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A CHRISTMAS DINNER.
BY BOX.
Christmas time ! The man must be a mis.
■nthrope i.tdecd, in whose breast something
like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose
mind some pleasant associations are not a
wakened—by the recurrence of Christinas.
There are people who will tell you that
Christmas is not to them what it used to be;
that each succeeding Christmas has found some
cherished hope, or happy prospect of tiie year
lx fore, dimmed or passed away, and that the
present only serves to remind them of reduced
circumstances and straitened incomes of the
feasts tlicy once bestowed on hollow friends,
and of tlie" cold looks that meet them now, in
adversity and misfortune. Never heed such
dismal reminiscences. There are few men
who have lived long enough in the world, who
cannot call up such droughts any day in the
year. Then do not select the merriest of the
three hundred and sixty-five for your doleful
recollections, bui draw your chair nearer the
bl izing fire—fill the glass and send round the
song —and if your room be smaller than it was
a dozen years ago, or if your glass I* filled
with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine,
put a good face on the malter, and empty it
off-hand, and fill another, and troll off tlie old
aiTIV VOn risen rn sltnr. :init thniiU- (lot! it’s HO
worse'. Look on the merry faces of your
children as they sit round tliefire. One little
seat may be empty ; one slight form that glad
dened the father’s heart, and roused the moth
er’s pride to look upon, may be not there.
Dwell not upon the past; think not that one
short year ago, the fair child now resolving
into dust, sat before you, with the bloom of
health upon its cheek, and the gay uncon
sciousness of infancy in its joyous eye. Re
flect upon your present blessings, of which ev
ery man has many, not on your past misfor
tunes, of whicii all men have some. Fill your
glass again, w ith a merry face and contented
heart. Our life on it, but your ehristmas shall j
be merry, and your new year a happy one.
Who can Iks insensible to the out pourings
of go rd feeling, and the honest interchange of
affectionate attachment, which abound at this
season of the year ? A ehristmas family par
ty ! Wc know nothing in nature more de
lightful ! There seems a magic in the very
name of ehristmas. Petty jealousies and dis
cords are forgotton ; social feelings are awa
kened in bosoms to which they have long been
strangers : father and son, ot brother and sis
ter. who have met and passed with averted
gaze, or a look of cold recognition, for months
before, proffer and return the cordial embrace,
and bury their past animosities in their present
happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned
towards each other, but have been withheld
bv false notions of pride and self-dignity, are
again re-united, and all its kindness and benev
olence ! Would that ehristmas lasted the
whole year through, and that the prejudices and
passions which dr form our better nature, were
never called into action among those to whom
they should ever be strangers.
The ehristmas fimily.party that we mean,
is not a mere assemblage of relations, got up
at a week or two’s notice, originating this year,
having no family precedent in the last, and not
likely to he repeated in the next. It is an an
nual g filtering of all the accessible members
of tl»e family, young or old, rich or poor; and
nil the children look forward to it, for two
months beforehand, in a fever of anticipation.
Formerly it was held at grandpapa’s ; hut
grandpapa getting old, and grandmama get
ting old too, and rather infirm, they have given
op house-keeping,and domesticated themselves
with uncle George, so the party alway s takes
place at uncle George’s house, hut grandmama
sends in most of all the good things, and
grandpapa always w ill toddle down, all the
way to Newgate market, to buy the turkey,
which he engages a porter to bring home be
hind him in triumph, always insisting on the
man’s being rewarded with a glass of spirits,
over and above his hire, to drink “ a merry
ehristmas and a happy r new year” to aunt
George. As to grandmama she is very se
cret and my sterious for two or three days be
forehand, hut not sufficiently so to prevent ru
mors getting afloat that she has purchased a
new cap with pink ribbons for each of the ser
vants, together with sundry books, and pen
knives, and pencil-cases for the younger
branches; to say nothing of divers secret ad
ditions to the order originally given by aunt
George at the pastry cook’s, such as another
dozen of mince pies for the dinner, and a large
plum cake for the children.
On christ mas-eve, grandmama is always
in excellent spirits, aad after employing all the
children, during the day, in stoning the plums
and all that, insists regularly every year on un
cle George coming down into "the kitchen, ta
king off his coat, and stirring the pudding for
half an hour or so, wdiicli uncle George good
humoredly does to the vociferous delight of
the children and servants ; and the evening
concludes with a glorious game of blind-man’s
buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa
takes great care to be caught, in order that lie
may have an opportunity of displaying his dex
terity.
On tlie following morning, the old couple,
with as many of the children as the pew will
hold, go to church in great state, leaving aunt
George at home dusting the decanters and fill
ing castors, and uncle George carrying bottles
into the diifing-parlor, and calling for cork
screws, and getting into every body’s way.
When tlie church-party return to lunch,
grandpapa produces a small sprig of misletoe
from his pocket, and tempts the (toys to kiss
their little cousins under it, a proceeding which
affords both the boys and the old gentleman
unlimited satisfaction, but which outrages
grandmama’s ideas of decorum, until grandpa
pa says, that when he was just thirteen years
and three months old, he kissed grandmama
under a misletoe too, on which the children
clap their hands, and laugh very heartily, as
do aunt Geoige and uncle George; and
grandmama looks pleased, and says, with a
benevolent smile, that grandpapa always was
an impudent dog, ori which the children laugh
very heartily again, and grandpapa more hear
tily than any of them.
But all these diversions arc nothing to the
suhwrquent excitement when grandmam: in a
cap, and slate-col* red sdk gown, and grand
oapa with a beautifully plaited aliirt-lriM, and
themselves on one
side of the drawing room fire, with uncle
George's children and little cousins innumera
ble, seated in the front, waiting tlie arrival of
the anxiously-expected visitors. Suddenly a
hackney couch is heard to stop, and uncle
George, who has been looking out of the win
! dow, exclaims, “Here’s Jane !” on which the
children rush to the door, and lielter-skelter
downstairs; and uncle John and aunt Jane,
and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and the
whole party, are ushered up stairs, amidst tu
multuous shouts of “ Oh, my !” from the chil
dren, and frequently repeated warnings not to
hurt ha y from tlie nurse ; and grandpapa
takes the child, and grandmama kisses her
daughter, and the confusion of this first entry
has scarcely subsided, when some other aunts
and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the
grown up cousins flirt with each other, and so
do the little cousins too, for that matter, and
nothing is to Ire heard hut a confused din ot
talking, laughing, and merriment.
A hesitating double knock at the street
door, heard during a momentary pause in the
conversation, excites a general inquiry of
“ who’s that !” and two or three children, who
have been standing at the window, announce
in a low voice, that it’s poor aunt Margaret.”
Upon which aunt George leaves the room to
welcome the new coiner, and grandmama
Miatva nuacu up luifici Mill ami atuicljfy (Kji
Margaret married a poor man without her con
sent, and poverty not being a sufficiently
weighty punishment for her offence, has been
discarded by her frieuds, and debarred the so
ciety of her dearest relatives. But ehristmas
has come round, and the unkind feelings that
have stiuggled against better disjiositioiis du
ring the year, have melted away before its ge
nial influence, like half-formed ice beneath the
morningsun. It is not difficult in a moment
of angry feeling foi a parent to denounce a
disobedient child ; but to banish her at a pe
riod of general goodwill and hilarity, from the
hearth round which she has sat on so many
anniversaries of the same day, expanded by
slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, aud
then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into the
high-spirited and beautiful woman, is widely
different. Tlie air of conscious rectitude, and
cold.forgiveness, which the old lady has assn,
med, sits ill upon her ; and when the poor girl
is led in by her sister, pale in looks and bro
ken in spirit—not from poverty, for that she
could bear, but from the consciousness of un
deserved neglect, and unmerited mikindness
—it is easy to see how much of it is assumed.
A momentary muse succeeds; t iegirl breaks
suddenly from her sister and throws herself,
sobbing, on her mother's neek. The father
steps hastily forward, and grasps her husband’s
hand. Friends crowd round to offer their
hearty congratulations, and happiness and har
mony again prevail.
As to the dinner, it’s perfectly delightful—
nothing goes wrong, and every body is in the
Irest way of spirits, and disposed to please and
Ik: pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstan
tial account of the purchase of the turkey,
with a slight digression relative to the purchase
of previous turkeys, on former christmas-days,
which grandmama corroborates in the minu
test particular. Uncle George tells stories,
and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes
with the children at the side table, and winks
at the cousins that are making love, or being
made love to, and exhilarates every body with
his good humor and hospitality ; and when at
last a stout servant, staggers in with a gigan
tic pudding with a sprig of holly in the top,
there is such a laughing, and shouting, and
clapping of little chubby hands, and kicking
up of Cut dumpy legs, as can only be equalled
by the applause with whic t, the astonishing feat
ot pouring lighted brandy into mince pies, is
received by tlie younger visitors. The de
sert ! —and the wine !—and the fun ! Such
beautiful speeches, and such songs, from aunt
Margaret’s husband, who turns out to be such
a nice man, and so attentive to grandmama !
Even grandpapa not only sin s his annual
song with unprecedented vigor, but on being
honored with an unanimous encore , according
to annual custom, actually comes out with a
new one which nobody but grandmama had
ever heard before : and a young sca|>e-grace
of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace
with the old people, for certain heinous sins of
omission and commission—neglecting to call,
and persisting in drinking Burton ale—aston
ishes every body into convulsions of laughter
by volunteering the most extraordinary songs
that were ever heard. And thus the evening
passes, |in a strain of rational good-will and
cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sym
pathies of every member of the party in* be
half of his neighbor, and to jierjietuate their
good feeling during the ensuing year, than all
the homilies that have ever been written, by all
the divines that have ever lived.
Below ig an article from tlie pen of Mr. J. S. Jonas,
ot North-Carolina. As the New-York Star very justly
remarks “the ‘Old North’ of the Southern has latent
fires that burn with deep intensity and glowing'colours.
VV licit awakened, as in Mr. Jones, we see what corus
cations they can scatter around, of poeses of romance
and of exact historical detail, pleasingly combined, and
investing regions hitherlo deemed barren of every in
terest, with associations that can never die, while love
lof country and admiration of her early patriarchs,
■ comes to us in these sordid times, like some warning
apparition, to recall us to those proud days of chivalry
w hich were indeed Ihe golden age of our history."
EXTRACT FROM THE FICTURESqt’K HISTORY OF NORTH
CAROLINA BV JAMES S. JONES, OF SHACCO.
ROANOKE ISLAND.
Such is the aspect of this shore,
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more;
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
Wc start, for soul is wanting there.— Giour.
I have never wandered over the Island of Roanoke,
without a feeling of melancholy, as intense as that of
: Byron, whilst contemplating the fallen greatness of
j Greece, the days of her glory arc over, and gone with
those beyond the flood ; but still she is to me an island
of die heart—/or her shores are the graves of the war
like and the wise. The native Indian built his machl
comai kon her hills; and there too, stood the city of
Ralaigh, the birth place oftlic Anglo-American—and
thus was Roanoke known, long before the beaeh at
j Jamestown was settled, or the rock at Plymouth conse
crated. She is the classic land of all English America,
i and will live in the future story of our Republic, as the
mother earth of American liberty. The illustrious
names of Kaleiirh, of Cavendish, of Greenville, and
of Drake—the hemes of the reign of Elizabeth, —are a
part and portion of Iter history. Harriot, the Malhcma
'icjan und Philosopher '<f the age, for the spac* of •
TIIE SOUTHERN POST.
whole year, studied the natural resources and Indian
hisiorv, and nearly two hundred and fitly years since,
gave the world a book unequalled for the accuracy and
inlerest of its details. It would seem, indeed, as if the
chivalry and learning of that age had contributed thia
splendid representation, to give a dazzling brilliancy to
the early history of that State, on whose shores the Hag
ot England was first unfurled, and in whose valleys,
and over whose hills, the mountain Goddess of Liberty j
first shouted the cry of American Independence. Bear
witness, Mecklenburg, on the "JOilt of M ay, 1775.
But it is not historic associations alone, which makes
sacred the shores anil vine clad forests of Roanoke.
Nature seems to have exerted herself to adorn it as the
Eden of the new world. The richest garniture of flow
ers aud the sweetest minstrelsy of birds are there. In
traversing the northern section of the Island, in the
spring time of the year, flowers and sweet scented
herbs in the wildest luxuriance are thrown along your
winding way, welcoming you with their fragrance to
their cherished isle. The wild rose bush, which, at
times, springs up into nurseries of one hundred yards
in extent, ‘blooms blushing' to the song of the thousand
birds that are basking in her bowers. The mocking
bird, too, whatever ornithologist may say of its ‘chimney
habits,’ makes this his favorite haunt; and I have, my- ,
self, seen him, pillowed on the highest cluster of roses,
and swinging with his weight the slender tree, as he
warbled out his most exquisite song. It may be, how
ever, that Roanoke is the very spot, where, in imitation
of the Eastern queen of song, the mocking bird fell in
love with the rose.
| There are statelv Pine lertendinir along th»
centre of the Island—but the most beautiful of its trees
are what are commonly called dogwood, the laurel, and
a delicate species of the white oak. I have seen a for- j
rest composed ot these trees, the branches and limbs
of which were literally.entertwisted and knitted together
by the embrace ot the R ranoke vine, which here, in its
native garden grows w ith extraordinary exhubcrance.
Within the deep shades of these reclining vintages,
the spirit of solitude at times reigns in undisturbed ma
jesty. At mid day, when the heat of the summer's sun
is too glowing for exertion—there is not the chirp of a
bird to break the solemnity of the spot. The long and
•lender vine snake, which at other hours is seen indus
triously threading his way through the mazes of the vin
tage, has now suspended himself on a twig, and hangs
•s idle and as still as a black silk cord. If you hear the
tread of footsteps, it is not that of man, but the stealthy
retreat of an unsuspecting fawn, which hath slept ton
long, and which now, like a woodland nymph, hies
away on the approach of man. But, in the morning
and in the evening, this scene of quiet and of repose is
all entirely changed. It is then that, in the granary of
the island, the birds have all assembled, and arc war
bling in bacchanal confusion, their morning or evening
ing hymn. Tlie scenery of Roanoke is neither grand
nor sublime. There are no Alpine summits to mingle
with the clouds, but a series of gentle undulations, aud a
few abrupt hills, in the valleys of which the richly dress
ed scenery I have described may be found. If it should
ever he the lot of the reader to stray under the vintage
shade of Roanoke—made impervious to the rays of the
•uu by the rich foliage and clustering grapes above him
—he will not venture to discredit the highly wrought
sketches of Hariot, nor mock the humble enthusiasm
of the volume now before hitn. I remember once to
have stood on the loftiest eminence of the island, and to
have watched the progress of a sunset. It was on a
summer's eve, which had been made peculiarly clear
by a violent thunder storm the preceding night—and
not a film of a cloud or vapor was to be seen about the
horizon, or in the blue vault of heaven. There was not
a breath of air to stir the slender leaf of the few lofty
pines that straggled around rue, and even the mocking
bird seemed to have hushed his capricious song, io en
joy the intense feeling ot the moment. To the westward j
of the island, the waters of the Albemarle crept sluggish- I
ly along—and, in the winding current of the Swash,
: several vessels stood, with outspread but motionless
wings. Away down to the .South, Pamlico spread itself
like an ocean of gold, gleaming along the banks of the j
Chickaiimcomico and Haueras, and contrasted with
this, were the dark waters which separate Roanoke
from the sea trench, and which were now shaded from ‘
the tints of the sunset by the whole extent of the island,
j '* A sea of glory streamed along” the narrow ridge— 1
dividing the inland waters from the ocean, and beyond
this the boundless Atlantic heaved her chafed bosom of
Sapphire and of gold, against the base of yon stormy
Cape. I enjoyed and lived in that sunset and twilight
hour. I thought of the glorious destiny of the land on
which I trod—as glorious as the waters and the earth
then around me. I thought of the glorious destiny of
j the land on which I trod—as glorious as the waters and
| the earth then around. 1 thought of the genius and the
death of Raleigh—of the devotedness of Greenville—of
the gallantry of Cavendish and Drake—of the learning
|of Hariot—of the nobleness of M anted, the Lord of
Roanoke—of the adventurous expedition of Sir Ralph
Lane up the river Moratock—of the savage array of th e
blood thirsty Wingina—of the melancholy fate of the
last of the Raleigh colonies—of Virginia Dare, ihe first
Anglo-American—of the agony of her mother—and I
then thought of those exquisite lines of Byron,
Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That is all remains of thee 1
On the ruins of the ancient city of Raleigh, “ the indo
lent wrecker now sits and smokes the pipe of oblivion—
a very wreck"—ignorant of the glorious associations of
the land of his birth. He eanjell you nothing of the
deeds of those whose early effort in the settlement of the
Roanoke gave an impulse to English colonization in
America, and thus laid the foundations of our great
American Republic. He will speak vaguely of the
name of Sir Walter Raleigh, and will regale you with
legends and stories of pirates and wrecks, which it is the
business of the novelist, and the historian, to record.
Such of them as I could link with the Raleigh Colonies,
I have engrafted upon more authentic material, and per
haps the traditionary history of no country is equal in
interest to that of Roanoke Island. The legend of Sir
: Walter Raleigh's ship, of the great baitle of Hatteras.
and of the nativity of Virginia Dare, which I have, per
haps, too painfully detailed, are the assurances that the
names of those who first planted the flag of old mother
England on our shores,cannot die.
The Island of Roanoke is at present tenanted by a I
| class of people as rude and as boisterous as their native j
| seas. They are a race of adventurous pilots and hardy
| mariners, and, in their light craft, seek the remotest Isl
ands in the West Indies, and occasionally, w ith their
i freights of naval stores, penetrates into the Mediterra-
Bean, to the ports of Gibraltar and Malaga.
A race of rugged mariners are these,
Unpolished men, and boisterous as theirseas.
The native islanders, alone their care.
And hateful he who breathes a foreign air.
These did the Ruler of the deep ordain,
To build proud navies, and command the main ;
On canvass wings to out their watery way,
No bird so fleet, no thought so swift as they.
Odyssey.
Am I, then, too enthusiastic in the histo’ v of Roanoke
| Island ?It is the birth-place of Virginia Dare—it was
| the home of the faithful and noble Lord of Roanoke, and
i every hill, and every vale, is marked in its history of
scenes of joy or woe. The battle fields of the warlike
: Wingina are there, and there the imagination may
stretchi itself backwards over" the course of time, and
| dw ell upon the Indian legends of wars, that had passed
when the assembled host of barbarians fought upon the
sea beach, that they might lie cheered on by the music
of the waves. I have dreamed away many a sunny
day in the solitude of its wood, and, w hile revelling in
; my lauoy upon the present magnificence of our republic,
I have not forgotten that I sto.«l within the paradise of
L tl*c new world, in which Providence hud decreed the
B ■•t'-i’t of the first -burn of it grwtwnd mighty people,
From the (Texas) National Intelligencer.
IIYM.V OF TIIE ALAMO.
AIK —“.MARSEILLES HYMN.”
“ Rite, man the wall, our clarion blast
Now sounds its final reveillie;
This dawning morn must be the last
Our fated band shall ever see:
To life, but not to hope, farewell—
Yon trumpet’s clang, and cannon's peal.
And storming shout, and da»h of »tee!,
Is ours, but not our country's knell:
Welcome the Spartan’s death—
'Tis no despairing strife—
We fall, we die, but our expiring breath
Is freedom's breath of life.”
“ll< -re, on this new Thermopyl®,
Our monument shall tower on high,
And ‘ Alamo’ hereafter be
In bloodier fields the battle cry.”
Thus Travis front the rampant cried.
And when his warriors saw the foe.
Like angry bilows move below.
Each dauntless keart at once replied,
“ Welcome the Spartan's death —
'Tis no despsiring strife—
We fall, we die, but our expiring breath
Is freedom's breath of life.”
They come—like autumn's leaves they fall.
Yet, hordes on hordes, they onward rush;
With gory tramp they scale the wall,
Till numlrers the defenders crush.
The last was felled the fight to gain—
Well may the ruffians quake to tell,
How Travis and his hundred fell,
Amid a thousand fix-men slain.
They died the Spartan’s death
But not in hopeless strife,
Lke brothers died, and their expiring breath
Was freedom’s breath of life.
*
MILITARY ANECDOTE.
Tic following anecdote connected with the
battle of Ortiies, relative to L'eut. Macplierson,
whose heroism at Bndnjoz we have recorded,
will not be uninteresting. He was still a
Lieutenant at the battle of Orthes, attached to
light company of the 45th foot. Just before
the attack commenced,the regiment was drawn
up in line, partly hidden by a kind of hedge or
bank. The bugles had founded the recall,
and tlie light troops here hastening back to
form iu the rear. As the files opened to let
them pass through, some of the enemy’s trail
leurs had followed them up to the line, which
made Macplierson anxious to see the whole of
the men fall in before he himself retired. The
skirmishing was still kept up as they fell back,
and an occasional man fell on both sides, as
these expert shots rapidly loaded as they mo
ved, and then with deadly accuracy turned to
stop the advance of their enemy. The gal
lant Macplierson, in his anxiety to do his duty,
was left almost the last, when he was about to
effect his own retreat; hut just at this moment *
he perceived one of the enemy’s sharp shoot
ers, within about twenty yards, raising his
piece to take a deliberate aim at him. This
man had ventured thus far alone; for his
comrades having come within range of the fire
from the line, had commenced retiring. Lieu
tenant M aepherson’s own description of his
own reflections are at the same time amusing
and painful.
I saw the man, he observed, taking a de
liberate aim at me. What to do 1 did not
know, i could not get at him before he could
fire ; while to run would be equally useless ;
1 should then be shot in the back ; for 1 knew
he wus one of those picked men who never
missed any thing ; in fact I could think of no
thing else to do but to stand fire. The fellow
was a confonnded long time taking bis aim, as
if determined to make sure of bis mark ; so 1
put myself in an altitude, by presenting my
right side to him, putting my arm straight
i down io cover me, and screw myself up as
small as possible ; but I can assure you 1 felt
smaller than I looked, as I stood like a target,
to be shot at bv a so determined a looking fel
low that could hit any one of my buttons that
he pleased. At last, bang went his pice, and
l felt in a moment lie was right. 1 did not
fall, but staggered a few paces backward, and
then felt very much inclined to reach my sol
diers, some of whom had seen the whole affair
without being able to render me assistance.
: My right arm was rendered unserviceable, and
1 felt confident "that the ball had entered my,
I body ; I was uncertain whether or not it had
found its way out. I staggered towards the
line, but must have fallen, had not a brave fei
i low named Kelly, an Irishman, and one of our
I crack shots, seeing that I was hit, ran forward
to support me. As soon as I felt his friendly
grip round my body, l mustered fresh strength,
although bleedi ig profusely both inside and
out. ;
Kelly commenced a dialogue, observing,!
“by my sowl, sir, you’re badly wounded,'
I sure.” I felt very faint, but replied, “Yes,
Kelly, I think so, feel if the ball is out.” Kel
ily watched its course, and then placing his
| hand upon my loins, where it should have
made its exit, exclaimed, “No, by my sowl,
; then it isn’t, and you’re spaking yet. But
, where’s the man that did it ?” Without, at
! the moment, any feeling of revenge towards
him whom I then thought my destroyer, I
pointed in the direction from whence he had
fired, and there on the very same spot stood
that daring fellow, deliberately re-loading his
rifle to have another shot at rnv assistant or to
; finish me. But Kelly quitted hold of me for a
moment, and I saw his unerring rifle raised to
his shoulder. The French soldier was un
moved. Kelly fired and he fell dead.
The Lieutenant, in relating this incident,!
spoke with much regret of the fate of his gal
lunt enemy.
—
Judge a man by his actions—a poet by his
j eve—an idler by bis fingers—a lawyer by his
leer—a player by his boxer by his
| sinews—a justice by bis frown—a great man
by his modesty—an editor by his coat—a
tailor by his agility—a fiddler by his elbow—
and a woman by her neatness.
POWER OF THE PRESS.
It is as erted that a part oftlic /tower of one
|of the mammoth sheets in New-Orlea is, that
a ferryman attempting to read it in his boat,
and a gale of w ind arising, he was driven
. across the river with such violence us to drive
I his craft high and dry< B»hmwr» Sun. <
TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS.
We cominen I, without comment, the fol
lowing extract, to the attention and candid pe
rusal of all those readers who are in the habit
of hunting for errors of the press. They are
taken from the Penny Magazine ;
“ When tlie ordinary reader of a newspaper,
or of a book, meets with an occasional blun
der, either of a letter or a word, he is apt to
cry out upon the carelessness with which the
newspaper or hook is printed. It is the very
nature of the process of producing words and
sentences, by the putting together of moveable
types, that a great many blunders should be
made by the compositors in the first stage,
which nothing but the strictest vigilance can
detect and get rid of. The ordinary process
of correction is for the printer’s reader to look
upon the proof, while another |>crson, general,
ly a boy, reads the copy aloud. As he pro
ceeds, the reader marks all the errors which
present themselves upon a first perusal. The
proof then goes back to the compositor, and
iiere a business of great labor and difficulty en
sues. Omitted words and letters have to be
replaced by the corrector. The insertion of
two or three words will sometimes derange the
order of a dozen lines ; and the omission of a
sentence will involve the re-arrangement of
many pages. In the tedeous process new
blunders are often times created, and these
gain can only be remedied by after vigilance.
The first corrections being perfected, the rea
der has what is called “ a revise.” He com
pares this with his first proof, and ascertains
that all his corrections have been properly
made. In this stage of the business, the proof
generally goes to the author; and it is rarely
that the most practiced author does not feel it
necessary to make some alteration. The com.
plicated process of correction is again to be
gone over. The printer’s reader and author
have again revises, and what they again cor
rect is attended to. The proof being now tol
erably perfect, the labor of another is general
ly in most large establishments, called in. It
is his business to read for the press, that is,
search for the minutes errors with a spirit of
the most industrious criticism. The author
has often to be consulted upon tlie queries of
this captious personage, who ought to be as
acute in discovering a blunder, as a convey
ancer in finding out a flaw in a title deed.
But in spite of all this activity, blunders do
creep in ; and the greatest mortification that
an author can experience, is the lot of almost j
every author, namely, to take up his book af
ter tlie copies have gone out to the world, and
find some absurdly obvious mistake which
glares upon him when he first opens tlie book,
and which, in spite of his conviction that it was
never there before, has most likely escaped his
own eye and that of every other hunter of er
rors, that the printing office can produce.”
the wife ok a literary man.
A woman fit to be the wife of a literary
man must indeed be a woman; —-she must
combine in her character all those pleasing at
tributes which we of.cn find described, but so
rarely meet with in real life. She must be
neither selfish in feelir g, vain, prodigal, nor
passionate. She must be one who will not
marry where she cannot respect, and, when
she has consented to lay aside her virgin hon
ors, one who will love her husband with a de
votion that shall waive every other considera
tion but that of duty to her God. She must
be even more than all this ; she must be self
sacrificing iu disposition, and be willing to en
dure much loneliness ; and also learn, if she
iiav : not already, to have a fondness for her
husband’s pursuits, in which case she will re
ceive a return that will he dearer far than ail
the world can offer. A man of literary pur
suits sins against himself and the woman he
marries, if he takes one who is hut a votary of
fashion—whose empire is in the drawing-room,
and not in the seclusion ofdonie.'ic life. And
if he marry a literary pedant, he will lie still
more unfortunate—unless the pedantry Ik 1 that
of a young, active, and inquiring mind, which
is pleased with its first essay into the regions
of learning. She should not resemble the
first wife of Milton, whom the poet married
from sudden fancy. Unable to endure his lit
erary habits, and finding his house too solitary
for her romping disposition, she beat his ne
phews, and conveyed herself away at the ex
piration of the honey-moon! Nor like the
wife of B sliop Cooper, who, jealous of his
books, consigned the labor of many years to
the flames. Nor like the wife of Sir Henry
Seville, whose affection was so strong, as to
cause her frequently to destroy his most valu
able manuscripts, because they monopolized
so much of his attention. Neither should she
resemble in character Mrs. Barclay, who made
both herself and husband ridiculous by her
great public admiration of his abilities, she
considering him little less than a demi-god.
She should either be like the lady of Dacier,
who was his equal in erudition and his superior
in taste, but whosi good sense caused her to
respect and give place to her husband at all
times and on all occasions, and whose love for
him kept her from the slightest feeling of pre
sumption because she was his equal in mind :
Or as the wife of YVieland, a domestic woman,
who, though not much given to study, was of
a calm, even temperament, and always sooth
ed instead of ex -iting her husband’s irritable
disposition. A literary man in choosing a
wife should not look so much for shining abil
ities as for a clear, discriminating judgment,
and a warm and affectionate heart. A com
bination of these qualities, if lie be not an un
reasonable, cross-grained tyrant' will be sure
to bring domestic felicity.
GALLANTRY.
A lady correspondent of tlie Mobile Exami
ner has been endeavoring to draw the editor
into a controversy. He knocks under and
says—“ We could’nt bold out a moment. We |
might establish a fact—but then a sigh would
vanquish it. We might assume a postulate— j
a smile, however would annihilate it. We |
might prove a deduction—hut a tear would j
drown it; and a “chaste kiss” would cover!
the purpose of our argument with a mantle ol
oblivion. “ Prythee; fair ‘ Amelia,’ let us not
argue ; or, if we rued must, let it ho with those
arguments which lost Anthony a world, hut j
won him what was better— a woman/"
Baltimore Sun.
From the Boston Statesman.
TIIE PORTRAIT.
Horatio. Well, have you seen the picture, Vivian ?
j Vivian. Av, I’ve knelt to it, Horatio!
R° r - What is it like?
Fie. Like? Why, an angel! 'Tis the fairest tiling
Created out of Heaven.
" nr - Had it wings-?
| l if. Out on you, scoffer! has an essence wings?
The picture is etherial.
_ So is not
| The fair original. But tell me man.
What are its lieauties, Vivian ? It should have
A volume in its eye-beam, to lie fair.
It must be eloquent. The red lip must melt
With sentences like psalms—and you must swear
She did not speak in vulgar consonants.
But lisp’d it all in liquids. Come, describe!
How is the forehead—soberly?
J 7 ”', Why,noble!
lis a clear, ample brow. Th' expression deep
As the noon sky is deep, and there's a light
Os intellect upon it, as the fount
That lit her eye were there.
„ 7/ " r „ ’Tis bravely .aid.
I amt me the eye as well.
' * '*’• Minerva's eve
Hazel, and blight, as’twerc a liquid star,
But softer than the sky of Italy.
Its mirth is beautiful, and yet, with all
Its brilliancy and life, your gentlest thought
In iLs chaste lustre might have-bathed itself.
liar. Rank poetry! But was the eye-brow fine?
I ir. Like to a slight inlaying, as of jet,
To imitate the Truth.
Har. "pin. lashes ?
Ftr. They
Were long and silken, like embodied sluiilp,
Guarding her gentle eye—you would have sworn
Tlie painter slighted them.
Hor. (Jo on !
Y '*'• Her cheek
Was a pale cornelian—as the blood
Had melted through, and stood irresolute,
Between her beauty's service, and her heart.
And then the lip w as an incarnate rose—
The bee would light upon it—and her smile!
Go! dream yourself in fair Elysium,
And paint its'richest lip from memory—
Paint it, when breathing to the passionate lute.
//or.' Was her neck fine ?
Ft*. The cheek stole into it
As if’twere rounded with the summer wind
And polished by the dew. ’Twas beautiful!
And then its queenly arching, and the fall
Os the light shoulders off—the airy play
Os .-hade upon the curving of the throat—
And the proud look it wore ! Site should have sat
For “Cleopatra chiding Antony."
liar. Was the expressioon sweet?
Fie. Ah, there, Horatio,
My pencil is at fault, I can not paint
Its witching inspiration. There’s a flash
Os something through her glorious lineaments,
A kindling up like violence within,
Which starts you like a careless lingering
Upon a harp too exquisitely'strung.
The veins are living, and emotion speaks
Like a repeated echo, every where—
And the slight curl, and promegranatcldye
Upon her lip hath language—Ah, Horatio!
NEWSPAPERS.
Tlie Hon. Judge Longstrect speaks highly
j of the advantages derived from newspapers —
! thus:
“ Every parent whose sou is off from him
; at school should he supplied with a newspaper.
I well remember what a marked difference
there was between those of my schoolmates
who had, and those who bad not access to
newspapers. Other tkings, equal to the first,
was always decidedly superior to the last iu
debate and composition at least. The reason
is plain; they had command of more facts.
A newspaper is a history of current events,
jas well as copious interesting miscellany,
which youths will peruse with delight when
they will read nothing else.”
The Judge is a sensible man; truth and
wisdom are in every line of the above; but
tlie subject is capable of being considered in a
higher point of view. There G nothing more
| wonderful, nothing that sets in a higher light
the power of intellect and industry, than the
| production of a daily morning paper at the
| iiour of breakfast. Custom makes it a thing
too familiar to many to be wondered at; they
! who do not think or reason may judge lightly
of it; but not so those who are capable of
reflection. In such a paper, if well conducted,
are renewed every day the pages of a closely
| printed volume. Intelligence from all parts of
t.ie world, the wants, the virtues, the crimes,
i the luxuries, the miseries of society, in the last
! twenty-four hours, are displayed there, and
universal man concentrated, as it were, into
| one focus There :s in such a printed sheet
a perfect map of society, on which may be
| laid down every hue that tinges the motley
| civilization of the country and the age. Was
a man banished to a solitary island in tlie At.
| lautic, with such a newspaper reaching him,
he would not lose his knowledge of tlie affairs
| and business, of the manners and politics of
! his native land, but would progress with them.
A newspaper of this species brings the ittdivi
j duals of a country—no matter how scattered
—into centre; it combines and keeps fixed to
: the land of their birth the affections of wandei-
I ing thousands ; it carries over the world the
■ glory and greatness of the country whence it
emanates in its very form and outline. It is,
in short, the representative of national intel
lect, and the great vehicle of general know
ledge. The damp morning newspaper is the
great glory of a city breakfast table, and its
reading, seasoned with highly flavored Mocha,
is one of those tilings which give the sooty at
mosphere of the metropolis an advantage,
which the glorious freshness of a country
inoi ning can scarcely outrival.
N. O. Picayune.
Tranquility seems to prevail along the bor
ders of our country. The Indians, we learn,
have receded to the mountains to prepare, no
doubt, for a spring campaign. We congiatu
late tlie country upon the passage of a law the
wise provision of which will soon establish
pence and security upon our frontier. The
only danger to be apprehended at ibis mo
ment must spring from tlie hostile spirit of the
Indians in the cast, tribes which huve recently
emigrated from the Southern States of the
American Union. No very recent intelli
gence has reached us from that quarter. Wc
hope to be enabled by our next to furnish
some accounts which may be relied upon as
Icorrcct. N*,-—-• ~ .r.