Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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.