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VOL. If.
THE CABINET j
Is published, every Saturday by V. L.
ROBINSON fVarrenton , Geo. at
three dollars per annum , which may be
discharged by two dollars and Jiffy
cents if paid within sixty days •/ the
time of subscribing.
FR .M THIS IRISHMAN.
THE LUCKLESS LOVERS,
A Domestic Sketch.
All, all was still around, save the
murmurs of the rivulet, and the clat
tering of the distant mill, when a trav
eller, journeying paused to con**
template the beauties of the surround
ing scene. At no time perhaps, can
the sublime harmony of nature be con
templated with more < fleet than during
thehallowed calm of a suminerfs eve
ning when silence holds her dominion
over the world, and not a sound floats
to disrurb the general repose,- the blue
expanse of heav<* *■*, miU ts.c;
ra>s of a departing sun, illumining
the tops of the distant hills, our feel
jngs are gradually softened down to
harmonize with the tranquil scene.
Our astonishment at Creaiion‘s won
increases, and the co p iousness
of ‘'sir ojvn insignificance presents it
self more forcibly to our minds.
In this beautiful spot, a small hut
reaped its unpretending head on toe
side of a gently sloping hill, the hab
itation of the artless and lovely Eliza,
the only daughter of a respectable
gentleman whose whole souj was cen
tered in hei happiness; her lovely blue
eyes sparkled with cheerfulness and
good humor, her complexion was fair
as the native flowers of the vale, and
her simple russet garb seemed but to
display a form * f the most exquisite
symmetry; she was the dilly of the
valley.*
The Strangers purpose in travers
ing this country w>s, to seek out a
gp,*t, where he might recruit a con
stitution considerably impaired in a
t to id - lime. Youthful he was, and
traces of manly beauty were apparent,
though his countenance and frame
bore evident marks of a severe mala
d>; he took tip his abode in this de
ls.-litful neighborhood, and in a short
li ,; P the hoe of sickness gave place to
t fi .rid g? wof health, set oft’ by the
rni'k shade of tlie sun<B tinge, ills
y. g : r even yielded to the balmy
\ fl w. e f <sflf ction, nursed as it
the peculiarity of bis situation;
tlie and simple melody of the
mountain music—the dance, the mer
ry-makings, and, above ad, the
charms of his favorite maid, stole o
ver his sml like a sweet dream; need
1 say, that the fond feeling was cen
tred in the hearts of each for the oth
er, makmg -all summer there *
p was on a delightful evening of
gut,min, the serenity of which rival
ltd the beauties of a more southern
sky. The h appy pir strayed to a
beauiif'd grotto, the front of which
Wts w -shed by the dimpled waters of
t e \ hley, a bubbling spring sent
P .its crystal waters from within,
wlc. e the stately oak and the pliant
will w from above presented to the
rye a scene of awlul and sublime
grandeur.
Hcrt i v the first time did the en
r.ptiirrd Henry open the sentiments
ri ‘iis lie.srt to the blooming, blushing
p iza. aid here for the first time did
this amiable youtl hear from the lips
of this adorable girl, an acknowledg
ment that he w;>s not indifferent in her
At this moment the report of a
gun was hear and at ttie next, the
lit. *s blood of him. whose happiness
was so near 1 pletion, stained the
grassy turf; I is ‘ ye lids were closed;
in death,-sat- y like a fail
flower, cuv down by the relentless j
vvarrenlon, June “11. 1&.9.
scythe in t c Muue;-H ot ci • \
party of L ilians who had m m
1 irking near, observed them, and *
gratify their hellish propensity for
bloodshed, had committed the fatal
deed. Eliza was borne off senseless
from the sea of blood, in triumpi, by
the desperate hand! T> this hour her
fate is enveloped in the glo on of my s
tery. *A frail memorial,’ placed by
the hand of sympathetic, in the village
church yard, < oimnemorates the door
of destiny which had fallen so heavily
on the youthful hearts, and
“Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.”
Li less than six months her ag •!
and broken hearted fa’her sunk into
the slumbers of the grave, Often and
the youths and maidens flock t.*g*th
er at *Eliza‘s Grotto’ to tell her
mournful story. 2**
MV MOTHERS GRA VE.
“I had a mother once like you,
Who o‘er coy pillow hung,
Kiss‘d from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my fluttering tongue.
But then there came a fearful day,
I nought my mother** bed.
k Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.”
It was thirteen years since my mo
thercs death, when after a long ab
sence from my native village, I stood
beside the sacred mound, beneath
which I had seen her buried. Since
that mournful period, great change|bad
come over me. My childish years
had passed away, and with them my
youthful character. The world was
altered too; and as I stood at my mo
tber‘S grave I could hardly realize
that I was the same thoughtless, happy
creature, whose cheeks she had so of
ten kissed in excess of tenderness.
But the varied events of thirteen years
had not effaced the rememberanee of
that motlier‘B smile. It seemed as ii
I had seen her yesterday—as il the
blessed sound f her voice was in my
ear. The gay dreams of my infancy
and childhood were brought, back s<*
distinctly to my mind, that had it n<*
been for one bitter recollection, th
tears I shed would have been gentl
and refreshing. The circumstance
may seem a trifling one-—but the
thought of it now agonizes my heart
and l relate it that those children who
have parents to love them* may learn
to value them as they ought.
My mother had been ill a longtime,
and I had become so much accustomed
to her pile face and weak voice, th t
I was not frightened at them as s his
dren usually are. At first, i’ is ti ue,
I sobbed violently—when day after
day I returned from school and found
her the same. I began to believe sh
would always be spared to me; but
they told me she would die.
One day when I had lost my place in
the class, and done my work wrong
side out ward, l came home discoura
ged, anil fretful. 1 went into my mo
ther's chamber. She was paler than
usual, but she m**t me with the same
affectionate smile that always welcom
ed my return. Alas! when 1 look
back through the laps of thirteen years.
1 think uy heart must have been
‘stone, not to have been melted by it.
She requested me to g > down stairs,
and bring her a glass of water—l pet
lisfilv asked why she did not call .
domestic to do it. With a look ot mill*
re pro ah which 1 shall never forget it
1 |ve to be a hundred years old, h
Si,id, “And will not my and ugfit r
firing a glass of water for her pom
sick m ther.”
I went and brought her the water
hut I did not do it kindly . Instead o
sooting and kissing ic r, as I wont f
do, I sat Hie gloss down very quick
.lad let.’ t? fount; Alter playing a
short ti u , I vent tubed without bid
ding my mother “good night;” but,
when alone in my room, in darkness!
and silnee, I remembered how pale
she lo ked, and how her voice trem
bled when she said, “Will not my
daughter bring a glass of water for
ber poor sick mother?” 1 could not
sleep—l stole into her chamber, to
sk forgiveness. Sae had sunk i;>to
an easy slumber, and they told me 1
must not waken her. 1 did not tell
any one w hat troubled me, but stole
oack to mv bed, resolved to rise early
in the morning, and tell her how sorry
1 was f>r my conduct.
The sun vv,.* shining brightly when
I awoke, ami, hurrying on my clothes.
I hastened to my mother's room. Sli*
was dead! she never spoke to etc m >rc
—never smiled upon me again; and
w hen I tou< bed the hand that used to
. ot up,.. Head in blessing, and was
so cold that it made m- start. I *ow
and down by irr side, and sobbed in
die bitterness of my heart. 1 thought
hen I wished I codlJ die, avid be bu
ried with her; arid, old as I now am, 1
would give worlds; were they mine to
give, could my mother hot have lived
to tell me sin. forgave my childish in
gratitude. But 1 cannot end her
-jack, and when I shod by her grave,
and whenever 1 think of her manifold
kindness, the memory of that re
proachful look she g>ve me, will “bite
like a serpent, anti sling like an ad
der.”
From the Georg a Courier.
The ho* weather, ami the arrival of the
usual period of stunner peregduatiou
have found uur city dul in every *ay.
There is scarcely a waggon O’ a carl to
be seen. Commerce fe.il a-fi q> *ast tin
nier, aud has scarcely awoke sinu/ sue
is dull from sleeping too much. The
grass is really growing in our streets and
the country people seem to think, troin
their absence, that it were best foi us to
live on that, or some oiher vegetable, this
! hot weather. The Doctors are dull,
because scarcely any body is sick—a poor
meastey patient now and then rouses them
from their lethargy. The Lawyers are
dull, because it is six months before next
Court; the Merchan*s, because they can
int sell; the Printers, because they might
advertise for advertisements; the Preach
ers, because they see their audience go to
sleep; the grog shops, because the Tem
perance Society has lessened their cus
tom. Religion is dull, because people
think more ot this world than the next;
the Ladies are dull—never knew th* m
so betore—must inquire into that matter
—may be, busy pi epaii ing f r another
Fair. The very Musquitoes are dull, for
they have scarcely bitten us this season
Only one single exception exists to the
dullness which surrounds u-——they are the
buyers of cotton in small lots They are
up late and ea ly—“keep moving —nev
er ‘giv*- it up’—they are before wagons,
behind wagons, round wagons and on wag
orm-—in the ware houses—in the streets
—on the roads—'hey are every where,
and shew more life and activity than
the smartest of Rand‘s vinegar eels.
They can smell a cotton wagon lor fifteen
miles round the city- Old JSTick lnrn-elf
could not get into town in the shape of a
’ o ton hag, without their detecting him —
half a dozen at least would board him be
fore lie got within six miles of market.
A g ntlem-m, who slept last week at The
Traveller s Rest, came in very early next
morning, and reported that he had met
ten men uniting away—he knew, he said,
tey mu-t be running off—they were un
d r whip and spur, in full speed, and the
sheriff *va9 nearly up with the hindmost.
He beli ved him to be the sheriff, for fig
s id he was leaning forwaid, abu pushing
w.:h a'l hi- might, his hut doffed before,
*• and eagerly bent i-n the chase —He waft
a ked what kind of a man tfie ►upposed
heriff wc.s, and answered that he was a
mail, k'.en looking roan. Now every bo-
d*, who has been in Richmond county,
knows that our sheriff is a huge, portly
looking fellow, It was, besides, not
known in town that any unusal number
had run off, the night before. On inqui
ry, therefore, the supposed runaways
turned out to be eleven cotton buyers,
who were all trying first to meet a certain
wagon with eight bags of cotton, that was
expected in town some time that day.
Long life and success to our cotton buyers!
May they never lack horses, whips and
spu s, nor money lo buy as much cotton
as they wish!
trom the N Y. Courier .
W VLKING CANE.
One of the handsomest hickory walking
can*** we remember to have seen for Home
line pa-d, ha- been sent to the President
b* Iftaa*’ vnderson, fisherman, of Wash
ington M.itkot. Isaac got possession of a
’ massive niece of the old Chevaux de b rize ,
sunk ai West Point by the whig-, in ’7G,
1 wloeh came up, we suppose, among tho
fishing poles in the river. The wood being
perfectly sound, he had a cane turnecL'and
.silver mounted, and sent it with the follow
ing letter to tfie President:—
New York, 19th May. 1829.
flour opneral—l send you a w i'king
cane made from the Chevaux de Frize
which >he Americans souk at West P mt
in 1776 apiece of which, ba l fv and with
j ■ **on. h>hs latelv brought up. You may
j have a snuff box from the tree that shelter
ed W'a'lace. or a chair from Shaksp. are‘g
mulberry tree, but a walking cane made
from tbe tough hickorv sunk b’- A neri* ang
j to guard their water courses and mountain
p isses, must lead to some pleasing recol
lections in the mind of an old patriot.
; Use *t occasionally to walk with to church
on Sunday. lam but a poor fisherman in
the Washington Masket, but I aud my
comrades are-omebody at elections; we all
•unported you, and want nothing from you
but to see y..ur administration prosperous,
(io on, anil hind \onr friends to you with
honk- of -teel and your enemies will soon
fall into the net.
j I am, dear General, your friend aud
fellow citizen,,
ISAAC ANDERSON.
To Gen. Jackson.
The following reply was sent by Gen.
Jackson:—
Washington, May 28. 1829.
Dear Sir--1 have received the walking
cane made of the t htvaux de Fnze sunk
at West Point in the Revolutionary War,
which you have so kindly presented to
me in your note of the 19th inst. by Mr,
Thomas. Nothing can be more sacred
than the relic of a material which con
tributed to our independence; and I re
ceive it from a fisherman with increased
pleasure, as a very appropriate memento
of the importance of that class of my
countrymen, whether considered as a
gents in the achievement of our liberty or
iu its future defence.
ANDREW JACKSON.
Extract of a letter to the Editor of the
Albany Argus , dated ,
W ashington, June, 1829.
My Dear Sir—l his rooming Major V %
8., eldest son of the Secretary, introduc
ed me to the President, anti his truly ami
able and interesting family. Tfie recep
tion he gave us was unostentatious gen
tlemanlv and friendly. He appeared in
much better health than I expected t< find
him. He is far from being the amaciat (, d
slender figure he has been represented to
us. I should judg> his frame to be mus
cular, and capable of sustaining great bod
ily and menial fatigue/ and I can araw no
conclusions from the human lace divine,
if he does not go through the next eight or
ten jems with a comfortable share of
health and enjoyment. This will be
cheering informa ion to roair thousands
who devoutly pray for a protracted exist
ence to the utmost limits of human life to
one, whose devotrd patriotism and gallant
services have contributed so largely to
the stability, glory and independence of
our < ouiitry.
“Since hi- inauguration thg President
has devoted the whole of his time to pulj-
No. 4.