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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.