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features decidedly handsome; ot a manly cast of beauty ; and their general expression de noting a haughty firmness of mind, softened only by a bewitching smile, that seemed to play perpetually round his mouth. In his gait he was erect, carrying his head far back, and stepping along with a bounding, elastic tread, as if tiie earth yielded to its pressure, but returned again, w’ith force, to give it a more vigorous spring. Such a rover, unbonneted. unattended, wandering tlte highways, like a denizen of their vagrant liberties, could not be expected to pass along and rouse no wonder ; and fortunately for him, he roused something more than won der, in oie who saw him. He came to a small village, after a walk of nearly fifteen miles, so faint with hunger, that further he felt he could not go, and set down u|>on a large stone, which seemed the tragment ol some ancient cross, just at the entrance of it. He had wholly forgt’itton tlte singularity of ins appearance, till it was recalled to his recollec tion by observing a group of children gazing at him from behind a barn-door, and by noticing the blacksmith, who had left his forge, and now stood midway between it and the footpath, with a horse shot;, half red hot, in his pincers ; the said horse-shoe therein not at all resembling the blacken.ith’s curiosity, which was at a white heat, to make out Charles, and his business. Charles beckoned him to approach. He advanced with a lazy, loitering step, as if he wanted a little more time for observation at a distance. • . ‘ls it possible to get employment in this place?’ was his first question. 4 Yes, possible enough, I take it, for we have plenty of idle poor here, who will rather starve than work.’ f 4 1 would work that I may not starve, re- plied Charles. • Aye,’ responded the blacksmith, looking at him with a dubious eye, as though ha thought he tffcs likely enough to starve, notwithstand ing, if he had nothing but his work to trust to for a dinner. ‘1 have been robbed on the road, continued Charles. ‘ Indeed ! as how V interrupted the Cyclops. • While 1 slept.’ • While you slept ? Why, that’s a bad look-out, young fellow ; but you might expect as much, 1 think, in these parts, if you make the highways your bed ; for we find enough to do to keep ourselves from being robbed with our eyes open.’ ‘ I am pennyless and in want of foot!,’ added Charles; ‘ but,’ fixing his eyes earnestly on the man, 1 seek no charity—whatever hai.d sup. plies my necessities shall be repaid by my la. bour. 4 1 dare say it’s all very true what you say : however, as you are a stranger to me, you II not take it amiss if I don’t interfere.’ With these wor Is the blacksmith hastened back to his forge, and began to ply bis anvil with redoubled diligence. Charles covered his face with his hands, and felt at th ;, t mo ment more anguish of mind than lie had ever known. He remained in this attitude, bitter forebodings crowding fast upon him, until he was roused from it by a soft female voice. 4 Young man! If you please, my mistress wants to speak with you.’ He looked up. A rosy-cheeked lass, with dove-like eyes, in a mob cap. black stuff-gown, and a white apron, tucked up sideways, stood before him. 4 And who is your mistress, pretty one?’ said Charles, with that indiscribable smile of his, for there was a somethiug in the girl’s manners and appearance which operated like a charm— 4 Who is your mistress, and where does she live V 4 Over the way, if you please, sir. Her name is Mrs. Saville.’ 4 1 don’t know her, my dear,’ replied Charles. 4 1 know that sir,’ and a sort of awkward blush diffused itself over her countenance, called there as much bv the strange meaning of Charles’s gaze, as by his flattering epithets of 4 dear,’ and 4 pretty one.’ 4 Are you sure you are right ?’ he con tinued. ‘Quite sure, sir,’ she replied ; 4 mv mistress said, 4 Mary, do you see that |>oor young man sitting there ?—he seems ill—go and tell him I want to speak with him.’—So I have come to tell you.’ I The innocence and simplicity of this mode of authenticating her embassy left no doubt upon Charles mind, that Mrs. Saville whoever she might be, did 4 want to speak with him; and he followed his conductress to a large, old-fashioned, but substantially built mansion, which stood back twelve or fifteen yards from tiie public road. He was ushered into a spa cious parlour, solidly rather than elegantly furnished, where he found Mrs. Saville. She was considerably advanced in years, somewhat below the middle height, with flaxen hair, and a remarkably pale, but delicately transparent comp'exion. Her air was’ courteous and re fined, and bespoke the gentlewoman of the old school. Tliere was a clear silvery tone in her voice, coupled with a certain emphatic pre cision in her mode of talking, and a quiet ease in her stately unembarrassed manner, which forcibly reminded Charles of his own beloved mother; nor was this impression weakened by a peculiar character of benignity and good ness which dwslt upon her still interesting countenance. Benevolence and pity, when they are of the right quality, (equally remote from the parade of doing good, and the impertinence of worth less curiosity,) perfotm their task with a gen tle impatience to hasten relief, by sparing the unfortunate every anxious feeling of sus;>cnse. Mrs. Saville, in’a few kind words, informed Charles of her motive in sending for him. He was touched to the very heart. It seemed ns if the years of his infancy and boyhood had returned ; for, never since those ycurs, never since his motlier’s death, had the voice of man or woman readied his lieart. It seemed, too, as if here were a being tiie lieart might trust; one who would not fling njion its breathings the churlish spirit of a selfish world, nor inter, pret its desires by the cold cunning of sordid calculation ; one whom even he, with all Ins proud scorn of unrequitted benefits, could lie content to call and feel his benefactor. He related what had befallen him on the road, and how it Iwd hence elmnced that lie wa* in his present plireht. But tins wa» only luilf the' tale ; his expressive features, his natural grace, and the simple eloquence of ingenuous truth, told for him, while, as he partook of refresh ments he so much needed, Mrs. Mrs. baville extra.-ted in detail the 4 story of his life.’ 4 You have spoken much of your mother,’ said Mrs. Saville ; 4 but nothing of your fa ther.’ 4 1 never knew him; he died when I was in my cradle.’, 4 That was a sad mischance.’ 4 My motlier fell it so,’ replaxl Ch vrles; 4 for as often as she talked to me of him, it was with a grief as fresh as when lie died.’ 4 Then vou know the manner of his death ?’ observed Mrs. Saville. In answer to this question, Chailcs related all tiie circumstances of that event, as he had heard them from his mother. Mrs, Saville appeared greatly interested with the narrative; for it partook of that deep-toned with which it was ever invested by her from whose lips alone he had listened to its recital. 4 1 do think,’ said she, when he had conclu ded, 4 it were a thousand pities you should not have a friend at this critical moment of your life.’ 4 It is a wide world, madam replied Charles, thoughtfully, 4 and tliere are paths enough for all who are in it: sooner or later, I shall find my way into one of them. 4 So I doubt not you will,’ answered Mrs. Saville; ‘but it is because the world is wide, because there are many paths, and because of those many there be some that are very bad, that they who are entering upon it. and have their path to chflose, stand in need of those who have gone before them to direct their steps.’ 4 1 have lieen the child of misfortune hitherto by decree,’ said Charles ; ‘henceforth I elect myself the child of fortune by choice, and bind myself upon her wheel, the seeker of ull giddy turns.’ His features brighted, and a bold daring flashed from bis eyes, as the still fascinating vision of a troubled destiny dimly floated before his fancy. 4 1 will not seek to turn you from your cfioice,’ continued Mrs. Saville, with the same unperturbed and mild tone of-expostulation she had all along maintained; ‘I would only ask to be permitted to give myself one of those turns of fortune’s wheel, of which you are so enamoured.’ Charles was silent. 4 Come young man,’ added Mrs. Saville, 4 let me have power to persude you, there is an over-ruling Provident e that guides (and to fulfil itsown inscrutable purposes) all the seem ing chances of this life. Compare (air jour ney through it, from the time when we com mence it alone, to a traveller having to cross a broad and rapid river, by the aid of stepping stones, placed at irregular, and sometimes hazardous, distances You are that traveller; you have arrived at the margin of this river ; you are considering how you shall cross it let me place your foot on the first of these stepping-stones. How you are to reach the next, and the next, and the next, and whether you are to find them many or few, that so your passage shall be easy or difficult, nor you nor I can tell; but Fortune, your chosen goddess, offers you the first-' This unex| ected and irresistible appeal, urged with such singular adroitness and delica cy, urged, too. in tones, and with a persuasive gentleness, that stranply recalled thrilling re membranes of his mothei, overpowered the feelings of Charles. A thousand emotions struggling for utterance ; but all he could say or rather attempt to say, was a stammering acknowledgment of gratitude, without accept ing or refusing the kindness that excited it. ‘Your agitation,’ continued Mrs. Saville, after a short pause, ‘convinces me I have struck thcchojil whose vibrations are in unison with my desires. 1 take your answer from the unerring oracle of awakened feelings which have no words, but express themselves in the trembling language of the eye, Or the burning of the flushed cheek. You are my guest to day. To-morrow, you shall depart upon an errand that I dare promise myself will not dis appoint mine or your hopes. Remain here,’ she added, rising from her chair, 4 1 will re turn directly.’ With these words she left the room. Before Charles could recoVer from the spell like trance into which this address had thrown him, Mrs. Saville re-entered the apartment, with an open letter in her hand. 4 1 feel assured,’ said she, 4 1 am only fulfill, ing an appointed duty in what 1 have done, for these things are not the work of chance. This is a letter to my brother. He is an ex cellent man, and has the power, where h&secxt the propriety, of befriending the friendless. If he take you by the hand, it must be your own fault should you not adequately benefit by the introduction. You shall hear what I have said, that you may know precisely the cir cumstances under which you will present your, self to him.' Mrs. Saville then read the letter. It was little more then a statement of the manner in which she had become acquainted with Charles and his history, and a simple, but earnest en treaty. that lie would endeavour tc complete what she had begun. 4 Now,’ continued Mrs. Saville, 4 you shall depart with this early to-morrow. If you are at the first mile-stone, beyond the turnpike where the two roads meet a little before five o’clock, the stage will pass in which you may proceed to London.’ 4 1 am utterly unable, madam’—exclaimed Charles, with an agitated voice 4 Spare yourself and me,’ interrupted Mrs. Saville. 4 1 should be sorry if you were able to say what it is natural you should feel, on an occasion like this. So here let us dismiss the subject. We shall not be at a loss, I dare say/ she added, smiling, 4 for others;’ and imme diately led the conversation into various chan nels, till the excitement of Charles’ mind gradually subsided. He then entered with animated freedom into discourse; and it was easy to perceive how lier first favorable im pressions were d3e|icned, as site insensibly drew from him lltc authentic transcript of his mind. When night came, lie took leave of Mrs. Saville. His farewell was imprinted. on the i hand extended towards him, with a silent fer | vour that would have satisfied tlte excellent Mr, U'rarilield Ins heart wa* indued 4 in tlte right THE SOUTHERN POST. place.’ In his bed-room he found the letter lying on the table, sealed and directed ; and beside it a neat little silken purse, containing twenty guineas. Charles sat down to think; to live over again the extraordinary day he had passed. He was too young and inexperienced to read its eventful history, by the sober light of rea son. The world and its concerns, the human heart and its mysteries, tire holy deeds of un obtrusive virtue, were to him all unknown. What had happened, therefore seemed more like a tale of fairy land, than that thing merely which men call good fortune; of which tire instances are so many, that were they all re corded, we should cease to write romance, as less romantic than truth. Thought could not help him out of his perplexity. 4 View it how I will,’ he exclaimed, at the close of his medi tations, 4 it is a miracle ; but at all events I will see the end of it.’ With this declaration he retired to bed. In the morning he awoke refreshed and cheerful. When he descended from his room, the only person he saw was the pretty dove-eyed lass, who had been the ambassadress of Mrs. Saville the preceding day. She looked as if she knew all that had happened, and rejoiced in her knowledge. A passing word of gallantry esca|>ed his lips, as she opened the door for him; and hastening to the ‘first mile-stone beyond the turnpike-gate,’ the stage soon ar rived in which he was conveyed to London. It should be here mentioned, that when Charles entered the village, and seated himself upon the old stone, in the way already des cribed, Julia Montague, a young lady in her eighteenth year, and the neiceof Mrs. Saville, was standing at the parlour window, while her aunt was busy settling the accounts of the week in another part of the room. It is not meant to be insinuated, that if, instead of Charles Coventry, (and the reader remembers what sort of a looking person Charles Coven try was,) a poor, decrepid, aged man, had rested his weary limbs on that same piece of antique stone, there would have been the least difference in Julia Montague’s humanity. Be that as it may, however, it was entirely owing to her humanity, in the first instance, that Mrs. Saville saw Charles at all; tor the weekly accounts were very long, and it is exceedingly probable he w»uld have left his seat before they wers finished, had not her niece been the first to pity his distressed condition. Oh, the unsearchable depths of woman’s sensibility ! {To be Continued .) From the Boston Mercantile Journal. TIIE THIRTEEN VOTES, OR THE WAGER. A TRUE STORY. In a town in the interior of the Granite State, not many years since a gentleman of some pro perty, and not a little political consideration, resided, whose name we shall call Martyn. He was a great stickler for patty principles, insomuch that ho was sometimes induced by party zeal to violate his moral duties. On one occasion in particular, when a very im portant election was taking place, upon the remit of which, perhaps, the very existc ce of his party depended, he was so carried away bv his party feelings, as to deposit thirteen votes for one individual at the same time in the ballot box, in defiance of the law which provides that no man to whichever parly he may happen to belong, or however worthy may be his favorite candidates, shall deposite more than one ballot for any one mdividual, for one office! Wattie Martyn was unfortunately detected in this equivocal act —and although no legal action was laid in relation to tlte subject, yet there were those in the town in which he resi ded, who were unwilling to admit that excess of party zeal was a sufficient a|>ology for his dereliction of moral duty—and the simple act of depositing thirteen votes for one candidate, at one time in the ballot box, although palliated and excused by some of his warm political friends, was severely censured by others. This occurrence furnished a subject of con versation among the worthy citizens of the town for several weeks—at the end of which time, it gradually and partially died away, but was not forgotten. Poor Mr. Martyn was doomed to hear the words thirteen votes oc casionally repeated by bis political foes in the most significant manner—evidently with th-t design of disturbing tiie equanimity of bis feel ings. In this they succeeded but too well. These words, so harmless in themselves, or when applied to others, if addressed to Mr. Martyn, or ever uttered in his hearing, seemed to possess the power of a magic cabala, so wonderful, and so instantaneous was the effect which they produced on the appearance and conduct of that gentleman. The moment thirteen votes reached his ear, his features were clouded with a frown of indignation—his eyes were lighted up with a inelanchaly fire— his hands involuntary grasped the nearest weapon of offence within his reach, and his | voice naturally clear and sonorous, was changed into deep and unearthly mutterings, resembling the sound of distant thunder, or the rumblings of the pent up volcano. Indeed the effect produced on Sir Percie Shafton, by the sight of the bodkin, as related in the mpnas- Itery of Sir Walter Scott, was not more sud ; den and terrible than the effect produced on j Wattle Martyn, by repeating the simple words 1 44 thirteen votes.” His weakness on . this ? point was proverbial, and a wicked youth of ! the village, now a very worthy and respecta | hie legal practitioner in the city of Boston, once made Martyn’s infirmity the means of playing off a mischievous’ and cruel practical joke, to the great amusement of the bystan- I ders. Mr. Smith, the young gentlemen to whom we allude, being one day at the village tavern, entered into conversation with a genteel looking stra igcr, while the landlady was preparing some refreshment, with which to recruit the exhausted flame and spirits of her guest. The conversation turned on the difficulty of [pronouncing some of the names of places of Indian origin, which are so frequently met with in the New England States. In the midst of the colloquy, Mr. Smith saw his po litical op|ioiient, Wattie Martyn, coming down the road. He was certain that Wattie would | pop into the tavern, and in tiie spur of die moment laid his plan accordingly. | 44 What you any, sir,” said Mr. Smith “res pecting those jaw.breaking names, is (icrfectly I correct —I agree with you entirely, and am much gratified to make the acqnaintance of a gentleman of so much taste. But, my dear ! ,ir, there are familiar English words, and combinations of words, which, although they may not be very difficult to pronounce, are exceedingly difficult to repeat. For in j stance, it is almost impossible for any one not .familiar with the practice, to pronounce the words thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen votes, for any length of time, without making the most ludicrous mistakes.” “Thirteen votes! thirteen votes! thirteen votes!” repeated the stranger. “I do not see any difficulty in lhat. I could go on repeating the words thirteen votes ! thirteen votes ! thir teen votes! until to-morrow morning.” 44 It is far more difficult,” my dear sir, than you imagine,” replied Mr. Smith, in his blan dest umnner. 44 1 am not much in the habit of betting, but for the curio rity of the thing, I am willing to bet you the price of a dinner for yourself and horse, that you cannot repeat in rapid succession the words 4 thirteen votes, thir teen votes,” fifteen minutes, without making some egregious blunders.” 44 Done,” said the traveller —who rejoiced at’ the idea of paying the landlord’s charges so easily—“and 1 will begin at once.” So say ing, he took out his watch and noted the time —then planting himself firmly against the wall,with his face toward the door,he assumed a look of great determination, as if he had under taken an unpleasant job. but was resolved to go through with it all hazards—and commen ced pronouncing in aloud, clear voice, with due emphasis and discretion, the cabalistic words, 44 Thirteen votes ! thirteen votes ! thir teen votes! * In the mean time, Mr. Martyn, not dream ing of the insoTt which awaited him, bent his steps, as was his wont, towards the tavern. As he reached the threshhold of the door, he beard the offensive words, “Thirteen votes! thirteen votes ! thirteen votes!” pronounced— and with a frame trembling with passion, and with fury strongly imprinted on his rubicond Visage, he übrubtly entered the bar-room, to confront the man who dared thus trifle with his feelings, and attempt to overwhelm him witlf insult. His eye beaming with wrath, fell upon the strangeT, who regarded his withering glances with the most provoking indifference-and who | paused not a moment in his recitation, but continued to repeat the maddening words, 44 thirteen votes! thirteen votes ! thirteen votes!” The indignant Martyn next caught a sight of Mr. Smith’s countenance, convulsed with laughter. “ What is the meaning of this, sir,” said he in a voice of thunder. But the only reply he received was from the mouth of the stranger, who, with the most irritating perti nacity, continued to bawl, even louder than before, 44 thirteen votes ! thirteen votes! thir teen votes.” Martyn then advanced towards the stran ger, his frame absolutely'quivering with rage. |“ Who are you, scoundrel ?” demanded he in | the most imperious manner, 44 and how dare yon insult me in this way ?” Tiie stranger thought the rage of Martyn was counterfeited, and a ruse of Smith’s to win the wager; and the answer to his ques i tion, shouted out in a still louder voice than before,*was 44 thirteen votes! thirteen votes! !thirteen votes!” “ I will not put up with this insult,” scream led Martyn, doubling up his fist—and putting | himself in an attitude. “Thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen j votes,” vociferated the stranger at the top of j his lungs. “If you repeat those words again, I will I knock you dowu, you rascal,” said the in iuriated Martyn, with a howl of desperation. The stranger felt somewhat indignant at being addressed in this rude and uncerimo ■ nious manner, but was determined to win the ; wager, and raising his toice, bawled with the lungs of a stentor, 44 thirteen votes, thirteen j votes, thirteen votes.” 44 Take that then for your insolence,” shriek ed Martin, suiting the action to the word, and 'giving the luckless traveller a box ou the ear which laid him prostrate on the floor. But as the stranger fell, his yell of surprise anger and agony, took the sound of 44 thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen votes !” Highly exasperated at what he conceived to be a base and unfair contrivance to cheat him out of his wager, the stranger rose in great dudgeon still exclaiming in a voice which a boatswain in a hurricane might have envied “thirteen votes,thirteen votes, thirteen votes,” and fell pell rnell upon poor Martyn, pounding him without mercy, and bellowing out between every blow, “thirteen votes, thirteen votes, thirteen votes.” The traveller finally kicked Martyn out of the room, and as he closed the door upon the unlucky illegal voter, he looked at his watch— saw that the fifteen minutes had already ex pired—gave a loud and exulting shout of “ thirteen votes! thirteen votes! THIR. TEEN VOTES!” which made the welkin ring again—sank exhausted in a chair, and claimed his wager! A VENERABLE CONSUL. Miss Hall, in her 44 Rambles in Europe,” (a very interesting work by the way) in 1836, while at Leghorn was waited upon by the American Consul at that port. He holds his office by the appointment and under the hand of Washington. If still living, he is doubtless i the only man in existence who can exhibit the signature of the immortal father of his country |as the seal ot his office. In 1836. according to Miss Hall, his form was erect and his face was slightly wrinkled. 44 He would,” she says, 44 pass for fifty-five, or sixty—and yet he must be verging upon ninety.” It is more than a half a century since he has looked upon his 1 native land. FEMALE INFLUENCE. Sam Slick says, 44 Though the men have ! the reins, the women tell ’em which way to drive.” EPIGRAM—TEARS. Tear* are but dew* that mercy throw* Upon thi* world of our*; Like 4 bead* of morning on the row, ' To nounah feeling'* flower*. WEALTH. Wealth m this country may be traced back to industry and frugality ; the paths which lead |to it are open to all; the laws which protect it are equal to all; and such is the joint opera tion of the law and the customs of society, that the wheel of fortune is in constant revolution, and the poor in one generation furnish the rich of the next. The rich man who treats pover ty with arrogance and contempt, tramples upon the ashes of his father or his grand father ; the poor man who nourishes tee lings of un kindness and bitterness ag dnst wealth, makes war with the prospects of his children and the order of things in which he lives.' Gov. Everett. | ORIGINAL. For the Southern Post. The 44 Spectator Revived.” Mr. Editor—Looking over your lasi paper, my atten tion was suddenly attracted by the above caption, and I read with some eagerness, the remarks that followed. I at first hoped that it was a literary notice of some praiseworthy attempt having been made (and success fully) to re-produce something after the manner of Ad dison and his collaborators; and I must confess I felt somewhat disappointed at finding that it was only an invitation to attempt something of the sort. However, the invitation is a good one, and given in right good spirit, and ought, by all means, to he responded to. — Your correspondent appears to be sanguine, and does not seem to think it at all impossible or even difficult to raise -up amongst us Addisons, and .Steeles, and Tick ells, and A nous. (By the'way, pray who was (his last gentleman ? He must have written a great deal, for his name is appended to works and writings quorum uifinitus est numerus .) This may not prove so easy a matter as Ireneus seems to think. We must learn to adhere closely to the true principles of language. We must learn to prune away redundancies, to write with lucidness and avoid obscurities, to use phraseology well adapted to the meaning we desire to convey, to exp-css ourselves elegantly and.gracefully, casting aside all rough and ill-turned periods, avoiding awkward and local expressions and cant phrases, which answer very well in the slang dialect, and which are wholly unsuit able any where else, although unhappily, but toomucu in use at the present day. We must draw from the 41 pure well of English undefiled.” (Pardon the trite ness of the phrase for the sake of its truth.) Too fre quent repetitions of the same word, though used in dif ferent senses, is another blemish in style, ns you may perceive, if you will recur to the first few lines of this communication, (I can criticise myself as well as oth ers,) “ a literary notice of some praiseworthy attempt, See. Sec., where you will find the word some used four times in as many lines. This detracts from the ease and grace of writing, and seems to indicate, with a dearth of words, a corresponding want of ideas. Ma ny other remarks to the same effect might be made— but this is not the place for them. At the same time, however, that I beg Ireneus to ob serve that it is not so easy to write like Addison, I am very far from wishing to cast a damp upon his really praiseworthy effort to bring essay writing into favor with the contributors to yaw paper. On the contrary, I-would second him, by all means. As you very pro perly observe, in your own remarks on the subject, “nothing will be done without an effort.” We cannot expect to acquire a proficiency in any thing without practice. To write well we must practice much, and write with great care ; and then too, we must expect to I be criticised, and must endeavor to profit by the criti cism—and unfortunately, too often, “ there’s the rub”— “ Genus irritahile vacum S'ill, when well applied, it is a wholesome medicine, if it be a bitter one, and we must not refuse to take it, thought it cost us a wry face l or two. We should learn also, to suit the style of our writing to our subject, and its method of treatment. — | One should not attempt to write an essay in the same ' style in which a patriotic orator would address his con stituents from a stump, nor use the same high-flown expressions as a lover irditing “a sonnet to his mis tress’eyebrow.” Write whatever you like, or in any . ;yle you please, but let every thing be in good keeping, • ccording to the advice of good old Horace —“Sit quod vis, simplex duntaxnt et unum.” Now all this requires practice, and we cannot expect to attain it by any oth er method. There is no railway to the summit of Par nassus —no steam conveyance to the pinnacle of know ledge—no fast coach, “ through by day-light,” which will take a man from the breakfast table a dunce, and set him down to supper an accomplished author. No thing but labor, hard, solid labor, will do it. But let not this deter any one from making the effort. Try— for labor will accomplish all things—and if success crown your efforts, how great the reward —to take your seat among the monarchs of the mind ; to be one of those, the mighty wizards, whose wand can rouse or control the passions—one of those benefactors of their race, to whom it is given. To wake the soul by tender strokes of art. To rouse the Genius and to mend the Heart. Is it not a meed worth struggling for ? If you ask to what is owing the high moral culture and superior ci vilization of our kind at this day, you are answered, “ The Press.” The Press ! True. But why the Press ? Only, in as much as it has been an engine in the hands of these mighty masters. They have wiekled the pow er of it—they have used the means which it afforded them to extend, far and wide, lhat influence over the human mind, which they never could have obtained, save by the general excellence of their works. The press diffused these glorious monuments of human in tellect, and darkness, ignorance and falsehood fled be fore the stream of light which burst forth in floods of splendor on a benighted world. Esto perpetua ! May tiie light endure forever, or change but to increase.— Let the young and ardent spirits of Georgia start up, and catch a ray of that divine fire—let them cherish it, and we may hope, ere long, to see her contribute a worthy share of bright gems to the already glittering chaplet of American literature. The power exists, but it wants training—shall the will be wanting ? No—l cannot think so—let the plan suggested by Ireneus be adopted, and though I am not quite so sanguine as to the final result —though I do not feel quite so confident a hope of seeing a publication “ under the auspicious title of the ‘Spectator,’ new series,” yet of one thing I feel very well satisfied —if the effort be made, good must conie of it. HEINFRED. For the Southern Post. TO JULIA. Death! and darkness ! and desolation ! These shadow forth my fate —mourn not— The grave should take what hope has fled from Anguish made its prey—hearts dark as mine. Should seek, as fitting tenement, the tomb. Mourn not, sweet girl, that such should be my fato There is no terror in tiie dreamless rest. Awaiting the wan spirit which hath striven, And driven in vain to find a solace here— Rest! rest! ’tis all 1 ask ot wish for—too much My heart has lived lo last—too mildly Has its pulses beat—their strength has fled ; And now with nerve relaxed and fluttering beat, It calmly wails release —speed, speed, thy flight— Thou winged messenger of Time—quick is joy And rest is Heaven to the o’erchsrged henrt ; And where will these he found for me. Have in the dark and dreamless grave. March 23d. 1’ E. C. For the Southern REFLECTIONS, On seeing n Man with Consumption. I met him in the walks Os trade—a busy man, with bustling air, And brow of calculating thought, earnest, S Intense, as though he planned for a long. lon® r uture —his eve was settled and calm, save * j When its quick glance told out the restlessnew : Os a spirit, yet full of earth * fires and hopes | He spoke, and his tones were hoarse and hollow i And sepulchral, making the hearer think I Os the death-chamber and a pate gasping Man, struggling in life’s last consciousness, j With mutuality's doom—of the coffin, ' j And the unsightly worm, and the fearful | Stillness of the graveyard—and yet he talked - Os life and better health—presumed on length* j Os days, and as a home, thought of earth. * ! Poor man ! his nature allied him to dust And death, mighty Archer, had long since shot His bolt in poison dipped—consumption fell Incurable, and now in haste, he came To claim his prey, and bear the skeleton Trophy, to the realm of bones and loa'hsome Rottenness. But ah! thus it ever is. Oh, what fools we are! presumptuous and mad - And glad to be deceived. Precarious breath ’ We hold to be perpetual—cherish hfe For ends ignoble—fondly dream of hope And ’mid the very relics of the dead, We muse on brighter better things to come. Buoyant fancy sports among the broken Marbles of the burial place, lies down 111 reverie on the sod, green with man’s Frail emblem—mortality underneath Colors the future with roseate light, And the heart but too willing to be duped, Lifts its songof gladness, and gay of wing, Speeds on to death, e’en as a thoughtless bird l o the fowler’s snare. Aye, we cling to’earth, Love our poison—music try to make, with Our very' chains, and yield’ourselves to love Ot bondage, with devotion deep and strong As e’er Chaldean shepherd felt, looking To the star he worshipped—nor hopes defeat’ Nor thirsty care, nor the heart’s grief beeped up. A burden heavy, can break our hold on Things that perish. False to virtue—Heaven— All that lives beyond the reach of chnnge, Yet true to sin and sense and shame, we live Slaves to what we see, and die the victims Os a doom dim, yet awful—linked closely All the while with the sad soul’s deept fear. Oh ! what a mystery is man —fearful, Yet bold—suspicions, yet confiding all, E’en w’here trust is ruin, hunted by the curse Os sin that comes in haste upon the track Os years, with stealthy step, nearer and still Nearer—escape impossible—but man Knowing tlris, vet hopes—buys, sells, and seeks gain- Forgets God —fits him for a long blight race, Though youth’s hot blood courses the veins, or creep* Slowly, thick withfeU disease—though mature, And prone to think —>>r bowed with Time’s burden, ’Tis all the same —deceived alike—old—young, Dream on until the death-pang stills the pulse Os life—corrupt ‘this well-wrought frame,’ and leave! Its goodly members broken and scattered At the grave’s mouth. Oh! man proceed—vain—earthly— Why wilt thou make of thyself a fool, forever Shunning the truth, as though it were thy foe? Why seek to heal thy heart’s wounds with the balm Os earth, scorning the true remedy ? Hating The light, ihou livest—mocked, betrayed, undone— Shrouded in the mists and shadows of sin, ’Till at last the illumination comes * I Yherc knowledge is despair. * CLIO. For the Southern Post. Mr. Editor —Seeing in your Inst Saturday’s Post, ■ query relating to the bird variously called “ Bull Bat,” 44 Wnip-poor-will,” and “ Chuck (not ‘cheek’) Will’* Widow,” you will perhaps give a place to a few re marks on the subject. I have not had access to Wil son, who has given an account of this bird—nor to Au dubon —my remarks, therefore, will be only those which have resulted from my own observation. The “(Whip-poor-will,” which is heard more fre quently at the North, and the “ Chuck Will’s Widow," which is more common at the South, are different spe cies of the same genus—(he learned name of which i» Caprimulgus, (or goat sucker, ns the European species is termed in English). The Whip-poor-will is the Ca primulgus Virginianus, and is w ell known for its pecu liar note or cry, of which the three syllables, Whip poor-will, give a very good idea. The general cidor of this species is a dull brown, intermixed with ash color, and some grey. The quill-feathers of the wings are dusky, and the first five on each side are marked with a large white spot about the middle of the feather. This spot is very conspicuous when the bird is sailing about in the air, as is its invariable custom in the dusk of the evening. At that hour, and ira fine weather, they may Ire seen circling about in great numbers, moving slow ly and steadily along, occasionally giving a heavy flap with their long wings, and uttering at regular intervals, a peculiar cry, which somewhat resembles the syllable cha-ap, pronounced in a drawling, sleepy tone- Oc casionally, they may be observed to poise themselves for a moment, and then rush downward with the velo city and straightness of an arrow, to wifliin a few fee* of the ground. During this evolution, a deep, booming and long sustained noise is head, but whether the sound proceeds from tne voice of the bird, or whether it i* owing merely to the violence of its rush through the air, I am unable lo say. This is the bird known lo your correspondent, and to others, ns the “ Bull Bat," “ Musqueto Hawk,” “ Night Hawk,” Sec. See. These same names are equally applied to the othe?species, the “ Chuck Will’s Widow,” which is in the habit of flying towards night, in the same manner. Very few persons, I know, are willing to believe that the birds which are thus seen disponing themselves in the air, on a summer evening, and darting upon the luckless insects on which they prey, are identical with those which, during the stillnpss of the night, make the forest ring with the oft-repeated plaintive cry of “ Whip-poor will, Whip-poor-will.” Yet such is the fict, and lam only surprised that there should exist any doubt at all on the subject. The writer of these remarks has fre quently shot the Whip-poor-will on the wing, when fi guring in the capacity of a Night Hawk or Bull Bat, and he has also, at night, crept up stealthily to a log on which one would be uttering his peculiar cry, and shoot him at the very moment that he was so engaged, and the specimens proved, in every instance, to be perfectly similar. The Chuck Will’s Widow is the Caprimulgus Caro linensis, and presents, on examination, some specific differences in form, arrangement and color of the plu mage —but at a distance, as when on the wing, the gen eral appearance is the same, and has led to the appli cation to it of the names before mentioned. Its habits, likewise, are similar to those of the Caprimulgus Vir gininnus, hut the cry is quite different, having an ad ditional syllable, and being pronounced with a differ ent emphasis or accentuation, which increases, until the third syllable is pronounced, when the fourth i* thrown in rapidly and suddenly. The Genus Caprimulgus belongs to the order Passe res, and contains twenty-one species, which are distn buted all over the world. The genus is remarkable tor the smallness o( the hill and vast size of the mouth, when opened to its utmost extent, it seems almost as though the head had been taken off altogether. I nese birds feed on insects, which they catch by darting upon them in the air, and it is probably the violent and ra pid million through the air, with that enormous mourn wide open, lhat produces the booming sound before al luded to. When shot on the wing, during their even ing flights, if the mouth lie examined, it will be b' l lllls generally well stored with gnats, inusquetoes, small Hie*, minute beetles, and other winged insecta. In concluding this hasty notice, permit me toobsrrve, Mr. Editor, that I am glad to see the subject of Natu ral History brought into vour columns. I hop*JiJVr find fevor both with readers and contributors. I entity of Macon present* facilities and advantages lor the pursuit of every braneh of Natural Science, and n would 1* wrong to neglect it. Can you not raise up • suint amongst vour contributors, which shall send mem forth into the fields of science? They cannot fad ° return thence with treasures of knowledge, andt".'”*® of observations, which will enrich your P***? 4 * they amuse and instruct your readeVs. Th* Bo**"!"* the Entomologist, the Mineralogist, the Orm'hi**’*’' all inny find ample space to labor in, and to tabor wiin profit—and iikm'. sincerely do l M l4 ' ••'»!p ) not he lost. HLNCHMAK Macon, April 12, MW.