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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*-