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THE LAST MOMENTS OK SIK J. MOORE.
Moore was watching the advance of this
portion of his army, when a cannon hail struck
him on the left shoulder, ni.d he fell to the
ground. Nolo single mu: cle in his counte
nance quivered ; but raising himself instantly
to n sitting jiosturc, he directe ! his gaze in
tent!y towards tl;e objects w hich but tlic in
stant before had engrossed all his attention.
Captain (now Sir Henry) II iri.'inge, a staff
officer, who was near, threw himself from the
saddles and seizing the general s hand, anxious
ly inquired wliether he were much hurt; but
Moore made no answer. llis eye continued
fixed, though apparently without power, upon
tlie battle which raged before him, while an
expression of deep anxiety pervaded his free,
us if doubtful how tiie tide of victory might
roll. Ilardinge saw this, and made haste to re
lieve it. Ilcsaid that the 42d were advancing ;
and he received his reward in the bright ex
pression which Moore’s dark and shakingeye
tinned upon him.
Hy this time Colonel Graham had likewise
dismounted : ar.d both he and Cupt. Ilardinge,
cheered' fiv the Calmness of their chief, began
to encourage the hope that bis wound might
not be moiial. When they looked, however,
to the condition of the dying warrior, they
saw at once that his hours were numbered.
The shot had smashed his shoulder to atoms;
tlie arm was hanging by a piece of skin ; and
the ribs over the heart, besides bei ig broken,
was literally stripped of flesh. Vet he sat
upon the field collectc I and umepining, as if
no bah had struck him, and that he were
placed wlicre he was for tlie mere purpose of
reposing for a brief space from the fatigue of
hard riding.
Hy this time a party of the 42d was co’.lec
ted, and a blanket being spread out, the General
was laid upon it with tlie utmost possible ten
derness and lifted from the ground. In the act
of removing him it was observed that his sword
come distressingly in the way ; for the hilt
struck against his wounded shoulder, and tlie
blade got entangled in his legs. Captain
Ilardinge endeavored to unbuckle the belt.
“No Ilardinge,” said lie with a chivalrous
fueling worthy of an earlier age, “ it is as well
ns it is. I had rather it should go out of the
field with me.” Captain Ilardinge of course
desisted from his well-intentioned attempt; aud
with the sword girded round him, which he bad
never disgraced, Sir John Moore was borne
from the field.
*****
It is necessary to premise, that previous to
the fatal catastrophe which deprived the Isri
tish armv of a leader not more respected than
beloved, Sir David Baird had received a wound
from a grape shot, which caused the amputa
tion, on the field, of his arm. He received
information of the catastrophe while the sur
geons were dressing his hurt; and commanded
them instantly to desist, and run and attend on
Sir John Moore. But tic latter would not
permit them to waste their time upon him.
4 ‘ You can be of no service to me,” he said,
‘‘go to the soldiers to whom \ou may be use
ful: lam beyond the reach of your skill.”
Who can wonder that the rugged veterans
that carried him towards tlie tear should have
44 sited tears as they went!”
THc distance from the field of battle to the
town was considerable, and the motion of his
boa rers necessarily slow yet Sir Join) Moore
frequently arrested them in their progress.
From time to time be caused them to bait and
turn round, that be might listen to the firing,
and as the sound became more and more faint,
be expressed himself well pleased with the
circumstance. By and by a spring wagon
rolled near him from the field, in which a
wounded officer was laid. It was Colonel
Wrench, wi.o, on hearing that Sir John
Moore lay in the blanket, proposed tlwj lie
should lie placed beside him in the wagon.
“ The General,” says Mr. Moore, “ asked one
of the highlanders whether he thought the
wagon or the blanket the best, who answered
that the blanket would not shake him so much
ns he and the other soldiers would keep the
step and carry him easy.” Sir John said, “1
think so too.” So they proceeded with him to
his lodgings in Corunna, the soldiers shedding
tears as they went.
In the passage of the house he was met by
his valet, a man who had served him faithfully
for many years. Poor Francois was stunned
by tire sjiectacle, hut his master, more con
siderate, as he always was, of the feelings of
otliers, than of his own, strove to speak gaily,
for the purpose of cheering him. “ This is
nothing, my friend, nothing,” said he, and
smiled through his agony as he spoke.
It would little gratify the taste of a discern
ing public to he told how the medical genile
nren acted when tire horrid laceration ofthcii
chief was fully exposed to the.n. Better is it
to give, in the simple, yet touching language
of Colonel A micr on, a general account of his
dy ng moments ; an account drawn upon the
spot and transmitted to the relatives of the de-
ceased, by one who had for twenty years been
bis friend and companion in amis. “ I met
the General,” says the writer, “in the evening
of the 16t!i bringing in a blanket and sashes.
He knew me immediately though it was al
most dark, squezed me by the bund, and said,
4 Anderson don’t leave me.’
“ He spoke to the surgeons on their examin
ing his wound, but was iti such pain be could
say little.
“ After some time be seemed anxious to
speak to me, and at intervals got out as follows :
‘ Anderson you know that l have always
wished to die this way.’ He then asked, ‘ are
tlie French beaten ?’ and which he repeated to
every one lie knew ns they came in. ‘I hope
tlie |ieople of England w ill be satisfied. I
hope my country will do me justice. Ander
son, you will see my friends as soon as you
can. Tell iliein every tiling. Say to mv
motlier ’ here liis voice quite failed, and be
wvs excessively agitated. ‘ Hope—Hope—l
have much to say to him—but cannot get it
out—and Col. Graham—are all my aides-de
camp well? (A private sign was mtide by
Cos!. Anderson not [<> inform him that Captain
Burrard was wounded.) 1 have .unde my
will, nnd luive ruinornliered my servants.
Colborne has mv will and nil mv pipers.’
“ M ijor (now Sir John) Collrornc, then
emne into tlie room, lie spoke must kindly
to him and tix-H suit! 10 me, ‘ Anderson re
memlier \oti go to ——•, and tell him it is my
request, and that 1 expect ho will give M ijor
Colborne a lieutenant-colonelcy. He has
long been with me—and I know him most
worthy of it.’ lie then asked M ijor Colborne
if the French were beaten ? and on being told
they were, on every point, he said, ‘ It’s a great
satisfaction to ine to know that we have beat
the French. Is Paget in the room ?” On
my telling liin/no, he said ‘ Remember me to
him—it’s Gen. Paget I mean—he is a fine
fellow. 1 feci mysclfso strong —1 fear I shall
be long dying. It is a great uneasiness—it is
great pain—every thing Francois says is
right—l have the greatest confidence in him.’
“ He thanked he surgeons for their trouble.
Captains Percy and Stanhope, two of his aides
de-camp, then came into the room. He spoke
kindly to both, and asked Percy if all his aides
de-camp were well.
“ After some interval, lie said, ‘Stanhope,
remember uie to your sister.’ He pressed
my hand close to his body, and in a few minutes
died without a struggle.”— Lives of Emiient
British Military Commanders, by the Hev. G.
11. Gfeig.
A MOTHER’S GRAV‘D.
I followed into a burying ground, in tlie sub
urbs of the city, a small train of persons, not
, more than a dozen, who had come to bury
one of their acquaintance. The clergyman
in attendance, was leading a little boy by the
hand, who seemed to be the only relative of!
tlie deceased in the slender group. 1 gatherd
with them around tlie grave, and when the
plain coffin was lowered down, the child burst
forth in uncontrolled grief. The little fellow
had no one left to whom he could look for
affection, or who could address him in tones
of parental kindness. The last ofhis kinsfolk
was in tlie grave —and he was alone.
When the clamorous grief of the child had a
little subsided, the clergyman addressed us
with tlie customary exhortation to accept tlie I
monition, and be prepared; and turning to
tlie child, he added : “ She is not to remain in ’
this grave forever; as true as the grass which
is now chilled with the frost of the season,
shall spring to greenness and life in a few
months, so true shall your mother come up 1
from that grave to another life, to a life of
happiness, I hope.” The attendant’s shovelled
in the earth upon the coffin, and someone!
took little William, the child, by the ha id,
and led him forth from the lowly tenement of
his mother.
Late in the ensuing spring, I was in the!
neighborhood of the same burying ground, and !
seeing the gate open I walked among the
graves for some time, reading tlie names of
the dead, and wondering what strange dis
ease could snatch off so many younger than
myself—when recollecting that I was near the
grave of tlie poor widow, buried the previous
autumn, 1 turned to see what hud been done
to pro erve the memory of one so utterly desti
tute of earthly friends. To my surprise, 1
found the most desirable of all mementos for a
mother's sepulchre—little William was sitting
near the head of the now sunken grave looking
intently upon some green shoots that had
come forth with the warmth of spring, from
the soil that covered his mother’s coffin.
William started at my approach and would
have left the place ; it was long before l could
induce him to tarry ; and indeed I did not
win his confidence, until l told him that I was
present when they buried his mother, and had
marked his tears at the time.
“ Then you heard the minister say, that my
mother would come lip out of this grave,” said
little William.
“ I did.”
“ It is true, is it not ?” asked lie, in a tone of
confidence.
“ I most firmly believe,” said I.
“ Believe it,” said the child —“ believe it—l
thought you knew it—l know it.”
“ llow do you know it, my dear?”
“ The minister said,that as true as the grass
would grow up, and tlie flowers bloom in
spring so true would my mother rise. I came
a few days afterward, and planted flower
seed on tlie grave. Tlie grass came green in
this burying ground long ago; and I watched
every day for the flowers, and to clay they
came up too—see them breaking through the
ground—by and by many will come again.”
A smile of exulting hope played on the
features of the boy ; and l felt pained at dis
turbing the faith and confidence at which lie
was animated.
“ But my little child,” said I, “ it is not here
that your poor mother will rise.”
“ Yes, here,” said lie, with emphasis—“here
they put her, and here I have come ever
since the first blade of grass was green this
1 year.”
I looked around and saw that the tiny feet
jof the child had trod out the herbage at the
| grave side, so constant had been his attendance.
I What a faithful watch keeper—what mother
j would desire a richer monument than the form
Jof her only son bending fearful, but hoping,
lover her grave ?
“But, William,” said I, “it is in another!
world that she will arise,” —and I attempted to
explain to him the nature of that promise
which he had mistaken. The child was con-'
fused, and be appeared neither pleased nor
satisfied.
“ If mammy is not com'ng back to me—if
she is not to come up here, what shall I do—|
I cannot stay without her.”
“You shall go to her,” said I, adopting;
the language of the Scripture—“you shall go
;to her, but she shall not come again to you.”
“ Let me go then,” said William, “let me
go now, that I may rise with mammy.”
“ William,” said I, pointing down to the
plants just breaking through the ground, “ the
seed which is sown there would not come up,
if it iiad not been ripe; so you must wait till
your appointed time, until your end cometh.”
“Then I shall see her.”
“ I surely hope so.”
“ I will wait then,” said the child, “ hut I
thong! t 1 should sec lier soon—l thought I
should meet her here.”
And he did. 111 a month William ceased
to wait ; and they opened his mother’s grave,
and placed his little coffin on hers—it was tlie
j only wish the child expressed in dying. Bet
ter tcacliers than I, Imd instructed him in the
way to meet his mother, and young as the
little sufferer was, he had learned that all tlie
j, labors and hojics of ImppinoM short of heaven,
1 arc profitless and vuiu u. S. Gazette.
THE SOUTHERN POST.
FROM THE PERSIAN.
“ Tel! me, gende trav’ller, thou
Who hast wander’d far and wide,
Seen the sweetest roses blow.
And the brightest rivers glide,
Say, of all thine eyes hath seen,
Which the fairest land has been ?”
“ Lady, shall I tell thee where
Nature seems most blest and fair,
Far above all climes beside ?
’Tis were those we love abide,
And that little spot is best
Which the loved one’s foot hath press'd.
Though it be a fairy space,
Wide and spreading is the place:
Though 'twere but a barren mound,
'Twould become enchanted ground.
With thee, yon sandy waste would seem
The margin of A1 Cawthar’s stream;
Aud thou could moke a dungeon’s gloom
A bower w«re new-born roses bloom,”
♦
THE UNINVITED GUEST.
The wedding feast was at its height. Gae
tano, according to the established Sicilian cus
tom in such matters, prepared to open the baii
V/lth the interesting Teresa, whose beauty and
grace of manner, had been the subject of
general admiration throughout the day. He
approached her with the finished air of third
rate gracefullness—a sort of lively caricature
of the best Sicilian cavaliers, and, in the highest
possible spirits, solicited the honor of her hand.
At that moment, a stranger presented himself
on the esplanade, and stood in the midst of the!
company gazing upon the scene. The looks
of the whole assembly were turned towards
tlie new-comer, who was dressed in tlie Gala-'
brian costume, wearing pistols and a dagger in
his belt; his jacket slung over one shoulder
like a huzzar’s pelisse, left open to view his
other sleeve stained his blood. Teresa saw
him—she gazed on him a moment—uttered
a faint cry, and remained pale and motionless,
as if she had seen a spectre. It was a Pascal'
Bruno. Every eye was fixed on the uninvited
guest; a dead and awful silence reigned.
Ever\ r one present felt assured of the approach |
of some terrible catastrophe.
Pascal, apparently unmoved by the sensa
tion he had created, walked directly lip to
Teresa, and standing before her, folded his
arms, and fixed liis piercing eyes on her pale
] countenance.
“ Pascal,” said Teresa, in a faltering voice,
! “ can it be you ?”
“ Yes, Teresa,” said Bruno, in a deep hollow
voice, “it is I. I heard at Banso, where I
patiently and confidently- waited your return,
that you were to be married at Carini; so 1
came hither, and 1 hope am in time to dance!
the first tarantella with you.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Gaetano,
coming up to him with a mingled air of anger
and ofgaiety, “that is the bridegroom’s right.”
“It is tlie right of the affianced one,” said;
Pascal. “ Come, my beloved Teresa, this is
tlie least you can do for me after all I have
suffered for you.”
“ Teresa is my wife,” said Gaetano, stretch
ing forth his arm.
“Teresa is my betrothed,” said Pascal, taking
her hand.
“ Help! oh, help!” said the wretched girl.
The appeal was irresistible —the effect in
stantaneous ; Gaetano seized Bruno by the
collar—they struggled for a moment —that
was all—in a lother instant Gaetano tittered a
piercing cry, and fell dead at his feet. Pascal’s
dagger was buried to the hilt in his breast.
Some of the men, who were nearest him on
tlie instant rushed towards the murderer to
secure him. Bruno stood unmoved, and
drawing one of the pistols from his belt, waved
it over his head as a signal to the musicians to
strike up tlie tarantella. They obeyed as it
were mechanically. The rest of the company
paralyzed by what had happened, remained
motionless.
“Come, Teresa, come, let us begin,” saiil
Pascal.
Teresa was no longer in possession of her
faculties, she had become a creature demented
by fear. Site unconsciously yielded to his
guidance, and this horrible dance, close to the
corpse of the inoffensive murdered young man,
was continued by the musicians to the last
strain. Incredible as it may appear, no one
stirred—no one spoke—it was something too
teriffic—something so unnaturally horrid that
nature itself seemed palsied. The moment!
tlie music ceased, as if it had been all that had
excited and sustained her, the wretched Teresa 1
fell fainting on tlie body of Gaetano.
“ Thanks, Teresa,” said Pascal, “that is all
I wanted ; and now, if any man wishes to
know me here , that he may find me elsewhere,
1 am Pascal Bruno.”
“ Tlie son of Antonio,” ventured one voice,
“whose head is exposed to public view at the
castle of Bauso ?”
“The same,” said Pascal; “but if you
wish to see that sight again, you had belter
make good speed. 1 promise you, whomso
ever you may be, it shall not be there long.”
Saying which Pascal disappeared; and,
amongst the many who were bidden to the
i wedding feast, not one of the guests fell the
| slightest desire, or exhibited the least inclina
tion to follow him ; they turned their thoughts
and attentions to Gaetano and Teresa. The
one was dead, the other senseless.
LOTTERY WITHOUT BLANKS.
“ To-day the gentlemen who were appointed
to make a fair division of tlie Real Estate of
the late George Lortllard, finished their labors.
The property consisted of upwards of four ;
hundred houses, stores, and blocks of property
in the city, and is valued at upwards of three
millions of dollars. After the same was com
pleted, the five heirs drew by lot for their par
cels. The estate of Jacob Lorillard took one
part—Peter Lorillard one—Mrs. Robert Bar
stovv and ncices one—Mrs. John G. Coster
and brother one—and the other to a sister, the
name we did not hear.
It will he recollected that Mr. Lorillard died
a bachelor, leaving his property to his nephews
nnd icices. Some of the heirs I icing dissatis
fied, they contested tlie validity of tlie will,
which was declared void by the Court of
Errors. By this decision this immense prop
erty will now come into use in a much more
advantageous manner for tlie public, tljan if
the will had been sustained.”
New York Express.
CULTIVATION OF FLOWERS.
The cultivation of flowers is an employment
adapted to every grade, the high and the low.
the rich and the poor ; but especially to those
who have retired from the busy scenes of ac
tive life. Man was never made to rust out in
idleness. A degree of exercise is as necessary
for the preservation of health, both of body
and mind, as food. And what exercise is
more fit for him, who is in the decline of life,
than that of superintending a well-ordered
| garden ? What more enlivens the sinking
mind? What is more conducive to a long
life ? Tlie cultivation of flowers is an appro
priate amusement for young ladies. It teaches
neatness, cultivates a correct taste, and fur.
nishes the mind with many pleasing ideas.
Tlie delicate form, and features, the mildness
and sympathy of disposition, render them fit
subjects to raise those transcendent beauties
of nature, which declare the “ perfections of the
Creator’s power.” The language of flowers
is so elegant an amusement, that we select a
few of the most interesting emblems for the
gratification of our fair readers.
Beauty—The Rose. —This queen of flow
ers is considered the pride of Flora, and the
emblem of beauty in every part of the globe.
Calumny — Madder. —This plant, so essen
tial to dyers an I calico printers, is made the
emblem of calumny, since it leaves so perma
nent a stain on the purest cloth.
Coquetry—The Yellow Day Lilly —This
fragile beauty is made to represent coquetry,
as its flowers seldom last a second day.
Courage—The Black Poplar. —The poplar
was dedicated to Hercules, in consequence of
liis destroying Cacus, in a situation where these
trees abounded.
Declaration of Affection— -Tulip. —The tu
lip has from time immemorial, been made the
emblem by which a young Persian makes a
declaration of his attachment.
Diffidence—Cyclamen.— As modest diffi
dence adds attraction to beauty, so does this
graceful flower engage our notice by its unas
suming carriage ; for the cyclamen, although
it expands in an upright direction, never rears
its head to the sun. The Romish Church lias
dedicated this flower to St. Romauld.
Docility—The Rush.— This plant, so pro.
verbial for its pliability, is the most applicable
; symbol of docility.
Durability—Dogwood, or Cornel Tree.—
The firm and lasting nature of this wood has
caused it to be made tlie type of duration.
Fidelity—Wall Speedwell This beautiful
plant which attaches itself to old walls, is the
symbol of fidelity. This plant is dedicated to
St. Simon of Jerusa'em.
Forsaken.—-The Lilack-. The Eastern ria
tions, from whence this beautiful shrub was
originally brought, use the lilack as the emblem
of the forsaken, as it is the flower the lover
offers to his mistress if he abandons her.
PICTURE OF A MUSICIAN.
A musician is like an echo, a retail dealer in
sounds. As diana is tlie goddess of the silver
bote, so is he the lord of the wooden-one ; and
though armed with a bow, he lias no skill in
archery. His fingers and arms ran a constant
race—tlie former would run away from him,
did not a bridge interpose, mid oblige him to
pay toll. He can distinguish sounds os other
men do colors. His companions are Crotch
ets and Quavers. Time will never lie a match
for him, for he beats him most unmercifully.
His domestics are Soprano, Siciliano Andan
lino, and all the Ratios and Inns that consti
tute the musical science. He can scrape,
scratch, shake, diminish, increase, flourish, If-c.,
and as a dog shakes a pig, so he shakes a note
hy tlie ear, and never lets it go till be makes it
squeak. He tears his audience in many ways;
as I wear away my pen, so does he wear
away the strings of his fiddle. There is no
medium in him, he is either on a sharp or
a flat key, though both are natural to him—he
deals in third minors and major-thirds, and
proves a turncoat, and is often in the majority
and minority in the course of a few minutes.
He runs over tlie flats as often as a race horse,
both meet tlie same fate, as they terminate in a
cadence ; the difference is, one is driven by
the whip.hand, the other by the bow-arm, one
deals in striado, the other in staccato.
New-York Mirror.
CONJUGAL HARMONY.
A man in Germany advertised that lie had j
an organ that would play any tune out of an
enumerated set, at the command of any one
of the audience ; this made a great noise at
the time, and puzzled all the conjurers and
philosophers of the place. The organ was
placed on a table with its back against the j
wall, tlie company were invited to examine it, j
then ask for a tune, which was immediately ;
played, and if any one desired it to stop it was
instantly silent! This went on for a long :
time, and the ingenious inventor was making j
a rapid fortune, and the secret would have
been buried with him, had he not behaved j
most inharmoneously towards his loving wife i
one day, just before the pei formanee was!
about t) commence. The room was crowded
as usual, and a tunc was called for, but not a
note was heard ; the owner became uneasy,
and said, in a soothing coxing tone, “ do
Way, my coot organs ;” still not a sound was
heard : he got out of patience, and threatened
to smash the instrument to pieces, when a
i hoarse female voice was heard to growl out
j “ Ay, do, you tyvel, preak de organs, as vou
| proke my head dis morning.” This was too
| much for the cholerick German ; he took a
j chair, and gave the instrument such a whack,
| that it drove it through a paper partition in the
j wall, carrying with it another organ, which
had been placed close at the back of the sham
one, at which sat the obstinate grinder—his*
wife!
A Mr. Wyman, who was famed for nothing
but stupidity and indolence, ns he was going
from home one day, was desired by liis wife,
not to be gone so much.—“ She was afraid to
tie left alone,” —“ Poll,” said lie, “ Naught is
never in danger.” “I know that,” said she,
“ but Naught's wife is.”
AWFUL BAD THINGS.
An empty purse, a scolding wife, an aching
tooth, an undutiful child, a smoky house, an
unfaithful servant, a stumbling horse, an in
cessant talker, a news-paper borrower, hogs
that break through enclosures, a dull razor,
musquitoes, a fop, and a subscriber that won't
P'P f or bis paper.
MANUFACTURE OF SILK.
We have never seen the peculiar advanta
ges of this country for the manufacture of silk,
imore forcibly pointed out than in the following
remarks made by General Tallmadge before
the American Institute, and which we copy
trom the excellent Journal of the Institute for
February. They arc the result of personal
observation and not conjecture ; and perhaps
no man can be found more competent to ob
serve and draw correct conclusions on all sub
jects connected with our manufacturing in
terests, than General Tallmadge. It forcibly
shows the policy and necessity of encouraging
the domestic manufacture of silk, and the wis
dom of the legislative enactment proposed in
its favour.
‘ From personal observation on the culture
of silk in Italy, Sardinia and France, assu
rance may be given that our country and cli
mate are pre-eminently adapted to tlie growth
and culture of silk. Let a single fact suffice.
In those countries, the worm is and must be
produced by artificial means—the egg is car
ried and hatched in the bosoms of peasant
women. In this country the egg is hatched
and the worm produced by our natural climate j
and in accordance with the growth of the mul
berry leaf, about the first week in June. Our
winters do not injure the eggs. The life of the
worm is only about six weeks, and the whole I
season of the business is embraced in June,
July and August. The remarkable heat and
dryness of our summers, are peculiar to this
country, and so congenial to the silk worm,
that it prospers best in our natural climate,
only sheltered from storms, severe winds, and
the intense heat of the sun—and relieves from
the necessity of close rooms, warmed by arti
ficial heat, and regulated by thermometers,
which are so much recommended in Europe,;
and which expose the worms to contagious and
multiplied diseases.
‘ With these important facts before us who
will not encourage the home production of
such an article ? It should become the staple
of the north and middle states, so happily filled
to tlie climate, and be second only to the cotton
of tlie south.’ Genesee Farmer.
hUSSIAN RAIL-ROAD.
We are under obligation to a gentleman,
thoroughly acquainted with some of the prin
cipal Rail-roads in Europe, lor the following
! notice of the Rail-road from St. Petersburg to
! Zarskoe-Selo and Pawlowsk.
Boston Daily Advertiser.
Capital expended : five millions of roubles
assignats, or 1,050,000 dollars.
Total length, 17 English miles.
NUMBER OF PASSENGERS,
Between St. Pe- Between
Months, tersburg and Zarskhoe- Gross income,
j 1833. Zarskoe-Se- Selo «Sc St. Roubles. Cop.
10. Petersburg.
May, 59,820 9,300 92 805 20
June, 83,030 33.004 155,385
July, 66,509 34,118 114,130 40
August, 73,191 20,088 124,759 90
September, 63,515 16,134 99,705 54
October, 44,890 4,911 59.887 30
I November, 35,732 2,860 50,887 14
rotal for > 417 653 n7 i 34 703 543 43
7 mos. 5
The line from St. Petersburg to Zurskoe-
Selo was opened on tlie 4th of April; the line
from Zurskoe-Selo to Pawlowsk 011 the 22d of
May, 1838, Russian calendar.
There arc four different classes of passen
ger cars, with the following prices :
First class, for 15 ms. to Zarskoe-Sclo, 50 cts.
Second do. do. do. 37 1-2
Third do. do. do. 25
Fourth do. do. do. 12 1-2
As the greatest number of passengers pre
fer to take seats in tlie third and fourth classes,
the average receipt from each passenger go
ing 15 miles to Zarskoe-Selo was 31 cents, or
two cents per mile.
The gross income of the abovementioned 7
months was 14 per cent, of the whole capital
invested in the Rail-road; but the expenses of
working the line being so heavy, the Directors
declared only a half yearly dividend of four
per cent, on the shares.
We observe, that it has been ascertained,
that the number of passengers between St.
Petersburg and Zarskoe-Selo was, before the
construction of the Rail-road, equal to 178,-
000 per year, while on the Rail-road their num
ber will not be less than 550,000 to 600,000.
This great increase arises, without doubt, from
the reduction of prices, the stages havingcharg
ed 68 cents, this is now reduced to an average
of 31 cents.
ficOST NOTE.
f|'EN DAYS AFTER DATE, I promise to pay to
■ W. C. Parramore, or hearer, three hundred dol
lars. for value received, this 10th April, 1839.
G. 11. SIMMS.
GEORGIA, Bibb County.
Before me, personally appeared Lemuel Wilkinson,
who being sworn, saitli that he was in possession of
the original Note, of w hich the above is a copy in sub
stance —that he traded for the said Note from said
Parramore, and that he has lost said Note—that said
Nole has not been paid, nor has it been negotiated by
this deponent in any manner whatever, to any person
whomsoever. LEMUEL WILKINSON.
Sworn to and subscribed before me, this 6th May,
1839. WM. CUIYIMING, .1. P.
May 6 3 ra 23
NEW MACON THEATRE.
Prize «itlftress !
TMIE subscriber will give a Premium ol an Elegant
Silver Medal for the best Poetical Address to he
delivered at the opening of the New Macon Theatre.
Said address to be not under forty (40) nor more than
sixty (60) lines—to be ready by the 6th of.May. 93rA
Committee of literary gentlemen will make the selec
tion- WM. R. HART.
April 20 2Gp
DR. JOHN R. BOON
HAS removed to, and permanently settled in Ma
con, where lie can Iw found nt all time* ready lo
attend the call* of lus friends. His reside nc* is on ilie j
corner ol Third and Poular-atreeta, formerly occupied i
by Mr. Levi Eckley.
April 20 26u
ORIGINAL.
For the Southern Post
LANGUAGE —WORDS.
“ Speech is the great bond that holds society
er, anJ the common conduit whereby the imnr,ivi° ge,h "
ot knowledge are conveyed from
•» rJR
j The domain of human intellect is immense: We si,oil
never be able to reach its limits, for it consists not onlv
of the relations, but of the infinite combination of K \a
tions that exist between all things,and link them tow'
thcr. Whenever a man has discovered a single isol-.
ted point in that immenm'y, we salute him with the :
name of Great; but how small his labors, how insigni
ficant Ins discoveries, when compared to what remains
unknown! It is owing to the incapacity of our mind
that science, which is one, has been divided and sub
divided into innumerable branches, the least 0 f
which is more than sufficient to occupy all the moments
of a long and active life. Man cannot create any thing
neither the minutest particle of matter, nor the least
thought; all his mental powers may be summed up in
three words : perception, memory and judgment—and
trom the proper combination of these faculties, results
the highest possible degree of human intellect. Per
ception and memory are more energetic in youn® peo
ple than 111 adults; judgment predominates in man,
when he has attained the meridian of life. The great
est amongst us have all devoted the time of their youth
to gather materials from books and observation whilst
subsequent years have been employed in digesting
combining, comparing, drawing deductions and infer
ences. YVe are struck with wonder, when we think of
the admirable process that enabled them to absorb and
assimilate such an abundance of ideas, when we con
sider they had succeeded in habituating their brain to
the difficult and intricate mechanism of interior con
centration, and that from the rich store it contained,
they could gather and draw in array a multitude of
images remarkable for precision and truth. This pro
perty. the essential characteristic of all great men, of
those who know, produce, ac», is slowly, laboriously
acquired, and can never embrace the whole extent of
science, in its almost infinite ramifications; for their
mind, being human, is limited, and as such, unable to
reach beyond a certain point. Hence it is that tio one
particular branch can ever he so successfully, so per
fectly investigated ns to leave no room for improvement
and discovery; and that he, who wishes to become
eminent, has to concentrate all the power of his mind,
however extensive it may be, on a fraction, very min
ute, when compared to the whole.
'i bought is the perception of tiie relations that we
discover between things: it is an intellectual language
that the mind speaks to itself, but which must be trans
lated in order to become manifest. For the accom
plishment of this purpose, we use speech ; but thought
always suffers from this translation; for from spirit it
is converted into substance. YVe cannot deny that
from language proceed all our visible works, our socie
ties, our monuments, our acts and passions; and still
haw imperfect it is! In vain has human contrivance
devised to adorn it with beauty, it has not been able ti
elaborate a cloak magnificent enough to cover its weak
ness Great geniuses, impresse 1 with the truth of
this assertion, have endeavored to express their tie ugh‘s
in as concise a manner as possible; and mathemati
cians, who of all men, and the quickest to perceive nnd
combine relations, have followed the same course;
hut they have not yet, nay, they never will come to per
fection, for perfection is above our reach. llow many
words would not man have pronounced or written, to
substantiate the immensity of thought contained in
these few words, “Et verbuni caro factum est.” This,
to the superior mind, is a sufficient proof of the divinity
of the Scriptures.
But imperfect as human speech is, how wonderful its
invention and its use ! It is the only means we [les
sees to embody and communicate our ideas, an 1 from
this w’e may readily perceive of what importance is th )
proper comprehension of w ords, and an intima'e ac
quaintance with the spirit of different languages. YY r hat
man has not often found delight in searching the sense
of a substantive unknown to him ? The analysis of a
word, its physiogomy nnd history are well calculated
t> produce in the mind a long and pleasing reverie:
with some, that kind of instinctive reverie like that
hy which a child habituates himself to the phenomena
of life, and emboldens his mind to moral and physical
perceptions; with others, that peculiar train of thought
which enables them to embrace and explain facts, af
ter having investigated their causes and effects with
sagacious perspicuity. llow often have not I made, de
lightful voyages, embarked on a word in the abyss of
the past, as an insect that floats on a blade of grass in
the midst of a great river ! Having stai ted from Greece,
I arrived at Rome, and crossed the extent of modern
ages. YVhat an interesting book might be composed
with the life and adventures of a single word !
No doubt, it has received various impressions from the
events it has served to express; then, according to pla
ces, it has awakened different ideas; but is it not still
more wonderful to consider under the treble aspect of
soul, body and motion ? Is not the study of a word in
itself, abstractedly from its effects and functions, suffi
cient to evocate in us a crowd of reflections? The
greater part of words bear the stamp of the idea whose
life they represent to the senses. The combination of
the letters, their shape, the figure they give to words,
delineate in an exact manner, according to the genius
of each nation, the different beings that we are apt to
notice and to remember. Who shall philosophically
explain to us the transition from sensation to pure
thought, from pure thought to words, from woids to
their hieroglyphic expression, from hieroglyphs to the
alphabet, from the alphabet to written eloquence, whose
beauty resides in the union of ideal images, classified
by rhetors as the hieroglyph of thought ? Would not
the ancient painting of human ideas, reduced to prin
ciples, and configured by the means of fantastic zoo
logical characters, have originated the signs that orien
tal nations first used to write their languages; and,
then, would it not have traditionally left some vestiges to
our modern tongues, which have all appropriated to
themselves fragments of the primitive language; of
that language majestic and solemn, whose majesty and
solemnity decrease as the world grows older; whose
sounds so grand in the Hebraic Bible, so harmonious
in the Greek, become weaker and weaker through the
progress of modern civilizations? To whom are we
indebted for the mysteries hidden in all human words?
j Does there not exist in the word true, vrai, a kind of
i fantastical rectitude, and in the brief pronunciation that
it requires a vague image of the nudity, of the chaste
simplicity of truth, wherever it is found ? There is in
that syllable a charm, a freshness easy to feel, but im
possible to describe. I have taken as an example the
formule of an abstract idea, because I did not wish to
solve the problem with a word that might render the
comprehension of it too easy; as that of flight, ed,
which speaks all to the senses. Is not this the case
with all words; are they not animated with a living
power, which they hold from the soul, and that they
restitute to it by the means of a mysterious action and
reaction between speech and thought; and dothey not,
by their sole physiognomy, cvocate in our brain and
before our eyes, the creatures whose phantoms they
are?
We have, some time since, advanced that it i* i ffl ‘
possible to find, either in physical or moral nature, two
objects iierfeotly identical. This proposition applies
with peculiar lorcc to words, and we may consequent
ly affirm, that it is impossible to find, in tlie seme Iw
gunge, two words perfectly synonymous. That they *P"
(tear so to the generality of men, is no proof that they
really arc ; and tin acute experienced mind will re*-