, as a tes timonial of its high regard. To which Col. Johnson replied. Mr. President: With sentiments of tin feigened gratitude to this national legisla ture, fortlie testimonial of their approbation, audio you, sir, for the cordiality witn which it is presented. I accept the donation as the richest reward of a soldier’s merit; but not without a deep sense of the claim which I have to such distinguished honor. Conscious of the forbearance of our country under a continued repetition of became my duty when the last resort of : nations was adopted, to contribute, with onr fellow-citizens, my personal services, in vin dicating our common rights, and it was my good fortune to be placed at the head of a corps w hose valor was equal to the occasion and who would have done honor to any leader. Their worth supplied my deficien cy and it will ever give me pleasure to rr gard this as a token of the merit. Unwor thy as 1 ain of this distinction, I derive greal ■consolation tram the elevated character i the illustrious body under wiiose ' you act, which is much increased by aw ! collection of the revolutionary services, and. | the exalted repution nf the individual desig-' | naled to carry it into effect.—Penjk j : Corrections.— ln the article wbieh ap j peared in the Globe of headed I Gen. Harrison, it is said that, he risignedhis commission in the army in the spring of. 1815, whereas he resignesl in the spring of. 1814, as the context shows. It is stated that he resigned when his services were most needed, which is true. All the hard fighting on the Niagra frontier took place id 1814, after he left the army.— Globe &£ i instant. '■